From Under a Hot Pink Umbrella

Originally I posted this on my blog about living in Japan, but since I think it fits a little better here.  I was just so excited to be writing again!  You can see the influence of living in Osaka during the rainy season, though.  I never really thought about the social interactions that can happen under an umbrella before.


From Under a Hot Pink Umbrella

The rain was lighter now, a gentle tapping on his umbrella, like a woman’s fingers on a tsuzumi, with the occasional loud pom of a tsuri daiko as collected rain dropped down from the trees.  His shoes were soaked and his toes were starting to feel stiff with cold.  But somehow, they were still not leading him home.

It was a rare fall rainstorm.  He had been caught off guard.  Forced to buy an umbrella at the convenient sore, he was stuck with a hot pink one.  He smiled as he thought of how this must look to the squirrels and birds waiting out the storm in the branches above – a man in a charcoal suit, with a burgundy tie, and a hot pink umbrella.

The parks was no on his usual route home.  In fact, it was in the opposite direction.  Was it the patter patter of the rain on the umbrella or the vibrant colors brought out by the rain that had led him down a different path this evening?  Did it really matter?

He sat down on a bench.  He shivered as the rain soaked into his pants.  After the long, stifling summer it was a welcome sensation to be chilled.  The thought of a cold crossed his mind, but was quickly dismissed as a problem for tomorrow. 

           

He looked out at the park from under his hot pink umbrella.  The shelter added a warm glow to everything.  Through the curtain of rain, the park seemed more alive than on any sunny day.  The greens, what was left of them, were vibrant as the first blades of grass in spring.  The path glistened inky black as if it were liquid rather than asphalt.  The first red leaves burned among their green brethren.

He curled his toes in his shoes, trying to warm them.  It would be time to go soon.  It was already noticeably darker.  There was a little less sparkle and the further trees were harder to see.

With a grunt, he pushed himself up from the bench.  The wet spot on his pants, which had begun to warm, was suddenly icy cold.  He gasped a little in surprise.

Maybe he would stop for a hot coffee on the way home.

***

She sniffed and rubbed her nose across the back of her hand.  Wet strands of hair clung to her face.

If it had been summer, she would not have minded forgetting her umbrella at home that morning.  But it was fall and the rain was cold.  It was refreshing, but she would rather experience it from the protection of an umbrella.  Or at least a more waterproof jacket.

She pulled the flaps of her father’s old pea coat tighter around herself.  The smell of wet wool reminded her of weekends spent at the shore.  She smiled.

Across the park she noticed a man in a dark suit sitting under a hot pink umbrella.  He was staring up into the leaves, his mind far away.  She glanced up to see what he could be so interested in. 

A large drop of water hit her square in the left eye.  She flinched.

Smiling at the man who had still not seen her, she continued through the park toward home.

***

They stood at the corner, waiting for the signal to cross. 

They shivered as the rain began to fall harder. 

“Excuse me,” he said, holding the hot pink umbrella toward her.

“Oh no, I’m fine,” she replied.  “I’m already soaked through.”

           

“Please.  It’s getting cold.”

“But your suit.”

He smiled, small wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes betraying his age.  “It’s too late for me too.”

“I really couldn’t.”

“What if we shared?”

It was an interesting proposition.  In this city, one never got too close to strangers.  Even in crowded subway cars, when contact was necessary, people managed to keep a micro thin layer of personal space.

His smile tempted her.  But as the rain picked up to a steady downpour, she was compelled to take a small step toward him, into the strange pink light under the umbrella.

The sound of rain on the umbrella was a dull roar, like a speaker blasting white noise after the record has been removed but the ac is still on.  The smell of wet wool filled the small shelter.

The signal changed.  Without thinking, she took his arm as they crossed the street.

After a block, the rain began to taper off.  They did not break away from each other, though.  They had become accustomed to the slight warmth of their contact.  Night had come.  The street lights flickered to life.  They continued down the glistening street, under the warm glow of the hot pink umbrella.

