Read the previous part here.
According to News Paper reports, Michael Baker is dead. I know the report is not true; it doesn’t take much persuasion to convince oneself that one is not dead: I am Michael Baker. The clouds of confusion surrounding my head become denser. The News Report also says that Baker was missing from his California office for a week. Today is August 24; there is certainly one week of activity that my brain cannot account for. For some strange reason, I can’t recall how I engaged myself during the last week. The News Paper could still be hoax. There’s one way to find out. I must call the Crescent Hotel and find out if someone by the name of Michael Baker was found dead there. I reach for the Telephone Directory. Upon opening it, on the inside of the cover, I find stamped in red ink:
“Property of the Crescent Hotel, Brussels.”
Upon further inspection, I find similar stamp marks on the other books in the shelf.
I realize I am in The Crescent Hotel. The only logical explanation I can summon is they must’ve mistaken someone else for me, but logic is not the driving force of the events I have experienced lately.
The phone rings again. I pick it up and the same female voice conveys that they are still waiting for me in the car. I tell her to tell them that I’d be there in five minutes. I must go and find out who they are and what they want.
I find my clothes and get dressed up properly. There’s no money on my person. There’s a small gray attaché case on a wooden shelf. I open it. There is some loose cash, besides a few Credit Cards and some other documents. Among the documents I can see a Passport with my picture on it. But it bears the name of some Jean Felix. It dawns on me that I am being set up as an imposter. Someone has died and the departed is being identified with my identity.
There has been no misunderstanding: these events are planned; I can bet my life on it. There is some force which has brought about the series of events - by expert planning and flawless execution - culminating to this point so far, and this adventure will definitely go beyond the present, for this is part of a scheme which is yet to see its final stage, a fact which I know because they are waiting for me in the car. The forces who have planned the scheme are no ordinary ones, they have exhibited extraordinary qualities by making an American citizen disappear from his country and reappear in strange circumstances in a strange Nation with one week of his memory more or less fully erased. They must have International links and substantial resources to pull this off. Without a doubt they are a threat to my life, but my guess is: I have an important part to play in this plan, whatever it is, and my living is essential to the completion of it.
Now that I’ve figured out as much as I could’ve with the aid of the clues at my disposal, I must play along with their plan to discern their motive and their plan. The bottom line is, I must know more about the people I am dealing with before trying anything that might lessen my chances of survival. And for that I must meet these people.
Read the next part here.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 3
Read the previous part here.
They are waiting for me in the car. Who are they? I find the visiting card still lying on the table by the bed. I pick it up. It says:
Dr. Patrick Ackerman
Head of Department
Ashford Institute of Brain Research
Brussels.
The name doesn’t ring any bells. Brussels? Am I in Brussels?
The table has a lower shelf where a few books are stacked. I must look at them. A man like me, with a lot of questions like these can not rest until he finds the answers; and he leaves no stones unturned to unravel the mystery surrounding the strange circumstances he finds himself in. Perhaps the books would give me something to think about. My hands find their way into the shelf, removing the books on top because they are merely magazines published in Belgium; they could’ve been planted there to mislead me. I find a Bible in the stack. The thickest volume at the bottom of the pile is a directory, the Telephone Directory of Brussels: now I can find out if I really am in Brussels. I search my pockets: my cell phone is missing. I look around; if she has a cell phone, it must be somewhere. Finally I spot the note on the base unit of the land line: Press 0 to make calls, 9 for room service…
I hold the receiver against my ear and press 0, I hear the dial tone. I randomly open a page in the directory and dial the first number I see. I hear the ring from the other end; someone picks up; I hang up. I am in Brussels: the line connected without an STD code.
Why Brussels? Why have I been brought here? Who has brought me here?
Suddenly I hear a swish. I turn around to find a News Paper near the door. Apparently it’s Room Service.
Inside Europe, Brussels, dated 24th August 2007.
Fortunately it’s the English Edition, I can read. I pick it up from the floor; I hate it when people place agents of knowledge on the floor: they demand respect. I look through the first few pages: there are writings about the Politics, the Budget and stuff. And then I come to the local news page. My attention is drawn towards a particular article titled, American Citizen found dead in inscrutable circumstances in a room in The Crescent Hotel. I read through parts of it wherein the journalist describes that the victim was reportedly missing from his office in California for a week and was found in a room in the hotel in mysterious circumstances. The last line says,
The deceased was identified as Michael Baker.
I am Michael Baker.
Read the next part here.
