Rosethorn

by Ava Zavora

  It was a matter of time now, Sera realized. Perhaps tonight when I have dinner at Bled Castle, he will be there or tomorrow as I reach the summit of the mountain, so will he. Perhaps it was all a coincidence, but she felt that they were moving towards that moment when a meeting would be unavoidable.

  She stopped at the dock by the hotel and watched as a wedding party, a bride in a white gown and tulle veil, a groom in a three-piece suit, and their guests were ferried over to the island in pletnas, wooden canopied boats twice as wide as a gondola and manned by a single oarsman.

  According to legend, on the island of Lake Bled used to stand a pagan temple dedicated to the Slavic goddess of love, Ziva. It was considered to be very romantic and lucky to be married in the island’s baroque church and so couples from all over would hold their ceremonies there. To show their fitness for marriage, brave grooms would carry their brides up the 98 steps to the church. And for additional insurance, couples could always ring the wishing bell of the church belfry.

  She now watched with apprehension the pletna bearing that afternoon’s wedding party struggle against the northern wind, which had grown fiercer since her arrival at Bled. The oarsman, who stood on the platformed end like a Venetian gondolier, expertly maneuvered his two oars so that once his pletna reached the midpoint between the dock and the island, Sera felt reassured.

  Shivering, she wrapped the long ends of her scarf twice around her neck and tucked her camera inside her coat.

  Why not, she thought as she approached a waiting pletna and handed over her euros. The pletna looked bigger and sturdier, if not as beautiful and sleek, than a Venetian gondola. It was wide enough to accommodate at least 10 people and felt solid. The oarsman of the pletna she boarded was the picture of stocky solidity, with thick, muscled arms and strong legs.

  A photo of the couple’s wedding ceremony and even a brief interview in the midst of newly wedded bliss would lend her article that extra touch of romance she knew would please her editor, and so she disregarded her fear of crossing water, even though the pletna, which was still tied to the dock, was rocking too much for comfort.

  The oarsman poised at the platform pointed to some people approaching the dock, indicating that he wanted to wait for more passengers before heading out to the island. An excited British family, a mother, father, and two boys, got in, followed by the stranger in his tweed and corduroys. Sera would have laughed if she were not so nervous. The stranger sat across from her, a smile on his lips as if he too wanted to laugh.

  So it starts, Sera thought as she met his eyes.

  Seeing that there were no other passengers adventurous enough to cross the lake in this wind, the oarsman unwound the chain mooring his pletna to the dock and pushed off.

  Despite their oarsman’s obvious strength and confident demeanor, Sera’s nervousness only grew as they moved further and further away from the shore, their little boat being buffeted by the strong wind. None of the other passengers shared her fear. The boys, no more than 10, leaned far over the edge of the boat, without attracting any concern from their parents.

  Sera turned her back to the island and instead watched the oarsman, one hand around one of the standing poles that bore the canopy and the other finding the necklace around her neck. Gleaning a little comfort from his sure and steady strokes, she felt that nothing would happen if she kept her eyes on him.

  “How did you like Venice?"

  Her watch interrupted, Sera turned to the stranger. She was already irritated by him because, judging by his accent, he was American and not a British lord, because he could afford the Grand Hotel, and because he was so calm while the pletna slid about the lake. Why was she the only one worried?

  “I didn’t,” she replied shortly. She could tell that she was wearing her haughty face, the one that instantly discouraged strangers. She turned her gaze back to the oarsman.

  “Oh, why not?” he continued pleasantly.

  So American in his good cheer, she thought, oblivious to her wish to be left alone. He was the type to hold up an entire Metro line because he was unfamiliar with how to use the subway card, who would choose a restaurant because the menu was in English, the type to engage unwilling strangers in conversation—a tourist.

  “It’s overrated. Overrun. Overpriced. And it’s hard to find good food,” she added but wished she hadn’t. He would probably tell her all about the great seafood pasta he had in a wonderful restaurant by the Rialto, a typical tourist trap.

  “Did you try Casini di Nobili near the Accademia? The chef makes an excellent black squid curry. I go there every time I visit."

  “Nnnoo,” Sera stammered. “I haven’t." She felt shame flood her face, especially since the stranger returned her condescension and rudeness with a friendly smile.

  “Did your friend take you on a tour of the Grand Canal?”

  Sera shook her head. Taking a deep breath, she admitted, “I’ve never ridden in a gondola.”

  “You went to Venice and didn’t ride in a gondola?” He mocked gently.

  “I’ve been to Venice three times now and I’ve never felt the urge. Riding in a gondola by myself would be---pathetic. Don’t you think?" She gasped as an especially strong gust of wind blew the pletna about.

  The shore seemed really far, as did the island, and the blue lake looked to be as deep and endless as the ocean. She wanted to shut her eyes, like she used to do whenever she rode a roller coaster and only open them when it was all over.

  “If you ever return to Venice, you must tell me,” he said boldly, “And I’ll ride with you at twilight. We’ll travel through the water slowly as night falls, when the mist comes over the water." He had raised his hand gently like a magician, and suddenly caught in the spell he had woven, Sera could see herself in a gondola under a Venetian bridge at nightfall. She looked at him in wonder. “And then you’ll see Venice as I see her.”

