The Enumeration of Names *** Like all travelers, he has been bored and stuck in transit. Like all travelers, he has gotten lost and has spoken to strangers. He speaks—quietly, and politely—to a stranger now. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he says, unshouldering his bulky backpack and closing the door behind him. He is tired. He is cold and damp with fresh-fallen rain. He is hungry but knows of no good places to eat. The hostel kitchen is closed but the bar remains open. His intent had been to arrive earlier, but like all travelers, he has been bored and stuck in transit. Now—tired, and quiet in his entry to this room—he wants nothing more than to take off his wet shoes and socks, clean up, and find something (somewhere) to eat. Like many travelers, he knows the value of a cheap, clean hostel, and like some—as well—he can share a room with total strangers. The Stranger—propped comfortably in bed, with a book in front of his face—shifts and smiles. “It’s okay,” he says, and like all strangers (met by all travelers) his words carry an accent that makes it difficult to name his origins. There are four beds in the room: three of them are unoccupied and well-made. “Take any one you want, but keep some distance from the door if you’re hoping for a good night’s sleep. There are rich-kid tourists down the hall, slumming it by staying here, when there’s a five star hotel that’d better serve them. It’s Hallowe’s Night, and so there are parties throughout the city. Drinking. Dancing. Carousing with floozies.” The Stranger laughs, perhaps at the punch-line to his own private joke. “Loud night ahead, when they stumble in drunk, pretending not to bring whores and pickpockets into the rooms with them.” “Thanks for the advice.” The Stranger smiles. “My name is Jarus.” “I am Ivan.” “From Earth?” “Yeah.” “From a house on the grass-plains with a white picket fence and a dog named Lucky?” “No. From an apartment in Irkutsk: very small, with a mouse that isn’t my pet.” Again, Jarus laughs. “I was right about the plains, though…Irkutsk is a grass-plains city…near your planet’s largest natural source of deuterium.” “I know the taiga,” Ivan says, making his way to an unclaimed bed: the one nearest the storage cupboard. “But deuterium…I don’t know.” “Baikal. Most massive freshwater body on your planet; it’s gouged into the planet like a “v” and at its depths, pressure causes a shift in the water; it goes from H2O to H2O2. They teach you guys anything on Earth?” Ivan smiles. “You’re Martian?” “Yeah. Born and raised in Olympia…three hundred klicks off the south flank of Olympus Mons: biggest dead volcano on any human-inhabited world.” “And you know about deuterium on Earth,” Ivan says, smiling playfully. Jarus returns his smile, closing his book. “That’s why you should travel. You learn all sorts of useless things.” “Is that why you travel?” “Yeah. One of the reasons.” Ivan kicks out of his shoes and pulls his socks off. His feet feel clammy and cold to the touch; he flinches, and rummages through his enormous backpack for slippers, a fresh change of underwear, his towel and his tube of body-wash. “The showers aren’t metered, but the water’s soft,” Jarus says. “Go light with that soap-stuff or you’ll be foamy for a week.” Ivan laughs. “Thanks.” “Don’t mention it. Bathroom’s through there.” Jarus nods toward a closed door beside the pale, wooden cupboard. “It’s for this room only, not shared with the room next door, so you don’t have to lock up and worry about hooligans wandering in on you. The cleaning lady’s off for the night, so she won’t be wandering in on you, either.” “That’s good to know…so if somebody wanders in, it’ll just be you, then.” “Yeah, but I won’t, unless I’m invited. I’m like a vampire, I guess…won’t cross a threshold without an invitation.” “You learned about vampires in the same place you learned about deuterium on my planet?” “Yeah.” “That figures.” “Hey,” Jarus says. “Life on Mars is pretty boring. Studying’s all you can do if you’re not in the mood to get drunk every night.” *** Ivan showers. He finishes quickly, dries off and flicks beaded wetness from his waterproof sandals. He steps back into the room, flinching at the squishy flip-flop noise his feet make on the fake-antique parquet flooring. He finds dry clothing, rolled neatly in his oversized