4
The Ghost
“How much longer are you going to sulk?”
Believ is silent. It”s already been two hours since she uttered a word, apart from a few grunts and insults whose meaning I don”t know.
The accident to her motorcycle seems to be affecting her more than it should. It”s just a means of transport; there”s no need to make a fuss!
When she tried to start it right in the middle of our motel room, where she”d rolled out a translucent tarpaulin, her machine made a strange noise, coughed, then folded up in the same silence as its owner. The impact wasn”t just cosmetic, if Believ”s determination is anything to go by, as she dismantles every single part she can get her hands on.
“And then what?” I try to keep the one-sided conversation going.
All I get from her is the umpteenth grunt, albeit more eloquent than the previous ones.
With her forearm, she wipes away a drop of sweat that beads on her temple, covering her alabaster skin with sludge. This girl is astonishing. Who would believe that underneath that fragile, doll-like exterior lies a brilliant mechanic who doubles as an accomplished Sin Eater?
“Hand me the blue key,” she orders, pointing to a set of tools spread out on the floor.
“The blue one? Which one is that?”
Could it be that I”ve forgotten a few basic details, in addition to my own life? Blue is the hue of the sky, of the sea sometimes, but I”m unable to recognize it among the objects in front of me. Could it be that my vision is impaired?
“Forget it. You don”t even have a body,” she laments, standing up to pick up the object, which for me is just a shade of gray, barely more intense than the others.
I”m suddenly struck by the obvious: I can only see in black and white. As for perspective, I can hardly grasp it; everything my eyes perceive seems to be on the same plane!
There”s another detail that annoys me even more: how can I fathom those around me without perceiving their nuances?
“Believ, what color are your eyes?”
“Gray.”
Well, at least I”m not missing anything there. Whatever their hue, the sadness in them seems unchanging.
“A problem?” she asks, suddenly concerned.
“I can”t make out the colors.”
“It”s only now that you”re realizing it?”
“By what reference could I have noticed, since I have no memory of my past life?”
She frowns.
“Is this common to all ghosts?” she says aloud, more to herself than to me.
“How”s the motorcycle?”
She nods.
“I”ll have to find a room, but that shouldn”t be difficult. Then I”ll rest.”
After a moment”s silence, she adds,
“Tomorrow, we”ll return to the outskirts of the manor.”
So, she hasn’t given up. She”s really going to help me. The very thought sends a shiver down my spine. I barely realize she”s leaving the room in search of a garage.
Our meeting is providential.
How does she live? How does she support herself? It can”t be the meager bursary she receives at each service that provides her with food and lodging, so she has other means at her disposal. A salary from the Brotherhood? Savings? I”ll have to ask her, although as far as I”m concerned, it”s of little importance.
When she reappears with the lifesaving piece clutched to her chest, she gives me the impression of a child delighted with a stuffed toy she”s won at the fun fair. It”s as if the relief of knowing her bike is repairable is enough to blur for a moment the pain she feels the rest of the time.
A few strands escape from her unstructured braid as she works to reassemble the jigsaw puzzle that is her contraption and, as a sign of intense concentration, bites her tongue, which protrudes from her fleshy lips. She”s a beautiful woman. Of course, I can”t make comparisons with others; those I”ve met so far are just faces without distinct features, and as for those from my past... I”m not in a position to answer.
Strange tattoos snake across her arms, like warnings at the entrance to a protected sanctuary.
With the utmost meticulousness, her slender fingers gradually reconstruct the engine”s complex tangle, which eventually returns to its original appearance, minus the grime.
“What are you going to do when we find out who I am?”
She takes her eyes off the bike and stares at me, puzzled.
“Nothing in particular. I”ll get back to work.”
This unlikely rescue mission is just a parenthesis in her life. But what about me? What happens when I find out? Will I wander alone into the mists of time? Will she free me from my torments? Will she allow me to join her infinite journey?
She lets out a satisfied sigh and slumps onto the bed before devouring the packet of potato chips she”s gleaned from the vending machine at the end of the corridor, her empty eyes riveted on the small TV set hanging on the wall. This program doesn”t interest her; it occupies her, distracting her attention from what”s torturing her existence.
When at last she unplugs herself, she pulls out a small piece of paper from the inside pocket of her jacket, lying carelessly beside her. A worn photo. In it, she’s smiling radiantly as she holds up a chubby, laughing child. A memory... How I envy being able to cherish this moment, even if it seems painful.
She murmurs a few words and immediately falls asleep, carried away by a sleep full of nightmares.