by Gail Cleare
“It’s him! It’s the floating man!”
Henry nodded. “I thought so. You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. He’s even wearing the same clothes. Who is he?”
“His name was Wo Tan Chung, but he changed it to Walter when he studied at UCLA. That is his father standing with him. His family owned a famous pottery based in Hong Kong in the last century. I believe it still exists, run by current generations of the same clan. Many of them were educated in Great Britain and the U.S., and they shipped merchandise all over the world. The high quality blue and white porcelain, you know. We still have a few unbroken cartons from that era in the cellar, I believe. Probably worth quite a bit more than we paid for it by now, I should think.”
“What happened to Walter?” I was more interested in the man than his merchandise, even though one of his rice bowls had levitated and flown across the hallway in front of my eyes.
“They said he was a spy, and then he disappeared. Never seen again.”
“The Communists took him?”
“Yes. That’s what we heard. Margaret and I had left for home by then. Times were very tense in that part of the world in those days. Korea was happening, the Dalai Lama was chased out of Tibet. We were lucky to get out when we did.”
“How sad for his family. Was he married?”
“Yes, yes. Passel of kids, too. Several strong sons to carry on the business.”
“Why do you think he was here? I mean, when I saw him?”
“Perhaps he wanted to tell you to sell a lot of his tea sets and order more from his grandsons!”
“I suppose! Guess I’ll see what I can do about that!”
“Thank you for bringing me my photographs, Emily. I’ve enjoyed remembering.”
Mr. Paradis stood up and moved the carton of photos aside, preparing to return to his work.
“Thank you for telling me your stories,” I said, turning to go.
“Just remember what Margaret would have said,” he said.
I stopped in the doorway and waited.
“Carpe Diem, my dear. ‘Seize the day!’”
“I’ll remember that,” I replied.
And I always have, from that day forward.
The Chariot
PROGRESS, TRAVEL IN COMFORT
Description: A triumphal charioteer driving two strong horses, lions or sphinxes, usually one black and one white to symbolize duality.
Meaning: Travel in comfort, literally or figuratively. Making swift progress with a lack of impediments. Cars and other vehicles.
When I closed the store that night, Anton Novak was waiting at the curb outside. He was leaning casually against a navy blue Mercedes sedan. He had changed into a long-sleeved silk shirt the color of dark chocolate.
I stared at the car and cautiously approached. It was very beautiful, the same way a piece of finely crafted jewelry is beautiful. It was perfectly polished. It had posh leather seats and a burled wood dashboard.
“This is your car,” I said, confirming the fact. My unconscious estimation of his net worth expanded by at least one zero. It made me nervous.
He nodded. He uncrossed his arms and opened the passenger door with a flourish.
“Mademoiselle?” he said and raised one eyebrow. “Vous voulez?”
I silently slipped into the golden brown soft warm buttery leather-smelling interior of the vehicle. The wood of the dashboard was filled with swirls and circles of contrasting shades of brown and tan, polished to a high gloss super-shine. The instrument panels were outlined in shiny chrome.
He opened the driver’s side door and got into the car. We were suddenly close together, nearly touching. He sat and looked at me. I looked back.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “But I’m getting rid of it.”
I felt a totally inappropriate pang of dismay.
“Oh no!”
He started the car and it hummed gently.
“Yes, I’m going to get a Prius, a hybrid. I ordered one.”
He pulled out smoothly into the traffic.
“Why?” I pouted, rubbing the side of my luscious leather seat.
“I saw Al Gore’s movie, that’s why,” he said.
“Oh, right.” I said, remembering that we’re all supposed to support alternative energy technology.
“Where to?” he inquired.
I told him my address, and on the way there we talked about how we had both made lifestyle changes since we’d seen An Inconvenient Truth, the movie about global warming. Like trying to take public transportation more, and driving around alone in our cars less. I had actually started to take the bus to work on days when I didn’t really need my car. It wasn’t bad, and it solved the parking problem.
“That said,” I concluded, inhaling deeply the spicy leather scent, “This is one lovely machine.”
“Well, I’m glad you like it,” he said. He told me he kept it garaged in Manhattan, so he could use it whenever he was here on the East Coast. I gathered that was quite often, if it warranted keeping a car like this in an expensive New York City garage.
We pulled up outside the sprawling Victorian residence where I lived on the third floor.
“Shall I come in?” he asked.
I quickly tried to remember what kind of condition my studio apartment was in.
“Um...OK, sure, you can come in.”
I opened my own car door before he could move, and got out of the car.
“I’ll feed the cat while you change, if you like,” he offered.
I did want to slip into something nicer (and sexier?). I’d worn jeans to work, and spent a long time collecting dust bunnies in the basement. I started thinking about having a champagne cocktail, possibly two. Sitting across from him at an intimate table. Eating salmon, perfectly broiled, with lemon butter sauce…yum.
We climbed up the twisting, turning staircase and I unlocked the door at the top. The attic of the house was all mine, one large room with four dormer windows, a skylight, a tiny galley kitchen behind a partition, and an even tinier bathroom.