backpack, and he dresses quickly, returning Jarus’ nod of friendly acknowledgement. “Feeling better?” “Almost human.” “The wonders of indoor plumbing.” “Yes.” Silence. “Are there any decent restaurants around?” Jarus shrugs, marks a page and closes his book. “A few,” he says. “Down by the Square; if you’re on a budget, there are a few cheap places. Kinda hard to find if this is your first time in the city.” “It’s my first time,” Ivan admits. “And I’m only here for tonight.” “Passing through, eh…where’re you off to?” “Bessek.” “Nice place. For how long?” “One week…local.” “Nice.” “So,” Ivan says. “About this restaurant by the Square. It’s difficult to find for someone who doesn’t know the city. Dinner’s on me if you’ll go there with me.” Jarus nods. “Yeah. You don’t have to bribe me with food or drinks, I’ll guide you for free, but I’ll accept any free stuff I can get.” “Of course,” Ivan says. *** The restaurant—when Jarus leads him in—is quiet, but crowded with locals. Ivan knows little of Sagittarian culture, but he recognizes the common accent, and the style of music as it washes around him. He recognizes the way people are dressed, and the ways in which they see—or don’t see—the mixed-ethnic duo of obvious offworlders. It is a dark place. It is intimate. The waiters seem to know Jarus and they greet him by name, touching their chests and bowing in the common Sagittarian manner. There is—Ivan thinks—an odd and overt measure of flirtation between Jarus, and the youngest of three waiters: a narrow-faced kid with long, sand-colored dreads, pulled back and cinched with a strip of ribbon with frayed ends. In a booth, far in back of the place and near an earthen hearth alive with dancing tongues of open flame, Jarus orders beer for both of them and suggests that Ivan tries the house special. Ivan agrees to the choice and marvels—when it arrives—at the delicate taste of so pale an alien meat. He doesn’t recognize the vegetables either. They’re crunchy, he thinks, like water chestnuts, and they’re peppery in taste, naturally so. The beer is good, too. “So,” Ivan asks, midway through the meal. “What brings you to this planet…this city?” Jarus shrugs, suddenly abstract in facial expression. Like most Martians, Jarus is lean: almost elfin in facial cast and in length of bone. He is dark, like the husk of a pecan, and ruddy in ways that mark his Martian heritage. “I’m an anthropologist,” he says, quietly. “Studying the locals?” “No. I live and work on Thetis, in the city of Azôrô, but it’s…well…seasons on Thetis are determined by a number of…unusual factors; it’s often best to leave the planet, unless you’re willing to risk living there forever.” Ivan knows of Thetis and its cyclical tourist-restrictions. He has considered a trip there. “You’re studying the Lost Colony?” he asks. “Not exactly,” Jarus says. “I’m studying the memetic history of a Formerly-Lost Colony…the only problem is, since they aren’t lost anymore, the indigenous culture is undergoing massive shifts. The people of Thetis will retain their peculiarities, especially their physiological distinctions…but their cosmology has undergone quite a sizeable upheaval; in about a decade much of what they accept as commonplace will be gone—supplanted by something more appropriate to membership in an interstellar community. I’m there, because I want to record who and what they are now, before they race headlong into the future and become someone else.” “Their culture,” Ivan begins. “Is going extinct?” Jarus shakes his head, smiling. “No. Far from it. But they are changing. They’ve had hundreds and hundreds, and hundreds more years of isolation from the rest of humanity. They’ve evolved into something different, ideologically, at least, and to a degree, physiologically…but now that their home planet is a tourist destination, and now that Lady Rubella has taken her lurid little tour to Azôrô, it’s only a matter of time before the people of Thetis are no different than Martians or Earthers…or Sagittans who just so happen to speak with funny accents.” “You love them,” Ivan says, noting the tone buried in Jarus’ voice. “Don’t you?” “Yeah. I do.” “You have someone there?” A complicated and inscrutable expression falls across Jarus’ face. “No.” There is a pause, filled with music and the sound of babbled, background talk