Oasis: A Short Story from Zulu Alitspa

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar

You can read this story and many more in The Islamagood Bazaar and Other Stories; available now on Amazon!

I don’t remember the precise moment when I lost my canteen. I just remember the feeling when it finally slipped from my fingers, plopping into the sand with a dull clunk. 

Hollow. Empty. Forgotten.

I did not bother to try and retrieve it. I had forgotten about the canteen by the time my shuffling foot dug into the sand and my sandal became stuck. Inertia carried me forward three more steps before it registered with me that the sole of my right foot was starting to burn. My sandal lay behind me, wedged at the base of a low dune, the only rise in the landscape for miles. Three paces was a metaphorical eternity and I could tell, by the flat, hot sweep of the sand in front of me, that I had a literal eternity of walking before I could return to civilization. 

If ever.

I could not force myself to turn around and retrieve the sandal. A dozen steps later and the burning was too much. I thought my foot was melting. But the sandal, and the dune in which it lay, had been swallowed by the rising waves of heat which boiled on the horizon in every direction. I tried to track backwards by my footsteps and soon found myself stamping blood-soaked circles into the sand. I paused to take my bearings. A stale breeze swept across the landscape, and I watched as my imprints were slowly whittled away before my eyes. 

Forward, only forward. 

I let my head hang low, fixing my gaze on my feet, to avoid confronting the barren reality of the world I had wandered into. Where did I even come from? What was I doing out there? Was I there for vacation? On a contract? As I questioned myself, the skin on the back of my neck began to burn, and I was forced to stand up straight. I continued plodding forward, as the sole of my foot went numb from the heat. 

A few more steps, or maybe more than a few, and the shadow of a singular palm tree began to emerge from the wispy mirror-world which appeared to lay beyond the gauzy haze of heat, shimmering, ahead of me. The vision poured into my mind like molten lead, revealing a deep-seated need that I had not yet identified. Between the hunger and the heat and the thirst, between it and above it and below it, was the loneliness. I could not remember when I had last seen another living creature. Not even the buzzards were foolish enough to wander this hellscape. You do not know the meaning of true desolation until you see a sagging shrub on the horizon and feel your throat swell, your face wrench up in agony; and yet, unable to cry.    

Something was there. I was not alone. I broke into a halfward hop towards the shadow, wincing as the grit chafed at the raw flesh of my foot. My knee buckled after the third bounce and sent me tumbling into the sand. I dug my fingers into the hot ground and dragged myself forward; the open collar of my shirt scooping dirt as I gasped and strained, mixing with my sweat to create a thick paste of grit that slowly settled into every crease of my skin.     

Once again, my gaze was fixed on the ground. The fall had knocked my mind straight and, my head aching with the strain of weeping empty tears, I began to feel that the palm was a mirage. Sweat trickled down my skin and then sizzled in the sand as I crawled, afraid to look up and reveal the truth of my delusion. My certainty increased with every inch that I managed to scrape along the shifting sand without finding myself in the shade of the palm. 

My hand found the trunk and I tried to pull myself up. The palm bent under my weight and my hand slipped back to the ground. Blinking, I rolled over to see that the trunk had not immediately snapped back to attention. Sagging, wilting, the shrub was still trying to right itself. Instead of gaining its prior height, it stopped halfway, crooked and bent. It was just as dehydrated as me. 

  It occurred to me, then, that I hadn’t even been hoping for water; but I began to dig. I rolled over and dug my hands into the sand, scooping down and shoving it away until the soil darkened and clung to my fingers in moist clumps. Finally, finally, a puddle began to form. I slurped up a singular mouthful of brown mud. I did not even realize that my mouth was coated with dust. The first sip turned my mouth into a mudpit, and I was forced to spit it away. The puddle gradually refilled itself. Three mouthfuls later, and with no shortage to come, my thirst was no longer an ache. No sooner did I have that thought then my stomach began to churn.

A small ant’s nest had established itself at the base of the palm, on the side opposite my hole, and a thin trail of insects were climbing the trunk. Sticking them to my finger and passing them to my tongue, I quickly consumed every ant out in the open. I then sat waiting, plucking them individually as they left their nest. I soon lost my patience and debated the idea of kicking open the nest and digging down to snatch up their plump, quivering queen. 

