This is the last chapter of Tidal lock, the end of Paul and Giselle’s story. It has been difficult for me to write this farewell to the characters, but it is time to move on, time to explore other corners of life if inspiration will allow.
Meanwhile, I hope that you will enjoy the last chapter and you will accept its melancholic tone.
At the winery – Photo by F. Marincola, Sonoma, California, October 27th, 2022
These are the previous chapters:
Tidal lock:
a. The story of Giselle, Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3,
b. The dark side of the sun, Part 1, Conclusion
c. There is no such thing as everlasting love
e. Catharsis, Part 1 , Conclusion
g. An unforgettable evening, Part 1, (A conversation with Catterina Coha about “The performance” and “An unforgettable evening“.), Part 2, Conclusion
h. Serendipity
i. Echo’s Call, Part 1 , Conclusion
To come:
j. Our last paradise (conclusion)
Our last paradise (part 1)
Following the reunion at SFO International, Giselle and Paul lived happily forever after.
***
Time runs fast; yet its flow is imperceptible. It seems like only yesterday that Giselle was born. And now, as I condense into an epilogue the decades that followed, I reckon that the essentials rest in the chapters past; life is not about its conclusion but the path that leads to it. Therefore, my dear reader, quench your expectations and be content with the morsels that keep life going when the dreams of youth are fulfilled, and the best is gone.
It is now the time to ponder whether a similar account was ever authored, not by writers or poets, but by the actions of people. I would love to know if any among us experienced in person or know of someone who lived the magic of Giselle’s tenacious dream.
This novel explored the hypothesis that true and everlasting love sometimes, somewhere may occur and a bond between two people, when sincere, can be as tenacious as the utmost powers of the universe that defy the boundaries of space and time. It concludes that, at least in Giselle’s case, it does, and, therefore, this novel best belongs to the fiction category where it can rest on the bookshelf in peace together with Snow White and Cinderella.
In the real world, there are people important to us, whose existence we verify on occasions[1]. They exist unchanged in the corner of their life distant from our mind, buried in the depth of the subconscious. This may apply to long gone parents, still staying with us, visiting our dreams, defining who we are. And what about the image of one’s far away lover, so far that the true person becomes a stranger. Or maybe, we are the fictional element fruit of someone’s imagination projected into a lost soul? Is the mental image stronger than the physical presence? In the end, it does not matter. It is the communion of materiality and fiction that sculpts our life, and it is upon us to determine the balance that comforts.
Therefore, Giselle’s story, fiction, or reality is important to me. When in bed I close my eyes and imagine, I learn more through introspection than peeking into the real world. For this, I thank my characters, who patiently listen and talk to me, and, whether they exist or not, they stay true to comfort the spirit when it would be otherwise dejected.
Thus, with this novel, I created most likely a dream, a paranoia, a delusion that, improbable, unlikely, impossible as it may be, is still worth living.
***
Returning to the story, one can assume that Paul and Giselle had children and grandchildren, that they paid regular visits to the respective families and to the other characters that enlivened this novel. It may very well be that Yvanna Yvanova and Uncle Borysko espoused, that Professor Federico and Signora Maria learned to coexist and enjoy life together under Lori’s supervision; that the Maestro bragged for the rest of life about his pupil, while Madame Petrova recounted for the benefit of younger disciples the miracle that made a dream come true. And one can also imagine that Laura spent most of the time with her beloved friends uncertain about whom to adore the most: big brother Paul or the charismatic Giselle. Giselle and Paul might have also established a charitable fund to inspire little girls from rural areas to pursue untouchable dreams and envisioned other good deeds in harmony with their simple and benevolent personality.
***
I will miss all these personages dearly, but before bestowing the ultimate goodbye, let recount one among several reunions that they enjoyed during their lifetime.
***
Giselle and Paul took upon themselves to host their legacy each year in El Granada for Thanksgiving. In this occasion, they even flew in the fiddler and his violin…
***
…Paul was distracted looking at Uncle Borysko, who meticulously chewed and squished the wine in the mouth before gulping it down. He pondered over the value proposition of that awkward habit. Live music at the Princeton Brewery had taken a break, and Dane, the lead guitar, and a friend, walked toward him. While listening, Paul grabbed the bottle of wine, and poured a generous portion into the glass to fill the mouth. He then chewed and squished the wine to appreciate the prolonged sensation offered by the concoction. Looking at Uncle Borysko and raising the glass, he nodded and smiled. It was Thanksgiving after all, time to forget about the world out there and enjoy the emotional overload that casual conversations spiced with alcohol can offer.