in a dialect of Common Ivan scarcely understands. He sips his beer, he picks at the last of his meat and vegetables. “So…” he says, after a while, “As an anthropologist, what can you tell me about the people of Thetis; what’s something I’d miss about them, if I went to their planet as a tourist?” Jarus smiles softly: wavers of candle-light and shadows dance across his features. “They’re exquisitely kind people, incredibly sophisticated; they love anything and everything that smacks of interstellar humanity, but they’re still isolated in many ways. They can travel, but they have to be careful of when they travel. For three months out of the standard year, they’ll always be as isolated as they were as recently as two generations ago.” “Why?” “Because of isopods.” “Creatures with cold feet?” Jarus laughs. “Something like that. Pseudo-isopods to be precise…local variants of semi-aquatic crustaceans; Thetis-local humans have developed a symbiotic relationship with them, and as a result, are subject to the…mating seasons—and habits—of the species. The planet is closed to outsiders during horny-alien-season, as there’s a high probability that side effects of the native biological cycle could—if introduced to other planets or non-acclimated humans—start a rather catastrophic biological cascade.” A pause, a sip of beer. “These pseudo-isopods give Thetans cultural distinctions that are—in their ways—purely human.” “Distinctions,” Ivan says, suddenly intrigued by the thought of human/alien symbiont-pairing. “Like?” “The Enumerations.” Jarus says. “It’s a series of social rituals influenced by their human-alien biology. There are, literally, thousands of Enumerations…one of my favorites is The Enumeration of Names. It’s a friendship ritual, and under the right circumstances, Thetis-local circumstances, it’s quite intense: scary even.” “You know this ritual?” “Yeah. I’ve participated in it at least a dozen times.” “It sounds interesting. Exotic in a way.” Jarus shrugs. “It’s simple,” he says. “Almost prosaic in a sense. You can experience it tonight, if you’d like. It doesn’t take much, and since it’s a holiday here, and since silly trust-fund drunkards’ll be vomiting in the hostel halls in about six hour’s time, it might be good for something sacred to happen as well.” Ivan nods and steals a nip of his beer. “Okay,” he says, wondering what he’s just gotten himself into. “I’d be honored if you showed me this Enumeration of Names.” *** After dinner, they go to a cheap liquor store and buy the strongest stuff available: Ivan laughs at the irony of it, of buying an Earth-import distillate: clear, with a sprig of bison grass wedged into the square, real-glass bottle. They catch the monorail. They go to the river— —where bonfires glow in wavering, amber intensity— —where drums thunder— —where fireworks blossom— They go to the city’s edge, where the locals live, and where tourists are a welcome absence. The large moon is visible in a cloud-clotted sky: a fat crescent riding high above the hazy light of smoke, and dancing, wavering flames. Ivan is amazed at the intensity of the bonfires and the big moon with its one outsized crater like the eye of a cyclops. Jarus opens the bottle of grass-infused vodka and hands it to Ivan. “The Enumeration of Names is intended to build memories and to identify specific people. We’ll remember at least one of each other’s personal truths, and thus always associate ultimate, fundamental truths with specific human beings…specific friends. It is a part of the greater body of Enumerations in that trust is central to the ritual’s completion. It begins in silence. Each participant opens the ritual with a shot of the strong, good stuff.” Ivan accepts the first shot and passes the bottle to Jarus. Jarus takes a shot. “Now,” Jarus says. “We walk along the river and we talk…just like we’ve done all night. But when one of us has an important and personal truth to share, we take a shot before speaking.” Ivan laughs. “Like a Russian toast…only you drink after the toast has ripened.” He laughs again. “This can go on all night.” Jarus laughs. “The Enumeration of Names has been known to go on until everyone passes out.” “You’ve not been to Thetis,” Ivan says, laughing. “You’ve been to Siberia.” Jarus grins and steals a generous shot of grass-vodka. “I’m afraid