The Memory Painter

The fact that he could not rouse her, even to drink water, alarmed him. She had also been speaking in her sleep in a language Bryan had never heard before. If she didn’t wake up soon, he’d have to take her to a hospital. She’ll wake up, he assured himself. She had to.

Thinking that he should have aspirin, food, bottled water, and whatever else Linz might need on hand when she woke, Bryan got dressed and wrote her a quick note, just in case, and left it on the pillow. He hung the “do not disturb” sign on the door and headed to the elevators.

“Is your friend any better?”

Bryan turned around and saw the young housekeeper who was assigned to their floor. She had helped him usher Linz into the room yesterday. He had felt an immediate affinity for her, but could not place her from anywhere in his past. It was like meeting an old friend again and forgetting their name.

She gave him an inquisitive smile, waiting for his response. She was a lovely Egyptian girl with wide almond-shaped eyes and a classical face. There was a natural light about her, as if she was always eager to laugh.

Bryan swallowed his frustration and answered, “She’s still sleeping.”

“Well, let me know if I can get you anything. My name is Layla.” She continued down the hallway. Bryan watched her walk away.

He got on the elevator and headed to the lobby. The Intercontinental at City Stars was more opulent than what Bryan would have chosen. Linz had booked their room in Boston while they waited for their flight. The enormous development center included two other hotels and the largest mall in Europe and the Middle East. With over six hundred stores, two theme parks, and a twenty-one-screen cinema, the shopping mecca was a manifestation of the twenty-first century’s voracious appetite for consumerism. Bryan had never experienced anything like it.

As he pushed through the crowd, the life he had come to find had never seemed more unobtainable. Maybe it was a mistake to bring Linz halfway around the world. Running away hadn’t solved anything. Bryan had used his credit card to pay for the flights and their hotel room, making it possible for Conrad to find them. Hell, he controlled a billion-dollar pharmaceutical empire. He could find anyone.

Bryan’s concerns about Conrad evaporated as he stood in front of the massive mall directory. He counted six levels at City Stars and vowed he would only go up to three—he wanted to get what he came for and get out. Working haphazardly and with hardly a clue as to what Linz liked or needed, he bought her toiletries and food.

On his way out, he found a hobby store and purchased a drawing pad, charcoal pencils, and oil pastels. He knew he wouldn’t be going anywhere until Linz recovered. Maybe drawing would trigger something. He was starting to feel desperate.

*

When Bryan got back to their room Linz was still in deep sleep. She didn’t wake from the noise he made as he rifled through plastic bags or react when he called her name.

He felt her forehead, and was relieved to find that at least her fever had broken—a good sign. He would let her sleep until morning and then decide what to do.

In the meantime, he piled the supplies on the table and got out a bottle of vodka he had bought. He poured himself a double shot.

The room had come with a terrace and Bryan stepped out onto it, feeling a night breeze brush across his face. He closed his eyes and, for a brief moment, heard the whisper of the ancient land he had come to find.

A comfortable-looking lounge chair beckoned to him. He leaned back and looked up at the sky; he had hoped for stars but saw only clouds and pollution. As he sipped his vodka, his mind turned to Pushkin. He felt an urge to write a poem but suppressed it. He wanted to recover new memories, not old ones.

Finishing his drink, he poured another, unable to quell his frustration. Why couldn’t he remember? He knew there were countless lives in his head, and yet the one he wanted to retrieve eluded him like a phantom. Again, his thoughts returned to the poem. It wouldn’t go away.

He went inside, found pen and paper in the hotel desk drawer, and returned to the lounge chair and began to write. He stared at the finished poem before tossing it aside, and in one deft move jumped up onto the balcony’s ledge.

Calling upon Bodhidharma’s grace, he walked the narrow strip with confidence, feeling his mind balancing on the same ledge. Bryan opened his arms wide and let the wind whip his body. He stood like that for several minutes and felt a calm wash over him.

Suddenly Bodhidharma’s voice rang loudly inside his head, commanding him to paint. Bryan jolted and opened his eyes—why was he standing on a half-foot ledge fifteen stories off the ground? He pitched forward and caught himself just in time, jumping backward onto the cement.

“Jesus,” he said, feeling breathless yet exhilarated. He went into the room to grab the drawing pad and oil pastels.