Interview

“People think it’s so damn easy,” he says, absentmindedly going through the pockets of his jacket. “The whole possession thing.”

The thin, sunglasses-clad face he turns to me doesn’t match his dismal tone.

His search brings up a pack of rolling tobacco and paper, and now he’s skillfully rolling a cigarette. “At least this one smokes…”

We’re sitting at the patio of a cafe, my notebook and phone—recording underway—between us. The late morning is filled with the buzz of people walking, running, or cycling by in the warm spring air. A teenage boy passes by, walking a Siberian Husky; the latter stops and gives my interviewee a quick sniff, followed by a meaningful stare.

My interviewee sits quietly for a while, looking at nothing in particular as the cigarette smokes between his fingers.

I wait patiently until he resumes his speech without warning: “And they think that the moment you get in, you’re going to do something horrible. Like I have nothing better to do!”

He turns to me abruptly. It’s hard to tell from behind the sunglasses, but the look that meets me seems almost accusing. I feel I should say something, but I’ve learned that the best way to handle these situations is to remain still and quiet; no hesitation or further questions are necessary. I know it works when I see his face soften. He takes a pull from the cigarette and lets the smoke roll out slowly.

“You know, some do, but it doesn’t happen as often as you’d think. So I’ll turn someone into this disfigured monster with weird eyes that snarls at people and tries to eat their intestines—what’s in it for me? I’d much rather go out for a drink and leave before the hangover kicks in.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly, staring into the distance. This time, I break the silence.

“Do you talk to people?”

“Not really, most of them aren’t that interesting.”

“Why do you think it’s so?”

He shrugs, then reaches for his coffee. “I don’t know.” He takes a sip. It’s black as night. “I guess they don’t really know what to do with this whole existence thing.”

“Do you know?”

He laughs at that. “Think you’re so clever?” he says with a smirk. “Maybe I don’t do much when I’m here, but I do my thinking outside.”

A pop song starts playing, coming from the pocket of his jeans. He takes the phone out with a look of pure disgust and turns it off. “The shit people listen to these days…”

There are millions of questions I could ask, but only one is truly important: “What is it like Outside?”

He flashes his mischievous grin again. “What do you think? All flames and pitchforks?”

“You tell me.”

“It’s really not that interesting. There’s a lot of blank space, a lot of potential, but nothing much to do with it but contemplate. It’s not your classic hell—there is no such thing as hell,” he says, that dismal tone creeping into his voice again, standing in contrast with the innocent face, reminding me how things are often not what they seem to be.

He takes his sunglasses off, and I am met with two bright blue eyes. One is directed at me, the other at the sky, and for a moment, I am at a loss for words.

“So what do you want to know?” he asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

Those who say that eyes are the windows to the soul are hopeless romantics. The voice, not the eyes, is that said window. It’s the rhythm in it or the depth, how it trembles, the overtones surrounding it, and what they suggest. The voice can never be fully controlled, and if you listen carefully, you’ll know if it’s telling the truth or lies.

The voice speaking to me now is deep and hollow, with a hint of some inner echo, like it’s coming from somewhere far, far away. And it’s calm, with a laid-back beat, almost musical. It’s a voice that wouldn’t bother lying to you, and that’s perhaps the most unsettling thing about it. His question feels like he’d opened a door to a cellar, and I’m drawn to the darkness far below.

I look down at my coffee—foamy and sweet—take a sip, and the moment is gone.

“How do you choose whom to enter?” I finally ask, trying to keep my tone light, and in the blink of an eye, his gloomy expression is replaced with alertness.

“At random.”

He seems to read the hesitation on my face and breaks into a short laugh. “Alright, not fully at random. I can’t do it with just anyone. It has to be someone who’d have space for me, and they’d have to be distracted or unconcentrated, so they won’t notice me,” he says, adding “Beta waves.”

“You mean brain waves?”

“Yeah, like when you’re not really thinking. Not consciously, that is.”

Now I have to tread with caution, though calling the next question cautious is in no way possible: “Could you possess me?”

He’s reclining back in his chair, but at the sound of my question, he sits up and leans closer. He puts the remnants of his cigarette out and fixes his stare at me. I thought he’d laugh and make a remark about the banal questions humans ask, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just stares.

Again, I find myself mesmerized by the mismatched eyes—one’s fixed on me with a strange intensity while the other stares blankly—and even though I know they’re not his, the looks send a shiver down my spine. After a while, I can feel the insides of my mind growing silent and heavy, as if time slows. There’s a hint of a voice, but I can’t make out the words. I can sense images just outside my field of sight, but I don’t know what they are, only how they feel—the feeling is of vast expanses of space, blank and vacant. And then it’s gone, and I’m aware of the sounds of the world around us again.

“Nope. Can’t enter your mind,” he says, going for the rolling tobacco again. “It’s too full of junk.”

“And those you can enter, how does it feel for them?”

The cigarette he had just finished rolling is perfect; if I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t have been able to tell it was handmade. He lights it, takes a deep pull, and shrugs at my question. “How would I know? I do hear their thoughts, though.”

The air between us grows silent again, as if the cellar door wasn’t really shut and now a whisper of wind slowly pushes it open. A whisper from the deep.

“What are they thinking?”

“They’re mostly confused. They want me out.” His voice sounds almost sad.

There’s much more I want to ask, but he signals a passing waitress and makes the universal sign asking for the bill. Going through the pockets of his jacket again, he comes up with a bill. “That should cover it, I guess,” he says, then, answering the words on the tip of my tongue, he waves his hand dismissively and adds, “he found it on the staircase this morning. I know, right? Who even still uses cash?”

“Do you have to leave?”

He smiles a crooked smile, studying me. Even though I know the pale, mismatched eyes aren’t his, there’s something alluring about them.

“I don’t have to do anything,” he says. “But I’ve kept this one long enough now. You see? And people say we’re immoral!”

“Will we have a chance to talk again?”

In an instant, the smile is gone, and his tone is dark again. “If you’re willing to go the distance.”

He gets up and turns to leave, when he suddenly stops, turning back to me and looking like he had just remembered something. “Are you going to publish this?”

“I’d be crazy not to,” I say, reaching for my phone where the red button on the recorder application indicates the recording is still on.

“No one’s going to believe you anyway.”

This time, it’s my turn to give him a mischievous smile. “I’ll tell them it’s just a story.”

“You know,” he says, “they say that writers cannot be entered, because they’re already possessed by all of the versions of themselves they wish they could be, all the lives they cannot live.” He picks his distant stare from somewhere far away and looks at me, suddenly appearing very tired, “but I think that’s just a load of bull.”

And with that said, he puts his sunglasses on and walks away into the daylight.

A moment later, a tall, slender guy in sunglasses stops in the middle of the busy street, seeming disoriented. He reaches for his phone, almost instinctively, scratches his head, and after a few moments turns and goes the other direction, resuming his life.