Graveyard Shift

     He fell asleep on the job, again. His navy blue jacket, a bomber with ‘SECURITY’ inscribed in white across the back, was left hung on the backrest of his chair.

     Max’s eyes opened to a wintry forest at dusk. Cold gusts of a gentle wind swept through the rows of white birch trees and whisked silver snow over his body that lay limp on the ground. The thick flakes of white that fell from the sky of grey gathered in a mound over his pressed dress shirt of pine green and chestnut trousers.

     He curled his pale fingers into the ground; the snow gathered in the tight grip of his numb palms. He lifted his torso and, with crossed arms, wandered through the trees toward the smoky scent of the distant burning firewood. The snow crept into the ankles of his black dress shoes; the frost pinched his reddened cheeks.

     He emerged out of the forest onto a roundabout driveway. A fountain in the middle collected snow in a concrete bowl; the might of a Romanesque stone sculpture held up its unbearable weight in the trying pool of frozen ice that bound the stone figure’s ankles. A long and narrow road wound into the cover of the tall trees — its white avenue bereft of tire tracks.

     “You there,” an old voice called out.

   On the steps of a lone manor that loomed over the driveway, a man in a thick grey fur coat wore an ushanka and blew a cloud of smoke from a mahogany pipe. There, burrowed under a thick white mustache, he smiled at the stranger who had stumbled out of the woods. The old man’s hand, snug warm in a black leather glove, gestured him to the gilded wood door against the manor’s faded yellow exterior. Icicles gathered under the dark windowsills and hung from the orange shingled roof. Black smoke bellowed from a red-brick chimney. “Come inside.”

     Max was given a pair of black silk pajamas and sat in front of the fireplace in a drawing room. A brass grandfather clock ticked as the orange embers in the fireplace crackled. Bookshelves lined the walls filled with collections of leather-bound volumes of dark auburn, navy and olive colours.

     The old man wrapped a royal blue blanket around his guest’s shoulders and sat next to him in the opposing crimson leather armchair in front of the fire. He set down a silver tray of two white mugs of hot chocolate that frothed to the brim.

     “From Vienna,” the old man said in a soft voice. “You can’t imagine how long I have waited for the occasion to share these.” Max smirked as he wrapped tight the blanket around his body. “Out here all alone, and without a jacket?” the old man asked. “Rest easy, old boy. We’ll get you all settled again in no time.” He held out his spotted, wrinkled hand. “Ernst William Hess.”

     The old man’s bright blue eyes on his pockmarked face waited in anticipation to meet Max’s greeting. “The Ernst William Hess?”

     The old man raised his brow. “Have we already met? I do say, I’m terribly sorry. With age, I keep forgetting things.”

     “Ernst William Hess,” Max repeated. “Of Hess Industries?”

     “The founding father.” The old man laughed. “To warm my heart, knowing that the youth know who I am.”

     Max reached his hand out from under the blanket. He leaned forward from the edge of his chair. “Max.”

     Ernst gripped his hand; his thumb pressed firm into his new acquaintance’s. “It’s been ages,” he remarked. His eyes turned to fixate on the fire. The glow from the stone fireplace lit an amber aura of the old man’s woolen grey blazer and plum vest. “Ages since I have had a guest here in my home. Think of any other old man finding a young stranger without a jacket in January, showing up at his doorstep. You would have been shot.”

    He looked up at a proud, painted portrait of himself above the fireplace. "You know, it's funny," he continued. "A man longs for something and once he finally has it only finds himself longing for something else. Something more. Human nature, that's it: Never satisfied. But I do say seeing your company today, as unexpected as it was, has brought me great joy."

     “Do you live here alone?” asked Max.

     “I will be frank: I would be much less gracious to share a warm drink with a stranger if I wasn’t.”

     “You don’t have a butler? A maid?”

     Ernst shook his head at his guest’s assumptions. “If only I had such means.”

     “But you’re the founding father of Hess Industries.”

     “You flattered me at first,” the old man replied. “Now I think you’re just teasing me.”

      "But this place—" He waved his hand in the air, gesturing to the high bookshelves and the decorative golden cornices he took notice along the ceiling.

     “But a shell of its former self.”

     “Hess Industries makes millions.”

     “Made millions,” Ernst corrected. “Perhaps if it still existed it would continue to do so.”

     “‘Still existed?’”

