Picture Paradise

© 2004 Steve Goldsmith
All rights reserved.

"But Mr. Collins, I did put the file on your desk."

"Well, where is it now? If you had put the file on my desk, it would still be there now. You've been drinking as well, haven't you?"

"Only half a pint at lunch, sir."

"It's obviously enough to affect your memory. It's not the first time either. Pack up and go home ... You're out of a job."

"What?"

"Fired, you're fired."

"You can't fire me ... I haven't done anything wrong," I said, my body shaking with anger. I stared at Mr. Collins. He had a chubby flushed face and bald head which glistened beneath the office lights. He took a couple of steps toward me, using his bulk to back me up against the wall. He raised a finger and pointed it toward me as if it were a gun.

"I can fire whoever I bloody well like!"

I looked around the office and the other employees, hoping somebody would come to my aid. They sat behind their computers, silent; when I searched them with my eyes, their eyes returned to the computer screens, feigning ignorance of what was happening. Then Rachel walked in from the photocopy room whistling, unaware of the situation. She stopped dead and stared at our boss, keeping well back, like she might from a lion.

"Rachel," I said, with sudden inspiration. "You were there; you saw me place the file on Mr. Collins's desk."

Her eyes widened and the piece of paper she held trembled. Her vision switched briefly to the boss, then to me. From the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Collins shake his head; I knew he had Rachel fixed with his dull gray eyes, threatening her wordlessly.

"No. I don't recall that," Rachel said, with a tremor in her voice. Her eyes again darted to Mr. Collins, whose dry lips had lifted in smirk.

"Did you hear that?" Mr. Collins asked, turning his fat bald head, causing creases in his neck where flaps of skin hung over his collar. "She said no—which makes you a liar. Nobody saw you with that file." He smirked again. "You probably left it at the pub."

Rachel stared at me, on the verge of tears. Those eyes spoke a telepathic apology to me. I was certain she had seen me with the file, but she feared for her own job. It was her or me; she had no choice but to save herself.

Mr. Collins smiled to Rachel as he marched over to the office door. He held it open and glared at me. "Go on. Get out of here," he yelled.

I took a deep breath. "Can't I see out the day, at least?"

"No. Out now ... unless you want me to throw you out?"

I wanted to say, 'like to see you try,' but he outweighed me by a hundred and fifty pounds and had arms like tree trunks. I collected my stuff and left; the door slamming only inches short of the back of my head.

As I walked away, I gazed at the office windows and saw Rachel pressed against one, looking at me again with those sad, remorseful eyes. She began to mouth something, and then flinched as Mr. Collins came up behind her. She quickly scampered over to her desk.

Back in my apartment, I went straight for the alcohol cabinet, searching for a bottle of whiskey. Who was I kidding? I was more of a Baileys man. I filled a pint glass with the creamy brown alcoholic drink.

As I swallowed the first mouthful, I looked up at the painting that hung on my wall. I eyed it carefully. It had been a favorite picture of mine as a kid, and Mom had let me take it when I moved out. Worthless, probably, but it brought back fond childhood memories. It was a picture of a farm surrounded by trees and fields. A river flowed past the farmhouse.

In the foreground, two men used a horse to pull a cart into the river. What were they doing? I wasn't sure. I used to imagine them finding diamonds or some other lost treasure. The cart seemed to hide whatever they looked at in the water. Maybe a mermaid, I used to think.

A girl was crouched by the barn, apparently washing clothes. There was a dog at her side—a Jack Russell.

I would love to live there. Out in the peace and tranquility of the countryside. Away from my stupid apartment in the city center, with pollution inhaled every time I opened the window. And the noise; I couldn't sleep beyond seven, because of the traffic on the street.

And of course I would get away from shitheads like Mr. Collins. I must be able to get compensation for unfair dismissal or something? Then I recalled an employee a couple of months earlier whom Mr. Collins had laid off, claiming that he was mentally unstable. Nobody else had noticed this apparent affliction, but everyone had noticed he was black.

