The Martlet

Owen Carter awoke in the middle of the night. He was not sure why. Maybe he heard something. He turned over to look at his alarm clock and the glowing green digits told him it was 3:21 a.m..

Normally he would try to fall right back to sleep but his parched tongue begged him for the red wine he had re-corked the night before. Not water, his tongue implored — it had to be the half-drunk Australian Shiraz.

He watched the last digit turn to a two and rolled groggily out of bed.

Zombie-like, Owen walked down the stairway of his lavish bachelor pad in darkness. He was a prodigiously wealthy man. As a rule, he had always tried to avoid unnecessary actions; for him, that meant anything that did not lead to the acquisition of showpieces such as fancy cars, fancy clothes, fancy paintings and, of course, women, who were generally enticed by their fellow showpieces and did not have to be fancy, just gorgeous.

Owen was committed to a strict daily routine that began with the buzz of his alarm clock at 7:30 a.m., followed by the slipping of his right foot into his right slipper — always the right foot first. He was fastidious. He was driven. He made money.

As he descended the last step into the foyer, Owen saw the dark silhouette of a man through the French doors. It startled him at first. At a second glance, the man was familiar. Owen switched on the indoor and outdoor lights and approached the man who was becoming increasingly familiar, though he was still obscured by the beveled glass. When Owen opened the door, a chill ran through his body beneath silk pyjamas and made his matted bed-hair stand on end.

The visitor was not scary-looking. He was tall, handsome and clean-shaven with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, cold blue eyes, an ironed shirt, tie and pressed slacks. He was tremendously kempt for the ungodly hour.

What petrified Owen was just how familiar he was. Owen had seen this man shave, brush his teeth and slick back his hair on countless occasions. He had seen this man wrap his tie around his upturned collar and execute a Windsor knot. He had seen this man in the mirror. The visitor was Owen Carter himself. Owen watched the absurd mass of flesh and bone stride into the foyer, where it put down a familiar leather briefcase and slid a familiar pair of stylish loafers off its feet.

“Hello, Owen,” the visitor said, “don’t look so shocked.”

The voice was also his own.

As he closed the door, Owen noticed his Bentley had an identical twin parked beside it in the driveway. He overcame his speechlessness.

“Is that your Bentley?”

“Gets me from A to B.”

“What brings you here?” he ventured.

“Well, I don’t mean to impose, but I’m in the mood for some Shiraz.”

Owen had almost forgotten. They walked silently into the kitchen where he poured two glasses. Still nothing was said as they took their wine to the lounge.

Owen looked at his clone sitting in an armchair before the fireplace. The clone looked at Owen who sat in an armchair before the bookshelf. Owen glanced down at the vast, antique Persian rug that lay between them. The patterns in the rug appeared to snake around each other like the thoughts coursing through his brain. It was not a rug but an impromptu Rorschach test he was loath to take. He looked back up.

“What’s your name?”

“Owen Carter,” the visitor replied.

“Well, if you’re Owen Carter, who am I?”

“Owen Carter, also.” The visitor swirled his wine and examined the legs it left around the glass, something Owen often did when he felt relaxed.

“Well, how can that be?”

“I’m just a visitor, Owen. You’re Owen Carter the human being—-big difference.”

“Explain.” Owen’s voice had become hard. 


“I don’t actually know you. I’m just visiting you this one time.”

“How does that work? Are you going to vanish at sunrise like a vampire?”

“I was intending to leave after this glass of wine, actually. I hate to overstay my welcome.”

“What makes you think you’re welcome?” Owen chided.

“We have a lot in common,” the visitor suggested.

“No!” Owen denied him. “You said yourself that you don’t even know me.”

Owen considered his own argument and nodded in agreement with it. “You don’t know me!” he repeated triumphantly. “And I don’t know you!”

The visitor smirked at Owen and slowly stood up, raising his glass as if to propose a toast. He then dumped the remainder of his wine on the Persian rug.

“Well, I’ve finished my wine.” He calmly set the glass down on a small mahogany table by the armchair. “Thank you for having me, Owen.”

The visitor walked back to the foyer where he slipped into his loafers and picked up his briefcase. Owen followed him, disgruntled.

“You can pay me for the cleaning of that rug right now, sir.”

Owen was predictably stern. The sternness of his guest surprised him.

“Who cares about that rug? I don’t. Do you? Do you, really?”

Their eyes locked, cold blue on cold blue. One set looked searchingly at the other set, which simply froze.

A moment later, without compensating or apologizing for his faux pas, the visitor pulled his Bentley out of the driveway and flew down the private lane, disappearing in the night.

Owen left the stain in the rug and trudged back upstairs. He did not care about Persian rugs, really. He cared less about the money for the rug. All he cared about at that moment was the smirk he had seen on the visitor’s face. Or was it his own face? And those eyes that were searching his. His own eyes? But that smirk. That smirk! It was so cruel. So confusing.

When Owen fell back to sleep, he fell back into the inkblot world. This time he could not look away. The visitor’s torrents of wine were splashing upon the snakes of his mind in a chaotic deluge. He watched his numerous possessions flooding away and dissolving into the mist of an inky, alcoholic abyss. He was left in a barren land.

“What now?” he cried. “What now?’

His frozen eyes had gotten warmer and warmer until the alarm clock buzzed, welling up with hot tears. He wiped them dry, sneered at the green digits that told him it was 7:30 a.m. and eagerly jammed his left foot into his left slipper.