Dinner for Eight

[Steven Hunley]

Dinner for Eight
by
Steven Hunley

You are cordially invited to dinner at Mandalay House for our annual meeting of the Collector’s Club. Don’t forget to bring your nephew for his initiation on this exclusive special occasion. We look forward to seeing you both.
Sylvia and Louis Purloiner

I bounded up the stairs to the west wing, in through the oak double doors of the study and found my uncle with a feather duster in his hand, dusting one of the two Faberge eggs in his collection. I think it was the Necessaire, the one Alexander the Third gave to his wife Maria Fedorovna on East day 1889. It was one of those pieces he wouldn’t let the servants near.

“It’s come, Uncle, it’s come!”

He looked up, recognised the stationary and smiled. “Now you’ll see what real collecting is all about.”

As if I didn’t know already. Just one look around the room the first day I arrived told me more than enough. The doorstop was one of my uncles first ‘rare pieces’. I looked like a worn-out brick, which it was, but no ordinary brick. My uncle had slipped it out of the wall of the Coliseum in Rome when he did a grand tour of Europe in his twenties. It was nearly two thousand years old.

‘Vespasian’s Dream’ he christened it.

“But Uncle, if every tourist had stolen a brick, they’re be nothing left by now.”

“You’re right, but I’ve got my piece here, a chunk of history, an Emperor’s dream if you will. And I’ll protect it. Vespasian imagined the Coliseum when he was in Sicily keeping bees, after Nero banished him for falling asleep during one of his poetry readings.”

That was my uncle. If the piece had an interesting provenance he wanted it. When he was poor and younger he collected simple things, and was limited. But then his grandfather left him a vanilla plantation in Tahiti, and that led to a coffee plantation in Sumatra. Long before Starbuck’s signed him as a preferred supplier he became rich, and his wealth enabled his collection to grow in value. The trouble was that good pieces were rare and dear, and since he’d been brought up a bargain hunter, he often sought out black-market suppliers.

He received special satisfaction in getting ‘impossible to obtain’ antiques at discount. He started off a young man, poor, grabbed an odd brick when was no one was looking. Now he was old, rich, and possessed two Faberge eggs. It didn’t bother him in the least when a week later he read of an art robbery in a St. Petersburg’s museum.

“It only adds to the provenance,” he shrewdly calculated, and left it at that.

“How many others will be there, Uncle?”

“Oh, two or three couples more. It’s only a once a year affair, and they’re highly selective in who they invite.”

Uncle Silas returned the egg to its holder, a small cupped gold platform shaped like a bird’s foot.

From there he moved on to the shelves holding his rare book collection.

“I’ll be finished with these soon, and we can talk more over dinner. Are you still practicing the latest trick I bought you, what was it?”

“Haskell’s Diminishing Deck.”

“That’s the one we found in the shop in San Francisco, wasn’t it?”

“That’s it.”

“Will you be ready after dinner?”

“I think so.”

“Very well then, Max and myself will be your audience.”

He turned his attention and his feather duster to his precious books and I took my hint and left. I liked practicing before the two of them, my uncle had a keen eye, and Max was very direct for a butler, and forthcoming with his comments. I think he picked up the habit when he worked for a has-been movie star on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. She’d gotten in some sort of scandal, but he wouldn’t say anything more. I could always depend on Max for a truthful evaluation of my performance and to keep his mouth shut.

I would practice and practice, cut and restore bits of rope, change things from one thing to another, levitate, read minds, do a million a one card tricks. But my specialty was sleight of hand, because it took manual dexterity and misdirection.

Allow me to let you in on a secret. The best magic tricks are the ones where no one knows you’re doing them, just as the perfect crime is one that no one knows was committed.

It was my plan, no, my design, that that dinner at Mandalay was to be my crowning achievement in magic and crime wrapped up in one single flawless performance. It wasn’t that I needed the money mind you, but rather the fact I’d become profoundly addicted to the thrill.

***
to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

http://youtu.be/ivTbd38NtWg Max Sunset Boulevard

[Hawkman]

This is a lot of fun, Steven, and looks to continue in the same vein. I'm looking forward to more. I like the idea of Vespasian dreaming up the Colosseum while keeping bees, (it would have been known as The Flavian Amphitheatre in his day) and certainly Vespasian incurred the displeasure of Nero (reputedly for falling asleep duing one of the emperor's lyre recitals!) He didn't get on with Nero's mother Aggripina either, and consequently he retired from public life for a while when Claudius was still Emperor. In AD 63 Nero made him govenor of Africa Province. It was after he returned that he blotted his copybook. A precarious life, that of the Roman politician, even today. :D

Famously the colosseum was constructed from concrete, as well as bricks, stone and bronze, although thanks to the ravages of time and the attention of your light fingered character, not as many bricks as it started out with - lol.

Live and be well - H

[aliengirl]

'Sylvia and Louis Purloiner' What a choice for last name! I'm looking forward to the adventures of this uncle-nephew pair.

[Steven Hunley]

story continued...

A week later it was already five-thirty in the afternoon when I caught my first glimpse of Mandalay House. We were heading west, overlooking the Pacific. Hills and trees cast shadows longer than themselves, exaggerating their effect on your consciousness. The landscape becomes more dream-like. Colors intensify, shapes delineate, and nature gives up her dull felt marker for a sharp gold-nibbed pen.

The road dipped into a hollow, and then wound upwards.

“It’s over this knoll,” said Uncle Silas. “You like old films, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes, you know I do. It’s the effect of watching all those old black and white movies with you.”

“You’d be happy to know that Mandalay was built by Errol Flynn and Lilli Damita, bought with the money he made after Captain Blood.”

“When she burst out crying that she lost him, after she saw the audience’s reaction?”

“Exactly, after the premier. She was French, had a woman’s sensibilities and studied tragedy. She was famous long before Errol, and recognized the hungry beast of stardom stalking him.”

We were nearly at the top of the hill, almost out of its shadow.

“They built it together, but broke up later. He kept it, and used it as a hideout from the studio when he wasn’t using his yacht. I think you’ll see why they picked the location.

He pulled to the top of the hill, then slowed to a turn-out and stopped.

“What do you think?”

The vista was bathed in amber light. Mazanita with small purple blossoms and chaparral took over the foreground. The property overlooked the coast, and the western horizon ran in a curve from light blue to azure to cobalt, like a painter mixing pacific watercolors. The estate was bordered by a white wooden fence that led to a stone wall connected to a black wrought-iron gate. Stately Eucalyptus hid the house, all but the red Spanish tile roof of a tower. Behind that sat orange trees and a formal garden with a fountain and a lath gazebo. Surrounding the garden were rows of grapes on lattices, fanning out in all directions.

We continued closer and stopped on the gravel paving the entrance.

The gate was wrought iron and substantial. Like a California mission, you had the impression it would stand forever. I got out to ring the bell and noted the initials EF and LD cast onto the ironwork. It seemed romance and stardom were as ephemeral as a learner’s permit.

The gate opened inward and we proceeded to loop around the gravel driveway until a gap in the trees revealed an immense white stucco Spanish hacienda sprawling between two towers with red-tiled roofs. Green southwestern succulents with thick fleshy leaves sat in dozens of clay pots against the walls. We parked and got out. A fountain ringed with peeing cherubs spurt water into a quiet pool where sparrows were gaily bathing. I expected the birds to fly away; instead they bounced, as if they couldn’t be airborne more than a foot.

