A beautiful, though deeply sad, poem by Fatemeh author also of “Echos of solitude“. This poem deserves special attention. please listen to her call.
(See translation after the original text)
Waiting for sunset – Photo by Fatemeh
سرزمینی که عشق در آن می میرد
. احساس می کنم در میان دیوارهای بلند یک قلعه محکم، قلعه ای پر از تنهایی زندانی شده ام
اسیر یک تاریکی بی امان ، هر لحظه احساس ناامیدی می کنم
هر روز منتظر هستم جهان تمام شود
اما این لعنتی مگر تمام می شود
هر سپیده ه دم ، حتی برای بلند شدن از چنگال خواب باید نبردی را شروع کنم
عشق، که زمانی که طعم و مزه ی همه ی غذاهای زندگی ام بود،
حالا یک خاطره دور شده است که با هر وعده غذایی بی مزه ، کم رنگ تر می شود
با همه ی این ها ولی همچنان دلم و قلبم می تپد برای او ،
برای زمانی که عشق همه چیز را فرا می گرفت، انقدر که دیگر نفسی برایمان باقی نمی گذاشت
اما اکنون، مکالماتمان هر روز کم تر می شود ، قهوه هایمان سرد می شود ولی نه به خاطر اینکه گرم حرف زدن شده ایم ، چون پر از فکر برای رسیدن به نرسیدن هایمان هستیم و غرق حسرت های زندگی مان .
اصلا انقدر روزهایمان شلوغ شده است که انگار این آشفتگی و هرج و مرج ها ما را از هم دور کرده است.
چه لحظه هایی پر از خنده های مشترک را باهم سپری کردیم که دیگر خبری از ان نیست.
حالااز همه ی ان خنده ها فقط زمزه ای ان هم در سکوت باقی مانده است . گویا تسلیم اغوش غم شده ایم.
براستی ما با زندگی خود چه می کنیم ؟
ما با عشق زیبای خود چه می کنیم؟
ایا در تلاش برای بازگشت به عاشقانه های گذشته یمان ، به مهاجرت پناه برده ایم ؟
و بدنبال هر راهی هستیم که از این سرزمین متروک فرار کنیم.
در حالی که من در لابلای افکارم گم شدم و با معنای واقعی این زندگی و عشق دست و پنجه نرم می کنم،
تلاش می کنم در میان همه ی این هرج و مرج وگرفتاری ها هدفی برای ادامه ی پیدا کنم و چراهای زیادی را که مرا ازار می دهد کشف کنم .
چراهایی همچون ،
چرا خاکستر دلتنگی و حسرت ، سرزمین پر از زیبایی های گم شده ما را پوشانده است ،
چرا اشک‌ها مثل رودخانه ای همیشه جاری بی وقفه سرازیر می‌شوند،
چرا غم دامن مادران سرزمین ام را گرفته و رنگ سفید را برچهره و موهایشان پاشیده است.
چرا دراین سرزمین امید خاطره ای دور وفراموش شده به نظر می رسد؟
سوالات بدون پاسخ اعماق روح من را آزار می دهد،
در این هزارتوی ناامیدی حرکت می کنم.
آیا همچنان، در میان تاریکی، سوسو امیدی باقی می ماند،؟
ایا باوری وجود دارد که به نحوی، نور تاریکی را درنوردد.
ایا در این زمانه هم ، هنوز ، حتی در تاریک ترین شب ها، ستاره ها هنوز می درخشند،
من می نویسم، بی آنکه بدانم چه کسی این کلمات را خواهد خواند،
مطمعن نیستم کسی به این کلنمات توجه کند ،
البته نمی دانم اصلا اهمیتی دارد کسی انها را بخواند یا نه ؟
من ولی امید دارم به اینکه روزی، جایی، حتی شاید در جایی خیلی دور، خانه ای می سازم
خانه ای پر از عشق .
The Land Where Love Dies
I am trapped in a fortress of loneliness,
Surrounded by towering walls, imprisoned in solitude.
A prisoner of relentless darkness, each moment suffused with despair,
Every day I wait for the world to end,
But this curse seems endless.
With each dawn’s breath, just to break free from the grip of sleep,
I must embark on a battle anew.
Love, once the taste of all my life’s meals,
Now a distant memory fading with each tasteless, dull course.
Yet still, my heart beats for it,
For the time when love consumed everything, leaving us breathless.
But now, our conversations dwindle, our coffees turn cold,
Not because we lack warmth in our words,
But we are drowned in thoughts of unattainable desires and life regrets.
Our days have become so cluttered, as this chaos has driven us apart.
What moments we shared in laughter are forgotten,
Now only whispers of those laughs remain, echoing in silence,
As if we’ve surrendered to the embrace of sorrow.
What do we do with our lives?
What do we do with our beautiful love?
Have we sought refuge in the past’s romanticism, longing to escape this abandoned land?
Seeking any path to flee this forsaken place.
Lost in my thoughts, grappling with the true meaning of life and love,
I strive to find a purpose amid the turmoil and uncertainties,
Discovering countless whys that torment me.
Whys like,
Why has the ash of longing and regret shrouded our land,
Why do tears flow ceaselessly like rivers,
Why has sorrow draped itself over the shoulders of our land’s mothers,
Painting their faces and hair white.
Why does hope in this land seem like a distant, forgotten memory?
Unanswered questions haunt the depths of my soul,
In this maze of despair, I navigate.
Is there still, amidst the darkness, a whisper of hope?
Is there a belief that somehow, light can pierce through the darkness?
In this age, do stars still shine in the darkest nights?
I write, unsure about who will read these words,
Uncertain if anyone will pay them any heed,
Yet, perhaps it doesn’t matter at all.
But I hold onto hope that someday, somewhere,
Even perhaps in a place far away, I’ll build a home,
Here come the second part of “an ordinary man” when Jennifer discovers that Peter is not that ordinary after all.
Sleeping beauty Carina appreciating my short stories
An ordinary man; the role reversal
…That evening Peter, slouched in the couch, feet on the coffee table, faced the fireplace.
The living room was perspiring silence save for the crackling of the fire; both girls, who were the ones usually giving life to the premise, were at a sleepover at a friend’s home in anticipation of the Christmas holidays.
Peter’s eyes staring at the mantle of the fireplace, were scrutinizing the emptiness but one should not be misled by the apparent lethargy.
Peter’s father was a child psychiatrist and, as part of his professional armamentarium, he often applied the peripheral vision to avoid intimidating the hesitant interlocutor by directly staring into the eyes, leaving space for spontaneity. The father also punctuated conversations with an abundance of silent pauses to encourage eruptions of naturalness. By habit the father treated his son just the same, and Peter had instinctively inherited the conduct giving, with lack of eye contact and his silence, an impression of affected humility and abstraction, while he was instead unobtrusively scanning the unaware. Thus, like a cat, he had a sixth sense that allowed him to intuit his surroundings like, on that evening, Jennifer’s stares from the armchair that set orthogonal to the couch.
Jennifer indeed was admiring her husband, as if he was a new person totally different from the ordinary man she had been accustomed to for the past decade.
Observing the transparent eyes, she noticed that they did not look as purposeless as she had thought. In fact, she noticed the intensity of a leopard staring at a pray. She observed the reverberation of the flames into those liquid eyes, and fancied that Peter, with the power of a devil, had ignited the fire.
“Peter is not the ordinary man I remember.” she thought “He has his own beauty and manliness that I missed in the time past.”
She felt a resurrection of attraction, or one could even call it passion.
***
Her attitude had changed two weeks before, when they had gone out for dinner to celebrate the tenth wedding anniversary.
In remembrance of their first dinner together, they observed the tradition of celebrating the anniversary at a nearby Italian restaurant serving plenty of good wine and food that came in courses.
As the antipasti and the minestrone were served, Peter toasted and celebrated the completion of a wonderful decade:
“I am blessed to be married to the best wife a man could hope for.”
But Jennifer, giving into a perverted impulse heard herself confess:
“Actually, I have not been a good wife, I betrayed you.”
Peter, stopped sipping the minestrone and holding with the right hand the full spoon in midair, turned the eyes to stare at his wife. Then, after a few eternal seconds, he said:
“I know.”
Jennifer was already regretting the unsolicited impulse, and at the same time she was surprised by Peter’s reaction:
“How would you know?”
“Because I know you. You changed after a business trip around a year ago. When you came back you were a different person. You know that I do not pay much attention to words as much as behavior. The way you have been since then could only have meant one thing.”
Jennifer was flabbergasted. Her mind was racing, She was also preparing for a barrage of questions from her husband. What if he would ask for details? Would she recount all the depraved encounters? No, she would give no more details. A fling was just what he needed to know about. The complete story was unnecessary and brutal. No need to disclose more of what should not have been shared to start with, particularly at a dinner celebrating a decade-long marriage. How stupid could have she been?
Instead, Peter, did not dig into details. After a few minutes of contained silence he asked:
“Do you love him?”
“No Peter, it was just a fling, a stupid mistake. I never saw that man again. I love you; this is why I had to confess. I could not bear lying and pretending that we are one person. I am so sorry.”
Peter produced one of his apologetic smiles:
“No Jennifer, I am the one to apologize. I know that I am not an attractive man. I am thankful for what you have given to me for the last decade. Let’s look at the glass half full. Let think of our beautiful daughters. Let’s be grateful for what we have.”
