ys03.html

The Old Man's Briefcase

Filename: ys03.html
© 1999 Youssef R. R. Sleiman
Length: 3 000 words

Genre: Dramatic Fiction
Description: Continuing in the style of his own, Youssef puts no names in this story of a man whose days are counted by the whiskey he drinks, that is until one day, a man he sees often, leaves a package that in turn leaves the man changed.

The Old Man's Briefcase

I'd sat and watched this man drink here before, but I've never thought much of him. Wearing a commoner's old-school tie, thick striped suit pieces, and a tattered, old briefcase in his arms, this old man could never have sparked anything but boredom in anyone. It seemed like a regular routine to see him there, in a corner table, surrounded by no one and sipping tea. Never any company. If I'd known his name, I would probably have been the first.
There was a slight facet of mystery in him though. Routine was his position, his drink, even his posture, but never the times. This pub was an Irish place, owned by an Irishman by the name of Hertford, and was famous for its reputation of odd hours, and I was constantly passing through. At the latest of nights, to the brightest and most sobering hours of the morning, I would see him there. If it weren't for the pocket-watch that he carried, I would have thought he lived on an internal clock that was missing a few springs or gears. But, like I said, I never paid any thought to him.
Myself, I'd had enough of a problem with life, and could find an easy solution at the bottom of a glass of scotch whiskey sometimes it took three or four glasses. My own friends were scarce and have been living the good life since before I remember, and I could identify with the old man in that respect, though he carried a briefcase, which seemed to satisfy his need for company. While I'd go to drink, the old man went to seemingly ponder over some hidden truths as he sipped from a chipped and equally old teacup, the only teacup Hertford had.
My interest peaked on one of the days where I had to search through five glasses of scotch before I found a bliss so dizzying I didn't remember the time. I still doubt I'll ever remember. But, after I dropped the fifth glass, I turned around and spotted the old man's table empty. I smiled. Too bloody late for him anyway. Or too bloody early? While my mind continued on in this fashion, something tugged at me. The table wasn't completely empty. The briefcase...
I squinted through my drunkenness, though that didn't accomplish much other than obscure my vision. There it was. Laying flat, exposing its water-blotched leather, crusted seams, as plain as day (or night) and waiting for its master to return. Being drunk, I couldn't help but get up and stagger that way.
Now, don't think too lowly of me. Digging through someone else's things isn't in my nature. But there was a sort of mystery in that briefcase, and I was going to unravel it. Privacy was out the window at this point. I needed to know, and all the answers to the old man who he was, what he was about, why he existed, everything was in that case. And I was going to know.
I ran my clumsy hands over the rough leather, feeling that each little pock had its own story to tell, and I sat down in the old man's warm chair. The briefcase smelled of herbal balms, stiff cheese, and something still unrecognisable to me. The clasps to open the case were unlocked, and my hands seized them. Suddenly, there was a moment of hesitation, of dramatic pause where Indiana Jones knew that if he opened the chest, snakes would certainly be waiting for him. I tossed that thought to the wind what snakes could this old man have?
The suspense of opening the briefcase was caught in a melodrama. Papers. Everywhere. Every-shape and every-size papers. I scanned the ranks of cloth folds and examined the littlest nooks. They were dozens upon dozens of papers. I pulled out a handful of paper. The majority of them were done in type, but some were in a handwriting I had always fancied myself a fanatic at neat handwriting, and there were no flaws in this man's pen. Oh, wait. I was wrong. At certain points on the handwritten pieces, the old man's handwriting was chopped, hurried, and were almost spat out onto the page.
I caught some of the words, and they seemed to coagulate together. Soon, I found myself reading through the fistful of papers.

"Cassandra's eyes were deep and wide as the oceans and only so much more beautiful, and I told her this. In reply, I only got her charming smile. How could she demean the words I said? Did she know how much she meant to me? Without a hesitated moment, I pulled her lips to mine and gave her the my kiss. This was more than a kiss it was a stake, a fortification of my claim on her. And this claim was not in the name of revenge, as it had been with Charles, nor was it in the name of a family obligation, such as I had with Sandra. No, this kiss had a claim on her in the name of love."

I blinked my eyes. The paper didn't seem so pointless now, and I was quickly sobering. I tucked the pages carefully in their proper order, or so close as I could. These white sheets of ink weren't just papers to me, they had held an entire world in them. I read through a few pages after. The romance between Ralphe and Cassandra was as real to me as the whiskey that I had chucked down earlier. I was no closer to who the old man was, but that didn't matter to me any longer. I searched through another pile of papers and found a different world.

