Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Forty-Six

Looking back at the sequestered bench on the narrow street overlooking the city below—a space of quiet stillness sheltered between colourful houses—she felt a version of herself had been sitting there for generations, a version of herself asleep like Rip van Winkle. The windows looking down upon her, welcome eyes filled with concern and sympathy. Rip van Winkle? Jerome van Starke?

The cold rain had ceased as abruptly as it had started. The remnant clouds scudding slowly towards the mountain reminded her of recognisable appendages, the caboose, the dinghy behind the yacht, the tail of a kite, the sweepers after a parade, the last car in a funeral procession—invariably an older model, striking in colour, windows down, smoke trailing, in need of a wash.

She took a few steps feeling as slow as a tortoise, and dizzy as the ripples in the large puddle she had stepped in. Looking down, she captured a vague recollection as the blue sky hovered above her dark reflection. Her image wavered at once below and above her, bringing to mind a snow globe her Mother had given her depicting a child looking up at a Christmas tree and a snow covered house, a snow globe now residing on her Mother's mantle piece beside a clear wedge of acrylic, an award from a Press Club, an award she had passed on to her Mother for bragging rights, an award metaphorically transparent before the mantle mirror. Snow globe? Press Club award? Her Mother?

A veiled recognition swept round her like a warm caftan. Profession, identity, name, location, however, were still beyond her like the sums of difficult equations. Press Club? A journalist?

The street names on the sides of houses, Dragefjellsbakken. Sydneskleiven, oddly stirred up startling memories of Winter Olympics in northern Europe, down-hill skiers skidding and slipping at tremendous speeds, waves of snow spray in vast arcs towards the spectators.

She stood on the cobblestones before an old wooden house, its blue and white colours making her think of Wedgwood china. It was as if she had shrunken and was now walking around the streets of a toy village, the tawny roof tiles predominating over the muted oranges, blues, yellows, greens and brilliant whites. She advanced towards a smaller house. The address number was 13. Unlucky number she thought, but the house appeared to be so pleasant and inviting. The clapboard houses had such cheerful pastel pigments. Smart as paint, her Father used to say. Her Father? Paint, painter, Jerome . . paintings with her face . . . powdered pigments, glair, egg tempera, linseed and lavender oil, fresh free-range country eggs, gesso, cinnabar.

Behind her, a large puddle captured a limpid reflection of the blue sky, the colourful houses, a late season climbing rose bush, assorted empty clay pots and her own figure in the scene.

An older couple coming towards her, an inquisitive terrier leading them on, noticed that the nicely dressed young woman's movements were eccentric, her hair wet and mussed. Their first thought was drugs, but on approaching closer they sensed something more disturbing. A psychological disorder perhaps. They nodded a greeting as their dog strove to sniff her pant legs.

“Hello,” she said., talking to the dog, “such a . . . beautiful—.” She bent down and petted the dog while the couple exchanged glances.

“Are you needing help?” the older woman asked with a heavy Norwegian accent. Her husband stiffened his shoulders as the words passed her lips.

“I . . . I seem to be lost,” she said looking up at them from her kneeling position with a timid smile while the dog licked her hands.

The couple exchanged words she didn't understand, and then the women withdrew a cell phone and dialled a short number. The husband looked up, seemingly interested in roof tiles.

Smart as paint, she thought. Smart as paint.

*

Pavor Loveridge, his legs almost weightless with fatigue, eyed an available chair and table at the small hospital café, then leisurely made his way over with his coffee and panini of roasted egg plant, cheese and pickle.

Readiness is all, someone had said. That was either Gloria Child or Hamlet he thought. The lines came back to him as he lay his cup and plate down, sweeping aside remnant crumbs. 'If it be now, 'tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all.' His Father, known for his occasional thespian moments, favoured those lines. How many occasions had he attentively listened while his Father, the lawyer, the QC, had declaimed those singular syllabic words? How many occasions had he waited for the dramatic emphasis of that trisyllabic barb? There was often a gin and tonic involved. A memory, impressionistic and vague, stirred within him: the nineteenth hole—the eighteenth green a malachite kidney spread out before them—clinking glasses of shandy, toasting a fine round of golf, the savour of a win over the upstart son following in his footsteps. The readiness is all. Ready for that gust of wind. Ready for the moment of calm on the green. Readiness for that fox in the shrubbery. Readiness. Waiting. Waiting for a verdict. Waiting for a decision. Waiting for . . . news about Tullio.

