Island of The World

by Michael D. O'Brien

  In time, the bells ring again, and the crowd pours out behind Chicklet and his wife. The husband strides forth to the edge of the top steps, goes down on one knee, throws his arms wide, and in mellifluent poetics recites an homage to his wife, whom he addresses as “My dear Canary!” After much applause, the entire crowd crosses the piazza and parades behind the couple along the flood boards to another street, over a stone bridge, and into a square where they enter a hall for the wedding banquet. This, Josip is able to attend.

  The music and dancing and kisses will be remembered vaguely in times to come. He will recall the happiness among the people that day, especially the euphoria of recaptured youth in the faces of bride and groom. Most of all, he will recall a moment when Slavica turns to him and remarks offhand that it is a joy to be a wedding guest. She uses the Croatian word, svat. His heart sinks, and he is silent during the remainder of the evening, though he masks his feelings for the sake of others.

  I will not forget you, Svat, I will not forget you, he whispers in his thoughts as he is driven home late that night. And as he lies down in the dark to sleep, he recalls another wedding.

  26

  It is a hot afternoon in Slavica and Emilio’s backyard, heavy with humidity, and there is not a breeze stirring the air.

  Josip has joined the family for the day because in the evening the influential friend from Rome will arrive. At the patio table, sweating jugs of lime juice and water are emptied, refilled, and emptied again by the thirsty revelers. About four in the afternoon, Slavica brings sweet-melon from the kitchen and slices it into little boats. Emilio’s mother is here today, too—the first time Josip has met her—a tiny olive-skinned woman in a long black dress, her white hair bunched in a net. Her eyes twinkle like her son’s, but she is a person of fewer words. She brings two little tubs to the table.

  “Gelato, gelato, gelato!“scream the children, pressing in close as the treat is scooped into the boats. They run off with these prizes to eat them under the shadows of the trees, where the air is cooler.

  Only Emilio chooses the vanilla, a small scoop. Everyone else chooses the thick creamy chocolate, onto which Slavica grates hard chocolate and hazelnuts. Josip eats his slowly because he has not tasted ice cream in years, and never any like this. He holds it on his tongue as it melts. It goes down like a streak of ecstasy.

  “The chocolate is the best,” says Slavica, plopping a double scoop onto her own boat, “but poor Emilio hates it.”

  “I don’t hate it,” her husband replies, “I just don’t want it.”

  “But, really, Emilio, how can a sensible person prefer vanilla? Only you touch the stuff, and we always have to throw so much away.”

  “His teeth are very fine ones”, says the old mother. “It is best to protect them. And I wonder if it would be wise to do the same for the children?”

  “The children’s teeth are in no danger, Mamma”, laughs Slavica. “As you see, they are not falling out of their mouths.”

  “Soon enough they will rot!”

  “Well, it’s worth it. Will you have some too?”

  “Of course!” grins the old lady baring her gums. “Chocolate, if you will, and please be so good as to give me two scoops. I’ll eat Milio’s share.”

  “Mamma, what about your teeth!” cries her son.

  “I have no teeth!”

  Supper is pasta with a mushroom sauce, bread and olive oil and red wine. Josip drinks gallons of the lime-water and sweats profusely. It feels very good. He does not engage himself in the conversations or let himself become engaged, for he is simply enjoying the antics of the children, who have become more rambunctious as the evening approaches. The air is a little cooler, and they are full of sugar. They are up and down the trees, peering into nests from which the chicks have long flown. Later, the boy and his father kick a soccer ball around, while Josip and the women sit on deck chairs and observe it all in a spirit of companionship.

  A car horn beeps just after sunset.

  “She’s here!” smiles Slavica, who, with a clap of her hands, jumps up and runs around a corner of the house in the direction of the driveway. Soon she returns with a woman of about forty years. She is wearing a light cotton dress and carrying her sandals in her right hand. She moves like a younger woman, and it is plain to see, even in the twilight, that she is still very beautiful.

  The children run to her, and she goes down on her knees to embrace them. Emilio, throwing his chest out and smiling urbanely, gives a double-kiss to her cheeks. Finally, Mamma is introduced. The old woman simply nods, with caution in her face and perhaps disapproval. Josip is standing by the table, waiting. Slavica brings the woman over for introductions.

  “Cass,” says Slavica in English, “this is our friend Josip Lasta from Croatia. Josip, this is my dear friend Cass Conway.”

  “Well, hello there,” says the woman extending a hand graciously, “it’s so very nice to meet you, Joe-seep.”

  Instantly the impression is formed. She is wealthy, educated, appreciates mildly interesting experiences as long as they are sufficiently odd and can later be used as anecdotes at parties, and she is somehow connected to the embassy of the most powerful nation on earth. There are no scars on her face or hands, or on her over-exposed chest, arms, and legs. A large diamond glitters on a finger. She has been admired or adored all her life and never ignored. Moreover, she has called him Josip, not Mister Lasta.

  He shakes her hand courteously, then releases it. There is a holding-on in her fingers; she wants the touch to linger, even if only for a micro-second. Perhaps it is merely the style of American women.

