The Error

Fantasy by Kkristo Poshtakov, Bulgaria

Simon Taylor already felt sorry that he had entered the office of the obscure tourist agency to enroll for this excursion. Certainly, in Swirland the service was excellent, hotels were clean and tidy, the staff was polite, and yet-

He looked at the big coach which dark glasses in front of the shining arch of the entrance and felt a gush of dislike override the general good impression. The porters carried the suitcases form the trunk to a cart, then pushed it to the hotel lobby, unleaded the suitcases, read the names of the luggage tags and took them into the room. Accommodation was well organized. The only thing left was to consult the program for the day and he did it. There were some twenty minutes before the lunch: enough to gave a look of the surroundings.

He passed by some curious sculptures scattered around the park and beat ever the banisters of a bridge over a languid brook. He found nothing interesting there and continued to the road. Bluish mountain peaks towered in the distance. The slopes below were covered with white patches of snow which hid in pine weeds only to re-appear as a thin water-fall streaks. Yes, undoubtedly Swirland was a beautiful country and hadn't there been his companions, the trip would have left indelible memories.

Simon Taylor had become a widower at an elderly age and the idea of the excursion was to blunt the pain of the irreparable loss. Age had spared his briskness: he belonged to that group of people which was usually referred to as nimble old men, with preserved liveliness and senses, with still keen curiosity in their eyes. But his companions poisoned the charm of the new impressions and spoiled his thrill with the new experience. Moody people, as if brought together deliberately. They all looked like former killers, sadistic criminals or marauders. The infirmity of age was no hide for their dark past. That was particularly true about the Masons, sitting to his left-hand side in the coach. They were a gloomy old couple, their noses remind of the beaks of some predatory birds, their eyes huge and lopped, their behaviour merciless.

They never tipped the waiters and grumbled all the time. If Simon happened to exclaim: "What a beautiful rock!", they would immediately turn their wrinkled necks and snap: "Rubbish!". Or Bernie Curtis who was sitting next to him: always discontented, always nagging old goat.

Initially Simon tried to make friends but it proved impossible. Bernie met all attempts at contacting him with increasing neglect which grew into swart hostility. The aged couple behind him was no better either, while in front there was only the door. The same people sat around him during meals and Simon Taylor was compelled to tolerate them. On the fifth day he felt like a sheep among wolves and shunned the company imposed on him.

An old Ford with an oval-shaped trailer was parked at the end of the road, near to the highway. A dark woman peeped through the window. She had a long black plait which almost reached the tyre. "So there are Gypsies here, too", Simon thought with surprise, but he was even more surprised when he heard the voice of a genuine Londoner:

"Yes, sir. Everyone chooses an excursion to his or her liking."
"But you read my thoughts!"

"Certainly, I do.
Will you be so kind to show your hand to me.
I am a fortune-teller. Come on, the fee is not so high-"

An invisible force made him step forward and extend his hand. The Gypsy woman took it gently and looked down.

"How curious!", she exclaimed. "An obvious error but it may be rectified."

"I don't understand."

"I mean your future. You have mistaken the direction. It's the wrong way but you'll reach your destination for sure. There is a long and happy way ahead you, Mr. Simon. Look at this line, it cannot be mistaken. And the short line crossing it has led to this nuisance but, as I said, it can be rectified."

"Won't you tell me anything more specific?"

"It's not necessary, Mr. Simon. You'll learn everything tomorrow."

"How much does it cost, though I am not delighted with the result?"

"Nothing for the time being. You'll pay next time."

"Next time?"

"We'll meet again, Mr. Simon.
It's impossible to miss the meeting. Good-bye now!"

Quite confused, he left for the hotel. When he entered the restaurant the unpleasant company was sitting at the table.

"Lunch is scheduled for twelve o'clock and you are fifteen minutes late",
Bernie Curtis snapped.

"I'm sorry, you shouldn't have waited for me", Simon replied awkwardly.

"It is a matter of manners", the Masons retorted
and two pairs of malicious eyes bored into him.

He bent over the soup and tried to think of something else. THEY were strangers, after all! But they moved their spoons rhythmically and their malicious eyes continued to glare. And the Gypsy woman, there was something mesmerizing and frightening in her but she stroked his fingers so gently! Yes, he remembered she really stroked his hand! What error did she mention? What meeting did she have in mind?

Simon gulped down the second course. He did not wait for the dessert, mumbled an apology and stood up. The faces around were so disgusting that he preferred to hide from them for at least an hour when the trip to the monastery of St. Lazarus would start according to the timetable.

He went to the reception desk, took the key, almost ran through the lobby, rushing to the staircase. Simon did not want to use the lift with any of THEM; he would rather walk to the third floor.

