by Peter Ponzo
Then I won the jackpot and became very rich.
The old man grinned, a very curious grin as though he were joking.
I married Laura and we had three children. Papa had chosen my name, Ricco, because it meant 'rich and powerful' and he knew that, one day, I would be rich and powerful.
Again the old man grinned. He seemed very pleased with his story, then he continued:
I became the mayor of Vita and lived in the big house on Via Cosenza.
This was all new to me and I listened carefully. Was this old man speaking of my future? Laura Gallo? Would she become my wife? And three children? I wasn't sure I'd make a good father.
When the Americans landed the bombing stopped and Patton took Palermo. All the Germans had left and Vita held just a small garrison of Italian troops. Soon, even they left and when a Canadian division entered Vita everyone in town came out to greet them. The girls danced and bottles of wine were handed to the soldiers as they passed in trucks and tanks. There was a celebration. We knew the war would end soon.
I was disturbed to hear that there would be a war and it would reach our peaceful village. Surely this was not my future. As I pondered the story, the old man stopped talking. He had been staring out into space and now he turned and looked directly at me.
We were proud. We were opposed to violence. As mayor, I had organized the drive to eliminate La Mano Nera, the Black Hand. No Mafia ever came near Vita. We built schools and churches and worshiped in peace and harmony.
The old man smiled. He looked very much like papa, but I now knew he was me, a future me. He placed a hand on my shoulder and asked me to leave. I was about to ask a hundred questions, but he wagged his finger and I was silent. I got up and walked slowly to the door. When I looked back, he was gone.
The next day I brought Antonio to the alley, but the alley was not there. I explained its location but he said there never was an alley there. I told Antonio about what the old man had said, about my future. Antonio said I should ask Paula to marry me, right away. I should also buy a lottery ticket, right away.
I did both of those things. I did not win the lottery, but I did marry Paula and I did become mayor of Vita and we did move to the big house on Via Cosenza. We now have six children and I often wonder why the old man had talked about rich and famous, since I was neither. In fact, I recall that he had grinned when he said the part about rich and famous. Now I realize that he wasn't telling my future so much as mocking the notion of 'rich and famous'. I suspect that, had I become rich and famous, I would not be so happy. Perhaps that's what The Door was all about. You may think rich and famous, but pray for happy and content.
I really didn't like flying. It wasn't so much being afraid, it was more like...like imagining all the aerodynamics that come into play, how the wings actually do bend, how updrafts and downdrafts are always threatening, how the electronics could fail, how a bird could be sucked into the engine. Well, maybe I am afraid. I read that it's the safest form of travel. You are more likely to die as a pedestrian, in a car, a train, in watercraft. Nevertheless, flying scares the hell out of me. Anything this colossal should not be able to get off the ground.
However, the flight to Beijing was a business necessity. How else would I get there? Flight 703 from Toronto was the shortest I could find, but it still took almost thirteen hours, non-stop. I tried to take my mind off the science of flight and concentrate on other matters. There was no announcement about the use of laptops being prohibited, so I turned on my PC and started browsing the Internet. It seemed a miracle that there was Internet access at 35000 feet, but I guess it's satellite communication and why would the plane's height matter? The big news was about some missing plane. Radar had lost track hours ago and there was a search and rescue mission launched by the American and Canadian coast guard. The plane, a Boeing 777, was one of the safest planes in operation. That was comforting since I was flying in a 777.
I was about to continue my Internet browsing when I noticed that the missing plane had left Toronto that morning: Flight 703. That hit me like a rock. I jumped out of my seat and ran up the aisle to find a flight attendant. There were none. I knocked on the door to the pilot's compartment, but there was no answer. I peered through the small window and saw that there was no pilot, no co-pilot. The plane was running on auto-pilot. Now my heart was pounding.
I stood for several minutes at the head of the aisle then began to shout. I said that there were no cabin crew on board–and no pilot–that the plane had been reported missing and that we were alone and on auto-pilot. The passengers just stared at me. Somebody told me to shut up and sit down. An old lady asked where were the stewardesses. People were looking out the windows. Soon there was panic, pandemonium. Somehow I was blamed. It was obvious that I was more frightened than most. Some huge guy stood up and said he'd cream the people who made this happen. I thought that was pretty stupid, but said nothing.
I return to my seat and open my laptop and start to type this story. People are screaming. The door to the pilot compartment is being torn off. Someone is shouting, asking if anyone knows how to fly a Boeing 777. I continue to type on my laptop. I can feel the plane abruptly change its pitch, heading down. I am typing as fast as I...
Toronto Gazette: March 17, 2014
Wreckage of the Boeing 777 that went off radar last week was found off the west coast, in several hundred feet of water. The 313 passengers died. The bodies of the crew have not been found. There is some evidence to suggest that the plane had only passengers. Among the wreckage was a laptop with the story of the crash. The story tells of a plane without pilot or crew. The current theory is that the pilots and cabin crew were terrorists that dressed as passengers after the plane was in the air and the plane was on a programmed flight path. The scheduled pilot was Ricardo Abena, a native of Ugabwe. Among the passengers: the President of Ugabwe, the African nation which is responsible for the death of thousands of ethnic minorities.
