Death in the Shadows

I was coming out of a little cafe not far from the beach in the south of France when I noticed him. He had a sallow look about him, with dark, somewhat unkempt hair and a pale complexion. I would never have noticed him, other than the brief eye contact we made that let me know he was looking right at me from behind the flavored ice vendor on the broad, sunny sidewalk. 

I had just met the girl I was with the day before, when her kite had gotten away from her on the beach, and I had chased it down for her. She was so very charming and pretty, and we talked all afternoon, with me listening to her French accented English lilting in the bright afternoon sun. She was completely engaging. As the day’s shadows grew long, we had said only a brief goodbye, as we freshened up and met back together for dinner only a scant hour later. After that we had headed into a beautiful nightclub, one with rooftop jazz, where she met a good number of my circle of friends and fit right in among us. We had spent the night together, and had only recently gotten out of bed for a very late breakfast at the cafe. 

Had I not met Annette, I would never have given the unsightly man peering around the cart a second thought. People do, after all, make eye contact completely innocently and by accident, do they not? But there was something, something about him I did not care for. He had an unwholesome feeling, as if his eye on me was not by accident but by design, and concealed some kind of malign purpose. It was something behind his gaze, something that came as if emanating within his mind, that made me feel his hostile intent towards me.

One thought that crossed my mind was that he was an ex-paramour of Annette. I looked at her, her deep blue eyes, long, golden hair, with that beautiful and gentle smile that was never far from her lips. Her lips--had that creature ever kissed those lips? Hearts speak a language all their own, yet I could never imagine Annette with someone like him, not even for a moment. He, who seemed so creepy and sinister, and she, so open and kind, what could she ever see in him? Even Svengali does not hold sway over every woman, and his face did not betray the kind of intelligence or personal magnetism to draw another from their senses. 

No, more likely if he were connected to Annette, it was as a stalker, an obsessive, a psychotic, one who had created an imaginary relationship in his mind made of a thousand intangible and random acts that his torrid mind had spun, like a spider, into an overwrought affair that only existed in his deepest fantasies. A fixation where every move, every glance--even those not in his direction--has a thousand meanings read into it, and each one a thousand repercussions endlessly mumbled in quiet conversations in the loneliness of one’s squalid living quarters. 

Such a man, I thought, he might be. And Annette, she herself is possibly unaware of him. Perhaps she has never even noticed him, or he is someone with regular, normal contact with her, someone hiding like a green snake in the green grass, present but unseen. For Annette herself would never lower herself to question the motives or the kindnesses of others. The world she lived in was one of beauty and openness, full of joy and life and a kindness that this poor wretch had mistaken for something more. 

I drew Annette tighter to my side, as if to protect her. Someone like her that sees only beauty and trust has no defense against the ugliness of men who have no purpose but a malign one. 

Now that he is staring at me, I realize that I had already seen him once before--last night at the club. He had been at the bar by himself, watching the two of us. We had not made eye contact last night--I never saw him watching us--but I do remember recalling that his was the only unpleasant, unhappy face in the whole club. The uptight misery in his complexion was evident, as was his complete aloneness. No one was close enough to even brush up against him, to give this poor creature even the slightest of human contact. He had seemed completely withdrawn into himself.

Annette, unaware of my concerns, but reading them on my face, asked me if anything was wrong. I pulled her closer and told her nothing was wrong, everything would be just fine. I suggested we go back to the beach, and sit in the sun and watch the waves roll and crash against the sand. I also knew that the beach would be open, safe from prying eyes, safe from the stranger who kept watching us. In the open we could keep away from him, or, at least, he would be plainly visible to us from where we sat.

The sunshine was bright and warm, and we settled on the sand together, and I wrapped my arms around her and we watched the waves. The gulls and children played along the shoreline, each its own separate set of games. I felt so happy, so content just to be with her, but still the dark stranger tugged and pulled at my thoughts, distracted me from what should have been the peace of the moment. I finally stopped resisting my urge, and looked around behind us. 

My thoughts were correct--he was there, standing in the leeward side of one of the buildings, watching us. I grew both fearful and angry. What does he want? Why is he following her? I couldn’t contain how angry I felt at that moment. Annette sensed the tension in my body and again asked me what was wrong. 

I broke down and told her about the strange man I had seen, three times now, following us and watching us. I told her to take a careful look, and tell me if she knew him. She slowly looked back, pulling her hair back carefully from her eyes to see. She whispered to me quietly, that no, she did not know who he was. She had never seen him before in her life. She turned back around to face the ever-moving sea, but the mood had changed, as if the sun had suddenly been covered by clouds and a cold wind had blown across the beach.  

I told her I was going to go speak to him, find out what he wanted and why he was following us. I was a little afraid, but more angry than anything else, angry that this stranger should be able to intrude upon our happiness. I got up, but he was no longer by the building where he had been only minutes before. I walked over to where he had been, looking around on the other side of buildings and down alleyways, searching for a glimpse of him. I searched as far as I could, without letting Annette out of my sight, but I found nothing. 

