Finding Nicolas

I'm losing myself in a story without words. Nicolas evades me. Hides
in corners where he doesn't want to be found. The afternoon has passed,
fading into night. And I want, for once, to go home.

It would be better to leave it now. Better to wait until that moment,
indescribable and filled with words all at once. That moment when the
words surge, never sure of their origin, and it almost seems as though
your heart might be found in your throat, making it hard to breathe.
The words flow from somewhere deep in the pit of your stomach,
traveling quickly up and out, spattered on a page. And you know. You
have never been more sure of what you write.

The street is almost empty. It is always this way. Empty streets are
hard to find in Cairo. This one whispers loneliness. I walk in the sun
for five minutes, just like everyday, and stop a taxi at the end of the
street.

I roll up the window. Even in summer. The wind blows in hot and
stifling. Making it hard to breathe. I put my earphones on to drown out
the sounds of the city. No matter how loud the music is - I can always
here the drone of traffic. It is an empty sound, worse than that quiet
street.

I get home. The apartment is hushed. My parents are asleep. Afternoon
siesta. The shutters in the living room are closed. We always keep them
closed. The windows look out on row upon row of buildings that none of
us want to see.

I go to my room, close the door. There's a package on my bed, from Kim
- some papers, a magazine, a videotape and a cassette.

Nicolas' life in a box. He isn't hiding anymore.

I would like to think these are the papers he touched - the ink dried
from where he wrote. But they are photocopies. The tape is a copy of
the music he recorded before he died. Close enough to the real thing -
but not quite. His handwriting is scrawled across the pages, words
crossed out violently. I can't make out the words hidden underneath.
And those are the words I want to read more than anything.

I read stories about friends and warm accidental Saturdays, comparing
scars. And I want to tell Nicolas - I know. Because my scar is there
for everyone to see, and even if I want to hide it - I can't.

I read stories about being 23 and dying. And slowly, I start to know
Nicolas.

She sent a photo of him. He's lying back against a blue pillow, his
hair tangled. He was looking straight at the camera. I wonder if Kim
took the picture. I wonder what she thought while she took it, thinking
is the last picture I'm going to take of Nicolas? Thinking that he's
never looked more beautiful. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and a
quiet expression - as though life had come to a complete and peaceful
standstill. As though there was nothing more than that moment. The
trees visible through a window behind him are blurred. It looks as
though it were early morning, following a long night, empty without
sleep.

I put the tape on. His voice is hoarse, like gravel underfoot, singing
about a fear of growing old.

Nicolas, you couldn't have known that was something you should not
fear.