~ Sia

Sia takes another deep breath, allowing Tei and Hanne to lead her into the hotel lobby. The venue is surprisingly lavish in comparison to previous years, she hears, and The Grant seems to be perfect for the occasion. Parts of the structure’s facade were taken from abandoned buildings formerly found at the old northern strip of the city. A huge shopping mall construction is currently underway there, replacing the old with the new, whilst The Grant managed to salvage parts of the city’s forgotten history. Its interiors are plush and deeply reminiscent of old colonial times, furnished by a massive collection of antiques collected locally and around the globe. It is said that the hotel’s banquet room is the most sought after, offering an array of authentic colonial menu, complete with live old band music, under a golden skylight of stars.

Sia can feel a tinge of sadness as she watches every corner of its great hallways, its arched walls and photographs of old town; the way the river was back then, snaking through the city with such still waters, and ladies strolling its streets, laced all pretty with petite parasols in hand, protecting them from the tropical sun. She imagines looking at endless blue skies behind such nameless faces, wondering what it must have felt like back then. None too good for the indigenous population, no doubt.

“They have started, dear,” says Hanne softly, as if afraid to disturb her thoughts. He takes her hand, slowly following Tei into a huge circular lobby of golden skylights. She can hear their steps echoing off its polished floors, their reflections perfectly clear on its golden surface. “Beautiful place, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Sia nods. She notices a second ballroom just to her right, a graduation of medical students states the signage. Hanne leads her to her left into a more private waiting area just outside of the hotel’s main ballroom. She can see a small number of people huddling together here and there, live music playing from behind a set of gigantic brass doors.

Tei stops short at the doors and turns to look at Sia, her eyes scrutinizing Sia’s emotions.

“Are you ready?” she asks. “They will call your name in a few minutes.”

Sia nods. “I’m ready.”

Hanne takes a quick look at Sia, pleased with the way she looks tonight. He taps her hand warmly and winks an eye, “Shall we?”

Tei acknowledges Hanne’s remark and makes a quick phone call. A small woman quickly emerges from behind those gigantic brass doors, quietly ushering them inside.

 

~ Moeya

She watches Tiero pacing backwards and forwards all afternoon long. The guy has been standing on edge nonstop and has begun to drive her crazy just by looking at him alone. She calls Yuena, her co-worker and part of the production team, to check outside and see signs of Sia. Even when guests have arrived in swarms, Yuena has little to say and can only offer consoling looks from the other side of the room.

“I can’t stand it,” Moeya hissed into her walkie-talkie. “It’s like waiting for water to boil, he’s driving me nuts!”

“But I didn’t see anybody,” Yuena replies. The girl has been up from early morning to do a final stage check and has been running around mad herself.

Moeya eyes Tiero who sits and stands, pacing here and there, asking the same questions over and over to the floor director, driving the old man crazy.

“Can you check again?” Moeya pleads.

“I will, I will,” Yuena sighs. “Give me a minute, okay.”

“Okay.” Moeya pulls a long sigh herself and steps away from her computer for a quick peek from the other end of the stage. The ballroom is still well lit and guests have just seated themselves, engorging in buzzing conversations and food. She scans the room slowly, looking for any signs of Sia’s presence. She notices the ballroom doors closing, a sure sign for the live show to begin, and hurries back to her seat.

“Moeya,” she can hear Yuena’s voice hissing from the other side of the radio.

“Anything?” Moeya replies, feeling her old heart skipping a beat.

“I can’t stand here any longer, the show’s starting,” says Yuena apologetically.

“Okay, okay,” Moeya nods and takes a quick glance at Tiero, sitting nervously with his assistant and the show director. When the guy turns to her, Moeya gives him a two-thumbs up and a grin, feeling somewhat defeated herself.

 

~ Tiero

Tiero can feel the back of his hairs standing on ends as he paces backwards and forwards, in and out of the backstage area, nervous and flushed and incredibly at a loss, all at the same time. He can see Moeya and Yue – one of the production crew – sitting at the corner by the switchboard and computers, doing last minute preparations. Everything is set but his nerves betray him; all those preparations, sleepless nights and tireless days mean absolutely nothing at that particular moment. He is still as giddy as a school boy and no one is there to offer him comfort and advice.

Not the way Sia did, all those years ago.

Tiero clears his throat and decides to go on deck for a final check. He knows he has little to worry and the stage is as perfect as he described it to the production crew. He can hear indescript murmurs and noises from outside the ballroom doors and the floor director chasing after him, notifying him that the time has come to begin. He orders his staff to open the doors of the great ballroom and checks with the kitchen manager if hors d’oeuvres and beverages are ready to be served once guests have been seated.

“Hey Tiero!” Moeya calls out to him, waving her hand behind her computer.

Tiero turns. “Yeah?”

“Break a leg!” Moeya grins, giving him her two thumbs up.

