Chapter One
Many years back, precisely twenty five years ,my father died. You might be thinking what might be so special about it, it can happen to people who are old or sick, to people who are in car accidents, or in his case, are murdered. There was never a day that went by that I didn't think about him. Sometimes, it was when I was sitting reading a book or watching the news channel that a sudden wave of melancholy came across my body. And there always seemed to be a void surrounding me, like that feeling I get when someone had left a room. Even though I may not have been talking, emptiness in the silence could be as loud as a terrorizing scream. The police at the time said it was a robbery gone wrong, yet the only thing they took was my father's journal.
I couldn't quite believe the story that I heard just two weeks ago. I was working for the Nirvana Express, a place where we create magazines or newspapers but is often regarded with contempt and distaste, and my father, well he used to be the director of it. Generally, it covers political news, a bit of sport, and a few pages of small cover stories sent in by Riverlance Forever journalists on the off chance the editor might offer them a full time post. Most can't write an article, so I find myself reading and reviewing those that are of some interest and setting them right before going to press. Quite a few would go in the garbage and depending on Wilbert's mood, that's my boss by the way, the others I put forward are read by him. If he likes the story, it gets published, if not, it joins the trash buddies.
Before the papers were due, I had already revived about thirty or so having to stay up really late at night. There were ten that I never got past the first pages, because they were so bad, but the following twenty were fine, so I put them in my order of preference and placed them on Wilbert's desk for him to read the following morning. Normally, Wilbert would choose ten that would eventually go to the press and sometimes the others are held for more research or debunked considering how he feels.
By the time I got to my office, around 8:00 am, Wilbert had already read the stories I had suggested. My guess was that he had been in at dawn just to get ahead of the workers printing the newspapers down in the basement. The ten he had chosen were already in my tray waiting for me, stacked into a neat little pile for final approval. It was my job to take them down to the press room, so they can be scanned. Wilbert's office is on the corridor leading to the main elevators, a fifteen foot square room that consists of a glass floor to ceiling partition with an inset door hung on silver hinges screwed into the half inch plate. A giant antique oak bureau that's supposed to be a perfect replica of the United States President's desk sits up at the White house. Wilbert is really fond of the President since he has studied and researched many news articles from the United States. On the wall behind his high backed, brown leather swivel chair is a poor painted portrait of Wilbert sitting regally staring down at himself. The rest of the room is filled up with a row of windows that look down onto lower Quilevia Avenue and the corner of west Sixth Street on Raesmort.
I was oblivious to everything around me as I sauntered down the corridor listening to a podcast of a previous day's news programme that aired on Rw . As I passed by, out of the corner of my eye, I could see Wilbert waving to me. Anxiously, I opened the door. It was rare talking to him face to face; mostly, it was by phone or email. I felt my mouth go dry as I stood there, like a school kid ready to see the Principal.
"Isaac,'' he said smiling while rising from his chair that creaked and groaned as it relaxed from bearing his weight. "Good to see you my, boy,'' he said, genuinely holding out his hand.
His grip was solid and secure, the sign of a confident man. "I'm fine Wilbert.'' I choked, instantly realizing I'd made a mistake. "I mean, Mr. Jenkins. Sorry sir!'' I said, quickly correcting myself, looking down.
He blew off my blunder with a wave of his other hand and offered me a seat on the other side of his vast desk. The room smelt of burnt tobacco and expensive scotch that was smouldering in a cut glass ashtray, and he held the ice laden whiskey with two of his fingers. "Can I offer you a drink, Isaac?'' he asked, pointing to the stocked cabinet to his left. I declined graciously with the excuse that it was too early in the morning for me. Little did he know that any other time, I would have broken his arm for one, but I thought it better to come across as a good employee.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Jenkins?'' I asked jealously, watching as he topped up his glass. Wilbert leaned back into his chair and threw his six hundred dollar Brown boots onto his desk and relit his cigar with his thumbnail flick tipped match.
"I'm sending you on a road trip Isaac,'' he said in between what looked like exhaustive puffs.
"Up to Paola, in fact"
"Which town?" I asked.
"Maite,'' he replied, blowing out a ring of smoke,"Know it?"
I shook my head, "Isn't it an island of some sort? What's the report?"