Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams Read online

  She moved back towards the opening in the door and peered out, apprehensive but curious. The man needed a haircut, she was willing to agree with him on that issue at least, and that small concession was something. “So?” she asked. As she watched the man’s face, she thought she could see the suggestion of a smile somewhere amongst all that hair. The man’s hand moved to his beard, fingers moving slowly through the thick bristles, then up over the sandpaper stubble, and into his shaggy fair hair, brushing a few wavy locks out of the way of his eyes as they went. Those eyes. As the man looked down at her, Miss Osterman saw something vaguely familiar or welcoming in his eyes.

  “So … I hear you are a girl who can cut hair Miss Osterman.”

  Her mouth puckered up and her eyes narrowed as she broke into a slow and warm laugh. He certainly sounded wholesome and harmless, possibly a wolf in sheep’s clothing she thought, but possibly just what he appeared to be. Still, he’d called her a “girl,” which certainly won him brownie points.

  “I’m old you know; I don’t do hair anymore.”

  The man smiled broadly, white teeth beaming through the dirty blond undergrowth of hair, “I’m sure you’ll find it’s like riding a bike Miss Osterman …”

  She frowned and laughed cynically, her voice breaking up slightly as she interrupted him, “Riding a bike would be a slice of misery, what with my joints aching the way they are nowadays.”

  The man smiled and nodded apologetically, “I meant, it’ll come back to you,” he scratched his beard, smirking, “and let’s be honest, you couldn’t make it any worse.”

  Miss Osterman was unsure of herself as she moved her hand to the chain on the door, but that hair … that big mop of hair. She had always reveled in a head of hair like that. You could really get to know someone over a haircut like that.

  She led him into the apartment, making her best effort to walk casually and steadily, the pain in her hips and knees making the act rather difficult. She led him to the den, where her television silently played the daytime soap operas, the flickering light playing on a thousand tiny collected memories; painted shells, paper umbrellas, embroidered fans, Russian dolls, china bulls, all things Charlene Osterman had collected on her travels during her wilder days. She momentarily relished the thought that the gentleman might ask about them … about her. A faint smile played on her lips as she rummaged in a side table for her tools.

  West enjoyed the sound of Miss Osterman’s voice, the slightly cracked southern lilt, New York pouring through those cracks here and there, neither side of the Mason-Dixon line conceding much ground. He closed his eyes to the room as she addressed him, “So, who told you I was a hairdresser hmm? There’s not many around who even know anymore.” West was quiet, hoping to sit out this particular verbal dance, at least for now. The sound of Miss Osterman rattling and rummaging through the drawer, metal on metal, pulled West out of his reverie and he coughed politely, “Oh, you know Miss Osterman, you live in a building long enough, you hear things.”

  The woman stopped still, thoughtful. She’d lived at Madison and 30th on and off for most of her life. Her parents had owned an apartment there from the 1940s and she had taken it over in 1963 when her parents had died, too young, her Father from a series of heart attacks, and her Mother only months later, from throat cancer. Her Mother’s death had prompted her to spend some time visiting with family on her mother’s side in South Carolina and she’d held on to some inherited land there until the late seventies, but she eventually sold it for a pittance when the last of her Southern relatives had passed away. She started to wonder why her mind had skipped off down that path, then she remembered the young man’s statement about hearing things. She supposed he hadn’t meant any offense by it.

  Of course she wasn’t a busy body, not at all, she was a concerned citizen, but she did try to pay attention to the comings and goings of new residents. Now that she thought about it, although she had heard his name mentioned often enough, especially over the last couple of years, she couldn’t remember when Mr Yestler had taken up residence there. She shrugged off the thought, having spied her favorite scissors and razor deep in the recesses of the sturdy Edwardian dresser. Plenty of time, she thought as she picked out the finely crafted scissors, only the bows showing from the neck of the velvet pouch. Nice thick hair, good facial growth, she’d figure him out soon enough.

