Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 51
- Предыдущая
- 51/58
- Следующая
I wish I could explain it to him. “Everything is beautiful, Logan.”
“And I just . . . I love that innocence, I guess. I tend to be jaded, a lot of the time. I’ve seen a lot, you know? A lot of nasty shit, and it’s easy to forget the beautiful.” He pauses. “I like odd words, because they capture things in ways English doesn’t. They capture the beauty of little moments. Words like komorebi remind me to put aside my general disillusionment and just enjoy the now.”
“What kinds of things have you seen, Logan?” I ask, although I’m not sure why, or if the answer will be something I can stomach.
He doesn’t answer, just directs me with a nudge to my elbow through a low doorway into a dark restaurant, accordion music playing, garlic scent strong in the air.
He waves at an old man wiping down a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “Got a table out back for me, Gino?”
“Yeah, yeah, course I do. Go on, go on. Sit, I’ll bring wine and bread for you and your pretty friend.” Gino smiles and hustles off into the kitchen, hunched over but moving faster than I’d have thought possible.
Logan leads me through a back door and into a tiny open-air courtyard. I could probably touch both walls if I lay down, but there are four tables crowded into the space, three of them occupied by other couples. White lights on a string are draped around the perimeter of the wall over our heads, hanging on nails driven into old crumbling brick.
We’ve barely had time to sit, Logan with his back facing the wall, when Gino returns, a wicker basket full of garlic bread in one hand, a bottle of wine and two goblets in the other. He sets the basket of bread between us and then pours the wine, a dark ruby liquid.
“This is a good Malbec,” Gino says. “From Argentina, ’cause no good Malbec ever came from anywhere else. It’s good, very good. You like it, I think.”
“Is there wine I don’t like, Gino? Answer me that.”
“Shitty wine, that’s what,” Gino says, setting a glass in front of me. He and Logan both laugh, but if there’s a joke, I’ve missed it.
Both men stare at me, expectant. Apparently I’m supposed to try it first? Another new experience. Tentatively, remembering the last time I tried red wine, I take a sip.
This is different. Smoother, not biting at my taste buds quite as hard. Flavorful, but not overpowering. I nod. “I like it. But I’m not a wine expert.”
“Who’s a wine expert? Not me,” Gino says, “certainly not this joker. No sommeliers here, mia bella, just good wine and good food.”
“Mia bella?” I ask.
“It just means ‘my beautiful,’” Logan answers.
“Hey, who’s Italian around here, buddy? Not you, that’s for damn sure. You wouldn’t know bella from bolla. Leave the language of love to me, heh?”
“I thought French was the language of love?” Logan laughs.
“Nah, nah. Italiano. Italiano e molto piu bella.” Gino waves a hand. “Bah. French. Sounds like a duck blowing its nose. But to speak Italiano is to sing, my friend. Now. What you have to eat?”
“Surprise us, Gino. But be warned, we’re both very hungry.”
“Mama’s in the back, and you know how she is. You’ll need a crane to get you out of here before she finishes with you. You’ll be so stuffed you’ll beg for mercy. And then she’ll make you dessert!” He laughs, an uproarious belly laugh that, although I once again have missed the humor, is nonetheless catching.
I find myself grinning, and sipping the wine, which is, as he said, very, very good.
Alone once more, Logan leans forward, his forearms on the table. “Gino’s an old friend. And he wasn’t kidding about Maria. She’ll keep sending food out until we can’t eat any more.”
I take a sip of wine. “This is perfect, Logan. Thank you.”
He glances at me, and his eyes narrow, his brow furrows. “Am I allowed to ask you questions, X?”
“If you answer them yourself, sure.”
“It’s a deal,” he says. “And you drive a hard bargain. I’m not much for talking about myself, either.”
“So we’re quite the closed-mouth pair, aren’t we?”
He nods, laughing, and tears a piece of garlic bread off the loaf. “Guess we are.” He chews, swallows, and his smile fades. “I guess I’ll start with the obvious first: How is it you know so little about yourself?”
I sigh, a long breath of resignation. “I can answer that in four words: acute global retrograde amnesia.”