I don't remember this room. It was dirty, dark, damp. I do remember eating ... what was it? A hot dog? Yes. There were hotdogs on a plate, on the table and there was mustard on my coat. Actually, I don't remember owning such a coat: it was tattered and torn. I sat on the cot and looked at the shabby room. How did I get here? Who am I?
I reached into the pockets of the coat. A few coins and a card that said:
La Cucina Italiana
1427 Queen Street
I hope that, if I showed up at the Italian Kitchen on Queen Street, somebody might know me.
"Hey Jack, buon giorno!" they might say. "Dove hai preso quel cappotto vecchio?" Where did you get that old coat?
Did I speak Italian? How did I know that phrase? Jack? Was my name Jack? I needed to find that restaurant.
There was a small mirror on the wall. I could see that I needed a shave, but there were no shaving utensils...so I just left as I was. The dilapidated room opened onto the street. There was a hotdog stand there, but nobody was around. I had no key, but then there was nothing of value to steal in my room. I began to walk along what I learned was Maple Avenue. It came to an end at Torrance Boulevard and I stopped. Where was Queen Street? Right or left? I asked a lady who was walking her dog but she was afraid to answer and quickened her step. I must have looked a shabby sight. No wonder she was frightened. I saw a policeman, but was reluctant to ask him. Why was that? Aren't police supposed to be helpful? Since the cop was left of me, down Torrance, I turned right.
This was a rather miserable part of town so I fit right in with my tattered coat. I saw a street bum leaning against a wall and I asked where Queen Street was. He grunted and pointed up the street. I reached into my pocket and gave him the few coins I had. He grunted again, then gave me a toothy smile. After several blocks I came to Queen Street so I turned in the direction of number 1427. The street was filled with small shops, sidewalk cafes, a few banks and fast food joints. When I came to 1427 I stopped and peered inside. It was almost empty. The sign out front said: Ristorante La Cu
cina Italiana. I was hesitant. What if nobody recognized me? What if I was a persona non grata? What if I was a crook, a robber, a thief? What if I had robbed this place?
The door opened and someone bowed deeply and waved me in.
"Si prega di venire in buon Signore Moncinelli."
I was being asked to come in? Was that the usual greeting for patrons of this restaurant? Moncinelli? Was that my name? I walked in and several people rose from their seats to greet me, shaking my hand, kissing me on both cheeks, offering me an espresso, a glass of wine. I was ushered to a table in the back. A short, bald man came to my table, hands clasped together. He bowed and asked: "La regolare, Signore?" Did I have a 'regular' meal at this place? I didn't know what else to do, so I nodded and smiled and he quickly ran to the kitchen. I could hear him shouting instructions. Soon, a heaping plate of pasta carbonara arrived at my table with a bottle of acqua minerale. I hadn't realized it, but I was very hungry–and I ate like a vulture.
When I had finished, the short, bald gent came to take away the plate. I said: "Non ho soldi." I have no money. Even the few coins I had in my coat I had given to the street bum.
The short, bald guy shook his head violently. "Per favore, è un dono." A gift, for me? Who did these people think I was? The short, bald guy went to the phone and was talking, excited. Within minutes two rough looking guys came into the restaurant and came directly to my table.
"Padrino," the taller guy said. "Padrino, si guarda bene."
"English," I said. "Speak English."
"You look good. We was worried when the Gambino gang messed you up. When we finished 'em off, you was acting funny, so we put you in that lousy room. The Gambinos ain't gonna find you there, no way. We left you some hotdogs. That's all they was ... but youse made it."
They looked at each other, quite pleased it seemed, then the taller guy said the shipment came in last night, direct from Columbia, no problem.
"Shipment?" I said.
"The coke," he said. "Worth forty million, no problem."
"Uh, yes. Coke," I said. "Okay, I got me another deal goin' and I'll need five million. How soon can you get me five million?"
They looked at each other, confused.
"You keep the rest," I said.
Now they looked even more confused. The shorter guy grinned.
"Molto generoso, padrino," he said.
"How soon?" I repeated. "This deal's gotta go quick. I need cash, small bills."
The tall guy jumped up and left. The short guy was still grinning. It took about an hour for the tall guy to return with a brown bag. He handed me the bag and the two looked at each other and started grinning. I got up and headed for the door.
"I'll let you know how this deal goes ... domani," I said.
I was shocked. I was a Italian thug, a Mafia boss, a drug dealer. That was disgusting!
I had to do four things in a hurry.
I bought some nice clothes, then I left a note for the police describing the details of the drug shipment and the people involved, then I bought a ticket and flew to Napoli, then I bought a villa on the Amalfi coast, near Sorrento. I discovered that I was a very good painter and I could sell my paintings to the tourists in Sorrento and Capri. I met a nice girl, Sophia Bartoli, and we married the following year.
