Serena Alibhai I. Phantom Hands Montador felt as though his fists were in an everlasting clench, but when he looked down all he saw were two inner elbows resting by the side of his body. His hands had been blown off, and all he remembered now was chaos, sweltering heat, and a numb sense of nonentity as he watched his parents being killed. Now he rested inside a seaside room, in a safe part of Aswan, aside the river Nile. Windows and a doorless entrance allowed warm gusts of wind inside. His aunt, Mata Edina, walked in. "It's not too hot today," she said, pulling up a fistful of her sari – the diaphanous silk slipped so easily from her shoulders. "We'll go for a walk," she said. "It's not healthy to sleep inside like a patient all the time." Montador looked at his aunt, his mother's youngest and prettiest sister. Her thick black hair was probably twisted at least four times around itself to create a big bun that sat above the nape of her neck. She was told that she was too young, too feminine, to fight. "But I am a patient," he said. "You cannot say anything to convince me otherwise." "Not even with my tricks?" she asked, with an exaggerated surprising look on her face. "they've been handed down from my mother and your mother," she said. "My hands are gone, and I miss them so much that I can still feel them," Montador said. He wasn't in the mood to joke with his aunt. Mata Edina sighed, wrapped the free end of her sari around her torso, tucked in the excess material and walked to the bed. I miss your parents so much I can still feel them, she thought. She removed the old dressings and massaged his arms with oil before she cleaned with a turmeric antiseptic. "Wipe off all the ants," Montador said, clenching his eyes shut. He couldn't bear to see what was not really there. "They are crawling all over me. Take them off!" "Precisely what I'm doing, dear Montador," she said, massaging his arms and looking up to the ceiling, trying to curtail her fatigue so that it did not surface into her intonation. "Just relax, and think of how it will be as we go outside, to sit by the river, under the trees." A moan of pleasure escaped from Montador, taking him by surprise. He opened his eyes slightly, stifled his sounds, and adjusted the position of his legs. "What's the use of going outside?" he asked. "There's nothing out there. Everyone has died," his voice began to get louder, "Why do you wear your best saris still? Who are you dressing for? The rebels who will come to finish us off as well?" Mata Edina turned around, walked to the table, and studied the bottles on the table. "I think I shall use the clove oil today. It may burn, but it's good for you in the long run," she said. "They will finish us off!" Montador screamed. He raised his arms and waved his stubs in the air. "Look at me! We're all done for! Practically finished off! Left to suffer alone!" "We aren't alone," Mata Edina whispered. She turned around slowly and stared at her nephew. "They didn't die in vain, they died for you. God has faith in you. I have faith in you. You will become stronger and fight as you did before they took from you," she said. "How can I think of the fight now? I've changed," he said, closing his eyes, and dropping his head backwards. "There is more than one way to fight." "If I do anything now it's only for vengeance. I want to kill those who've killed me." "Oh yes?" Mata Edina asked, taping the fresh gauze. "I want nothing more," Montador said, looking at his young aunt. "Let's go outside. Smell the river, and the trees, let the sun bathe you first," she said, smiling. "Remember how you used to sit and dream with your mother?" Montador looked at his aunt with tears in his eyes. She led him outside.
Serena Alibhai has published short stories recently in Quintessence and Montreal Serai. She has a degree in English from McGill University. |