“Let’s invite your fiddler to play with us!” Dane was saying! “You bragged about him so much! Let’s give it a try! We will follow him with drums and guitars when we figure him out.”
And so, after the break, Igor the fiddler, took the stage and began to tap the foot. The distant music from the steppes revived in the Jazz Club, and for a memorable evening, Igor’s foot, and the drummer beats, recounted that levitation of humanity that most unites us: the universal language of music. Giselle foot started to tap, then the other one did till she soared into the dancefloor to improvise a rain dance that combined Cossacks’ and Native Americans’ steps. All present laughed at the ad-libbed performance.
Turning toward Paul, the Maestro said:
“We should record this! It could be another hit!”
Paul smiled and about to answer, he was distracted by Madame Ivanova, who took his hand to pull him onto the dancefloor. There she harmonized her steps with Giselle’s and even poor Paul had to abide to the rhythm. Signora Maria joined dragging Professor Federico, who, after warming up and to everyone’s surprise, was a darn good dancer. And look at Uncle Borysko with Yvanna Yvanova! That’s what I call (almost) professional dancing!
While people danced, Paul returned to the table, where Laura was sitting. She had been withdrawn and did not care to join, rather observing everyone with grace.
As Paul sat close, she mumbled:
“I will never understand how these waiters can carry across crowded rooms Martinis filled to the brim, without spilling a drop, particularly without being drunk.”
“How come you are not dancing, Lauretta?”
“I have not been sleeping well recently. I am always tired; I keep counting sheep till there are no more left in the brain. They should create a “counting sheep” App for the phone to help the insomniacs.”
Then, changing subject she continued:
“I am so happy for you Paul and for your Giselle. You seem so happy, and I feel pride for having been part of this story. I hope that one day, you will remember your Lauretta, when I will not be here anymore.
I remember when you were a clueless teenager, who could not remember where he left his socks the night before, and I had to go fetch them for you in the morning. I remember the times in the Bronx, and how much we loved each other then, when you took me around with your friends. You were so proud of the little sister. And I continued to adore you and always hoped that you would do the same. And after my divorce, after I returned to America, I was willing, I was willing to go near you because I was also a lonely explorer of life as you are; I longed for true love and freedom. But I remained a little sister to you, you never saw me as a woman. It has been bitter and sweet. Then Giselle came into our lives. That was when the world changed colors; from rainbow to gray; when the present turned into the past and I chose your happiness over mine. I am thankful that I am part of it. And it is OK. I do not care about the outcome; I just want to know in the end that I did all I could: I have no regrets. But for you, I am afraid, I am just an ordinary person.”
Paul smiled:
“I never met an ordinary person, Lauretta. Each human being is special one way or another. If you are ordinary…you are the first one, which makes you even more special.”
“OK I am special then, but not for much longer…” Replied Laura
“…I have lymphoma Paul, a bad molecular type …Started chemo few weeks ago. The doctors are encouraging but inside of me, I already gave up. What is the point of living longer? I was lucky enough. I lived a privileged though purposeless life. What’s the point to beg for a few more days? Months? When one tastes the flavor of death, life suddenly takes a different meaning. I need to retire; I do not belong to this world anymore. When I look at old photos of myself, my eyes were different, determined at scrutinizing the future, now they are inquisitive and lost, wondering about the essence of that future.”
Paul held Lauretta’s hand and told her:
“Sorry to hear this, why didn’t you tell me before? Don’t give up Lauretta. I love you too, I love you very much. True, I never saw you as a woman but a sister; we were raised together, I held you on my knees when you were just a little girl with curly hair. How could I change my mind? But you are important to me, and to Giselle. Remember what you told me once: “life is not meant to be perfect, but it is worth living to the best of one’s capabilities.” Don’t give up, I will talk to Giselle after Thanksgiving. I am sure that she wants you to move in with us. Together, we will overcome.”
