The Ventriloquist | A short story - Fiction

He laid awake staring at the cross that hang above the door. The cross that before was a symbol for veneration to him gradually became just an ornament in the room, the only one. His was a room so small that he could reach the door handle from sitting on his bed, which was against the green damp wall. To his left there was a wobbly table covered by a sticky plastic cloth, where he kept a kettle, a jar of granulated coffee and a pot of butter; this, together with the bread he brought home every evening, made for his every breakfast and dinner. There were also two chairs in his room; on one, he kept a change of clothes, on the other, he kept Noah.

Noah was his puppet, his companion, his best and only friend in the world. They spent the days making a living together, and at night they both pretty much shared the same lifelessness. That was also a time when the only difference between them was the permanent grin that decorated Noah's face. During the day, out in the open, they became one. It had been like that for over 20 years, or more. He had long stopped counting them, time for him had no longer a special purpose, for his existence now was motioned purely by inertia. He followed precisely the same routine day-in, day-out.

Before anyone else in the boarding house got up he used the shared bathroom, returned to his room, ate, adjusted Noah and left. With this it was as if he lent his life to Noah, who would greet passers-by with compliments and well-wishes. On busy streets, they sat on benches attracting small crowds of tourists and children who gave them money and snacks in return for the entertainment. They would journey the city on busy buses bringing joy to the commuters and travellers. People came to talk to Noah, to take photos with him, some even kissed him!

Noah had a favourite song, a football team, he dreamed of having a girlfriend as well as a friend to play cards with. He very much liked cigarettes, but they were too expensive. Noah dreamed of holidaying on the beach, which he knew only from TV. His dreams and desires amused his audience, and for that they filled his shirt's pocket with coins. At sunset Noah resumed his day. He used to say that he was afraid of working at night, because the crowds were different then.

On that particular evening, on an empty bus homewards, the ventriloquist sat still - Noah grinning on his lap. His mind empty of thoughts, his eyes staring vaguely at whatever was in front of him; looking but not seeing. Another man three sits behind them curiously observed the ventriloquist and his puppet, he had seen them on many occasions before and very often they took that same bus and stopped at the same stop in that poor neighbourhood.

The three of them exited the bus; the ventriloquist, Noah and the curious neighbour, who despite his rapid strides could not catch up with the others. In an attempt to make contact he shouted. His voice echoed on the deserted, dimly lit street, at that close summer night 'Hey, neighbour what´s your name?'

The ventriloquist halted his fast walk, turned back, Noah was ready to engage in banter 'well, kind sir', he exclaimed, 'my name is Noah, isn't it an extremely hot night?' this drew an spontaneous laughter from the neighbour who replied 'no, I mean your name my friend. What is your name?'

The ventriloquist lowered his puppet, stared at the dark street towards the shape that stood a few meters away expecting an answer. Instead of replying to the stranger, he turned and continued his walk homeward. With one hand he held Noah, with the other a bag that carried two rolls of fresh bread. Not a single thought was formed for the remaining part of his journey. The truth was that it had been so long, it had been so many years of loneliness that his name had faded away at some point in the past. He no longer remembered it.

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[Original content by Abigail Dantes - 2017]