A Hand-fed Albatross

In a half-light room, Aziz goes up and down and murmurs. He stretches his arm, takes out his hand from the long sleeve of his woolen sweater, and scratches his stubble. Then he approaches the PC and looks through the email again. He tries to perceive and make it exact. Everything is clear. Tomorrow is the deadline. The publishing house has stopped asking. Now they demand.

He sits at the desk and goes on his novel. He is editing the same novel for the fifth time. He was obliged to change it several times. If it is not felt the same by readers, the once-popular novelist Albatross will not be recalled again. It is a condition for him to show and confirm himself.

He reaches the middle of the paragraph and stops. There should be something here. Something soft. Something that makes the sentence breathe. He waits. Nothing comes. His chest tightens. Not pain, something warmer. Almost gentle. He presses his fingers to his eyes. It fades before it becomes anything. The sentence refuses to end. It stretches, empty. Waiting for something that isn’t there.

At this time, the door is knocked on, and his old friend Jan comes. He is worried about his friend and wants to see what he has done with his work. After inviting his friend home, Aziz unconsciously begins to mix the sheets on the table. Jan sees that he is still writing something, but he is confused. His hands are trembling. Jan asks:

“Aziz, are you okay?”

He just nods without raising his head.

“Aziz, are you sure you are okay?”

Jan looks through what he is writing and says:

“You used to write this part without thinking.”

Aziz doesn’t answer.

“It was always about her, wasn’t it?”

He turns his head with tears in his eyes:

“Jan, I cannot write. I sold my memory… they used a machine…”

“You went there?”

Aziz nods.

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

A pause.

“That was the worst part.”

“Which one did you sell?”

Aziz hesitates.

“The first time we sat across from each other,” he says. “The one with the glass… and the laugh…”

“Why did you do it?”

“I needed. I needed to forget after her death. And I assessed their offer. I began with little pieces… With little memories of us…”

“How did you do it?”

He thought for a moment. That white lab room, which looked like an emptiness. The light was filtering through the blinds. The chair in front of the equipment… The cap…The wide screen…Dates…Names…Fragments…The cursor…Their reflection on the screen…

“I went and accepted their offer. I also needed money.

“Isn’t it possible to get back?”

“No, I signed some sheets.”

“Ah, Aziz. What have you done?”

“After leaving there, I felt myself light. And over time, I sold others, others. And at the end…”

“At the end, what…?”

“The precious one. The soul of my novel.”

“You‘ve killed Albatross with your own hands. You are a brand, my friend. Everyone is waiting for Albatross’s new novel impatiently. But the worst is you’ve killed not only Albatros, but also Aziz,” he frowns.

When his friend touches his arm, he steps back. He remembers Jan’s sentence and smile: “Are you ready to jump, Aziz?” But he can’t remember the event.

Jan sees that he is not good, so he forces his friend to go out with him. They begin to walk among the narrow streets. As it is dinnertime, the smell of food from different balconies wafts through the air. Then they reach the main street. The advertisements on wide screens glitter under the street lights. The air spreads the wet fragrance of soil. They begin to pass by the restaurants and coffee shops. The smell of the meal mingles with the scent of warm coffee. People passing by them are as if hurrying somewhere. One of them opens the door of the café. A laugh breaks from inside the café through the open door. Not loud, but complete. Aziz stops, raises his head. The feeling returns, but thinner. Incomplete. Jan watches his movement.

“You used to chase that sound,” he says.

Aziz frowns.

“What sound?”

Jan looks at him.

“Leila’s laugh.”

On another part of the city, there is a broken laugh… a glass hitting the table…a voice saying “cheers”... in a small restaurant. But none of it belongs to him again. Not the laugh. Not the glass. Not the word. Somewhere, it is whole. Here it isn’t.

Jan watches him. No reaction. Jan steps closer.

“That is like her laugh,” he says.

Aziz doesn’t move. Not even a blink. Jan’s hands tighten.

“Aziz… you don’t even miss her,” Jan says, “You used to stop at that sound every time.”

Aziz listens again. The laugh fades. Nothing follows.

Now he understands why his friend cannot complete his novel. Why does the publishing house complain?!

Jan takes Aziz home. They step on the stairs heavily. In front of the door, Aziz turns his head, wants to say something, but changes his mind. Then he takes the key out of his pocket and gives it to his friend. Jan opens the door and helps him take off his boots and clothes and lie in his bed. Then he smiles and switches off the light. After leaving the bedroom, he enters the study room. He prefers to switch on the desk lamp. Aziz’s desk is in front of the window. He approaches the desk, stares at the emptiness out of the window, and watches the night scenery for a long time. The full moon enlightens the city. The lights from the apartments of the opposite building fill the night, too. With confusing thoughts in his mind, he holds the sheets. He stands there a moment too long. Then he reaches his phone.

“Yes,” he says.

A pause.

“You already have it.”

Silence.

“Under the same name.”

After talking on the phone, he takes all of the sheets and leaves.

The next day, the manuscript is delivered. Perfect. Clean. Empty.

Signed:

Albatross.