Tsu-kraz-da

T.J. Philippe

I once knew a teenage boy who smelled really bad. It wasn’t just one thing, but a mixture certain to scrunch your noise in a “ew” manner. We went to the same school, and knew the same people. His oversized head seemed to be too heavy for his scrawny body as if it could detach at a moment’s notice. Although I remember little of his face, I catch myself remembering his smile ever so often, when life manages to slow down. It was kind yet distant as if he never knew whether he was allowed to do the gesture. Or perhaps he did it so scarcely that the movements were foreign to the muscles of his face. On rare occasions of happenstance, we would run into each other in the streets of our boisterous, unruly city, and even then, I would see the same uncertainty in it. His name was Yuri, Yuri Alcindor. I never sat next to him in class, nor did I want to, on account of the rancid-like smell. I still remember the day, when I had no choice but to sit beside him. How could I not, it was the beginning of the end for many as much as it was for Yuri.

The day went like this.

My eyes tentatively open to the sunrise. I grunt and close them after the assault I get from the bright light. I curse the divinities, their offsprings and whoever crosses my mind as I remember where I am. I feel the throbbing pain that presses against my bladder ordering me to get out of bed. It hurts so much, it threatens to burst, but I’m stubborn and press my knees together. The smell of the morning coffee tickles my nostrils while beckoning me to leave my haven, but I persist in my stubbornness. I squeeze my eyes and wiggle under the cover hoping to will my pee away. I want to cry because it hurts but whimper in agony. Muffled footsteps, I know far too well, begin to echo in the corridor. They approach slowly, signalling the imminent end to my morning. As my time is precious, I make sure to breathe in the familiar scent of my week-old sheets.

“Get up,” my mother says. “You’re going to be late again.”

Boredom weighs down her words. She doesn’t want to drive me either—she never does. But what’s the alternative? She’s the one who signed the contract when she pushed me out. I never asked to be part of this deal.

I grunt at her. She screams back—our daily ritual. Then the drapes rip open, and cold air stabs into me. Goosebumps swarm my skin like an army.

“I don’t want to go!” I scream this and open my eyes to face my mother. She towers over me in the confines of my spartan room surrounded by barren walls; the only thing decorating them, carcasses of dead mosquitoes I’ve battled. I hate my room. It looks nothing like me, but I’m powerless and can’t do much to change it. “We can’t afford frivolous objects,” my parents like to remind me. 

I can’t stand to look at her in this state, face turning red, eyes filled with disdain. I return to my ball-like state as if it will shield me from her, but what comes next is worse. The harsh sting of the familiar leather belt burns my already bruised skin. I bite my lips and swallow the lump in my throat but resist one last time before she strikes again. Everything freezes but the third strike doesn’t follow. She knows I’m too weak to endure three strikes. She leaves and I noiselessly follow and begin my monotonous routine. I remember most days she resents me as much as I resent her. 

I get into the car and avoid the cold gaze she so often gives me. I pretend to be fascinated with the dull grays of my plaid skirt and curse again to the deities that the radio of the car stopped working. My heart clenches harder as we approach the red gates of the prison that poses as my school, and I can no longer see clearly. I stifle back my tears because I know she will be mad. I mumble an unceremonious goodbye to my mother and stand in front of the gates to contemplate its ugliness. Hispaniola. The name is a twisted and uninspired homage to our former colonizers. The building doesn’t only feel like a prison, but also looks like one, with its cement and gray walls. Once you pass the second gate you see the school cowering behind the bars of 15-foot iron gates. I can see the stairs that lead to my classroom, so I follow the path through the empty corridors. Each step I take feels heavier than a concrete block. I try unsuccessfully to moisten my lips and all I can taste is that particular taste that only belongs to blood. A consequence of months of neglect. My surroundings feel foreign to me, but I manage to reach the door to my class. The brown cheap birch door stares back at me, the only thing separating me from my nightmare. I really hope it burns to the ground, I think, before slowly pushing the door open.

