Love is a Bitter Pill

Zora sat with her face hanging down as she ate from a mountain of pasta. A horse-like breath punctuated each swallow. From what I could tell, her hair, long and unkempt, dangled in her food. Walking through town once, I saw a dog eating mush from a bowl, its long, hairy ears hung into its food. Later, walking by the same dog, I found it chewing leftover food from its ears. I wondered if Zora would do this, if she would eat food from her ears.
I turned my attention to Robert, my longtime and very dear friend, when he began to address the attendees of his birthday party. His toast began with the usual commentary associated with such a monologue, but was marked by another, more serious announcement. He declared that he and Zora had made plans to wed. Zora continued to focus on her plate. Bending over, Robert kissed her on the temple as the last of the noodles swam up her mouth like a wet fish. Then, he fumbled with a bottle of champagne, and, just as someone offered assistance, managed to uncork it. The celebratory mood of an already happy occasion was made that much more eventful.
I had been trying to destroy Robert’s relationship with Zora for almost a year. But, this new announcement proved that I had not tried hard enough. More extreme measures, it will show, would be necessary. I resolved at that moment to visit the druggist in my township at the very next opportunity. The druggist manufactured and distributed medicine to the people of town, but also practiced the darker element of his craft. Using age old techniques, he would create potions designed to bend the will of the human spirit. As it turned out, he would supply me with two capsules each filled with a dangerous and powerful serum that I would use in my war on Robert’s most disagreeable love affair with Zora. My mishandling of their application would lead to unexpected consequences wholly unimagined by me at the time.
Robert met Zora last summer during the week-long festival that our township customarily celebrates to mark the end of the season. The occasion attracts many entertainers representing a wide variety of performance art. Perhaps the most recognized of these artists, owing to his incredible virtuosity, is Zulan. His act fuses magic and music, and as such, he performs the roles of magician and musician simultaneously. His stage presence is unmatched, his speed is invisible, his showmanship peerless.
Robert and I, like so many other people, had come to the amphitheatre near the sea to celebrate the seasonal festival by watching Zulan perform. Large fire pits dotted the field where the audience began to assemble. Paper lanterns, set aglow by candlelight, hung from the rafters of the stage itself, and, at the foot of the stage, large torches blazed bright. Lightning bugs, whose abdomens flicker with points of light, zigzagged across a backdrop of stars. Then the moon, slowly rising, added its component to the symphony of light.
Then, from far off, beginning faintly but steadily rising in volume there came a sound not heard since the Fifth War. At first, only those listening carefully could hear it, but as the sound grew in volume, it commanded everyone’s full attention. Although a tiny boy during that terrible conflict, I still remember the sound made when hundreds upon hundreds of enemy soldiers, after having found victory on the field of battle, marched through our town, the blood of our brethren still fresh on their bayonets. Their heavy boots, like the hooves of great plow animals, shook the very firmament. Each of their steps fell in unison and with a militant precision, giving the ordeal an even more terrifying quality. To this day, I dread the sound, and one could imagine my state of mind at hearing it again. Clearly, others shared in my sense of fear, for members of the audience, seeking safety in the company of others, drew close together. Some nervously scanned the horizon looking for signs that might reveal the location of advancing foot troops. Others scurried up over the grassy edge of the amphitheatre and searched the horizon from that perspective. Soon, the marching sound bore down on us directly. Panic began to reveal itself on the faces of many. Just as the fear began to crescendo, a soldier appeared from the wings of the stage. He marched stiffly across the stage towards the center, his body set at rigid straight lines and right angles. He carried a rifle. Each of his boot steps fell with the sound and force of whole regiments of organized soldiers. This lone soldier assumed center stage, and in a heavily orchestrated motion, wheeled around, and with clatter, froze facing the audience. Zulan.
