Bouzouki

Through the ringlets of his graying hair and the reflection of the mirror, Arthur looked at the man seated before him. “Mmhmm, when a person dies, you put them in the ground fast. Have tea later.” Snip, snip. “At least, that’s what my mother says.”

“Yes,” said the seated man, thin and old. “I don’t—it will just be me and Phyllis. I don’t want a big…thing…she wouldn’t want something like that.”

I said nothing as I watched Arthur work. I had no right to speak of these things.

Snip. “As it should be. No party for death, you know?” Looking at me.

I nodded and smiled slightly.

“Eh,” snip, “it’s life we should give shit about, not dying.”

The seated man: “Just Phyllis and I, that’s all. A priest, too…because…”

“That is good,” snip-snick. Snip: “Did they ask you what kind of wood?”

“…How do you mean?”

“Kind of wood,” said Arthur. “You know.”

“Oh, I told them…it wouldn’t matter. She’s gone now…no more details, only the family album. She’s gone, never here again.”

“They asked, you know,” snip, snip, “when my father died. I had just flown back to the States from seeing him, my mother calls: your father’s dead. I tell her I will fly back, but she says, why? You saw him alive, that is a good memory to keep. Not him lying like wax in a box of…what kind of wood? She asked me, said they had asked her. I said, something cheap,” he chuckled. “He was not a man known to spend, but that’s how they could afford for me to come here, you know, when I was old enough. That’s what I think of now, I live here because of him. So he’s always here, not in some box.”

Snip-snick-snip. Click. “It is a silly question to ask. What do you care, eh? What do you care what kind of wood is used? Piece of…You know, though, I had never thought about that before.” Click, snip-snip. “I just…you know?” Looking at me. “Eh, you don’t know.” Snip. “She was, what, one hundred five?”

“One hundred and seven,” said the seated man. “I remember when my father died and I was there…we had flowers and plenty of company, and cousin Bobby came from Washington…”

Snip: “State?”

“State. Big to-do, the funeral. I was embarrassed, for my father. He was quiet in life. Quiet still, quite still. He was like my mother…and now they’re both gone.”

“It’s good that you keep it private, as it should be, you know? And the priest, a good thing, too.”

Sniff.

Through the mirror I watched him rub his nose with a handkerchief. He looked sick, withered, and I felt pity.

Snip-snip. “But look at you, eh? Didn’t they tell you, they told you—what—a year, six months?”

Sniff, sniff. “Last year they said four months. No, a year and a half ago. The chemo’s been working…I guess. Does funny things though.”

“Yes,” snick-snip. “Your hair changes. Wavy, feels youthful.” Looking at me.

“Thins it at the same time.”

Snip: “Mmm…I won’t have much more to do here.”

“…The worst is eating. The food. It isn’t always the way it should be, sometimes sour. Sometimes very bitter, too bitter.” Sniff: “…I know what it should taste like…but it doesn’t…I just sort of imagine.”

Snip. Snip, snip.

The seated man’s voice trembled: “Or not imagine…well the taste is really there, but I have to force it. Like reading in a, holding a book up to a mirror…I just feel backwards. It’s tiring…I’m so tired.”

“Eh, but you’ve got to eat,” shrugged Arthur in the mirror.

The seated man said nothing. I looked at my feet, the haphazard magazine stack, the ceiling fans ceaselessly turning, the piles of hair on the tile floor.

“And at least you still can eat,” said Arthur.

Silence.

Arthur chuckled and began sliding a comb over the man’s scalp and hair. “Let me tell you, when I was a boy, still living in my home, there was a very popular musician in our neighborhood. We all loved him. But this guy, he was a character, you know? Drank very much, did a lot of drugs, played the bouzouki. But he was a great man.”

“Bouzouki,” said the seated man, calmer. “That’s the…uh…the Greek…”

“Yes,” still combing, though it was unnecessary, “it is like the soul of our music. I heard it very much as a child. You know, he was one of the best, could play both trichordo and tetrachordo. But a musician—have you ever heard of a musician falling asleep while playing? Ah! He did, he did. Quite a character…Dead now, choked on his vomit. A sad thing—some said. But, you know what he said about dying and being buried? He said, you know, he said I don’t want any of this funeral bull shit. It is not for me, I am alive—when he said this—I am alive, and then, I’ll be dead. One, then the next. Doesn’t matter. But beside my grave, in a nice spot, I want you to plant a cocaine tree. So when my friends come, they can get high.”

Arthur laughed and looked at me, I smiled gingerly, but the seated man sighed and gave as full a laugh as his frame allowed, so I humored Arthur with a chuckle. He had laid the comb down by now, and simply stood behind the seated man, hands resting on his narrow shoulders.

“But you know, when he played…he played. Someone asked him once, how do you play so good? What is different? What do you do that is so much better? What do you hear that no one else can? He said, I don’t know. He said that when he played, something came over him. Life, he said, or something more. And we, his friends, listened to him on the bouzouki—the music was coming from another world. We were lost to it. And that, you know, that was worth celebrating.”

Sniff.

Through the mirror I watched the seated man rub his nose, then his right eye, though in the mirror it was his left.

Arthur smiled gently. “You’re all done, my friend.”

The seated man studied himself in the mirror, gravely. He stood, a slight tremble in his movements, slid into his coat and paid Arthur. “Thank you, Art.”

“Mmhmm. See you next time, I hope.”

As he was leaving, we looked each other in the eye for the first time. I smiled at the glimmer, so did he, it was something we shared. I turned to Arthur, who was watching me.

“You’re next, my friend. Have a seat.”