Tree greeted us at the door with a polite “Mmrrrh?” He is a brown and gray striped tiger with white bib and paws. Very stylish. He goes in and out through one of the windows, getting down to the ground via a series of precarious rooftop acrobatics. He is very proud of this, and values his independence as much as I do. He sulks all winter long when I have to keep the windows closed, much preferring to come and go whenever he pleases.
Anton Novak let Tree sniff his fingers and then stroked him on the back. Tree loved it, arching up into the man’s hand. Novak’s touch seemed to affect the cat the same way it had me, earlier today in the park. I was impressed. Tree is a very good judge of character.
“What do people actually call you?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine calling anyone “Anton” with a straight face. “I mean, like, when they speak to you?”
“Tony,” he replied.
“Aha,” I said, relieved. “I can do that.”
“Can you?” he inquired, seriously.
“Yes,” I said.
“Let’s hear it?”
“Tony.”
“Try it again,” he said, closing his eyes, waiting.
“Tony,” I sighed, in a sultry voice.
He shivered with mock delight. We both laughed.
“And do they call you Em? Emmie?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“And where do we keep the cat food, Em?” he asked, as Tree began to rub up against the doorway to the kitchen, leading the way.
I showed Tony where, and went to shower and change. Everything had to come into the bathroom with me, since a studio floor plan allows for very little privacy. When I emerged, dressed in black slacks and a yellow silk shirt worn open over a black lace camisole, he looked at me admiringly.
“I must say I like the idea of going out to dinner with James Bond’s boss,” Tony said, “Em. You look very nice.”
He ar
ose from the sofa, where he had been flipping through National Geographic. He smiled and came closer.
“And I have always had a crush on Mafia bosses from New Jersey, Tony,” I said teasingly, hoping he had been watching The Sopranos and batting my eyelashes.
He laughed, thank goodness. “Well, I’ve spent a lot of time in New Jersey, but I am not in the Mafia, I am sorry to disappoint you!”
We went out the door and started down the stairs.
“New Jersey? Somehow I can’t imagine you there,” I remarked.
“Oh yes,” he said, “I went to Princeton University. I spent four years in New Jersey.”
This was surprising. Somehow I had pictured him at Oxford, or the Sorbonne, or some school in the Ukraine. It was hard to imagine him as an Ivy Leaguer.
When we got outside he did the one most perfect wonderful thing he could possibly have done to win my heart forever. We walked up to the Mercedes and he tossed me the keys.
“Want to drive?” he suggested, knowing the answer.
“Oh yes,” I replied. “Thank you!”
I jumped into the driver’s seat, slid it forward, adjusted the mirrors and fastened my seat belt. He handed me a pair of Ray Bans. I felt like a movie star.
“Where are we going?” I asked, shifting into gear and pulling out into the street. The car moved like an animal, lithe and graceful.
He leaned back in his seat and waved his hand casually.
“Just keep driving,” he said. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”
He directed me onto the Interstate and we headed north. I stepped on the gas and pulled into the stream of traffic. The Mercedes flew down the road so smoothly and quietly I barely noticed when we hit seventy-five. He was playing a Putamayo World Music CD called “Latin Lounge” on the surround sound stereo system, singing along with the Spanish lyrics. I came up fast behind a truck and dodged over into the passing lane to go around it. The Mercedes responded to my every command like a purebred horse schooled in dressage. I thought, right, and it flowed gently back into the cruising lane.
We had dinner on top of a mountain in Vermont. The wide glass sliding doors of the restaurant opened onto a flagstone patio that perched high above the long view. We could see New York State to the west, where a glimmer of tangerine sunset still gilded the undersides of dark purple clouds. The Interstate stretched out below us to the south, a thin string of twinkling headlights that lead back toward Massachusetts. Overhead, a million stars were sparkling. It was spectacular.
The night was warm, so we sat on the patio. Tony ordered a bottle of champagne, specifying Veuve Cliquot, which I had never tasted before. They had the salmon I’d been craving and served it with an Asian plum sauce that was delicious. Tony ordered the duck and offered me a bite, which I refused. When eating something delicious, I don’t like to confuse my taste buds by mixing in other flavors. I am a purist.
We ate and we talked. He told me about growing up in Rome with his Czech parents, who were both teachers. His full name was Antonin Novak, but he had dropped the extra syllable to make it easier for Americans to pronounce. His family had summered at Lake Como, on the Swiss border, before the American movie stars discovered it and it became so fashionable. He loved boating, and had been on the crew team in college. He had one sister, who was now living in Montreal. After college he went to graduate school in international business and was recruited by a large multi-national firm to work in their offices in Hong Kong. In addition to his native tongue, he spoke fluent Mandarin Chinese as well as Russian, Spanish, French, Italian and English.
“A friend of mine and I were hired to create the standardized distribution routes for Coca Cola in Hong Kong, “ he said. “Before we did it, nobody had ever formalized or kept track of this information. We wrote a software program to make it easy to update and track changes. Then we sold it back to Coca Cola, and to four other American firms who were developing the area.”
His eyes shone. “That is how I won my freedom,” he said. “Now I can dabble in this and that, and indulge in my obsession for collecting beautiful objets d’art.”