  “How do you do”, says Josip stiffly, with a bow of his head. Last week he purchased a Croatian—English dictionary, and he has been practicing. He has memorized numerous common words, plus a few useful idioms: It is raining cats and dogs today. The corn is as high as an elephant’s eye. Can you direct me to the subway, please? Where may I purchase a hot dog?

  Very strange, this English.

  Fortunately, everyone can speak Italian, and that is the language in which they converse throughout much of the evening. They all sit down, and after Emilio has poured wine, and the children are led away to bed by the grandmother, the two women put their heads together and dive into English, launching a contrapuntal discussion unintelligible to the two men. Emilio listens with a whimsical expression, while both he and Josip note the several names that surface in the conversation, as well as Slavica’s extravagant body language, her facial animation, her happiness to be reunited with an old friend. The women have become mutual catalysts, the men invisible.

  Emilio catches Josip’s eye. “They knew each other in Boston”, he explains in adequate Croatian. “That’s where Slavica spent some time putting the feather in her doctorate. This woman—I will not say her name, for then she will understand that we are talking about her—this woman studied psychology as well, and that is how they became connected. But she married someone in the diplomatic service and never became a doctor. Now her husband works in Rome. They arrived a few months ago, and the wives have been visiting back and forth, renewing old ties. The children, as you may have noticed, adore her.”

  “I see”, murmurs Josip, gazing up at the stars filling the sky. “You don’t like her much, I can see”, smiles Emilio. Josip meets his gaze, but says nothing.

  “She is quite beautiful, is she not?” Emilio continues as he refills Josip’s water glass with lime juice.

  Slavica breaks off, and casts a scowl in her husband’s direction. “Emilio, what are you and Josip talking about?”

  “We were saying that there are few pleasures in this world as fine as drinking good wine under the stars in the company of two great beauties.”

  She throws a bun at her husband, who ducks, while the American woman looks back and forth between them with a puzzled smile.

  “Well, stop that nonsense, and speak in Italian for the sake of our guest.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  The w
omen put their heads together again and resume their outpourings. Emilio smiles broadly.

  “So,” he says in Croatian, “so, you do not like her. And this I can understand because to tell you the truth I myself am not fond of her, though I am able to hide it for the sake of my Slavica, of whom I am very fond.”

  “Why are you not fond of your guest?” murmurs Josip.

  “Perhaps it is for a different reason than yours.”

  “My reason?”

  Emilio pauses to consider before answering. This is the longest and most intimate exchange they have had since they met.

  “You are angry about the unfairness of existence, I think.”

  Josip, too, ponders before replying. “That may be true. Yet I also realize it would be unfair of me to judge. I do not know this woman.”

  “There is always more to people than we think.”

  “This I do know.”

  “Then—we will drink and smile and pretend we are thrilled by her company, no?” Josip chuckles.

  “Emilio, what did you say to Josip?” Slavica demands, breaking off in mid-sentence. “What did you say that made him laugh?”

  “Weren’t you listening, dear?”

  “I was listening in English with both my ears, and not paying attention to you torturing Croatian grammar. Besides, I told you to speak Italian.”

  “Did you? Oh, I’m sorry.”

  Everyone laughs, and even the American lady joins in.

  “Ah, the Tower of Babel”, she says in Italian, her eyes flickering toward Josip to check on his response. He looks away.

  “Come on,” says Emilio, slapping Josip on the knee, “lets take a walk.”

  The women hardly notice them leaving, and soon the men are strolling by themselves alongside the Brenta.

  “I suppose you have told her about me”, murmurs Josip. “Yes, of course”, says Emilio in a thoughtful mood.

  “Then I think it would be best if I return to the clinic now. I thank you for your kindness, but the evening will be a waste. This woman will not help me. Such people—” He stops himself. “I cannot say with certainty, but it seems to me that such people move through life without seeing what it is like for others. They are ignorant of what really goes on beneath their station in the world. And she is very high in this world.”

  Emilio clicks his tongue. “Sì! That is often the case. But not always. It is a roll of the dice, this meeting.”

  “She has agreed to meet me, I think, only because she likes her old friend from university times. In truth, she will do nothing, and she will have excellent excuses for it.”

  “Do you really think it will turn out that way?”

  “Yes. I am a mental patient who does not speak her language. I am repulsive to look at with all my scars, and she comes from a world of lovely objects and ordered experiences, and she has never known deprivation. Hers is a world of beauty and achievement. If I were to work in her world, I would become a constant reminder of the dangers of human existence.”

  “You sound bitter, Josip.”

  “Do I? Perhaps I am bitter. In fact, I feel sad.”

  “She might enjoy having such a reminder. Maybe you will help her find some depth.”

  “That would be worse. Then I would function as the pathetic unfortunate kept like a hideous ornament in her beautiful world.”

  “Ooh-ooh, Josip, how hard you are on yourself. And how hard you are on life. Are people really as shallow as all that?”

  “Yes, Emilio, they are. And for all kinds of excellent reasons.”

  Emilio chuckles and halts in order to light a cheroot. He blows smoke upward into the sky, the same way Simon Horvatinec did in his garden in Split. How many years ago? Three or four—yet it seems a lifetime has passed since then.