“They look like they’re drunk.”

“They are drunk,” said Uncle Silas. “They’ve been eating the berries off that Eugenia hedge. Some of the berries are so ripe; the sugar has turned to alcohol.”

A massive oak double-door with iron hinges opened and a woman stepped into the sunlight.

“Silas, good to see you again! And this must be your nephew, uh…”

“Call me Ishmael.”

“So pleased to meet you. I’m Silvia.”

She shook my hand enthusiastically, a woman sure of herself. No doubt she was the other side of fifty, but at the same time she maintained a slim figure, and hair dark as obsidian with a narrow matrix of silver.

“Are we late?” said Silas.

“No, you’re early. You have time for drinks before we start.”

The entryway led to a living room one step down with an ornate carved ceiling. Sitting around a coffee table were two couples and an older man with a mustache who was leading the conversation. They were animated and loud and gesturing wildly. The birds weren’t the only ones drunk.

“That’s Louis, giving the lecture,” whispered Uncle.

When he saw Uncle Silas he sprung up like a jack in the box.

That was the only time I saw Louis spring into action. The rest of the evening he was sedate, and let Silvia do most of the talking.

“So good to see you again. I think this occasion will provide you with valuable additions to your collection.”

He made introductions, but was careful not to give names.

One of the couples was a count and his wife. The countess was wearing a black spaghetti-strap dress with a slit. Her hair was frizzy, multi-colored, and her cheeks were as rouged as a Khymer. I like it when women get creative in color and design.

“So happy to meet you,” she gushed, and returned to her conversation. When she turned I noted a phrase branded in ink across her back.

‘Only God can judge me.’

I knew I could get along with this ‘countess’. She had morals, her morals.

The next couple was an oil magnate and his real-estate-wrangling ‘partner’ from Texas. I could tell from her accent and his Stetson. Believe it or not they said, “Howdy.”

They were discussing the impact of TV commercials on business, collecting antique guns; he referred to them as ‘shooting irons’, and how striking oil had ruined his private golf course.

Silvia got a nod from the servants. “Dinner is served.”

“I guarantee,” said Louis with a smile, “It will be like nothing you’ve ever had. And after that…”

“Let’s not let it get cold,” chided Silvia, So if you please…”

She bowed quite dramatically and gestured towards the dining room with a sweep of her hand. She had lovely French-tipped nails. I like women who have a flair for stage plays. When the real drama in life crops up, they know how to handle it. To be this accomplished you need a completely expressable face, one that shows every emotion.

Silvia had plenty of that. She had a regular Merle Streep/ Judi Dench thing going on and a bit of Lillian Russell thrown in for old time’s sake.

We all strolled in and sat down to the most elaborate meal I ever tasted. The rare antiquities would be the desert.

***


to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

https://fbcdn-sphotos-c-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/s480x480/7599_438264632921378_808826035_n.jpg Lillian Russell

[Hawkman]

Hello Steven, glad to see this one is continuing, though I'd heartily recommend your re writing the opening sentence of part two. It's ghastly!

I'm not quite sue what you are getting at with:

"The gate was wrought iron and substantial. Like a California mission, you had the impression it would stand forever. I got out to ring the bell and noted the initials EF and LD cast onto the ironwork. It seemed romance and stardom were as ephemeral as a learner’s permit."

Stardom, I'd say, was stardom. The fact that the previous owners have been mentioned indicates that they are remembered. Though romance might itself be fleeting, that it has been immortalised in the enduring ironwork of the gate and has survived in the form of entwined initials, and been remarked upon for it's permenance, is kind of counter to what you have said about it. You might want to rethink what you wish to express here.

I'd also avoid messing about with bold and fonts, especially that one. There is no diagetic necessity for reproducing the spoken word in such a manner and you are using bold where italics would be more appropriate. I know you could argue that reading on the screen it appears clearer, but it's a bad habit to get into.

Not sure about combining Dame Judi with Meryl Streep either! What a combination! Given your movie-centric comparisons I wonder if you weren't thinking of Alice Faye, who played Lillian Russel, the 19th century siinger and actress (who looked like a battleship!). Well maybe Streep could pull her off :D

Still, I continue to read with fascination at your fertile imagination.

Live and be well - H

[Steven Hunley]

story continued...

When I caught my first glimpse of Mandalay House, it was late afternoon. We were heading west, overlooking the Pacific. Hills and trees cast shadows longer than themselves, exaggerating their effect on your consciousness. The landscape becomes more dream-like. Colors intensify, shapes delineate, and nature gives up her dull felt marker for a sharp gold-nibbed pen.

The road dipped into a hollow, and then wound upwards.

“It’s over this knoll,” said Uncle Silas. “You like old films, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes, you know I do. It’s the effect of watching all those old black and white movies with you.”

“You’d be happy to know that Mandalay was built by Errol Flynn and Lilli Damita, bought with the money he made after Captain Blood.”

“When she burst out crying that she lost him, after she saw the audience’s reaction?”

“Exactly, after the premier. She was French, had a woman’s sensibilities and studied tragedy. She was famous long before Errol, and recognized the hungry beast of stardom stalking him.”

We were nearly at the top of the hill, almost out of its shadow.

“They built it together, but broke up later. He kept it, and used it as a hideout from the studio when he wasn’t using his yacht. I think you’ll see why they picked the location.

He pulled to the top of the hill, then slowed to a turn-out and stopped.

“What do you think?”

The vista was bathed in amber light. Mazanita with small purple blossoms and chaparral took over the foreground. The property overlooked the coast, and the western horizon ran in a curve from light blue to azure to cobalt, like a painter mixing pacific watercolors. The estate was bordered by a white wooden fence that led to a stone wall connected to a black wrought-iron gate. Stately Eucalyptus hid the house, all but the red Spanish tile roof of a tower. Behind that sat orange trees and a formal garden with a fountain and a lath gazebo. Surrounding the garden were rows of grapes on lattices, fanning out in all directions.

We continued closer and stopped on the gravel paving the entrance.

The gate was wrought iron and substantial. Like a California mission, you had the impression it would stand forever. I got out to ring the bell and noted the initials EF and LD cast onto the ironwork. What is it about romance and stardom? Are they as ephemeral as a learner’s permit? Or as solid and everlasting as granite?

The gate opened inward and we proceeded to loop around the gravel driveway until a gap in the trees revealed an immense white stucco Spanish hacienda sprawling between two towers with red-tiled roofs. Green southwestern succulents with thick fleshy leaves sat in dozens of clay pots against the walls. We parked and got out. A fountain ringed with peeing cherubs spurt water into a quiet pool where sparrows were gaily bathing. I expected the birds to fly away; instead they bounced, as if they couldn’t manage to be airborne more than a foot.

“They look like they’re drunk.”

“They are drunk,” said Uncle Silas. “They’ve been eating the berries off that Eugenia hedge. Some of the berries are so ripe; the sugar has turned to alcohol.”

A massive oak double-door with iron hinges opened and a woman stepped into the sunlight.

“Silas, good to see you again! And this must be your nephew, uh…”

“Call me Ishmael.”

“So pleased to meet you. I’m Silvia.”

She shook my hand enthusiastically, a woman sure of herself. No doubt she was the other side of fifty, but at the same time she maintained a slim figure, and hair dark as obsidian with a narrow matrix of silver.

