In present time I woke up, not knowing what day it was or where I was. Deja vu hit and my stomach rolled with unease and hunger, not knowing what happened last night or the night before is a leaded dread to wake up to. It felt as if no time has passed and and once again I am reliving that first morning I finally awoke only to find myself in a bare room with nothing but a blank journal and strange clothes. This time a strange nonsensical dream of scattered images and faces, lies distantly but still present in my mind. Compulsively, I reach out for that familiar journal, now filled with entries and as I write this it starts trickling back. Slowly at first but then a flood of memories and images from the past couple of days submerse me, wave upon wave. As I write the last ones come, like distant friends tugging at my memory, trying to tell me something. I see the a simple glass vial tipped over, but there are no contents left to spill, a rough piece of white paper with something scrawled on it. Take with caution, effective immediately. Dose- 1/3 vial at one time = 10-12 hours undisturbed sleep. I had taken 3 doses, and slept through a day and a half. But why had I wanted the draught in the first place?
Slowly it came back... I had misplaced hours and hours, I won't find them, they're no longer mine to keep. Time's an intricate thread holding the days together into a bigger patch, of month, year, decade; a quilt pieced together by those little minutes and hours, marking our time, our brief passage. Sometimes, time will disappear; hold, pause. Or sometimes it just stops. I will piece together the next three days as best I can...
Vaguely, I remember bumping into a young girl, reaching under the shelf for the last elusive paper back, and as I brought my eyes lower to the last shelf I saw it. That black leather bound journal, so familiar yet untouched as I felt the old leather bound cover and the floppy half pages, I knew so well. Each page held in by the leather stitched binding, sewn by hand. I had never seen another journal like it, until now. It was my own.
Time here, is no longer relative. Disjointed images blend together, like the pieces of snow in a snow globe, shaken up then falling ever so lightly through the water. That clerk with the lanky frame and thick, obscure glasses.
"Excuse me, are you, uh, alright? Can I help you find something?"
"No I've haven't seen that before (here a perceptible shudder, hand withdrawn as he noted the aged, time worn cover) but then, we have a lot of unusual books and editions here. Perhaps Mrs. Ryan's would know…" he stammered, trailing off swiftly and stumbling back with eyes unmoving from the black journal. Why had he reacted so? I wished to question him further but he stumbled out of the aisle, precariously knocking into a thick stack of books.
Another image, flashes of scrawled handwriting spilling out, twisting and turning over one another in attempt to escape from the page, dancing before my eyes. The cramped r's, and loopy a's, and half crossed t' all sloping slightly right running before my eyes. Feel of pliant and slightly piling underside of the fine leather cover, marked in the upper left corner, barely legible. Jude V n ra ke with a date, unreadable except as a black smear. The handwriting could belong to no other. I don't remember leaving the bookstore, or whether I paid for my thoughts or not, I'd pay for them soon enough.
In another image I find myself at the door way of a little shop, with the journal firmly bound up and secured in my coat. “Hello! Welcome, welcome, please what may I get for you? Love potion? Perhaps a ” A small flighty man with white hair and laughing eyes winked at me, letting me in on his joke. “I need...a sleeping draught, anything please, just make it strong.” He glanced at me curiously, and then nodded quickly dancing from bin to bin, gathering herbs and roots and mixtures before disappearing behind a dusty red velvet curtain in the back.
Finally I find myself with two secure parcels heavily weighing on my conscience at Thallow Flats. The image is a blur of myself going through the motions, but one point becomes sharp among the static. A young man, around my age but with a different air, a foreign air about him. The point of collision on the entry way of the third floor, and then the black cover peeking out of the packaging from the rare book bag. That black corner, so sharp, even in recollection it is almost piercing with focus. I stumbled, thoughts doing pinwheels in my head, automatically reaching for my package to touch the familiar worn cover. No, he can't, impossible. But really, how many journals are there? Did I leave behind one, or a series? Either way, I have to get my hands on that book.
1 comment:
Elise - I don't mention Jude until the end.
That girl – that crying girl, the younger one – Eros couldn’t get her out of his head. He usually didn’t like children, they were so immature, lacking in taste and refinement. They were petty and lacking direction, exactly the sort of people Eros couldn’t stand.