  “This is forbidden”, he explains. “Slavica will have a fit if she smells tobacco on me. She is always and everywhere worried that the people she loves will suddenly die.”

  “There are excellent reasons for this.”

  Emilio says nothing, merely puts a hand on Josip’s shoulder, drops it, and then they walk on.

  They return to the house only to find that the American lady has gone. When Josip hears the news, he exhales with relief. “Ah, well”, sighs Emilio.

  “She didn’t have much time to spare”, says Slavica. “Tonight her husband is visiting the Consul in Venezia, and it cost her a lot to break away from a social event. She begged our pardons but had to hurry back and change clothes for it. She said she would much prefer to be with us and hopes to return before winter.”

  They sit down at the table. Grandmother joins them and sips from a glass of wine. She is so short that her feet barely touch the patio stones. She rocks back and forth, as so many old women do, like the goat-lady of Istria and the midwife of Rajska Polja.

  “That poor woman has suffered”, she exclaims out of the blue. The others stare at her.

  “I don’t think so, Mamma”, says Emilio, then goes on to explain the woman’s position and wealth.

  “Yes, yes, yes, Milio, but I can see better than you. She’s still nice-looking for her age and must have broken many boys’ hearts in her time. But she is not happy.”

  “Cass?” exclaims Slavica. “Cass not happy? Oh, Mamma”, she laughs.

  “It’s true. All that smiling and fine manners, but not happy. Not happy at all.”

  Slavica changes the subject:

  “Josip, she was very impressed by you.”

  “In what way?” he murmurs with a frown.

  “She thinks you’re very nice.”

  “Nice?“says Emilio. “Heaven help us, I think I will have a cheroot.”

  He lights up, igniting a chain reaction of scolding, which he ignores.

  The boy from Verona has been released, only to be replaced by two more boys, both recovering drug addicts and both ex-prostitutes. Josip does not understand this kind of horror, but he sees in their eyes what the drugs and degradation have done to them. One runs away and returns to the street-life of some Italian city. The other remains at the clinic and with the passage of weeks begins to respond positively to recitations from The Odyssey.

  “Yes, life is like that”, he says to Josip one afternoon, as they pick plums together. “I’ve met men like the Cyclops.”

  “I once met a Minotaur”, muses Josip. “No!” says the boy astonished. “Tell me about it.”

  “It was a struggle.” Josip shrugs. “He tried to kill you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you escape?” Josip laughs. “Yes, I did.”

  “I’ll bet you wondered if you would escape, back then, when you were fighting him.”

  “Yes, I wondered.”

  He still wonders. Has he escaped? And what was lost while he was wrestling with the monster? His bride died with their child as he was being blown out to sea.

  “Do you think a person can change—after he has done great wrong?” asks the boy in a strained voice, keeping his eyes on the branches.

  “Yes, I am sure of it. But he must fight for it. He must fight harder than if he were wrestling with a Minotaur.”

  “Or with a Cyclops.”

  “One does not wrestle with a Cyclops. That is why Odysseus has much to teach us.”

  “What can he teach us?”

  “He is not like Achilles, because Achilles is all rage and physical strength and he lacks wisdom.”

  “Are you a priest?” the boy asks suspiciously. “No”, Josip laughs again. “I am a gardener.”

  “So, how does one defeat monsters?”

  “A man may defeat a monster and yet be defeated by his own heart.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Odysseus must learn that he cannot win in the way that Achilles won at Troy. He must win by another method, for the monsters are too great for him. He uses his mind. He uses cunning and skill. Though he is strong in body, he knows it is not enough. To succeed in his nostos he must—”

  “What’s a nostos?”
<
br />   “The homeward journey.”

  “Oh”, frowns the boy, thinking. “So, how does he do it?”

  “He defeats the monster within himself.”

  Another day.

  “They do a lot of eating in that story.”

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “The monsters and the humans—they all eat like gluttons. They eat each other too!”

  “Unfortunately, this is so.”

  “So, what do they all want? Why is everybody eating each other?”

  “They are hungry. Achilles hungers for glory, and—”

  “Wait, wait, who is this guy Achilles? He’s not in this story.”

  “Yes, he is. You cannot truly understand The Odyssey without The Iliad”

  “What’s an Iliad?”

  “It’s this.”

  He hands the boy a paperbound copy of The Iliad in Italian. Then an Italian version of The Odyssey. He had purchased them with his monthly stipend.

  “Hey, thanks.”

  “Will you read them?”

  “Maybe.” And the boy stuffs them into his back pockets. They return to their fruit picking. “Hey, boy”, says Josip after a while.

  “What?”

  He tosses the lad a ripe plum, catching him off guard. The boy fumbles it, recovers, and pops it into his mouth. Smiling, chewing, he regards the scarred gardener with new curiosity. Then he removes something from his pocket and throws it at Josip.

  The gardener catches it. It’s an orange.

  Another day. They are raking leaves together. A cool wind is blowing in from the northern Adriatic, promising rain.

  “So, this king, he comes home in the end”, says the boy.