     “You have me terribly lost, my friend.”

     A charred log of firewood crumbled. Its black pieces of ash fell into the tempered flame. “What year is it?” Max asked.

     Ernst nodded. “I understand. The confusion from the hyperthermia, no doubt.” He lifted his finger and pointed beside the door behind where they were sitting. “The calendar.”

     Max looked over his shoulder. Somewhere in the shadows, on the wall, a sheet paper hung. “We’re still using paper calendars in 2044?”

     Ernst shrugged his shoulders. “Just another sign of my age, I suppose.”

     Max brushed back his own hair. “Mr. Hess.”

     The old man held out his hand. “Ernst, please.”

     “Ernst. Can I ask you a favour?”

     “Of course.” The old man readied himself to rise from his armchair. “I can get you a telephone. If there is someone you need to call to come—"

     “No, no,” Max interrupted. “Not that. Could you...could you..."

"Yes?"

"Could you pinch me?"

     Ernst sat back down. “An odd favour,” he replied. “But of course. You wish to see if you can still feel pain in your nerves after being out in the cold frost for so long.”

     “Right, exactly.”

     “Is there anywhere in particular you would like me to pinch? Don’t be shy.”

     Max rolled up the sleeve on his pajama shirt. He turned over his arm and pointed to the lower part under his wrist. “Here.”

     “Alright.” The old man peered over with curiosity, squinted his crow feet eyes and pinched with his two fingers on the arm. Max winced and sucked the sharp pain through his teeth. Ernst apologetically pulled back. “Did you feel that?”

     Max pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah.”

     Ernst picked up his mug of hot chocolate and took a sip. “All is well then. I do mean to ask, though. That is, if you don't mind. If you would tell me. What does bring you out here?”

     Max shook his head and felt up the very real pain on his arm. “I really don’t know.”

     “Ah, the youth. Always lost. Do you work?”

Max nodded.

"And what is it you do?"

     “Me?” Max asked. “Nothing special.”

     “In your view, or someone else’s?”

     “Maybe a bit of both.”

     "You neglect your worth. A brisk and hardy young man who manages to survive out here without a jacket. There's a lot more to you. That I'm sure! I only ask because—" He took another sip of his hot drink and set the mug down. "I only ask because I thought back there, on the doorstep, and I can't help continue thinking, that you look like someone I know."

     “Me? Probably not.”

     “No, perhaps you’re right. Just a crazy old man thinking up some thoughts like these. Funny, how this mind works. Whatever is left of it! Months, long months, of not seeing anybody. Always thinking, about this or that. And about other people. Sometimes wondering myself if anyone is ever thinking anything about me.” He paused. “I’m far too sentimental sometimes.”

     A glimmer caught the corner of Max’s eye. He looked under the painted portrait of Ernst at a coloured photograph of three girls in hiking gear against the backdrop of an alpine lake. “Your daughters?”

     Ernst turned to the photograph. The reflection of the three girls was clear in his glassy eyes against the fireside. He groaned as he rose up from his armchair and limped to pick up the brass-framed photograph. “Hilda,” he said. He pointed to the brunette on the left with shoulder-length hair. "The middle child, now studying fine arts at the university."

     He pointed to the girl in the middle - the tallest, with blonde hair. “Agna, the eldest.” He scowled and grazed his finger across her, until he stopped to point to the last daughter. “Anna. The youngest.” The corner of his lip quivered as he fought to form a smile. “The brightest, most beautiful girl. She was to be the heir to Hess Industries. There still would be a Hess Industries if it weren’t for—" He gently placed the photograph back atop the fireplace. "If you know about me you certainly must know about her."

     Max shook his head, reluctant to insist on asking.

     The old man turned to her smiling face in the photograph. “She was murdered.”

     He sat down and slumped back into his chair. “For twenty odd years I have searched for her killer. The police, long ago, gave up. Abandoned the case. I have searched everywhere, and nothing. They call me crazy. Obsessive.

     “Murdered in the company headquarters, of all places,” the old man added. He stopped and looked at Max. “Are you quite all right? Is it too cold in here?”

     “No, no. I’m fine.”

     The old man continued. “The killer walked right on in through the front door. On that night. And everyday I ask myself: Where was the security guard? He disappeared. Vanished. All they found left of him was his security guard jacket hanging on the chair.

     “Maxwell, I do ask again. Are you quite all right?”