of Earth,” he says. “There is nothing to be afraid of,” Ivan says, as calmly and as comfortingly as he can. “You are welcome there. You can visit my family…or maybe when I return to school, you can visit me. I am from Earth, you know…and I don’t bite. Well…I try not to, anyway.” A few steps along the riverbank, Ivan takes the bottle, swallows a generous, burning gulp of liquor, and shrugs. “I was afraid to come here with you, and I am still a bit leery.” Jarus smiles. “You’re a seasoned traveler…you carry a backpack rather than luggage; you take a shower wearing sandals; you knew when you walked into our room whether you could trust me or not. You have a real traveler’s instincts, and they’ll serve you well for the rest of your life, even if you return to Earth and never again leave Siberia.” They speak for hours, drinking and naming truths, some small and stated with ease, others larger and halting in their verbal expression. Each truth comes as punctuation to a gulp of alcohol. Each truth carries them—together—into woozy vulnerability. Seized by an impulse Ivan doesn’t understand, Jarus pauses in his forward strides and removes his shoes, his socks, and—quietly—continues his forward steps. He takes a gulp of alcohol. “On Thetis, bare feet are a sign of trust…and to a different degree, affection.” Ivan pulls off his shoes. And his socks, and takes a gulp of liquor. “I envy you,” he says. “Me?” “Yes. You. You live on Thetis, except when you have to avoid the yearly quarantine; I’m a coward, I want a safe life as an ecological engineer for the Earth-Basin Orbital Complex. That’s the best I can do, because I want to see more than Earth, but I want safety; I also want to make my parents happy. Stupid, I know…but they won’t be happy unless I have some form of tangible success in life…something they can understand. He pauses, draws a deep breath and hefts the bottle of clear, grass-impregnated spirits. “I envy you, Jarus…and I’m glad that I know about these Enumerations, because one day, you’re going to be an old man, and maybe you’ll be an old man on Thetis. I’ll be an old man, too…some conservative guy in the Earth Basin Orbital Complex, watching spaceships go by, and watching young brave people doing the things then that I can’t allow myself to do now. But you…you’ll enumerate with your friends from Thetis, and maybe…just maybe, you’ll mention the wimpy Earth guy you met on Sagitta Prime, the guy you got drunk with on his only night in this city…Right here.” Jarus smiles. He toys with the half-full bottle. “You have to travel tomorrow,” he says. “So let’s not get any more drunk than we are now. Let’s find somebody and give them the gift of alcohol, and then go back to the hostel, drink lots of water, and rest.” Ivan nods. “Will you keep me company tonight?” “Company?” “Yeah. Just talk to me. Tell me some more about Thetis and your life there.” “I’ll do that, Ivan. I’d be honored to do that.” *** Like all travelers, Ivan has been drunk in foreign places and woozy in rooms unlike any he’s lived in or seen back home. Like all travelers, Ivan has found himself quiet and at the mercy of other travelers, and natives to places unknown to him, until the moment he encountered them. Like all travelers—at temporary home in a hostel—Ivan knows how to take space and give space in space that is shared, and now, back in the four-bed room he shares only with Jarus, he sits at the foot of his bed, checking the contents of his pack. There are beads of rain on the window: the tap-tap’tap-tap of a steady downpour. Jarus makes noise in the bathroom: the quiet noise of water in a bucket. It is a sound Ivan does not expect and he wonders at the incongruity of it. A bucket? Something the cleaning lady might use? And in moments, Jarus returns to the room with a bucket and a towel. “Your feet are muddy,” he says, kneeling before Ivan. “There are Enumerations on Thetis, involving touch. The most profound is the Enumeration of Caring Gestures. It is shared only between friends, between unrelated brothers who have found one another, or sisters who’ll cry and get all mushy at each other’s weddings.” Ivan laughs. “This Enumeration involves dirty feet? Jarus returns his laugh. “In your case it does.” It begins with Jarus washing the mud from Ivan’s feet, and continues—later, much, much later with