  “Who are you?” she wanted to ask. His amber eyes were mesmerizing, and when he smiled he showed even, white teeth. His voice was low and assured, almost hypnotic in the way it held her riveted.

  “So you’ve been to Venice three times but never rode in a gondola,” he mused softly, his glance falling on the hand clutching the necklace around her neck. “Earlier, I saw you in town by the toboggans with your notebook, but you didn’t ride that either. Would you ride it, with me?” he asked gently.

  He hadn’t even asked for her name, yet he was already asking her to ride down the side of a mountain with him. There was something about him that felt destined.

  “It feels like riding on the back of the wind."

  She wanted to tell him that she had ridden on the back of the wind before and had leapt into the unknown with nothing but air above and air below. If he had been any other, she would have been offended by his presumption and the intimacy that had sprung fully formed between them, but there, in the middle of a lake in Slovenia, in a boat that could at any moment tip her over into the water, she felt, unreasonably, as if he had been meant to help her get through this.

  As though he had read her mind, he extended a hand and said, “I’m Chase, by the way.”

  She dropped her necklace to shake his hand. It was warm and comforting. “Sera.”

  “We’re almost there, Sera." He gestured beyond her and she realized belatedly that he had been engaging her in conversation to distract her from her fear. She nodded slightly, full of wonder as his amber eyes held hers.

  If she ever reached the shore of the island, she would run, not walk, up its 98 steps and ring the wishing bell herself, loud enough so that her ears would ring for days. She could see it all clearly- that she will ride on the back of the wind with this stranger, that he will come with her to see the waterfalls at Karst, drive with her to Istria.

  The boat rocked them again, but this time, her gaze did not waver from his.

  Chapter 23

  "What are his intentions towards you?" Sera's grandmother asked as she ladled some dinuguuan on her plate.

&nb
sp; "Too thin" was her refrain every time Sera came home, to be accompanied by "Have you eaten?" the standard greeting of every Filipino matron.

  "Sit, lola,” Sera insisted. "You've been on your feet all day."

  "Bah," her grandmother dismissed as she took a seat. "I'm retired. What do I have to look forward to but seeing my granddaughter and now she tells me she's moving to another country?"

  Sera had decided to tell her grandmother the reason for her unexpected visit when she returned from church that afternoon. To her relief, her grandmother did not start crying, but had instead engaged in another Filipino matron's pastime, that of administering guilt.

  "You can come visit us in Paris," Sera suggested in a bright tone, "Chase's apartment has a fabulous view of Champ de Mars. You always said you've wanted to go back."

  "Where are you going to get Filipino food? Do they have any markets over there?” her grandmother asked in a querulous tone, her mouth pressed in a disapproving line. "The Chinese food there was terrible. It was microwaved!"

  "I’m sure I’ll find decent food somewhere in Paris," Sera remarked wryly. She decided to change the subject. “Anything else you need me to do while I’m here? Is the downstairs toilet still leaking?”

  Her grandmother had hired a teenage boy from church to help her around the house, lifting or moving heavy things when she needed them, doing very minor repairs she couldn’t manage anymore. But Sera still worried that her grandmother, who tended to take on more than she should, didn’t utilize him enough.

  Not to be sidetracked, her grandmother persisted, "So is he going to marry you? Does he want to have more kids? He's 45 years old. Men that age don't want to start a family, especially if he has grown children already."

  Sera finished chewing and formed her next words carefully. "I'm sure if I wanted to get married, he wouldn't be opposed to it, lola. We haven't discussed that topic yet. And as for kids, I haven't really thought about that."

  "You're going to move to another country to live with this man and you haven't discussed marriage or kids?" Sera cringed.

  "I think I hear my phone ringing. It might be the editor from the magazine. I'll be just a sec." Sera got up hurriedly, thankful to escape more of her grandmother's questions. She ran up to her room for privacy.

  "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

  "Yes, thank god. I just told my grandmother."

  "She didn't take it well."

  "She took it better than the time I told her I was moving to New York. At least she didn’t look like her world had gone dark." For some reason, despite the sadness in her grandmother’s eyes, she also detected a hint of relief upon hearing that Sera was leaving New York.

  "You should have let me come with you, so that she knows her granddaughter isn't being taken away by a Svengali."

  Sera laughed. "Definitely not. I don't think you could take my grandmother's brutal questions."

  "You're scaring me."

  "Oh, she's a sweetheart. And I know she'll adore you once she meets you."

  "Call me when the inquisition is over?"

  "It might be awhile. Isn’t it 3:30 in the morning there? I’ll call you midnight my time so you can properly sleep."

  "I’ll be in all morning. I don't have any meetings until this afternoon. I’ll wait for you."

  She could picture him in bed, with sleepy eyes and tousled curls. Her heart warmed.

  "God, I miss you. I'm really excited, Chase. I can't wait."

  "Then hurry. So you can come home to me."

  Sera turned off her cell phone. She was homesick but for which home, she didn’t know. Most of her life, her grandmother’s little house meant home, even after she moved to New York. From now on it would mean Paris, with Chase.

