And then one day I knew I must find Zakarias. I remembered his name from my childhood, spoken of softly and with reverence from within certain poems. One such went,
Here in the place of thought
I finally discern
How the world has crumbled
Help us, Zakarias
Other poems spoke of his deftness in discerning those who were ill. For many months now an ailment had afflicted me, the sort which no doctor could touch. If I could only find him, I was sure he could give me succor.
The last time I remembered hearing of his whereabouts was when my father was still alive. He regaled me with tales of Zakarias, of his surefooted guidance. “He was always about in the neighborhood, always available for a word of wisdom,” my father said.
I pushed open my apartment door with the goal of returning to the streets of my youth, focused on seeking him out. Once I was on the street, I took a few turns and boarded the old bus bound for the hilly distance on the city’s outskirts where I grew up. The bus wound its way through the old streets, threading itself higher and higher as each inclined street made way for the next. Occasionally I looked out the bus’s back window and saw the river broadening behind me as we rose up the side of the hills.
Then I was there. I stepped out onto the dusty sidewalk and memories flooded back. I saw at once the corner where my sister and I had played on many summer afternoons, begging for coins and then running to spend them. I smiled as I walked along. Much had changed, but here and there were still the older houses and my eye sought out hungrily any facades that had not altered with time. How I have changed, I thought. When was I last here? I couldn’t remember. I walked past the leafy avenues and fought against the tears that hung just behind my eyes.
A final turn and I entered my childhood street. Our house was gone, demolished so that an apartment building could rise in its wake, but our old neighbor’s house was still there. I walked up to the gate and rang the bell. A moment later the door to the door opened, and his stooped figure appeared.
“So, you’ve come back,” he said.
I smiled. “Perhaps I should have returned sooner,” I said. “Now that I’m here, I’m hopeful you might help me. My father spoke many times of Zakarias, of his comings and goings through the neighborhood.”
A sudden flash of knowing lit my neighbor’s face. A moment passed and then he said, “That was long ago. Yes, once he came through quite often. But I have not seen him for many years.”
“Uncle,” I said. “Do you have any thoughts of where I might seek him?”
He looked up at the sky a moment and scratched his grizzled chin. “Across the district perhaps,” he said. “The main crossing where the coffeeshops are. Someone may know.”
I thanked him and hurried away towards the main thoroughfare. Cars and bicycles buzzed around me as I walked up the sidewalk. Several markets were open for business; many bodies with arms full of fruit and bread pressed past me. The smell of produce gave my heart a turn of hope, a thrill of anticipation of finding Zakarias somewhere ahead.
I neared the other side of the district, and the crossing materialized in front of me. A few of the coffeeshops were closed, but one caught my eye. There were tables out front filled with people leaning forward and speaking intently to one another, arms gesturing while they made their sage points. I pushed open the door and peered into the smoky depths. A bar across the back wall was mostly empty except for the barista, a kindly-looking woman with a tight bun of hair. I walked up to her.
“I kiss your hand, auntie,” I said. “Please, may I trouble you?”
“Surely,” she said. “A coffee?”
“No thank you. I am looking for Zakarias. I heard he may be here or in some other nearby place.”
She looked at me with a sort of steady patience as though she knew my thoughts. “Zakarias?” she said. “Maybe once in a distant year but not now. I haven’t seen him for some time. Why do you need him?”
I gestured to myself with a weary hand. “There is an ailment weighing on me,” I said. “Many spoke of how he helped them with stresses. I grew up hearing his songs.”
She nodded, sympathetic to my hopes. “He’s not around here, I’m afraid. Where could Zakarias be? Perhaps you could try the other part of the city, across the river?”
I nodded, oddly having become so quietly accustomed to these disappointments. Still, she had given me a word of advice. I thanked her and left the shop. Once I was outside, I inquired of one of the sitting patrons, and they directed me to another bus, one that would bear me back down the hills and across the river’s width. I sat in a seat near the rear, and, while the bus trundled along, I looked out the window and thought about Zakarias.
I remembered snatches of my teacher’s words from school when I was young. She described a time when she was a girl, sitting in a similar class, when Zakarias had visited the school as a special encounter. Our teacher told us we could write out anything we wished for on a slip of paper, she said. Those slips would be given to Zakarias, and our hopes could be pinned with him from that moment on. The bus thumped across a pothole and the pain in my body hoisted itself to my attention. I gave a small groan, rubbing my leg and wondering how long my search might be.
I looked out the window. The avenues we passed streamed with people of every kind. Young children came and went from houses, school bags on their backs. Middle-aged men and women walked between shops and businesses. Older folk sat on street corners, fanning themselves and holding umbrellas to shield off the sun. I realized how closely I watched all of their faces, old and young, regardless of who they were or what they were doing, and I wondered if they were all like me. Did they all have a hope like mine?
Finally, the bus pulled into a distant station on the other side of the city. I disembarked and looked about. I saw a green park in the distance where I knew people would be sitting. I hurried in that direction. The benches inside where mostly full, but I spied on the far side a bench where only one man sat. I walked across the park, keeping the bench in my view. As it grew before me, I muttered a silent prayer.
I approached, and the man looked up from the paper he was reading. “Yes?” he said.
“Good day, sir, I wish you,” I said. “I came from across town. There were some from that part who believed Zakarias could be found around here.”
His eyes widened. “Zakarias?”
“Yes,” I said. “I need him.”
Now it was his turn to nod. “We all hope,” he said. “Why should you be any different? And you do well to look. But he has no fixed home. I wouldn’t want to suggest anything for fear of wasted time.”
I held up my arms. “Even you,” I said. “How many times? Is he nowhere to be?”
The stranger looked me up and down. “You have a severe condition?”
I bent my head in reply. He looked around him and gestured to the many who came and went throughout the park. “Many do too,” he said. “I wish you hope.”
I thanked him and left the park. I ignored the buses, and this time walked instead, not minding the distance or the time. As I walked, I poked my head in where I could. At each stop I asked the name Zakarias. Some shrugged. One woman said he had been there yesterday. A married couple told me they expected him in the next weeks. When I asked for his location hands pointed in all directions or to nowhere at all.
In the end, utterly worn out, I returned to my building. I mounted the steps, winding my way, until my apartment door came into view. I fished out my key and was about to put it into the door when I sudden sound small sound came from behind me.
There at the end it became quite difficult to move. An insolent war raged inside of me. I was free to enter my apartment. Nothing prevented it. Yet that life was familiar and grey. No relief waited for me inside. And now, standing in the hall, I was, on the precipice of choice. In spite of my manifold efforts throughout the day, here at the final moment my soul warred powerfully against itself.
So, I can tell you, it took quite all my effort to turn. But I did.
He stood and looked upon me with still eyes and a quiet smile.
“Zakarias,” I said. “I have been looking for you.” I stepped toward him and he toward me.
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