They are waiting for me in the car. Who are they? I find the visiting card still lying on the table by the bed. I pick it up. It says:
Dr. Patrick Ackerman
Head of Department
Ashford Institute of Brain Research
Brussels.
The name doesn’t ring any bells. Brussels? Am I in Brussels?
The table has a lower shelf where a few books are stacked. I must look at them. A man like me, with a lot of questions like these can not rest until he finds the answers; and he leaves no stones unturned to unravel the mystery surrounding the strange circumstances he finds himself in. Perhaps the books would give me something to think about. My hands find their way into the shelf, removing the books on top because they are merely magazines published in Belgium; they could’ve been planted there to mislead me. I find a Bible in the stack. The thickest volume at the bottom of the pile is a directory, the Telephone Directory of Brussels: now I can find out if I really am in Brussels. I search my pockets: my cell phone is missing. I look around; if she has a cell phone, it must be somewhere. Finally I spot the note on the base unit of the land line: Press 0 to make calls, 9 for room service…
I hold the receiver against my ear and press 0, I hear the dial tone. I randomly open a page in the directory and dial the first number I see. I hear the ring from the other end; someone picks up; I hang up. I am in Brussels: the line connected without an STD code.
Why Brussels? Why have I been brought here? Who has brought me here?
Suddenly I hear a swish. I turn around to find a News Paper near the door. Apparently it’s Room Service.
Inside Europe, Brussels, dated 24th August 2007.
Fortunately it’s the English Edition, I can read. I pick it up from the floor; I hate it when people place agents of knowledge on the floor: they demand respect. I look through the first few pages: there are writings about the Politics, the Budget and stuff. And then I come to the local news page. My attention is drawn towards a particular article titled, American Citizen found dead in inscrutable circumstances in a room in The Crescent Hotel. I read through parts of it wherein the journalist describes that the victim was reportedly missing from his office in California for a week and was found in a room in the hotel in mysterious circumstances. The last line says,
The deceased was identified as Michael Baker.
I am Michael Baker.
Read the next part here.
Monday, July 6, 2009
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 2
Read the previous part here.
The phone is ringing. A cold shiver runs down my spine again. Whose call can it be? What if the girl wakes up? How am I supposed to act? Should I pick up the phone? I decide to pick up the phone, not because I wish to talk, but because I don't want my sleeping companion to wake up. As I lean further forward to pick up the ringing phone, the inevitable happens: she wakes up. The phone stops ringing that very instant. "Who is it?" she asks, peering into my eyes. “I don’t know”, I manage to utter, dumbfounded. Her arms circle my neck and I receive a kiss on my temple. She drifts to sleep again. I’ve never felt so intimate with a stranger before; for some reason, the feeling is a welcome one. Silencing my inner desire to stay in that position for long, with some amount of effort I set myself free without waking her up again. I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. My mind is boggled by questions. What place is this? How did I get here? Who is the girl? I breathe in and out several times to regain my bearings. I know sitting on my rear will not answer these questions. I will have to find out. I get up and walk up to the window. I look outside. There are skyscrapers around me. It turns out I am in one myself, I know there are more than ten floors below the one I’m in. This is not my town. This is not even my country. I can tell that from the strange script on the advertisement boards; it looks like French. A strange fear overwhelms me. I feel like vomiting. A string of elusive questions gnaws at me. Nothing seems to make any sense. I turn back, look at the blond again. She’s beautiful. Her serenity has the soothing effect on me. My senses come back to me; I have to think of a plan. I look around; there’s a door in the wall opposite to the bed. It must lead to somewhere. I open it and find a dead end: it’s the toilet. I get inside; it is well lit. I bow down in the wash-basin and splash water against my face. I look at myself in the mirror and realize I am no Brad Pitt; the presence if the girl is left unexplained. As soon as I’m done wiping my face with the towel, the goddamn phone rings again. I walk towards the phone with long strides to answer it; perhaps it might leave me with clues to solve the puzzle. I pick the receiver and the voice of a female is heard: “They are waiting for you in the car.” She hangs up.
Read the next part here.
