Private Viewing

Short story

Steve Protich had made a choice that afternoon. Instead of accompanying Jane, his wife, to the swimming lesson she’d been looking forward to for weeks, he’d accepted his friend Larry’s invitation to a photography exhibition at the local cultural center. Larry’s description of it as “war’n’stuff” had been enough to pique Steve’s interest.

The center was a fairly small place. Inside, it resembled a diner, except that the tables had been replaced with stands displaying photographs. The pictures showed scenes from various wars waged around the world in the second half of the twentieth century.

Steve and Larry had come straight from work. Steve still wore his faded polo shirt while Larry had on a hoodie and a pair of camo pants that had started fraying at the cuffs, whereas everyone around them wore sport coats or tailored dresses.

The friends were discussing the photograph of a woman lying on the asphalt, having just been taken down by a sniper, when they were approached by what seemed to be one of the visitors.

“Ah, Sniper Alley,” the stranger said. “The Bosnian War. Morbidly fascinating…”

Steve and Larry turned around and frowned. In front of them stood a tall man around fifty, bald, dressed in an all-black suit, including his shirt and his tie.

“Interesting choice of words,” Steve said.

“Isn’t it?” the black suit said and inhaled through a tense smile. “It’s as though we want to learn all we can about the most lethal of things, see them as close as we can, yet – ironically enough – from a safe distance.”

“You sure sound like someone who’s thought a lot about that,” Larry said. Steve found himself unable to hide a snicker.

“As the organizer of this exhibition, I felt I owed it the consideration it deserved.” He then extended a hand. “Garrick Melhus.”

Steve and Larry introduced themselves to Garrick and exchanged pleasantries, complimenting him on the event.

“Gentlemen, I’m going to be honest with you – it is quite rare for me to see guests study the pictures with such reverence and captivation as you have. I feel compelled to invite you to my residence, where I can show you things far more marvelous than… photographs.”

“You mean, like, now?” Larry asked and rubbed the nape of his neck.

“Of course! Why waste any time? There’s such a shortage of it already.”

“I usually don’t go to strangers’ houses, you know,” Steve said. “And I’m sure you’ll be needed here.”

“This is an exhibition, Steve, not a rock concert. No one knows or recognizes me here. Besides, do you see that gorgeous young lady over there? The one with the glasses?”

“Yeah,” Larry and Steve said simultaneously.

“That’s Beatrice, my assistant. She will take care of everything. We’ll only be an hour. I live five minutes away.”

Steve shrugged. “I mean, you’d be okay with two strangers at your home? You barely know us.”

Garrick cleared his throat. “As I mentioned, it is unusual for me to meet people who’d share my passion for war or, uh, history,” he said and forced a smile, though his eyes remained unchanged.

“Come on, Steve!” Larry said, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “When are you ever going to get another chance to see some cool and rare historical artifacts? For free!”

“Oh, those I have many of, I can promise you that,” Garrick interjected.

Knowing what a history geek Larry was, Steve thought it’d be better to agree to the organizer’s offer than let him walk into a stranger’s house alone. He sighed, letting his hands fall against his thighs. “All right, but you better have something interesting to show us. Like Hitler’s skull or something.”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.” Garrick strode toward the exit. “Follow me.”

Once outside, he unlocked the car remotely, and the two friends immediately knew which vehicle belonged to the curator. It was devoid of any vulgarity. Its black body gathered the last light of the setting sun without reflecting it. The machine waited in perfect stillness, occupying the lot with the quiet confidence of something that had no need to prove its exorbitant worth.

“Holy smokes!” Larry shouted, pointing at the car. “Is that a Rolls-Royce?”

“Wraith,” Garrick clarified. “Though I’m not one to announce my prosperity.”

Steve and Larry sat gingerly in the backseat. Steve kept reminding himself not to touch anything, convinced that a single smudge of his making would cost him his yearly salary.

Garrick pressed the start button and the engine revealed itself with a deep whisper. As they moved away from the cultural center, the friends felt as though they were sitting in a moving room, gliding effortlessly through the streets.

After about five minutes, Steve noticed they still weren’t anywhere near any residential neighborhood. “So, hey, uh, what part of town do you live in?”

“That is none of your concern,” Garrick said, his gaze focused exclusively on the road.

“But weren’t we supposed to–”

“You know what I find funny?” Garrick asked without expecting an answer. “That people think war is entertainment. Movies, video games, fucking camo pants…”

“Uh, Garrick, you’re driving over the speed limit,” Larry said.

“Do you have any idea what war is? Do you?” Garrick yelled.

“Slow down, man!” Steve urged in like manner. “You’re going to crash the fucking car, dude!”

“War is death, motherfucker! Semper fi! Do or die! Gung ho! Gung ho! Gung ho!”

Garrick stepped on the gas pedal. In a matter of seconds, the engine gathered all its strength and answered with a commanding growl. The immense vehicle lunged forward with incredible force, throwing the passengers back against their seats.

“You’re going to kill us, man!” Larry cried, then was thrown to the side on a curve.

“Garrick! Garrick, listen!” Steve said, trying his best to lean closer to the driver. “I know war’s fucked up! I get it! Lots of people profit from it! But! But we’re not making fun of it! We just want to understand! Understand the hell of it!”

Garrick tightened his grip on the steering wheel and bellowed, “This is an utter fucking disgrace!”

Garrick drifted onto a descending street that followed the water’s edge before ending at a dead end some two miles ahead. Through Steve’s window, the water was only a few feet away. Larry, sitting behind the driver, saw nothing but a brick wall running unbroken along the entire length of the road.

Steve, struggling against the car’s acceleration, scrambled to the front passenger seat. “Stop the fucking car, man!” he yelled but Garrick only looked straight ahead, as if his brain suffered a glitch in its neuronal software.

He knew he had to act quickly – not only to save himself before the car crashed into the wall but also to give Larry enough time to escape.

Looking at his friend, Steve shouted in quick bursts: “You! Go! After me!”

He then kicked the door open, only for it to be immediately ripped off by whatever obstructed its path.

Steve planted his feet firmly on the side of the seat, straightened his legs, and propelled himself out of the car, flying into the darkness of the murky water below.

He heard the crash but wasn’t sure whether Larry had made it out in time.

Once underwater, Steve remembered two things – that in the thirty-seven years he’d lived, he’d never learned to swim, and how much he loved his wife, Jane.

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Written by Christopher Sworen