“My earliest memory is of being in the crib. Staring and staring at the ceiling waiting for

someone to come. I don’t know why I’m telling you this now except you have the kind of face

that cares.”

A silence stretched between us, as I brought the watered-down drink to my lips, rattling

the melting ice cubes left in the glass. The vinyl on the record player sat, spinning to a slow

end, but the music, an opera piece, continued to play in my ears, slightly blurred, lacing itself

around my weary mind like tendril. I moved the needle of the record player back to the edge of

the disc, the tune starting once again.

“That was before my father left, of course,” I continued. 

“I like to imagine that he just left, without knowing where he was going. After that, the

memories of my childhood are a blur,” I said, watching his shadow overlap onto mine in the

dark room, only brightened by the flashing light of a single strobe, projecting indistinct blots of

colored light onto the walls and ceiling.

At this hour, we were alone. 

“I don’t remember him very well, if at all. Wait, take a look at this.” 

I took a picture out of my pocket, an old yellowing picture, a crease running down its

middle, weary and fragile from having been folded and unfolded an uncountable number of

times. It had become a relic for me; a glimpse into an unattainable past, an unattainable person.

Even in the dimness, every change of color tone, every pixel had seeped into my mind. There

sat a man, atop a car hood, elbows bent; of strong build, broad shoulders and skin colored by

the sun; thin lips framed by sunken cheeks. Strong, yet weary. I could almost smell a vague

whiff of stale tobacco, feel his coarse hands. 

A moment of light in the darkness: a foggy memory of his low voice singing me to sleep

suddenly came to mind, him slowly lulling me, holding me in his arms, his fingers running

through my hair, a night light in the back illuminating his face in the gloom. 

“I have nothing else. My mother got rid of all his things, letters, belongings. I don’t recall

ever watching him shave, or teaching me how to bike. Without this picture, he doesn’t really

exist for me. I would overhear my mother speaking about him to others, as if he were a

stranger. You know, I grew up far away from here, in a small town, enclosed by a horizon of

rigid vine. ‘People talked’, as they say, gave me stern conscientious looks. They knew my

father, or had known. They made me bear the weight of a stranger.”

The full-throated and majestic voice of the opera singer made me stop speaking. 

“I absolutely love this piece. By Schubert. It’s about this boy and his father, the boy keeps

saying that he sees an ‘elf king,’ a demon of sorts. The father tries to explain to him that what

he sees is but wind and leaves, but the elf king injures him, resulting in his death. Sad story.”

The piano playing became more and more tense, punctuated by staccato notes. 

“I overheard my mother say, one day, to one of her friends, that my father ended up in jail.

I wasn’t supposed to be listening, and she would have never wanted me to think about him.

When I asked her where he was, she either wouldn’t answer or made something up. But he had

ended up in jail, and then I heard that he was out, and then back again. Never for anything too

bad, I’d think.”

In unison with the opera singer, I then mouthed, “Now father, now father, he's seizing my

arm, Elf-king has done me a cruel harm!,” in a sing-song voice, gently swaying my glass to

the melody, as the singer began to sing the last verse. I looked at the ground, dazed, my

eyebrows slightly frowning, perplexed.

I turned back towards him and asked, “Do you know what happened?”. 

He didn’t answer. I put my glass down on the table that had been in front of us. 

“We received a letter a few years later. He had gotten into some fight. They had shot him,

just like that. Three times in a row. Bang bang bang. Or something like that. Loud, deafening.

Empty.”

I stared at the picture again. “The handsome man, with three red holes carved into his

chest. I don’t even really look like him”. Tears formed in my eyes, but not of sadness. 

“My mother cried for days. I didn’t even cry once. I mean, the man in this picture’s skin

will never turn pale, his lips will never become blue. What makes us get so attached to ideas?”

I was longing for an answer, hoping that, for the first time that night, he would say

something.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” 

Silence.

A door opened. Light seeped into the room. 

“You have to be out in half an hour, I can’t keep this place open for one person.”

 He went out again. The door closed with a thud.

“The child he held in his arms was dead.” The record then stopped turning, lifeless.

 I got up, and fumbled to find the light switch. Blinding light; the mist rising over the

plain. It was all clear to me now: the room was smaller than it had seemed in the dark, with its

bare leather couches and low tables, the surface stained with water rings. I was alone.

Indeed, I’m not a child anymore; there’s no elf king now. Opening the door, I made my way

out. In such light, maybe, with some luck, I’ll catch what I’ve been chasing.