When he had arrived at the hospital, the overworked staff had informed him that they were waiting for family to arrive, and therefore were unable to provide him with information, him being an outsider, him being a stranger, a stranger with a most tenuous connection, a connection of words on numbered pages, fictions, imaginings, paper and ink. A nurse, of Vietnamese heritage, in her blue outfit and running shoes had suggested he have a meal and come back in an hour or so. Smiling with tired eyes, she had provided him with directions to the café. Running shoes. Nurses were always on their feet. How many kilometres they must walk in a day he had wondered.

The sandwich now but crumbs on a plate, he slowly stirred a spoon in his coffee as the conversations with Carina and Umberto revolved in his thoughts.

“I just talked to a homeless young woman with a black cat named Dante who seems to be using one of the old drainage conduits in the fortification wall as a refuge.”

“Oh, Carina. Yes, yes, she works with the youth centre here. She is not without a home. Not now at least. Occasionally she revisits the fortification and the fountain. We all need to revisit sometime no?To be alone. She walks Dante on a leash and has a small apartment not far from mine. Carina, yes, an interesting case. Smart, but . . . circumstances.”

Pavor could almost hear Umberto's nuanced speech as he sipped his coffee. The homeless are truly alone he had said. The rest of us, even though we may try to stand out as individuals, or distance ourselves from our roots, we are always seen as part of a group, like his own for instance, white, male, Catholic, Italian, Triestine, photographer, senior citizen, tribal units that define and confine us. But the homeless, he had said, gesturing with his hands out before him as if seeking alms, are truly alone. We see through them. It matters not who or what they are, we see through them.

He had asked Pavor to list his 'photogenics' he called them: white, male, Protestant, Canadian, Montréalais, lawyer, author, and they had sat there on the bench, their 'photogenics' before them like cards on a table.

As his fellow café patrons surrounded him with their 'photogenics,' he recalled the visit to his Mother in Prague, Umberto's old-world ways having stirred her up. They would get along, he thought. He could see them strolling together on the path besides the gardens of the Prague Castle, as they had, discussing this and that,  the weather, health, neighbours, the Euro. It had been an unusually cool August day, and their stroll had been effortless, additional discussions of the past perhaps less so—Montreal, her ex-husband Mr. Loveridge, Pavor leaving law for authorship, the reasons left unsaid. (Life had shuffled the deck.) The discussions of the future—marriage with Mélisande, “such a nice girl, why she needs iconography on her arms, is there not enough all around us; but, a wedding dress with long sleeves would do.” The unvoiced resignation at not having grandchildren. They had stood at a viewing area, the old city roofs below them, orange tawny like autumn colours. She was happy she had said. She had a few good friends and neighbours, her health was robust, and she felt at home. Among her tribe Pavor now thought.

And yet, she kept the surname Loveridge. It stood out among the other name labels in the foyer of her apartment house, exotic, a curiosity. When he had arrived at the corner of her street, Lesnicka, he had stood gazing up at the Art Nouveau winged female holding up the corner tower, and she, fixed in stone, gazed down upon him as she had upon countless others through the years, unwavering, resolute. He had never photographed her for she was timeless. Certainly unchanged since he had last visited. Other things had changed somewhat. More construction of office space. More renovation of older buildings. More graffiti. More people preoccupied with cell-phones and other devices. More tourists.

He had felt like a local as he recalled lining up to take the funicular from Ujezd street to the top of Petrin Hill on one of his days alone exploring the city for possible fictional locales. The goal was the Petrin tower and the mirror maze. He could see his character Rex Packard trying to locate the real villain in the mirror maze or climbing up the 299 stairs of the Petrin tower—a small scale replica of the Eiffel tower—in pursuit of said villain, only to look out from the windows at the top to see his culprit waving up to him as he sauntered towards the Baroque Cathedral of St. Lawrence just below.

As the dregs of his coffee cooled before him, he remembered he had put the slim volume of Sir Richard Burton's book in his inner jacket pocket. Bored, he withdrew it and began to read at random, the eye attracted to certain words.

Truth is the shattered mirror strewn in myriad bits

While each believes his little bit the whole to own.

“Mi scusi signore.”

Pavor looked up to see the young nurse who had directed him there. He smiled and asked her if there was any news.

“Si, Mr. Friulli è stabile, ma . . . è in coma.”

A coma. Pavor sighed a relief. He thanked her profusely for being so kind as to let him know.

She told him Tullio's family was with him and that he could always check back tomorrow for more news. There was no point in waiting.

He thanked her again before she left, and then looked down at the book he was reading, flipping pages to read another passage:

The Gothic Moon, the lesser light,

The lover's lamp, the Swan's delight

A ruined world, a globe burnt out,
A corpse upon the road of night.

© ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Forty-Five

Only the most suspicious of neighbourhood busy-bodies spying through their sheer window curtains, would have found anything remarkable about the telephone service van parked at the corner beneath the yellowing lindens. Only the most paranoid of nosy-parkers would have found anything upsetting by the sight of the individual behind the wheel, a stout man of middling stature, of middling appearance, of middling appeal, sipping his Tim Horton's extra-large double-double in one hand while adeptly playing Angry Birds on his Blackberry in the other, the sounds of squawking birds and snorting piglets a counterpoint to the low level radio station wavering like white noise. The open carton of sugary Timbits resting on the officious looking papers on the dashboard underscored this reality, all signs and sounds of normality to the average perception. But the man in the Montreal Expo's baseball cap was only vaguely concerned with the piglet problem in his palm, he was waiting for the appearance of his subjects. He had already memorized the information on his phone, the sub-stats as he called them: Duncan Strand, 53, owner of Strand Cordage Ltd., and Lafcadio & Co., Books, Amelia Strand, 40, part-time CEGEP teacher and free-lance translator, dog named Hugh. No pics. Addresses, phone numbers, car licence number, model and colour. Landlady, Mrs Shimoda below. The information had been sent to him late the previous night. A document retrieval operation. Simple. Clean. He'd given it the name, Operation Labrador, but with the appearance in his side mirror of sleepy-eyed Duncan coming down the stairs with Hugh, he had thought perhaps the name Operation Wiener Dog would have been more apt.

Duncan noticed the van but didn't give it a second, let alone a third thought. His mind was elsewhere. Hugh sniffed at the sparse grass at the base of a maple tree, while Duncan rubbed his stiff neck and stretched it from side to side producing the sound of cracking bone which he had learned was really only air released from the joint, or so he was meant to believe. His jaw was tight and his hips were sore. He had not slept well. Too many concerns. Too many interactions. Although he could turn his personality up when required, he was truly an introvert's introvert, happiest when sitting behind his desk surrounded by his books and papers, cataloguing and describing older volumes, their bibliographic anomalies, their surface sufferings and indignities, their inner logic of signatures and size.

Hugh dragged him towards the corner of the park sniffing and inspecting along the way.

The man in the van sipped his coffee thinking that his subject didn't look his age. He put it down to being childless. Nothing like having kids to age you. The responsibilities, the worries, the demands. Wiener dogs. Not much responsibility there. A full size Dachshund was funny in itself he thought, but a miniature one was hilarious. Operation Draft Stop. He chuckled at his own wit as Duncan and Hugh disappeared around the corner.

Duncan couldn't match Hugh's jauntiness this morning—a brisk liveliness that belied his short legs—but he enjoyed watching him perform his rituals. How dogs parcelled out their pee, a little bit here, a little bit there, was a wonder to him. Canine communication. Invisible graffiti. He felt little adorable Hugh suited his personality, their personality. Much like them, he felt Hugh was an introvert but able to interact with considerable aplomb when needs must. Parties, family gatherings, professional meetings all required that effort of will to shed the protective skin and open oneself to the quandaries of life. Hugh rose to the occasion—as much as he could rise to anything—though Hugh's professional associations were not quite what he would call demanding—his veterinarian, Susan, the only one.

The fog was beginning to thin he noticed. They walked up towards Dorchester and Hugh inspected the shrubbery and grass at the corner while Duncan blinked and yawned towards the upper reaches of the RCMP head office with its aerials and communication devices hiding in the fog. He wondered what they must listen to, detect, uncover. We live in a world of terror plots and uncertainty he thought. How simple it was in his childhood in the 1960s, a world sans graffiti, sans terror, sans plots. Hugh pulled him away with a zestful interest in a garden gnome peeking at him, eye to eye, from behind a miniature garden fence. Of course there was the 1970s Québec crisis. Yes, graffiti, plots, the terror of mail boxes. Hugh pulled him further on past the early twentieth century limestone townhouses, many now divided into flats. Tribalism was rife, his Father used to say, especially in the suburbs. Duncan had never been one for groups. Somehow, he didn't think introverts were much interested in tribalism—more, I-balism, or eye-ball-ism he thought with a half smile and a turn of the head.