  Miss Osterman had, for several years, run a small salon near Madison Square Park. It had been a tribulation and a joy, often in equal measures, but her regulars had always given her a reason to show up each day. It had been her and Magda Breckon for the most part, Magda always trying to avoid taking on anything grandiose and complicated, pouncing on the few gentleman callers they had, because she knew it would make for an easy half hour. She had been good company, and when Magda announced to Charlene Osterman that she would have to part ways, it had come as a blow. It would be several days before Charlene Osterman would realize quite how serious a blow Magda had struck and by that point it was too late. Magda Breckon had cleaned out Charlene’s account and had left town, never to be seen by Charlene Osterman again.

  The comfortable and worldly worn chair which Miss Osterman led Mr Yestler to now, was the only real remnant of her shot at the American dream.

  “It’s a beautiful chair.” West smiled as he remarked to Miss Osterman. He watched her through the reflection in the large oval mirror mounted on the wall in front of him. He ran his fingers over the soft leather arms and patted them, “I love the feel of an old leather chair; it’s so comforting.” He lied casually.

  She ran her fingers through his hair, plying the parting and allowing the long greasy ringlets to fall in their natural pattern. She should have offered to wash it for him she thought, but she didn’t have a wash sink, only the shower; she would have to spray him down well.

  “So Mr Yestler, how much would you like me to take off?”

  West’s smile broadened, taking on an almost mischievous countenance, “I’m sure I can trust your judgment, do whatever you think is necessary to make me human again.”

  Miss Osterman returned West’s smile, nodding gently. It had always entertained her when the chair was taken by someone who had so obviously not had a haircut in a long while; there was often an air of pride about them, like they were every hairdresser’s dream. She didn’t keep a misting bottle around for the express purpose of doing hair anymore, so she moved discretely to the windowsill and picked up the bottle which she used for misting her window-plants, not concerned that the water might be stagnant because she did change it at least twice a week. Stepping in front and to the side of West, she placed a hand, palm facing down over his forehead to shield his eyes as she sprayed the water into his hair, then moving around behind him, she made sure his hair was wet through, with little pulses of her finger on the trigger of the plastic bottle.

  With his head lowered slightly, West watched the old lady work. Old. West mused on the word, on the degrees of separation such a word could create. Miss Osterman’s features bore many marks of age, true, but West wouldn’t have described her as old, and he wondered now why the word had even come to his mind. He watched the tendons in her wrists as her fingers clutched the bottle, watched the colorful skin move subtly over the deep etched veins. He wanted her to discover him for who he was and he knew that ultimately it wouldn’t require another word to pass between them, but still, he hoped she would start to open up and talk. Perhaps she would ask the right questions and he would reveal himself before she finished cutting away his Clark Kent disguise. Then again … perhaps she wouldn’t know him after all.

  He watched her purse her lips several times and lick them in concentration, watched muscles tense in her throat, all signs that she might talk. When he glanced down at the unnecessary towel tucked around his neck and saw that there were already several large clumps of hair lying there, he thought he would have to break the ice again, the pool of conversation had frozen over so quickly, but Miss Osterman was already waiting
with her icepick.

  “Mr Yestler, would you mind telling me about the leeches?”

  West blinked slowly, running the question through his mind a couple of times, trying to figure out if perhaps he had misheard it. A sense of paranoia hardened his muscles, fingers clamping the arms of the chair with nervous tension. How could she possibly know about the leeches? Had he been made to sit and ponder this question for long, he would have abandoned this social exercise prematurely and returned to his apartment to hide for a few more days. At least that, although maybe he would have simply packed up, and abandoned New York altogether, write it off as an abortive attempt at assimilating with humanity. Before he had the chance to make up his mind to leave, Miss Osterman spared him the tortuous introversion and elaborated, “When you talk to yourself, when you’re storming out of the building or through these corridors,” she pulled down the tip of his ear with one hand and started to carefully snip a contoured line through the hair there, “you mention leeches quite frequently.”