"I looked coldly into his eyes trying to figure out some sort of emotion. The past few nights of dreadful haunts and suspense were apparently getting to me, but this man's face was as kinetic as a wall. It did not help my trying to read him that Craig's face could blend anywhere like a phantom's. I almost wish I had so bland a face.
'How could you have set me up that way?,' I accused.
'What way?'
'You knew that handing that letter to me would put me in the direct path of Ellis' agenda, especially after you saw what happened to George. After all I had survived with his onslaught. My wife, my children, my bloody house! All of them were vandalized for the sake of that letter! I could have been seriously hurt! There was no point to putting me in the direct path of that. I thought we were allies. And the Queen's guard won't stand for this muddle you're dealing in.'
'Allies?', he seemed genuinely hurt. 'Yes, we are allies. But you must learn to trust me. You're so naïve, aren't you Nicki? Like you said, you know what happened to George. Ellis doesn't make mistakes, and if he wants you dead, you'll be dead, Queen's guard or not.' At this point, Craig sat back and sipped at his drink. 'He'd have eliminated anyone in between him and that letter.'
All of what he had said seemed to make more sense. Something clicked for me just then. 'Then how did you know he wouldn't kill me?,' I asked, hoping that someone in this God-forsaken Secret Service knew what they were doing.
Craig looked back at me with those dull brown eyes. 'I didn't.'"

I took a deep breath before I set down the paper. The complexity of the plot. The elation of Nicki at Craig. And what sorts of subtle sense it all made. The ugly sickness of the entire world was what made it all so perfect. Craig's enigmatic responses to Nicki's almost childish and pedestrian attempts at understanding. I sat back and took a long drag at the liquor-infested pub air. The chair beneath me seemed to have aged quite a deal, as though I had been sitting in it forever. I relaxed for a moment before delving myself in yet another adventure. Like an addict, I began to peep again into another life.

"Emily whirled in her chair and glared at me. I knew what she was thinking, but I didn't dare confront her with it. I just waited there like a poor sap and took the beating as it came. What little experience I had had with women taught me never to face a woman like this, ever. She had tears in her eyes as she leapt to her feet and took me by the collar. Our momentum sent us back onto the wall, and there I was glued.
'How can you be so DENSE?! I tried my best to help you! I LOVED YOU, Mallory! And now...,' her grip loosened and I could feel her chest breath at a regular human's pace, rather than her usual superhuman heartbeat. 'And now... I just don't know. Why would you act like that around people you know could send you back to the institution, Mal? Bloody Chris'... why can't you just be normal around me?' Emily looked up into his eyes with a stare resembling a laser, and I could feel it already blinding me. Her hand drifted down my cheek in a gentle affection that I'd only been privy to when I saw it in other couples. 'At least then I could still know you loved me. You do still love me, don't you, Mallory?'
I couldn't answer. I didn't know whether this was about me, or if it was about her being attached to another one of her patients, and I wasn't about to find out."

Romance, yet again. I didn't know whether it was the quality of the story, or if it was me, but I could easily have identified with any of these characters. It was frankly amazing. I knew that if I read another one again too quickly, the wonderment and power behind them would be lost, so I tried my best to pace myself before going on.
From the seat, I raised my hand for attention and Hertford looked up. I had "Another scotch, please" on my lips, but suddenly I didn't want to be drunk. I didn't want to be numb against life, or what I found of it in these stories.
"What do you have that isn't alcohol, Hert?"
He gave a startled laugh. Hertford seemed drunk, too, but he shouted back something in his slurred Irish and it sounded good, so I said, "Yes, that'll do me." I settled back in the chair and looked out into the day. I have no idea how long I had sat there. The day was crisp and the liquor in the air wasn't so acrid. I suppose it could have been midday, and that would mean I found the briefcase at night. Or then again, it could have late afternoon, and meant that I found it early this morning. Like I said, I'll never know. I watched the clouds with a sort of blank state, yet so much was being uncovered inside, and I had no idea what.
The approach of Hertford woke me from this pondering, and with a sneer, he dropped a familiar teacup on the table space to the left of the briefcase. The aroma of Earl Grey steamed out of it, and it was with sweetness that it filled my lungs. I picked up the cup, and looked at it. It was the old man's. The only teacup that Hertford had. The chip on the handle nestled right into the bridge on my thumb, and the smooth bowl practically held itself in my fingers. There was such a friendly and familiar attachment between me and the old man's brew. I sipped it, and after that hot fuel, I set the cup down with a clumsy clack on the tea-saucer to resume reading.

