Lazarus (standard:other, 3096 words)
Author: Andrew R	Added: Jun 10 2002	Views/Reads: 3305/2143	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Ever passed someone in the street you thought you knew. Nick is waiting for his fience who is late again, someone passes the window of the cafe, was that Rosina?

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even be Rosina, instead of thinking of the warmth to come my thoughts 
as forced uncomfortably on the fact that I am soaking wet and running 
after someone who I've just lost sight of.  I turn the corner and think 
I catch sight of her going into a doorway a little way up the street.  
Lightning flashes, then the thunder rolls across the sky a few dramatic 
seconds later as I slow down out of breath.  I reach the door, which 
turns out to be a pawnshop.  The window displays a range of curiosities 
from unplayable guitars to a bicycle with a flat tyre.  The doorbell 
rings almost inaudibly as I enter.  The lightning and thunder arrive 
almost instantaneously this time, telling me the storm is directly 
overhead. 

There are no lights on in the shop and it's gone suddenly dark in the
gloom of the storm.  The roar of the wind outside is assaulting my 
senses, as my eyes struggle to make sense of my new surroundings.  I 
can't see anyone immediately, "Hello?  Is there anyone here?"  I hear a 
shuffling noise from the back of the room and a light suddenly filters 
through from a door I hadn't noticed. "Can I help you?"  As my eyes 
adjust I realise the woman who is speaking to me isn't Rosina at all.  
She is wearing a white top, which is soaked through; my eyes linger on 
the dark nipples standing sharply erect.  I look guiltily away. "I'm 
sorry, I've made a mistake, I think I'm in the wrong place."  I can see 
more clearly now that my eyes have adjusted and I notice that the shop 
seems more like a book shop than a pawn shop, the walls are filled with 
shelves of old books.  The woman has an uncanny likeness to Rosina 
except she looks ten years older. "Your soaked through, come in and sit 
out the storm, I'll make you a drink; do you like coffee?" 

It's a week later and I still haven't seen Rosina.  I can't bear too
after what happened in the pawnshop.  I think something of nostalgia 
took over me, that feeling I love of arriving somewhere warm with 
someone so familiar, leading to the inevitable.  Catalina was so like 
Rosina but without the negative side.  She just seemed so calm and kind 
rather than deliberately argumentative.  In the moment I forgot who I 
was with, it was only after the climax of the event when I looked down 
on her naked body and noticed the lines around the eyes and the first 
strands of grey hair that Rosina doesn't have that I felt the first 
wave of guilt begin to overwhelm me, crippling me.  Catalina had given 
me her gentle smile again and attempted to caress me, I got up 
awkwardly, hastily put my clothes on and left mumbling my embarrassed 
regrets.  I felt a strange sense of grief, not over what I had done but 
that I had ever met Catalina at all. 

I have been putting off Rosina's phone calls all week.  I have finally
decided to stop hiding and meet her at Café Anselim.  I am sitting 
outside today as the bright clear sunshine washes away my thoughts.  
Merlo must be visiting his daughter because George is sitting on his 
own at the bar smoking roll ups.  When Henry isn't attending to the 
chrome mechanics he chats to George about the good old days and how 
morality seems to be a dirty word now. "Nick." I have failed to notice 
Rosina arriving because she is on time, which has thrown me off 
balance.  I smile up at her sheepishly, trying not to let the guilt 
show too obviously. "What's going on Nick, why haven't you answered my 
calls all week." A sudden horrible feeling that she can read thoughts 
crosses my mind, I struggle to put the image of Catalina's face as she 
orgasms out of my mind, soft and melting unlike Rosina's screwed up 
eyes and high pitched bark. "Would you like a coffee Rosy?" She looks 
annoyed and sits down with a little sigh. "You're a shit sometimes 
Nick.  What's going on?" We talk for the rest of the afternoon, sitting 
at that table.  I don't get around to telling her what is wrong and 
after her initial annoyance she stops asking.  Eventually she gets back 
onto her favourite subject, wedding plans; I realise at this point I 
stop listening and start thinking about Catalina again.  It is growing 
dark, Rosina is looking at me expectantly and I realised she has asked 
me a question, "Well?" She said. "What, sorry?"  I think at this point 
I realise that the wedding isn't going to happen, Rosina isn't meant 
for me. "I'm sorry Rosy, I've got to go."  I stand up and walk off in 
the direction of the pawnshop before Rosina has a chance to object. 

When I get to the pawnshop Catalina isn't there, instead an old man
stand behind the counter.  He looks even more ancient than George or 
Merlo.  He eyes me suspiciously as I enter the shop.  His hair is long 
and white framing a face that looks more like a skull with skin tightly 
stretched over it than a face. "Is Catalina around?"  He shuffles 
around the counter and doesn't respond, I think maybe he is deaf; I'm 
about to repeat my question when he beckons me to follow him into the 
back of the shop. 

The backroom brings back familiar memories of Catalina sprawled on the
carpet by the fire, naked, pulling me down inside her.  The old man 
beckons me further and points to the table in the corner of the room.  
I sit down wondering what he wants to tell me.  He goes to the old oak 
side cabinet and fishes something out of a drawer.  He sits down 
opposite me and places a large leather bound book in front of me.  He 
gestures me to open it. 