***

The door opens timidly to the face of Veronica. She looks paler than usual, with her disheveled bun and wrinkled uniform. I always imagine she sleeps in her clothes. Sometimes when she’s not looking, I watch her and see the bruises that taint her pale skin. I don’t think it’s a secret, her mom beats her still as a teenager, but I doubt she would appreciate me staring.

“I’m sorry, I’m late Mr. Faustin.” She says to our teacher.

I watch as the beer-bellied giant sucks in a breath of frustration. I can see, along with the rest of the class, he’s fuming inside. Veronica is always late and no matter the consequences, she never tries to rectify the situation with her parents. After holding his breath for what seems to be an eternity Mr. Faustin, Fofo for short, releases the loudest sigh, he can muster at 8:30 a.m. on a Monday. His massive gut wiggles as it sags back to place with the help of gravity. The class tries to muffle the usual chuckles before Fofo gives one of his death stares. With a dismissive wave, he tells her to enter and goes back to the blackboard. From across the room, beyond the monochrome, gray-colored uniforms, I see her freeze when she realizes I’m the only one with an empty seat.

Our class has exactly 30 students, 16 desks, and 31 chairs. The 16^th desk and 31^st chair belong to our less than enthusiastic Fofo and his otherwise more enthusiastic colleagues. Although she should not be surprised, I understand her reaction. Kevin (a sickly boy who rarely comes to school) is here today, meaning she has to sit next to Stinky. The expression on her face betrays her as she weaves through the tables of snickering students. I know no one envies her situation. She pulls the metal chair without much subtlety, which earns her a hateful look from Fofo. I can already hear the others whispering as they usually do. I know what will come next. The incessant mocking and nagging of idiotic teenagers. Sometimes I really wish this place would crumble and fall.

***

I turn my head away from Yuri. Hopefully enough to damper the rancid acid-like smell. I don’t hate him, though, he never did anything to me. I never give him a reason to. As I usually do with people, I continue to avert my gaze and pay attention to the board and Mr. Fofo’s endless equations. I can sense him staring at me like he always does. It used to be uncomfortable but I kind of accepted it in its own creepy way. From the corner of my eye, I see him pull out an apple. He’s the only one allowed to eat in class because he has low blood sugar. He always has pretty colourful meals, like someone has taken the time to make them with love and care. The one thing that always strikes me though is this odd little dessert he never seems to run out of. Small cubes too big to be candy yet too small to be cake. Their bright pink always reminds me of Pepto-Bismol, which I absolutely despise. It’s weird because they don’t look like anything we’d make on our island.

I hold my breath and gather my courage to ask about the unusual candy cake when suddenly I lose my balance. I regain myself but it doesnt work. The room starts shaking and so do the desks and the walls. It takes a second to register my surroundings, but I can see the same expression in almost all of us. Fear. I turn to Yuri and I watch in horror as his head starts to bob like a toy. Horrible screams begin to belt through the school as the ground keeps moving from underneath us. I hear a piercing scream, one louder than the others, I search for its owner, only to realize my throat is aching horribly. Yuri tries to run but he falls to the floor. 

“Move.” I think. Before I can even try, the ceiling falls and crashes down on us. The last thing I see before it turns pitch black is Mr. Fofo’s belly impaled by a rusty metal rod.

***

There’s that taste again. That taste that belongs to blood only, the iron-like taste. There’s so much more this time, it can’t be from my chapped lips.

“Ahhh!”

What’s that? Is that me?

“HELP!”

No, it can’t be me. I can barely move. Where am I? It’s cold. My back is pressed against uneven rocks, each one trying to tear through my back. I try to move but the pain that shoots through me is unimaginable, yet I feel it gnawing at me, torturing me until I too scream at the top of my lungs. Spikes shoot inside my throat and my heart races so much I can barely hear the hollow screams around me. I don’t want to open my eyes. Unlike this morning, I can’t bear to face the darkness. I take a deep breath and muster through the agony and wait for it to ease. Hurt is good. It’s worse if you feel nothing, I think. Hard long minutes pass, but the pain slowly begins to vanish. My heart races every time a new scream echoes and I feel like the torture is endless. Eventually, I find the courage to slide my other arm from under the looser block. With each painful inch I move I feel the naked cement scrape and claw at my skin. I bite away the pain and hold my breath before I yank the final yank, and everything turns to black once more.