Resurrection

Not a soul haunted the high street at that ungodly hour.  Fog, heavy with the smell of the sea, dripped from the buildings and made the cobbles slick and dangerous.  A lamp flickered in the gloom.  Two shadows emerged from the close, dragging a heavy burden between them.  They paused, the clouds of their ragged breath blending with the fog on that cold night.  They listened.

A skirl of pipes, accompanied by drunken singing, floated up from the World’s End.  Nothing close, no one would be out on a night like this.  Their breathing had returned to normal.  The shadows hefted the burden between them and continued on their wicked errand.

The young man paced the length of his shabby flat, a ragged nail clenched between his teeth.  His heart raced at every sound from the street below.  His other hand fingered the payment in his pocket.  A good sum, to be sure, but was it enough to buy someone’s soul?

A colleague had put him in touch with the Resurrectionists.  It had been a simple business transaction - conducted over a pint, in a pub full of unknowing witnesses.  As he hurried from the meeting, he imagined some of the patrons watching him, watching the horns sprout from his head. 

The table was cleared and spread with a cheap wool cloth.  Under the cloth, newspaper had been piled to soak up any excess fluids.  More newspaper covered the floor.  He had borrowed lanterns from his neighbors and positioned them at all corners of the table.  Candles filled every surface.  He would need as much light as possible.  But not yet.  Once the body was delivered, he would light the candles.  Not before.

He chewed at the fingernail, the moral dilemma raging in his head.  He meant to be a doctor.  It had been his dream since he was a little boy.  He had come to Edinburgh to study medicine at the finest school in the world.  His professors were some of the brightest minds in medicine.  But there were too many students and not enough bodies.  After two years he had only been three feet from a cadaver. 

He had ideas, cures that were sure to help hundreds, if he could just get his hands on a body.    Desperate, he had sought out the Resurrectionists. 

As the hour of delivery approached, however, his heart began to waiver.  It was someone’s father, brother, husband that the Resurrectionists brought to him tonight.  Even worse – it could be a young mother.  Who was he to pull this poor soul from their eternal rest just to test a theory?  A theory that might save hundreds of souls, he told himself.  What knowledge he could gleen from this one wretch could save lives.  Was that not enough to earn the mercy of the Heavenly Father?  He struggled to convince himself it was.  His motives were pure, he worked for the betterment of mankind – God’s children.  It was far more damning if he just sat by and watched them suffer when he knew he could help.  One body, one soul, was not too much to ask. 

Shoes scraped on the cobbles below.  Someone was coming.  There was the sound of people on the stairs.

The young man held his breath. 

There was a sharp rap on the door.  Hell or no, he had come too far.  He opened the door.

The smell of damp earth, whisky, and death follow the Resurrection Men into the apartment. 

“Doctor,” the taller man said.

The doctor inclined his head, his voice had failed him.

“Should we throw him on the table?”

“Yes,” the doctor whispered.

They dropped the shrouded corpse onto the floor next to the table and began to uncover it.  “Bring one of them candles closer so you can inspect the merchandise.”

The young doctor did as he was told.  He should not allow these men to speak to him that way, but he was too frightened to refuse. 

“You got the money,” the shorter of the pair asked.

“I must see how fresh it is,” the doctor replied.

“Just put him in the ground this morning,” the tall man said grabbing the corpse by the shoulders and hauling him onto the table. 

Taking a breath, the doctor stepped toward his patient.  The time for doubt and God were past, Science must rule him now.  It was a young man.  Maybe a little older than the doctor himself.  The candle light shone on the youth’s pale face.  It is a familiar face.  A face the doctor has not seen in many years, but he knew this man.  They had grown up together, gone to school together.  They had been friends.

“What’s the matter doc, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” the taller man joked. Their barking laughter ripped through the quite apartment. 

“Get out,” the doctor said, pushing them toward the door.  He shoved the payment into their open hands before they could even protest and slammed the door in their faces. 

Alone again, he stared at the body on the table.  This body, this soul, was it too much to ask?

His hands shaking, he lit the lanterns at the corners of the table.  God forgive him.  In the morning he would pray, but now there was work to be done.