Fragments: Molars Grinding Throughout the Hall | “Perfect. Thank You.”

Time & Location: Summer 2022 · Anka Residence, Central Park, New York | Rainy Season 2023 · Marina Bay Sands, Singapore

 

 

The doctor examined the leech bites on my body and smiled.

“No problem.”

For the first time in a long while, Grandfather Anka smiled as well.

 

Ankh Barjigin was ninety-six years old.

The same age my father would have been.

Yet he had been my father's uncle.

The old man sat upright on the sofa.

His back remained perfectly straight.

The rhythm of his heart was steadier and stronger than that of Temurkhan the boxer.

 

Sunlight poured down from the skylight.

We drank traditional northern-steppe milk tea.

Neither of us spoke.

 

The previous night's birthday banquet had followed Mongolian custom.

Everyone present was required to give a speech.

 

When my turn came, I looked into Anka's smiling eyes and said only:

“I wish you good health.”

I emptied my glass.

Adjusted the corner of my suit jacket.

And sat down.

 

The room immediately filled with murmurs.

People complained that my words were too cold.

Too brief.

Lacking even the most basic steppe rhetoric.

Disappointment spread through the air.

Everywhere, I heard molars grinding and knuckles shifting.

 

“My eagle.”

The old prince stood up laughing.

Then came over and embraced me.

 

With our bodies pressed together, I heard him more clearly.

Not warmth.

Not love.

But decay.

 

The sound of wave after wave of attackers storming a magnificent palace of flesh.

Invisible assassins.

Advancing without pause.

He patted my back.

 

I said:

“Take care, Grandfather.”

 

Human misunderstandings are programs written long before we arrive.

My gratitude was genuine.

My blessing was genuine.

Yet once translated into language, they became only those simple words.

 

No one understood.

No one wanted to understand.

Or perhaps they simply could not.

 

Anka himself may have been no exception.

Breathing.

Heartbeats.

Whispers.

Everything twisted together like a dirty rag.

Dripping a single line of sewage code:

Unfilial descendant.

 

Less than a year later, the old prince lay in his grave.

 

Digital symbols drifted downward like snow.

Condolences.

Judgments.

Memories.

Messages from relatives, clansmen, business partners, even presidents.

All falling onto the shovelfuls of earth.

 

I did not pray with the pastor.

I already knew that human beings inevitably die at eight thousand meters above sea level.

Even if the air there is pure.

Even if it is sacred.

 

I preferred to imagine him beneath the ground.

Perhaps remaining within the biological world offered a better chance of returning someday.

 

Orchid still wore mourning clothes.

She drove the latest Japanese SUV along Highway 1.

 

From time to time, I touched my thigh.

Then my neck.

I hated myself.

Hated knowing.

For a moment, I almost wanted to slam on the brakes and reclaim the happiness of ignorance.

 

Anka left me a data company.

He had purchased it in Silicon Valley not long before his death.

 

The company held one hundred million dollars in cash.

And seven young programmers.

Irish.

Chinese.

Indian.

 

His final instruction to me was simple:

“You don't need to break the law.”

 

When he once allowed me to hear the private conversations of presidents, he must have sensed the fear inside me.

 

Soon I would board a Singapore Airlines Boeing 787.

Then something primitive struck me.

 

My knees buckled.

I dropped to the floor of the jet bridge.