shared warmth in Jarus’ bunk. Stripped to his boxers, he revels in a spooning embrace with Jarus at his back like the protective shell of a rare and complicated tortoise. He laughs at the image. Sleep comes, easily— —and breaks hours later. The sky is still dark. He has a train to catch. To Bessek. The ride, he knows, will take four hours. Jarus is awake. Jarus is out of bed and the smell of coffee hangs in the air. “I stink,” Ivan says, rolling from clumped bed-sheets and the sleep-dented mattress; he pads (on clean feet) into the bathroom. He showers, he dries himself, and ambles—naked—into the sleeping room. He dresses quickly as Jarus shares coffee with him. “Perks of being a long-term guest in a family-run hostel. Free coffee.” Ivan smiles, thankful for the brew. There are breads as well, and cheese. “What’s a normal breakfast on Thetis?” Jarus shrugs. “In Azôrô, it’s usually a kind of fish, with fruit and yogurt, and strong, strong tea the color of beet juice. There are variations of course, local ones, but in Azôrô, it’s called a fisherman’s breakfast.” “I’d like to try it.” “Come to Azôrô.” “Maybe I will, one day.” “I’ll show you around.” “I’d like that.” Jarus shifts on the edge of the bed and rummages through his own travel pack: past his palm-terminal, and wadded clothing. I’ll send my contact info.” Ivan nods and recites his dataspace address. From within the depths of his overstuffed backpack, he hears a muffled ping: the small electronic notice that he’s just received a message. “You’ve got my info,” Jarus says. Like all travelers, Ivan knows the small agony of departure, and like all travelers, Ivan knows how and when to put on his jacket and heft his backpack, sliding the straps over one shoulder and then the other. How to bounce on the balls of his feet to distribute the weight along the contour of his spine. He knows how to shorten the inevitable good-byes. He shakes hands with Jarus. “Thank you,” he says. Jarus, like all travelers, knows the proper response, and how to keep a short good-bye clean and neat. “Thank you,” he says. “Safe travels, Ivan.” “You too.” “Stay in touch.” “I will,” and because Ivan knows what other travelers know, he understands the skittish nature of his promise. He says nothing more, however. He hefts his backpack one more time, and then, quietly, without glancing back, steps to the door, through its opening, and pauses for a moment in the hallway, as the door thumps shut behind him. He listens for a moment, sure that he hears Jarus crawling back into bed. He steps down the hallway, guiding himself to the reception desk, and checks out. : : : THE END : : : Note: This story was written in memory of The Golden Sickle, a hostel in Prague that no longer exists. I worked there for a time. I lived there for a time. I met fellow travelers—some for physical, face-to-face friendships that lasted for half a year, and others for physical, face-to-face friendships that lasted only a single night. I wrote this story in memory of the drinking games I’d learned to play—games dissimilar to the Enumerations depicted here, but similar in the intimacies they allowed in situations that were, for lack of a better term, psychologically safe. There is a peculiar loneliness to long-term/long-distance travel, and thus, times when intimacy is of paramount importance. The Worlds, like Earth and Mars, like Sagitta are wholly fiction, as is the formerly-lost colony world of Thetis, but in very real hostels all over this non-fictional planet, there are strange intimacies that can (and should) only be shared by fellow travelers...people who share things they’ve never shared before—small things: personal truths and idle, but profound observations. Such people often promise to see one another again, but often, never do—the things they’ve shared, however, remain with them. *** Second Note: This has been a particularly hectic and disastrous week for me, and I think it reflects in the crazy path to posting this story has taken. One typo has caused innumerable posting errors, and my apologies go out to anyone who has seen this post appear, appear again in Itallics, elsewhere, disappear, only to pop up now in what should be (theoretically) its final form. As always, thank you for reading and commenting, and I hope you're all on the verge of a great year.