The curtains in my room are a discerningly neutral shade of cream. Panels of cardboard-enforced potato sack to guard my weary eyes from daylight assaults of golden sheen. They jostle each other into position as I pull on the teeth of their plastic chain. A dresser, wooden effect complete with etchings of old lovers’ names framed by a lopsided heart stands by the window, accompanied by a precarious, lurching wooden chair. My belongings lay scattered haphazardly across the top; passport holder, flight stubs, used biro, twenty Euros. Mementos of an indeterminate existence. In the corner, by a battered television, stands a coffee table, sans coffee or drinkable tea. Disturbing smudges grace its poorly varnished surface. I have read stories about German coffee tables, although mostly of the glass topped variety. Still, I studiously avoid it. I preside over my rented, ‘single room en suite bathroom’ territory like a bored guard dog, surveying the magnificence of my ten by ten kingdom. I pace its hallowed halls as German adverts puncture the silence with pseudo-cheerful jingles advertising some new brand of cleaning product.
I sit myself down on my drunken throne, smooth down my cuffs and study the man reflected in the grey smears of the mirror. Chestnut tousled hair graces an ageing forehead, marred by a regiment of wrinkles; timeless folds to document the emotional scarring of a meritless existence. The eyes, once a brilliant, piercing emerald green, are now lacklustre through a continued inability to shine in any meaningful way. Lined, thin lips adorn the jaw like a stark trim, mean from a lifetime of pursing as I struggle to contain all the regret, frustration and anger within. The shoulders are pulled tight, the chest: unheroic. Long limbs contort themselves around my frame as I hunch myself over the dresser, desperately trying to block out the noises of the television, my anchor to reality in this bland prison. My one- man show is a farce. I adorn myself in gaudy armour to stun my opponents into a silent defeat, I serve my modish Gods: Gucci, Armani, Prada, with a slavish adulation, my soul for their divine protection. In return, they bestow upon me the power to draw those whose promises mean little and words even less. Their brains run at the speed of a broken clock, their values are worthless; souls null and void. These are my people. I - their leader, their conqueror, their divider and their destroyer.
A knock at the door disturbs the gloomy reverie. I look at the shade in the reflection, see the glint in his emerald eyes harden and rouse myself to respond to humanity’s cry.
<< Mr Sinclair, there is a gentleman from the press conference who wishes to speak with you. He is here with me, sir. Do you have a minute?>>
Through the spy hole, I watch a young man shift uncomfortably as the steward politely inclines his head and walks briskly down the hall way. He scratches his nose nervously as he transfers his weight from one foot to the other, checking his watch and eyeing the door with an inclined head. I stand back and wait intently. Eventually, he picks up the courage to knock hesitantly, two heartbeats on the wooden frame. Ten seconds.
‘Ah yes... good afternoon. I was told to expect you. Please, come in, no use conducting a conversation in such an inhospitable manner!’
I open the door and allow the nervous wretch into my dismal kingdom. Our eyes meet for a second as he passes, then he lowers his in obeisance. His youthful skin still reflects a greasy, sickly yellow in the dim light, dark shadows lining his dark, anxious eyes. In the East, it is believed that the keys to our health and spirit are found in our face. If this were true, the man’s face would herald ill tidings as unparalleled misery clings to his profile like a forlorn barnacle. For a split-second I see deceit illuminate the shade’s eyes as I glance at the dresser. He recognises one of our flock. I stride over to the minibar, frequented in times of frustration, elation and plain boredom.
‘Can I offer you a tipple Mr....?’
<<Eisenberg...sir. Stephen Eisenberg.>>
‘Ah yes...Mr Eisenberg. A scotch on the rocks perhaps? My tipple of choice...’
<<No thank you...sir. I’m fine...>>
‘Very well. You must excuse me then Mr Eisenberg, I am still reeling from the shock of the death of my client and I find that alcohol does wonders to calm my nerves’
<< Of course...>>
As I pour myself a vial of that sweet, amber elixir over glistening rocks of aqua pura, I study this tremulous husk of a man. Apart from his nervous disposition, he is unremarkable in appearance. His clothes are aged from continuous wearing, creases wearing down the fibres, exposing in places the tissues and tendons of the garment. A cynically green tie hangs limply around a scrawny neck, enveloped by similarly flaccid white collar. Thick glasses adorn a long, gaunt face, shielding dark, sunken holes from the resplendence of natural light. His cheekbones point to a foreign ancestry, high and round like pale, polished doorknobs He reminds me of plant languishing in a teenage boy’s bedroom, the same flaccidity droops from every contour.
‘So Mr Eisenberg, I hear you have tracked me down! You must have something important you wish to discuss! It cannot be that you simply wish to watch me drink!’
<<Yes sir...I wish to discuss...the octopus. But if it is too difficult for you, I understand. I can come back...if you cannot talk now, my room is down the hall...I understand.>>
‘It is a raw topic, certainly... but a necessary one, I fear. Tell me, what is it about Paul you wish to ask me?’ I say as I watch him over the rim of my frosted glass. The last drops of liquor burn my throat and their warmth trickles through my veins like hot honey.
<<I don’t know if you are familiar with my work...sir. I am...I was a marine biologist, I specialised in octopodal molluscs and cephalopods...common octopi. I was undertaking some groundbreaking research on the testing of cognitive ability and behaviour in cephalopods in order to concretely prove the superior intelligence of these creatures over other species, especially marine mammals. I believe them to have vastly underrated cognitive powers hitherto undermined by scientific research. It is commonly thought that dolphins are the most intelligent of marine life but it is just not true! I cannot understand it. Even a walrus has a higher emotional I.Q. than a dolphin, they are ludicrous creatures! People just...they don’t understand, they are beguiled by their supposed joviality, all that damned squeaking and splashing around. They are mocking us, I tell you! An octopus would never make such a spectacle of itself, they have a gravitas, an aura of respectability. No one can laugh at an octopus. Anyway... I was on the verge of finishing a historic thesis on the clairvoyant ability inherent in the common octopus in relation to other sea creatures when out of the blue, the project was discontinued. The facility claimed that the findings were ‘irrelevant’ to the marine community. They couldn’t be more wrong... my work is vital in understanding the mindset of the invertebrate...possibly developing a course of cognitive behavioural therapy for psychologically unstable molluscs. The possibilities were vast, the implications unthinkable! Now... my P.H.D is wasted...or so I thought until I heard you speak about Paul. Your words... moved me. You would understand the importance of my work! You can help me secure funding so I can continue my research! Please... I must finish my work it is unspeakably important. I am begging you! >>
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