Lauretta smiled and mumbled:
“How much hope can one squeeze out of an empty toothpaste tube? The bulldozer of life: death; the great equalizer.”
Meanwhile the dancers were back. Giselle sat close to Paul and squeezed his arm. Lauretta had changed demeanor to play the expected cheerful character. The news was not meant to be spilled to spoil a great reunion. Paul understood and, releasing Lauretta’s hand, said to Giselle:
“Laura has not been well recently, but she is getting better.”
Giselle scrutinized the depth of Paul’s eyes, and she understood. Several questions came to her mind that she knew there was no point asking.
Meanwhile Uncle Borysko was recounting war stories. Paul herd him throwing hyperbolae in broken English recounting heroic acts in between chewing the wine. It was the remnant of a true Cossack and his enemies:
“They were so scared, …they ran so fast that they left their legs behind!”
And then turned toward Yvanna to gauge the effect. But Yvanna was intent trying to grab a conversation in Italian between Lori and Madame Petrova. Giselle had been working hard to draw her into the adoptive parents’ culture during frequent visits to Milan.
Lori seemed irritated about some pretentious character saying in Italian to Madame Petrova:
“I asked myself, if he is so rich why can’t he buy a wig for himself?”
Paul guessed that she was talking about a suitor that did not trigger her fancy.
To the other side, the Maestro was saying to Professor Federico:
“She is sort of a tentative intellectual. She tries hard, one must give her credit. But in the end, she is an intellectual desert.”
Which prompted, in an apparent non-sequitur, Professor Federico’s reply:
“In my mind, photography is there only to plagiarize life, but there is no camera fast enough to take picture of deep emotions.” To which the Maestro continued in his parallel soliloquy:
“I agree, nothing is as loud as stupidity; people can go on and on repeating themselves to those unfortunates who are stuck listening. And the paparazzi take advantage of it, to amplify, and eternalize stupidity to give a story to the press. They do not only plagiarize life, but they distort it: they are Hollywood’s Photoshop surgeons. And people around them, critics and journalists are intellectual cowards that have nothing to offer but rehashed garbage!”
Meanwhile, from the other front, the conversation, mixed with vodka, wine and Martinis was degenerating. The fiddler, possibly recounting events from long gone youth adventures, in perfectly broken English was trying to impress the recently acquired musician friends:
“She was so ugly that I could not have made love to her even if I took a Viagra overdose!”
And we should forgive the medical anachronism that he used just to make the point.
Uncle Borysko looked with embarrassment at the ladies around him and as he was about to reprimand the old friend’s comment, the proper Signora Maria interjected:
“True that some people can be unappealing, I hope that you would not count me as one of them.”
And so, these silly bits of incongruent conversations went on and on during that carefree Thanksgiving evening that Paul’s mind collated into a symphony to memorize those voices beyond the life of the beholders.
And here is where we leave all of them, in that cheerful autumn dinner
***
Giselle was by then a Hollywood star. Gradually, from live performances, she had taken more screen roles that allowed a regulated lifestyle. At the same time, the big screen made her visible to broader audiences. She received most prestigious awards and together with Paul accumulated a fortune that was preserved according to the simple lifestyle imprinted upon them by their modest roots.
Like Paul, Giselle did not bask in success. Popularity contrasted her longing for privacy and frugality. Soirees and big galas were no match to the gratification of feeding the hens, caressing Oldie, and enjoying egg and tomato soup in front of Grandma after a day spent running across the fields. Like Paul, she considered popularity as an imposition over true life. In the end, she aspired to reunite with Paul; anything else was irrelevant.
By then Paul, had given up most social commitments and spent his time with Giselle. Giselle and the music made life complete, and Jerry had learnt to leave them alone recognizing that the business was doing just as well despite the seclusion.
They still lived in El Granada but moved to a recessed home, with more land to allow privacy and space for a chicken run. There they hosted friends or spent evenings alone. Paul composed music based on Giselle’s ideas, and Giselle danced according to Paul’s creations. And every evening, before dinner, Paul, reenacting a routine dear to Naomi in the old Bronx days, said grace:
“My God, if you exist, I am thankful to you for us today; another day spent with the reverberation of my life, the companion that makes me real. Thank you for giving Giselle to me. I thank you for her smile, for her eyes, for a heart that listens to my words, for her kindness and thoughtfulness that imparts joy not only to me but everyone around us. I thank you for today and pray for a tomorrow just like today.”