“Are we late?” said Silas.

“No, you’re early. You have time for drinks before we start.”

The entryway led to a living room one step down with an ornate carved ceiling. Sitting around a coffee table were two couples and an older man with a mustache who was leading the conversation. They were animated and loud and gesturing wildly. The birds weren’t the only ones drunk.

“That’s Louis, giving the lecture,” whispered Uncle.

When he saw Uncle Silas he sprung up like a jack in the box.

That was the only time I saw Louis spring into action. The rest of the evening he was sedate, and let Silvia do most of the talking.

“So good to see you again. I think this occasion will provide you with valuable additions to your collection.”

He made introductions, but was careful not to give names.

One of the couples was a count and his wife. The countess was wearing a black spaghetti-strap dress with a slit. Her hair was frizzy, multi-colored, and her cheeks were as rouged as a Khymer. I like it when women get creative in color and design.

“So happy to meet you,” she gushed, and returned to her conversation. When she turned I noted a phrase branded in ink across her back.

‘Only God can judge me.’

I knew I could get along with this ‘countess’. She had morals, her morals.

The next couple was an oil magnate and his real-estate-wrangling ‘partner’ from Texas. I could tell from her accent and his Stetson. Believe it or not they said, “Howdy.”

They were discussing the impact of TV commercials on business, collecting antique guns; he referred to them as ‘shooting irons’, and how striking oil had ruined his private golf course.

Silvia got a nod from the servants. “Dinner is served.”

“I guarantee,” said Louis with a smile, “It will be like nothing you’ve ever had. And after that…”

“Let’s not let it get cold,” chided Silvia, So if you please…”

She bowed quite dramatically and gestured towards the dining room with a sweep of her hand. She had lovely French-tipped nails. I like women who have a flair for stage plays and the dramatic. When the real drama in life crops up, they know how to handle it. To be this accomplished you need a completely expressable face, one that transmits every emotion.

Silvia wore a face, not a mask. She was a genuine actress on the stage of life.

We all strolled in and sat down to the most elaborate meal I ever tasted. No doubt the rare antiquities would be the desert.

***


to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

[Hawkman]

Yes, that's Much better, Steven. :) Checking back to the original version I see that I misread the bit about the phrase in comic sans. It wasn't reported speech. However, unless you make particular reference to the way it's written there isn't really a justification for using an odd font. If, for example, you'd said, 'written in childish letters' then using comic sans would make sense in context. I wouldn't change it though, it's fine as it is now.

Keep writing and I'll keep reading :)

Live and be well - H

[Steven Hunley]

***
I was disappointed. It was regular California fare, nothing out of the ordinary. It was good, but not what I expected. I expected hummingbird tongues, a regular Roman emperor sort of banquet full of disgusting, decadent food.

Instead it was salad with Cotija cheese, chicken or beef enchiladas, salsa, avocados from their tree in back, and rice pudding for desert. Funny thing I noticed. The ‘countess’ was pretty skilled at scooping up guacamole with her tortilla, as if she’d been practicing all her life.

“Errol planted the tree himself,” said Silvia, "not long after he met Frida Kahlo and her mural-painting husband Diego.”

Finally dessert, rice pudding topped with cinnamon served in beautiful crystal goblets.

“I love these goblets,” said the countess, and held hers to the light.

“Glad you like them. They used to be King Ludwig’s. During the war they were hidden by the Nazis, many things were, boxes and boxes of Austrian crystal stashed away in a salt mine.”

“You mean Ludwig of Bavaria, the fairy-tale castle king?” said Tex.

“That’s the one,” continued Silvia, “You know how it was during the war, so many things got ‘misplaced’.”

Louis almost choked on an olive pit.

“Where are the others? You usually have a bigger crowd at one of your feeds,” asked the Texan.

“Yes, Silvia, usually twice as many,” said his wrangling ‘significant other’.

“All right, Silvia,” said Louis. “Go ahead and tell them, you know you’re dying to.”

“Well, you’re right. You see…” Again with a magnificent sweep of her hands she gestured. “On any other occasion this table would be full. But tonight is different. It’s what I’d like to call a theme party and is limited to the number of significant place settings.

“She’s been reading House and Garden again,’ confided Louis.

“Now Louis, don’t start,” Silvia gave him a look.

“Home Beautiful too,” he whispered to my uncle.

“Now, Louis,” Silvia said sternly, “Don’t make me take and put you.”

Louis knew what was good for him and shut up.

“And the theme of the party is related to the dinner and the exhibit of rare antiquities afterwards,” said Silvia. “In addition, there will be a drawing for a prize. At the same time I’ll announce the candidacy of a new member, Ishmael.”

She gestured my direction, palm up, finger extended, but not pointing, in a manner that reminded me of God handing the spark of life to Adam. As much as I hated art history there was something about Silvia’s attention that made you feel special, like you belonged on the ceiling of a chapel along with the rest of the saints. Louis was one lucky fellow.

“So the China, you will notice, is marked White Star Line,” she continued, and held up one of the plates. “We only have eight. They were sitting stacked neatly on the sea bottom. The robot broke the other two. They sat undisturbed for nearly one hundred years, that is, until our man came along and snatched them with a mechanical arm.”

“The Titanic?” said the Texan, and furrowed his brows.

“What else.”

“That’s incredible,” said his consort.

“Well, yes, and costly too. Clandestine expeditions are expensive. And the silverware, did you think they were reproductions? They’re not. They’re from the Borgia family, hidden out by the Fascist Italians.”

“Again, the war.” said my Uncle.

“Lots of things get lost,” said Tex.

“Lives, hopes, dreams,” sighed the countess.

“Art work,” I added. “It’s been going on for years. A pharaoh dies, common people dig his tomb, and no one forgets where it is. A poor man never forgets where valuable things are hidden. Treasure is just a pain in the butt to the rich, another problem to deal with. To the poor it’s hopes and dreams and a chance of escape.”

“That’s what we trade in,” continued Louis, “The stuff dreams are made of.”

The whole thing didn’t sit right with me. I have no qualms about stealing from the rich as long as they’re living. But stealing from the dead? That’s a whole different issue. A man has to set his boundaries and be his own gate-keeper, nobody is going to do the job for him.

And I admit I was growing impatient. I wasn’t here for dinner, no matter how fancy. In fact, I wasn’t really sure what I was ‘here for’ in the classical sense. On earth, in this body, at this movie-star haunted house on the California coast. But I had my suspicions, deep down and hidden within me. They were so clandestine I struggle to put them in words.

It was for the score of a lifetime, for a feat of magic that would put me ‘in the pocket’ for the rest of my life. Whatever it was, I was anxious to get at it. That's me, Mister Anxious. Silvia must have been reading my mind, because the next thing she said was,

“It looks like you’re all finished,” she announced with a twinkle in her eye. “Let’s withdraw to the library and get this evening into second gear.”

***

to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

[cacian]

The title of the story reminds me of L'Avare Moliere.
There is a quote there that says:
''quand it ya a manger for huit il ya a manger pour dix'' ''when there is to eat for eight there is to eat for ten'' :)

[Steven Hunley]

***
The library was spacious and built on a grand scale. Two red Safadid carpets gave color to the dark hardwood floors. Tall ornate glass display cabinets stood to one side, and rows of books on the other, and windows with lozenge-shaped panes stood between the shelves. The ceiling was high enough for a chandelier. On one end of the room was a substantial table with a goose necked lamps on either end.