Upon seeing a wall of books through a living room window, his thoughts spun away from the gravity of the past, triggering a memory of a dream he had had last night: he was running with Joseph Campbell, the scholar and comparative mythologist, running with books in his arms, trying not to drop them, but failing in that endeavour, looking back, stopping to bend down and retrieve their splayed forms upon the wet grass, and all the time Campbell was telling him to leave them behind, they would help delay the shadows gaining upon them. He shook his head in bewilderment as Hugh did his business. He hadn't thought of Campbell for a dog's age. He had read his books back in the 1970s and 80s, and attended his numerous guest public lectures at Loyola College in the early 80s, and even attended one weekend seminar, mesmerized throughout by his inspiring rich throaty east coast drawl—a voice that at times reminded him of Al Pacino—his mannerisms and of course, his extraordinary vast knowledge. But Duncan had left his comparative mythology period behind him. The four volume Masks of God were in an Australian Shiraz wine box with similar volumes on religion and mythology. His soiled, annotated softcover copy of The Hero With A Thousand Faces inscribed by the author, rested upon a stack of other Campbell titles gathering residual dust behind works by Thomas Pynchon and John Updike. It had been awhile. Life got in the way. Or was the way.

As Hugh stood by waiting for Duncan to pick up after him as was the ritual, Duncan watched the light reflections of the passing cars behind him upon the limestone houses, thinking of the slide-shows Campbell provided during his lectures. He was like a magician, standing off to the side, talking with expressive gestures, casually walking close to the projection to point out a feature, or emphasis the importance of a symbol. Hugh pulled on the leash, bringing Duncan to the immediate present. He bent down with a small black plastic bio-degradable bag to perform his urban responsibilities. 

They walked on, making their full circle around the block. He remembered his brother Gavin, the one who hardly ever looked at a book, and yet the one who was able to come up with the lyrics to his tunes. Whenever he himself tried to write lyrics, the words seemed to get in the way. Gavin the extroverted introvert, however, could always find the words. They came to him. He felt them. But he was always pushing, pushing, pushing. He pushed Duncan out of their Mother's womb first he did—probably because he was in the way—and pushed himself into the next dimension pursuing that hero's journey he knew nothing about and yet everything, crashing his souped-up sports car in the early morning mist all those years ago.

Duncan and Hugh arrived back at their door, the journey's end. The service van remained in place but was of no concern to him. His thoughts had shifted, thoughts now preoccupied with his recent bibliographic discoveries, the Latin text and the manuscript in code, and with what Joseph Campbell—or his unconscious—was trying to tell him.

*

The breakfast room was empty, so Jerome began to investigate the chafing dishes on the large oak sideboard; fluffy scrambled eggs, twists of fatty bacon like the ears of giant pugilists, pork sausages in their post-sizzle sweat, home-fries huddled like warm bricks ready for the mortar of egg, fresh squeezed orange juice, fresh ground coffee, and a variety of fresh cut fruit in assorted colourful bowls. Jams and jellies and a selection of toast, but, no marmalade. A moratorium on marmalade perhaps.

A marmalade morning without marmalade was to Jerome, rather anomalous. A moniker coined, not by direct representation of Seville oranges in sugary splendour, but by Declan's wife in abstraction, a name which conjured up sentimental images by Victorian artists like Helen Allingham or Marcus Stone. A summer garden scene, flowering shrubs, women on garden benches in long dresses—drapery for the skilled eye and hand—books and letters on the seats beside them, summer bonnets and ribbons hanging on the upright, a cat playing with a ball of yarn, Marmalade Mornings, engraved in italic lettering on a brass picture frame plaque.

“Dig in, help yourself, that's what it's there for,” Declan's voice taking him by surprise, urging him on like a mild mannered drill Sargent to his grandchildren.

Declan came along side Jerome like a Spanish Galleon, all elbows. They filled their respective plates in silence, Jerome noticing a sign of concern and preoccupation on his patron's face.

After eating with little conversation other than the references to the weather and to Beaumont, Declan went over to refill their coffee cups and when he returned he finally became quite talkative.

“When I bought Castlebourne, I discovered in the attic rooms among the discarded furnishings, a wood and leather trunk containing many of the previous family's historic papers, some account books, letters and other items fit for the fireplace. Among them were old garden plans. One included a maze and a list of sayings to be used as points of contemplation while walking the thing. As far as I know, they never created the maze.” He drank his coffee pausing as if recalling the moment when he disturbed the dust of many years and unearthed the crumbling plans. “So, when I had this place built, I decided to carry through, bring it to fruition so to speak. We found a good stone worker and had the sayings carved. The trees took a bit longer, but, as you have seen, it's not too shabby.”

“And the sundial, was that part of the plan?”

