It was hot in Zanzibar, the kind of heat that comes from the stones and the sea together, baked into the alleys and the bones of old buildings. The fans in the bar turned slowly and didn’t do any good. The bar had no name anymore, not one anyone remembered. The paint had peeled off the wood and the bottles behind the counter were half-full or empty. The beer was warm.
He sat alone at the corner table, back against the wall like he always did. His shirt was wrinkled and damp, and his hands, big hands with veins like cords, trembled just a little when he lit the cigarette. He had worked all his life. In mines, on ships, in deserts that cracked your lips and froze your soul at night. He had not been afraid to work. He had been afraid of other things. But not work.
The door opened. A young man walked in. Thin but not weak, sunburned at the edges, eyes sharp and angry the way young men’s eyes are when they think they’re invincible. The man at the table watched him. The kid ordered something cheap and turned. Their eyes met.
The young man came over.
“Mind if I sit?”
The older man shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
They drank without talking for a while. Outside, the tide was coming in. You could smell the salt through the broken windows.
“You been around?” the young man asked.
“Around what?”
“Around the world. Places.”
The older man nodded. “More than I should’ve.”
“I want to go. Don’t know where yet. Just… away.”
“Why?”
The kid shrugged. “Nothing for me here. I don’t want to end up like—” he hesitated.
“Like me?” the older man said.
The young man looked ashamed.
“It’s all right,” the older man said. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to end up like me either.”
“You look like you’ve lived.”
“I have. Lived and worked and fought and drank. Buried friends. Watched the sun rise on every damn continent and cursed it just the same. It gets old.”
“I’d still like to see it.”
“You will.”
The young man leaned in. “You ever regret it?”
The older man didn’t answer at first. He smoked and stared out the window. A dhow was coming in, low in the water.
“Some things,” he said. “Not all. Some.”
“Like what?”
The older man tapped his glass. “Chasing things that didn’t matter. Money. Pride. A name. You break your back and bleed for them, and then you wake up and realize no one remembers you anyway. You’re just another tired man in a dirty bar.”
The young man looked down at his hands. “I don’t want to be forgotten.”
“You will be,” the older man said. “We all are. But maybe you make a few good memories. Maybe you make one person’s life a little less miserable. Maybe you don’t lie too much to yourself.”
They drank again.
“I had a woman once,” the older man said. “In Peru. She smelled like jasmine and cinnamon. I could’ve stayed. She wanted me to. But I kept moving. Thought the world had more for me.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
Silence again. The fans buzzed like mosquitoes.
The younger man looked up. “You sound like you know me.”
The older man looked at him hard. “I do.”
Something passed between them, not quite said, not quite understood.
“You’re me, aren’t you?” the young man said.
The older man didn’t smile, but his eyes softened.
“A version. One of many. I don’t know how I got here. Maybe it’s the drink. Maybe the heat. Maybe Zanzibar’s the last stop before the river.”
“I don’t want to end up bitter.”
“Then don’t lie to yourself. Don’t stay when you should go. Don’t go when you should stay.”
The younger man laughed, a short, hard laugh.
“Not much help.”
“No,” the older man said. “It never is.”
They finished their drinks. The older man stood up slowly, bones creaking, joints stiff from a thousand days of hard labor and cheap beds.
“I’ll be going,” he said.
“Where?”
“Nowhere left to go.”
The young man watched him leave. The door swung shut behind him, and the bar was quiet again, except for the hum of the fan and the distant call to prayer.
He sat there a long time.
When he finally got up, he paid for both drinks.
Outside, the air was still heavy, but the light was different. Softer somehow. The tide had come all the way in. He started walking.
He didn’t know where yet. Just… away.
Broken Author 