I now live a very quiet and happy life as, gazing each evening at the sunset over the Mediterranean with my wife and three children. The sign on our doorstep says: Mr. and Mrs. Bartoli and children. My wife is a wonderful cook. We have a garden full of lemon and orange trees, tomatoes, artichokes, zucchini and eggplants. Every Friday my wife cooks my favourite meal: pasta carbonara.
I must tell this story before it is too late, to warn others of the evil that walks among us.
My mother was a sorceress. She always told me to cast spells that would help people, use my power to make life better for the community. My mother called for rain during the drought of 1672. She diverted the violent winds that swept up the coast in 1681. She healed those that would have fallen to the smallpox epidemic. She was a woman I admired above all others.
In May, 1693, in the village of Bedford, my mother was hanged as a witch.
As they dragged her away she shouted to me that I must do good things, never act in anger, be of benefit to the community. I was nine years old and could not understand her lack of anger or anguish. I have tried to instill in myself all the virtues that my mother had in abundance. I have tried to live a life of charity and tolerance.
I was adopted by John and Josie Brenner. They are a young couple with no children of their own and, although initially concerned with my background, they soon learned to love me as I came to love them. I understood that Mrs. Brenner had a problem that prevented her from bearing a child. When I was fifteen I said I could help her with her problem. She and John were reminded of my mother's skills as a sorceress and were reluctant. I said I would not touch Mrs. Brenner. I would simply pass my hands over her body. They agreed and Mrs. Brenner lay on her bed and I sat on a stool beside her.
When my mother was taken from me she left a Book of Spells, words to say, incantations. There were none that dealt with children for barren women, so I had to improvise, changing words. The room was very quiet and I spoke very softly, running my hands above Mrs. Brenner's body without touching her. I kept repeating the chant, again and again:
Now is the time and the hour
I am the magic and the power
Air I am, fire I am
Water, Earth and Spirit I am.
Beget creation. Beget gestation.
Andrew Brenner was born to welcome the new century: January of the year 1700. Mr. and Mrs. Brenner couldn't be happier. Their doctor was amazed. I had become very special to them. I would soon become very special to Andrew. I had great plans for him in the years to come. My mother would be avenged.
Andrew was a frail boy, his skin very pale, almost albino. Kids at school made fun of him, one in particular called Butch. I visited the school one day and made Butch's hair all fall out. When Andrew had difficulties with his school work I would help him. I was an A-student. For me, schoolwork was trivial. I was devoted to making Andrew an A-student as well. Each night while he slept, I prayed by his bed, reciting the words, whispering, waving my hands over his body. His grades began to improve and he graduated as valedictorian from high school.
When Andrew went to university I made sure it was to the same university I had attended ... so I knew all the professors and the campus layout. By this time I was working as an editor in the local paper. I convinced Andrew to enroll in the Political Science program, then to get a doctorate in law: Juris Doctor. Andrew passed the bar exam within a year of graduating. His academic qualifications were exceptional–ideal for the future I had chosen for him. Together we would be seen and heard ... and we would bring to justice all those who confused sorcery with witchcraft.
By 1732 Andrew was ready to run for office: governor of the state. I had coached him on all things political, the blemishes of his opponents and the stance he should take on state events. Andrew listened carefully to everything I said. He was my doppelganger, my clone, my fantasy. He was tall, elegant and extremely handsome. Even his pale skin had darkened to something akin to a weathered tan. He was appointed governor by the crown in 1735.
His very first act was to imprison those involved in the witch trials. Although I had urged him to hang all those imprisoned, he refused. That was the very first time he had refused any demand. It would not be the last.
By 1739 Andrew had tried all the witch trial convicts and they were all released. The notion of witches was now ancient history. It was a local infection that had come and gone and all those involved expressed their sorrow and apologized for their role. I was furious. The revenge I sought for the hanging of my mother was quashed. Andrew listened patiently to my rage, but ignored my further pleas. He even smiled when I expressed my wrath. I would not be ignored. Now it was Andrew that must be punished.
Mr. and Mrs Brenner died together, in 1742, to the White Plague: tuberculosis. I mourned my loss. They were fine human beings ... but they had brought into this world Andrew Brenner, a devil. They must have suspected something was different with Andrew. At the time, I didn't understand their warning: If he escapes, he will be evil.
If he escapes? What could that mean? I came to realize its meaning ... too late. I was determined to rid the world of the devil's kin, this evil man who was loved and admired by all. I found the incantation in the Book of Spells:
Now is the time and the hour
I am the magic and the power
Air I am, fire I am
Water, Earth and Spirit I am.
I shall not fail, I will prevail.
The day of Andrew's demise was in the Fall. He was to speak at the opening of the new hospital, standing on a raised dais in the portico before the building; the roof, suspended by columns, was overhanging the dais. I would bring the structure down upon the head of this devil.
I arrived early so that I could stand before the dais. A crowd began to gather. Grey clouds scudded across a dark sky. Soon, Andrew Brenner climbed the stairs to the dais. He spoke of his achievements as governor, of the improvements to the community, of the wicked witch trials that ended under his governance. He knew I was standing before him. I could see his eyes flashing red. When he began to speak of the witch trials I began my chant, raising my arms, pointing to the columns that supported the roof above his head.