Declan looked down into his steaming coffee, blinking like a discomfited chess player. “Well, the sundial was part of the old herb garden at Castlebourne, surrounded by thyme, parsley, marjoram, sage, basil, Valerian, Lovage, garlic and God knows what else. It's still growing as we speak but now with a statue at the centre. A little water feature.” He finished his coffee. “The original maze plans called for a pedestal with a top of rare black polished obsidian, a sort of scrying-stone my wife believes. If it existed, we haven't found it.”

Scrying-stone. Polished obsidian. It conjured up images of Waterhouse's painting The Magic Circle, or Burn-Jones's The Beguiling of Merlin. “I envy your discoveries,” Jerome said over his crossed knife and fork. “Do you know who drew up the original plans?”

“Yes, it was a woman named Catherine Fenton. My wife knows more about it than I.” Declan turned as if he heard something. A few seconds later there was a knock on the door and a tall, dark featured, casually dressed man entered.

“Harry, grab yourself a coffee,” Declan said, “and come and meet our friend the artist, Jerome van Starke.”

Harry ignored Declan and shook Jerome's hand like a cheerful sceptic. “So, Jerome, can I put in an order for a Mona Lisa for my wife's powder room? Just kidding, mate. Nice to meet you.” Then he sauntered over to the sideboard to pour himself a coffee.

“So Dec, what's the score?” Harry said clinking a spoon in his mug.

“Well, I think everything's arranged. Have you brought your latest drawings and plans?”

“I wouldn't be here otherwise.”

Declan turned to Jerome as Harry sat opposite him. “Harry here was my old childhood friend in Point St. Charles, before he left me for a better neighbourhood when we were about ten. Never saw him again. Strange that.” They both chuckled. “Then, about twenty years ago, there I was at a cocktail party and I hear a laugh. I turn around and see a tall man across the room talking to the hostess. I knew that laugh. I remembered it like a face. So I began a conversation with him and asked if he had a younger brother named Harrington. The man looked at me wide-eyed. Yes he did. An architect. Presently rediscovering the family roots in the Caribbean and designing fancy homes for the rich and famous. His elder brother provided me with a phone number and well, we've been in business ever since. Hotels and Condos throughout the Caribbean and quite a few splendid homes. Harry's one of the best.”

“That's . . .” Jerome tried to find the right words as he gazed upon the alluring, smooth, clean-shaven head of Harry.

“Amazing, isn't it,” Harry said, jostling Declan's shoulder like a long lost brother. “This man's senses are acute Jerome. Fucking remembered my laugh over thirty years. Meant to be I guess. Meant to be.”

*

Amelia dialled Mélisande's number at the library thinking she would catch her before the preoccupations of the day tied her down.

“What's up?” Mélisande said trying to sound cheerful.

“We wanted to invite you over for dinner tonight, just the three of us. It's been too long. Love to see you. We can discuss the manuscript papers Duncan dropped off the other day too. How about it? 6:30. Just bring yourself.”

“I'd love to. Thanks. I have Duncan's discovery in the laptop bag beside me here at the circulation desk. I really haven't had a chance to delve into it, so that would work for me.”

“Excellent. See you at 6:30. Have a great day, and don't let the eccentrics get you down!”

Mélisande thanked her and rang off. Looking around at the empty library bathed in muted rose coloured light, she had to admit, libraries did tend to attract them, 

*

A ringtone of Cheap Trick's The Dream Police alerted the man in the service van he had received a text message. Having abandoned Angry Birds, he reached out and finagled the device to read his electronic missive.

abort op. new info. doc. elsewhere.

The key was in the ignition and he pulled away from the curb with relief and a knackering for a fresh honey cruller.

Mrs. Shimoda noticed its departure and returned to her crossword puzzle, the female jig-saw piece held firmly between thumb and forefinger, a portion of a pink blossom in need of a male piece for connection and oneness.

© ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Forty-Four

Pavor Loveridge stood flat-footed and sweating lightly before the closed doors of the Cathedrale di San Giusto. The morning visitation period had ended. It was either lunch or prayer time within, or both. A vendor in the parking lot selling panini and hotdog fare was still occupied with a clutch of hungry stragglers, but Pavor overcame the visceral urge and began to take pictures of the church on his cell phone. The Romanesque architecture with its squat bell tower of rustic stone and the main chapel of rustic brick and stone seemed cobbled together over time. The simple Rose window over the entrance was a welcomed detail to the rather austere facade topped by the small Triestine cross.

