Like a deck of cards skillfully spread
out in one deft movement, so were his memories of falling multiplied,
as if every faltered step from childhood to this day, every scraped
knee and palm, reverberated within and spread out before him as he
lay upon the damp rough sidewalk, winded and stunned. His right
shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall dislodging his glasses which
skidded across to the homeless man and his dog who were the original
objects of his having explored the nether regions of his pant pocket
for change, oblivious to the slightly raised crack in the
concrete, the result of a mild earthquake the year before, an
earthquake which the homeless man and dog had experienced with much
feeling, sitting as they had been, on the cold hard cement. As Duncan
regained his breath, the remnant resonance of his past fading, the
homeless man approached him, glasses in hand, asking him if he were
alright while his dog licked Duncan's ear and chin.
“Yes, yes, good dog, good dog. Fine,
fine. Thank you for my glasses. I'm blind without them.”
“You're lucky they didn't brake. Let
me help you up.”
“What's your dog's name?
“Patouf.”
“Good Patouf,” he said, petting the
dog, a beige mix of breeds with a pair of kind eyes and a slim build.
And your name is . . ?”
“Mike.”
Duncan thrust his hand out to shake the
man's hand and thanked him for his kindness. Withdrawing his wallet,
he took out a twenty dollar bill and folded it into Mike's hand whose
pride resisted the offer but Duncan insisted, saying that he had
saved him a great deal more by bringing him his glasses.
“What you did means more than the
money. Truly. Thank you again.” And with that, Duncan began to walk
away turning after a few steps to wave a salute.
He rubbed his shoulder and felt the
corduroy had taken a scuff. Stopping to look in a store window, he
managed to make out his reflection, that shadow that never quite
measured up to what he expected to see. His hair was a bit
dishevelled, his glasses, a bit off kilter, and his corduroy jacket a
bit soiled from laying ever so briefly on the walkway.
He sensed that Mike didn't have a
substance problem. More one of circumstances. A man on the street
with a dog seemed to him much more pitiable since it echoed a past
life of normality. Duncan looked back but he couldn't see him for the
fog.
That was the second incident today. Two
strikes. He would have to be extra careful as he made his way back to
the shop in this unusual weather. As he walked on he wondered why three strikes. Could it possibly predate baseball and its parochial empirical exclamation? A mythological origin, the God's and their lightening bolts? The Greek chorus?
Checking his watch, he saw it was 11:30
a.m. Still slightly disoriented, he looked about and noticed the
Café Hermeticum, a trendy place he had always felt too hip
for him. His hunger, however, and his desire to clean himself up,
emboldened his action. He could grab a quick bite and be on his way.
A warmth embraced him, a warmth of
brick walls, mirrors, modern art and the strong aroma of roasted
coffee beans..The few other clients were absorbed in their
conversations and ignored him. The music was of the world, Turkish? Music for his whirling dervishes perhaps. He didn't feel that out of place. It was, for Duncan, a welcome change. Ordering a plain black coffee
and a panini with roasted zucchini, eggplant, cheese and pickle, he
asked the pleasant young woman with one modest ring on her left
nostril which was quite becoming, how long the café had been in
business.
“Nine years I think. It's changed
hands a few times though.”
After paying, he made his way to the
restroom to wash his hands and check his overall appearance. His
jacket had indeed suffered from the impact, the shoulder seam had
loosened and the wide wale corduroy had lost its colour somewhat.
Considering what could have happened, it was negligible. He washed up
and combed his hair with his fingers, drawing his thin and diminished
forelock down on his forehead.
The panini had been a heavenly pressed
gustatory delight, and yet, he knew from experience, he would likely
never experience its equal no matter how many times he revisited.
Such was his axiom of dining out.
As he thanked the young woman before leaving, he noticed a small painting on the wall. A portrait of a
woman. He stood before it and was deeply impressed by the skill of
the painter. The woman remarked that it was of the owner, painted by
a local artist who frequented the café. Duncan looked at the
signature, 'van Starke.'
“The artist is very talented.”
The waitress smiled, and said, “And
he's very nice too. Not all artists are.”