The mood on the beach had been broken. We decided to return to my apartment, where we could be a little more safe from prying eyes. On the walk back home, Annette, ever the kind one, thought that my seeing him more than once might just be a coincidence. After all, she reasoned, it was only three times that you’ve seen him, and two of those sightings were connected. It’s possible that he just happened to be at the same club last night, and on the same street today. After all, it’s a resort town--everything happens within just a few blocks. I admitted it was possible, but in my gut I knew there was something more to it than this. There was something I inherently did not like about him, did not trust, and I did not want him around us anymore.

We got back to my apartment and washed up, and lay down together, letting the rest of the afternoon slowly pass us by. Safely in my own bed, the peaceful, happy feeling returned to us. More and more as the shock wore off, my mind calmed and I began to think Annette might be right, it may have only been a kind of coincidence that my imagination had worked into something more. As we lay together, drifting in and out of sleep, the sun slowly set outside the open window.

After all this blissful time had passed and I felt like the bubble I had been in since the day I met her had enveloped us once again, we decided to go out to eat somewhere. We headed out onto the streets, which were awash in the purple light of twilight as we walked down the sidewalk. Lights for various restaurants and nightspots popped on as we walked past, beckoning us to come inside.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted him again. The peaceful afternoon had lulled my suspicions, but they came flooding back immediately upon seeing his face in the shadows. This time I physically restrained myself from tensing my body, so as not to upset Annette. I was able to suggest the nearest restaurant doorway, and, making an excuse that I was going to pick up a newspaper, sent her inside while I went back across the street to confront this stranger that had been dogging our footsteps.

To my surprise, he did not shy away from me or pretend to look otherwise innocently engaged. He kept his gaze locked with mine until I was right in front of him. I felt my anger surge through me as I demanded to know why he was following Annette and watching her. How did he know her? What was his business with her?

With her? He asked me. No, he told me, my business is not with her. Not directly. My business, he said, is with you.

I demanded to know what business he could have with me. I had never seen him before, and I did not know him. I could not remember ever having seen him before in my work, nor could I place him in my personal life. I told him so, emphatically, but at the same time I was sidelined by the idea that I couldn’t picture anyone I worked with, at all.

No, he told me, you would not remember me, you have never seen or met me. But still I know you intimately. I am your author. I created you, I wrote you. You are fiction, dreamed up by me.

I told him that was nonsense, such a thing wasn’t possible, and I demanded to know what his real business was. Instead of answering me, he asked me the names of my close circle of friends, and it struck me dumb that I could not recall any of their names. I could picture faces, to be sure, from last night when I was with Annette, but who they were or how I had met them was a complete blank. He continued to ask me questions, like where I worked, what I did for a living, and what my parent’s names might be. To my shock, I could recall none of these details of my life. Where I had gone to school, whether I had siblings--nothing. I could recall little more than the details of the last few days. 

Of course you can remember none of those things, he said. They weren’t details that I fleshed out in your life. You have no memories of anything that I did not give you, he told me. I had no proof that he was telling the truth, yet I knew that something must account for how little I realized that I knew about myself. Something here was terribly wrong.

But, this cannot be true, I said. I can think for myself, I have my own thoughts that I think. 

The stranger smiled sadly. You only have thoughts because this is a first person narrative, he told me. Otherwise, you would have none at all.

But why? I asked, why create me like this, and then follow me around? What purpose could that serve? He told me that he made me, and made me happy, and handsome, and confident, because that was the only type of person that could be close to Annette, the only one that could be with her. Someone like him, like this unpleasant stranger, could never be with someone like her. I was created, he said, so that through me, he could see what it was like to be happy with someone like her. I was his way of creating someone so he could vicariously be close to her. 

But even so, I said to the stranger, surely what is in me must also be inside you for you to create me, must it not? If you have inside of you what it takes to create me, then you must be able to be me, as well, couldn’t you? You could win her for yourself, could you not? 

For the first time he broke his gaze with me and looked away. A sad smile was on his face, and I could see tears beginning to form in his eyes. It’s not just that, the stranger said. But it’s also what else is inside me. My anger, my jealousy, my selfishness....those are within me, but not in you. For you see, I’ve already done what is despicable. 

When I watched you with her at first, it was like getting to do all the things with her that you were doing. But, after a brief joy, I became angry that you could be with her, and not me. And in my rage and my jealousy, I have already done the unspeakable.

I wrote your death scene, the stranger told me. 

You’ll die, he told me, within minutes. I wrote it already. All because everything I create, no matter how it starts out, ends up destroyed with all my negative feelings and emotions. 

“I’m sorry.” he said, and turned away and disappeared down the black alley. 

I stood, and I awaited whatever he had written for me.