The shade drew him away leading him to a fenced garden, and over the fence he could see in the distance a small white classical building with Corinthian columns, almost a miniature example, though more elaborate in design, of the Anglican church he had passed on the street below. The gate was open. Turning to the left he noticed a well-dressed older man, with fine grey hair and and clipped Vandyke beard sitting on a bench in the shade, his hat and a wooden black and white patterned chess box beside him. The man's legs were crossed in an urbane fashion, and he nodded at Pavor and said hello in Italian.

“Bon giorno,” Pavor returned with a nod.

“Are you American?” the man enquired.

“Canadian,” he said with a half smile, “Montreal.” He approached the septuagenarian at his siesta.

“Please, please, sit, relax. You have come a long way, no? Canada, Montreal, yes, a long way.”

“It's a beautiful spot here. Very peaceful.”

“The oldest part of Trieste young man, a place where the Romans had their Capitoline temple, and within, Jupiter, Minerva and Juno once looked down upon the citizens and visitors like yourself.” A gust of wind swept over them like an admonishment. The older man spread his arm out in a sweep of the area before them, “A cemetery too it was many years in the past,” he said wistfully. “Yes peaceful, though history, much of it sad, is all around us. This cemetery became a garden full of Roman artifacts, stone remnants, broken columns, but now, most have been moved to the Castle. And there,” he said pointing to the classical building with the Corinthian columns as if in honour of the original Roman temple, “you have the mausoleum or cenotaph to Winckelmann, the father of archaeology. A wealthy lawyer, Domenico Rossetti, long ago formed the Società di Minerva which studied and preserved the history of Trieste, and it was he who was responsible for this garden and mausoleum. A man of many arts he was, he possessed a great library with many rare works of Petrarca. The sculpture within is very well done, Canova was a student of the original artist.”

“I've heard the name of Winckelmann but I didn't know he had a Trieste connection.”

The old man stroked his moustache and bearded chin. “A violent end, a violent end. With his friend the Italian sculptor Cavaceppi, he was travelling north to Germany to revisit his homeland. They reached Munich but Winckelmann had changed his mind. He had been away too long perhaps. He wanted to return. They travelled to Vienna instead and met the royal family and he was given honours of gold and silver medallions but still he continued in his desire to return to his cherished Rome. What does one think? He left Cavaceppi in Austria and made his way to Trieste. Alone. Waiting to catch a ship for Venice, he stayed at one of the old hotels near the harbour, and befriended an Italian peasant staying in the next room who was also waiting for a ship. Arcangeli was his name and he had a criminal past. Winckelmann was secretive about who he was but showed the man his medallions. Well, you can imagine. Arcangeli tried to strangle him with a rope but Winckelmann was strong yes, and then the thief stabbed him before fleeing. When Arcangeli was caught, he defended himself by saying Winckelmann was a spy, a Jew reading a book of magic. Of course antisemitism was not new. The book was Homer's Iliad. In Greek. He was punished by death on the wheel, Ixion, yes, in front of the hotel. Another violent end. And so the wheel of life turns, and turns, and turns.” He paused to brush away a small leaf that had fallen upon his shoulder. “This mausoleum would not exist if Winckelmann had decided to stay in Germany or travel to Greece with another scholar, and yet he must have been disappointed in his return, finding the northern world cold and harsh in comparison, while the warm south, the Classical world, was his dream, a dream to which he returned.” The man shook his head. “Only to find a nightmare, yes, incubo. And to think, he could have stayed in Germany and met Goethe.”

“You know the story quite well.”

“I have had many hours to read, many hours. So,” he resumed, “the realm of chance yes, the decisions and choices of life. In the Cathedrale there are the tombs of Don Carlos and his descendants, the Carlists. But for a woman slapping a man, Don Carlos and family would have ruled Spain. Chance, decisions, choices.”

“Who slapped whom?”

“Well, King Ferdinand's third wife died leaving no heir. Don Carlos, his brother, would inherit the throne. But no, Ferdinand marries once more and a daughter is born. But Calomarde, a rogue and President of the Council of Castille, persuaded the young wife that civil war would break if Don Carlos was passed over for this girl, yes? The young wife persuades the dying Ferdinand to sign a decree of revocation but the Queen's sister slapped Calomarde across the face and took this paper and destroyed it. So, due to that slap . . ,” he made a gesture of with his hands before him as if pleading with the goddess of Fortune, “their bones lie here in the Chapel of Saint Charles Borromeo far from Spain. Such is life, no?"

“Yes, I see. Such is life.”

“Umberto Forlan” he said offering his open palm.