“The library isn’t very conventional,” said Louis. “Books, gems, carvings, images, there’s hardly anything here that doesn’t have a history, and it usually one worth telling.”

On the far wall hung a long embroidered tapestry.

“It looks just like the Bayeux Tapestry,” said the cowboy’s amorata.

“It is the Bayeux Tapestry,” replied Louis. “The one in the Mussee de Bayeux is a fake we snuck in years ago. The museum directors have no idea it even happened.”

“Oh,” said the cowgirl.

Silvia went to one of the display cabinets and opened it with a key she had on a bracelet around her wrist.

Lucky me. Ever see a magician who can take a man’s watch off his wrist without him feeling it? Or even his belt? I have too. And I haven’t forgotten the technique. It all about touch, timing, and misdirection.

She carried it to the large table and by the time she’d turned on both lamps we’d surrounded it like a tribe of Indians. She took out a scroll of paper bound by a red silk ribbon. She unrolled it and put a heavy crystal Venetian paperweight at each end.

“When Cesare Borgia met Leonardo da Vinci, they hit it off immediately. Cesare wrote Da Vinci a safe conduct pass to inspect and design his fortifications. This is it.”

“You don’t say,” said the count.

“I do.”

Then she took out a brocaded draw-string bag, and placed it over a black velvet square she’d placed on the table. Out came a pair of ruby earrings. Tear-dropped shaped, they were set in twisted gold filigree.

“These earrings were Lucretia’s, and come from one of our oldest and most trusted sources. They were found in a well in her palazzo in Ferrara by workers restoring the garden. A gift from her husband Alfonso of Aragon, they appear in a painting of her wedding day. How they got in the well is anybody’s guess.”

I was on the opposite side of the table from the countess. Her eyes dilated, a perfect belladonna, while she squeezed the count’s hand like a hungry anaconda.

“The next items are antique, not ancient you understand, but imminently collectable,” said Louis. He took a tray from the same cabinet and put it next to the scroll and earrings. Silvia propped it up at an angle for all to see. It was a gold cigarette holder with an ivory mouthpiece, two gold coins, and a pair of gold cufflinks with the initials J.A.

“These were found in a box on the sea bottom too. It deteriorated the second it was touched by the submarine robot’s arm. The technician had to vacuum them up from the sand.”

“You have John Jacob Astor’s cufflinks!” cried out the count, and clutched at his chest. The countess reached in his pocket and retrieved a gold pillbox. The count sat down and took a nitroglycerine tablet.

“What a good guess!” said Louis. “We found the jeweler’s mark; I can show it to you with a loupe.”

“We trust you, Louie,” said my uncle. “We know how you arrived at your reputation. You document everything meticulously and establish an iron-clad provenance.”

“I am flattered… and content,” replied Louis.

“It’s truth, not flattery, Louis,” said the Texan. “You never tout something to be what it’s not.”

“May I see one of the coins?”

“Of course,” replied Silvia. It was a gold eagle and quite heavy. It slipped out of my hand and landed on its edge. As if propelled by an unseen finger, it rolled through the partially open door and into the room I saw when we came in. I followed to retrieve it, and ended the pursuit under a desk. The room was full of envelopes, papers, tape, and boxes. A small box sat on the desk. It held a wooden cup with a copper lining surrounded by Styrofoam packing peanuts. It must have been their mail room.

I handed the coin back to Silvia.

“I could use a drink,” said the count.

“We all could,” said Louis. “And isn’t it time for the drawing? Who will draw the lucky winner?”

“Let Ismael,” said the countess, “It’s his first meeting.”

Silvia took a crystal goblet with folded slips of paper inside and held it over my head.

I picked one out and unfolded it. It was my name!

“Beginner’s luck,” said the Texan. “But, he’ll have to serve us at your watering hole.”

We returned to the dining room. I popped open a Dom Pérignon and began to pour. Always the gentleman, I made mine last.

“Whoa now, Partner," said the cowboy. "Hold your horses. You won the drawing fair and square. You’re special, and for you they have something just a splinter more refined.”

Silvia drew a bottle of Chateau la Fit Rothschild out of another ice bucket and held it aloft for all to see. They applauded, and I was ready to pour when she noticed they were out of champagne glasses.

“How about the one in the mail room,” I asked. “I could use that.”

Silvia gave Louis a peculiar look. “Well, Louis, have you made up your mind?”

“I’m sure now, Honey, let him have it. It’s nothing.”

Silvia exited and returned with the cup. She took a linen napkin and wiped it clean. As for me, I was ready to drink anything from anywhere. Dust wasn’t going to deter me. She poured.

“To good luck, and good company,” I said, and toasted them properly.

“What was that about, Louie?” said the count.

“Some people would have us believe he’s drinking from the Holy Grail.”

I nearly choked, but managed to spit out a, “What?”

“I’ve attempted to establish a provenance for the piece for over a year now. The only thing I know for sure is that it was sent from Jerusalem. The wood has been carbon-dated, but nothing more than that. I’m of the opinion it’s a fake, and I’m willing to stake my reputation on it.”

“But the carbon dating?”

“So it’s a recent piece made from an old piece of wood, most likely Roman or Jewish. It’s cedar.”

“The Cedars of Lebanon,” Silvia whispered in my ear, “were the dwelling of the gods to which Gilgamesh ventured.”

“You guys have a lot of imagination,” said the cowgirl.

“It takes imagination in this game,” concluded her partner, “But not too much.”

The champagne, the strange surroundings, the company, were beginning to get to my head. A man has to know his limitations, and as far as drinking was concerned, I didn’t know mine. I was feeling tipsy. Silvia diagnosed my condition.

“Ishmael, your room is on the ground floor across the hall. Tex, you and Miss Texas have the east tower. The count and countess have the west, and Silas, your room is next to ours in the guest house. Tomorrow after breakfast, the bidding will begin."

Louis and Sylvia replaced the treasures in the glass cabinet and locked the door. Holding they’re drinks, the couples wandered off two by two to their rooms. I hung around, and when the crowd disappeared, helped Silvia do the dishes. She made quite a picture. Her hair coming down in ringlets from the steamy water, and a white apron tied over her black silk dress.

“I like to thank you for a memorable evening. I’ll never forget it,” I said. “Allow me.”

As we were shaking hands she looked up at the Mickey Mouse clock on the kitchen wall. It was nearly midnight.

“Almost the witching hour,” she mentioned, smiled vaguely, and took her leave.

I remember the cliché. “No truer words were ever said.”

***

to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

[Steven Hunley]

Silvia had thought of everything as usual. My overnight bag was already on the bed. Inside was my shaving kit, my Hugh Heffner pajamas, a copy of Tales of Mystery and Terror by Arthur Conan Doyle and my I-pod. The bed was an antique four-poster. I wondered if it was an original piece from the house. Teak inlay was carved into a landscape on the dark walnut headboard, drawn thin like a coral atoll on a distant horizon. There were scratches on the lower left corner. I sat on the bed and scooted nearer. Ink was worked into the wood,

“From the mast of the Sirocco”.

I wanted to sleep forever. My consciousness yearned to stretch from my body, a golden bowl on a silver thread, travel to the ends of the known world and beyond, but not tonight. I checked for the key in my pocket. No problem there, Silvia possessed a slim wrist.

