the wings of icarus

7/30/2019 The Wings of Icarus

1/3

_______________________

THEWINGSOF ICARUS

_______________________

Marcel dropped his duffel bag on the living-room table, where it collapsed in on itself with an

inaudible sigh. A sofa lounged against the wall, dozing in the late afternoon sun trickling

through the sliding-glass balcony doors. A bedroom and bathroom had been reclaimed from

one corner of the otherwise square apartment, while an empty fruit bowl sat on the kitchen

counter at the far end of the apartment; a water cooler burped nearby. Marcels stomachrumbled.

The apartments fridge was straight out of a laboratory, with a full-length glass door that left

little to the imagination. There was nothing inside it hadnt even been turned on so Marcel

turned his attention to the pantry, a small walk-in sans door. A shrink-wrapped spice set

Old World Garden Thyme, Hand-Toasted Mustard Seeds, Whole Dried Gourmet Bay Leaves,

Powdered Nutmeg Cinnamon Blend, South American Native Chilli had been left in one

corner atop a packet of Fun-Yong Two-Minute Noodles.

Marcel took the shrink-wrapped spices and the packet of noodles and put them on the kitchencounter. Looking through the cabinet doors glass, again he found a suitably sized

saucepan, but no lid. He filled the saucepan with tepid water from the cooler and put it on the

stove. Then he waited.

The water boiled. He added in the Fun-Yong Two-Minute Noodles and some of the spices,

and then waited for the noodles to cook. His hand twitched towards his side, feeling for the

inside of a jacket he wasnt wearing. There was cutlery in the top drawer of one of the see-

through cabinets. Once the noodles were done he used a fork to hold them back as he drained

the water in the faucetless sink. Then he took the noodles, still in the saucepan, out onto the

balcony.

Paris huddled around the bright ley-lines of its groaning streets. Pedestrians hid the sidewalk

beneath the press of their bodies and the tread of their shoes, while cars with exposed engines

squeezed between beanstalk buildings slender enough to bend in a strong breeze. Small

hollows marked the exclusion zones around the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triumph, the

Louvre. Outside of the city, beyond the Boulevard Priphrique, strange mountains smeared

across the horizon.

The noodles were bland and rubbery, made barely palatable by the vague brown flavour of

mixed spices. Marcel finished the noodles and went back inside, dropping the dirty saucepanin the sink and walking over to the apartments wall-mounted phone. The number was buried


2/3

deep within his fingers, but the dial tone was unfamiliar. It rang twice, then there was the

rattle of a phone being lifted from its cradle.

Hello?

Hi. Its me.

Click.

Marcel hung the phone back on its hook and walked into the bedroom. A single-bed occupied

the middle of the room, half-way between the floor-to-ceiling mirror on one side and the

floor-to-ceiling window on the other. There were no curtains, and no other furniture except an

empty clothing rack near the foot of the bed.

The bed itself was mounted on a block of wood flush with the floor. The mattress felt firm,

but comfortable. Marcel slid off his shoes and lay down on the bed covers, closing his eyes as

the sun faded from the horizon and slumber took its place.

There was no door; the walls were nearly thin enough to see through.

Marcel dropped his duffel bag on the living-room table, where it collapsed in on itself with an

inaudible sigh. The tiny apartment's windows lacked curtains, a thin layer of dust the only

screen from the setting sun. A sofa spread its arms across the wall like a belligerent drunk,

crowding out the kitchen and the bedroom-bathroom partition. A fruit bowl without any fruit

sat on the kitchen counter. A water cooler burped alongside. Home sweet home, or

something like that; these furnished apartments all looked the same to Marcel - there's only so

much you can do with a shoebox. You can paint a shoebox whatever colors you want, it's still

not going to be big enough to park a cat in.

The fridge looked like it belonged in a laboratory, with a full-length glass door that left littleto the imagination. There was nothing inside it hadnt even been turned on so he turned

his attention to the pantry, a small walk-in sans door. A shrink-wrapped spice set Old

World Garden Thyme, Hand-Toasted Mustard Seeds, Whole Dried Gourmet Bay Leaves,

Powdered Nutmeg Cinnamon Blend, South American Native Chilli had been left in one

corner on top of a packet of Fun-Yong Two-Minute Noodles.

Marcel took the shrink-wrapped spices and the packet of noodles and put them on the table

next to his duffle bag. Looking through the cabinet doors they were all transparent he

eventually found a saucepan, but no lid. He filled the saucepan with water from the cooler it


3/3

hadnt been turned on either, and the water came out tepid and put it on the stove. He

waited.

The water boiled. He added in the Fun-Yong Two-Minute Noodles and a selection of spices,

and then waited two minutes for the noodles to cook. Once they were done, he drained the

water, pulled out a fork, and took the saucepan full of noodles out onto the balcony.

Paris groaned under the weight of its inhabitants. [streets, pedestrians] Skyscrapers that

hadnt existed in the collective imagination when he left crowded the horizon huddled

metropolis. now thrust up everywhere; even the Eiffel Tower wasnt excluded a small

section of courtesy had been left around, but high-rise encroached even there. The streets

were jammed with cars with exposed engines, and the sidewalks crammed with people. Its

sunset. The last rays of the sun. Beyond the city, strange mountains smeared across the

horizon. Strange lights and shadows played in the distance.

Marcel scraped the last of the noodles from the bottom of the saucepan and cocked his wrist

to throw it over the balcony. At the last moment he caught himself; glancing down, he saw

the mess of people walking around. He squeezed his eyes shut, and imagined the saucepan

flying through the air; the mess on the sidewalk. The dented steel, the crushed pavement; the

shouts, sudden surprise. He opened his eyes. The pedestrians flowed onwards; the sidewalk

was smothered under the press of feet. The saucepan was still in his hand.

Marcel sighed, walked back inside. Threw the saucepan in the faucetless sink.

Cameras in the apartment. Probed his toe, feeling for the gap under the bed. Nothing; rested

directly on the floor.

Its transparent door proclaimed to the world that it was empty, devoid of nutrition, or even

the prospect of nutrition. The fridge was a kind of Schrodingers Box; only not this one this

one proclaimed its ambiguity wholesale. The pantry shelves were fitted out with likewise

glass panels, but the situation wasnt so dire; some basic imperishables were inside spices,

condiments, noodles.

He took the packet of noodles, filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove. He looked

for a lid, but couldnt find one. The water boiled, slowly. He waited until it bubbled, then put

the noodles in. Two minutes, then drain. The water disappeared down the sink. Marcel bent

down; there was no drainpipe.

The noodles were as bland as rubber, so Marcel returned to the pantry, pulled out some spices

in labelled plastic containers. Cayenne, thyme, other strange names that were practically

meaningless. The noodles were a flavourless mush of spices, the brown of taste; but at least

they registered on his tongue, tricked his brain into thinking he was eating more than he was.

He finished the noodles and cocked his wrist to throw it somewhere out of sight. He scanned

the apartment for a long time, but couldnt find anywhere; slowly he uncocked his wrist,placed the bowl down in the sink. He would wash it later.

the wings of icarus

Documents