“Thanks!” Tiero replies halfheartedly, feeling his legs giving way under his own weight. He watches the silhouettes of his two hosts welcoming guests into the great ballroom, informing them that dinner is about to be served and the live show is commencing in thirty minutes. Tiero slumps back on the sofa prepared for him, his thoughts spinning into a large blob of blabbering nonsense, feeling completely drained out of his wits.

 

~ Ayde

It’s Friday at last.

Ayde walks into The Grant with his friends, shifting uncomfortably between crowds of people he hardly knows. There are photographers, cameramen and various media teams scattered around the area toward the grand ballroom. Arri’s graduation is located on the second ballroom across it, divided by a huge circular lobby of looming golden skylights. In comparison, Arri’s event is far less superior with so few photographers loitering by the entrance, snapping pictures of whomever walking passed them, looking somewhat envious of what’s happening on the other side of the lobby.

Curiosity has always gotten the best of Ayde and tonight is no exception. He knows it’s the National Writer’s Guild Awards night, one that Arri spoke of times and times over. The Council of Arts and Culture has put special attention over local artisans over the past few years, supporting various ventures to ensure the country’s grip on the global map. With their second economy collapse not too far behind them, it’s surprising how a little care goes a long way. Awareness is slow, but the population’s attention is growing through rigorous advertisements, festivals, roadshows and scholarships. It’s a good sign of change; until recently, it is a country oblivious of its rich cultural diversity and the endless potential it carries. Now, the country has gained more revenue from exporting visual and literary forms of arts and culture, both traditional and contemporary, on levels unheard of before. Growing education opportunities are just part of its side effects; on a larger micro stage, it has produced more jobs in the middle lower industries, helping just enough to sustain the country’s fragile economy.

After getting their proper seating and the graduation under way, Ayde slips in and out discreetly before Arri’s speech. He notices that the guild’s awards have barely started and returns to his table, anxiously awaiting Arri’s arrival on stage. He has his pocket camera ready to record the event though somehow it feels less important than to sneak into the other room. Something else piques his interest; it’s not the swarm of celebrities, foreign officials and cultural icons, and certainly not the excitement either (though he does wonder what it’s like to live in such state of constant visibility).

Arri finally steps up the stage and her speech opens the main graduation event at last. Ayde bunches up with other juniors of the year group for pictures. His camera snaps away quickly, maybe even a little too impatiently, but Arri seems to be oblivious of his presence. Ayde snaps a few more pictures and disappears, leaving the ballroom to what he considers as the true main event. There are still people walking in and out of the main ballroom, small crowds hovering around what little is left on the table snacks. Ayde senses the opportunity to slip inside as he passes a group entering the main ballroom. He makes his way amongst them, pretending to make an important call, looking inherently bored out of his wits. He enters the great ballroom at last, seeing its majestic stage of gold, red and brown, and quickly slips to the sidelines where most non-seated guests huddle.

Murmurs spread amongst them, hushed voices of the latest internal gossip that have spread throughout the publishing industry. Something is to happen tonight, they say, but all is sceptical when it comes to G. Ane’s arrival. Some say she has no intentions of revealing herself, if she even exists, that is. Some hopes to see a glimpse of her; rumor has it she does show up to the award year after year, hidden like a faceless shadow, to privately gloat on her successive winnings. Either way, the media is forever hungry for more and they are waiting patiently to capture her in any essence they can.

But Ayde needs to wait no longer. The awards have gone under way, winners of literary categories glide up and down to receive the fruits of their rightful labor. It was said that he missed a spectacular duet of the country’s top divas – nothing that he regrets – but as the awards continue, Ayde moves his way slowly towards the center stage. Hiding in the sidelines, growing all the more curious, until he has to stop short near the table of very important guests and ducks to secure the best view he can find.

The time has come for the winner of the year’s contemporary literary arts, announces the host, a beautiful young woman Ayde recognizes as a famous model and singer. Ayde quickly grabs his camera, ignoring his buzzing phones in both pockets, and awaits anxiously for the announcement. He can feel the room growing quickly silent, almost pitch black with anticipation. G. Ane’s name is mentioned amongst ten other nominees – names he has never heard of – and none to his surprise, G. Ane rises as this year’s winner and now holds a record in winning five consecutive awards in the same category – or so the host says.

Ayde looks around the seated crowd. He can see movement hovering somewhere across him, right from the center of the room. Three silhouettes of people gliding effortlessly in the dark; a middle aged woman emerges first on stage, followed by a man with hair as white as snow, and a young woman petite of frame, hair as dark as polished ebony. He recognizes her gliding stride, her stoic liquid movement, and he watches as his heart thumps away wildly underneath his suit and tie, his legs almost giving way. His camera snaps away alongside other photographers’, but his attention is nowhere near there. His eyes stare mindlessly at the familiar pale face, those great almond eyes glazed almost unnaturally under the stage’s golden lights; the woman who is dressed almost as immaculately as a Japanese porcelain doll, clad in a sweeping black and gold silken robe; an apparition, a princess, a ghost.