It was then that I realized, on top of the hunger, and the thirst, and the loneliness, I had been days, perhaps weeks, without tobacco. A cigarette would have been nice. I was beginning to understand that I might die out there, and I recalled that it was customary for the condemned to have a last cigarette. Desert cultures thrive on custom, and yet-

That was when I noticed the thumping.

Thumping?

I jumped to my feet and raised my hands to shield my eyes against the glare of the white desert. In the distance, just now emerging through the shimmering heat waves, a single camel came plodding along. I searched the horizon for his owner. There was no one. Just the camel, who was upon me before I could question his existence any further.

He did not acknowledge me. He did not even drink from the puddle. He simply came to a halt. With a single snort, he turned his long neck around to meet my eyes. He nodded once, and looked forward. It was clearly an invitation of some sort. I was going to climb on his back, but then I saw the window embedded in his hump. A single round pane of glass, framed and quartered in lacquered wood, smeared with grime and dust. Wary not to upset the beast, I pressed my eyes to the window and tried to look inside. I could see nothing. 

There was a handle. With a slight click, the window came open, and a rope ladder rolled out from the darkness within. I placed one trembling hand on the splintered rungs and hoisted myself up. Two velvet curtains, embroidered with delicate gold flowers, blocked my view of the interior. They were too thick, I could not move them, so I set one foot into the bottom rung of the ladder and, with a curious absence of curiosity, I plunged headlong into the cool velvet.  

I slipped through the curtains and slid down a narrow shaft, landing on a thick pad of carpet. The inside of the camel was cool, compared to the deathly heat of the desert. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and the chatter of voices began to rise. It was a parlor. A smoking parlor. So thick was the smoke that I could not even see the far end, but the hardwood floor in front of me was layered with lush carpet, and I was surrounded by pillows and people and my own clothes suddenly seemed unbearably grimy-

“Where are you traveling from, mate?”

A young Englishman lay on a couch next to me, puffing on a rich cigar. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and savored the scent of the woody aroma. My throat was hoarse when I spoke.

“Do you have another one of those?”

He smirked and gestured toward the table upon which he was resting his leather boots. A wooden box, filled with cigars, lay open for the taking. I grabbed one. They were already cut. For a brief moment, I simply inhaled through the unlit end, tasting the sweet dampness of the tightly rolled tobacco. The Englishman watched me.

“Got a light?” I asked.

That seemed to confuse him. He glanced down at the table and squinted. He searched the folds of his vest, then patted down the pockets of his pants.

“Had a book of matches just a minute ago. No clue what happened, though.”

 I nodded.   

“Can you loan me yours, then? Just for a minute?”

He was scandalized.

“You don’t intend to ruin a perfectly good cigar with an uneven flame, do you? It seemed enough a crime that I should have to light this one with a match. A smoke like this really deserves a torch. Besides, you’re just as liable to smother mine as you are to light yours. Do you understand?”

Fair enough. I peered through the smoke, trying to figure out the rest of the parlor. Further up the wall, a group of young Australians were nestled in an open booth, fixated on a game of cards which they were playing on an overturned steel bucket. Each one had a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. I approached the game, waiting for an opportune moment to interject, but they cut me off before I could speak. Not even a word. Just a raised palm. They must have been playing for high stakes to have been so focused. Oh well. 

The parlor had a dozen such booths, each one filled with some small national party. Irishmen puffing on pipes, who each claimed they would like to have helped me, but they were running low on lighter fluid. A group of Turks, each one with a cigarillo in hand, who pretended not to understand my words and then, as I turned my back, be

gan laughing about the ‘stupid foreigner.’ A Spanish family celebrating a Quinceanera with decadent, earthy hashish, was very eager to help me.

“Madre!” cried the father, a portly man with a thick mustache. From the back of their booth, a bundle of rags began to unravel itself, revealing a decrepit old woman with two sunken black pits where her eyes should have been. She understood my needs immediately, reaching into her cloak to pull out a tinderbox. The father caught my eye and shook his head, snickering at his mother’s slow movements. With shaking hands, she sprinkled the tinder into a shallow tin dish and pulled out her flint. Her son had begun drumming his fingertips on the edge of their table, muttering under his breath.

“Today, mother!”