***
On a weekend morning, Paul went to the garage and drove out the Ferrari. Despite the frugal life, Paul maintained a strong affection for the luxury convertible inherited from Wayne. With Crazy Wayne at the steering wheel, they had gone places and so many memories had accumulated into the dashboard together with the miles dialed by the odometer. Therefore, on occasions, Paul drove Giselle up and down Highway 1, along the California Coast with the wind fondling her hair.
That morning, Paul announced that they were going for breakfast up to La Honda to Alice’s Restaurant. With the top down, the sunglasses on to protect the eyes from the sun and privacy from snooping fans, they climbed I-92. At the top of the hill, they turned into Skyline and drove into the redwood forest.
It was early when they arrived at Alice’s and parking was open in front of the Restaurant. Paul opened Giselle’s door leaving the vintage car for the bystanders to admire. As they waited in line for a table, a couple recognized Giselle, and for unclear reasons offered to let them skip the line. Paul graciously declined stating that they were in no hurry and that he was just as happy to enjoy the coolness under the shade of the centenarian redwood:
“Every moment spent with my Giselle is just as precious; sitting or standing.”
When their turn came, however, there was no separate seating, and the host guided them to the end of a large wooden table occupied at the other end by a young couple and their daughter.
“May we sit here?” Asked Giselle with her affable smile.
“Yes, you are very welcome.” Replied the wife.
Soon young admirers came to greet Giselle and asked for the customary autograph. When the fuzz was controlled, Giselle noted that the little girl was staring at her, so she cheerfully asked:
“What is your name?”
“Sabrina.” And then she added:
“Are you Giselle? The ballerina?”
“Yes, I am!”
“I am also a ballerina!” said Sabrina “I have been taking ballet lessons for years.”
“I have a question for you Sabrina: why do you want to dance?”
“Because I love it! I do it by myself and train, and train and train. I would never stop no matter what.”
“Then you already have your answer; now you know why! You dance because you cannot do otherwise!”
The little girl’s face lit up. She giggled, smiled, and said:
“Because one day I want to be like you!”
In response, Giselle looked into Paul’s eyes and then turning to Sabrina, she replied:
“No Sabrina, you do not want to be like me. You want to be better than me and better than anyone else; never put limits to your dreams.”
***
On occasions when he could not join her on tours, Paul waited at home for Giselle’s. He spent time scanning the walls for old and new memories, that kept accumulating in the form as posters, sketches, paintings, and awards mostly about Giselle. He had become dependent on Giselle and detested her absence just as much as he cherished the anticipation of her return.
So, one afternoon Paul was fretting in the kitchen as he had resumed the old habit of cooking with Turo. Christina, the housekeeper, was helping by meticulously cleaning and cutting a bag of Brussel sprouts when they were both surprised to hear the doorbell ring earlier than when Giselle was expected.
Christina went first to open the door ready to discourage solicitors or fans.
Instead, Paul heard:
“Is Paul home?”
It was Giselle’s voice. Paul went to the door. Giselle stood with the backpack at her feet in front of him.
Answering his inquisitive look, she preempted:
“Paul, I quit my job!”
“Why Giselle? What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I just do not want to be separated from you anymore. It is not worth it.”
And then she continued:
“Paul, this is our last Paradise. Nothing will come after this. Each moment, each second is precious. I do not want to be away from you, not for a single day. We do not need more money nor fame. We just need each other. I will not spend a single day away from you from now on.”
Paul stepped out of the door and hugged Giselle.
“I did not have the courage to ask, but I have been hoping that you would make this choice on your own.”
***
As for all of us, Giselle was not meant to live forever…
Continued in: Our last paradise, Conclusion and epilogue of Tidal lock
[1] This paragraph is a paraphrased from a correspondence with Catterina Coha and used with her permission
Francesco Marincola 
Pingback: Our last paradise (conclusion and the end of Tidal Lock) | Francesco Marincola
Pingback: Echo’s call (Conclusion) | Francesco Marincola