The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  Then, with all his power, Tony lowered his chin and wrenched his head out from under the grasp of his mother’s steel grip. He was screaming, “Noooo!” He stood now at the side of the bed, his body shaking, his head jerking again and again. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he stared down at the woman in the bed. He did not know her; she was a stranger to him: a dark and hollow intruder. And then the boy was sick; his stomach convulsed and he threw up, the discharge spewing in the bed where the stranger lay.

  His mother did not respond. Again, she intoned that strange, seductive moan and curled into a fetal position, as if waiting to be reborn, to start anew, to take her chances one more time in the iniquitous family of humanity.

  Still standing there by the bed—shivering, shuddering—Tony replayed the horror of the night in his mind, and his eyes turned to stone. Then, as if in a declaration of a new way of being, he opened his mouth and howled again, “Noooo!”

  When Antonio awakened, he was in a cold sweat. The word “no” was still reverberating in his head. Of all the nightmares that he had lived and relived in the last year, this dream was the most vivid, the most real, and the most telling.

  And it was remembered—every second of it and every decision that grew out of it. It would be the last night that he shared a bed with his mother; for the next two years, before entering the Brooklyn orphanage, he would sleep in a bundle of clothes and newspapers on the hardwood floor.

  It was also the last time he would genuinely declare his love to his mother or anyone else in the world, with, of course, two unequivocal exceptions: Diego and Lupita. Now he knew, more than ever before, he had to face every last ghost of his life. He had to close the door to his past, before he could open the door to his future. It was not what he wanted—it would have been so much easier to stay in Espejo and work the olive orchards with Diego—but he knew he could not. In time, the ghosts would destroy him and his life with Lupita, and he would not allow that to happen.

  Antonio looked at the alarm clock on the table beside the bed; it was 5:30 in the morning. His bag was packed and placed at the front door. It was time to say goodbye, and it would not be easy. He did not know when, if at all, he would return, and the thought of never seeing Diego and Lupita again brought tears to his eyes.

  Antonio walked out into the living room and found Diego already waiting for him. The gentle Spaniard had left his bed even before Antonio that morning. He would not be denied a final embrace.

  “Buenos días, Diego.”

  “Buenos días, Antonio.”

  Antonio looked at Diego. He could not put his finger on it, but there was something different and unsettling about him. He puzzled about it an instant and then shook off the feeling. “All night I tried to think how to thank you,” Antonio said. “I do not have the words. Every phrase seems inadequate. All I know for sure is that I love you with . . .” Antonio began to break down.

  “Yes, yes, I know, my son. I feel the same way. Do not worry. I will be with you, wherever you are. If you listen hard enough, I will speak to you.”

  Diego took Antonio in his arms.

  Lupita stood by quietly, watching the men she loved say goodbye, finally turning away to tame her emotions.

  When the men broke their embrace, Diego said, “I have a small gift for you, Antonio.”

  Diego took a red bandanna out of his pocket. It was folded and knotted. “The first day I met you, I wrapped this bandanna around your neck. I did not know what I was doing then, but I thought it could serve as a kind of compress.

  “It is no ordinary scarf. It once belonged to my friend, Juanito. He wore it as a protest against tyranny, and I after him.”

  Suddenly, Antonio understood what had unsettled him earlier: Diego’s neck was bare of the ever-present red cloth.

  “It represents all that is noble in humankind. Now it is yours. I have washed the bandanna, but the stains will not come out. It clings to your blood and the blood of Spain. We are part of the same fabric, you and I. Your blood is intermingled with my blood, and there is nothing that time or any person can do to change that.”

  Antonio was silently weeping now without shame. He looked intensely into Diego’s eyes, which were also filled with tears. He did not see the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes or his unwieldy white brows; he saw only the eyes of the father he had always longed for. He wrapped his arms around the old man. He did not pat him on the back; he held him firmly and quietly. “Thank you, Diego. Thank you, thank you.”

  “It is I who thank you, my son.”

  The two separated, and Antonio stood for a moment, his head down. He fingered the bandanna and suddenly realized that there was something flat and round inside. “There is something here,” Antonio said.

  “Yes, it is for you,” Diego said, “but I want you to open it when you are in the plane. Would you do that for me?”

  “Of course, I will.” Antonio gently folded the bandanna and slipped it into his pant pocket.

  “There is one other thing, Antonio.”

  “Yes, Diego.”

  “Our door is never locked, and you need never knock. This is your home. Would you remember that?”

  “Yes, Diego. I will remember.”

  Antonio hugged his friend one last time.

  “We need to be going,” Lupita said softly.

  Antonio walked to the door, picked up his bag, and then turned to say goodbye. Diego was no longer there. Antonio could see the back of his friend through the doors of the terrace, leaning over the railing and surveying the orchards that he loved so much. He was softly humming a haunting tune.

  The melody was vaguely familiar to Antonio. He turned to Lupita. “What is that song?”

  Lupita listened for a moment and smiled. “It is ‘La Violetera.’ He sings it when he is very happy or very sad.”

  Antonio had to look away. He held the door open for Lupita, who, as she passed through, reached up to caress Antonio’s face and with her thumb wiped a tear from his cheek. Antonio stepped through the threshold and pulled the door closed, hearing the latch click into place.

