Groundwater

A story about a barbershop.

The man who had killed my entire family came into my barbershop. He was wearing his uniform. He was wearing all his medals. The medals clinked gently against each other.
“I’d like you to give me a shave,” he said.
“Do you know who I am,” I said.
“I’d like you to give me a shave,” he said.

I put him in the chair. The chair sagged under his weight. I turned him around in the chair. I put the towel around his neck. Standing behind him, I looked at him in the mirror. He didn’t back look at me; his eyes were closed. I took out my razor. I pressed it gently against my thumb and felt it was sharp. I let it cut into me, just slightly. I let a bead of my blood squeeze out and run onto it. I wiped it clean.

The man who killed my entire family had his head leaned back. He still had his eyes closed. I put shaving cream on him. I held my razor gently to his neck.
“You know, after my family was exhumed, I saw them,” I said. “I had to identify the bodies. There was no one else left that could do it.”
He didn’t say anything.
“When the official uncovered them, I didn’t know what I was looking at. I didn’t see how this could be my family. I felt like I was looking at something that couldn’t have anything to do with me. I have heard that they were lying on their stomaches when they were shot. I have heard that they had been blindfolded and that had their wrists and ankles had been bound. I understand it happened in the middle of the street, with everyone watching, and no one did anything. I learned this from some of them, later. They came to me later and told me what happened. They told me, they wanted to do something, but they were afraid if they did anything, it would happen to them, too. I told them, maybe the ones it happens to are the fortunate ones. I told them, maybe they are the blessed. I told them, maybe we are still alive because we are still paying off a debt.”

He didn’t say anything. I shaved him. I used slow, careful strokes. I made no mistakes. Periodically, I dipped my razor in the bowl of warm water. My hand didn’t shake at all. His eyes remained closed the whole time. After I finished, he opened his eyes. He examined himself in the mirror. He looked at himself carefully, like he was someone else. He put a hand to his cheek, and felt it was smooth. On his ring finger was a golden ring with a ruby set into it.
“This is a fine shave,” he said.
“It is the same as any other,” I said.
“No, I disagree. I think it is exceptional.” He took the ring off his finger. “Please accept this as payment,” he said.
I shook my head. “There’s no charge.”
“I insist,” he said.
Just then, it started raining outside. The rain turned people’s skin black and made their hair fall out. It dented sheets of metal. It made the paint peel off of bricks. Huge cracks opened up in the middle of roads, and cars fell into them. The sea rose and flooded the luxury hotels along the beach, rising floor by floor. A bomb went off at a gas station nearby, and then another at a bank in the center of town. We didn’t notice any of this, though. Inside my barbershop, all the lights had gone out, and would never come back on.