As I was changing and brushing my teeth I took a last look outside through a door that led to the garden. The panes on the upper half were lozenge-shaped, same as the library windows. The garden itself and rows of grapes beyond were painted with Technicolor moonlight. One expected to see Errol at any minute dressed in green tights, bow slung over his manly shoulder, scaling a castle wall with impunity. Oh my God, what was wrong with me? Enough of imagination, I had to keep my wits. By two in the morning the others would be asleep and I would be rested, alert, and up to my neck in a dirty business.

I’m not one of those types who analyze their dreams. I don’t subscribe to Freud or Jung. Sigmund and Karl are not my gods. The makeup of my particular dreams is constructed out of the commonplace events of my daily life. No dream book is referenced, no interpretations allowed. For that very reason I’ve failed even now to explain what happened next, whether it was Kismet or divine intervention.

If Conan Doyle had described my dreamscape he would have used the expression ‘quite singular’. I was sleepy and could dose any minute, so I chose the shortest story I could find. Aptly enough, it was entitled, ‘The Nightmare Room’.

It was funny and odd and Hollywoodish. When it was finished I was asleep, or at least thought I was. Either that or I’d become a sleepwalker, because I arose from the bed and went outside. In my Hugh Heffner pajamas I felt rather conspicuous, like dreams where you’ve got nothing on. At the same time I had the impression I couldn’t be seen. I felt secure! Does that make sense? Of course it doesn’t. Dreams never make sense.

The Eugenia hedges were overgrown, making a maze of the gravel path. One way led to a tennis court, the other to a lath gazebo, and the third to a vineyard that ran on for miles. The air had gone still. I noticed faint voices near the gazebo, a man’s, then a woman’s. She seemed quite upset. She was saying, “I want them returned,”

“Who the hell are you anyway? Just some young girl dressed up old-fashioned for a party, I reckon.”

My God, it was Tex. I was on the other side of the hedge, but could see through a rough spot. The hole was narrow and must have been halfway between them. I could see him, then her. She was magnificent, a young lioness. Her hair was up, like a Gibson Girl. My view was only from her waist up, but I could see she was wearing a lacy faun-colored dress, a lace choker around her neck, and a double strand of pearls. She was pretty, and awfully upset, and had no trouble expressing herself.

“I demand you return them. You don’t believe who I am? Watch this.”

I couldn’t see anything she did, but I could see his face. His eyes widened so much I thought they would burst out of their sockets like bloody red paintballs. Then his face contorted like a rubber band. Beads of sweat ran into his eyes and his hand clutched at his throat.

“It can’t be, but it is! You are Madeline Astor!”

“And I want my Johnny’s cufflinks returned, so he may rest in peace. See to it at once. And whatever you do, don’t make me fetch you!”

Then I couldn’t see her or him. He must have ducked out of site just as she disappeared. If the creature was a ghost, she was the first I’d ever seen. You can imagine how frustrated I was, not knowing how to get around the hedge and see what actually happened, or what became of them. And when I turned around, I realized I was more lost than ever. All I wanted was back in my room. I’d had all the dreaming I could stand.

And that was another thing. It was one of those rare dreams when you actually know you’re dreaming. I had one of those after my father died. We talked. The first thing I said was, “I never expected to see you again!” We discussed whatever had been troubling me, something about the DMV and my car, and I was stressing. You stress a lot when you’re twenty. At the end I asked him,
“When am I going to see you again?”

He shook his head and smiled, “Ishmael, you know I don’t know the answer to that.”

That was it, over and out, channel off, no more reception.

I’ve referred to it ever since as ‘vivid dreaming”. This one had that same quality. It just couldn’t be explained. And it wasn’t over yet.

I thought I was making my way to the center of the house. Again I heard voices, but this time I could see plainly. The countess was conversing with a blond woman wearing a long silk dress with large bell sleeves. Her hair was down to her waist in ringlets, and like Madeline she wore pearls, in strings around her neck, on a fine gold chain woven through her hair, and sewn on her bodice.

She possessed a shimmering, sparkly look. The closest thing I’ve seen to it was the 1935 movie Midsummer’s Night Dream. Like Tatania in the film, she emanated cinematic iridescence.

And like Madeline reprimanding Tex, the woman was giving the countess what for.

She was upset and gesticulating wildly, pacing back and forth, as volatile as the Straits of Messina. To counter her, the countess was clutching something firmly in her hand, feet apart, steady as the Rock of Gibraltar.

“But you had everything, you still do. What’s one more pair of earrings to a rich woman like you?”

“You wouldn’t understand. They were a gift from my one true love. After Cesare had him murdered, my life meant nothing. My dream vanished. I’m a patient woman and made a wish for love to find me again, no matter how long it took, if not in life, then in death. To work the magic I threw my ruby earrings over my shoulder into a well in my garden in Ferrara. I want them back where they belong, to ensure I have another chance.”

“Another chance?”

“Another chance at love. You think the dearly departed don’t know romance? It shows how much thought you’ve given it. Who do you think Cupid is, a little devil? Believe me, angels wrote the Book of Love, each and every chapter. We understand what it’s like to seek perfection in relationships and discover a sacred union between the sexes. We work on ourselves religiously, industriously I should say, and have all the time in the world to gather our facts.”

Suddenly a loud fluttering of wings made me turn towards the gazebo. A family of pigeons flew upward in a spiral and disappeared. When I turned back, the Renaissance woman and the countess had vanished into Shakespeare’s thin air.

I was in a state of shock. What was going on here? What had I gotten myself into? I reached the end of the hedges and saw my room; the door was open just as I left it. Everything inside was untouched. I threw myself down on the bed and tried to sort thing out. It was useless. Was it something I ate? Mushrooms maybe? You have to watch these Californians with their mushrooms, many of them are ex-hippies in disguise. That was it! The whole thing was a Hollywood-inspired mushroom hallucination, in living color and five-track surround sound. I was sure the next morning if I looked closely enough, I would find hidden speakers and hologram projectors.
It was nearly one o’clock. I set the alarm for two and fell asleep, and my dreams… how were they influenced by the events of the day? Or that crazy night? We’re not going to go there. I’m prepared to write a short story about this someday, maybe, but not a long Russian novel.

I still had the key I’d slipped off Silvia’s wrist. Into the library I crept. The home couldn’t have more quiet or deserted, and what with my bedroom being the closest, none of the others would hear a sound. Grasping the handle I went to insert the key, when the door came open. How could that be? I remember seeing Silvia close it myself. Then I noticed a small piece of cardboard stuffed into the slot where the latch closed. It was a piece of match-book cover. The door would look locked, but could be pried open. Someone beat me to the punch! I switched on the display cabinet light and took stock of the contents.

The earrings were there, but they’d been moved. They were out of the brocaded bag and thrown in the corner of the tray. The second tray with the coins and cigarette holder were there, but not the cufflinks. Oh Jesus, things were getting stranger and stranger by the minute. I picked up the earrings. I knew a fence who’d could get plenty for a pair of antique earrings, no matter what the story was, and if they were haunted, so much the better. It would fit more exactly with a low-lifer’s gritty idea of provenance.

I have no idea why I ignored the coins, maybe because stealing money is not my thing. It has to be an object de art or it’s no-go. A man has to keep high moral standards if he wants to maintain his evil reputation in a den of cut-throats and thieves.