***

“Veronica?!” I hear the faint call as I regain consciousness. “Veronica?!” He sounds too anxious for me to recognize him. “Veronica, can you hear me!?”

“My head is pounding, and I’m not sure I’m alive but I’m pretty sure I can hear you.” I manage to say against all odds. This time I dare open my eyes to be welcomed by the massive piece of wall above me, threatening to flatten me. 

“Are you okay?” The voice says.

“No.”

“Can you move?”

“No,” I say again, thinking of my earlier attempt. “Who’s this?” I ask trying to gauge which direction the sound is coming from.

“It’s Yuri.”

Oh, Yuri. We must have crashed next to each other.

“Are you okay?” I ask in the direction of a small opening.

“Yeh, I think so. But I’m stuck.”  

I roll my eyes at him stating the obvious, but reply nonetheless. “How long have we been here?

“I don’t know. Two hours maybe.” His voice says with a faint echo.

I stay silent for a moment which evidently worries him. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah.” I croak, the tremble in my answer betraying me. My breathing accelerates and I can hear a loud whistle in my ear. It gets louder and louder as if trying to break through my eardrums.

“Try to think of something nice.” Yuri suddenly says soothingly. Somehow it manages to calm my heartbeat.

“I don’t have many of those,” I say through the whistle.

“Try,” he said softly.

I do as he says, and I try and come to a blank. So much for seeing your life pass by before you die.

“Where do you get those little candy cake cubes you always have? I ask instead.

“I’m sorry?” He sounds dumbfounded.

“You know, the ones you always have, super pink and shiny.” As I say this, we hear another scream through the rubbles. I close my eyes to prepare for whatever may happen. I wait, but nothing falls on me, and Yuri’s voice echoes once more.

“Do you know the word for confectionery in Hungarian?”

“If you expect me to know this, you’re weirder than I thought.”

“Well, at least your spirit is intact.”

I chuckle as I imagine the expression he must have.

“It’s Cukraszda.” He says simply.

“I hope for your sake this is going somewhere, Yuri,” I grumble.

“It is.” He pauses a moment which makes me worry, but before I ask if he’s all right he continues. “I just don’t know if you’d believe me.”

“What else do you have to lose?

I hear him chuckle again. Through the turmoil of my racing heart and the throbbing pain that engulfs me, I feel the tiniest pull at the corner of my mouth. 

“Do you believe in the inexplicable?”

“As in God?”

“No, as in the supernatural.”

“Yuri,” I say flatly “look where we live.” Soon to be, where we died.

“You have a point.”

Silence. I can do nothing but wait.

“So, if I tell you I can jump through space, you won’t think I’m crazy?”

It does sound crazy. “Do you mean the vacuum of space?” I offer.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Believe what?” I say trying to move my head. It’s a terrible idea because I move my right arm doing so, which shoots another jolt of pain through me. I wince in silence and try to keep it from Yuri. “You haven’t said anything.” Suddenly, the wall over me shakes as if it’s about to clobber me. I hold still and for the first time since the nightmare started, I see my mother’s face flash before my eyes. A rush of sadness comes over me because I’m afraid she will be relieved to not have me in her life anymore. Is anyone going to mourn me? My eyes well up with tears and there’s little I can do to stop myself.

“We’re not going to die here Veronica,” Yuri says after minutes of me sobbing. It’s all so surreal. I can hardly believe I’m buried under rubble when only this morning I was fighting with my mom like I usually do.

“Yes, we will.” I hiccup. “Look where we are. It’s just a matter of time before we get crushed if we’re lucky enough.”

“Then we should make the best of it.”

“How are you so calm?” I belch bewildered by his attitude.

“I’m okay with dying.” He says quite maturely.