The phone is ringing. A cold shiver runs down my spine again. Whose call can it be? What if the girl wakes up? How am I supposed to act? Should I pick up the phone? I decide to pick up the phone, not because I wish to talk, but because I don't want my sleeping companion to wake up. As I lean further forward to pick up the ringing phone, the inevitable happens: she wakes up. The phone stops ringing that very instant. "Who is it?" she asks, peering into my eyes. “I don’t know”, I manage to utter, dumbfounded. Her arms circle my neck and I receive a kiss on my temple. She drifts to sleep again. I’ve never felt so intimate with a stranger before; for some reason, the feeling is a welcome one. Silencing my inner desire to stay in that position for long, with some amount of effort I set myself free without waking her up again. I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. My mind is boggled by questions. What place is this? How did I get here? Who is the girl? I breathe in and out several times to regain my bearings. I know sitting on my rear will not answer these questions. I will have to find out. I get up and walk up to the window. I look outside. There are skyscrapers around me. It turns out I am in one myself, I know there are more than ten floors below the one I’m in. This is not my town. This is not even my country. I can tell that from the strange script on the advertisement boards; it looks like French. A strange fear overwhelms me. I feel like vomiting. A string of elusive questions gnaws at me. Nothing seems to make any sense. I turn back, look at the blond again. She’s beautiful. Her serenity has the soothing effect on me. My senses come back to me; I have to think of a plan. I look around; there’s a door in the wall opposite to the bed. It must lead to somewhere. I open it and find a dead end: it’s the toilet. I get inside; it is well lit. I bow down in the wash-basin and splash water against my face. I look at myself in the mirror and realize I am no Brad Pitt; the presence if the girl is left unexplained. As soon as I’m done wiping my face with the towel, the goddamn phone rings again. I walk towards the phone with long strides to answer it; perhaps it might leave me with clues to solve the puzzle. I pick the receiver and the voice of a female is heard: “They are waiting for you in the car.” She hangs up.
Read the next part here.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 1
I wake up this morning and see the beautiful blue sky outside my window. What a fine morning! And I see Halle Berry in the sky, sporting a silver bracelet and dark glasses. She has the usual indifferent attitude. What in the sky is she doing up there in the sky and why is she so big? Am I still dreaming? Were I, why would I see Halle Berry and not Ashley Tisdale or Caitlin Stacey instead? Is this God's way of punishing me for my high standards? "Well sue me, mate".
There's only one way to find out. I draw the blinds, so I can have a better view. I can now clearly see the orange colour of her James Bond movie attire. It is one of those goddamn billboards. It was certainly not there, outside my window when I last slept. When was it? What place is this? I look around. There's a cup of black coffee on the table by my bed, and an egg sandwich. What is with the coffee? I don't drink coffee, it's not healthy. I could use the sandwich though. I stick my left hand's index finger in the coffee and it is hot. Damn it! It hurts. My slow mind races to the conclusion, it is not a dream. Whatever it is, it's real. And now the innocent sandwich belongs to me, I can eat the sandwich. As my right arm swings voluntarily to grab the object of my desire, I hear someone breathing. The sound's coming from behind me. I am lying on my right side, so i turn around; it is a reflex action. I have only rotated a hundred degrees out of the hundred and eighty when a shiver runs down my spine. My face just about prevents a collision with some other face. I have company. I certainly did not have it when I slept. It is a girl, and a beautiful one. She's an attractive blond all right, but the unnerving truth is I can't figure out who she is. I spot someone's visiting card on the table by her side of the bed and I lean forward to hold it, trying to avoid brushing against her body when the phone suddenly rings.
Read the next part here.
There's only one way to find out. I draw the blinds, so I can have a better view. I can now clearly see the orange colour of her James Bond movie attire. It is one of those goddamn billboards. It was certainly not there, outside my window when I last slept. When was it? What place is this? I look around. There's a cup of black coffee on the table by my bed, and an egg sandwich. What is with the coffee? I don't drink coffee, it's not healthy. I could use the sandwich though. I stick my left hand's index finger in the coffee and it is hot. Damn it! It hurts. My slow mind races to the conclusion, it is not a dream. Whatever it is, it's real. And now the innocent sandwich belongs to me, I can eat the sandwich. As my right arm swings voluntarily to grab the object of my desire, I hear someone breathing. The sound's coming from behind me. I am lying on my right side, so i turn around; it is a reflex action. I have only rotated a hundred degrees out of the hundred and eighty when a shiver runs down my spine. My face just about prevents a collision with some other face. I have company. I certainly did not have it when I slept. It is a girl, and a beautiful one. She's an attractive blond all right, but the unnerving truth is I can't figure out who she is. I spot someone's visiting card on the table by her side of the bed and I lean forward to hold it, trying to avoid brushing against her body when the phone suddenly rings.
Read the next part here.
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