Now, the only thing I had to worry about was how to get out of Dodge. Silently fade away with subtle hints and clever misdirection? Or make a great escape with a dramatic puff of smoke? Which method best suited my madness, that was the question.
***


to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

[Hawkman]

I'm enjoying this Steven. I seem to have given you an idea about dreams though lol love the ghosts!

Live and be well - H

[Grit]

This is well written Steven and there's an exceptional voice in your first-person narrative. Very distinctive.

I look forward to more in this light.

[Steven Hunley]

I returned to my room to plot. It was nearly five o’clock. I sat on the bed and considered.

Someone else besides me was after the loot. Parts of it, the cufflinks, were already gone. And the earrings, now in my hands, had been moved. Why would a thief replace or re-arrange them? It didn’t add up. The room seemed stuffy and now it was dawn, the sky was turning from dark shadows to invasive gray. Now I could see, I’d take a short stroll. I think best on my feet. It would probably give me an idea. I laid the earrings on the dresser. It was getting so light I could see the white stones marking the pathway.

“So let’s see. I have the earrings. I still have to get them out of the house. Once they notice something’s gone, Louis and Sylvia will go crazy. Me, I’m already crazy. After last night, who wouldn’t be? I mean, ghosts? Were they ghosts? Or just some clever trick on Tex and the countess, pulled off by Louis or Silvia for reasons I’m not privy to.”

That reminded me. I was far enough along the path, almost to the spot where Tex and the Madeline lady had their encounter.

“Now, where are those wires and speakers? Where’s the holographic projector? What the hell does a holographic projector look like anyway?”

I often talk to myself when no one’s around. There were no wires on or across the path, and I knew I was almost there, I could still feel the strange vibrations. Yes, there in the hedge was my convenient hole, and look! It was so light now, I could see the whole length of this portion of hedge, and where it ended!

“That’s where it happened. I bet if I check out the path like a professional tracker or forensics technician, I can see if the ground’s been disturbed.”

Nothing like letting your TV-inspired imagination get the better of you, that’s what I say.

With my eyes open wide, my ears finely tuned, and my nose to the ground, I rounded the end of the hedge. I saw a foot, then a leg, and then in a slow wide-angle shot, an entire body face-down in the gravel. It was Tex, his white Stetson lying beside him on the green dewy grass.

His hand was outstretched, and just beyond his finger’s reach, lay a gold Peruvian pill bottle. The top was jettisoned, and five nitroglycerin tablets were scattered on the gravel. I reached out and touched him, thinking he’d just passed out. But no, he was granite. His other hand was clutching something. I pried the cold fingers open, it wasn’t easy, but then two monogramed cufflinks rolled out of his palm. He was still wearing his pajamas, and strangely enough, with shades of old Custer and Errol, he died with his boots on.

Altogether, when you added it up, it was a little too much for my noggin. A dead man, my finger prints all over the place, my unstable condition, my unhinged mind. The only thing to do was to hit the dusty trail. A disappearing act was called for, and mighty quick, because they’d all be awake and up in a minute. There was no time to lose; it was damn-the-torpedoes-time and full speed ahead.

I double-timed back to my room, dressed and collected my belongings. My razor and shaving cream, into the black zippered bag. My aftershave and shampoo, into the bag. My notebook and Precise Pilot Pen, into the damn bag.

“At once, do you hear?”

“Anything else?”

I always know I’m stressed when I talk to myself. But when I answer myself, I know I’m nasty ol' double-stressed.

“Oh, the earrings!

Bam, went the earrings.

“Why not the cufflinks too?”

Why not? Bam, the cufflinks into the overnight bag.

“Oh, my God, almost forgot my cup.”

Bam, one tore-up cup.

The cup was the last thing standing on the dresser. A gum wrapper was on the carpet, and considering it had my DNA, I balled it up and threw it in the bag too. The bathroom was cleared. The bedroom was clean. For some reason I straightened the comforter on the bed and plumped up the pillows like a chamber maid at Versailles. Rational, what’s rational?

Picking the path that led to the far end of the property and into the vineyards, carrying a black bag stuffed full of valuables and trash, I made my Great Escape. Steve McQueen could have done no better.

God only knew where I was heading, and Allah and Buddha with their infinite wisdom were leading the way. That made four of us altogether.

***

to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

[Steven Hunley]

At first the way was a gradual downhill slope. The sun low and at my back, elongated my shadow before me, fashioning me into a giant, a Tall Man, like John Wayne or William Holden. That gave me confidence. After all, I was a Californian, a westerner, an hombre not afraid to go his own way. After a mile of threading between rows of Syrahs, I came to a road and hurried across.

“If they start looking for me, the road’s the first place they’ll look,” I reasoned, and made it a point to keep off the highways.

I climbed over a white wooden fence and crossed a green pasture. Two sway-backed old horses looked up, ignored me, and continued grazing. After that, another fence, and an untended field. I climbed a hill to reconnoiter when a flock of crows scattered and took up residence in an oak.

The morning mist burnt up in the sunlight, clearing the view in every direction. Grapes, rows of grapes, more rows of grapes and nothing but. I knew a road existed a few miles away, after all, I googled the address of our destination on the map. It was a satellite photo and I remember a twisting road that led to the coast. It was small, and like Frost’s road, would be a road less traveled.

Shading my eyes with my hand I remarked, “It must be just over these hills.”

It wasn’t, and by now the sun was getting fierce. I had nothing to drink. The view now was just hills and more hills. To the left they ran all the way to crenelated blue mountains beyond. To the right was parcel of grapes and in the center a steep rocky rise topped by an old gnarled oak.

From where I stood it looked miniature, like a Bonsai arrangement, California style. I say California style because at the foot of the slope, near the grapes, stood a small wooden shack. Standing against it was a yellow surfboard. I couldn’t see the other side, but someone was working. I could hear the zooba-zooba-zooba of a saw. Notice I didn’t say buzzing. It wasn’t an electric spinning toothed wheel, but the sound of a man sawing wood by hand; pretty darn odd in this day and age.

“Well, where there’s a man there must be water.”

I headed for it.With each step closer, the zooba, zooba, zooba, became more regular and rhythmic. Finally I came to the shack with the surfboard stuck against it like an overgrown wax banana dotted with dings. Around the corner was the source of the zoobas.

He was wearing sandals and had the hairiest leg and knobbiest knees I’d ever seen. He had on a pair of cargo-pocket shorts and an OP tee-shirt with a photo of Brian Wilson on the back. Above the tee-shirt was a tanned neck and on top of that sat a head with a mop of auburn hair. Wires hung from his ears. He would stroke in time with music, each stoke was a beat, doing the cannibal head-shake, like certain Americans do when they’re driving their cars listening to rap and no one is watching.

“Say, do you have any water?”

He stopped sawing and turned. While pulling out the ear-buds, he brushed fragrant sawdust from his arms.

“Sorry, didn’t hear.”

I got my first view of his face. He was bearded, unlike many; it gave him a look of kindness. He was of the correct age to be fashionable, dashingly handsome, and not yet thirty. A drop of boy’s dew was still lodged in his manly pockets.

“I’ve been hiking since sun-up, and I’m dying of thirst.”

The surfer looked around, at the sawhorse, the newly-hewn stakes for the vines, the curls of wood shavings he’d made with his block plane and sweat.

“I’ve finished my work. I’m thirsty too.”

He pointed to the top of the rocky outcropping where the oak stood. A gentle breeze caressed its leaves.