“Pavor, Pavor Loveridge” he said shaking the man's hand. He noticed the bowl end of a pipe peeking out of the man's breast pocket like a periscope.

“Pavor, Pavor, your name is European, not English?”

“My Mother was born in Czechoslovakia, my Father was English. Pavor Kristof Loveridge is the result.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet and handed it to him.

Umberto slipped on a pair of reading glasses and squinted at the card bookmarked by his aged thumbnails, nacreous and lined like old beach shells. He nodded and sighed. “An author, man of many words, yes? What books do you write young man?”

Pavor crossed his ankles. “Crime and spy novels, mysteries if you like. Two of them have been translated into Italian. Your English is very good,” he added to change the subject.

“After the war there were many American and British soldiers in Trieste, 'whatever the weather we must move together' was a poster I remember, so there were many occasions to learn phrases and words, many opportunities to ask questions. My Father was self-employed, a photography studio,” he said placing the card in his shirt pocket, “and I used to help him when not in school. Many soldiers came in to have their photograph taken, photographs to send to their Mothers, wives, or sweethearts, and there I was, observing, listening, absorbing everything before my eyes. They were all so spic-and-span or prim-and-proper yes, with their fine uniforms, shining medals and boots, fresh faces and short cropped hair.” He paused looking into the middle distance. “Sticks of gum, chocolate and the occasional coin. I was fortunate. Many were less so. Many. I was only five when the war began, and the American and British troops didn't leave until 1954. Yes, it was about this time of year, the leaves were turning yellow and we hoped the approaching winter winds would be mild.” He laughed lightly to himself. “I just recalled the names the soldiers used for the British Generals in charge, 'Terry Airey' and 'Tom Winter.' It was Major General Thomas Winterton who was here during that last year of the occupation, the worst winter weather and wind on record. Appropriate to his name yes? It was as if all the torments and terrors of the war had swirled up from the depths of hell and swept across the land.” He passed an age-spotted, heavily veined hand through his fine hair and took off the reading glasses which had been propped on the end of his nose which Pavor noticed had a fine tracery of broken blood vessels like rivulets of lava. “Peace had finally come. My parents were secure once more, and I had wanderlust I think the phrase is, yes? With the money I had saved, I went to New York where an uncle lived. I worked in commercial photography, magazines, fashion and that sort of thing from 1955-1967, and picked up more English there. My future wife as well.” He laughed. “Well, it was she who picked me up. A model. We returned to Italy and I took over my Father's studio and cared for my Mother. Now, at 77, I am retired. An old man, as you see, in a cemetery.”

“You must have had great experiences with photography during those years,” Pavor said.

“My Father called photography 'a bridge of time,' 'ponticello di tempo.' Yes, I did, exciting times. But the bridge has changed. In place of studied snaps, we now have the panorama of everyday life, complete, yes? This is good. And this is bad. What must I say, people used to respect the lens, pose before the novelty of the technology and the technologist. Smiles were of course denied, only imbeciles smiled. Then America, smiles were everywhere, yes? And money. There was a time when it was a challenge to discover the nature of an individual hidden within, since everyone was so much alike on the outside; now, it is all revealed on the exterior, people have turned themselves inside out, or so it seems to me.” Umberto had crossed his arms during his light-hearted rant. He turned to Pavor with a smile and said, “Narcissus in the garden?”

“May I take your picture?” Pavor said roistering his cell phone self-consciously.

“Ah, it is good you have a sense of humour. Why not, snap away.” He posed while Pavor took a photograph and then shook his head despairingly when shown the result. “Have you been inside the Cathedrale?”

Pavor settled back on the bench trying to decide what story he had to offer the man. The ineffable truth? The path of his procrastinations? His multi-faceted inhibitions? The hesitations and fears of reoccurring experience? The compromise of his shadows?

“No, I've been wandering and stumbled my way here. The Cathedrale was closed when I arrived.” Pavor crossed his legs in imitation of Umberto. “I parked my car near the Piazza di Trinità and walked out onto the stone pier. At the end of it, I braced myself in the Bora by holding onto that circular brass directional device, it almost felt like a steering wheel of a large truck, gave me a sensation of being at the helm of an enormous barge. Very clever how the artist made it look like it was encircled with rope.” Pavor hesitated over the details of his recent peregrinations. “I wandered along the harbour and then began my overland route. Happenstance and serendipity have guided me here.”