She did not respond as she slowly raised her flint and then struck the steel against thin air. She blinked once, staring in confusion at the dish of unlit tinder. Her son slammed his fist down against the back of the bench.

“Aye, aye, aye!” he sneered. “You blind old bitch! It is right in front of you!”

She struck the flint again, this time producing a shed of sparks. Each one missed the dish. Finally, her son reared back with an open palm and slapped her so hard that she fell down flat against the bench. Her son was still screaming when I turned to leave. 

“Puta! Get up!”

I found a sultan, leaning against a bed of pillows, surrounded by his harem, puffing on a six-foot hookah. There were ten hoses. He had the largest, the other nine were distributed amongst his women. At another time, I might have savored the sight of their bodies, loosely draped with silk curtains. But at this point, I simply had one concern. I gestured toward the hookah.

“May I?”

He nodded, cackling with eager delight. He nudged the youngest of his harem and whispered in her ear. A thin smile spread across her lips as she leaned forward to offer me her pipe. The other women all stopped puffing, watching with exaggerated interest to see if I would accept it. In fact, the entire parlor had gone silent.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said an American voice from over my shoulder. I turned to look at him. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the circular lenses of his glasses. His chin was sparse with stubble and his skin was grimy. 

“That’s a women’s hose. You puff on that and you’ll basically be admitting that you’re a part of the sultan’s harem.”

So, the sultan was playing some kind of game. 

“Well,” I said. “So what? I don’t care about being a part of someone’s joke. I just want a damned light.”

The American gave me a sad smile and lifted his arm, rolling up the sleeve of his khaki field shirt to show me a scar. I studied it. It had been burned into his skin and, from the faded appearance, it had been there for a very long time. He nodded back at the sultan’s women. Each one had a similar insignia on their upper arms. The American smiled.

“This man takes his jokes very seriously.”

I could not think of a polite way to excuse myself from the situation while still retaining my dignity, and then someone was tugging at my belt. A curious little man, wearing a laboratory coat. He pulled me away, through the booths, into a back corner shrouded with thick tapestries. 

“You are looking for zee, how do you say… fire?”

I nodded.

“Can you help me?”

He tented his fingers and clucked his tongue. 

“Perhaps. It is not exactly vat you are looking for, but-”

He pushed aside one of the tapestries and showed me a small alcove. He had apparently stashed away an intricate little contraption, composed of some lenses and a battery, mounted on top of a small box. I stooped down into the alcove with him, letting the tapestry drop into place behind me. The German began fiddling with his apparatus. He spent a few minutes winding a small crank, the alcove gradually filled with a soft glow. He adjusted the lenses and directed my attention to the far wall, where red-and-orange lights danced against the aging plaster. Before I could speak, he snapped his fingers and pointed at the bottom of the box, directing my attention again to a series of small vents which were pumping out hot air.

“Do you see?” he said, rubbing his hands with maniacal glee. “Zee lenses create the visual effect of zee flames, and zee box emits zee heat. Even zee most cunning traveler could not tell zee difference between zhis and zee real zhing.”

It was impressive. But-

“Can I use it to light my cigar?”

He squinted at me.

“You should not smoke. It is terrible for zee lungs.”

I stooped out of the alcove and stumbled into the center of the parlor. Everyone was smoking. Everyone was laughing. I couldn’t see a single booth amidst the thick fumes of rolling tobacco smoke. But I could hear their voices, and imagine their pleasure. An elderly man stumbled forward, leaning on his cane. I couldn’t place his accent. He squinted at me and spoke in a high-pitched, chirping voice.

“Are you the lad who’s been going about bothering everyone for a light?”

I sighed.

“Yes. Do you have one?”               

He smiled and showed me a book of matches. I reached for it, but he snatched it away with a speed that seemed a thousand years too young for his wizened frame. His cricket’s voice was bitterly sarcastic.

“Ain’t nothing in this world is free, boy. And these matches are all I have left.”

“What do you want for them?”

He smiled again.