He removed the bottle from the ice bucket, poured some Prosecco in each glass and toasted to the good things past.
Jennifer reacted, as all women do, with tears that streamed down her cheeks, as the glasses clinked.
Then Peter excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he came back, Jennifer noticed redness in the sclera of her husband’s eyes.
“Did you cry?”
To which Peter smiled and answered:
“No, as a good friend used to say, real men don’t cry even when they chop onions!”
***
So, Jennifer was staring at her husband, who since that dinner had been his usual self, kind and caring, positive, and solicitous as if nothing had happened. With one exception: no attempts to intimacy, not even demonstrations of affection. Their relationship had turned into a cordial companionship with the ultimate goal of carrying on the business of raising two wonderful girls.
But that was saddening. Jennifer regretted her impulse to confess. After all she had not been interested in men at all after those few escapades. She soon realized that nothing of substance would come from those moments. Rather she felt contempt for those predators, who used her for one night and probably bragged about it with friends in some remote location of the world. She felt ashamed of being so stupid and careless.
She just wanted her marriage back; she wanted her Peter back, who was not that ordinary of a man after all.
So, she stood up and walked to the sofa to seat at his side. She lifted Peter’s left arm, settled inside his armpit reposing her head on his chest.
Then she said:
“I love you Peter.”
To which Peter mechanically responded:
“I love you too.”
That night they made love. Jennifer with renovated passion. Peter absolving a duty. Other occasions came when the two reunited, mostly because of Jennifer’s initiative.
So, the marriage had been partially restored for the time being, at least at the surface.
One evening, as they were laying down in bed after making love, Jennifer asked:
“Would you ever consider divorcing me?”
“No, and you?”
“No”
“Why?” Peter asked.
“Because I love you.”
Then Jennifer asked:
“And what about you? Why would you not consider it?”
“Because I could not do this to the girls.”
***
For a long time, Jennifer brooded over that sentence. At the beginning she was disappointed that he did not consider at least a statement of affection toward her, but gradually, she understood the depth of the answer. He was right, whether they loved each other or not, was immaterial. Their priority was to focus on those beings whom they had brought into the world and needed to be prepared for the life to come.
Time passed with this reasonable compromise. Jennifer was content, she realized that she did love Peter and admired his dignified strength, while she judged that the lack of spontaneity and affection from his side was a totally understandable defense mechanism.
But that tenuous balance was not meant to last. Gradually things started to deteriorate.
A few years before, Peter had started a company based on his inventions. The company was solvent at first and then prosperous, and the family finances allowed a comfortable life. But, after a few strategic hires and common sense acquisitions, all of a sudden the business picked up and the company grew logarithmically, it went public, it became nationally recognized and rapidly turned into a multinational corporation making Peter one of the richest persons in the world. What used to be an ordinary man, had been catapulted into unfamiliar territories and had to adjust to the intricacies of success.
***
They moved into a mansion in an even more upscale neighborhood, they had servants and a driver, …
This is a short story inspired by the last verse of Yao Lu’s beautiful poem: “Disappeared” written at the times of COVID and by the memory of many friends lost during those times and of those who barely survived. I wondered so many time what might have passed through the mind of those who spent so much time in the twilight of life.
Sunset over the Santa Catalina mountains – Photo by F. Marincola, Tucson, AZ, January 4, 2024
Citizen of the past
With an introductory poem by Yao Lu
Disappeared by Yao Peck Lu
I disappeared, forever.
don’t know why I disappeared forever.
They said a disease took me away.
Before I disappeared, it seemed that my ADHD was cured.
Before I disappeared, I drove the car in intimate contact with an unobtrusive roadside tree.
Before I disappeared, I had a successful orthopedic operation after a failed walk,
Before I disappeared, I realized that I forgot the name of an old friend,
Before I disappeared, I occasionally thought of my young lover,
Before I disappeared, I accepted that I was an ordinary adult,
Before I disappeared, my hair started to disappear,
My old friend’s hair also started to disappear.
Invisible and evil forces attacked me,
Anyway, I disappeared,
…like an extinguished lamp.
Relight me,
Hang me in the night sky of the big world,
Always shining among bright stars,
…so, I can watch you gradually forget me.
***
我已消失
我已消失，永远地。
我不知道我为什么永远地消失了，
他们说一场疾病带走了我。
在消失之前，
我的多动症痊愈了，
我开着汽车与不醒目的路边树亲密接触，
我迈着失败的步伐进行了一场成功的骨科手术，
忘记一个老朋友的姓名，
我偶尔回想起年少时的恋人，
如今，
我接受自己是个平凡的大人。
在我消失之前，
我的头发在消失，
老友的头发也在消失。
邪恶势力在攻击我，
谁丢下了自保武器和防御铠甲？
总之我已消失，
如同一盏熄灭的灯。
重新点亮我，
将我挂在大世界的夜空中，
长明如星光，
凝望着你慢慢忘记我。
***
Citizen of the past
…What am I doing here?
Wasn’t I supposed to be dead?
Last I remember …I drew the gun from the drawer, and pointing it to the temple, I pulled the trigger.
So, what is this awareness? Wasn’t everything supposed to be black afterwards?
Did I miss the target?
I don’t think so.
Let me check the pulse.
No detectable pulse, in fact, no pulse at all.
Yet, I am here.
The hotel room is empty and clean, the bed made and immaculate as if I was never there.
Let me go to the bathroom and check at the mirror.
…nobody there.
Indeed, I am dead.
But then, why am I here? Is this what being dead is about?
Then what was the point of the suicide?
Sure, I was tired. My life had been fulfilling but also too complicated and overwhelming. Powerful and disjoint, even conflicting memories accumulated with time, haunting me. Perhaps a simpler life would have been easier to endure. As one ages, memories dominate and can’t be dismissed, like ghosts they take control of one’s brain.
So many attempts I made to restructure the course of lifetime events into a sequential logic; a controlled fiction meant to create a bedtime story that I could recite each evening before falling asleep. A story that could make sense of what happened and that I could bear and accept. All I was trying to achieve was to stay alive till the time I would die.
For too many years I carried the baggage of depression, not much to look forward, only problems that with age grow bigger and unpractical, …and regrets and anguish, …and irrelevance! Nobody needs or cares for an old carcass. As my grandpa used to say: “Who would be concerned about an old guy whose main purpose in life is to waste its time flossing dentures instead of throwing them into the dishwasher?”
All I wished was to get over once and for all.
But instead, …still here? What was the point then? And what’s next?
Maybe there is an afterlife in the end?
Am I in Limbo waiting for the final judgment? And how does it work? Do I need to fill out an application?
Let me Google it:
No such thing. My phone is gone, no internet in the afterlife.
…Wait a minute, here is my passport, or something that looks like it.
It spells my name correctly:
John Desire
followed by:
“Citizen of the past.”
No birthplace, no birthdate, no address.
Only instruction:
Good for visiting Earth’s past and present.
Issued on Earth’s calendar: October 23, 2023.
Issued by: Mr. Satan.
Place of issuance: Hell.
Expiration: Never.
So, this is what Hell is all about? Infinite time to regurgitate and ruminate the past?
…At least no more future! No more deadlines, impertinent alarm clocks, scheduled payments, license renewals, smog tests, etc.
That’s why I killed myself! The future was really getting on my nerves!
And…, …of course, no future after death!!! There is no future, just as much as there is no past or present in the stillness of eternity. Periods are only a terrestrial proposition, a succession of causes and effects that bestow the illusion of the passing of time. But motion belongs only to the living matter, spirits cannot built causality, the past is frozen and only memories persist; how the soul deals with recollections determines its place in hell or haven.
…Expiration: never!!!
Wow, easy to get tenure in Hell! I guess!
So, what am I supposed to do now?
A stale eternity ahead!
Is there anybody to talk to? Dead or alive?
If I still had a head, I would scratch it!
Obviously, the infernal damnation is to get bored to death,
…I guess what I meant to say: bored to “after death”, …I guess!
In truth, I am not bored.
It is sort of interesting instead.
All anxieties …gone!
And even the knee pain is gone …together with the knee.
So, what happened to my home, my belongings?
I see it now. It’s empty!! A for sale sign in front.
Everything is at the mercy of my daughter and my companion.
What a mess! I forgot to write a will before shooting myself.
Therapists should have a policy before accepting a patient:
“Write your will; …just in case!”
Too late now! Besides, who cares? It is all out of my hands!
But why is Mary selling the house? Can’t she live there? It is a beautiful home!
Maybe she found already a companion and she is moving in with him?
That would not surprise me. How could I blame her?
I was just a menace, let’s be honest.
Do you think I did not noticed how she looked at me before coming to bed?
It was just contempt. I don’t think that she hated me. She just tolerated my idiosyncrasies.
But why didn’t she ever say anything?
At least I did some good by departing. She can live a better life now without having to tolerate a lunatic.
I am sort of curious though about how she took the news of my death.
***
Wait! I see her! She is answering the phone.
“Mam? Are you Ms. Mary Dust?”
“Yes?”
“Are you Mr. John Desire’s companion? He had you down as the emergency contact.”
“Yes, I am, why?”
“I am sorry Mam; Mr. Desire is dead.”
“What?!”
She is sobbing loud, her chest is shaking, she seats on the floor.