By now I had drunk half the pint glass of Baileys and my head had begun to sway on my shoulders. A smudged film covered my eyes. My eyelids were heavy, my vision blurred. I tried concentrating on the painting; all I could see were the colors of the countryside swimming about in front of me like some manic kaleidoscope.

I awoke suddenly. The sun beamed in through the window and a gust of fresh air blew across my face. I looked up, blinked stupidly and rubbed my eyes. I could hear a dog barking. I got to my feet, suddenly aware that I was naked, and grabbed for the towel that was next to the bed.

Where am I?

I must have been on the Baileys last night, I thought. I tried to remember the previous day's events ... I had got fired—oh God, I had, hadn't I? The anger bubbled away for a moment, then passed ... then I got home and paced the room. Then got drunk?

The dog barked again.

I walked over to the window and pushed it wide open, blinking again in the sunlight. My jaw dropped. I looked down and saw the two men wheeling the horse-drawn cart. The dog continued to bark. I turned my vision to below, onto the little pier to see the girl with the scarf around her head, leaning down, her hands submerged by water. She lifted some clothes from under the water's surface and rinsed them out.

She had been washing clothes—I was right! I turned and quickly dressed. As I did a thought kept on playing in my head like a stuck record: my dreams have come true, my dreams have come true, my dreams...

But had they, or would I awaken soon? I pinched myself several times, wincing in pain, watching as the red marks appeared on my skin. This had to be real.

I left the room and walked down the narrow creaking staircase to the ground floor. A table was set for a meal. There were breads, cheeses, various marmalades and hot drinks. I could smell the strong coffee.

I walked to the back door, then gently pushed it open and walked out to where the girl was leaning down. She turned and looked up to me with a smile. She rose to her feet. She left the wet clothes on the pier and wiped her hands dry, before stepping toward me and rubbing my arms warmly.

"Where am I?" I asked.

Her head wrinkled in confusion—she obviously didn't understand me. She began to speak in some foreign language.

She was wearing a navy blue headscarf, gray blouse and white skirt, all of which she had been wearing in my painting. Her green eyes met mine and we smiled at one another. Her lips were thin and red—I had a sudden urge to lean forward and kiss them. I resisted.

She sat me in a chair, and then brought me a cup of coffee. She then walked around the bank of the river to where the two men were with the horse and cart in the shallow water.

I leaned back and sipped at the coffee as the warm air breezed by. My eyes drifted to the river; the water rippled in little waves as it meandered through the small rocks that rose beyond the water's surface. The sun's bright beams shone onto the river to reveal fish swimming in little circles, apparently playing with one another. I wondered whether somebody in my apartment could now look at the picture and see me? Was there now a deck chair with a man, me, sitting in it?

Over on the far side of the river a woodpecker pecked away at a tree—the tap, tapping sound echoed quietly around the farm. Beyond the first row of trees, glistening in the sun's rays, were many tall trees soaking up the warmth, and making an unearthly cracking sound, as they do in hot weather.

Long grass swayed in the wind and cows ate in the fields. A splash suddenly caught my attention and I looked down into the river. A kingfisher emerged with a small fish in its beak. Then another kingfisher dived from the tree, blue feathers gleaming in the sun, and I heard the splash of the broken water. Above, birds began to tweet in the branches.

Oh, and the smell, Jesus, the smell was something I had never even imagined—so fresh. I could smell flowers and grass like I had never before.

But things were to change. I heard raised voices. The sound of conversation. I looked over to see the girl talking to the other two men.

She pointed over to me, and then all three looked at once. I raised an arm to wave, but before I could, the three had turned away, and the girl held her hands to her face. I got to my feet and tried to see what it was they were looking at. It wasn't long until I found out. From behind the cart, one of the men—a burly, dark haired one—carried a small, lifeless child in his arms and placed it down on the cart. The horse reared up and began to splash through the water, carrying the cart behind. The other man and the girl followed close behind as they walked to the dry land at the river's edge—heads slumped as if in a funeral procession.