“Like Mr. Paradis,” I commented.
“Yes,” he nodded, “Like my friend Henry. He and I first met under very unusual circumstances, you know, in a bazaar in Hong Kong. But, that is another story. Now, I want to hear about you.”
I reflected that my own origins were not nearly so fascinating.
“Well, I’m originally from Iowa,” I said, “Known as the Tall Corn State. My father’s family owns several farms out there. They grow corn and hogs. Most of the corn is made into that new fuel people are using in the Midwest to run their cars and trucks, have you heard about it?”
“Yes,” he said, very seriously, “I have heard a lot about it. This is what we want the U.S. government to start encouraging with tax breaks, instead of making more and more high fructose corn syrup, right?”
“Exactly. You can buy it all over the Corn Belt, at most gas stations. But you never see it here in the East.”
“No, but I have seen something on the local news about a car that runs on vegetable oil. Do you know what that is about?”
“I saw that too. I guess some inventor figured out how to rig his diesel engine to burn cooking oil that he gets free from the fast food places, after they’ve used it to make french fries and onion rings! I’ve seen him driving around town. It says ‘This car runs on Mazola’ on the trunk.”
He laughed, and shook his head in amazement.
“Fantastic! I love it. Human beings are incredibly resourceful, aren’t they?”
“Yes, maybe we can save the planet, after all.”
We talked a bit more about our common interest in alternative energy, then he steered the conversation back to my personal history. I told him about my family, one brother and one sister, both living happily in the Chicago area. Our father died of a stroke when I was still in school. My mother lived in Florida now, near her sister. I told him about my college years here in the East, when I discovered I had an interest in art and a facility for remembering historical details. When I got to the part where I took a job at Lexi’s gallery across town, I told the story with surprising calm. I hadn’t actually thought about it in a while, and my intense feelings seemed to have faded.
“I’m not surprised you had trouble working for someone so domineering,” he said with insight. “You are a very independent woman.”
“A very powerful woman,” he added, and flashed his pretty white smile at me. His hand reached across the table to barely touch my fingertips. Electricity sparked in the air between us.
I was flattered, and smiled shyly. I didn’t really think of myself that way. But, it was true that I stood up for myself whenever necessary. And, I did like to run things my way. Maybe he was right! On the other hand, I warned myself not to forget he was probably just trying to manipulate me. No sense in losing my head over his compliments.
We lingered on after our meal, laughing and talking on the patio under the stars until long after all the other customers had left. I think the waiter was glad to finally see us go, though he did wait patiently.
Tony let me drive home and I sped down the deserted highway, keeping an eye out for wandering deer or moose. He leaned back in his seat, turned sideways a little so he could watch me.
“You know,” he mused, “I kind of like this. I think James Bond must have the right idea.”
“What?”
“I like having a powerful woman in the driver’s seat,” he said in a satisfied tone.
I have to admit I loved it. Corny but cute. And I always wanted to be one of Charlie’s Angels, so he hit my fantasy right on target.
We traveled on down the road sitting side-by-side in the dark. I turned on the blinker and we exited the highway. Streetlights made little pools of brightness here and there on the sidewalks. Inside the car it felt cozy and secure, very intimate, lit by the hot magical glow of the instrument panels. The soft leather padded seat held my body in
its warm embrace like a gloved hand. He leaned forward to turn off the radio, and I briefly caught a trace of some warm, sweet scent like cinnamon, or cloves. Suddenly I realized, it was him.
There was a burst of intense pleasure inside my head. I wondered if he would kiss me goodnight at the door. I pictured it. I thought about inviting him to come inside for a “nightcap.” I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. Or, would it actually be the right impression? My head was spinning, and it wasn’t from the Veuve Cliquot.
What I’m saying is, I didn’t mind driving him around one bit. No, sir, not one bit. In fact, I could probably have done it all night long.
Strength
LOVE OVERPOWERS FEAR
Description: A maiden sits quietly holding a lion’s head in her lap. His lips are curled in a snarl, but she remains unafraid.
Meaning: Love overpowers fear. Courage. Our mental powers harness the beast in us all.
As soon as Mr. Paradis told us that the updates we’d made in the kitchen had been approved and we were now allowed to serve food, Siri and I began to put an A-frame sign out every day on the sidewalk in front of the store that said:
Welcome to Paradise
Gifts, Collectibles & Rare Books
Espresso Bar ~ Imported Teas
Scones, Soups & Sandwiches
Wonders from Around the World
Now Open for Lunch!
Laurel helped us set up accounts with several wholesale organic food suppliers. I took lessons from her on how to work the espresso machine, and got out my grandmother’s recipe book. She showed me how to adapt the classic recipes to utilize the kind of clean ingredients they used in her restaurant: all natural everything, fresh whenever possible, whole grains and unrefined sugars, reduced salt, no bad fats. She was very patient and it was easier than I had expected.
Every morning first thing, I baked a batch of whole wheat scones, sometimes with organic raisins or cranberries. I kept four or five teapots at the ready on the coffee bar, with a large electric kettle filled with water, ready to boil. Several canisters of tea sat nearby, an assortment of black, green and herbal varieties.
