The Bed Book of Short Stories

A Requiem for Daniel

117 A Requiem for Daniel Luso Katali Mnthali Daniel will die when he is thirty-nine years old. In the months leading up to his death, Sophie visits a psychic for the second time, a medium for the first time, and uses a Ouija board for the third time in her life. Not taking chances she also asks old man Chao to tell her fortune by reading tea leaves and also looking at her palm. Being interlinked with hers, Daniel’s fortune is also mentioned. It is always the same. The psychic tells Sophie again what she told her the first time: That she sees loss, great loss is to come. But this second time she says there is something else she can foresee. She says she senses a great love in Sophie. It has always been inside her, she says, but now it will grow even stronger. Sophie walks away from the psychic’s rooms with a heart that refuses to lighten. The weather cooperates with her mood. Always grey, always rainy. Because she works from home, she feels the moods and changes in the air more acutely than someone stuck in an airless, sunless office all day. Sophie has time to absorb the fact that Daniel will leave her, and that she must prepare for his absence. She cannot tell him, and he cannot know, or he will spend this time fighting against what is inevitable. The thing she has control over is how she spends her time with him. The remaining time. It is a numbers’ game, she tells herself. He is thirtynine : a multiple of thirteen. They live at number 31 Hill’s Regent Road. She is thirty-one years old. She doesn’t know what real significance these two numbers have except they are the inverse of thirteen, which for her denotes bad luck. When she was thirteen her youngest sister died in a car accident, and thirteen years later, Sophie met Daniel. Okay that’s not bad luck meeting the love of your life. They were introduced by Daniel’s friend Cara. Cara had met Sophie at the gym and suggested they meet up for drinks. A few weeks and a firm friendship later, Sophie met Daniel. Sophie’s youngest sister was called Cara. 118 Sophie spends her days writing, or reading. Always the phone calls to publishers or agents. Daniel tells her constantly that she is talented and one day something will come of it. She tries to believe him. On weekends, he goes to play football with the kids at the centre, while she visits friends, shops, or works on her stories. He takes walks on the beach and sometimes takes her with him on his favourite hikes. They call the evenings DSO – Daniel and Sophie Only. They stay in, cook together, or order take-out from their favourite Indian restaurant. They watch Wes Anderson movies, because that’s his favourite director. Sometimes he relents and they rent a romantic comedy. They cuddle up on their large red sofa, in front of the quaint little fireplace in a corner of the living room. They are happy not to go anywhere or do anything, unlike during the week when Daniel’s work requires both of them to socialize. These moments at home are special to them both. They always were, but now, they seem to take on a different hue. Their time together might once have been sky blue, but now it is indigo. Sometimes Daniel looks at Sophie quizzically, as if not quite understanding why she won’t disagree with him as much, or why she’ll concede a point when he knows her argumentative nature. Sometimes he’s surprised at the intensity of her lovemaking. He doesn’t complain, but he realises there’s been an axial shift along the way. He puts it down to a comfort level that is only achieved after almost five years together. He’s never been one to look at signs or oddities in places they shouldn’t be. He’s a facts kind of guy. He believes in the real and scientifically explainable, not the unseen and unexplained. He notices how fixed her gaze has become, how it is almost sad, trying to read something in him he knows nothing about. He knows, however, that the men in her stories are almost always based on him. His short, thick, no-nonsense hair becomes ‘his long flowing raven locks’ and his green eyes ‘smoulder like...