The book is a photo album; the first picture is black and white and has
turned yellow with age.  It shows the front room of the shop with the 
old man standing buy Catalina, the shop doesn't seem to have changed 
and neither do the people in it, which confuses me because the photo 
looks so old.  I look down the page to see what is written about it, I 
can't read it because it seems to be written in a foreign script, it 
looks a bit like Hebrew.  I notice the date though; I think there must 
be a mistake because it says 1906.  I turn the page to see another 
photo of Catalina with the old man, this time in the back room, dated 
1908 this time.  I flick through the pages more quickly now and notice 
that the photos appear to get newer the further I get into the album.  
I realise that the woman cannot be Catalina because a few pages in she 
seems a lot older; the date says 1926.  I carry on through the album 
and find that the woman disappears to be replaced by a child who, as 
the photos progress through the album, blossoms into an uncomfortably 
familiar looking woman.  Another disturbing thought hits me suddenly, 
the old man in the pictures hasn't changed, doesn't seem to have aged.  
I pick pages at random, growing quite frantic now, 1976, a ten year old 
Catalina and the old man, unchanged, flick back, 1954, a middle aged 
Catalina and the old man, unchanged.  I flick forward to the last 
picture in the album, 2002, Catalina looking about thirty five and 
wearing the same white top she was wearing last week and the old man, 
consistent as ever. 

I look up dumfounded, unsure of what it all means.  The old man stares
at me; I wonder what he wants from me.  In the background the bell from 
the front door rings.  I hear someone enter the other room.  The old 
man gets up, leaving me with my mystery, as he walks to the door.  
Another thought crosses my mind as a bizarre of possibilities speeds 
through my mind, who took all the photos? 

I realise that someone is standing at the door, I turn to see the old
man standing in the doorway with a woman, it takes me a moment to 
realise who it is, "Nick?  What's going on?  Why did you just walk off 
like that and what are you doing here?"  Rosina looks at me with a look 
of worry rather than annoyance. "I don't know what to say Rosy, I 
really don't."  At that moment the other door to the room opens and 
Catalina arrives.  She stops for a moment to take stock of the 
situation then smiles in an assured way and sits opposite me at the 
table.  Rosina's eyes widen in disbelief and she seems to suddenly 
realise something, she looks at me with an awful realisation in her 
eyes, she looks like she has just been stabbed.  She turns and walks 
out of my life forever. Catalina looks at me almost impassively, "Why 
did you come back Nick?" "I wanted to see you, I needed to see you." 
She sighs at me and looks suddenly sad.  She looks down and whispers, 
"I'm sorry."  The old man walks past her and goes up the stairs; I 
stare at her not knowing what to say, with too many questions to know 
where to start. 

The old man comes back with two cups of coffee, which he places on the
table next to us, then leaves silently to give us privacy.  She glances 
at him as he leaves, giving him that warm smile I fell in love with a 
week ago, and a look of understanding seems to pass between them.  As 
the door clicks shut the floodgates open and my questions begin.  She 
answers me fully and honestly.  Afterwards I leave with a cold 
stillness in my heart, I feel caught in an equilibrium of feelings, 
guilt and grief for what I have done and what I have lost, but at the 
same time a strange sense of release and rebirth at the new beginning I 
have been offered. 

I am sitting at the counter of Café Anselim, five years after my meeting
with Lazarus.  I have never told anyone the true story of what happened 
to Rosina and me, I just explain that we grew apart, that we decided to 
end it before we went too far.  I have never told anyone about Catalina 
or the old man Lazarus, never told anyone the story of the photo album 
and the awful truth to the questions Catalina answered for me, who 
would believe me anyway. 

I still remember that afternoon in the pawnshop distinctly. "The photos
are only part of the story," she told me, "Records of my father go back 
two thousand years."  She paused to let me take it in, but continued 
answering my questions before I could voice them, "He is Lazarus.  The 
same Lazarus in the bible story.  Jesus resurrected him nearly two 
thousand years ago.  I know it sounds unbelievable but it's true.  
There was a strange side effect to what happened though, he didn't die, 
he continued to age but he didn't die.  My father has lived for 
thousands of years as an old man, he can barely walk barely see.  His 
teeth rotted away hundred of years ago and his voice was taken away in 
the third century A.D."  I just stared at her silently through her 
monologue, letting her answer my mystery in her own time. She gave me 
an intuitive look, "Your wondering about the women in the pictures.  
Why do they all look like me?  That's something I don't fully 
understand myself all I know is that every baby born in our family 
since the resurrection has been a girl, we have only ever been able to 
have one child, and it's always been a girl and she's always looked 
like me."  I was about to speak when she pre-empted me again, "I'm not 
immortal like Lazarus, and I really am in my thirties." "You call him 
your father?" "Yes, he's not really my father, it's just a family 
expression, he is the father of our family.  He spawned the first woman 
child in my line, no more.  It's just another one of the bizarre things 
about us that the child always looks the same." "What about the 
fathers?"  That was the question I had been dreading to ask since she 
explained about the children.  She looked suddenly very guilty and went 
to the sideboard to get something, "This may explain that question."  
She put a bottle in front of me; it was small and made of brown glass.  
It appeared to be some sort of chemical; it turned it around to look at 
the label, Rohipnol. "Oh."  I said, with a sudden realisation, "you 
drugged me?  Last week." "You were wondering who took the photo's, the 
child's father." "But why did you drug me?" "You weren't supposed to 
come back Nick, you were supposed to stay with Rosina." We didn't say 
much more that afternoon; I left with a realisation that I had been 
stupid; I had been used by an antiquated freak.  The one question 
Catalina couldn't answer was why she resembled Rosina so much, she 
supposed that Rosina's looks must be a genetic throw back from one of 
Lazarus' other children, they had gone on to live and breed normally 
after the resurrection. 

I never saw Catalina again, I'm sure it's the way she wanted it.  The
pawn shop soon moved on, the next Catalina will probably find another 
victim in thirty years or so to carry on the Lazarus line and give an 
old man some company.  It worries me slightly that my daughter will 
call an ancient monstrosity father rather than me, but then I think 
that if immortality was a gift from god then this is probably the way 
it is meant to be. 


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