his last name was Love? John Regal Love, newly wed to the former
wife of the chief. His son became a mute and joined a strange religion that
nobody liked speaking about. The chief, in turn, made secret arrangements with
the mayor, doing what they pleased. Politics never mattered anymore: only their
lives mattered. He quit the force and began reading books, living an all right
life until the mayor declared a final act against the investigators pushing
crime away. This was all wrong, thought the chief as he scrambled in what D.
thought a fictitious journal entry. The mayor, my all-time friend, doing such
tragedies like this! Surely he’s gone mad by now. Weeks later, the mayor
proposed a new act. No one agreed with it except him, who had learned to wear
two costumes where everybody could see only one. The world was afire and about
as literal as it was metaphoric. The unnamed police chief didn’t die as in the
first run D. read in this strange tale from an unknown source, but instead was
trained to become the best slave that the mayor saw fit.
What a story.
*****
After all it's the middle of June of the West Lake The beautiful view is really different
from the other seasons.
The lotus leaves are so wide and endless,
they are connecting the skyline
with their so much bluish green
to set off the beautiful water lilies
especially red in the sunshine.
He thought: West Lake, huh? Of course it had to be the West
Lake in the city since somehow – and luckily – it matched the profile of the
criminal D. had found in the records at the police department. He reread the
English translation of the poem, pressing it until he could memorize it. West
Lake was located somewhere in the lower part of the city, and he remembered
going there once. Noisy children and quacking ducks more annoying than blaring
horns from sailor boats distracted him from the wondrous beauty of the trees. Nature
brightened in it, so he preferred the upper part where there were more
beautiful rivers and lakes and less bothersome distractions. Nowadays he barely
went out at all, usually tinkering with book spines and other pointless things.
Going down there at night wouldn’t be too bad, so he walked.
If only he could drive there. The police station
parking lot had less than five cars parked, but none of them was D.’s. He could
take the chance of “borrowing” one of the cruisers, but sooner or later
somebody’s gonna notice.
D. used a few minutes’ space looking at the nearly empty
parking lot, and then broke into a run. His legs ached, his head ached,
everything ached, but he couldn’t leave West Lake alone for everybody to grab.
No, he couldn’t let that happen. Light rain sprinkled his face as the old
detective dashed through the nightlit streets. A few streetlamps were on. An
orange glow softened the scene. D. was running out of breath. Still in his
short-lived, premature sprint, he checked his pistol – not too many bullets
left. He didn’t slow down until he had a good five minutes ahead of him before
collapsing.
“Get me up!” he cried. “By hell, get up!”
His hands were soaked with water and gravel, his
knees scraped beneath bloodied pant legs. Although he never glanced back, D.
had the feeling he was being followed. He didn’t know by whom, but the feeling
stuck. His paranoia chased him like a frenzied dog.
West Lake couldn’t be far from where he was, D.
thought. “Lake, must find the lake,” he repeated. He never tired of saying it.
He did cartwheels with his arms so they circled like the spokes of windmills on
a wind farm. When his eyes saw the lake, his breath ran low, depleted, his
heart beating too fast for his age so that it slowed almost to a deadly stop.
Each beat imploded in his mind, bearing its mark, every beat sounding like
death giving him one more second to live, not sure when he would stop playing
children’s games
wife of the chief. His son became a mute and joined a strange religion that
nobody liked speaking about. The chief, in turn, made secret arrangements with
the mayor, doing what they pleased. Politics never mattered anymore: only their
lives mattered. He quit the force and began reading books, living an all right
life until the mayor declared a final act against the investigators pushing
crime away. This was all wrong, thought the chief as he scrambled in what D.
thought a fictitious journal entry. The mayor, my all-time friend, doing such
tragedies like this! Surely he’s gone mad by now. Weeks later, the mayor
proposed a new act. No one agreed with it except him, who had learned to wear
two costumes where everybody could see only one. The world was afire and about
as literal as it was metaphoric. The unnamed police chief didn’t die as in the
first run D. read in this strange tale from an unknown source, but instead was
trained to become the best slave that the mayor saw fit.
What a story.
*****
After all it's the middle of June of the West Lake The beautiful view is really different
from the other seasons.
The lotus leaves are so wide and endless,
they are connecting the skyline
with their so much bluish green
to set off the beautiful water lilies
especially red in the sunshine.
He thought: West Lake, huh? Of course it had to be the West
Lake in the city since somehow – and luckily – it matched the profile of the
criminal D. had found in the records at the police department. He reread the
English translation of the poem, pressing it until he could memorize it. West
Lake was located somewhere in the lower part of the city, and he remembered
going there once. Noisy children and quacking ducks more annoying than blaring
horns from sailor boats distracted him from the wondrous beauty of the trees. Nature
brightened in it, so he preferred the upper part where there were more
beautiful rivers and lakes and less bothersome distractions. Nowadays he barely
went out at all, usually tinkering with book spines and other pointless things.
Going down there at night wouldn’t be too bad, so he walked.
If only he could drive there. The police station
parking lot had less than five cars parked, but none of them was D.’s. He could
take the chance of “borrowing” one of the cruisers, but sooner or later
somebody’s gonna notice.
D. used a few minutes’ space looking at the nearly empty
parking lot, and then broke into a run. His legs ached, his head ached,
everything ached, but he couldn’t leave West Lake alone for everybody to grab.
No, he couldn’t let that happen. Light rain sprinkled his face as the old
detective dashed through the nightlit streets. A few streetlamps were on. An
orange glow softened the scene. D. was running out of breath. Still in his
short-lived, premature sprint, he checked his pistol – not too many bullets
left. He didn’t slow down until he had a good five minutes ahead of him before
collapsing.
“Get me up!” he cried. “By hell, get up!”
His hands were soaked with water and gravel, his
knees scraped beneath bloodied pant legs. Although he never glanced back, D.
had the feeling he was being followed. He didn’t know by whom, but the feeling
stuck. His paranoia chased him like a frenzied dog.
West Lake couldn’t be far from where he was, D.
thought. “Lake, must find the lake,” he repeated. He never tired of saying it.
He did cartwheels with his arms so they circled like the spokes of windmills on
a wind farm. When his eyes saw the lake, his breath ran low, depleted, his
heart beating too fast for his age so that it slowed almost to a deadly stop.
Each beat imploded in his mind, bearing its mark, every beat sounding like
death giving him one more second to live, not sure when he would stop playing
children’s games
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