“What happened, he was fine before he left for the business trip!”
“I am sorry mam; he was declared dead at the scene. He shot himself in the hotel room.”
“Where is he now?”
“It’s here at the coroner’s office. We have to perform the autopsy. Did he have family?”
Mary sobs, lays on the floor, curls up into a fetal position. She cannot answer: her words are undecipherable.
I feel bad for her. I am surprised that she cares that much.
Maybe …just women you know? Drama queens! She will get over soon.
“It is all my fault.” She cries.
“it is my fault. I did not listen to him, how many times did he tell me that he was tired? That he could not bear to live anymore. I thought that it was making a mountain out of a molehill, never took him seriously.”
“Mam? Sorry for interrupting, did Mr. Desire have a family?”
“A daughter, just a daughter. I can call her.”
Maria’s hands are shaking; she dials:
“Katie, Katie, your dad is dead. It’s all my fault. I did not listen to him. He was a good man, I loved him so much! But I am not good at expressing myself. I loved him!”
“What happened?”
I can hear Katie sobbing on the other side, in fact I can see her.
This must be a magic passport to the past, when I think of something, I see it!
Now the two women are crying without speaking a word.
It breaks my heart!
What is the big deal? Suicide is just like turning the light switch off before going to sleep at night. Can you imagine going through this pantomime every night?
In any case, I thought that they would be happy! Maybe “happy” isn’t the best word, … “relieved”, that’s it! They would be relieved for not having to deal with me anymore.
…They could share my inheritance, while dealing with life without having to tolerate my eccentricities!
…It is just women; emotional! But they will get over soon. They will just move on and forget about me.
***
Just wonder what happened to my body. Just out of curiosity. Cremated I guess. Much more affordable. Why waste money on a loser?
But wait a minute, what is that fresh mound overseeing the Pacific Ocean? My name is engraved on the slate. That’s me, buried there! Quite fancy piece of real-estate for a dud.
And all those flowers? Wreath after wreath; from family, friends, colleagues, professional societies! They must have been so happy to get rid of me that they had to celebrate with flowers!
Look at that one:
“To our John, love forever. Your students, past and present.”
“We will miss you John, the University Faculty.”
What is this? Are they doing this to make me feel guilty?
If I could only talk:
“First of all.” I would say. “First of all, I do not deserve any of this. You know it better than anyone else. Second, you did not do much for me when I was alive, why would you care now that I am gone?”
But I cannot talk. I should have left a note. Tell everyone not to worry; all is fine. Nothing to commiserate about. Just a win/win for everyone.
Now Michael takes the stand.
“John, I am sorry, we are all sorry. You were the best friend and mentor to all of us. A little eccentric sometimes, but caring and gentle; the office door always open to anyone; always, no matter how busy you were.
I remember our chats about science, about people, gossiping and laughing, looking at the photos of your past disciples on the wall of your office, with their grateful notes. I remember the one from Jessica:
“Thank you, John. I am proud that I survived Professor Desire’s lab!”
I wish you could say the same of yourself. I wish you could have survived yourself.
Perhaps, I was your closest friend, I wish I was there when you needed me.”
I look around, I see Mary. She is crying profusely. Not a word said. My daughter instead is frozen, not a tear. I see her shaking hands as people leave, one at the time. Murmuring mechanically:
“Thank you for coming.”
Her husband and the grandchildren are not present.
I “go” to her house. The grandchildren are sleeping, not sure where her husband is. I “walk” around, no pictures of me; none, not stuck on the refrigerator door, none on the walls, desks, counters, anywhere. I guess I am already forgotten. That’s good. Let’s all move on.
The doorbell rings.
It’s Mary.
“Thanks Katie for letting me visit. I cannot bear it anymore to be alone, I cannot be in that home, I see him everywhere. Every corner has a memory, so fresh and sweet. I cannot tell you how I wish that I could see him just once again. Thank him for all he did for me, for being my loyal companion for all these years, for listening to me, patiently when I was upset, for encouraging me. He was so quiet. I remember how he looked at me lately, as if he was yearning for something, asking for something that he did not have the courage to ask for. It haunts me that I did not ask him. Simply ask:
“is anything bothering you?”
Perhaps just hug him.
I took him for granted. I barely said bye when he left for the trip.
And now, he will never know how much I loved him. How much I love him!
I am not the kind of person that is, …I can’t find the word, …extroverted? Outgoing? Talkative? That the way I was raised. Keep emotions for myself. No need for words. Just actions. I was always at his side, I cared for him, I took care of him. But I wish that I was more affectionate. I recognize his looks now. I know; he was just asking for a hug, a touch of the hand.
I wish I could see him just once more.”
And Mary bursts crying again.
I just cannot stand it anymore. I want to comfort her.
Yes, it is true, it would have been all I needed, a touch of the hand, a hug. Something to make me feel relevant. I do not know. Something to make me feel that my existence counted, it was not just a burden. But how can I blame her? It’s true, her actions overrode any need for words. It was me that did not know how to communicate. It was me, the introverted, the emotional porcupine.
Fortunately, Katie talks for me; she translates in human terms what I wanted to say:
“Don’t be upset with yourself Mary. I know how you feel, I am experiencing the same. I miss dad very much. So many memories of when I was a little girl, his teasing, his jokes, the encouragements. Do you know, I do not even remember him being upset with me once. I should have been closer to him, but family, work took my mind.
He always talked about you; he loved you very much, but he was afraid of being a burden. He told me a few times! I should have mentioned it to you.
And I miss him. I keep a picture of us at my graduation in the bedside drawer. I look at it in the morning and in the evening before going to bed. It was such a sparkly and beautiful day. And we were so happy. The future was brighter than the sun in the sky.
I took the photos of him from the walls. It would make the kids too sad. One day, I will show to them all the good memories. I will talk to them about grandpa. How sweet and caring he was and how much he loved them. But now, I do not know what to say.
I do not want to lie, and I do not want to say that he took his life. – Why? – they would ask. – Why did he do it, didn’t he love us? – They are too young and insecure, particularly considering the problems I have with my husband. They are very sensitive; they do not need more trauma.”
The two women keep crying and I am getting uneasy. Damn it! I wish I could speak. But then what would I say? That I am sorry? That I was selfish? That I loved them both, but could not bear to live in spite of them?
Frankly, I am not even sure about why I killed myself. Maybe it was just an impulse. Maybe I had too much to drink that night?
Yes, I remember now, I was upset about something at work, I cannot even remember what. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back, I guess. But it must have been trivial if I do not even remember what it was. Trivial but sufficient it was.
Anyhow, what am I to do now? This is my curse! This is my hell; I cannot do anything about anything. Nothing to amend, only regrets and remorse.
And what about my ex-wife? I can see her sitting in front of me, and I see myself. It was years ago.
“John, I am tired. What is wrong with us? We had such beautiful moments but now you barely talk. You barely answer when I address you. You do not care about relatives, mine, or yours, you do not even ask where I was if I come home late at night. What is going on, John? Why are you so disengaged?”
And I answer:
“I am fine, just tired, I need to sleep, tomorrow I have to get up early. Can we talk about it another time?”
Another time? How could I have said that? What other time? Wasn’t it obvious that there would be no other time?
Why did I go to the bar instead, poured a glassful of scotch, and go to bed?
When was the “another time” supposed to be?
And why didn’t she understand that the real reason I said nothing was that I had nothing to say. My mind was confused, I did not know what I wanted. A lifetime of paranoias made me imagine that she hated me. She had done nothing wrong. It was just me.
Then the accident.
***
But Mary, Mary, this is what truly hurts. I did love her, I still love her if ghosts are allowed to, but now, I can’t do anything about anything.
Let’s forget about it.
Yet, it’s so painful. I can’t stand it anymore.
This is true hell!
And she does not leave me alone. She keeps torturing me, rubbing salt into the wound.
Here she is at my grave:
“John, I miss you.” She says.
“I wish you could hear me.”
And she kneels towards the tomb. She is talking to a marble slate.
“I miss you John. I took our home off the market. I hate being there without you, but it is even worse to even think of leaving our place. At least there, I feel that you can come out of a room at any time, open the garage door and greet me. I see you cooking at the stove, cheering me up with a drink when I come home. You will still be there as long as I will be there. And the kitty seems to see you. She looks up at the sealing searching for you. Maybe she sees what I can’t see.”
And she digs a hole at the side of the tomb, she plants a little gardenia bush:
“Here, your favorite flowers! Can you smell them? I wish you could!”
And she comes everyday:
“Katie got a big promotion.”
“You should see your grandson! What a handsome boy he is!”
Years have passed in fact, lots of things have happened. I know all of them because Mary has been coming every day to report, just afterwork, she stops by, with fresh flowers, a broom to sweep the dry leaves and petals from the old plants, with a book to read something to me, with a story about my students, colleagues, and friends, some departed, some still there.
“Your grandson married! They had a baby, they called him John like you!”
“Katie is a tenured professor; she just became chairman of what used to be your department. She remarried, we talk of you always, she has your photo on the wall just in front of her desk in her office.”
I listen to all, and gradually I become used to the routine. I wait for her; I see her graying hair while she walks the steps up to my tomb.
I do not even miss her anymore. In fact, I feel closer to her now than when I was alive.
One day, waiting for her, for no good reason I look at my passport, only thing left from Earth (sort of), nothing else to do.