“I’ve got some water up there in a canteen,” he motioned. “I’ll show you the way.”

It’s funny how the rock appeared. From the distance it looked like a speck. Now close up, it took on a more formidable quality. I followed him up. The climb was more than I bargained for. Small pebbles and gravel would make your feet lose their grip. I stumbled and stumbled again.

When he turned to check on me I noticed the shadow of a smile pass over his mouth.

I was nearly flat on my face, on my knees in fact, and he was smiling, confident I’d make it. Very well, if he was prepared to be my Tensing, then I was prepared to be his Hillary. We’d climb it together with him in the lead without ropes or bandaids.

By bandaids I mean without any help. Usually for a serious endeavor I prepare myself with a shot of brandy, to raise the excitement level or deaden the pain, either one, depending on the occasion. Some people use coca or poppies. But life proves a tough customer, when you try to attack it with a bandaid it rips it asunder and makes the scars deeper just to teach you a lesson. Funny how some bandaids are poisonous.

Today’s assent to the dome of the rock would be organic freestyle.

[Steven Hunley]

Today’s assent to the dome of the rock would be organic freestyle.

When we finally got to the top it was worth the climb. You could see everything. It reminded me of the romantics, how they had a notion that viewing nature increased their romantic disposition, how it fed their romantic natures. It must have been true. I could feel the effect the vista had on me. Close by, things were delineated, familiar, and known. But the hills in the far distance were shrouded in mystery, nature was hiding her secrets. Nature could be cruel at times, but you could understand her. There were some things she never let you in on.

In the shade of the ancient oak the surfer positioned two wicker chairs on either side of a folding table. It sat on a small red rug. Over the back of one chair hug a canteen. Taking it off, he shook it next to his ear.

“There’s not much, but you’re welcome to it.”

In a manly manner he tossed it to me. He was right, only a swallow.

“I’d rather not, if it’s all you’ve got.”

“Oh no, I’ve got this.”

In the shade was a stack of wine bottles. He took one off the top and started fishing in his cargo-pockets. He pulled out a pocket knife, a heart-shaped red stone the size of his thumb, a cork-screw, and placed them on the table.

“Sit down and take a load off. You could use a rest.”

“You’re an excellent host.”

“I don’t like to eat alone. Meals are best shared. How about splitting a sandwich with me? It’s a foot-longer.”

Reaching in his other cargo pocket, he pulled out a Subway sandwich. I nearly fell off Gibraltar. It was like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, then a bunch of silk streamers, a few hard-boiled eggs, eight Chinese linking rings, a dozen bananas, a pitcher of milk, and six hands of cards fanned out cleverly forming geometric patterns. No way would a twelve incher have room in that pocket. I couldn’t have done it, even with a fold-up sandwich.

He unwrapped it on the table and sliced it in two with panache like Errol Flynn.

“There, six inches for each."

Twisting the screw into the cork, he pulled it out with a flourish.

“Oh, gee,” he confessed. “I’ve only got the one plastic cup.”

I fell to my knees and searched through my overnight bag.

“I’ve got this old cup, this will do me.”

His eyes fixed on the cup. “That’s unusual cup, it’s a little beat up.”

If he only knew about last night. I decided to let it go.

“I think you’re going to enjoy this,” he said, and poured me a taste. “It’s made from these local vines. But it’s a Chardonnay originally from the red soil near Mount Tabor.”

It was good, I was thirsty, and the hospitality and warmth extended was out of bounds. I hadn’t exchanged a dozen words with him, yet we’d established a rapport. It was like the seventh grade teacher I had once. He’d come clean to the students early in the year.

“It was a survival strategy,” he told me later, “to keep them from eating me alive.”

I learned a lot from him, and not all of it was English. This carpenter was the same way. I had the distinct impression that I was a traveler and he was the destination, pretty odd when you think about it. A feeling like that comes only once in a lifetime.

“Call me Ishmael,” I said, and extended my hand.

“I’m Josh,” he answered, and we shook. “Now that formalities are taken care of, let’s you and I take care of that sandwich.”

We ate every bite. When we were done there was nothing left but the yellow and green Subway wrapper. The afternoon’s essence reminded one of the comforting notes of a familiar lullaby scored with organic perfume. The fragrance of newly-mown hay from a quaint farmhouse led to a garden trellis covered with night-blooming jasmine. When the off-shore breeze drifted in from the coast bearing the scent of salt, barnacles, sea-weed and spray, it hinted of exotic islands fringed with coconut palms thousands of miles distant. It was an astounding morning, an unusual day, a rare afternoon, and the spell it cast was nowhere near finished.

to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

author's note: And neither am I with the story-so kindly hang in there!

[Steven Hunley]

We sat at the table and drank. He, from his ninety-nine-cents-a-dozen plastic cup, and me, from a cup, that had it been as advertised, was the most valuable cup in existence.

“When I saw you earlier, you looked troubled.”

“I had quite a night.”

“Had trouble sleeping, did you?”

“That’s not the half of it.”

“Sometimes I have trouble sleeping too, you’re not alone.”

Below us, a flock of black birds did aerial acrobatics; it was funny seeing them from above, it changed your earth-bound perspective.

He poured another.

After a while, the view of nature, and the effects of the wine, insured a peaceful ambiance. Josh took on every aspect of a perfect stranger. I had the feeling I could tell him just about everything, for the simple reason I never expected to see him again. For me, a man so stuffed full of secrets it hurt, it was a unique experience.

“I had dreams, well maybe not dreams, more like nightmares.”

“Really?”

“You’d never believe me if I told you.”

Seagulls from the coast flew between the couple and the lowering sun, swooped and soared like silhouettes suspended on invisible wires, resembling Calder’s poetic mobiles clothed in artistic intentions.

“Try me.”

So then basically what happened was, I related the story of my life in an hour and a half complete with interesting anecdotes, vital statistics, and child-hood memories wrapped up like a ball of yarn. He shook his head at some spots in amazement, and at others in strict disapproval. He didn’t judge you like a judge, for instance, judging my behavior as it stacked up against the law of the land, ready to impose an impartial sentence, but rather like a father who was looking out for his son’s best interests. He grimaced, grew thoughtful, took pity, all with a sincere brilliance.

“Well, that was some story!”

“Yes, it was. I’m glad it ended.”

“It hasn’t… yet. What are you going to do with the stuff?”

“You mean the earrings?”

“I mean all of it. The earrings, the cufflinks, even this battered old cup.”

“Quein sabe?”

“You do. You just haven’t figured it out yet. You did it for the thrill, right? To get away with it. Like when you were a child shifting M&M’s around in a bowl. You said your mom and you would watch movies together and eat M&Ms. When she’d leave the room you’d steal a few and rearrange them in the bowl so she wouldn’t notice. You were thrilled knowing you weren’t going to get smacked.”

“That’s right,” I laughed. “I was a jerk.”

“So you got what you wanted. It isn’t the objects themselves, but the excitement you crave, the thrill. So what are you going to do with them now?”

“You got me there…I’m not sure.”

Josh surveyed the surrounding scene. The bronze sun was lying dented, flattened, like Hector’s impotent shield outside the Skiaian gate.

“I have to leave now, and you’re in no condition to walk back down, not in the half-light.”

He lifted the table and put it to one side. Reaching on the other side of the tree trunk, he produced a sleeping bag and unrolled in on the small carpet.