How Zulan made the sounds of an approaching army to echo among the hills no one knows. He stood gazing contemplatively at, or rather through, the audience. He wore a uniform of his own design. A mercenary. He stood at attention for some time, then, with much flamboyance, acted upon his white and silver rifle, wheeling it around dramatically in a highly choreographed fashion before finally taking aim skyward and firing a single round. The report of that one shot resounded through the air as if the members of an entire regiment had discharged their weapons on Zulan’s cue. Then, unexpectedly, he swept the rifle around and placed his lips to the tip of the barrel. Looking cross-eyed down the barrel from this perspective, he pulled back the hammer on the rifle. A pull of the trigger would spell the end for Zulan. Each spectator, now hopelessly curious and baffled, looked on. Zulan took what could have been his last breath before casually blowing into the barrel of the rifle. A tender and soulful note took hold of the night air. Zulan began to coax sweet music from that rifle, and although his composition began slowly it ended with him pouring notes from his unlikely instrument with such ferocity as to lift the members of the audience off the ground and hold them there like so many leaves caught in a whirlwind. Thunderous applause fell on the heels of the last note at which time Zulan fired another round skyward reminding everyone that he had indeed played a rifle. Then, several palm fronds which adorned the stage burst into flames, and during this distraction, Zulan vanished.

Enlivened by the performance, Robert and I began to prowl amongst the audience, to find what adventures might await us. Of course, being young and unmarried, we found extreme pleasure in fraternizing with those members of the opposite sex. Only because it is relevant to the story, and not due to a lack of modesty, do I relate that our physical features, our wealth, and our tireless charm made us particularly well suited to finding companionship among a bevy of doting females. Each one a separate and beautiful work of art. Choosing a favorite, it seemed at the time, would be impossible.
At the rear of the amphitheatre stood a large gazebo of fine construction which featured an ornately carved wooden frieze. Wine, spirits and other refreshments were served under its canopy. Without a performer on stage, the area under and around the gazebo had become extremely crowded. Robert and I stood for awhile allowing our senses to bask in the stimuli that only a warm night during a summer festival could produce. While doing so, I spotted a beautiful woman. Her gold hair reflected the moonlight with a brilliance matched only by her clear blue eyes. Her pink dress, being similar to those in fashion at the time, revealed very little of her person. However, those features that were visible left no doubt that her physical beauty did not end where her hemline began. Her full, moist lips were turned up in a smile revealing gleaming white teeth.
“I’m in love,” Robert said, half to himself.
“Me too,” I added, “and as you know, blonde hair is usually not my favorite but…”
“Blonde hair?” Robert interrupted.
“Yes. It’s usually not my favorite but… ”
“Hmmm, no, we’re speaking about different women. Look.”
With these words Robert gestured at the woman he had been watching. She seemed terribly older than Robert. She had a crooked nose making her whole face seem crooked. The clouds of pipe smoke between us made it difficult to see, but not so difficult that I failed to notice her long, pointy teeth, teeth like those found in the mouths of some predatory fish. She wore too much make-up, and worse, it seemed that she had applied it in great haste. Her dress featured the feathers of a peacock. A crystal pendant hung from her necklace. On almost every finger she wore a ring, and, from the lobes of her long ears dangled beads of turquoise. On stage, playing the part of a clown, I might have enjoyed her wardrobe. I frowned and shook my head, confused by Robert’s proclamation. I found again my darling in pink, a welcome relief to my eyes, eyes made sore from looking at the new love Robert had claimed to have found.
Suddenly, cymbals clashed, bells rang, drums thundered, and against this aural backdrop, the voice of Zulan boomed indicating the end of intermission. In a flash, Robert and I both were swept up by the flood of people eager to see the rest of the performance.
Although the remainder of Zulan’s act proved as dramatic, unusual and entertaining as his entrance, Robert showed little interest. Instead he spent the rest of the show, scanning the crowd, looking, it seemed, for the unusual woman he had spotted earlier.
At the show’s conclusion, Robert joined me in the square outside of the amphitheatre. We casually spoke of Zulan, of a summer quickly coming to an end, but before too long, Robert steered our conversation to his new love, and his need to find her. At this I laughed, “Are you kidding me? You’re still thinking of her? Did you see her teeth? You haven’t even met her! How old do you think she is? Now that girl in pink…now that’s an entirely different story…now there’s a woman worth exploring. I should have introduced myself during intermission when I had the chance. There’s no hope in finding her now. For all I know, she might have come from another township.”
Robert stood up and straightened his collar, his tone of voice made it clear that my words did not interest him, “I need to find her,” he repeated.
Here, fortune smiled on Robert, or cursed him. As if on cue, she appeared, along with a group of friends. They laughed, and drank, and smoked, and cursed. They behaved very differently than the ladies whose company Robert and I usually kept. I smiled, not at their charm, but at their coarseness which I found ridiculous. These women were making their way towards a road that leaves our town, connecting it to others. “Good,” I thought, and perhaps even said out loud.
Without a word, Robert darted across the square towards her. I followed him, some distance behind; curious to see how the encounter would unfold. Robert, although relatively young, is one of the wealthiest businessmen in our township, whereas the woman appeared to be a poor gypsy. I watched them talk, confident that at any moment, Robert would realize his error in judgment regarding this woman. I could not hear them, but from what I could see, they talked effortlessly. They shared a few laughs. Her body language indicated a fondness for Robert. After gesturing my way, Robert waved me over. Once I obliged him, Robert introduced her as Zora. She had dim brown eyes. She had tattoos. She had thin white lips. From up close, her make-up could not hide her rough complexion. Stunning features she had none. When Robert invited me to accompany them while he walked her home, I feigned illness and walked home alone.
Originally, I figured Robert’s feelings towards Zora would fade without my interference. I reasoned that Robert would come to discover that Zora offered him little in the way of a meaningful relationship. I joked with him about her age, her nagging laugh, and her clownish style of dress. When it became clear that my teasing had no effect, I assumed a more serious posturing. I counseled him, “She is poor, you are wealthy, perhaps this is what motivates her.” I reminded him that she contrasted so dramatically with his prior love interests in every way possible to such a degree I felt it a cause for concern.
Eventually, I took more devious measures. Those times I visited Robert at his home, I would make sure to bring women. Each of them came to genuinely desire Robert, and more importantly, made their desire known to him. None, however, could procure his interest. Still, I did not give up, I would not allow my friend be tricked into loving a woman like Zora.
I cornered Zora whenever the chance permitted itself, and spoke tirelessly with her about Robert’s shortcomings, and here I had to exaggerate, for Robert is possessed of so many fine qualities. I mislead her about Robert’s financial well-being, his libido, his loyalty, his health, and all other qualities I assumed a woman would deem important. She came to wonder about my antagonism towards her. She once complained about me to Robert. He quizzed me about my dealings with Zora; I feigned shock and wondered out loud why she would want to hazard our friendship with such inventions. I used the equity of our years’ worth of friendship as leverage in placing my word against hers.
Through a network of mutual acquaintances I came to learn a great deal more about Zora. My blood stirred each time I learned of one of her many improprieties. Every one of my findings proved the sophistication of my intuition. I thought for certain that these facts, when presented to Robert separately, or as I did, together, would illuminate Zora’s shady past and unscrupulous character and prompt Robert to reconsider the role, if any, that Zora should play in his life. I found Zora had an estranged child, a daughter, a surprisingly old one too. After pressing Robert about this, he coolly explained that Zora, like anyone else, had made some mistakes. I learned that Zora once worked as a prostitute in a distant capital. A place far different from the wholesome township that Robert and I had been raised. In fact, the odd tattoo she bore on her wrist had once served the function of a brand for women in her trade. Robert reacted dispassionately. He swayed his head and described her life as having been especially difficult. He added that I might have more compassion if I were to understand her position in life at that time. I mentioned her two previous husbands. He called the men foolish for failing to appreciate Zora’s rare beauty. I reminded him of Zora’s last love affair which, incidentally, involved a business rival that I knew Robert did not care for. He dismissed this saying that, at the time, he had not yet met Zora.
Nothing I could do convinced Robert that his feelings for Zora were temporary, and when wedding plans were announced, as related earlier, I began a new campaign to save Robert.
Phillip, the druggist, operated a laboratory near the center of town. While entering, I saw containers of every size and shape: cups, beakers, vials, jars, cylinders, made of both colored and clear glass. Many of the glass containers stood half filled with substances of exotic colors, bright tangerine, emerald green, burning amber. Gemstones lay scattered about on one table and next to these, a variety of plant parts. Sprigs, leaves, bark, petals, roots. Each would find its way into a potion before too long. A thick smell, alien to me, hung in the air. The sound of dripping water could be heard which provided an approximate counterpoint to the ticking of the wall clock. A variety of charts and graphs hung about the walls, and upon these various notes made in Phillip’s own hand. Books, large important looking volumes, sat open on each of the many workbenches. These too contained scribbled notes. Against one wall, Phillip had hung each of his hand tools, small silvery instruments that resembled the hardware used by surgeons. Beneath these, in large glass jars, floated the bloated bodies of fish, lizards, and amphibians. Phillip would harvest needed parts from these corpses when brewing his elixirs. At the rear of the lab, near the adjoining office, appeared what seemed to be his latest project. It consisted of an entanglement of copper tubing below which sat some sort of control panel. On the panel’s face were a variety of knobs, levers, and switches and a bank of gauges whose pointers all lazily slept at “0”.