But wait a minute, look at this:
John Desire
“Citizen of the past.”
Good for visiting Earth’s past and present.
Issued on Earth’s calendar: October 23, 2023.
Issued by: GOD
Place of issuance: Paradise.
Expiration: never.
I guess I made it to paradise now! I feel happy in fact, I feel loved, I don’t feel as alone as when I was on Earth. I guess that’s what Paradise is all about. Carrying memories with no regrets.
***
“John! John!”
Mary is in the Intensive Care at John’s bedside.
“John, you’re awake! They just extubated you a few hours ago. You have been in a coma for a month! They took you off most life support two days ago to wean you, and you have been getting better. It was COVID! but now you are well, no need for life support, they took away all the sedation! But you have been tossing around delirious since.”
John opens his eyes; he sees Mary’s smile.
As much as strength allows John lifts his hand toward her, trying to touch her hair.
Mary squeezed his hand hard and holds it close to her heart. Tears come out of her eyes:
“I love you John; I thought that I was going to lose you.”
“I know.”
John replies with the movement of the lips as no sound comes out of the throat:
Please enjoy the purposefully chaotic style of this short story about a dog (Teddy) and its aftermath! This is why I am a “cat person”!!!
Enjoy
Sunset from Roberta’s terrace – Photo by Roberta Marincola (my adored cousin) Pizzo, November 7, 2023
One Crazy Day, One Crazy Dog
I would like to say that my time on Tuesday with the grandchildren was sweet and calm, but honestly, three hours of what was to be a day in the sun, coloring with the grandchildren, and a simple dinner that my son had already prepared before he rushed off to Sharks Ice to teach hockey, was wild.
Dane had taken the time to say he was working again with Teddy, his newly adopted Pomeranian three-year-old puppy, on manners and potty training. Once again? “Well,” Dane explained, “Teddy has had problems since knee surgery. He seems to have slipped back to his old ways.”
Poor Teddy! He had a dislocated patella that popped out of place every time he ran. After his surgery, he could gradually go for walks, starting at 100 yards per day; until then, Teddy had to be kept on a leash as he was not to jump for the next three months.
I slowly remembered why Teddy had become part of our lives. Mei, Dane’s 5-year-old daughter, feared dogs. Dane thought it would be a good idea to adopt Teddy and help Mei conquer her fears. This little plan worked as Mei and Teddy bonded, and there was peace in the family.
Almost! Last week, I arrived, and Teddy, the sweet little Pomeranian, had turned into a mischievous, wild, untamable, hairy furball. He was totally out of control! And wearing a diaper to boot! What! The diaper was just in case, as he was totally out of his mind, operating from his frontal cortex, and not listening to anyone.
TEDDY! Out in the backyard, chasing birds, lizards, and anyone that made a noise. The neighbor phoned the SPCA and came to check out Teddy’s living conditions. The dog had plenty of food in his bowl, an excellent clean water dish, and a fountain that provided clean running water. The SPCA was happy, but the neighbor was not.
Dane told me to watch Teddy as he headed for the strawberries garden, so I was careful to stay with him as he dashed at full speed after his knee surgery, chasing a flock of crows flying over the house. By the time I caught up with him, he had run to the strawberry garden and exercised his front paws, digging up the dirt and the strawberries! The soil was flying, landing on the grass below in a grand heap! “Teddy!” I clapped my hand and watched him take off again. That dog can run. Finally, after bribing him with a treat, I put his diaper back on and took him into the house.
Mei is overwhelmed. Her parents have been out of town. She is having a meltdown, and I cannot seem to calm her. Finally, after half an hour, we read Mog the Cat in the backyard. Things are slowly getting better.
Dane and Andrea have a Smart House. That means they know how to work everything. I do not. He showed me the oven and gave me five minutes of instructions for heating the carrots and cooking the salmon. He even preset the times for me. “Good luck with the oven door; it won’t stay shut.”
How difficult could it be? There were two ovens. The top oven door would not stay shut. Did this mean the oven only worked if I could get the oven door to close? Oh, the timer, they looked like they were going, but I watched the children as the little one was TROUBLE, and you could not take your eyes off her. Darn, the timers didn’t start. How many minutes have gone by? Salmon is so fussy; maybe it was 5 minutes. I will just wing it. But Mei is such a picky eater that if the food isn’t right, she won’t eat!
The food is on the table, and the girls are delighted with the teriyaki rice. Mei likes the salmon; nobody wants the carrots. Mei announces that her 2-year-old sister April doesn’t like salmon. And this is when things all went downhill.
April wants everything that Mei has. She chomps up a large mouth full of carrots and decides she does not want them. She spit them out all over her chair and then brushed them on Teddy, patiently waiting for food to drop. The carrots have all mixed into his massive amount of hair.
ABC carrots.
“Poor Teddy!” Mei yells out!
“Poor Nanny! I yell! By this time, I am really feeling sorry for myself.
Then comes the grand finale. April shoves all the salmon in her mouth. She starts giggling, which I have found out means trouble! In one big inhalation, April spits out the ABC Salmon and smears it all over the long kitchen table without wasting a second. She is laughing hysterically! I am crying on the inside.
Mei is yelling, “I am telling Mom! I am telling Dad! April, Time Out! Nanny, are you telling Mom? Are you going to tell Dad?” Mei kept repeating herself until April was in tears. Mei has her hands in a T position, like on TV during a football game.
I cannot talk to April because I am mad. I am trying to control myself. I am at my limit with patience. They are all gone, all used up. I need to lock myself in a closet and hide. April knows I am mad and wants a hug; she wants her Nanny. OMG! Really!
I grew up with manners. My parents brought me up to eat with the Queen of England. My home was run like Downton Abbey. I ate out of Bone China and drank from a teacup as a child. I need to prepare for the American way of life. I need time to gradually warm up. I must learn to relax. Go with the flow! But I am Canadian. I graduated from a military university!
Teddy, however, fits right in. He is happy to munch on the ABC Salmon that fell on the floor. I grabbed the rest of the food in April’s bowl and announced that they were dismissed from the table and that I would be cleaning up. This will give me time to calm down and refrain from myself.
After washing the dishes, I checked on the little one, as I could not hear nor see her. Mei came around the kitchen corner and yelled, “Teddy is on the kitchen table, licking the food!” Teddy, there he was in all his glory, walking up and down the kitchen table, looking for food scraps.
I am clearly upset and realize that only time will heal the situation. There is only one solution. A sabbatical! I voluntarily placed myself on sabbatical until next week. Walk in the woods, meditate, and read about love and kindness. Yes, I need to calm my turbulent mind. Writing a story may help soothe my mind. That may be the answer.
Here is the return of our young writer Heer! Now she is back with an inspiring story that she prepared as a school assignment. I really like it. It came with this note:
This story is a historical fiction piece based on the story Never Caught (Young Readers Edition) by Erica Armstrong Dunbar and Kathleen Van Cleve. Some of the characters did not exist in real life and some of the events did not take place. Ona Judge’s character is based on her story in the original book.
We could not identify the origin of this picture and could not ask for permission. However, it was so appropriate for the story that we decided to use it hoping that we are not infringing any rights.
Runaways
You know my story. I was a girl of mixed race who grew up on George Washington’s plantation called Mount Vernon in Virginia. I was a slave since I was born to my mother and father Betty and Andrew Judge. You guessed it: I’m Ona Judge.
But do you really know my story? People write about things that happened to me and my life story, but you’ve never actually heard it from me. So here it is—the story of my childhood life and how I was affected by the society around me.
I was pretty normal as an enslaved child. I didn’t have any work to do, so I was babysat by some of the other slaves because my mother was always at work. Sewing and attending to Martha Washington. I looked up to Martha. She was beautiful, rich, and had a sense of power that just aired from her whenever I saw her, clinging to my mother’s legs. But that all changed when I turned ten.
When I “came of age,” I had more responsibilities. I was Martha’s personal attendant, doing her hair, helping her bathe, folding her clothes, attending to everything Martha wanted me to do. On top of that, I had to serve as a “playmate” for Martha’s granddaughter Nelly Custis. But it was more of being a babysitter. That Nelly was quite the hassle. She yelled and screamed and cried whenever she didn’t get something she wanted. She also ate a lot, scarfing down the freshly made wheat rolls in the kitchen and other expensive food that I could’ve never imagined eating.
That’s how six years of my life passed, but the work hardened, and the days got longer as I became older. I would retire to bed late at night and sometimes had to sleep on the floor of the Quarters—the crowded house that all the slaves like my mother and I had to live in. It was slightly better than the log cabins that some of the slaves that worked in the fields lived in, but in the Quarters, you have to share your bedroom with about fifty or sixty different people. Imagine that!
Around this time, George Washington, Martha’s husband, was elected president of the United States. He accepted, which meant that he had to move north to New York. And as his wife, Martha had to go too. Martha was not happy. I was doing her hair, and she was complaining the entire time.
“I don’t get it. Why would he sacrifice everything we have here just to move to wretched New York? There’s nothing for him over there.” Her face was very animated when she got frustrated, so I was secretly laughing in my head. I never really said anything back, just listened. I think that’s why she preferred me. I was quiet, obedient, and a good listener. She was the opposite. She had a big mouth and blabbed all day, sometimes saying more than she needed. She told me everything—I was like a statue that would just listen with no response, no emotions. Just a way for her to get everything out.