Logan blinks as if trying to process what he’s hearing. “Amnesia.”
“Right.” I attempt to cover my discomfort with a large mouthful of Malbec.
“Acute global retrograde amnesia,” he repeats, and leans back in his chair as Gino arrives with a large bowl of salad and two plates, dishing a generous portion to each of us before vanishing once more without a word. When he’s gone, Logan picks at the salad with his fork, spearing some romaine and a chunk of fresh mozzarella, his eyes on me as he does so. “Can you unpack that a bit for me?”
I take a few bites, sorting out my thoughts. “It just means I have no clue who I used to be. I suffered a severe cranial trauma, which affected my ability to recall anything about myself whatsoever. I have no memories prior to waking up in the hospital. None. That was six years ago, and I haven’t recalled anything either, so the doctors say it is unlikely I ever will. Many amnesia patients experience what is called temporally graded amnesia, meaning they won’t remember events nearer the trauma, but will remember pertinent information about themselves and their past farther back, childhood memories and the like. Most patients can and will experience spontaneous recovery, wherein they recall most of the forgotten information, although events immediately prior to the trauma will often still be absent. The severity of the trauma and damage to the neural pathways determines the severity and permanence of the loss of memory. In my case, the trauma was extremely severe. That I survived at all, that I woke from the coma at all, much less was able to function on anything like a normal level? It is considered an unexplainable miracle. That I escaped the accident with only amnesia, however severe, is a cause for celebration. Or so I was told. But the fact remains, I woke up with no memories. No knowledge of myself whatsoever.”
Logan seems shaken. “Damn, X. What happened?”
“No one is entirely sure. I was . . . found by—by someone.” I don’t dare even think the name. “I was nearly dead. A mugging gone horribly wrong, it is thought. I should have died. And, I’m told, I did die on the operating table. But they brought me back, and I survived. I had a family, but they died and I did not. They were murdered, and I escaped, somehow. Or . . . so I’m told.”
“And no one could identify you?”
I shake my head. “It seems not. I had no identification on me, and my family was dead. There was no one to identify me.”
“So you woke up alone, with no knowledge of who you are?”
“Not . . . alone, no.”
“We’ll come back to that, as I have my suspicions.” Another pause as Gino removes the half-finished bowl of salad and our plates, replacing them with small squares of lasagna. We both dig in, and after a few bites, Logan speaks again. “So you can form new memories, though, right?”
“Yes. That’s the other kind of amnesia, the inability to form new memories. It’s called anterograde amnesia.” The lasagna is incredible, and I don’t want to ruin the experience by talking, so we lapse into silence as we both eat.
“So—” Logan starts again, after we’ve both finished.
I speak over him. “I think it’s my turn.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough.”
“Tell me about your childhood.”
He smiles, and it seems a bit sad, to me. “Fairly typical story, really. Single mom, dad left when I was a baby. Mom worked two, sometimes three jobs just to provide a roof and something like three squares a day. She was a good woman, loved me, took care of me the best she could. Got no complaints, there. She just . . . was working a lot. Couldn’t keep me under her thumb the way I needed. I skipped a lot of school. My buddy’s dad ran a surf shop outside the city, right? He knew we were skipping, but he’d never graduated either, so I guess he didn’t care. I don’t know. He’d lend us boards and we’d surf all day. We’d only come to shore to eat a sandwich and then go back out, stay out on the waves till we were too exhausted to swim. This was how it was for Miguel and me, from like fifth grade onward. Skip school, go surf. Eventually his dad just gave us our boards, and we’d run the beaches hunting for the best waves. Sounds great, right? It was. Right up until we hit high school age. Miguel had a cousin, Javier, and he got us into smoking dope. And he also got us into helping him sell dope. Which led to being in a gang, of sorts. Me, Miguel, his cousin, a few other dudes. Lots of trouble. Quit even pretending I gave a shit about school. Mom pretended she didn’t know, as long as I didn’t get arrested and let her know I was alive every couple days. Just how it was, you know?”
- Предыдущая
- 51/58
- Следующая
