I sat and looked at the panels in different orders trying to make sense of them. The sun had broken over the horizon and shot directly through the panels, sending hundreds of colored beams onto the hardwood floor around me. I looked down at the books on the pew and realized I was awash in the colors as well.
“It’s beautiful this time of the morning, don’t you think?”
“Poppy?”
“Up here.”
I looked up out of the colors to the balcony in the back of the room. I had noticed its underside earlier but hadn’t realized that it served as her bedroom. Poppy looked down at me from behind the railing, the black silk robe fastened around her narrow waist.
“Yes, it’s very beautiful—”
“Which is your favorite?” she asked before I could finish my sentence.
I turned and looked at the different scenes. “Him,” I said, pointing to the right-hand window. “The duelist, definitely the duelist.”
“Mine too.”
“Who are they?” I said, keeping my eyes locked with the duelist’s.
She was silent until I turned around and looked at her again. “Minor characters in history. I cut, colored, and set the pieces myself. I always get up with the sun to see this.
“You made these? This is impressive, Poppy,” I said, turning to admire them again. “Where did you get the ideas from? I mean, why these characters? These pieces seem so personal . . . so real.”
I turned and looked up at her. She stood at the balcony railing, arms folded across her chest, staring at me. “Wait there, I’ll be right down.”
I grabbed the crutch and the books and hobbled toward the front of the church dressed only in my borrowed underwear. I had taken only a few steps when Antonio came out of his room. He was unshaven, and his thick, white hair lay on his head in random disarray. He wore a fresh white shirt, the Cuban kind that you’re not supposed to tuck in, but it had been buttoned hastily and was askew by one buttonhole, giving him a noticeable list to the left. A look of astonishment graced his face when he saw me.
“Good morning,” I said, smiling.
Antonio turned to Poppy as she emerged at the bottom of the staircase and spoke to her in Spanish.
“Are you hungry?” she asked me.
I nodded enthusiastically.
“What do you think about poached eggs, croissant, and coffee?”
“Sounds good,” I said.
“I’ll have Antonio get you a robe. Breakfast should be ready in about ten minutes.” She finished the sentence and walked back upstairs, speaking loudly to Antonio in Spanish as she went.
I carried the books back to my room and waited for Antonio to bring me something to wear. “Breakfast in five minutes,” he said warmly.
I put on the robe and headed for the kitchen. The sound of clanging dishes rattled through the kitchen door as I walked toward the front of the building. In daylight, with my head cleared, I could see details in the building I hadn’t noticed before.
The large wooden doors of the church hung in the front of a traditional vestibule, complete with a carved stone baptismal font that, now unused, looked like an empty bird bath. The balcony above me was supported by a round wooden pillar, and the ceiling in this front area was a normal height. The stairs that led to the loft were to the left of the front doors.
Antonio was filling the water glasses for the three places at the kitchen table when I walked in. He motioned for me to sit in the chair nearest the door.
“How many?” he asked, holding up a carton of eggs.
“Three, but scrambled like yesterday, please.”
He nodded and went back to work at the gas stove. The kitchen was equipped with modern appliances throughout. It wasn’t the type of thing you would normally notice, except that the kitchen seemed to be the only modern room there.
She walked in as Antonio poured the juice. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I replied.
“How is your foot? Does it hurt?”
“Yes, a little, but it’s better.”
“Here.” She handed me a prescription pill bottle. “I found these upstairs. They should help with your pain.”
“Thank you.” I placed the bottle down and picked up a fork. We had eaten the majority of our meal before she spoke again.
“How did you sleep last night?”
“I didn’t, really.”
“Why? I hope the storm didn’t keep you up.”
“I don’t like lightning, but that wasn’t it. I read all night.”
“Then I take it you liked the selections.”
“Yes, very interesting. I meant to ask you why you chose those books.”
“They were the last three books I read.”
I nodded thoughtfully as I chewed my eggs.
“So were you in a mood to read, or did something in particular interest you?”
“Some Dogmas of Religion was fascinating. I read some poetry too, but McTaggart kept me awake.” I studied her face for any reaction.
“That’s interesting; I wouldn’t have thought you’d have liked that one. What did you find so fascinating?”
I put the last large forkful of eggs into my mouth in order to buy some time for my answer. “It was unlike anything I’ve ever read in Western philosophy.” I knew that answer sounded lame.
“Have you read much philosophy?”
“Yes, some. Kant, Hegel, Hume, and others.” I reached for the pills. “How many of these should I take?”
“Two,” Poppy said, sounding slightly disappointed at the change in conversation. “You look tired, Evan, would you like to lie down?”
“Yes, I would. I wanted to ask you if I could take a bath later.”
