September 18, 2007

18 + 1 by Kit Zheng

It was Vincent's birthday, even if no one was inclined to notice.

That was the way he preferred it. He had no use for a day that revolved around him, for the empty well-wishes of others or the scrambled, last minute gifts. He didn't crave the attention, and even if he had wanted it, which he didn't, well--he was not the sort who was noticed by many, or who had many (if any) friends, so a celebration of the date of his birth was highly unlikely.

Still, though he might be a misanthrope with a talent in avoiding the interest of others, he was human, and now and then he liked to treat himself; and it was only by accident that he felt the desire to indulge on the exact anniversary of his entry into this world.

Or so he kept telling himself. He turned a corner, escaping the still-brisk foot traffic on the sidewalks and down an alleyway between a shabby book store and a small Indian restaurant. The restaurant was one of his favorites--the wait staff there were nearly as invisible as he was, and kindly left him alone, ghosting in only to deliver plates and the final bill. But that was not his destination: he went past the side-door access to the restaurant and behind the book store, and paused a moment in the dark.

Out of habit he mentally went through his future steps in great detail: back door, the alarm box to the right, the piles of books that could hinder his feet in the dark. It was the way he always worked, even though this was not a job, this was pleasure; this was something he hadn't allowed himself to indulge in since he'd become a professional. Truthfully, he might just as easily have strolled in during the day, found what he was looking for and taken it off the shelf, and strolled straight back out of the store unnoticed, but the act was part of the indulgence. The risk of being caught. The ritual of breaking in. Happy birthday, Vincent.

As if he were just an employee of the book store returning for something left behind, he approached the back door of the book shop. He didn't pause at the expected sight of the camera, unafraid of it: the ineffectiveness of his appearance in person was duplicated perfectly in video.

Standing near the door he pretended to search for his key, leaning forward just a little so that his coat fell to block the doorknob and conceal the sight of his other hand working the lock. The pick he had customized long ago, on his nineteenth birthday. There was a worn spot from use on the long handle, the repeated slip and grip of his palm and fingers recorded forever.

Vincent felt the lock yield to him and he turned the doorknob, stepping inside. To his right, then: he turned and saw the expected security box, yellow light flashing as it counted off the seconds before it would send the alarm. He had bought the passcode with a little of the profits from his last job--he keyed it in and smiled as the light flipped to green. Perhaps this would encourage the book store to get a better security system; he was fond of it, after all.

He moved with an appearance of familiarity through the dark, directly to the locked case in the back that was his goal. He could have easily afforded the volume kept within if he'd wanted to buy it; and if the owner had been willing to sell it. It was priceless, a leather-bound book of hand-drawn erotic prints, collected by one eccentric Briton in his travels of the world: Europe, Asia, Africa... each one reputedly a unique position rendered by a master of the region. Vincent glimpsed it only once, lingering when an employee had opened the case to show off to a few pretty girls. He never got another look at the book--or the employee, for that matter--after that.

From overheard conversations between the other patrons, he'd gathered that the owner received regular offers from museums and collectors for the priceless volume, and turned them all down.

But he must be an old man, from a more innocent age, Vincent thought. He stood before the cabinet and studied it, unwilling to believe on some level that it was only guarded by lock and key. He ran his fingertips over the front. The plans he'd studied in his research revealed no extraordinary protection of the cabinet beyond the simple lock. Really, it was only a matter of time before this happened; better that he do this now than some clumsy thief who would sell his prize without any real understanding of its worth.

Vincent took out a pair of metal tools and gently eased them into the keyhole. The mechanism inside was old and heavy--from another time, something careful and solid about its parts that Vincent admired, though it fell quickly under his practiced hands. The cabinet opened with a click, the door coming partway open, almost inviting him in.

He held his breath and slowly eased the door open, like he was undressing a nervous lover. He smelled the book before he saw it in the dim light: rich and warm and a little powdery sweet, the mix of old paper and leather. It was always like this, the moment of reality, when what he wanted was so close, just a stretch of the hand for the taking--his heartbeat speeding up, his breath stilled a moment in his lungs, his body unable to move that last distance--

And then he had the book in hand, spread open over his arms. He gently turned through the pages. Flesh in all colors, browns and pinks and golds and even ivory and greenish hues; amazing work. He only wanted to memorize each plate before he returned the book to its alcove, but in the dim light coming through the windows he couldn't make out enough.

Some reckless impulse surged through him, and he found the massive oak desk he always imagined the owner must sit at when he was present. There was a tiffany desk lamp on one corner, Vincent recalled, and he felt for it in the darkness with fingertips guided by past observations, at last finding the switch and turning it on.

