CALVIN

forty-five: the small little cottage

Calvin and I didn't talk about the makeup on his face. Not during the taxi ride, not during the train ride, not during stressful transfers to other train platforms. There was a time on the final train to Vaduz when I was about to bring it up. But I didn't know what to say. Instead we talked about dumb things like Twitter rants we'd read and Kurt Cobain conspiracies and the fact that Taylor Lautner was snubbed for the Oscar for his performance in Abduction. 

"I didn't know you could drive," I said in the train station parking lot, seeing Denis leaning against a black Mercedes van smoking a cigarette.

"Of course I can drive. I'm eighteen."

"What I meant was I didn't know your IQ was high enough to qualify for a license."

Calvin laughed as he threw his duffel bag into the back seat. "Very funny, man," said Denis, straight-faced, "and who scored higher than you on their English exam?"

"Mate, we're in two completely different education systems."

"The marks are transmissionable."

"Trans-what?"

"Transmissionable, Elias." he blew smoke in my face.

"I think the word he's going for is transferable," put in Calvin.

"It's good you have money," I said, clapping Denis on the shoulder as I hoisted myself into the front seat.

Vaduz was more of a town, really. In a valley, both sides rising up into green mountains. I saw the castle peaking out from the trees on one mountain range, and for a few moments toyed with the idea that that, indeed, was where Denis was taking us. Maybe he was Liechtenstein royalty. Students at the school had a way of surprising you with their archaic monarchical bloodlines.

But he was driving in a different direction, smoking out the window, blasting some German rap that I didn't know on the speakers. He took us up into the mountains. On roads that were more or less empty and that wound through trees and farmland. Eventually the road narrowed and got steeper, the forest got darker. As he rounded a bend a sleek, modern mansion appeared on an outcropping of rock. "Right," I said. "So this is the 'small little cottage' Nikita was talking about."

"I mean it's not really a cottage," said Denis obliviously, on his fourth cigarette, "it's more of a bungalow."

One word came to mind when we walked up the path to the front door of the mansion: zen. Another word came to mind, which had something to do with eating the rich. But I was trying to let go of all the thoughts that prevented me from enjoying life. 

Denis pushed open the heavy, humongous wooden door, which seemed to be floating on air. An expanse of concrete, wood and glass were inside. I almost thought there were no furniture in the bungalow, until I had a better look: they were custom, built in such a way that they blended into the concrete floors and minimal walls.

Already they were yelling.

"Jesus, it's immoral for you to have the best room in house 19 and then claim the master bedroom here!"

"I didn't claim it, Ehsan, I conquered it. There's a difference."

"Putting your cum sock on the doorknob doesn't count as conquering a - you can't fucking conquer a bedroom, you dipshit - "

"Guys guys guys," Nikita's voice, "Ehsan is wrong. It's exploitative, not immoral."

Jesus: "I'm cool with that." 

"You're from the Philippines."

"So? I can't be capitalist and from a third-world country?"

"Come on, Ehsan. Let's get the room on the ground floor. It has a mini fridge in it. And pool access."