I spoke at length with Phillip, my old friend, before finally turning onto the delicate subject of Robert’s mistaken love interest. I intimated every detail of Zora, her lurid history as a prostitute. Her daughter. Her age. Her homely features. Her husbands. Her hoarse voice. Her desire to share in Robert’s wealth and social standing. In short, I tried to impart to Phil what I already knew, that her and Robert were a poor match. He listened attentively before finally inquiring how the matter came to concern him at which point I communicated to him my specific request, “Robert, it is obvious, thinks he’s in love, I need something, some drug, some elixir, something that I can give to one of them that will set Robert’s senses straight, however that might be accomplished.”
At this Phillip became less casual, “I don’t think I can help,” he said flatly.
“But I know differently. You’re always conjuring up a variety of potions to do all sorts of things. Phillip, I…Robert needs your help. I’ve failed in everything I’ve tried. Can’t you make something…anything?” I had never asked of Phillip a favor like this, and, I had assumed he would be more of an enthused participant as I had always knew him to derive much pleasure in the crafting of potions.
“Yes, I can make potions…I make them all the time, and effective ones too. But with them I aim to solve far more tangible problems…allergies, snake bites, things like that. What you’re asking may be beyond the scope of my knowledge, although, I have heard of it being done. I once experimented with such potions, they were costly and none worked, although one resulted in the user having erotic dreams. Ha! Well, I have never doubted your judgment, if you are clear that your friend needs my help, I’ll see what I can do, but, I’ll need some time.”
Confident in his abilities, I left Phillip after thanking him kindly. For many days, I waited, during which time I did not see or hear from Robert or Zora. I had given up hope that Robert would realize his madness.
Upon visiting Phillip the second time, I found him, with a furrowed brow, standing among the web of copper tubing he had erected dictating notes from the control panel’s gauges to a well worn notebook.
“Phillip!” I called out, eager to see what he might have for me.
“Ah! Come, come, I have what I think you will be happy with,” he said as he made his way into a small office attached to his lab and returned with a small package, this he tossed onto the desk in front of me. I carefully unfolded it, revealing two capsules whose translucent outer shell contained a syrupy substance.
Phillip lifted his eyeglasses off the bridge of his nose, placing them on his forehead and produced some matches from within his breast pocket. These he set aside.
“Well” he said, “I tried developing a serum of my own creation, but again, no success. So, I looked up an old schoolmate. As a wizard, the mystery of love is something he had always concerned himself with. I meant to ask him for some insight into the problem. Unfortunately, I learned that he recently passed away. His former apprentice, though, did give me those. They are the last of their kind.” Phillip began twisting an array of brass knobs which caused a soft humming sound to emanate from the copper tubing. “I am not familiar with their creation. Should something go wrong, I want to make it clear – I can be of no assistance.”
I held a pill between my thumb and forefinger, looking at it with the aid of sunlight. I felt myself beginning to smile.
“As for dosage, I cannot say that I am exactly sure, although I would suggest using one,” Phillip spoke while flipping switches on the control panel causing an array of dials and gauges to bounce alive. “Now, once someone swallows a pill, he or she will fall deeply and madly in love with whomever they lock eyes with first, so exercise considerable caution. Watch your surroundings. Plan it out,” With this, he pulled at a heavy lever and a slow grinding sound ensued, “Remember, if it is Robert she sees, or if it is she Robert sees, you’ll be in the same situation. Also, mind your own whereabouts, you wouldn’t want either of them looking at you when they swallowed the pill!” Here, Phillip withdrew a match from his workbench. With a flick he scratched it across the table top. While the tiny fire consumed the small bit of fuel that Phillip held between his fingers, he gave his last bit of advice, “Now, I know you’ve got your mind set on whatever you’re going to do, but beware, those pills can alter fate itself, a very