Ben Soul

by Richard George

menu,” Harry said, and put the plastic sheet before Ben, who glanced at it. It was a standard breakfast menu.

  “Sausage and eggs, the eggs sunny-side up,” Ben said, “with hash browns and sourdough toast, please.”

  “Got it. Be a few minutes while Rosa cooks it,” Harry said, and went back to the kitchen. Ben took the bag out, squeezed it against the spoon, and sipped his first cup of tea. It was very good after strolling in the brisk air to warm his innards with hot tea.

  Ben’s mind churned with thoughts about the cottage. He mentally listed reasons for and against renting a retreat, for and against even retreating. The cold fist that had knotted below his diaphragm when he first realized Len was dying relaxed its fingers a bit. He had held himself tightly together for Len’s sake. Now he could let go, a little.

  Ben had sipped more than halfway through a second cup when the Harry brought his breakfast. His eggs came cooked just as he liked them. The sausage was savory. Harry brought ketchup and hot sauce to Ben’s booth. Ben soon demolished his breakfast. Ben finished his meal and sat, savoring his tea. When he was done, he went to the cash register by the door. There was a small bell beside it. Ben rang it. Harry came out.

  “Breakfast okay?” he asked as Ben handed him a ten.

  “Very good,” Ben said. “I went walking, this morning, along the beach. This is a beautiful place.”

  “We like it,” Harry said, as he rang up Ben’s meal and handed him his change.

  “I came back along the bluff. I saw a cottage for rent. Where would I inquire about renting it?”

  “That’s Señora Mandor’s cottage,” he said. “She lives in the big house up the hill.” Ben had not seen the big house. It must have been lost in the fog had wreathing the mountaintop.

  “Do you have a phone number for her?”

  “She doesn’t like to give it out. I can call the house, though, and tell her you’re interested.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” Ben stood at the counter while Harry placed the call.

  “Hello, Elke? Harry Pitts here; I’ve got a man who wants to ask about renting the Señora’s cottage in the village. Is she interested?” He nodded. “His name’s Benjamin Dover Soul, according to his credit card. He stayed last night at the Inn.” He nodded again, and looked at Ben. “Are you interested in the place for a long term, or just for a week or two?”

  “For several months, at least.”

  “He says for several months.”

  Harry stared at his shoes while Elke, whoever she was, went to check with the Señora. He stood suspended for three or four minutes. Ben quietly wriggled his toes in his shoes.

  “I’ll ask him,” Harry said, straightening up. Evidently, Elke was back.

  “Can you stay around until this afternoon?”

  “Yes. I’m retired, and my time’s my own.”

  “He’ll stay. I’ll tell him. Bye, Elke.” He carefully replaced the receiver, as if the telephone were a carton of eggs.

  “La Señora will see you at tea time today. Her secretary, Elke Hall, will meet you here at 3:30 sharp, this afternoon.”

  Ben did some quick calculation. If the interview lasted more than a few minutes, he’d be too late to get home before midnight. “I should probably plan to spend the night here,” he said.

  “No problem this time of year. I’ll hold your room.”

  “Thanks.” Ben looked at his watch. It was 9:30 in the morning. He decided to drive around the countryside. He saw cows, vineyards, one llama guarding a flock of sheep, but no unicorns. When he returned, he went to the Café for a cup of tea.

  La Señora

  Elke Hall came into the Café promptly at 3:30. She was born to play Brünhilde in Götterdammerung. She was tall, buxom, and muscular. She had braided her blond and gray hair in a helmet on the top of her head. Her eyes were stern blue, and seemed to cut to one’s core through whatever surface one presented. Ben thought she would look thoroughly at home carrying a shield and spear.

  She extended her hand to him. “I am Elke Hall, La Señora’s secretary and companion. We will take the funicular,” she said. Her speech echoed Boston, not Berlin.

  “I have a car,” Ben said, “if there’s a way to drive.”

  “We use the funicular. There is a road to La Señora’s home, but the Coastal Commission has it locked with three gates. We do not pander to the Coastal Commission, and they do not unlock gates for us without a great deal of bureaucratic bother.”