"As I looked out into the horizon, I didn't want to believe I lived my childhood here. The ancient Irish buildings barely stood on a lazy foundation, and they tilted hauntingly out at me. As I walked along, and recognized places that I had once played street soccer with mates down the road, or crannies that I'd hid from my parents in, and then there it stood. The homely apartment that held so many of my childhood memories.
I dashed to the crusty building and sprinted for all I was worth up the steps. I had to see it all. I wanted to envelope myself in all of the hate, pain, love, stress, frustration, detriment, heartache, and family that I felt in that stinking little flat. Perhaps I was being sadistic, but on some deeper plane, I knew it was because I wished I could fill myself with all of it now, and never to come back, again.
At the sight of the door, I froze half-way up the flight and set down my bags as I was contorted into a nostalgic state that I thought only attacked old lovers. I made my way up the last few steps and slowly ran my hands along the wall as I had done so long ago. ...So long ago, when I was young. The little pocks in the wall retained the memory of a dozen times where I had been called in for supper and this very wall was the only friction I had to keep me outside. I stopped at the door and ran my fingers down it, and went to my knees. There. That seemed right it was at this height that I remember this threshold, and this hallway, and those steps. I reached up and gripped the knob with fingers so long they seemed to wrap around it entirely, and clumsily opened the door.
The paints had been stripped, but not so much that it was unrecognisable. There was no one here, it was just me and the flat. I went along the walls, remembering the drunken nights of family happiness and the ginger cruelty that kept affection in it like no other feeling could. I was startled, but not surprised by the tears that began to roll down my eyes. There was nothing like going back, and, boy, did it hurt."

I stopped at the bewilderment of my own tears flowing down my face and then onto the page. I wiped at the imperfection, but didn't go on reading. There was so much behind it, so much inertia which plummeted me into those papers that I didn't dare reading on. And I smiled at my next thought. It was all too terrible.
With the bitter taste left after a short cry, I raised the teacup and sipped it down and it tasted so good. I returned those papers with a new respect and set them into their places in the decrepit briefcase. I sat back and let that bit of life sink in with the others. There was an experience in it that I wasn't sure anyone else had, unless they lived it. I released the tears and let them etch themselves into my soul.
My thoughts drifted to the old man. Could he have written this? I never was able to imagine him in any light other than sitting here and drinking this tea. There was romance where there had been no love, there was drama where his life was dull, and there was thrill where there was no adventure. ...And there was a homecoming without ever leaving. Who was this old man? Without a name, I was quite on the disadvantage, and with that thought I began to leaf through the pages. No names. Not even a pseudonym printed along with the titles.
The dark night had usurped the day (supposedly again) and I was now reading by the street torches' light. Then a shadow came up behind me and appeared on the briefcase. I turned slowly and saw the old man standing there. At first, I was embarrassed at having been caught with my hands in someone else's property, but the look in his eye wasn't exactly scrutinizing, though I could easily see he wanted the briefcase. I quickly, and rather nervously, packed the briefcase again, as though I were doing it for an emperor. The old man's face smiled to me, and it warmed my heart to see that being an audience to his works gave the old man joy. I guessed that he had been standing behind me for quite sometime and I never noticed him in my rapture. I handed the briefcase to him, and he took it by the handle.
The old man then tipped his hat in a "good day to you, young man" and turned to leave. The mystery was even more tightly wound and it seemed that this sealed the enigma forever. I didn't know how to handle him leaving so quickly, so I jumped up and shouted the first question burning on my brain.
"How...?" The question tumbled out as disoriented as any single word could, and I was instantly ashamed of myself, but the old man smiled and answered the question.
"I do it because I must. It's not a question of how, young man." Then he left.
It seemed to be forever before I moved again, but I sat back down to the table, noted the emptiness left by the briefcase, and sipped out of Hertford's only teacup. I had gone into the old man's briefcase looking for some answers as to who he was, but instead I was graced with a bit of the wisdom I might never have had without him. I had been looking for truth and life at the bottom of those shot glasses for so long, it came as a shock to finally walk out of the pub a little wiser that night.