“They didn’t even have matches when I was a kid. For thirty years I did not know the pleasure of smoking. Back then, we had to chew the stuff if we wanted our buzz. You ever taste a tobacco leaf? It’s as bitter as a woman’s hate. And then they invented these damn things. Still couldn’t get my hands on one. You think you’ve suffered, to have carried your cigar around for twenty minutes? I carried my first cigar around for forty years before I got a chance to smoke it. And all the time, the rich men and the poets and the preachers, they all lit up cigars on every corner. Sometimes they would use two or three matches just to light one. Couldn’t spare one for a lad like me, though. They said I hadn’t worked hard enough, or thought hard enough, or prayed hard enough. I didn’t deserve to enjoy such a privilege. Wanna know how I got this book of matches?”

He leaned forward to whisper his secret into my ear.

“I got them from another lodger at the boarding home, where I had been consigned to live out my twilight years. He was an old miser. I figured he was just poor, to have been sharing a room with me. But then one day his children came to visit, and they asked him for a light. He turned them down, of course, but not before he made them watch as he counted each and every match in the book - which he had kept hidden beneath his pillow. And that was how I learned the secret of his hidden wealth. I’ll spare you the grisly details.”

He leaned back out. The smoke had grown thicker. My eyes were watering. The old man’s face had lost its gleam. The cracks in his skin had deepened, his balance seemed more unsteady than ever, and I could suddenly see the gray hairs sprouting from the tip of his nose. He spat the next few words directly in my face. 

“So tell me, boy. What would you want? If you had done what I had done, and now you were a hundred years old, and death loomed over the horizon of every passing second. What could convince you to give up your life’s work?” 

Was this a riddle? Or did he actually want an answer?

“I don’t know,” I said. I kept thinking.

“I can promise you I’ll put them to good use. I’ll share them with everyone who ever asks. No one will have to suffer like you did ever again.”

He was nodding, thinking up some bitter retort. I knew what he was going to say. No doubt he thought I was lying. He thought he was the same as I was and that I carried the same bitterness and murderous greed within my heart. 

No you won’t, boy. No you won’t. 

We were all alone in the smoke. The old man’s voice was soft, compared to the roaring laughter which surrounded us from every side. He was too old to scream. Besides, I could smell the self-loathing on his breath. He didn’t want to be alive anymore. It would be an act of mercy, to choke the life from his throat. He seemed to read the thoughts on my face. Finally he laughed, tossing the matchbook at my feet.

“No need to get dramatic, son,” he said, tottering away into the smoke.

I picked up the matchbook and struck a light. Clutching the cigar in my other hand, I lifted the flame to the tip. The wrapper was just beginning to burn, when the parlor suddenly cleared out. A dozen faces were looking at me with intense yearning. The Englishman was asking if anyone had a smoke he could borrow, because he needed to light his dead cigar and he still hadn’t found his matches. The Australians were patting down their pockets, shaking their half-empty cigarette packs. The Irishmen were sparking the dead wheels of their lighters. A portly hispanic man stood wailing over the corpse of his dead mother. The sultan was cursing his harem, who were dancing towards me, their silk robes trailing behind them, drifting with the sweet scent of perfume. The American was hiding underneath a distant booth, using a butter knife to scrape the brand from off of his arm. And the German was feverishly working to conceal his hidden alcove from the hungry eyes searching about the parlor. The elderly man had retreated to a corner, where he now watched the entire scene, rubbing his hands with impish glee. The match slipped from my finger and extinguished itself on the floor.

All at once, they turned to me, towards the matchbook in my hand. My cigar was yet unlit. I would never have time to finish the job before they descended upon me. I locked eyes with the old man and contorted my face to match his expression. Quickly, I worked up a thick wad of saliva in my mouth and then hawked it on the matchbook, rendering the dried sulfur into runny paste that would never again carry a spark. 

Hands grabbed me from every side, bundling me across the floor of the parlor, towards the window. Acrid spit splattered on the back of my head as I was heaved up and outside. I landed face first in the sand. The camel had carried me less than ten strides away from the palm. I had nothing left with me. In their desperate anger they had ripped away even my clothes. No doubt the cigar had been trampled.

The camel didn’t even break into a trot, but after three steps my naked foot had begun to flare again, and I knew I would never catch up. I don’t remember the exact moment when, but after several agonizing hours of scraping on my naked stomach with my pale back exposed to the sun, I finally forced myself to admit that I had lost the camel’s track. I just remember the temporary joy that flooded my heart when my outstretched fingertips landed, with a dull clunk, on an empty canteen.