Now they were so much closer, I could clearly see the little boy's corpse. He looked about ten; his body was limp and dead, his fair hair stuck to his head with wetness. His skin had turned a pinky-blue color. They rested him down on the bank, then the burly man began to dig—began to dig this boy's grave.

After the boy had been buried, the three of them came over to the barn. The girl rubbed my arms again and smiled. I tried to smile back. We all sat around the table and began to eat in silence. The two men held their heads low to the table, not looking up at all, except when they heard the voice of the girl. She saw that I was both fearful and sad, and smiled in my direction whenever eye contact was made. She refilled my cup every time I drank the last of my coffee, and offered me more warm bread.

"Who was the boy?" I asked her, already certain she wouldn't understand. She looked at me and smiled. The men glanced up, I think suspiciously.

I felt strange. Out of place. I had come to paradise, but now, with the discovery of the boy's body, it had become eerie and uncomfortable. What was this place? Who was the boy? I had already tried asking, and they didn't understand a single word I spoke. But I could see they were afraid. Of what?

Then I heard shouting in the distance. Muffled voices I couldn't distinguish. The girl and two men jumped to their feet and ran to the windows, peering out from behind the curtains. They began to shout at one another in their foreign dialect, panic-stricken. The burly man became quite agitated and turned to me and pointed with a stabbing finger as if I were the cause of the disturbance. I stood, raising my hands to defend myself, though I didn't know what against. Suddenly, the voices were much nearer and louder. Only just outside. The door smashed inward and the sound of heavy boots followed. I may not have understood the language, but I recognized the Nazi uniform. Recognized and feared.

The four of us were forced to the ground, our hands tied behind our backs, our eyes covered by blindfolds. The girl shouted angrily and a scuffle broke out, and quickly stopped with the sound of a fist hitting flesh. The girl began to sob.

We were taken outside. I felt the breeze on my face and could feel the sun burning down upon my head. I heard many voices—all around—and knew by the sound of feet that there were many soldiers. There was a silence. No sound from anyone. The birds above began to sing. A gunshot went off, followed by a scream—then another and another. I was grabbed and forced to move. The blindfold was taken from my eyes and my face thrust down into the faces of the three dead. The girl's mouth was open in shock. Blood trickled down from her forehead and over the blindfold. I was turned, and a gun was pointed directly at my head not more than a foot away.

The gray-haired soldier, who had a long scar running from his left ear to his mouth, spoke some words, then began to squeeze on the trigger. I shut my eyes tightly and waited. A huge piercing vibration shot around my brain—then dizziness—then a moment of agony—a dog barking ... and then nothing.

I was in my apartment. The empty Baileys glass lay exhausted on the floor. My head ached with a thumping that felt like a woodpecker pecking at my skull.

I looked over at the picture on the wall. I shook my head. I gazed at the dog and the two men by the horse and cart. Then sent my eyes across the picture to where the girl was ... but she wasn't there! What? I leaned forward in the armchair, raising a hand to my thudding head and squinted.

I was sure she had been there ... had I imagined her?

I paused for a moment, puzzled. I had been sure she was on that pier, yes, doing the washing. I got to my feet and had begun to walk closer to the painting when I noticed the lifeless body in the corner of the apartment. The body lay in a pool of blood. As I approached it, I saw the navy headscarf and gray blouse. I bent down and pulled the blindfold from her eyes. They stared back at me, as they had on the pier. Green, but now vacant, dead.

I moved my hand forward and pressed my fingers into the trail of blood that ran from the bullet wound in her forehead. I stared at the red blotches of wet blood on my fingertips. Then someone pounded on the door. I twisted my head around, my eyes on the door. My breath stopped for a moment ... I waited.

The heavy thuds sounded again. I could hear their angry voices. I didn't need to understand German to know they had come for me. I held the dead girl's hand and closed my eyes, waiting for the door to come crashing down.

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