He shut and locked the door and gave a sign of relief. He spent the rest of the time reading.

Simon Taylor took his seat in the coach two minutes earlier than the announced departure time. He looked around: there was nobody else. His loneliness made him happy. Probably the others had decided to take a nap instead of visiting the monastery. The coach set off.

The sight impressed him so much that he did not feel like going to dinner. He decided to eat something from the fridge in the hotel room. Then he switched on the TV set, opened a bottle of beer and watched the programme, though he could not understand the local language. Later on, he changed the TV channel, saw an unintelligible English movie and went to bed, feeling quite content.

In the morning he paid the bill, went to the restaurant and ordered his breakfast under the attacks of the furious glances around.

Simon tried to ignore them but he could not. THESE PEOPLE made him nervous, and there were two whole days before the end of his excursion. He wondered whether it would be better to miss the rest of beauty which Swirland offered, catch the first flight and go back home where nobody was waiting for him. The coach was leaving for the capital city and the idea was worth considering. He had to make up his mind before lunch.

Simon Taylor took his sit again and cast a quick glance over the sullen faces of his neighbours who pretended ostentatiously that they did not notice him. The coach set off, speeded up and reached the narrow mountain road where it crawled around the sharp turns like a well-fed animal: Replete and indifferent to the external temperatures. An hour passed and it stated snowing. The sight was rather monotonous. Simon felt bored. He took the passport out of his pocket and went through the pages. He had travelled a lot: there were numerous visas sealed with elaborate stamps. Suddenly he stared at back page and could not believe his eyes because he saw there the following entry:

@VISA STAMP = MINISTRY OF THE DARK FORCES<R>
VISA<R>
LIMBO - CONSULAR DEPARTMENT<R>
VALIDITY: 30 days.<R>
HEAD OF THE CONSULAR OFFICE: A. J. Lucifer 31929<R>
PLACE OF ISSUE: Earth, August 30, 1999

Below stood a signature, a seal and five one-pound stamps with an engraved devil on each. Was that a kind of joke? He never bothered look at the passport when he collected it back from the tourist agency. He was just told that everything was O.K. Then he received the air tickets and was soon off to the exit.

"May I have a look at your passport?"

A greenish flare loomed in the eyes of Bernie Curtis but he took it out and handed it over contemptuously. Simon leafed the passport feverishly and went numb with the familiar text.

"Have you seen this visa?", he gasped.

"So what?", his neighbour retorted. 
Then he jerked the passport and placed it back.

"Perhaps it is only a joke-", Simon whispered.

"A joke?", Bernie stared at him. "We are all travelling to SOMEWHERE!"

Simon tried to add something but the sight in front of the coach terrified him. A huge truck was running into it and only in a second-

Simon Taylor dashed out of the door. The coach rolled down into the abyss together with all the passengers. It seemed incredible but a pair of transparent wings appeared on his back and took him back to the hotel. The strange flight gave him a kind of pleasure which he had never experienced before. He did not feel cold, though it was snowing and he was only in his jacket. The thin thread of the road could be seen below, with the cars and trucks like ants. Simon Taylor was flying and feeling happy.

In fifteen minutes the hotel lurked in the distance and he headed for it. He did not know why he did it but soon he remembered. The specks under his feet grew into the old Ford and the trailer. The Gypsy woman wayed amicably from inside. He lowered to that spot and his heels touched the ground safely before long.

"I told you we were meeting again", she laughed. "It is necessary to rectify the mistake."

"I still fail to understand what error you are talking about."

"It concerns your future, of course. The wrong visa. Would you please give me your passport?"

Struck with dismay, Simon came nearer and fulfilled her request. She turned around, took something and went through the pages. She stopped at the last page and pressed a big seal tight. Some sharp scythes flashed behind her back.

"It's finished", she said. Everything is O.K. now. Go ahead, you have no problems. But you have to pay for this service and for the previous one as well."

She talked with her thumb pointing to the sky.

"How much?", Simon asked.

"Everything that you possess. You won't need it any more.
Cheques, cash, credit cards. Leave them with me."

Simon Taylor took his purse out and handed it to her. He found the gesture absolutely natural, without any embarrassment because he felt he had to act just like that. Then he flew up to the skies. He remembered that the passport remained in his pocket, took it out, opened it on the last page and read with a sense of curiosity:

@VISA STAMP = MINISTRY OF THE BRIGHT FORCES<R>
ENTRY VISA TO PARADISE<R>
VALIDITY: no time limit.<R>
HEAD OF THE CONSULAR OFFICE: B. H. Deathson<R>
PLACE OF ISSUE: Earth, September 24, 2009

There followed a signature and a seal. No stamps.