Chapter 4: Death

Drake's coffee was poured from a bronze pot with an ivory handle. The bronze pot was one of the few objects he had managed to bring back home after spending almost a year in Mozambique, along with other treasures that had belonged to his parents' former home. His father was a decent strong man who had cared little for all of what Africa had to offer, and most of what his mother had to offer too about Africa. He spent most of his long well-lived life talking about the location, secrets and sexuality of werewolves. He was far more interested in jaunting around the world, convincing himself that there was more to humans than the normal acceptable biological form, far more in love with the night creatures that circled around, under the full moon, chanting praises in honor of their creator who they barely knew than the havoc caused by watching people live their entire lives tied to a particular location.

Once, Drake's father had gotten involved in an argument with a religious man who took it upon himself to declare openly that werewolves were demonic entities from the pit of hell. Drake's father laughed. A laughter Drake would never forget in his life because it ran for thirty sharp precise seconds. Moments that the zealot could not deal with.

"You are wise," Drake could remember his father saying to the religious man with clear adulteration. "But you are not wiser than the man who wrote the book you read every day of your blessed life. I shit you not that you are not wiser than the man who counted the first, second and third creation days despite the absence of the sun and moon. Like, who the hell says day one, day two and day three when there is no sun or moon to differentiate? Like, who the hell writes about the creation of light before the creation of the sun?"

The religious man did not answer.

"Just as I expected," Drake could remember his father's mocking laughter. "You absolutely have no idea about what you are saying. And you are here, connecting simple advanced creatures with entities you cannot prove. If your book says that God created everything and loved all, then he should also love what you describe as a demonic entity. Can you see the pattern you just drew by yourself? My religious friend, werewolves are still human beings. If you want them to reveal their secrets, you have to change this attitude you possess."

Drake knew his father hated seeing them - the religious men who claimed to know more about life than the unbeliever, because they only served to remind him of his loss. Drake's sister had died on the eve of May 7. Drake's father always called her, 'The One and Only'. He pretended to hate the inconvenience she caused him at the time she was alive, and insisted she would have to make herself useful or leave his house. He had demanded that Sarah learn to watch and learn, and she had, but his demands of consistency had been fruitless. She was dedicated but lazy. She enjoyed neither watching nor observing, nor listening, nor learning. She was hopeless at focusing, came up with no logical evidence at all, hated museums, and the sound of rock music even more. All the things Drake's father loved, she hated. But she liked the church, and the holy adventurous books, and tales of distant, far-off places she would never go to. She went to church services given by absurd, remote old scholars, and often stood out as she debated the historical accuracy of their facts. The day she died, her eyes closed, sniffing every bit of holy air she could take in, thinking of the distant shores that could be reached by the fingertips of her lovely gesture.

"She is dead," Drake could clearly remember his father's fading voice as he invited his mother to a meeting in his cabinet. Drake's mother was tall. Her smile as bright as sparkling blue.

"I heard," Drake's mother said, slowly, almost like a whisper.

"You heard?" Drake's father was furious as he shook his head and shut the door behind him. That was all Drake could hear. The next morning, they were leaving to Paris. It was cold.

*

"The tea is ready, Drake!"

Without looking at his watch, Drake knew that it was almost nine fifteen and the corpse of his fiancee, Rosetta would soon be arriving from the mortuary. He also knew that Rosetta's parents would arrive at any moment, dressed as he was this morning, in black, as though he still had a meeting requiring black attire to attend to. He would try to smile when they come, pretend to be look at the painting of a nineteenth century werewolf in his apartment. And if Rosetta's father tried to speak to him angrily, as he always did, he would admit that he was at fault for his daughter's death, but he would bluntly refuse stolidly to deny that he didn't love her, nor did he not speak to her against her decision to go to the forest alone.

"Thank you," Drake said as he glared at Rosetta's friend who had offered him a soft dog-like bell, Rori. Once or twice, he avoided staring at her hips as he managed to sip his tea, read the newspaper in front of him, eat three soft-boiled eggs, two slices of bread, drink two more cup of English tea, and then admire her for her kindness. His morning mood did not have a negative impact on Rori, who barely seemed to say anything to him other than, 'sorry!'

"What happened to her?" Rori asked, after she had noticed the persistent silence was doing both of them no good.

"I don't know," Drake said. "It was in the morning. I unusually woke up early that day. I was in the church, looking at our future, writing our future down and dreaming of it. The next thing I knew, I got a phone call. Rosetta was dead. My fiancee was dead."

"It is fine," Rori said.

Drake started crying.