Chased by demons both real and imagined, he runs down metallic stairs that echo against their concrete walls. This song runs through his head, adding to the intrigue with its dramatic push and driving beat. It is mood music, the soundtrack to an action sequence that drives the narrative while engaging with an underlying tension. Summer crafts a different sort of drama – heightened, feverish, and slightly more sinister than perhaps any other time of the year. Summer is supposed to be easy, so when trauma does rear its head, it somehow feels a little bit worse. Or a little more exciting. Life depends so much on interpretation and attitude.
Back to the opening sentence, and our protagonist, always some version of myself either current or past or even future, is running through the stairs of a Russian hotel during the summer of 1990. I was chasing myself, seeking the boy I used to be, and the man I was on the verge of becoming, and not quite catching up to either. I was just beginning to understand the art of conjuring drama, of telling a story, of being of such peaked interest to people that you stayed on their mind even and especially when absent. And in the absence of apparent love, this is what the adolescent does to emotionally survive.
The art of making an impression.
And so I ran, in the movie of my mind, and on an actual day when my absence might have been a matter of interest had anyone bothered to notice. La Habanera danced before my head, and I found a means of escape, and exit. Outside the hotel, the air was warm. A Russian night unfurled in the forest beyond the hotel grounds. Summer demands exploration, and danger bound inextricably to the fabric of discovery. The point of innocence is often only seen in its unraveling.