  Before she left for San Francisco, Chase had insisted on taking her to flea market at Puces St. Ouen for a desk to put in the tiny second bedroom/office he was relinquishing.

  "I want you to have one piece of furniture that you picked yourself," he said solemnly when she protested that it would take months before all the paperwork would be ready. "I know how important it is to have a place all your own."

  It was decided that she would bring only her clothes, her library of books, and some small pieces she had accumulated from her travels. Everything else she was to sell.

  The house phone rang, interrupting her reverie. She heard her grandmother in the kitchen, her voice in an odd pitch. She started heading downstairs when her grandmother called her.

  "It's for you, Sera." Her grandmother's face was closed-in. Deep furrows lined her forehead.

  "For me?” she asked in surprise as she took the phone. "Hello."

  "Sera."

  "Yes." Her answer could barely register, caught in her throat at the sound of Andrew's voice. She met her grandmother's worried eyes.

  "Could you meet me at the house around dusk, after dinner? I forgot to show you some things that would be good for your article."

  Her grandmother shook her head as if she knew what he was asking her. Sera turned around. The blood was roaring in her head. She could barely hear him, could barely understand what he was saying. She closed her eyes.

  "Yes."

  "Yes, you'll come by?"

  "Yes."

  She hung up the phone before saying what was threatening to come out of her, not how dare you or what makes you think you can just call me after years of silence and expect me to come running, responses she should have formed.

  "Sera," her grandmother began.

  "It's okay, lola," she interrupted, resolute and grim.

  They lapsed into an uneasy conversation for the rest of dinner. Afterwards, Sera avoided her grandmother's eyes when she announced she was going to work on an article and e-mail some editors at the downtown cafe and not to wait up for her.

  She forced herself not to look in the mirror or fuss over her clothes. Just jeans and a sweatshirt, a bit dirty from when she re-potted some plants for her grandmother that afternoon. It's a not a date, she kept repeating inside, but an exorcism.

  Somewhere on the other side of the world a 19th century desk overlooking a view of Champ de Mars awaited her arrival, as did a man with thoughtful amber eyes and slender fingers, a real life beckoning golden beyond the gloom of the past.

  So she made that last drive down the dirt road, during that brief, quiet hour in between the setting of the sun and the descent of night.

  The fluidity of time she experienced that morning was still apparent for she found herself, without remembering how she got there, by the open gate, walking by the shadowy garden, and knocking on the rose-carved door. As she waited, she thought it odd to see the one light glowing within the old house. For as long as she could recall it had never been lit by electricity.

  Time moves on, she thought, even if I do not.

  She briefly saw his outline against the starburst window before the door opened.

  "Good evening,” she said formally, self-possessed now as she hadn't been that morning. She swiftly decided to drop the mask of civility and inconsequential chatter. She would be leaving for Paris soon so who knows when she will ever return or indeed if she would ever be given another chance to say what had remained unspoken for ten years?

  "Hi." He tilted his head as he stood by the open door, wearing the same jeans as earlier, a fresh shirt on, bare feet on the floor.

  "Come on in," he invited. "Can I offer you something to drink? How about some beer?"

  She was irritated by his proprietary manner, a proxy lord of the manor to her beggar maid at the door. There was nothing he could show her that would make this house any less hers.

  "No thanks," she said promptly. She looked around.

  “Is the owner here?”

  He shrugged. “Just us."

  The way he was staring at her was eroding much of the stern resolve she had built up on the drive over.

  "So, what'd you find?” she asked brusquely.

  "Right." He stepped out onto the porch. "I should have sh
own you this earlier, but it completely slipped my mind." He started walking down around towards the back without putting on shoes. "I didn't expect to see you."

  She followed him from a wary distance with her arms crossed. Stopping by his truck, still parked in the same place by the carriage house, he pulled out a flashlight from the glove compartment.

  "Getting dark out there."

  She saw that he had not finished putting up the new roof on the other side of the house and had covered the top with tarp.

  The once brambly yard, full of tree-high weeds and wild bushes had been somewhat tamed so that there was now a clearing and a path she could barely make out in the dusky light. She could smell wild, sun-drenched blackberries cooling on the briar.

  "My brother and I took machetes out here a couple months ago."

  After a few minutes of trudging and dodging prickly berry brambles, Andrew stopped by the great oak tree that grew by the wooden fence.

  "I think I know what happened to the sea captain's wife," he said as he turned on the flashlight and shone its beam by the base of the tree.

  "A rosebush was hiding it before. I doubt it’s been seen by anyone for over a century."

  Rampant ivy and dark moss covered the barely discernible mound, from which rose a freshly-cut stump. One half of a broken marble headstone slanted upright from the ground. The other half lay fallen beside it.

  "She didn't run away.” Andrew’s voice was hushed and grave. “She died. That's why the sea captain didn't want to live here anymore."

  Sera knelt and gently ran her hand in reverence over the half of the slab that was upright and felt the faint engraving on its time-worn surface, then did the same to the one that had fallen. A small carving, which had also been broken in half, was on top of each piece, so eroded as to be almost unrecognizable. She sighed.