The two went back to the aggregation of identical buildings where they had previously been lost before. Cay was complaining about how a tourist trap was sprung on them, which Judas ended up saving their wallets from thinning.
“Can’t believe those two could just try to rip us off like that.”, Cay said.
“Yes, that was unexpected.”, Judas agreed.
“Thanks for the save though.”, they had been asked for money buy the two women dressed in traditional ball dresses.
“No problem, better than us losing forty Euro to those fake Venetians.”.
It was true, there were several women in pairs along the coast attempting to lure in visitors new to this mockery of invitation. They saw an European girl being forced to give up twenty Euro to two outstretched hands, one of the women was holding onto her phone determinable that contained photos of them with the girl. The women in ball dresses looked more like smuggled people from South-East Asia than genuine European citizens.
Judas was frank enough to snatch back Cay’s phone from one of the pairs that had previously kept his companion’s phone. There had been no doubt that only the former’s physical size and mental fortitude was suited for a counteract. The two had somehow compensated each other with their individual prowess, a thinker travelling with an administrator of any humanely capabilities.
While within the maze (Cay liked to call it), the two stumbled upon what seemed to be streets of galleries, particularly showcases of contemporary art. Most of the entries were free, it was only natural that they visit as many as they could.
The two never really understood contemporary art, like most of the visitors who happened to wander within the maze and accidentally walked into an exhibition. It was to their understanding that painting and sculping had evolved over time, the display of art in recent time was to concur the real picture inside the mind of the viewer in comparison to their predecessors. However, not many viewers of today lacked the power of imagination of rather radical works, pompous or simple to the eyes, by artists and their uncommon minds.
It was forgivable at times, when viewers looked at the artist’s single work and said to him or herself “this looks interesting”, and moved on to the next one. Not everyone’s mind was built like an artist’s, particularly the ones such as Van Gogh and Picasso. Contemporary artists spoke of works relatable only to un-worldly objects, like the touch of the human soul in which was nearly impossible to see.
The two just strolled through each paintings and galleries as moderate as they could, Cay did not want to seem neither pretentious nor unenthusiastic. Most of the visitors did the same, as if each has his or her planned schedule--- These art galleries were mere places within the labyrinth of confusing twists and turns to add into their categories of passing-by memories.
They were finally at the city centre, it had been about five hours since their departure. The sun was at its’ highest, as well as their adventurous hearts.
*
Judas’s parents have not always been how they were. They had been a genuinely happy family, once.
He was born in in Princess Anne Hospital’s maternity unit, just beside Southampton General Hospital in 1993. His mother held onto him with maternal affection, even though she was exhausted after the process of producing her first and only son. His father was there as well, he had seen the entire procedure with wide eyes. Any fathers seeing for the first time the crystal love he and his wife had produced would have been the same.
He attended local schools and made a solid deal of friends over the years. He had Sunday roasts almost every week, with his everyone present on the table. Moreover, he woke up with just enough time to finish off Alexandre’s homemade pancakes, before she kissed her son goodbye. His primary school years had been one of the best: He had been chosen as class representative in most of his years, and he was popular to a certain degree amongst the pupils in the institution. His teachers took care of him more than the average student and the principal remembered his name, for good reasons.
Haze, although a strange name, was given by his parents and was nonetheless part of him, it was also the name that Alexandre fell in love with. He did not understand why he possessed such a name. Although he did not hate it, Haze Marshal always stood up in his office whenever his colleagues mentioned his first name during meetings. The other executives sometimes poked fun at it (“Your name was probably given when your old man was drunk in some makeshift pint room in one of the trenches”, one of them told him when they were having beer during a Friday night.), but in a non-patronising manner. They all respected him and for what he did for the company.
Judas’s name was given under a strange circumstance, mainly by Alexandre. In reference to the bible, she had hoped that her son would give rise to someone’s life, without the torture and execution phases written in the book. Her husband had a different opinion about it. He was not a frequent Sunday-attender, less mentioned a religious man. However, to him, the name implied the most obvious trait of one of apostle’s, betrayal. He still respected his wife’s suggestion and they both went with it. It did not matter after all, Judas was an unworldly being who was the only child worthy of their fullest love and attention.
In the initial years, his activities were recorded by both parents, by mostly Haze. His father was fond of saving memories of his child and archiving them alongside his wedding day album. His first steps and teething were the most treasurable ones (they were saved in respective files within another named “Moments”. His mother was always readying herself in case Little Judas fell on the carpet floor. They did not invest in a walking assist for fear that it would not give the same impression as walking on two bare feet. These were signs of pure unrequited love. A bore fruit of their own, they must cherish on.
These retrospection happened in Alexandre’s mind as she stared outside from the front window, not the same one as her son’s and not with similar intentions. It had almost been two months since her son came back from bloodied Myanmar. Dinner time was almost ready, she had been preparing the usual Sunday roast for the family: slow-cooked pork joint, roasted asparagus lightly seasoned with pepper and herbs, roast chopped-potatoes covered in goose-fat for the crispy texture and shiny garnish, and lastly black pudding. Haze was always back in time from pints with colleagues for the family and country tradition, it was unsure whether it was the dinner itself or for his family. His intentions were watered down over the years.
As Alexandre continued with the preparations, while His father was perhaps two more pints away from returning home, Judas was in his room reorganizing his current vitae. He tried not to recall the memories of the place in his head and the vividness of it. However, they would have been stuck with him forever even if he had liked it or not.
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