We moved to New York. It was Martha and George up front with the fancy carriages and horses, while we had to ride behind them in the most uncomfortable chariot. Not as comfortable as it sounds – more like a wagon or a cart. We passed through Philadelphia, where I thought people would be envious of me for being Martha Washington’s right hand, but the look of disgust and pity surprised me. There were so many people, most of them black. Black men and women and children stood on the streets, all of them staring at us. I realized that they were free. Not enslaved. They had the right to do what they wanted, walk wherever they wanted, work wherever they wanted. I didn’t. I was chained to the Washingtons for my entire life.
That’s when I decided I would run. It wasn’t a split-second decision; I’d been thinking about it for years. Many years. When I was younger, three girls named Lucy, Esther, and Deborah had escaped onto a ship called the HMS Savage. They got caught though and brought back to the plantation. That wasn’t going to be me, though. I was going to make it. I had to. I thought of my mother and how proud she would be of me if I did. Every slave’s dream is to be free. But it was not my dream. It was my goal. If I didn’t run now, I would wait until the perfect moment. But I would run.
One day, I was walking Nelly to school. She was only six years younger than me (by this time, I was eighteen), but I still had to babysit her. At her age, or actually, before her age, I was already doing half the work that my mother did. It still stumped me how different our lives were. Nelly was a creature of her own. She was a spoiled brat, no doubt, but she was also the most curious person I’ve ever met. Our daily conversations on the way to school just consisted of her bizarre questions and my not-so-good answers.
“Ona, why is the sky blue?”
“I’m not sure…Because the ocean is blue?”
“But that wouldn’t make sense. Okay, how about this? What’s the point of a lock?”
“To have privacy.” I would die to get my own room with my own lock.
“But a lock turns a door into a wall. That also makes no sense.”
I don’t get this girl. She has a point, though.
Sighing, I say, “I don’t know, Nelly.” This is what I said every time because it was true. I had no education in anything.
When I was heading back, I walked past the house of Thomas Jefferson, the Secretary of State. He lived on the same street as the Washingtons. I know. This was New York. I heard voices coming from the courtyard. Voices of important white men that were arguing. I knew I should get home quickly because Martha would be waiting, but I was curious to hear what they were arguing about.
“The capital should stay in New York. There is no reason for it to be anywhere else. Most of the nation’s people live here and there is access to everything.” The voice was stern and witty, most likely Alexander Hamilton’s. He would be the first to start the arguing.
“But the people of the South will protest if things are not fair to them. It would make more sense to have the capital near the Potomac. That’s the middle of the nation. Neither North nor South.” That was George Washington’s dear old friend TJ. He often visited the Washington’s house. I could never say it was my house, because it wasn’t. I was just living there because I had to.
“I agree with Jefferson.” This man was calmer and sounded much more composed. James Madison.
“Alright, I propose an idea. How about we move the capital to the Potomac, but on one condition.”
“And what would that be?” I could tell that Jefferson was intrigued. He hardly ever was.
“If the federal government can pay off the debts, we shall move the capital.”
A pause. Quiet murmurs, probably of Madison and Jefferson discussing the proposition. “That could work. But we need a temporary capital while the federal city is being built.”
“Philadelphia.”
That was all I heard before they all went inside. I don’t know what I was feeling. I was angry that we just got here, and they were going to make us pack our bags and haul them to another place. “Us” being the slaves. Which included me. But at the same time, I was happy. Philadelphia was the one place that would give me the opportunity to escape.
I’m going to fast-forward and skip this part. It’s rather boring unless you’d want to hear about bag-hauling, bumpy chariots, and more of Martha’s endless bickering. The point is, when we got to Philadelphia, we got into a routine once again. George Washington had a farm nearby because he was homesick. But with the farm came the slaves. He had some slaves from Mount Vernon transported here.
Then one evening, after taking out Martha’s braids, helping her out of her corset, organizing her giant collection of cosmetics, and finishing sewing a skirt, I pretended to go to bed in the room that I shared with Washy, Martha’s other grandchild. The bed was rickety and old, creaking every time I moved, or even breathed. I envied Washy’s new and pristine bed, but I knew that I would never experience that comfort.
Today was the perfect day to escape. Half of the slaves were still working out in the fields because today was Harvest Day. We had those once a week in the fall, where the workers in the fields had to stay outside until 11 at night. I was surprised when she asked me to stay home. I packed a bag, stuffing my belongings, which barely contained anything. A few pairs of clothes that I had sewn, a blanket, and a picture of my family. That was the one thing I valued more than anything.
I checked to make sure the lanterns were blown out, before creeping down the stairs. My room, well actually, the room I shared, was right next to the Washingtons, upstairs. And George and Martha were at a formal dinner party at someone’s house. Which was why today was the perfect day. I snuck outside from the door in the back, checking that no one was around. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I’d thought about this day for so long, dreamed about it even. I’d been planning the perfect escape in my head since the first time I decided I would do it. A sliver of doubt entered my mind. What if someone caught me? What then? I didn’t want to think about it. I had to make sure I won’t be caught.
It was a chilly night, so I was glad I had brought my hand-me-down coat. The wind whistled in my ears as I scrambled along the path farther and farther away from the people I’d stayed with my entire life. Where will I go? I didn’t plan what would happen after the escape. I didn’t have much time to dwell on it before I realized I was in trouble.
I heard shouts from far behind me. Shouts of confusion.
“Where did she go?”
“Have you seen her?”
“Tell me where she went!”
“I don’t know! I haven’t seen anyone!”
Dread filled me. I knew they were talking about me. I didn’t realize they’d find out so soon. Flickering lights from lanterns filled the dark night, illuminating the pathway. Then I ran. I ran and ran, faster than the wind, my cheeks numb from the cold air. I didn’t slow down. I couldn’t slow down. My heart thundered in my chest, threatening to jump out of my body. I started to run out of energy until I collapsed. At least I couldn’t hear them anymore.
I knew they were still looking for me. They wouldn’t stop until they found me, or until the Washingtons gave up. I knew that news would reach the Washingtons soon about my escape. In mere hours, at the most. I turned into a narrow alleyway, hiding behind the buildings. I breathed heavily, trying to catch my breath.
“Who are you?” A voice said. I jumped. If someone found me here, I could be caught. It started to dawn on me now, the mess that I’d gotten myself in. I’d be running for the rest of my life. I’d never actually be free. Always looking behind my back, expecting someone to be chasing after me, always prepared to run.
I looked around cautiously, my body in a defensive position. I couldn’t see anyone around.
“Psst. Down here,” the voice said again. It sounded like a child’s voice. Peering down, I saw a shadow of a little girl. She had matches in her hand, and I was fully prepared that she was going to try and hurt me. But instead, she lit a lantern so I could see her face.
She was rather young, maybe a bit older than Nelly. She had hair the color of fire and her eyes were a stark contrast to them, a pale blue-green. Icy and cold, but the clusters of freckles dotting her face made her look innocent.
“So,” she said, “you didn’t answer my question. Who are you?” she repeated in a thick accent, hinting that she is probably from a foreign country.
I didn’t know if I should answer. Should I lie? I decided that there was no harm in telling her. She didn’t look like she would harm anyone. Innocent. But again, those who look the most innocent, are the real masterminds.
“Ona. My name is Ona.” I said, my voice shaking.
The girl smiles, surprising me. “Pleasure to meet you, Ona. My name is Peggy. It’s short for Margaret.” She wrinkles her tiny nose at the sound of her full name, while she sticks her hand out at me. I’m startled, but I shake it anyway. This girl is confident for someone her age. I admire it. Speaking of young age, where are her parents? I look around, but I don’t see anyone in the abandoned alley.
“What are you looking for?” She asks, turning around.
“Where are your parents?” I am merely curious, but the mention of her parents is like a slap to her face. Peggy’s expression contorts into one of pain, and her bright eyes are now clouded and empty. I feel like I have cut the old wound open again that was starting to heal. I knew I was treading on dangerous water, asking her this. She looks at me, her blue eyes piercing me for a whisper of a second. “Dead.” Her voice is flat and she looks away, avoiding my gaze.
“Oh…me too,” I say. Her gaze is curious now.
“Really?”
“Kind of…I’ve never met my father before, so I assume he’s dead. And I haven’t seen my mother for over two years now. She might not be dead, but it feels that way. At least for now. And now I might never see her again.”
Peggy seems to understand. “Come on, let’s talk inside.” She motions for me to follow her, and I do reluctantly.
She takes me to a tiny run-down house that was hiding behind a large manor. There were two small beds in one corner, opposite the kitchen. A neat stack of clothes was on the other side of the room and a small lantern kept the room illuminated. The house’s size in total is less than the size of the Washingtons’ bedroom in the Philadelphia house. Which was smaller than the ones in Mount Vernon and New York.
“Do you live here alone?” I asked, giving myself a quick tour.
“Yes. Well, there used to be another girl, maybe about your age, but she left when she got married.” She pronounced “married” like MAR-ied and rolled her R’s. “And I’ve only stayed here for a few weeks now.”
That was interesting. “Why?”