  Antonio and Lupita were unusually quiet during the first moments of the two-hour drive to the Granada airport. Lupita was driving, her eyes fixed on the road.

  Antonio would occasionally glance at Lupita’s profile, and each time he did, he was swept away by her beauty.

  Finally, Lupita said, “I want to know something.”

  “Yes. Anything.”

  “Are you free of Savannah?”

  “Oh, yes, Lupita. Córdoba was cleansing for me. I had to go. I had to understand. How can I say this? I went to Córdoba because I was ashamed of myself—ashamed of the lies. Savannah helped me face up to my own guilt. For that I am deeply grateful. I know now who I want to be. But that is all, Lupita. There is no love there—only self-reproach, and it will take some time to forgive myself.”

  Lupita nodded. “There is something I must tell you.”

  Antonio turned his body around to look fully at Lupita. “Yes?”

  “Miguel has asked me to marry him,” she said without a smile.

  Antonio felt like the wind was knocked out of him. “What did you say?”

  “He was very sweet; he actually got down on his knees. I said I was flattered and that I would have to think about it.”

  “You are not serious.” It was more an accusation than a question.

  “Stop right there, Antonio. Who do you think you are? You are not the only caballero on the face of the earth, you know.”

  “Yes, of course, I know that. But Miguel? I have come to like him, but, still . . . would you truly consider marrying Miguel?”

  Lupita took the wheel by both hands and arched her back. “I do not know . . . no . . . maybe . . . I do not know. That is not the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “The point is that I am in my prime. There are men who desire me. They have always desired me. I have known that ever since I was sixteen years old,
and I will not wait forever.”

  “I know, Lupita. Believe me, I know. I do not take you for granted—not for an instant. You are the most incredible woman I have ever known. God knows I wish I could take you in my arms right now and never let you go. But I cannot do that. I just cannot. I have to go back to Paris.”

  Lupita patted Antonio’s knee. Antonio took her hand and kissed it three times, holding the third kiss for a long moment.

  When they reached the airport, Lupita insisted on saying goodbye at the car. They embraced and Antonio felt that his heart would break.

  “Do not come back unless you plan to stay for good,” Lupita said in his ear.

  “Lupita.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise you.”

  BEFORE GOING THROUGH SECURITY, ANTHONY walked into the men’s room and changed into his suit. He was going into battle now, and the Bianchi-tailored suit was his armor. He repacked his bag. The last items to go in were his Spanish work clothes, a pair of canvass pants and a blue denim shirt; he carefully smoothed and folded the garments, setting them in the suitcase with a quiet affection.

  The 9:30 a.m. plane took off on time. Anthony would make connections in Barcelona and land at the Charles De Gaulle Airport at 6:15 p.m. Anthony had lots of time to think about his life in Spain, and the life he was returning to in Paris.

  When the plane left the ground at Granada, Anthony took the red bandanna from his pocket. He unknotted the kerchief and laid it out on the fold-down tray. There, in the center of the cloth, was a cross section of an olive branch the diameter of a silver dollar and twice as thick. It had been hand rubbed to a smooth, glossy finish.

  Anthony picked up the olive medallion and examined it closer. It felt good to the touch: silky and yet firm, like a flat stone polished by sea and sand. There was a delicate carving of a lily with a straight stem and petals that curled like a seashell around its stamen. It must have taken Diego hours to get it just right.

  Anthony turned the olive piece over and read four words burned in a graceful script along the rounded perimeter of the medallion:

  Silence, love, charity, peace.

  Anthony smiled and slowly turned the medallion in his hand. At that moment, a flight attendant paused at Anthony’s aisle seat. “That’s lovely,” she said. “Was it a gift?”

  “Yes,” Anthony said, handing the piece to the attendant.

  She read the inscription. “From someone who loves you very much, I imagine,” she said, returning the amulet.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And now it is your good luck charm.”

  “That’s right—and much more.”

  The attendant patted Anthony on the shoulder and smiled sweetly. “Have a pleasant flight.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Nine hours later, Anthony’s plane touched down in Paris. He hired a taxi to drive him to his home in the seventh arronndissement, a stylish, nineteenth-century apartment overlooking La Seine—a half-hour ride with good traffic.

  “Soyez le bienvenu à Paris,” the driver said, unusually friendly for a Parisian chauffeur.

  “Merci.”

  “Are you coming home or just visiting?”

  Anthony was stumped. “I don’t know,” he finally uttered.

  The driver glanced at his passenger in the rearview mirror. “That is a strange response.”

  “I am in a kind of strange period in my life.”

  “Well, I hope it will go well for you.”

  “Thank you. How are things going for you?”

  The driver was taken back by the question. Normally, his customers had little interest in his state of mind. “I am doing all right. It can be difficult working nights, but I think we will survive.”

  “You have a family then.”

  “Yes, a wife and two kids.” The driver flipped down his sun visor, slipped out three photos, and passed them back to Anthony.

  “It is a beautiful family,” Anthony said truthfully.

  He returned the photos.