“You sleep here. You may not even need the bag; it’s going to be warm.”

I was stunned, tipsy, and glad someone was in charge, because it certainly wasn’t me.

“When you finally decide, make the decision from here.” He tapped his index finger several times on my sternum. “Not here,” tapping again on my noggin. “No matter how logical it seems.”

And then he was gone, like smoke, a phantom, a Sufi mystic, all magic but no illusion.



I imagined sleeping on hundreds of tons of unforgiving granite with only thin square of carpet between me and nature was going to be a tough assignment. It wasn’t. It was like sleeping on a goose-down mattress, head cushioned on a pillow as soft as a cloud, snuggling next to your lover.

There’s an expression I use, ‘I need to sleep on it’. In this case it rang true. While I slept, neurons snapped and rejoined, redesigning themselves in miraculous fashion. And not under the auspices of my intellect, but under the influence of a place more primitive, less influence by learning and conditioning, somewhere nearer the truth.

Birds woke me. The view was terrific. Now that the sun was in a different portion of the sky it revealed features of the landscape not visible in mid-afternoon. I went to the edge and looked down. This side was steeper than the side we climbed, more like an escarpment straight out of Edgar Rice Burrows. Low slanting rays shown against the face of the rock and revealed a narrow strip of crystal running upwards and under my feet. I traced it with my eyes. As it proceeded along the surface of the rock where I was standing, it gradually widened near the edge of the rug.

I threw off the sleeping bag and tossed it aside. Sure enough, the crystalline matrix started again from the other side of the rug and ran across the surface, then over the opposite side of our granite citadel, and when I looked over the edge, I saw it ran down the side.

I picked up the rug, and directly beneath, the matrix was wide, almost the size of the rug itself. As Alice once said, things were getting curiouser and curiouser.

Before my parents passed away and I moved in with Uncle Silas, my parents were into rocks. They found them, usually from old mining sites, cut and polished and set them. On summer nights I’d sleep outside in a hammock near the tumblers, listening to the sounds of semi-precious stones tumbling in barrels filled with water and silicon carbide. I’d pretend I was suspended in a hemp hammock between two coconut palms, listening to the surf wash onto a coral beach in the Marquesas. At dusk, I’d visit Gauguin’s black basalt tomb, and lay upon its roughened surface a wreath of scarlet hibiscus.

I recognized the matrix, almost clear but with needle-like threads in it. It was Venus’ Hair, rultilated quartz, a stone reputed to have healing properties.

All morning I waited for Josh to return. After a while I wondered if he was going to come a second time. I grew restless, packed everything up in my bag and decided to climb down without him, now that the path was clear.

Besides, I was no longer a criminal escaping a crime scene; but a serious soldier intent on his mission.


to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

[Steven Hunley]

I felt I had marching orders and therefore a goal, a destination, and the direction was south.

A week later found me at the Bell Inn in downtown San Diego across from a tourist trap called Seaport Village. Although I’d never visited a pub in the U. K. this one seemed authentic. There was a long oak bar with ivory-handled pumps and tables, a beamed ceiling and wood-paneled walls. One more thing was necessary to complete the perfect picture, a neighborhood clientele drunk on camaraderie.

Check.

It had that too.

Even though it was early it was crowded. You expected any minute to see Arthur Seaton tumbling down the stairs, wrestling with the other drunk and angry young men, fueled to the brim with dark bitter ale, Nottingham accents, and swallowed up by depressive moods as dark as the pits.

Then I heard, “Howdy, Barkeep, I’ll take a Miller Lite.”

It was a cowboy, a cowboy! I could tell by his boot-cut Levis, snake-skin boots and ten gallon hat.

He caught my eye and responded with a Howdy and a smile, and sat down. The sad beer that sat before me was my last. I was out of money, and since travel relies on money as a precursor, I suspected my mission was about to end with a whimper, not a bang. The cowboy looked over and noticed my empty.

Then his eyes moved to the barkeep filling his order. The cool amber liquid flowing into the glass was topped off by a foaming head, a delicate piece of liquid art. The cowboy rubbed his manly hands together in anticipation.

“Partner, I’m as dry as the Sonoran desert in summer, how about you?”

“Me? I’m as dry as a pop-corn fart.”

“Oooowee! Hear that, Barkeep? You’ve corralled one sharp maverick. Give him another of the same.”

He slapped his knee and then my back. “Where you from?”

“Californ-I-A.”

“That’s as west as you can git. Know anything about horses?”

“Not me,” I shook my head. “Only what they look like. I just saw the film War Horse though. I was amazing how that horse was trained. It must of taken some time and patience.”

“Partner, you’d be surprised how smart horses are. Say, I thought the minute you said film instead of movie, you had an education. Maybe I was wrong. So git on over here and let me tell you a thing or two about horses. If there was a class I’d be doin’ the lecturin’. I’m what you call an expert.”

“You have an M.A. in horses?”

He hooted.

“Feller, it’s more like a P.H.D.”


The next hour we sat at a table and he lectured. He was the only ‘feller’ I ever met that actually sounded like Slim Pickens. Most of the talk was about horses, pedigrees, boots and saddles, Custer, the Seventh Cavalry, but at the same time the beer unleashed his more private side, where he was born, his family, his hopes and dreams, and finally, as he put it, ‘the whole enchilada’.

In the process he wheedled out of me much the same information, and the fact that I was stalled in my travels and broke.

“You know,” he looked thoughtful. “I got a job right now that’s a little too big for me to handle. I could use some help. I need a ramrod.”

I wasn’t sure what a ramrod was, only a vague black and white memory that Clint Eastwood played Rowdy Yates, Gil Favor’s ramrod on Rawhide.

I looked a bit puzzled.

“Don’t you worry yourself, Ishmael, you don’t have to ride ‘em!”

You get a feeling that what’s happening is directed, just like that gold eagle when it rolled into the room off the library and I followed. So what did I do when confronted with Kismet?

“O. K., Sonny. I reckon you got yurself a hired hand.”

That’s me, Cameleon Man, whose miraculous powers allow him to get along with anybody. Maybe I should be a diplomat, and bring peace to the world.

As it turned out a week later, the job wasn’t quite how I pictured it.

I imagined I’d be driving a jeep somewhere on the north forty, mending a barbed wire fence, wearing a pair of sweat-soaked leather gloves, even, saints preserve me, smoking a Marlboro, the smell of purple sage filling my nostrils when I wasn’t exhaling clouds of toxic cigarette smoke, and humming the theme to the Magnificent Seven through manly-clenched teeth.

Instead my assignment was on a small freighter, out in the Pacific, heading towards the Panama Canal, wearing canvas deck shoes, breathing clean sea air, humming What Will We Do With The Drunken Sailor, ready to shave my belly with a rusty razor.

And the horses? The horses were twenty thoroughbred polo ponies whose ultimate corral was on the Lion Castle Polo Estates, St. Thomas, Barbados.

Me, ride? That was out of the question. I didn’t even know how to swim.

http://youtu.be/qGyPuey-1Jw Irish Rovers Drunken Sailor

to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

[Steven Hunley]

I saw Sonny on an off until after we slipped through the Panama Canal, then for some reason he’d disappear for hours at time. Figured I ask Captain Joe.

Captain Joe was one of those serious types, and had a grizzled Van Dyke beard and an impeccably clean uniform. