As I entered the hotel room, the creaking sound of the wood flooring caught my attention. I could tell from the worn-out aspect of the furniture and the floral wallpaper that made no more effort to stay attached that I was in the right setting. Four leather armchairs encircled a coffee table cluttered with old-looking notepads. Milagros was lying in one of them—the armchairs— her eyes closed. Vero was across from her, also sound asleep. They were aged and ugly—the armchairs—but as I touched their skin, they felt soft and cozy, good enough for a nap. As I set my backpack down, I saw a few dead cockroaches on the floor, and I considered playing a little prank on my friends. When I touched Milagros' soft hair and left a dead roach on her head, I couldn't help but smile. Then I turned back to Vero and saw her mouth wide open. That’s how I knew she was on time for a petit-déjeuner. As soon as the brown corpse kissed Vero’s lower lip, I overheard my mind saying, “Poor little thing, let her go,” but I couldn’t help but let it kiss her upper lip, too. Vero shook her head and made me drop the roach on her lap. I was still sweating from the heat of Cairo's agitation, so I undressed and started towards a shower. As the refreshing water was pouring over my body, I could hear Vero calling my name, so I hurried to lock the bathroom door and focused on letting the stress of the trip wash away.
I had met Vero and Milagros two decades ago in a theology class. At first, we were merely acquaintances sharing the same lectures, but late-night conversations fueled by heavily fermented kefir gave way to a bond that not even our college love stories could shake. We went on long existential discussions together and shared our deepest doubts while camping out on the intimate perimeter of our dorms. Milagros’ father was a very much visited topic during those nights. We used to stay up until the wee hours of the morning, listening to the tapes he had recorded of his research into the occult. We were so fascinated by the possibilities that it uncovered that we promised to try it for ourselves. One night, we sealed our promise with blood. That red promise helped us become even more serious about our philosophic studies and try alternative practices, often spending hours in meditation. One day, during our morning yoga practice, Milagros told us that Gabriel, her father, was on the verge of culminating his Great Work. The following term, she told us he had disappeared without a trace. One week later, she disappeared too. Semesters after, Vero and I got our diplomas and went our own ways.
Revitalized by the shower, I returned to the room to greet the girls properly. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was inviting, yet I felt uneasy as I sat in one of those aged armchairs, suspecting an imminent vendetta. Imagery flooded my mind as we remembered all our best nights together. It felt familiar and strange, knowing that after all these years, we still had the scar of desire on our hands.
I learned Vero had been working at a prestigious French school. She had been a language teacher for a few years, then a counselor, and finally the Academic Director. Mili had meanwhile thrown herself into Gabriel's vast collection of personal diaries upon failing in her search for his physical self. With every word she uncovered from his writings, she said she felt a surge of pride and reverence for the magnitude of his work. She had already spent a good amount of the money she had earned from selling Gabriel's apartment, and she was willing to flee this life in search of more promising lands. We all had different reasons for evading our daily lives. As for me, I was running away from my treadmill of...
I was thinking of an introduction for an article on the theory that reality is a simulation and how it replicates within itself, over and over again. My hands were holding my face, and my elbows propped up over the edge of my desk, where rested my typewriter. The sun was rising, streaking warmth over my back and framing my shadow on the wall before me. I could hear the dripping noise of the water faucet in the kitchen; I often listened to this sound while writing because it helped me enter a deep state of concentration. It didn't help with the running water bill, but it served me well to get inspired, as I said, and finish a few articles, and sell them to a few journals that would pay me a few coins so I could pay the running water bill, among other things, of course. It was a vicious circle, of course. The running water bill was not in my name, so I could actually evade the moral obligation, but that wouldn't work out for me because I was renting a house on the outskirts of Barcelona from a friend who had fled to Valencia after being laid off from Catalan News—and that means that I owed an ethical obligation to my friend. She wanted a tenant who could take care of some of her belongings, and I remember being bold enough to bargain the rent price to an unfriendly level. Friends will be friends, of course. The thing is, I was very much willing to flee the downtown box I was living in in exchange for a bigger home in green, healthy, mind-liberating surroundings.
The other thing is that I came out of the leaky faucet trance when I saw my shadow on the wall growing an extra arm. For a moment, I thought I had gone wrong with the daily microdose of psilocybe, but I hadn't taken the dose that morning, and after a second consideration, I found out that in the window frame was Carlos, my neighbor, waving at me with a crumpled yellow envelope in his hand. The letter he handed me read: "How are you, old friend? We hope your life is weird. Is it? If not, we've got you a ticket to ride. Meet us in Cairo, at the Billton Hotel, room 404. Mili & Vero."