  “Ouais, I am proud of my family. They make everything worthwhile.”

  “I understand completely,” Anthony said, thinking of Lupita and Diego.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Then you are a lucky man, monsieur.”

  Anthony stepped up to the arched doorway of the apartment house. He twisted the knob that was centered in the middle of the door, but it was locked, of course. He instinctively patted his pocket and then laughed at himself; the key was long lost. Just then, a French woman bundled in a sable coat opened the door. They had seen each other many times before over the years, but had never spoken. Anthony was sure the woman had no idea that he had been gone for four months. They nodded and smiled politely, and Anthony slipped through the opening. The vestibule light switched off just as he reached the elevator. He stepped in and pushed the button for the fifth-floor. A moment later he was facing his front door. He took in a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

  Inside, Hennessy was just stepping out of the sauna—a luxury seldom found in a Parisian apartment. Hennessy loved that sauna; he always felt that twenty minutes in the steamer opened his pores and made him a new man.

  Meanwhile, Penelope was sitting at her dressing table, applying a creamy green mask to her face and neck.

  “Can you get that?” Hennessy shouted, sure that it must be someone from work dropping off a contract or a set of blueprints for his approval.

  “I’m cleansing and exfoliating,” Penelope shouted back.

  Hennessy cursed under his breath. He wrapped a bathrobe around himself, stepped into a pair of slippers, and jammed his glasses on his face, which, with the steam from the sauna, did not improve his vision. In fact, all he could make out were hazy shapes.

  Anthony rang a second time.

  “Okay, okay, I hear you, for Pete’s sake.” Hennessy quickened his pace. When he opened the door, the cold front from the outside collided with the hot front behind his glasses, creating an impenetrable fog bank. In short, Hennessy was blind.

  Nor did it help that the hall light had, predictably, snapped off. Anthony spoke from the shadows: “Good evening, Hennie.”

  Although Hennessy was blind, he was not deaf, and he knew that voice. He feverishly swiped his fingers across the lens of his glasses, which only smeared the condensation.

  “May I come in?” Anthony asked.

  Hennessy tipped his head down and looked over the top of his spectacles. “Holy cripes,” he said, stumbling back, his arms backstroking, which threw open his bathrobe, revealing his nakedness.

  Hennessy fumbled for his glasses planted cockeyed on his face and perched them on top of his head. “Is that you, Anthony?”

  “It’s me.”

  Hennessy just stared into Anthony’s face. He didn’t know how to react. How do you behave when you’re caught red-handed sleeping with your best friend’s wife? His head was bobbing like it would spin off his shoulders at any moment.

  “Aren’t you going to give me a hug?” Anthony asked.

  “Well … you’re damn right I am,” Hennessy roared, throwing his arms wide open, which again unveiled his bare body.

  “I don’t know,” Anthony quipped, “I don’t think we’ve been dating long enough.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, what the hell.”

  Anthony threw his arms around his schoolboy friend.

  “What is going on out here?” Penelope said, appearing barefooted in the living room. She was wearing a satin lounging robe and an avocado-green face that was beginning to dry and crack at the seams. “Oh, my God,” she said, recognizing Anthony.

  “Hello, Penelope.”

  Her feet were planted. She spoke like she was under hypnosis. “You’re back. I can’t believe it.”

  Anthony shrugged. “Yep. I’m back.”

  Penelope snapped out of her trance, stomped up to Anthony, and smacked him across the face. “Where have you been hiding out? W
e thought you were dead. Why didn’t you call? What happened to you? Were you in an accident? Were you trying to find yourself? What?”

  Anthony rubbed his face. “Let’s see. That would be yes, yes, no, yes, no, no, yes.”

  “Don’t you dare be smart with me,” she said, lightly punching Anthony in the chest. “Come here.”

  Penelope put her arms out for an embrace.

  Anthony stiff-armed her and screwed up his face. “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  Anthony pointed at the framed mirror hanging above a Japanese accent table.

  “What?” Penelope said again, this time with heavy irritation. She turned and looked at herself, screamed, and bolted for the bedroom.

  Meanwhile, Hennessy was still standing dumbfounded in the center of the living room. “I still can’t believe it is you. And I greet you at the door in my bathrobe.”

  “It’s a very nice bathrobe. I’ve always liked it.”

  “Oh . . . yeah . . . that’s right. I forgot.” Hennessy cinched the robe tighter around his waist. He scratched one side of his face and then the other. “Listen, Anthony, I think it would be best if I left. You and Penelope must have a ton of things to talk about.” He looked at his watch, not for the time, but because he didn’t know where else to look at the moment. “Wow, what am I thinking? I have a stack of work to do,” he said, throwing his arms in the air and smacking himself on the side of the head. “I’ll just . . .”

  He started moving toward the master bedroom and then circled back to finish his sentence. “I’ll just pick up a few things and be on my way. Give me two minutes—less than two minutes; give me sixty seconds.”

  “Relax, Hennessy. There’s no reason to run off. You probably have more right to be here than I do.”

  “No. Absolutely not. I’m out of here.”

  Hennessy escaped into the bedroom. Anthony could hear a few clunks, which must have been Hennessy banging into a lamp or a night table.