by Peter Ponzo
The sun came up and people were leaving. I wasn't even tired. Besides, until I solved that lock problem, I didn't even have a place to bed down, so I decided to take a stroll through town. The sun was warm on my face and when I came to the town cemetery I decided to walk through. It was the nicest most manicured spot in town and I had often wandered through to enjoy the trees, the shade and the flowering bushes. When I held my hand to shield my eyes from the bright sun, I noticed the red streaks across the back of my hand. I wiped my hand on my jacket. No matter. I'd clean up when I got home.
The cemetery stones stood like small soldiers, proud and erect. Some were very old. In fact, most were very old, but one in particular caught my attention. It stood before what appeared to be a new plot. Sad. Someone had died recently. Perhaps an old fellow, perhaps a young woman, perhaps a child with a bright future cut short. I knelt before the stone and read the inscription:
Here lies Carl Blender. He lived his life on the rim.
He enjoyed his purple Corvette too much. It did him in.
Chapter One
Every morning he fought the traffic, an hour or more of stop and go, clamorous horns, traffic lights and asinine lane changes by impatient drivers. Every morning turning on the coffee machine, collapsing in the oversize leather chair just beyond the massive mahogany desk and waiting for the coffee machine to signal the completion of one cup of strong black coffee. Then the correspondence, piles each day, letters to answer, reports to write, office finances to manage. Why? Was man designed to live the life of an automaton, executing a host of monotonous daily rituals?
James Carson's tax consultant office was on the second floor and, as had happened many times before, the elevator wasn't working so he had to walk up. He was staring out the window. The red light was flashing on the coffee machine. Damn! He bought that just a month ago and it was already broken. He needed a coffee, so he went down to the street and started to walk to Joy's Coffee Shop, just a block away. That's when he noticed the parking ticket on his car. What? When did they install those parking metres? He had always parked at the curb, by his office. Damn!
At Joy's he ordered a mug of hot coffee with a chocolate covered doughnut. The coffee arrived warm and the doughnut was stale. What kind of world was this, anyway? He drank half the coffee and left the doughnut uneaten. When he left Joy's it was raining and he was soaked by the time he got to his office. This was not his day. But it was very much like all the other days. When he was safely ensconced in his leather chair, he thought about his profession: tax consultant. The government tax forms insisted upon a mountain of information, required complex calculations, were poorly worded and often went on for fifty pages if there were foreign properties owned or elaborate investments or several dependents. He hated the job.
A year ago, he had fallen in love with Cathy. She had a wonderful laugh, was smart and sexy and was a whiz in the kitchen...and in the bedroom. He would have asked her to marry him, but she said she was tired of his conversation, his perpetual complaining about life, his limited array of topics for discussion and his constant moodiness. But how could anyone be any different? Life was a hell-hole, an abyss in which one sucked up poison air and ate tainted food brimming with benzoates, nitrites, sulphites, aspartame and holy-mother-of-god preservatives that outranked the protein. Yet, he couldn't change. He was stuck in this terrible chasm with millions of others in this teeming metropolis. James would talk to Cathy for hours of the trials and tribulations of city life, the smell, the pollution, the dirt and foul air. When he finished his tirade Cathy was always sound asleep on the couch. Yet, Cathy had been a small patch of joy in an otherwise joyless life...and he missed her dearly.
James looked at the painting on the wall of his office. A small log cabin in the woods with mountains rising majestic on the horizon. He could feel the silence, the serenity, the harmony with its surroundings. He could live there, in concert with Mother Nature, fishing, gathering wood, friends with the animals that ruled the woods and the birds whose dominion was the sky.
He often leaned back, closed his eyes and imagined life in that cabin. He'd arise each morning at the break of dawn, the aroma of coffee filling the cabin, coffee he made from beans he ground himself. He'd light a fire and stick some dry wood in the potbellied stove and fry up some duck eggs taken from the nearby lake. He'd pick a book from his extensive library and continue reading Farley Mowat. In the evening he'd hear the loon's melancholy cry. Ah, what a fantastic life that would be, but he, James Carson, was a tax consultant living in the suffocating city sediment, mired in pollution and human debris, his life ordained by narcissistic politicians eager for re-election and surrounded by idiots who ... who ...
Why not? What was stopping him? Why couldn't he pack up and head for the country, the clear mountain air, the blue skies and babbling brooks, the song of birds and the aroma of wild flowers at his doorstep. He jumped to his feet and tore the picture from the wall. That would be the only thing he'd take from his office. Everything else would be sold to the highest bidder. He, James Carson, would become a character in a Farley Mowat novel, Lost in the Barrens, Never Cry Wolf. He, James Carson would live his dream.
Chapter Two
It took two months to settle his urban affairs: sell his business and office contents, the furniture in his apartment, his electronic and kitchen gadgets–and transfer his bank account to a small bank in Northern Alberta, North of Jasper National Park, the Rocky Mountains in the distance, the fragrance of isolation in the air. It took another two weeks to actually find the cabin he had bought. It required hiring a pilot and flying a small pontoon plane to a nearby lake then hiking the rest of the way, carrying his supplies. The cabin was small, dirty, full of cobwebs, animal dung and dirt...yet it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. In no time he had it cleaned up, the two broken windows covered with cloth, his cot lined with soft ferns and the potbellied stove crackling with a new fire which he lit with dry wood and matches. It was heaven on earth.