Peggy goes to the kitchen, pulling something out of the drawers. “I’m an indentured servant to the Masons.” I’ve heard of them before. They were a rich white couple that was always at the formal dinner parties that the Washingtons hosted. “I’m supposed to serve them for three more years, but…” I could tell that she was tensing up, like the reminder of the topic hurt her somehow. “I escaped because I was being abused.” I knew what that was like. I hadn’t ever experienced it firsthand (thankfully), but when you’re a slave and you live with hundreds of other slaves, you’re bound to at least see it.
My mouth was dry, and I didn’t know what I should say. Should I comfort her? Or did she not want my pity? I stayed silent as she plopped onto the bed and continued her story.
“I came here from Ireland two years ago, because my family was trying to escape the famine. But smallpox was going around on the ship that we were on, and we all caught it,” she pauses, taking deep breaths. “It was horrible. Everyone on the ship was hacking and the red spots were looked at with dread. I survived; I don’t know how. I truly thought I was going to die. But my parents weren’t as lucky. And my older brother survived too, but we were separated when we got here. And that’s how I got here.” I could imagine what her life was like. I had an older brother too, Austin. I knew what it was like to be alone.
“I’m sorry,” I say, unsure of how she will react.
“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault.” She’s surprisingly calm for someone who went through all of that at such a young age. I pondered over everything that had happened in the last 24 hours. At the beginning of the day, I was living my everyday life as Martha’s slave, and now in the hours of a random girl I met in the streets. “So, what’s your story?” She asked, breaking the awkward tension in the room.
“Not much more than what I already told you. I’m owned—was owned?—by the Washingtons and I escaped. I was sick of being Martha’s personal little servant.” My voice dripped with disgust. I told Peggy everything, which was surprising even to me. I trusted this girl already.
“We should go to sleep. It’s dark out.” Peggy motioned for me to take the bed I was sitting on, while she slept on the bed beside me. I started at the ceiling above me, trying to fall asleep. But my mind kept going back to the same question: What if someone finds me?
I wake up to someone shaking me frantically. My eyes shoot open. I wake up, thinking that it’s Washy, but then I realize that Washy’s are brown, unlike the greenish ones staring down at me. Then everything comes flooding back to my head. I’m with Peggy. Not the Washingtons. I’m free.
“Wake up, Ona,” Peggy says, her voice filled with concern.
“Why? What happened?” The back of my neck prickles, like someone is watching me. But there’s no one.
“Shhh…There are people outside.”
My heart skips a beat. We’re dead silent now, and I hear faint voices outside. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, come here,” she walks to the window, crouching down. Out of the cracked window, there are a few men dressed in brown coats, knee-high boots, and a matching hat. There’s one man that stands out from the rest, with his bizarre-looking mustache (that looks like he purposely spent hours trying to curl up in the perfect way) and his shrewd expression.
“I know who that is,” Peggy pointed to the rat man (that’s what I’m going to call him), “It’s the Masons’ loyal secretary, Luther Wright. Why is he here? And who are those people?”
Dread trickles down my spine. “The slave catchers.” The men huddled together, talking animatedly, and nodding to one another.
“Oh no, this is not good. We have to get out of here. Luther probably made a deal with the slave catchers to get both of us.” Peggy seems so normal about this, like she’s just having a conversation. “I have an idea.” She runs to her bed, crawling underneath it. She lifts a loose floorboard that I hadn’t seen before and pulls out bills of money. “I think there’s enough to get us tickets out of here.”
I didn’t ask where she got the money. I could feel my face wrinkle with confusion. “Tickets?”
“For the train. To New Hampshire, maybe?” Peggy was crazy. New Hampshire? I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“You can’t spend that money on me.”
“Why not? You’re my friend now. And we need to get out of here.”
I could hear the thumping of boots get closer and closer. The slave catchers were getting closer.
“Come on, we can go from the back door,” Peggy said, moving to the kitchen. I was surprised that this tiny house even had a back door.
We tried creeping out as quietly as we could because we knew that they weren’t far behind us. They heard us.
“There they are! Get them!” A shout echoed from behind us, and that’s when we ran. Peggy grabbed my hand and we both darted into the streets, dodging the random things that lay in front of us. The men had the advantage of their long legs and not being tired easily, but I felt like I could run around the entire world right now. My hands were clammy where I gripped Peggy’s wrist. I could feel her heart beating fast. But not as fast as mine. Sweat slicked down my back, soaking through my clothes. But our feet still pounded in synchronization as we ran towards the train station. I could hear our breaths, labored and heavy.
Peggy said something, but I don’t hear her. I’m too focused on running.
“Ona!” I hear her cry. I stop. “I think we lost them.”
No, we couldn’t have lost them. I didn’t have the energy to talk, so I shook my head.
“They’re not here anymore, Ona. We’re safe.” Her hair was blown everywhere, and her eyes were wide. She looked scared, but relieved.
“No, we have to keep running. They’re probably waiting for us.”
“We’re here,” Peggy said, pointing at the train station. This was our chance. Peggy put on a scarf, covering my head and face. “Keep this on and don’t say anything, okay?”
I nod. What has she got in mind?
She marches over to a man wearing a suit. “Excuse me, sir. My name is Annalise, and this is my cousin Dorothy. She’s blind and deaf, though. Can I get two tickets, please?” She holds up the cash.
The man peers at me with a curious expression, but doesn’t question Peggy. He snatches the money out of Peggy’s hands.
“Here ya go. Two tickets to New Hampshire.” He had a southern drawl. Fear sparked in my chest. What if he found out who I am?
“Thank you, sir.” Peggy takes my arm and leads me onto the train. She sighs in relief. “We’re safe, Ona.”
I’m grateful to have found a friend. I thought it was just me against the world. Everyone wanted slavery. The whistle of the train blew, clearing my thoughts. Finally, we’re free.
Of course, I was never legally freed. But once we got to New Hampshire, Peggy found us a job as housemaids. The owner of the house was a kind old lady named Beth-Anne. She was blind, so she never cared what I looked like, as long as I got my work done. She paid well too.
So that’s my story. Quite the chase, I know. But that’s how it was for fugitives like us back then. Runaways.
We are back! with a co-poem between me and Yao Lu! in preparation for our launch of the Website for MeiGuiLu publishing. Soon to come. More about the latter in the future. For now enjoy: as Careless as the wind…
Shine and Rain at Fennimore – Photo by F. Marincola, from my home, Tucson, Arizona, May 15, 2023
As careless as the wind… 像风一样漫不经心…
As careless as the wind…I wish I could be,
Never turn back,
…as careless as the wind.
像风一样漫不经心…我希望我能
永不回头，
…像风一样漫不经心。
Scatter leaves over the endless prairie,
Dismiss the thump of falling trees,
Laugh at shingles flying in the air,
And, at the hat that from the balding head, flees.
把树叶散落在无尽的大草原，
消除大树们倒下的重击声，
嘲笑在空气中飞舞的黏土，
接着，那个秃头顶上的帽子，逃跑了。
As careless as the wind, recklessly smirk at the sailors’ screams,
The monolith – Piazza del Duomo at Christmas time – Photo by F. Marincola, Milan, December 18th, 2021
Catharsis
But love is an arrogant proposition, a capricious and omnipotent god. What made sense before, doesn’t anymore, and what didn’t, now it does. Fantasy turns into reality; gratification comes from dreams that hoard infinity mirrors and cloud the mind. What made Paul’s sophisticate mind hesitate for a lifetime, was clear to the young Giselle: love is an incoercible desire to see someone again, an impulse to unravel the mystery of happiness by unearthing treasures buried in the promised land. In the impulsive infatuation of a fifteen-year-old, Giselle nurtured the yearning to close a conversation prematurely interrupted and the pride to deliver on the promise of growing into a great ballerina. All the positive influences that inspired her youth converged into the image of Paul, who with his charisma elevated her dreams to the ultimate altitudes.
Thus, at age fifteen the village took the backstage, so did medical school. A poster of Paul substituted the painting of the elegant ladies in her room and the piano resounded with Paul’s music. Since Giselle was not a skilled instrumentalist, she repeated the pieces over and over till, upon satisfaction, she recorded her own performance, and choreographed a dance in front of the mirror, imagining that Paul was there watching. In her mind, her interpretation of Paul’s music, though imperfect, was more melodious than its commercial versions, and more suitable for ballet.
***
A few months later, Giselle was walking along Corso Vittorio Emanuele when she heard Paul’s music played from the distance. As she approached, she saw a young drummer, rolling and juggling the drumsticks in between beats complementing with rhythm melodies and harmonies coming from a soundbox. She stood entranced at the margins of the crowd. Then a foot began to tap, and then both did. Then the body moved, and twisted, and rocked, and jumped, and flowed from pirouette to pirouette as if she was still the little girl in front of the fiddler and his band at the village. She forgot about classical moves and positions and danced with spontaneity. But the body, the legs, the arms, the torso, and the neck did not forget the hard-learned discipline, and the improvised pantomime revealed the talent of a master. The people around started to pay more attention to Giselle than the drummer, who kept playing harder and faster while smiling at Giselle. When the piece was done, Giselle was surrounded by an admiring crowd. Many coins poured into the drummer’s hat together with compliments to both as passersby assumed that they were a couple.
Then the drummer asked in English:
“Do you like this music? Isn’t it a perfect blend of everything; classical, pop, rock, African, Asian, Western? And rhythm makes it alive. I love Paul Vincente’s work. He might be crazy, but the music is magnificent.”