She tugged at the corners of her delicate mouth with the white linen napkin. “The Spanish have a saying, mi casa es su casa—that means this is your house too.”
the church seemed vacant when i got up and went for a bath in the afternoon. If this is my house too, then I have a wonderful place, I thought, walking through the empty church. It was the kind of home I’d always dreamed about; not a church per se, but someplace, some beautiful edifice like this that I could call my own. The thought of this being my house, even if only a courtesy, made me feel proud.
The hot bath felt wonderful, and I was just drying off when a knock came at the bathroom door. I put the robe on as Poppy opened the door and handed over my clothes.
“Antonio just finished drying these. I thought you might need them.”
“Thank you,” I laughed. “It seems like that’s all I ever say to you.”
She smiled. “Well, you’d better not get tired of saying it just yet. We need to rewrap your foot.”
“Good idea.”
“Get dressed. I’ll be right back.”
I dressed and removed the old bandage before she came back.
“Great,” she said, looking at my bare white foot sticking out of the black pant leg. “Let’s get started. Hold your leg up, please.” She got on one knee and inspected my wound. “It’s already starting to close. Brace yourself, this may hurt.” She applied a small amount of white salve to the stitches, stroking her finger gently along the seam as she looked into my eyes for a reaction. “Does that hurt?”
“No, not at all.”
“That’s a good sign.”
I broke away from her stare and looked around the room. “This is a wonderful place you have, Poppy. How did you get it?”
She unrolled two feet of fresh gauze. “Brace yourself again, I’m going to wrap this tightly.” The first three wraps hurt and she answered as she continued to unwind the gauze around my foot. “I inherited it, along with a large sum of money.”
“That’s what I suspected. I mean, I didn’t think a woman as young as you could afford a place this large. I’m sorry, that
sounded horrible. What I meant to say was—”
She smiled. “I understand. You’re correct about a young woman like me not normally enjoying such luxuries. I’ve been comfortable in this way for so long that I often forget how different it must seem. It’s ironic though, I almost make enough from my trade to maintain all this anyway.”
“What trade is that?”
She made several delicate wraps next to my toes. “Evan, you are looking at one of the only authentic stained glass artisans left in the world.”
“What do you mean authentic?”
“That’s a good question.” She continued wrapping. “Stained glass you see today, when it is glass at all, is mass produced in large plates and is colored with standardized industrial dyes. It tends to be rather flat and lifeless when compared to glass made and colored with older, more traditional techniques.
“Glass used to be made by hand, blown to be exact, and no matter how experienced the craftsman, there are imperfections in unpolished, blown plate glass. It is these now extinct imperfections along with base element dyes that produce the quality of glass you witnessed this morning.”
“It was incredible, I admit, but is there really that much money in it?”
“The market definitely is small, but the number of suppliers is even smaller. When a thirteenth-century cathedral needs replacement panels, who else is going to do it?” She shrugged her shoulders quickly. “There is no one else.”
“How did you learn this extinct trade?”
“From my benefactor, along with the building. There. It’s done,” she said, securing the end of the bandage. “How does it feel?”
“Tight, but I’ll be okay.”
“Take a few more painkillers. The tighter it is, the easier it should be to walk on. Speaking of walking,” she continued, “I hope you feel good enough to go outside today. I took the liberty of having Antonio prepare a picnic basket for us. It’s beautiful outside.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“It’s settled then. I’ll let you finish cleaning up. Antonio’s toiletries are, of course, at your disposal.”
I nodded at her.
She hesitated in the open doorway. “Evan, I don’t mean to imply anything, but would you like some help with your hair?”
“Is it that bad?” I asked, running my hand over the back of my head. The burned patch felt coarse and matted like the coat of some neglected, wire-haired dog.
“Well it’s already wet, let’s see what we can do with it.” She picked up a pair of scissors and a comb from the sink and walked back over to me.
“Hold these for a second,” she said, inspecting the burned hair on the back of my head. She eased her slim fingers under the matted hair as far as they would go. I closed my eyes and concentrated on her touch.
“I think it’s going to be pretty short, probably half an inch long in the back.”
“That’s fine, my hair is normally close to that length. The only reason it isn’t that short now is that my barber for the last few years died three months ago, and I haven’t found a new one.”
She affectionately stroked my hair in different directions. “Looks like you might have found a replacement.”
“Yes,” I said, my eyes still closed.
“Hand me the scissors, Evan.”
She snipped at the strands between her fingers. The tension on my scalp eased as small sections of the mat came free.
“You have nice hair. Just a second . . . there. That’s all of it,” she said, removing a napkin-sized chunk of hair. “Hand me the comb, please.” She combed through it until all the smaller tangles were gone, then she began to shorten the rest of the unaffected hair.
“Here,” she said, handing me a pack of Lendts and a lighter. “Light me one too, please.” She continued to snip and play with my hair. I took one of the two cigarettes from my mouth and handed it to her.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“I was born and raised in Osaka, Japan, but my citizenship is Swiss.”
“And you came here because this place was left to you?”
“Basically,” she said, trimming around my ear.
“You’re quite the enigma.”
