A sally of stench hit Ike’s nostrils the moment he opened the door to his apartment. It left a ghoulish impression, reminded him of feculent silt. He jerked his head back in a flinching gesture.
Had something—a rat perhaps—burrowed its way into his apartment and met its death? Had he forgotten to flush the toilet? Had he left dirty dishes in the sink? Or was it some food, carelessly left out, that had gone moldy and festered?
Holding his breath, he pulled his suitcases into the room. He then slammed the door behind him, for he did not want the smell to slip out his door and menace other tenants. As the hallway light shut out, he found the apartment wrapped in a gooey darkness.
His right hand groped the wall, searching for the switch. He flicked it, but light did not flood the room. A chill zipped down his spine. Bumps erupted on his skin. He flicked the switch again. And then again and again.
Fear compounded his anger. Why had the bulb chosen now to die? He was sure he didn’t have an extra bulb in the house.
Then he remembered the disconnection notice from the light company three days before his trip. His light bill was then delinquent by three weeks. He’d scrawled the power company’s customer service number on a piece of paper and tacked it on the wall beside the refrigerator. But, swamped with errands, he had forgotten to call and make the payment.
He whacked the side of his head.
“Idiot!” he cursed.
Teeth gritted, he gave the switch a sharp, upward chop. Scraped, his finger sizzled with pain. He sucked in air, wincing. He ran the hurt finger across his lips, probing for a cut, for blood.
Something seemed to stir in the darkness. He crouched, then ducked to the right, like a karate maven evading a punch. Who, what, was this thing appareled by the night? Was it the source of the terrible smell? Was the stink this being’s rancid breath?
His eyes roved and scoured the darkness. For a while, there was nothing but an eerie stillness, the sinister stillness of a night-draped terror. His eyes began to water from the intensity of gazing into darkness. His eyelids began to twitch, blinking uncontrollably. A misshapen figure formed and unformed before his teary eyes. This image wiggled, feinted, danced like a waif.
Ike opened his mouth to shriek, but his vocal cord was bereft of sound, lifeless. He wanted to pirouette, grab the doorknob, and yank the door open. The hallway light would flood the room, revealing the prowler. But his limbs remained frozen. If he turned, he would expose his flank to attack. Why, the fearsome foe in the dark might then fell him with a vicious blow.
There was a scurrying. He started and jumped. Landing, he stamped his feet furiously. He swung his arms wildly. Heels dug in, he bent his knees, flexed his biceps, and raised his hands, pivoting from side to side, ready.
Gradually, doubt settled in. Was there really somebody —something—enfolded in the darkness, ready to do him harm? Was there anything more than an illusion?
Next came shame. Surely, if people could see him now, they’d think him deranged. What shame to be caught in a fighter’s springy posture, flailing against an illusory antagonist.
Next—dread swept him. It came back with the thought that there was indeed a presence in the darkness. It was no less real for its invisibility. If he pitched his hand forward, he’d touch this thing. Its skin would be horrid to the touch, a feral foe’s furry skin, or hard, like something hewn from bark.
The thought of it made his skin crawl with bumps.
He stood pat, shivering.
The smell came at him in waves. Sometimes faint, sometimes overpowering, it made him dizzy. He was trapped between the liquidity of the odor and the horror of the darkness.
He wiped his eyes. The traipsing figure seemed to fall instantly quiet.
He sniffed lightly, seeking to detect the stink’s particular character. He ruled out a dead rodent. The odor didn’t have the stark smell of decayed flesh. He had a hunch that it wasn’t food either.
Did the stink emanate from trapped, soured air? Was it because he’d shut up everything before he traveled; every window latched, a pad of newspapers squeezed in to cover a small hole where the air conditioner was installed. Had the trapped air fermented and turned acrid?
Could a smell so foul be birthed by sheer air?
The phone rang. Heart heaving, he sprang for it but blindly crashed against his suitcase, which toppled over with a thud. He heard its lock spring free, its contents spilling. His left leg caught the fallen suitcase. Doing his blind best to regain his balance, he was instead propelled forward, an awkward flying object. For a moment he had the sensation of being suspended in midair; he couldn’t tell where was up, where down. Then his right rib cage slammed against the edge of the shaky-legged center table his ex-wife had spitefully left behind when she cleaned out the rest of the furniture. The table gave a cracking whine as it shattered. He crumpled to the ground, sideways, bunching up his body as actors do in movies when shot. The pain took its time sharpening, spreading. Ripples of it tore through his body. He gasped, grabbed his rib cage, and slowly rolled over to settle on his back.
As if from a dreamy fog, he heard the phone ring two more times. He let out a mirthless smile as his voice announced, I am not here to take your call. Please leave a message, thank you. Three beeps—then:
“Chief Ike, this is Usman Wai,” announced the caller in a familiar raspy voice. “Just calling to find out if you made it back today as planned. Please call me as soon as you come in; I’ll be up till midnight. Even later. Don’t fail to call—it’s extremely important. Hope you had a terrific trip. Bye for now.”
A click. Silence.
The pulsing pain concentrated his mind. For a while, nothing else mattered. Not fear. Not the stink-touched air. Not a girl’s string of curses that reached him from the street. Not the smattering of jeers and cheers that answered her. Not the indolent chatter of the adult congregants gathered in front of Cadilla’s package store to dawdle, dream, and flirt. Not the sound of a car screeching to a halt in front of Cadilla’s. Not the boom of merengue music that followed.
Nothing mattered but the spasms of pain.
Lying on the floor, curled up in the fetal posture, the darkness seemed cushiony. Bottomless.
The pain spent its edge, abating gradually.
Afterward, he lay on the floor, from comfort less than necessity. He was in a half daze, floating in and out of a state that was neither sleep nor wakefulness.