Duncan nodded and smiled.
*
P. K. Loveridge finished the superb
gnocchi with a pleasant Refosco dal Peduncolo Rosso. Pouring a
post postprandial measure, he walked into the study and sat before
the leather-top desk. A number of postcards he had picked up in
Trieste lay before him. Sipping the wine and sucking his teeth and
working his tongue into the crevices to extract cheese and tomato
remnants, he thought of who he could send one to. A light rain tapped
the windows and the wind from the North brought the shutters to life.
There was Pascal Tessier. It was unfortunate his wife had demanded
his leave taking. Pascal's little affair with a younger artist was
possibly the last straw. The last straw. What a hopelessly tired
phrase. Poor Pascal. It worked out for himself, however, in that he
had a reliable and trustworthy sublet tenant for his apartment in
Montreal. He could trust Pascal to keep his book collection and
personal papers from harm. It also brought a buoyancy to his bank
account.
Feeling alive and relaxed, he thought a
limerick would be the thing, something to make Pascal think that not
everyone was prospering. His mind swam with possible first lines. Why
stray from the expected? Yes,
There was a young man from Trieste .
. .
He sipped his wine and worked on the
concluding three lines in his head. After a few minutes he was
satisfied with the result. Though there were no secrets in a
postcard, he thought the words would not be unacceptable. He picked
up his pen and in his concise script wrote:
Cher Pascal,
J'espère que cela vous trouvera en
bonne santé. Il ya quelques bons vins de la région. J'espère que
vous pourrez visiter et partager une bouteille avec moi. Tous mes
meilleurs voeux et merci encors.
P.s. Un limerick pour vous amuser.
(In jest. My writing is going well--touch wood.)
There was a young man of Trieste,
A scribbler of words quite obsessed.
When he failed in his craft
To complete a first draft,
He suffered a cardiac arrest!
-Pavor.
He
addressed the postcard and turned it over. The picture was of the
Canal Grande with the statue of of James Joyce in the foreground. He
found the representation of the famous author to be rather on the
heavy side, looking more like a well-fed dock worker on holiday than
the extravagant myopic wordsmith. He wondered what Joyce would think
if he could be a ghostly flanneur and stroll across the bridge on the
Via Roma and see himself in bronze. He might think he looked duller
than a fat weed that roots itself with ease on Lethe wharf.
Glancing
at the stack of books beside him, a scuffed blue binding of Hamlet,
its gilt lettering dulled to a phantom bronze, hovered on the pile.
He sensed he got the quote wrong, but that was the wine talking. What
spirit made him pick up the play from the owner's book laden shelves
was a mystery of his unconscious. Rereading Hamlet
in a pleasant modern home in Villa Opicina overlooking Trieste and
the bay, was not an experience he could possibly have envisioned in
his younger days. Had fortune smiled?
Sipping
his wine he began to address another post card, a narrow picturesque
street in Trieste. This one to Jerome. He composed another limerick
in his head, sipping wine and smiling to himself.
Dear Jerome,
The local wines and food are of
course, delightful. I look forward to a visit from you and Thérèse.
Much solitude to share, and many convivial pleasures as well. We must
visit Eppinger caffè in Muggia together.
A limerick for your pleasure:
There was an old man in Trieste,
Who travelled the world on a quest,
But when he got home,
He found but his gnome,
Forsaken, and quite dispossessed.
-Pavor.
For
Mélisande, he uncovered sheets of heavy-weight correspondence paper
with the owner's address along the bottom, and an image of a trident
top centre.
My Dearest Mélisande,
His
pen hovered over the cream paper like the beak of a still blue heron.
He had so much to say, so much to ask, so much to plead, the
strength ran from his arm. The limericks and the wine had taken their
toll. Should he phone her? No, she would still be at work. Best to
wait for the morning and its lucid anodyne.
He
slipped the copy of The Aspern Papers and Other Stories
from under the play and rising, took it over to the soft chair to
finish. How many times had he read that story he wondered. How many
times had he agonized with that fool, that utter fool.
© ralph patrick mackay
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