“Why? You’re only 15. Your life is just starting. Freak out like a proper teenager. Fuck, freak out like a proper human.”

“What good will it do if I freak out?”

“It would mean you’re real.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I’m scared that I may be losing my mind.” I am bleeding. “Am I really talking to you?”

“You are.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“I can prove it.” 

“How?” 

“There’s a pipe next to me, all I need to do is hit it twice with the piece of rock I’m holding, and you’ll know I’m here with you.” 

“Ah.”

“You have to ask me to knock whenever you feel you’re slipping away, Veronica.” 

“Okay.” We stay in silence for a while. I still don’t ask him to knock. I’m scared if I do, I won’t hear the distinct clink that belongs to rock hitting metal. “Why aren’t you afraid of death?” I ask.

“Don’t get me wrong, I want to continue to live. But if I die today or tomorrow, I won’t regret anything. I’ve lived and seen so much already, I feel blessed.”

“Is it because of your space jump thing” 

He scoffs loud enough for me to hear it. “Yes.”

“Tell me about it.” I insist, ready to listen this time.

“Do you remember the word for confectionery in Hungarian?”

“Tsoo- something?” I couldn’t remember past the weird first sound.

He chuckled at my meager attempt “It’s Tsu-kraz-da.” He says enunciating carefully.

He remains quiet for a short time seemingly mulling over the right words to say. At least I think he does. “Some places on earth are interconnected. It’s a well-kept secret only a few people around the globe know of.”

“Interconnected how?”

“I guess you can call them portals. Or doors, I don’t know.”

“Okay. And with these portal doors, you do what? Enter one place and exit another?”

“Exactly.”

That just sounds like my house to me. Or any other building for that matter.

“I can go through one here in Kenscoff and end up in New Zealand if I want to.”

He’s obviously, shitting me, but what the hell, I indulge him. “huh-huh.” I’m not sure he hears this through the sounding screech, but he continues, nonetheless.

“You know in life; nothing comes for free. It’s an incredible thing to be able to move through the globe in the blink of an eye, but it comes with a price like everything we do.”

“Do you have to feed them something? Like people?”

“No, no.” He chuckles again. “But the person who goes through one loses parts of themselves. It chips away at you and slowly eats you from the inside out. It’s slow like a cancer that gnaws at you.” 

“Why do you do it then? That’s why mankind invented planes, you know.”

“Being a part of the inexplicable makes you feel special. As much as I know cheating through space kills me, I love every bit of it. I don’t mind paying the price.” 

“Is that also why you have such a strong body odor?”

The throaty laugh I hear from him is unexpected and it’s so contagious, I smile fully.

“No, sadly, I’m just a teenage boy who perspires too much.”

No teenage boy I know uses the word perspire. “Okay, and what does that have to do we the word Cukraszda?”

“I’m getting to it.”

I hear him say faintly. I wish I could see him right now. For more than one reason.

“Just like planes, the greater the distance the more taxing it is. So, when jumping, you need a connection point. And Hungary happens to be my favorite way station.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never visited it.”

This time it’s my turn to laugh wholeheartedly. It hurts every bone in my body, but I don’t care.

“The Hungarian portal happens to be in the basement of a Cukraszda. So, whenever I go, I make sure to steal a bunch of those little cube cakes. They call them Minyon.”

“I see.” I don’t see, but what else can I say?

“You don’t believe me.”

“It’s a bit hard to. Can you blame me?”

“No, but what reason do I have to lie?”

“It’s your turn to have a point.” I pause to catch my breath. It’s becoming harder to breathe and I can almost feel the dust particles slowly poisoning my insides. “How do these portals work?” I say after a short break.

“I don’t know to be honest. According to my dad, they’ve always existed, and our family has always been aware of their existence. Not everyone can go through one though.”

“What decides whether you can go through one or not?”

“That too I don’t know. For a long time, my family thought it had something to do with our bloodline, but they were wrong.” 

“Oh?”

“I was 10 when I saw my brother torn apart by the portal.”

“And you still went through?” I ask horrified. 

