A Plethora of Pomegranates

The following is inspired by real events.

The detective ran his fingers through the tangles in his graying beard, coughed, and asked me again if I knew where to find the mural painter.  I repeated that not only did I not know the whereabouts of the painter, but I also hadn’t seen nor heard from her in over a year.  He removed his glasses, set them on the table, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  I leaned back in the metal chair and crossed my arms.

The police officer standing by the door rolled his eyes when the detective stood up and started pacing from the wall to the two-way mirror.

“Detective Hammett,” I said.  “I really have no idea where the painter has been or is now.  I wrote her a letter last March and still haven’t heard from her.”

“Tell me exactly what happened the last day you saw her.”

“We met at some benches by the plexi-glass staircase in the middle of the cherry blossom park.  She asked me if I wanted to go the pavilion with her to buy some shoes and clothes for a trip.  And then we had lunch, we walked back to the park, talked for a while and that was the last time I saw her.”

Detective Hammett stopped pacing and looked at me.

“You want to know what she bought and where we ate?”

The detective nodded.

“She picked up a pair of orange sneakers she’d ordered online and then we had Malaysian food at the restaurant nearest to the park.”

“The one with the rain forest painting and the karaoke machine?”

I nodded.  The detective told me to continue.

“I didn’t finish my food; she asked me if I wanted her chicken satay and roti to take home too.  That’s all.”

Detective Hammett was about to say something more when the police officer by the door stepped aside to let someone enter the interrogation room.  A woman with long dirty blonde hair in a braid stepped inside and strode over to stand next to me.  She told the detective that she was my lawyer, that I would no longer be answering any more questions, and that she would be taking me with her.

She tapped my left shoulder when the detective hadn’t responded.  I pushed the chair back and stood up, keeping my eyes on the detective for any sudden movements or signs that he might object.  He didn’t.  He gave me his card and asked me to contact him if I remember anything else.

The woman and I didn’t say a word until we were a block away from the police station.  We stopped in front of a pub that I swore used to be a liquor store.  I looked up at the sign and instead of “Ibrahim Imports,” it said, “A Plethora of Pomegranates.”

“You finally did it.”

The woman nodded.

“Did you get my letter?”

The woman nodded.

“So why didn’t you ever write back?  It’s been over a year…were it not for the fact that I know you can take care of yourself, I’d have called all of your crowd-funding backers for information.”

“I was never in one place long enough to receive mail.”

The woman took my arm and urged me to follow her inside the pub.  The walls were covered in illustrated film posters and passages from science-fiction novels.  A record player was in the back corner along with a row of pay phones.

“Did you paint these walls?”

The woman nodded.

“I hope I never see that detective again.  I’m a terrible liar; if he asks me if I’ve heard from you, what am I gonna say?”

“Tell the truth.  You don’t know where the mural painter is, but you know a very good lawyer who moonlights as a bartender who happens to have great taste in paintings.”

2 thoughts on “A Plethora of Pomegranates

  1. Christopher

    Au début je supposais que le narrateur était une femme. Mais quand je voyais “…..I leaned back in the metal chair and crossed my arms…” je savais que cette supposition avait été
    incorrect!!

    Je aimais bien cette petite histoire. C’est tres “noirish”.

    Reply

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