The next morning he took the short walk to the lake. The sky was blue, a brilliant aquamarine, and the lake was actually green. Aspen rose majestically about the shore and pine stood stately and proud while hemlock bowed gracefully at the water's edge. James flung the red and white lure into the still water and a largemouth bass caught it almost before it reached the surface. Within a half hour, he had caught his lunch. Back in the cabin, the fireplace held dancing flames and a black pot suspended by a wire. The skillet that held the bass provided an intoxicating aroma. He chopped up some onions and carrots and dropped them into the frying pan. When he sat at the rough-cut wooden table with the epicurean delight on a plate, he felt like a free man. Why had he wasted so many years in the city, inhaling carbon monoxide, cursing the traffic, eating junk food.
When Fall came, James had run out of bullets so his hunting was greatly curtailed. He started his traps, but caught little. He searched for edible roots and mushrooms, but found little. He lost the last of his fish hooks on the rocks so he tried a makeshift net and caught nothing. He was getting hungrier by the day. Soon the days became chilly, the nights cold and the frigid winds signalled the start of a cruel Winter, a very cruel Winter. The snow rose high against his front door. He had used the last of his matches and was cold, hungry, dejected and very lonely. By Spring he had made up his mind to return to the city.
It was now July in the city and he had hooked up with Cathy once more. They were sharing a bottle of white wine, in his apartment, and James was talking:
"See, I can rotate a knob and control the temperature of my apartment. I can turn a faucet and out comes cool, clear water. I can hop into a tub filled with hot, hot water. I open the fridge and it's filled with meat, fruit and vegetables. I punch buttons on my remote and we have entertainment right here in my living room. Ain't city life wonderful?"
Cathy was sound asleep on the couch.
My marriage had lasted almost thirty years, then my wife was taken from me. Helen died eight month ago o
f lung cancer although she never smoked a day in her life. She was just fifty-seven years old and was still active and beautiful until the day she died. It wasn't fair.
After a few months, Jacob Bartlett tried to fix me up with some other woman, but I wasn't ready. My beautiful Helen was always on my mind. Even Jacob's wife, Cathy, tried to set up dates with her unattached friends, but I refused. I would spend the rest of my life mourning my loss. How could anyone replace the woman I had loved for over thirty years, who had shared every waking moment, who cared for me when I was ill and who scolded me when I feigned illness? In fact, I often longed for her tender loving care and faked an illness, on weekends, when we were both at home, together. She always saw through me, but I knew that. Nevertheless, she would provide whatever caresses and soothing words she thought I needed–and she did it with a smile.
It was two years after the funeral that Jacob's wife called me. Cathy was a very attractive woman and all her friends were equally attractive. She insisted that I come over for dinner on Saturday. She had someone she wanted me to meet. I knew she was playing Cupid, but that was okay. I was ready for another relationship. Helen would have wanted me to be happy, so I accepted the invitation. When I arrived at Jacob's house the woman was already there. Her name was Kim and she was quite beautiful. We talked a lot about life and country living and places to spend vacations and wines and food. I rather liked Kim. She was vivacious, to say the least. Jacob and Cathy were mostly quiet, watching and listening and smiling.
I guess Kim and I hit it off because I asked her out the following week and she accepted. We had dinner at the Pasta Kitchen because we both liked Italian. Then we went back to my apartment and I brought out a sweating bottle of Chardonnay. By midnight she seemed so relaxed and willing that I asked if we should retire to the bedroom. I had a huge and silly grin on my face. Kim slapped me in the face, rose from the sofa, grabbed her coat and left in a huff. I was bewildered. Was I so out of date? She had displayed all the signals I remembered, yet the thought of intimacy was repulsive. How could I be so wrong?
I guess Cathy heard of the events of that night from Kim because she phoned me two days later. Cathy was surprised herself that Kim was so opposed to the intimacy I had proposed and she apologizes profusely. Cathy understood my need for affection, two years after my Helen passed away. She paused on the phone, than whispered something I could hardly hear. She repeated the suggestion: an Escort Service. I was a but shocked at the suggestion, but Cathy Bartlett wasn't one to mince words...or ideas. She gave me a phone number and said I should phone first thing tomorrow morning.
The next morning I did phone. I had thought about it all night and decided that whatever escort they sent, she would understand what would transpire. The voice on the other end of the phone line sounded rather strange, robotic, like a mechanical construct. I explained where I lived and that 8 p.m. would be a good time and the voice said, with some hesitation, that the girl would be wearing a navy blue skirt, a pale blue blouse and a white cap.
I was nervous and skipped dinner. At exactly 8 p.m. the buzzer rang and when I peered out of the peephole I saw a woman facing away from the door. She wore a white cap and light blue blouse. My hand was shaking as I opened the door. The woman turned very slowly, with a huge grin.