Ayde watches Sia walking ever so effortlessly upon the stage, murmurs and gasps quickly swallowing the room. Ayde feels his breath leaving his very lungs the moment her mouth parts, ever so slowly, and that all too familiar voice begins to speak in a hushed, husky voice:

“For all your devotion and tireless attention; for the hope and anticipation of the new and different; for your open acceptance, love and curiosity, year after year without end; for the chance to give voice, speaking out to fellow audiences here and abroad; for the possibility of growth and existence for budding writers, documentors, artists and great culturalists of present and future; it has been a privilige and an honor, and a humbling experience to receive such immense support.”

Ayde gasps for air, his eyes fixed on her; her voice, her words, the person he can hardly recognize beyond the obvious; Ayde gasps for air. He can still hear her echoes in his ears as she concludes:

“For all of this and more, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. My name is Sia. I am G. Ane.”

 

~ Moeya

Moeya watches Tiero rushing out of her office room with his bag half opened in one hand and his phone in the other, speaking tersely in indiscriminate words she hardly understands. She wanted to call out to him; he had left G. Ane’s books on her table and a note of things she needs to do, a final checklist before Friday’s event.

“That guy’s all over the place,” notes one of her co-workers, looking rather bewildered.

“He forgot a meeting or something,” Moeya replies offhandedly. She grabs G. Ane’s books and his note and heads down to smoke. Tiero has been on her back throughout the whole day – completely lost one moment and back again – moody and uncompromising. With him gone, she can finally find time to breathe. Only two days to go, she thinks to herself, and she’s almost done. If only Sia were here, she sighs, things would have been so much better, and faster too. Sia always knew what to do.

Moeya picks a quiet spot in the smoking area of her office – a makeshift four by ten block of open windows – and sits down for her well deserved break. Clove cigarettes and books, Moeya smiles, what can be better? She glances outside, seeing a horizon of brewing darkness and dreads another downpour.

“Okay,” she mumbles aloud, open both of G. Ane’s books side by side, “I want to know, now.”

She peruses the books page by page, trying her best to absorb whatever emotion she can grasp from one book and reads the translation on the other. She scrutinizes every bit of every picture, every scanned letters, every bit of words she considers important. There are pages of Sia’s old handwriting, certain words highlighted and underlined by her hands. Knowing her old friend, Moeya is not one to be fooled. Sia accentuates by misleading clues; nothing is as what it seems. Moeya even feels the different paper some pages used in the original version and looks for clues in the translated version. Paper has always been Sia’s absolute love; Moeya remembers their experiments together with printing techniques, something only the both of them mastered in the office. There’s always something special about paper and the emotions they carry, the way colors change, how each paper smells and sounds differently as pages are turned; it’s not something everyone understands.

Dismantled Possessions, Moeya huffs, the breaking of one’s belongings – belongings that one most cherishes. And what does Sia cherish most? She has her dreams now, her life forever in the making. Perfectly quiet, perfectly unstoppable. What is it, Moeya questions. It can’t be Sia’s alone; by definition, a good book has to be understood by everyone who reads it. Moeya can feel a quiet tinge of sadness from it, but what is it that’s so powerful, it rattled Tiero and completely blew the guy’s mind away?

Shared memories, maybe. Shared and broken between two real -

“Oh good God, woman!” Moeya exclaims, taking a deep sip of her clove cigarette and starts from the beginning again. If Dismantled Possessions is meant to be perceived as a diary; if it is meant to be read in non linear form; if it tells a tale of two people from one purely subjective perspective; and if the reader is not the targeted subject, then it wouldn’t matter so much. But if the tale is, or was real at one point, its lessons and memories did really happen at one point in time; and what if the tale tells the story of Sia’s precious memories with a certain person – with such an open ended conclusion – then there’s no doubt, but who -

Moeya sits back for a moment, feeling her old heart beating in speeds unnatural for her age. She can feel her hands shaking on her lap, Tiero’s checklist slipped between the pages of the book. Nominee animation set of nine, check. Names of nominees, check. Length and duration, check. Opening and closing bumpers, check. Looping silk backgrounds, check. Templates, check. Photos, check.

Wait.

Moeya scrutinizes his handwriting and quickly flips the original version of the novel. She knew she had seen it before, but she didn’t believe her own aging mind.

“You stupid cow,” she curses, angry at her stupidity and yet elated at the same time. “You idiot!”

She laughs aloud. Good God, woman! She can almost cry. She rummages her pocket for her phone and calls another close friend of hers, one who knows Sia almost as intimately as she.

“Yue?” Moeya grins, feeling her tears slowly emerging above the pockets of her tired eyes. “Can you come down to the smoking area for a second? What? No, I’ve got something to tell you. Something really important. Come down, now. Now! We really have to prepare for the awards. It’s an emergency. Quickly, now!”