“It wasn’t my first time Veronica, and it wasn’t my brother’s first time either.”

“And you don’t know what changed for him?” 

“No, and we always jump through never knowing when it will be our last. Maybe my brother was not worthy of the portals anymore. We’ll never know. My dad is still alive and still goes through. And I’ll continue until I can’t anymore.”

“I’d rather take a plane, Yuri.”

“With our passport!” He scoffs again. “In the past year, I’ve been to more places than I can count.”

I say nothing and stare at the wall reminiscing on the things I wish I had done. I could’ve confronted my mother or tried harder to build a relationship with my father or even apologize for my past behaviors and all that I did wrong. I have nothing to show for my short time on this planet. And meanwhile, I lie here waiting for death when someone I barely know tells me about the inconceivable. “What does it taste like?”

“What?”

“The cake.”

“Sponge cake dipped in punch coated with melted sugar. You mostly taste the sugar.”

“That sounds horrible.”

He chuckles again. “Not to me. I love all of those things. When I take a bite, it sends shivers down my spine, and I remember why the vomiting and diarrhea are worth the trips.”

I grimace at the thought. “Do you at least leave money for the things you steal?”

“What do you expect me to leave them? Gourdes? No. I don’t expect them to miss a few slices of cake every now and then.”

“Fair enough. Where else have you been?”

For the next few hours, he tells me of his adventures and the places he’s visited with his dad or by himself. He mentions cities I’ve never heard of like Nay Pyi Taw or Lichinga. As I hear him talk, I feel this increasing and overwhelming sadness take over me. For the first time in a long time, I feel something other than resentment, fear, or anger. For the first time, I can imagine myself outside the walls of my spartan bedroom. I’m angry again because I have to discover this today of all days and with a boy I don’t know. Eventually, we hear the sounds of the machine growing closer to us, giving us hope. But it means so little, as any wrong thing can happen at any moment. There’s a horrible smell that surrounds me now. It’s not Yuri’s this time but me. I’m pungent, smell of urine and God knows what else. It grows stronger and makes me cry, but at this point everything makes me cry. I can feel myself slipping away, I can barely make out the wall above me anymore, so I say the word.

“Knock.”

Nothing. Only the distant sounds of the sirens approaching. Maybe he didn’t hear me. “Yuri?” Again, nothing.“Yuri?” I say, my voice trembling. “Yuri?” Silence. “Yuri, please, answer me.” I scream his name over and over, but he never answers leaving me alone in the dark.

***

The smell of sweets tickles my nostrils. I inhale a big gulp and savor the moment. I look to my right and count all the different cube cakes I see behind the curved glass. It’s not just bright pink looking at me, but dark brown, pale yellow and even purple. A single string of water drips down my cheek and I realize I shed a tear after I told my story. I don’t wipe it but the stranger sitting opposite me, dabs at it quite awkwardly with a napkin. I thank him with a smile. It had been a while since I told my story. My arms were a constant reminder of that day, and I always wear long sleeves, even on hot summer days like these. The plate in front of me contains the little that is left of my Minyon. It’s my first time trying one and I’m happy to discover it tastes nothing like liquid toothpaste. And just like it did to him, the Hungarian delicacy sent shivers down my spine. But unlike Yuri, it’s for a different reason. I look up from my plate again and try to gauge my date’s reaction. He has one of both disbelief and sadness. Unlike me, he doesn’t look out of place inside the Cukraszda. He’s a Hungarian of average built and average height, but still taller than me by an inch or two. His green-brown eyes flicker under the bright sunlight and when he speaks, he has this constant grin on the corner of his thin lips. That is until he asked me why I chose to move to Hungary of all places.

“They never found the body of the scrawny boy with the oversized head. It’s quite hard when you’ve been buried alive, but I know I’m here because of him whether his story was real or not.” I savor the last bite of the Minyon and feel a pang of joy as the savory sweet melts in my mouth.

“How many people survived?” Maté asked.

The pang turns into guilt. It’s something I still struggle with even 15 years later, but life tends to be so cruel at times. 

“I was the only one.”