Standing in my doorway was Cathy Bartlett.
Chapter One
My father always told me that I should walk before I run, think before I talk and ponder all deals that seem too good to be true and especially mysteries. The last counsel often got me into a lot of trouble. My usual response would have been to ignore such deals, but Papa was a wise fellow so I always did the pondering. We lived together in a small village in Sicily. After Mamma died I went to school in Palermo but returned to our village to take care of Papa...until he passed away. Although I might have gone back to Palermo to get a job, perhaps as a teacher, I stayed in this village that I knew so well, where I grew up, where I had friends.
Papa Mancini was born in the village of Vita, as I was. He married a girl from Termini when he was seventeen and I was born a year later. We raised pigs and goats on a farm just outside of town and sold oranges, olives and artichokes at the Saturday market. My job, as a boy of ten, was to pull the wagon into the village. I was allowed to eat just one orange and three olives. That was my reward. We were poor in money but rich in family devotion. After papa died I sold the farm and moved into Vita. Now I am thirty-three and live right in the centre of the village. My house is small, old and made of stone. The walls are two feet thick and it's quite cool even in the hot summer. I never married, but I do have several girls in town that I see; perhaps, one day, when I feel I can afford a wife. Perhaps Laura Gallo. We have known each other since childhood and she was very pretty with flashing brown eyes and wild black hair.
As I recall, it was late in September when the letter appeared at my door. I rarely get mail so I was curious. The paper seemed very old, like parchment. It was also stained with dark brown spots that looked like the blemishes that old people get. I sat on the bench on the sidewalk in front of my house to open the letter. Antonio came by and sat beside me. We have been friends for over twenty five years, since school days. He never finished school in Vita, but we remained close friends even when I went to the University of Palermo.
"Hey Ricco, who sent a letter?" Antonio asked.
"I don't know. Wait until I read it."
"Maybe it is important, but it looks old, like it has come a long way by donkey."
Antonio laughed. He was joking, of course, but it did look like it had been dragged across a country road.
"Read it," Antonio said.
"Wait. Let me open it."
I opened the letter and stared at the faded picture.
"What does it say?" Antonio asked.
"It doesn't say anything," I said.
"Ah, a letter that says nothing. Then it must be a puzzle, Ricco."
"It just has a picture, a photograph."
"Ricco, let me see," Antonio said, leaning forward.
I held the sheet of old paper so he could see the picture.
"It's a door," he said. "An old door. Ricco, what does it mean?"
"I have no idea."
I carefully folded the letter and slipped it into my shirt pocket.
Antonio shrugged, pulled a half-empty bottle of wine from his jacket pocket, I went inside to get two glasses and we drank until the bottle was empty.
"Hey Ricco, do you know that door?" Antonio said, eventually.
"No, I'm sure I've never seen it before. I've lived here all my life, but I've never seen it before," I said.
"Hey Ricco, maybe it's from another village," Antonio said.
"Yes, maybe."
We sat for some time then Antonio left and I pondered the meaning of the picture letter.
If somebody expected me to find that door, then surely it must be from nearby. Was I expected to search all of Sicily? Surely not. Although it might be from my village, I don't recall seeing it. Of course, there were many old doors in my village so perhaps I should just wander about town with the picture, walk down every street and ask every friend. There couldn't be that many doors that looked like that. I would do that first thing in the morning.
Chapter Two
In the morning, after an espresso and some prosciutto, tomato and apricot, I began my search for the door. Vita is a small town and it would take less than three hours to walk every street. As I walked I met many villagers whom I asked about the picture: none had seen such a door. I was almost noon when I finished walking the last street. I had found nothing that resembled the picture.
As I walked home I saw an alley that I don't remember walking. In fact, I don't remember ever seeing such an alley. It was not very long. There were the backs of houses on each side of the alley and no doors that I could see. The alley ended in a wall so I turned back. That's when I saw the door. I was quite sure it hadn't been there when I first entered the alley, but there it was, exact
ly like the picture in my hand. I knocked and waited and knocked again, but no one answered. I pushed gently and the door swung open and I entered onto a large field of wild flowers. There was no such field in Vita, I was quite sure of that. This was my town, since childhood, and I would have known of such a place.
It was deathly quiet in that field. There was no rustling of wind, no singing birds, even the sound of my feet of the ground was hushed. Then I heard a voice and I saw an old man sitting on a bench. He looked vaguely familiar. As I approached I could make out what he was saying:
Mamma was born in Termini. We raised pigs and goats on a farm outside of Vita. We sold oranges, olives and artichokes at the market. I was very young. My job was to pull the wagon into the village. I was allowed to eat one orange and three olives.
The old man was speaking of my life. I was about to ask him who he was, but he wagged his finger as he spoke, so I sat beside him on the bench and listened. from his story I recognized my time in Palermo, the school I attended, my return to Vita and the death of Papa. Soon, his story was new. Was he still speaking of me?