But that girl, there was something about her. True, she was hardly a child any more. Eros assumed she had to be at least 18 years of age, perhaps a little older. So she had to be here with her parents, or perhaps she was on her own already. That was a sad thought, the notion that a girl so young was already on her own. But it was now hardly any of his concern – he hadn’t seen the girl since that day. She really didn’t have any bearing on what Eros was trying to accomplish.
Today Eros would be taking steps to secure the rights to the lot, his lot, from Mamet. The old man had been very obstinate and he insisted that the lot had to be “preserved in its current state for the pleasure of future generations.” Eros hadn’t dared ask permission to merely excavate the site, as that might arouse Mamet’s suspicions.
But there had to be a way. Eros had not come this far to be beaten by circumstance. In Italy, when Jennifer had told him everything, the treasure had seemed so close. Eros felt he would only need to reach out and touch it. Now, his destiny was just meters away but he was powerless to achieve it.
But this obsessing was getting to Eros. He decided a good distraction would be in order. For Eros, this meant a good book. He’d taken several dozen books with him from Italy, but they were his favorites that he had read over and over again. Most were Italian and Venetian histories, but he also had several works of classic fiction: The Inferno, Queen Margot, Treasure Island and The Count of Monte Cristo. He also had the poetry collections of Andrew Marvell and several art histories. Eros, however, had already read all those books several times from cover to cover. He decided it would a good idea to try to read something new for a change.
He’d noticed a rare book store just down the way from the apartments and he thought that just such a place would have the tome he was looking for.
Eros left his apartment, being sure to turn out all the lights and to securely lock the door on his way out. On his way down the stairs, Eros always took the stairs, as he found them far more pragmatic than having to wait for the dilapidated elevator, he passed that girl he’d met early, Karen. She was talking with some man in greasy overall who smelled of gasoline and exhaust. Eros inclined his head to Karen as he passed her and she smiled radiantly in reply. The man she was with also greeted Eros, but with a solid upward tilt of his head.
Outside, the fiery sun had yet to burn off the chill of the morning. Eros began to regret not bringing his leather jacket but at this point he decided returning to fetch it simply wasn’t merited.
The book store was a couple blocks away but Eros didn’t mind the trek. In Venice, he’d grown accustomed to walking several miles of day, so this charming little jaunt was nothing. When he arrived at his destination, he strode through the door with a confidant swagger he assumed whenever he was in public.
Inside the small store, which was positively swamped with books, Eros saw an alluring younger woman casually striding through past the many shelves. She would gracefully extend her hand and run it over the tops of the leather tomes, placed neatly, side-by-side, gently caressing each book with the tips of her fingers.
She rounded a corner and stopped before an older gentleman who was flipping through a novel. She said “Hello, Everett.”
The man, Everett, looked up from his book and smiled at her. His gray hair framed his square, masculine face well. His eyes were alive amongst the weathered, yet supple, folds of his skin. He said, “Hello, Mirela. How’re you?”
“Busy,” she said. “I’ve had divinations all day – this was my only free hour. So I came down here to look around. How about yourself? How’s your next novel progressing?”
“Well, I suppose.”
“That last chapter was difficult for you?”
Everett looked suddenly and quizzically asked “Yes…how did you know?”
“A feeling.”
“Oh. I see.” Everett smiled weakly but looked almost uncomfortable. Eros wandered what ‘a feeling’ could possibly mean.
Mirela smiled softly and said “But I’m sure when you’re finished with it, it’ll be great.”
Her smile completely changed Everett’s expression as he chuckled and said “Another feeling?”
“Yes,” Mirela replied, giggling slightly. She glanced at a small wrist watch on her tanned, elegant arm and said “But I need to go back upstairs and prepare. I have another divination at 2:30 and I need to prepare.”
“Then good day, Mirela,” Everett said, nodding.
“Bye,” she said, casually waving as she exited up a flight of steps near the back of the store.
Everett returned to glancing over the books on the shelf in front of him. Eros approached and slowly turned towards the books, standing next to the man, who smelt of a charming sandalwood cologne. Eros picked a book off the shelf at random and began to glance through it. He could feel Everett’s casual glance on him.
“You like court dramas?” Everett suddenly asked.
Eros revolved slightly on his heels and looked at the man, saying “Not really. I go more for the European classics. I’m not a denizen of modern literature. Modern anything, for that matter.”