  West’s eyelids fell closed as he tried to imagine how her fingers felt touching his ear. It hadn’t occurred to him that he talked to himself; he’d heard voices for as long as he could remember, it didn’t seem possible that any of the voices were his.

  “I’ve heard you often enough, f’ing leeches this and damnable leeches that. I’ve sometimes thought you might be talking about the other inhabitants of this building to be honest.”

  He glanced up at her reflection in the mirror and made eye contact. This probably wasn’t the way West had wanted the conversation to steer. Not realizing that he talked to himself made it difficult for him to respond to Miss Osterman. He could have been talking about the residents of the building, but he estimated that playing to that line of thought wouldn’t be the most endearing tact to take.

  “I’ve got some scars on my legs, they bother me sometimes,” West lied, “I had a nasty run in with some leeches while I was river swimming upstate a few years back.”

  Miss Osterman smiled a thin lipped acknowledgment and nodded, “I suppose Mr Yestler, it’s possible that your neighbors have you all wrong. I’d be the first to admit, I am always worried when I hear you talking to yourself.”

  West sensed that this honest admission from Miss Osterman deserved to be answered with an equal show of trust. He grimaced and let his eyes fall to his lap, “Miss Osterman, until just now, I hadn’t realized that I talked to myself.”

  She pulled the scissors away from his hair and let her arms fall to her sides as she started to laugh warmly, “Well, it happens to the best of us, I wouldn’t worry about it. You can call me Charlene by the way.”

  West smiled weakly, “and you can call me West.”

  “Hippie parents?” she asked, innocently.

  “My parents were scientists, foreign; for them, West was just a word that moved the air pleasantly.”

  “So there is some foreign blood in you?” Charlene asked, reassuring herself that this was at least some validation of her suspicion that Mr Yestler was potential terrorist material. He smiled at her, brow furrowed slightly, “I’m not honestly sure what kind of blood runs through me anymore. I suppose it could be foreign.”

  She had started cutting in layers at the back of his head, graduated towards a curve that described the arch of his neck, “Well I suppose whatever blood it is, it’s lived in America long enough to be considered native now?”

  West laughed gently and nodded.

  She pulled her hands away from the back of his head quickly, “Oh I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

  West was confused by Charlene’s question; unable to tell what she had done that might have hurt him.

  “No, no bother, don’t worry about me.” West knew that she couldn’t have cut him; he suspected she’d tugged his hair with her scissors. She looked calm, her mouth flickering into a smile as she returned to her work.

  Charlene leaned in closer as she cut the hair around his neckline, “Were you born here?”

  “No, I was born in a town called Allim.”

  “Is that near Texas? California? I haven’t heard of it.”

  West smiled broadly, “It’s not in America.”

  Charlene stepped away from him, apparently ignoring his last statement. She went over to the sturdy dresser and picked up a small hand mirror and, bringing it back over to the seat, she moved the mirror around behind West so he could see how she had cut the back of his hair. West nodded approvingly as he glanced in the mirror at the smaller reflection. He didn’t care about how his hair looked of course; he cared about the reveal, the casting off of a long worn disguise.

  Charlene watched his eyes closely, looking for approval. There was something odd about those eyes. She couldn’t put her finger on it, so she put the mirror down carefully on the dresser and continued with the cut.

  “Have you lived in New York long?” she asked, again pulling sections of hair into uneven lines between her middle and index fingers, cutting a neat line and letting the hair fall back into place.

  “I suppose. It depends on your frame of reference really.”

  She pursed her lips as she glanced at his reflection, “Hmm, well let’s see … I bought one of the first pressings of the Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan on the day I moved into this apartment on my own. Do you know Dylan?”

  West laughed gently, “Not personally, but I do listen to him.”

  Charlene nodded and smiled, “Well, I was 18 years old and that record was ‘bout all I played for the first few months after my mother, god bless her soul, passed away.”

