Chapter 4
-Short Story by Clayton Booysen
It had hardly been a shock to Franco when he had been given the notice, the first nail in the coffin of his hopes. Was Paul right after all?
Some days had passed since and his father called him in for a talk. Did he know?
Franco sat in the musky room of his father’s study. It smelt of old files, cheap coffee and sweat. Dad clearly found as much joy in retired life as he did in the police.
Paul walked in and sat across him.
Franco felt the tension burn in his stomach, time for damage control. “So, how’s it going with that colleague of yours that had disappeared a few months ago?”
Paul sighed. “Last we heard he left his home before losing contact with everyone.” He seemed to think for a moment, then raised his voice. “Not that it matters. Is it true you relocated your shop?”
Franco looked out the window and felt his throat stiffen.
He saw thunder clouds started forming in the distance, how convenient.
Franco spoke softly. “The rent is cheaper, and my clientele is growing daily. This time it will-”
“I don’t have time for this!”
Paul stood up, his grey moustache hung long and tired against a pale face which slowly flooded with a raging redness. “I have a friend who’s lost and a son who won’t let go!”
Franco fought hard against the ache behind his eyes, tears welling up. “That’s not fair, Dad. I did everything I could!”
“It will never be enough! It was not enough for me, it wasn’t enough for my brother and it certainly won’t be enough for you!”
Franco jumped up. “Dad enough! Why did Uncle Christian do it?!”
Paul breathed heavily. He stroked his moustache, then started plucking at it. Eventually a bitter growl came through. “All you need to know is that he too started his own business. He too lost that business. He too wouldn’t face reality until it was too late.”
Paul was beyond reason at this moment.
“Dad, I’m sorry-”
“His passions left him bankrupt, his wife left him…then he left us.”
Paul’s mouth contorted, as if he could taste the bitterness of his words, yet he said them all the same. “Now if his ideals couldn’t get him through this world…why the hell would yours?!”
And there it was, the final nail in the coffin…
The phone rang on the desk, as if it too wanted to chime in with all the commotion.
Paul took his time to reach for it, comfortable with the agony in the air.
Franco reran that one line in his head over and over again. Each time the words lost more of their zing until only a numbness remained, a deadening of mind and spirit.
Paul’s face froze into a hardened gaze, as if one could freeze what was already lifeless. “I have a drive to make.”
***
Some days had passed, and Franco decided to finish the month in the new shop before finally packing up.
It was a crummy little place he now worked in. The walls were coarse white and stained with greyed spots, wet to the touch. Cracks ran through the side wall where the plaster started peeling off. There was no room for more than a single barber chair and the walls barely had any strength for the whiskey racks.
“Hand me those bottles please uncle,” Franco yelled to compete with the distant rumbling of thunder, pointing to the sagging shelf.
Uncle Adrian removed the last whiskey’s and stretched them to Franco who packed them in crates.
“I still don’t understand why we’re closing down,” his uncle remarked. “I hear that you might afford this place.”
Franco stroked his fingers through his beard and stared into nothingness. “Yes, we could make the rent here.” He laughed bitterly. “Not that it matters anyways.”
Uncle Adrian shook his head. “Why are you closing?”
Franco kicked away a mouse that gnawed at his shoe. Looking as it scurried from the shop, he couldn’t help but snicker with bitter acknowledgement. “I would rather end it on my terms than to slowly have my life’s ambitions reduced to slaving away for survival.”
Only after he had said it, did he realise the potency with which his own words stung him. He rested the crate on his hip, sweating from the work and the humidity. “In the end, Dad was right, and Mr. Harvey was wrong.”
Uncle Adrian tapped his fingers on his belly. “What did that teacher tell you anyways?”
Franco stared into the nothingness again, a faint smile grew over his face. “Mr. Harvey? Remember I told you I reconnected with him at my alma mater. We spoke about life, relationships, and purpose. At that point I was still in construction,” he sighed, “and I hated every moment of it. So, after a long talk he took me out for a whiskey.”
“And what did he tell you?”
Franco closed his eyes. “He told me ‘each of us have a God-given gift. Your gift is the thing you do best with the least amount of effort’.” He tried to recall the words. “…God wouldn’t give you a gift if He didn’t want you to use it.”
He thought for a moment. “Mr. Harvey’s gift was the ability to inspire the masses.”
“And what was yours?”
Franco thought for a moment, filled with the realization of his failure. “Connecting with people, in a meaningful way. I told Mr. Harvey it wouldn’t work but he remained adamant. He even bet me a bottle of Scotch for it.”
He forced a pained smile as he looked to his uncle. “That was one wager I wanted to lose.”
His uncle gave a sad nod that merely confirmed what Franco already knew.
There was no denying that he ultimately failed.
In a fit of hopelessness, Franco teared and gestured all around him. “I…I just can’t see why Dad wouldn’t give me the benefit of the doubt…just a taste of hope!”
If his dad had been on his side, even failure wouldn’t have been a loss. But that wasn’t the case.
He weaved tired fingers through his beard and, upon the thought, dropped his hand to his side. “Why does he cling so tightly to his unattainable standards and values?!”
“Because it’s all he has left…”
As the whistling of a cold breeze filled the silence, Uncle Adrian sighed with a sad smile.
With an overwhelming sadness, Franco closed the doors of the shop and looked outside.
The cobblestone square was puddled and slippery with the outside air smelling of the musky sweetness that comes only after rain. The heavy clouds shone a dark silver hue over the sky and promised more.
How fitting the weather is for a funeral: the death of vision and ambition.
He heard his uncle’s voice behind him. “There’s more than one way to use your gift, you know…this doesn’t have to be the end.”
It is for me, he thought to himself.
He heard his uncle’s phone ring and tried to buffer the noise from his head.
In that moment, Franco thought of all the daunting work he now had before him, like getting rid of all the equipment, leaving Pretoria, and returning to construction. He packed the last bottles into the crates and tried to take his defeat with dignity.
“Franco,” Uncle Adrian uttered, his phone in hand, “your dad…”
To be Continued In The Story Finale…