  “Certainly,” Ben said. He had read many articles about how unpopular the Coastal Commission was among coast people. Elke escorted him behind the Café to a low building. She unlocked a small door between two large ones and reached inside to turn on a light. “This is the garage,” she said. It held a blue Chevrolet, vintage 1956, and an Allen touring car that probably dated to the 1920s. Elke locked the door behind them. They crossed the garage to the back, where Elke unlocked another door and motioned him through.

  “The funicular is here,” she said. He went through to a small shed, open at the uphill end. A cable ran in a slot between the two sets of rails. A car waited on the right.

  “Please sit on the uphill side,” she pointed, “as I must operate the controls from the other seat.” Ben took the uphill seat, which immediately leveled under his weight. He sat a foot or so higher than Elke. She got in and released a lever. The car began to rise slowly.

  “A funicular railway,” she said by way of conversation, “is one where two cars are joined by a cable. As one descends, the other ascends. Their weight is approximately counterbalanced.” He nodded at her, unsure how to respond to this information. The funicular’s motion was less steady than one could want. He was glad she had mentioned the other car, however, when its shadow fell over them suddenly as it passed on its way down. Ben had expected spectacular views of the cove, or the sea, but the funicular was on the landward side of the mountain, and all he saw were bits of sky and gray-green shrubs.

  “What is Señora Mandor like?” he asked as the funicular lurched along.

  “La Señora is like herself, and unlike any other I have known. It is best you should form your own impression.” The funicular jolted to a halt. “We are at the top,” she said.

  Elke unlatched the door, and gestured at him to get out. He got out. The car had stopped in a shed, open at the downhill end, with a door at the uphill end. Elke opened the door and they went through onto a brick-red patio made of concrete. A few fine cracks ran through it, and small green weeds poked up in the cracks. Behind the patio stood a single story Spanish Mission style house with a red tile roof. Something about its air suggested the innocent excess that marked the silent film era. Two wings stretched left and right from the front door.

  “La Señora is waiting,” Elke said. She led him to the front door. Carvings of floating mermaids, spouting whales, and leaping porpoises crowded together on its varnished redwood panels. The effect was at once fantastic and comic. Ben smiled.

  “La Señora’s grandfather carved the door,” Elke said, and opened it. They came into an entry hall, painted cream color. A long hallway ran to the left, dim in the afternoon because no windows gave onto it. A closed door on the right probably opened onto a similar corridor. Directly opposite the front door was a large painting of the Virgin of Guadeloupe in a dark and heavy wood frame. The closing door revealed a small umbrella stand, shaped like an elephant’s foot. Ben reached over to touch it.

  “That is a plastic replica,” Elke said. “No elephant was harmed by its manufacture. Please wait here,” she said. “I will tell La Señora you have arrived.” She went briskly down the left-hand hall toward the end, knocked on a door on the left, and went in. Ben contemplated the painted Virgin, trying to determine if her smile promised ecstasy or covered up agony.

  Elke returned after several minutes. “La Señora will see you in the library,” she said. “Follow me.” She turned and went
back down the left-hand hall. Ben followed.

  “Mr. Soul is here, Señora,” she said as she opened the library door. She gave him a gentle push in the small of my back. “Go on in, Mr. Soul; stand just to the left of the door until La Señora tells you to sit.” Feeling like a herded sheep, Ben went into the room and stood at the left hand side. The room was very bright with the afternoon sun, and his eyes watered as they adjusted after the dim hall. It took a while before he could see anything. A delightful old-book smell tickled his nose. The silence seemed to stretch out to touch forever.

  “Mr. Soul,” La Señora said, “please take the leather chair to your right.” Her voice was firm, with a hinted lilt of Spanish accent. Ben looked to the right and saw a great brown leather armchair that was more a throne for a cattle queen than mere armchair. He settled himself into upholstered comfort, and immediately felt less like a sheep and more like a child in a playroom fortress.

  His hostess sat across from him in a chair twin to the one he occupied. Ben’s first impression was of steel wrapped in black velvet and lace. She was a diminutive lady. Her hair was white and glowed in the afternoon sunlight. Her thick gray brows hovered like iron shields over the fire in her black eyes. He had met raptors with less stern eyes. Her heart-shaped face, though wrinkled with fine lines, was still beautiful with a great dignity. The great chair she sat in did not