Giselle stood in silence. She looked at the handsome young American drummer, blond and with blue eyes. He was so different from Paul, yet she felt closeness.
“Yes” she answered “I like his music and I love him! Do you know him?”
“Of course, I know him! Who does not know Paul Vincente?”
“I mean, do you know him personally?”
“Of course, I don’t! If I knew him, I would not be playing for a few coins in a foreign country! This is a poor man tour! I am no Credence Clearwater Revival and definitely not a band recognized by Master Vicente!”
“But you are good! You are very, very good! I really like your interpretation of his music. I play it myself at the piano, but I am not that good! I want to buy your recordings.”
“Anyhow, nobody knows him as a human being. Probably, not even Paul knows himself. People say that he is a lunatic. Rumors are that he is depressed and on drugs all the time. He is rarely seen in public. They say that he moved to California and lives in seclusion in the redwood forest like a mountain lion.”
That last comment resonated with the power of a thunder in Giselle’s heart. Now, it was not she who needed Paul. Paul needed her! As for Professor Federico before, Paul’s dark side aroused her maternal instinct. She was now bestowed the mandate of finding and saving her hero. She knew with certainty that the nice man that she met and who looked straight in her eye with paternal affection could not be a lunatic or junkie. Paul just needed someone; someone who could prove him true love.
…Giselle, Giselle, how could you be so naïve and correct at the same time? What did you know about life then? What intuition kept alive the shadow of an occasional encounter? What instinct determined a future that was not meant to be otherwise?
***
A few evenings later, Giselle announced at dinner:
“I changed my mind. I will become a prima ballerina.”
Reacting to such assertion, Professor Federico and Signora Maria looked at each other. Then Professor Federico felt that the minestrone was in substantial need of salt. He reached across the table with the stretched arm for the salt cellar and poured the precious mineral into the palm of the other hand. Then, he sprinkled the ingredient over the soup, mixed the concoction, tasted it, and decided that more was required. After several repetitions, satisfied with the outcome, he looked at Signora Maria and asked:
“Do you need salt Maria? The minestrone tastes insipid this evening.”
Signora Maria nodded, extended the hand, and mimicked Professor Federico’s ceremony.
“Would you like some salt, Giselle?” She then asked.
But Giselle was content eating her soup without qualms.
Having bought sufficient time to reflect upon the current predicament, Signora Maria addressed Giselle.
“…And what made you change your mind, Giselle?”
Giselle continued to chew with composure as if the matter had been settled by her opening statement and answers to Maria’s questions were superfluous. The truth was that she could not articulate why and how things evolved so abruptly. Isn’t the beauty of youth? Like a kitten chasing a butterfly, at this stage of life, the mind can fly over the pastures of haven lifted by capricious breezes disregarding the boundaries of accountability.
“Seriously, Giselle, what made you decide to become a professional ballerina rather than a doctor?” insisted Signora Maria.
“Because I met Paul at the cafeteria of the school. He asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up! At the beginning it felt that it was a silly question, and I did not know what to answer. It was like being caught into a math test without being prepared. I needed to think about it. But, before I knew, my mouth had already spoken:
– I want to become a ballerina – I told him.
He then told me that if that was what I wanted, then I should do it, like he chose to become a musician. So, I vouched to become a prima ballerina. I realized, when our eyes stared into each other’s, that an eternal bond was established; a marvel had occurred, and my destiny was locked to his. I cannot forget him, and I want to see him again.”
“And who would this Paul be?”
“He is a very famous composer. He came and sat by my side because it was the only open space. He told me that I should put no limits to my imagination.”
“I thought that you wanted to become a doctor. Isn’t what you told us just a while ago? I thought that you did not want to become a ballerina. in fact, you felt that it was an imposition bestowed upon you since birth. Isn’t it what you told us? So, if you should do what you want, you should become a doctor, or am I missing something?” Hammered Signora Maria with aggravating logic.
“The thing is, Mom, that I love him. And becoming a ballerina is the only way I can see him again.”
“You love someone whom you just met in a cafeteria? And how old is this prince charming?”
“I don’t know, maybe 40? I can look it up if you want me to.”
“Don’t you think that it is inappropriate for an adult man to come onto a young girl? What else did he do to you? What else did he say?”
“Nothing, he patted me in the shoulder and told me good luck when he left. He told me to never give up.”
“Have you seen him again?”
“No.”
“Did he leave his contact information with you?”
“No.”
“Did he say that he wants to see you again?”
“No.”
“And why do you think that he loves you?”
“I never said that he loves me. I love him. And, one day, he will love me.”
“And what if he doesn’t?” continued Signora Maria quasi amused by the grotesque conversation.
“I think he will! I know he will! They say that he is depressed, drinks too much and he is a junkie, and he hates to be with people. So, I think that he will be happy meeting someone who truly loves him.”
“And my dear Giselle, why would you love someone who is much older, who barely knows you and who has all possible drawback that I man could have?”
“Because I know that deep inside, he is a wonderful man. I remember the way he looked at me, I recollect his gaze into my eyes, how he listened to me carefully, and how he talked to me as if I was a grown up. I felt that he was very sincere, and he cared for me, just for a few moments but he really did. And I felt a warmth inside my heart that I never felt before. And then I knew, …I know, Mom, that he is the man of my life.”
***
There was absolutely no way, that one could add more salt to the minestrone. Professor Federico could not think of anything else that could help circumnavigating the conversation, even for a few moments, just enough to take a deep breath at minimum.
Life had been perfect since Giselle entered his life. This beautiful, thoughtful, caring girl. But suddenly, he was afraid that Giselle was turning mad. Being his first time to navigate the turbulent waters of teenagerhood, this interaction was, to say the list, disturbing.
He, therefore, called:
“Lori, can you come here please?”
“What can I do Mister?”
“If I remember correctly, I bought tiramisu yesterday and we forgot to eat it. Should we have it this evening?”
“Certainly!” replied Lori concerned.
“Something wrong must be going on.” She thought.
“Should I bring grappa for the tiramisu, or maybe brandy?”
“Grappa please. This is a great idea!”
Meanwhile, Signora Maria’s deductive thinking was making progress. To guarantee maximal accuracy, she switched to Russian:
“OK, Giselle. Let’s think it through. We are facing two different issues here: the first is that you are in love with someone, whom you don’t even know, who does not know you, who lives God knows where and may be craved. That is fine! Time will tell. But the pressing predicament is your schooling choice. Even for this, you have plenty of time to decide. Federico and I will not try to persuade you one way or another, but don’t you think that a career as a performer is too risky? Are you sure that, for whatever good or bad reason, you want to follow such a difficult path? What if you cannot make it as a professional ballerina? Will you be a ballet teacher for the rest of your life? Don’t you think that it would be most reasonable to consider a plan B?”
Maria’s words made perfect sense. Professor Federico nodded. It was obvious that there was no point arguing against farfetched circumstances. The infatuation with Paul would soon fade and everything would return to normal on that account. But what if irreversible damage to the professional career would result from Giselle’s impulse? A decision that she might regret for the rest of her life.
It was, therefore, then that Federico the “cunctator[1]” interjected:
“Perhaps, it would be best to talk with Madame Petrova and test her judgment. If she believes that you have the potential to become a successful ballerina, so be it. If she discourages such choice, you will never find Paul through that path anyway, and you might just as well follow a mainstream track. What about that?”
That reasoning settled to conversation for the night since Madame Petrova was not there and the only option was to switch the conversation to Federico’s liking and enjoy the tiramisu with grappa for the Professor and tisane for the ladies.
***
And so it was that a few evenings later, Madame Petrova sat at the dinner table with Signora Maria and Professor Federico, while Giselle had been encouraged to spend the evening with friends at a local trattoria.
Signora Maria had prepped her husband suggesting a casual conversation without mention of the current quandary to avoid prompting Madame Petrova’ judgment.
Therefore, Professor Federico, after the customary pleasantries, started:
“Well, it’s incredible to think how far we have gone since the day we brought Giselle to your studio. I remember that you were quite skeptical. Is my recollection correct?”
“Well, it is true that Giselle was quite advanced in age when you brought her, and I was worried about her ability to cope with the new place. Everything was new, environment, people, language, and the rigor of dancing. I didn’t feel it was appropriate to put her though such stress. On the other hand, if we had to give it a try, there was no point procrastinating.
But then, I remember looking straight into her eyes. I remember her humble confidence, I would dare to say her humble arrogance. She looked at me as a tiger would focus on the pray, as if I was the apprentice, and she was the teacher. And she maintained that demeanor day after day. Not a moment of hesitation. She would come to the studio at the right time, never a minute late. She would listen and absorb every word said. She rarely talked unless asked. I never had to repeat myself twice. And she performed with the precision of a natural; as if dance belonged to her, and we were just accidental bystanders.
In a short period, she was on a league of her own. Not just because of the physical performance, but because of her poise, absorption, self-confidence, the control of body and spirit, her charismatic presence. I have never observed anything like that. I guess that this is the footmark of legends. Soon the other students looked up at her in awe. And yet she maintained the humble and reserved demeanor. Beyond the dance, she was a simple, quiet, and unpretentious foreign girl thankful for being accepted. At the end of each lesson, she would return to the bench, collect the garments, put street clothes over the leotard and leave without a word. When the other girls tried to lure her into a conversation, she smiled, listened politely to a few words before saying: – Sorry, I must go home. I have homework to do. –
I felt sorry at times for her, she seemed to be skipping youth, but at the same time, she thrived in determination, she seemed happier than the other students, simply because she had a clear path to follow.