When the room illuminated he wasn't sure who was more shocked: himself or the man who was once asleep in dark, sprawled in the leather chair behind the desk. Vincent might still have made his retreat before the man fully awoke and realized it was more than just some half-real dream; but his surprise froze him, seeing a young man and not an old one, a familiar face and not a stranger.

"You're--" Vincent said, and stopped himself, remembering he was robbing the place.

"Do I know you?" the man said, shaking his head a little. He blinked, owlish, deep-set eyes still heavy with sleep.

It was funny, Vincent thought, after all these years of being as unnoticeable as he was, of going out of his way to be especially unremarkable, it was funny how now and then it still hurt to not be remembered.

"You work at the restaurant." It was all he could think of. The man was lean and brown and wiry, hair unruly and wavy, with dark eyes under thick brows. Vincent had sometimes seen this man emerge from the kitchen in a somehow inoffensive yet food-marred wifebeater and apron, sweating from the heat, often with a huge glass of water in hand.

"I do," the man nodded, and then paused. "You're stealing my book."

Vincent's mouth went dry. His tongue sucked against the roof of his mouth as he spoke. "It's my birthday," he said, because there wasn't anything else to say. "This is your business?"

"It's my passion," the man said, in such a way that made Vincent think he really meant the word in a way that so many who used the word--for romance, for lust, for artistic drive--did not really understand. "My business is next door. Happy birthday. But--"

The man politely indicated the book tucked under Vincent's arm. Vincent quickly set the volume down on the heavy oak desk. He wondered if the man would call the police. It was a long, long time since he'd been arrested. It was a long time since he'd had a normal conversation, too. Peculiar and stilted as it was, somehow he was enjoying it.

"Do you have a buyer?" the man asked, as he reached to drag the book back towards him. His hands were large and strong, the veins and tendons well defined on the backs.

"No," Vincent answered honestly. He looked the man in the eye. "I just wanted to look." To take, to own, to repossess, but he didn't say those aloud.

The man opened the book with obvious familiarity, his touch gentle and yet deft. He turned the book around so that Vincent could see, his forefinger tapping the left page. "This is my favorite."

There was a drawing on the right page--Middle Eastern, Vincent guessed, though he didn't know for sure; but the man's finger was tapping a facing page of text in beautiful, flowing calligraphy. The curves of the characters were confident and sweeping, words flowing into each other to the left and right and above effortlessly. It was sensual in a way that Vincent could not really define; the almost dried-blood color of the ink and the entanglement of the foreign letters.

"What does it say?" Vincent asked, surprised to hear his own breathlessness, his voice tight as if he was aroused.

"I don't know." The man sounded slightly embarrassed. "It's Diwani style calligraphy. I keep meaning to bring it to a friend to translate, but--I suppose a part of me thinks that would destroy all of the mystery and appeal. Awful, wishful scholar that I am, not wanting to read something, rather look at it like another dirty picture."

Vincent was silent. He understood. And strangely, he thought that the original collector must have understood as well.

"It's that page that keeps me hanging onto the thing, as well. I'm not interested in the value of the book. I'd just as well have a beat up but well-loved edition of Lord of the Flies."

The way the man's fingers caressed the page made Vincent hold his breath as the blood rushed from all parts to form a rigid shape in the leg of his corduroys. The words spidered and writhed towards and away from the man's fingers, so careful and deliberated but spontaneous, too. Brown fingertips traced the swirls and straight shafts, moved with unconscious rhythm, as if they might read the text by touch alone.

Vincent forced himself to breathe. The man's eyes met his own. For a moment, they shared something almost physical, so potent Vincent was almost afraid he would lose control; but then the man shut the book, and smiled.

"You're welcome to come look any time, if that's enough for you."

Vincent nodded, promised he would, even though he knew if he did so, the man would never recall him; would demand why he was attempting to touch the valuable volume. As he turned to go, however, the man stood and stopped him.

"Now I remember." He touched his forehead. "You always eat something different for your entree, but finish with Gulab Jamoon."

Not knowing what to say, Vincent nodded. Here he was--his little indulgence a disaster, the robbery a failure. And yet--he wanted this, for a moment, more than the book, more than the act of thievery--the bright look of recognition in the dark eyes; and he was tempted, so badly tempted, to ask the man if he might be interested in more--

But it was not good to be greedy.

After a pause he offered his hand to the man, shook it, and cocked his head back towards the door. "Guess I'll let myself out."

"Happy birthday," trailed after him as he slipped back in the dark, and he thought, at least this once, it was not so bad to have somebody remember.

***

Look for these characters in Kit's upcoming Arcana, "Exposure."