Umberto gazed at him sideways with increasing interest. “Bora? Young man, this is but a light breeze. You must come back in February or March. The past few years the Bora has been ferocious. I remember 1954 the year that broke all records.” He paused remembering the past and shook his head. “Perhaps that is what prompted my departure,” he said, looking down at his suede shoes as if they were the ones that had launched him on his travels. “Now, I venture off to Capri for three or four weeks when the weather is difficult here. Many writers have sought refuge there. Have you been?”

“No, but I'd like to visit,” he said wondering if Umberto had ever met Graham Greene and other writers. “I am staying in Villa Opicina till the end of next June. House sitting. A Professor of Archaeology here in Trieste is teaching in China, and my agent arranged it so I could be alone to concentrate on my next book.”

Umberto looked at Pavor's hands and noticed he didn't have a ring. “You are unmarried?”

Feeling a sense of freedom that comes with strangers in a strange land, Pavor welcomed the chance to reveal secrets, welcomed the chance to release the suppressed emotions hammering away at his consciousness. “I was married once. When I was doing my undergraduate degree, I met Victoria and we married and had a child, Tamara. I took a Master's degree and then I studied law, and practiced for a number of years in Montreal. Life was good. On a trip to visit her Mother, my wife's car was hit by a truck. Tamara was with her. It was a long time ago. I lost my direction. I gave up law and started to write.” Pavor felt both guilty and relieved to have told someone, and realized that only before the eyes of experience could he have relinquished his story, only before a man like Umberto, a stranger sitting in a cemetery telling him stories of the past, could he have been so arbitrary with such an absolute.

The wind in the trees filled the awkward silence between them. “I am very sorry for your loss,” Umberto said, tapping Pavor's knee. “Life,” he said shaking his head knowingly. “Do you have someone else special in your life?”

“Yes, yes, I've invited her to visit.”

“Good, good. So, my friend, what is this book you are writing?”

Pavor shifted on the bench and looked up to the trees and their yellowing leaves like desiccated smiles. “A friend of mine is an investigative reporter and she told me a story at a dinner party back in January. It was a story she thought I would find of interest for one of my novels. I've been sketching it out in my head for the past nine months. She was investigating the death of a man who worked in the secret intelligence world, research of some kind. His lawyer gave her his journals and papers. He believed he had been slowly murdered by his employers by the abuse of new-found scientific techniques. He was single, no close family. The motive is what she couldn't discover. There is always a motive. Money didn't seem to be one. He was comfortable and had no vices. He lived a simple life. Yearly visits to New York to see the new plays. Museum visits, that type of activity. Cultured and quiet. A reader of non-fiction. History mainly.”

“A disagreement with his employers perhaps? A motive for them?” Umberto offered. “Perhaps he was preparing to reveal secrets. Secrets concerning these scientific abuses.”

“Yes,” Pavor said squinting up to the trees. “That's one possibility.”

“Or love, that ultimate motive of our species, no?”

Pavor looked up between the trees to see layers of fair weather clouds like jagged coastlines moving towards each other in the cross-currents, the vapours swirling backwards, dissimulating, deflecting, deforming, before silently colliding, merging in a display of aerial tectonics. He wondered if the edges of clouds were fractal.

“Love, hmm, I never considered that possibility.”

*

“Hei?”

He didn't recognize the voice of the woman who answered the phone. “Hello, my name is Arthur Roquebrune, I'm calling from Montreal for Thérèse LaFlamme, or Tess Sinclair as she sometimes calls herself. I am a friend.”

Martine Haugen was struck with the familiarity of the man's name, her thoughts now divided between the recollection of the past, and the immediate enquiry for Tess. “Hello Mr. Roquebrune, my name is Martine Haugen, yes Tess has been staying here as my guest. I have been away a number of days. Tess was not here when I arrived today. She didn't leave a note so I imagine she is just out shopping. Shall I have her phone you back?”

Arthur Roquebrune sat at his desk, his mind likewise searching the past as her name was familiar to him. He saw a very tall woman, six foot two perhaps, long straight blond hair, long pale features. Where had they met? “Yes, that would be very kind of you.” And as he gave her the phone number at his home and at his office, he remembered. It had been at a conference in Paris. “Your name seems very familiar to me Ms. Haugen. Did we meet in Paris in 2002?”

“I was just thinking the same, yes, the conference, of course. Your name seemed very familiar to me as well. You presented a paper on the rights of the deceased.”

“Yes, very kind of you to remember. It seems so long ago. Well, I am very pleased that Tess has found such a good friend. Tess can call me anytime, no hesitation. Thank you very much Martine. Farvel.”

“Very good Arthur. Farvel.”

He eased himself back in his leather chair remembering Paris and the affairs of the heart.

© ralph patrick mackay