We mostly execute our existence rather than living our dreams; that is what happened to me. I wanted to be a ballerina. I became a teacher instead. Maybe I would be nothing now, but maybe not: I could have lived my dream. The sad thing is that I will never know. I fell in love with a great dancer, I worked hard to impress him. But he never noticed me. When I realized that I was not doing it for me but for this fatuous dream, I gave up. That’s the story of my life.
I have observed Giselle for years now. She is the best student I ever had in all accounts. She is kind, compassionate, thoughtful, and respectful. She is clever, and on the dance floor she is impeccable. Every movement, every posture is natural and perfect. She outperforms expectations by combining soul with teachings. There is no hesitation in a single fiber of her body, and most recently, she added something that lacked before: there is melancholy in her gestures. It seems that her arms are reaching for something missing, that her eyes scrutinize horizons beyond the horizon. Her dancing furthers perfection with subtle deviations from the prescribed geometry that give spontaneity to the scripted moves.”
And then she added in French as to underscore the significance of her point:
“Il y a toujours un mouvement au bout de ses doigts comme une prémonition pour le suivant plier, etendre, relever, sauter, tourner, glisser, et elancer.”
Returning to Russian after the trance, Madame Petrova continued:
“Of course, it is easy for me to be biased. I am in love with this girl, and I may not be objective enough. That’s why, I asked the Maestro at La Scala to peek at her performances. He told me after just a few instants:
– I know a rising star when I see one, that girl is made for the high leagues. You give her to me, and I will take care of her. I can make her a prima ballerina. –
And I guarantee that with his connections all over the world if someone can that is the Maestro.”
By the time Madame Petrova was done with the soliloquy, the eyes were shiny. In the absence of a handkerchief, she touched, in an unorthodox move, her cheeks with the napkin leaving makeup stains on it.
***
Madame Petrova’s opening statement settled the conversation. No question remained about what Madame Petrova’s expectations were of Giselle.
Yet, Signora Maria was compelled to raise a most reasonable concern:
“But what are her chances of success in such a competitive environment? And what would be of her if she fails?”
“She will succeed in one way or another. She can be a soloist, she has shown it already, and she is quite ready for pas de deux. She performed quite well in a rehearsal of the Swan and Giselle. She memorized everything perfectly. She can transition already from entrée, to adagio, variations and the coda. She has not tried it in a public performance yet, but she is ready for it and she has the confidence to go for it. She will be ready soon to be hired by several companies or simply grow from our corps de ballet. Thus, she will have a career for sure. The question is how far she will go. That I cannot predict. There is politics in ballet just as in anything else. There is luck, opportunities, or most often lack of. But it is promising that the Maestro is on her side. With him behind, she will have a head start. In the worst-case scenario, she could become a lead dance teacher in a high-level studio. She will have a job and if this is what she wants, she will be happy.”
“But the real question remains of whether she really wants to follow this path.” Continued Madame Petrova. “Just of late, she told me that she wanted to go to medical school.”
“Yes, this is what she told us to. But then she met this Paul musician. She said his name is Paul Vincente. He encouraged her to pursue her dreams, and since then she seems to have changed her mind.”
Realizing that, besides the overture, his wife had carried most of the conversation from the family side, to reassert his relevance to the conversation, Professor Federico asked:
“Would you like some wine? We have this Pinot Nero that goes egregiously with the swordfish.”
Madame Petrova smiled, approached the glass, and continued to converse with Signora Maria.
“Paul Vincente is a great modern composer. His work has been choreographed into modern dance. He visited Milan recently and met with students. I am not sure about what he has to do with Giselle. But she mentioned him to me also. She asked indeed whether she could transition to modern dance. I told her, that it is her choice but if she decided to continue in ballet rather than medical school, the best chances are to first establish her reputation in classical dance, since this is what she has been building on and she already has a path ahead. Modern dance is fun, and I would support her if that was what she wanted but it is less structured than classical and more susceptible to the capriciousness of choreographers. It is less competitive, or the competitiveness is less based on technical skill. She is more likely to succeed within the rigorous boundaries of classical ballet where standards are too high for most.”
“And what do you think about this Paul infatuation?” Asked Signora Maria, who could not control her angst.
“Dreams are dreams! As I told you, I was young and naïve too and I also fell in love for a famous dancer that inspired my career. He never noticed me even when there was a chance. It was a nice dream that never concretized.
I think that Paul represents for her something that she can own. A dream that was not imposed upon her by circumstances. We all need dreams, don’t we? No point killing a young person dream. I would let her be. He is a charismatic and attractive man. But she will get over soon. Besides, he lives in America and rumor is that he is married to his cousin.”
“So be it!” Exploded Professor Federico. “Let her do what she wants! That girl gave us already more happiness that we could have ever dreamed of! And, you know what? Screw medical school! I never wanted to be a doctor myself! My parents made me become one and I can’t complain but I will never know what could have been of me if I followed a dream!”
The “screw medical school” concept did not go unnoticed by Signora Maria, who looked sternly but at the same admiringly at her meek husband.
“Is Federico becoming a real man in his old age?” We suppose she thought.
***
Thus, at age nineteen, Giselle was a prima ballerina. Madame Petrova became de facto her agent and the Maestro her guardian angel in the formidable circle of performing arts.
[1] Latin for: procrastinator, byname of Quintus Fabius Maximus Verrucosus, the Roman military commander whose cautious delaying tactics during the early stages of the second Punic War (218–201 BC) gave Rome time to recover its strength.
This is a translation from a short commentary from Tullio Moreschi, an old friend of mine from Milan, whom I have not seen for decades to find out, through social media, that not only is one of the most esteem dentists in the City but also a quite successful playwright. His last play, “La storia di Zhang” (‘The story of Zhang“) was just premiered in Milan and apparently enjoyed a great success. Following it, Tullio wrote a curious summary of the experience, which I found amusing and I translated in English for my readers perusal. I hope that you will enjoy it:
Tullio recently
The show must go on
In the film “Shakespeare in love“, there is a scene set in the legendary Globe Theater in London, where the premiere of a show is being organized.
In wild commotion, everyone is frantic, while nothing seems to go right
The only composed fellow is manager.
“How can you be calm? … nothing works here and in an hour we are on stage!”
In apparent phlegmatic control, he says: “… I know. It is always like this. Nothing works until the moment the curtain is raised; then, who knows how, … or why, everything works out ”
In every culture there is a God to protect the arts … including the plays. If we didn’t believe in it, we wouldn’t even try because the production of a show is there or thereabouts always the same as I am about to concisely recap …
First time going over the script with the actors: “… Perhaps better to forget about it”
Second attempt: “Ditto!”
Third try: “As above … but maybe”
Fourth: “You can do it!”
First role assignment: “It is not going to work!”
Second role assignment: “…Who knows?”
Third role assignment: “Let’s go back to the first”
Memorize 1: “Nobody knows the part”
Memorize 2: “It seems a nonsensical comedy”
Memorize 3: “You can start guessing the plot”
Memorize4: “…Sort of”
Memorize 5: “Getting there, …perhaps …adding motion usually helps …”
Movement in scene take 1: “…Well as far as moving is concerned, …they are moving”
Movement 2: “The body language is better but the memorization is lost”
From 3 to 30: “Here we are!”
31: The director asks for integration to the text
Integration does not work: “Back to the drawing board!”
Suddenly, it works: “Try it! …All right!”
Take number 57; The director changes everything.
Try again: “Memorization is retained, keep working on the movement …It’s getting better!”
The main actress falls ill. It gets worse
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, the director changes his mind again
The actress returns recovered from illness to find herself in another role
Nervous Breakdown
“Let’s restart with the movements”
Panic crisis
“It does not work …Maybe a bit …OK!”
“Let’s account for the dimensions of the stage”
Everything needs to be changed. “Changed! OK!”
“Memorization: OK! Movement: OK! Geometry: OK!”
The day before going on stage they allow us into the theater. Scenography needs to be organized but first one has to run to the carpenter to modify a few pieces!
In the meantime, the firefighters step in for a surprise drill: “Everybody out!”
Everyone back in …three hours late!
Test lights; three headlights don’t work
The headlights are fixed …six hours late …the theater manager is pissed because all is beyond schedule and threatens retaliation
The director is pissed because a red jelly is missing that cover three seconds in the play but without it one can’t go on stage …it seems … there is a green one but he hates green because of a childhood trauma about which he doesn’t want to talk.
“Jelly found! Let’s turn on the lights!”
“Let’s do it again: OK!”
The technician screws up the sequence for the light transitions: “Gotta restart again …from the beginning
And by what time do weed to be ready with the stage lights?”
“… Twenty minutes before the show goes on…”
No time for rehearsal … it’s a jump in the dark
…And if you survive the début that thrives on nerves and tension, adrenaline and coffee, you must go through the second performance, which is usually meek and stale after the stress is gone.
Then we can start to reason!
Finally, you can start the real work … because the show is reborn and improvements can be considered.
To sum up, when one would want claim victory, the real work begins
Do you think I exaggerated? A little, perhaps, but only a petite perhaps
Francesco Marincola 