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
I was careful not to move as she cut. “Who was this benefactor?”
“Watch your leg,” she said, throwing a leg over both of mine, straddling me. She sat on my thighs facing me and looked at each ear in turn before starting to work on my bangs. Her face was inches from mine, and she looked intently at the scissors as she cut.
“She was a relative,” she said softly. “This home has been in my family for eighty years.”
“I see.”
She moved forward on her seat and began work on the top of my head. The soft skin of her neck brushed against my cheek as she cocked her head around mine to see what she was doing. It wasn’t necessary, I could plainly see what she was doing. Her breasts pressed against my chest as she wriggled and repositioned herself. I could feel myself becoming aroused by her weight on top of me.
“Hang on just a minute longer. I’m almost done,” she whispered into my ear.
“I’m fine,” I said defensively.
She looked away from the scissors and into my eyes. “There,” she said, making a final cut before stepping off of me. “So you liked the McTaggart, huh?”
“Yes, very much.”
“I have some other material along the same lines. If you’re interested, I could let you read them as well.”
“Yes, I would be very interested in seeing them. Does the topic interest you?” I asked.
“I’m interested in a lot of things,” she said, combing through my hair. “There, it’s finished.”
“How do I look?”
She stood in front of me with her arms crossed. “You look good, very handsome. Have a look for yourself.” She pointed to the mirror above the sink.
“Hand me the crutch, will you?” I asked.
I got to my feet and walked to the mirror. “You did a great job, thank you. We’ll have to work something out for future haircuts.”
“Hmm, we’ll see. Antonio’s shaving supplies are behind the mirror. I’m going to change, I’ll be down in a bit. Antonio put your shoe at the end of the bed.”
She left, and I looked at myself in the mirror again. She had done a great job. I looked good. I ran some water, grabbed Antonio’s shave cream and razor, and finished my makeover. I couldn’t stop thinking of Poppy as I shaved. The more I knew about her, the more mysterious she became.
Antonio had cleaned my shoe. It sat lonely on the floor in between the bed and the nightstand. I put on the sock that I found stuffed inside it, laced up the sneaker, and hobbled out toward the front doors of the vestibule. A wicker picnic basket sat on the floor at the foot of the stairs that led up to the loft. I walked up and almost stumbled over it as I bent down to peek inside. Two bottles of wine, one white, one red, lay next to a brick of cream cheese, a package of sliced roast beef, a tube of rye crackers, and a tin of caviar. I looked up when I heard light footfalls on the stairs.
“Do you think it’s enough food?” Poppy asked.
“Yes,” I said, somewhat stupefied as I looked up at her. She had worn jeans and a cotton shirt when she’d cut my hair but came down the stairs wearing a short, shapely black-and-white dress, black high-heeled shoes, and a white hat with a black fishnet veil pulled down over her face. She carried a small black purse in one hand and an ornate cane in the other. She walked slowly down the stairs and stepped carefully around the basket at the bottom.
“Here,” she said, handing me the cane. “This is for you. I found it this morning and thought it would be easier for you to use than that unwieldy crutch.”
I took it from her outstretched hand and looked at it. The shaft was an inc
h-and-a-half-thick rod of smooth, dark-stained wood that tapered slightly into a worn brass end cap. The handle was a dragon’s head, meticulously carved from the same type of dark wood as the shaft. The artwork and detail were incredible. Each tiny individual reptile scale was carved out and defined from the others. The open snarling mouth held rows of small, pointed, ivory teeth set into the upper and lower jaws. Two faceted, button-sized blue gem eyes looked out at me, and a mother-of-pearl inlaid band collared the beast where the polished shaft joined with the carved neck.
“Poppy, this is beautiful.” I turned it over and looked at it from all angles.
“Well, I would say that I hope you get many years of use and enjoyment out of it, but let’s hope you only need to use it for a few weeks. After that let’s hope it’s for decoration only.”
I held the cane in my hands, disbelieving. “I’m not sure I understand; you mean, you’re giving this to me?”
“Yes, it is yours.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say. I mean, these, these eyes look like—”
“Sapphires?” she prompted.
“Yeah, sapphires.”
“They are.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, confused.
“Try it out, see how it fits,” she said, motioning for me to walk around the room like a model. I obeyed her subtle command in my stunned state and walked around the baptismal font. The cane felt perfect and made it much easier for me to get around. It was just the right height, just the right weight, and fit my hand perfectly.
“It looks good on you,” she said, admiring me. “The eyes match yours, very nice.”
“Poppy, why are you doing this?” I asked, looking at her as seriously as I could. She gave back a similar stare. “I figure you patched me up and let me stay because you felt guilty for almost killing me, but this,” I said, holding up the cane, “this is far beyond that. I want to know why you are doing this.”
She broke off her stare, lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and let out an exhale before looking at me sincerely. “Let me show you why.”
The Reincarnationist Papers Page 7
