‘Mind the witch!’
‘We’re safe on weekends. She only hunts on—’
‘Oh shut up, people!’
Charles chortles at Loris’ annoyance and opens the door.‘Ça suffit, nom d’un chien!’
‘What?’
‘My French tutor would say that. So I always gave him the name of a dog in response.’
‘Really? That makes you a smartarse too.’
Loris smiles broadly, revealing a thin gap between his front teeth.
The kind of childish proud smile Charles would hardly bite down at the dining table, while Milton rebuked him for his brazenness in French classes, and Fred cackled from his seat.
Fred loved it when Charles acted up. Fred constantly nudged him to misbehave and involved him in illegal secret missions.
Fred did all that.
He did.
Did he?
‘Get home safe.’
‘Yes… Goodnight.’
When Loris closes the door, the wind smacks Charles’ face, shatters the French-accented bubble, but scatters more clouds away from his memory.
It’s just after 10pm, and Elsy hasn’t sent any change-of-plan alert, so Charles makes a left, his heart pounding. Whether he ends up feeling invincible or crushed to pieces, he needs to find the cul-de-sac where Fred waited after stealing the beers.
Charles needs to meet with this mischievous version of his late brother that he had blurred into oblivion.
SIX
Charles hates that the firm he works for is so close to home, exposing him to the neighbourhood’s prying eyes during his lunch breaks. He also hates the desk arrangement of the office that forces him to face Gareth, his constantly stressed-out line manager. The jarring golden frame around a Pollock painting reproduction. The clock hung on the wall behind him. Charles doesn’t hear it tick, but every move of the minute hand feels like a scratch on the back of his neck.
He can’t stand this place, but he would bear the situation better if interning here were his own mistake.
When he initially thought about getting a year of work experience, between a soul-numbing economics degree and a soul-sucking MBA, it was just a desperate plan to postpone the last leg of a preordained journey towards a preordained future. But his father unexpectedly signed off on the idea, and Charles got carried away. He allowed himself to daydream about joining a stimulating company where perhaps he would find purpose, an escape route and the courage to take it.
‘I called my friend Clifford,’ Milton announced, twenty-four hours after Charles had shared his project. ‘He is expecting you tomorrow. Be at your best. You cannot waste such an opportunity, and I needyou to impress him. Close your mouth, you look ridiculous.’
Charles closed his mouth and went blank until he arrived at the firm the next day. Once in Clifford’s office, he switched on the part of Charland that enabled him to sleepwalk through his studies. To write prodigious essays about bland topics, when his fictional ideas are nipped in the bud at the first headache. To find solutions to any problems but his own.
He didn’t botch the meeting that day. He didn’t botch his interview with the business school either, a month ago. His admission for next year is a done deal, the official confirmation is imminent. It’s only November, but the clock is getting louder. Every minute spent in this office pulls Charles farther away from an escape route.
A second clock is ticking this afternoon. It’s 2pm and he has yet to message Loris.
Charles is eager to discussTheMind of Wonders, which is why he’s torn about meeting him again this soon.
The debate to come was a sanity-saving distraction two nights ago, when Charles arrived home after an hour spent in the cul-de-sac. When his brother’s voice, so clear outside, became unintelligible noise again as soon as he stepped into his house.
The prospect also entertains him during family dinners and at work, where he could be pen-clicking over the new responsibilities Clifford wants to give him.
It’s salutary to be able to look forward to a back-and-forth about Olwinski. Charles is afraid it might lose its diverting powers if he turns it into a memory.