Everett chuckled robustly and said “I feel the exactly the same way sometimes.” He extended his hand and said “Everett Carson.”
“Eros Dandolo,” Eros replied, accepting the handshake. Everett had a firm grip which spoke of vigor even in his advanced years.
“Dandolo? That’s an Italian name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m from Italy.”
“Tu da dove e?
“Sono Veneziano. Parle Italiano?
Everett chuckled and said “No, no, I’ve just spent a lot of time working with Italian Americans and I picked up the language from some of them.”
“What do you do?”
“Well, used to do, technically – I’m a retired trial lawyer. My specialty was organized crime, so I met up with a lot of Sicilian, Calabrian and Neapolitan Americans.”
“Oh, southern Italians, naturally. Yes, the Mafia. Well, I am from the North of Italy and we do not like people from the South so much.”
“Oh. Well.” They stood in silence for a moment. “So how long have you been in the States?”
“A few weeks. I was staying in a motel now for a while but now I’ve got an apartment. It’s a little ways away from here – the Thallow Flats.”
“The Thallow Flats? Really? That’s where I live! What a coincidence!”
Eros nodded and smiled but didn’t mention that he didn’t believe in coincidences. “It’s a nice enough place to live.”
“Yes, a little old, but rather charming,” Everett agreed. “They’re just the right place for me, though. And the people are very friendly. In fact, we have a little game of cards in the back room of the Tavern bar. You should drop by – it would be a great chance to meet the other tenets and maybe earn a little cash.”
“No, I don’t think,” Eros replied softy. “I don’t like gambling, I prefer sure-things.”
“Ah, well, suit yourself,” Everett replied, not unkindly. “Still, its fun to just sit and watch the game, anyway.”
“I may do that some time.”
“Great. Here, let me give you my card.” Everett dug around in his pocket and extracted a neat stack of business cards bound with a rubber band. “I had all these in a little holder on my desk when I was practicing and I’ve still got hundreds of them.” He handed over the piece of stiff paper. “Be sure to give me a call sometime. There’s always one for one more.”
“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
The two men parted company as Eros moved off to peruse some of the older books in the back. In the “History” section he saw a special grouping of books about World War II. He was glancing past a few biographies of the great American generals and a dusty copy of Mien Kampf when he spotted a large tome bound in black leather that was lying under the shelf. Eros picked it up off the floor read the title, worked out in gold letters on the spine: The Italian Theatre – 1943-1945: From Monte Cassino to Rome. The cover of the book was completely blank, leading Eros to discern that the book had once had a dust jacket that was now lost. He flipped through the table of contents. The chapters alternated between the Allied and Axis perspective of the battles in Italy during each skirmish. The pages themselves were thin and yellowed, which was strange, since the cover was still a slick, inky black, in almost excellent condition. Perhaps the missing dust jacket had done its job very well.
World War II had always fascinated Eros, unlike it did many Italians, and this was one of the few major histories of Italy during the War that he had ever seen. He quickly bought it and prepared to left the bookstore, waving to Everett as he left and saying “Good day, it was a pleasure to meet you.”
Back in the Flats, Eros was mounted the steps to get back to his rooms when, on one of the landings, he paused because a thin, mousey man with wild tufts of hair was standing, completely still, staring at him. Eros looked at the man, whose piercing blue eyes were wide with terror, and said “Excuse me? Can I help you with something?”
The wild man just kept starting and then slowly began to creep backwards. Eros took a step forward and said “See here, what’s the matter?”
Giving a little shriek, the man fell backwards as though in shock. Eros advanced to help the man up, but he only screamed and jolted away, kicking wildly, with his eyes still bulging out his sockets and he scuttled backwards. He extended his harm and pointed at Eros. No, Eros realized, not at him, but at the black leather book.
“Sir, please, what is the matter? Let me help you!” Eros cried, completely exasperated, but the little man just gave one final yelp then darted, on all fours, then rising to his up on his legs, to flee down the hall.
Eros stood in the now empty hallway and glanced casually at the black book in his hands. Why does he fear this book? Eros though to himself.
Tense, for no real reason, Eros turned and proceeded back up the stairs, but not before taking note of that floor this strange event had taken place on – floor 300.
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