  “Well by that frame of reference, I suppose I’ve lived in New York a good while.” He glanced up at Charlene to gauge her reaction. She was squinting at his scalp, teasing and cutting his hair. She pouted and squinted as she cut a couple of layered sections on the top of his head. “So where else have you lived in the city?” she asked, letting him know that she had been paying attention to what he said.

  “Since I moved to New York, I’ve mostly lived close by here. I had an apartment in East Harlem for a couple of years.”

  Charlene nodded, “Where else have you lived?”

  West closed his eyes and allowed his memories back in. “I … I … I’ve,” he stammered, unable to focus the flow of time in his mind’s eye. He settled on a noncommittal answer, “I’ve seen the world you could say.”

  Charlene Osterman picked up a fine haired brush from the dresser and brushed hairs from around West’s neckline. “You may have traveled the world, but I’d wager it’s a while since you’ve had such a smart haircut.” She laughed gently to herself and picked up the hand mirror again to show West her handiwork. West looked at his reflection earnestly and nodded approval.

  “Now,” Charlene tugged gently at his thick beard with her left hand as she reached over and put the mirror to rest again, “Time to take care of this.”

  West watched Charlene as she busied herself in her kitchenette, boiling water on the stove, filling a bowl and a jug, adding a little cold water from the tap. She brought the jug over first, then the bowl, placing them with ceremony on the dresser beside her, and then returning to the side table where she had kept the scissors and razor, she pulled out a long length of leather with a handle on the end and a small stone. She placed these too on the dresser before she walked awkwardly out of the room and returned moments later with a short white towel over one arm and a white bar of soap and a brush in her other hand. Placing these on the dresser beside the bowl of steaming water, she soaked the towel in the bowl and came and stood behind West. “This is hot mind you!” she told West before she pulled his head back gently and placed the damp and steaming hot towel over his face.

  Charlene soaped the water in the jug, rubbing the white bar between her hands in the hot water, then, having wet the small stone, she went about honing the blade of the razor, holding the razor by the shank with her index finger pointing down the spine, moving the blade carefully over the wet stone. The blade was already well honed, but she lik
ed to be sure she was working with the optimum conditions. It had been a while since she had performed a straight razor shave on someone else, even longer since she had performed one on herself, her joint pains making it almost impossible to reach her legs, never mind taking the risk of using such a dangerous implement on them.

  She picked up the long strip of leather and taking a metal hoop which was attached to one end, she hooked it over the handle of the dresser’s central drawer. She held the wooden handle which was attached to the other end of the leather strip and she pulled the material tight and applying light pressure, she ran the blade back and forth with the sharp edge trailing, stropping the blade. Charlene always found pleasure in the small details of such tasks.

  She picked up the brush and the bar of soap from the dresser, submerging both in the jug of already soapy water and she whisked the brush back and forth on the soap, working up a good foamy lather. Placing the soap back on the dresser, she held the brush in her right hand and as she stepped behind West, she pulled the still warm towel off his face. She was surprised to see that he still looked quite pale, expecting that he would be rosy cheeked after the steaming towel. She placed her left hand on his forehead and tilted his head back gently, using the brush in her right hand to work up the foam around his facial hair, cheeks and neck, then she returned the brush to its place on the dresser and picked up her gleaming razor.

  West allowed his head to fall forwards slightly, watching Charlene’s face as she stepped up behind him with the razor. That delicate hand, thumb on the blade, fingers trembling slightly, she brought the blade to the right side of his face, angling it and drawing it in a smooth motion towards the center of his cheek, then with a second stroke she moved the blade from his cheek to the side of his mouth. He watched her eyes tentatively as she brought the blade down beside the right side of his chin and moved it slowly out towards his ear, following the line of his jaw. West’s eyes traced the gentle curve and slight hollow of Charlene Osterman’s cheeks, then he gazed at the corners of her mouth as she stroked three lines with the blade down the right side of his neck, all the while holding his skin gently taught with her free hand.