"I've been waiting for you, a lah lah lah lah long..." was the first thought that knocked on my mind's door. But I had a responsibility with the life I had been building up for the last fifteen years. It is not that I would throw my typewriter in the bin right after Carlos creeps out on me with an envelope, not even if the letter is from two college friends and they invite me to go back to the best time of my life, can't I? Right? So, a chill ran down my spine as I read the message on that Thursday morning—oh—that day, I was tasked with hosting the book club for our weekly meeting.
Six o'clock in the evening crept up quickly, my article still in the introductory phase, and I could barely contain the dreadful urge to slice thin every and each of the book club member's carotids with the rusty pages of "The Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym." But I didn't, and I drank a lot of the red wine they brought, starting with the expensive ones. I stayed up late, drinking cheap wine while chatting all things Poe with Julieta, a young widow who had inherited a fortune from a groceries kingpin and who had found renewed happiness in reading the all-time classics and in staying late at the homes of the book club hosts.
I respected her but didn't admire her. I was really drunk. I invited her to smoke hash, and after, she was drunk too, and she sat on the floor in front of the empty fireplace. I found it cozy, so I did the same. We both stared at the empty fireplace in silence for a while, and I told her about Mili’s and Vero’s unexpected invitation. In response, Julieta leaned her head on my shoulder and recounted all the places she had traveled to — Japan, Argentina, Colombia, Canada, and some Sub-Saharan African countries whose names I can't recall. Her enthusiasm was contagious. I could feel my sense of adventure reigniting within me, a feeling that I had held back for years in favor of the steady income, the comfy bed, and the never-ending search for a compatible partner. I leaned my head on hers, but she pulled her head off my shoulder in response. We stared at each other for a split second. Then I leaned my lips on hers, and the fireplace lit up with steamy fire.
The next day, Julieta had left without warning and not without leaving a slightly regretful parting note on my desk. I flipped it over, pen in hand, to answer Mili's and Vero's message: "About time. See you soon."
I took a swig from my mug. The nameless corpse of a roach emerged tinted with strong and dark coffee. I gazed at her, and she gazed back with a dead smile. “Okay, okay, I'm all for a good reunion, but let's not forget the main reason we're all gathered here, right?" I quipped, permanently leaving the coffee mug on the table. Milagros caught on my eager vibe and began spilling the beans:
"Girls, I'm not sure if I should even be telling you this. I mean, it's a great adventure, but if anything goes wrong, I don't know if I can handle the guilt.” She stood up to close the window. The air became thick with intimate heat. Milagros faced us again and continued: “But I trust you both, and I know you're up for the challenge. Just tell me you are ready for it, okay?" "Of course, you can count on us," Vero replied confidently. The constant unintelligible babbling in my mind made me face doubt for a split second, yet my thirst for ecstasy and dreams drove me to ignore the feeling. “Hey, we are here and ready,” I added with the total self-assurance they knew I knew how to fake. Milagros picked up one of the notebooks on the coffee table and began to read:
“The words inscribed in this journal are not meant to merely inform but to awaken a sense of curiosity within you. There exists a world beyond what is visible to the naked eye, one that can only be experienced firsthand. And when that moment arrives, when you are finally able to grasp the unimaginable, it will shake you to your core. This journal exists not only as a guide but as a reminder that the venture you seek was born with you, waiting for the moment to be unleashed. Are you ready? “
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her fingers wrapping around the leather-bound journal. As she opened her mouth to speak again, her voice was soft and gentle, filled with emotion. She told us a story of how ancient tribes had discovered the secret of time travel through the mind. “According to Gabriel, the secret was accessible only to the initiated,” “and he finally cracked the method, right?" Vero and I helped round out the mystery in unison. Milagros shook goosebumps off her head and whispered that story time was over, but there is always time for food, and so she invited us to her favorite Cairo restaurant.
I couldn't help but wrinkle my nose as I sat next to Milagros in the restaurant. "Hey, Mili, when was the last time you showered?" I teased, waiting for her witty comeback. Milagros grinned and said, "Are you hungry? Want a whiff of my homemade soup?" as she revealed her armpit an inch away from my nose. An inside joke, and like every time before, Vero's role was to not find it as amusing as she should. "This joke is in poor taste," she remarked. Her punchline made us burst into tears of laughter. It felt good to be immersed in our communion again.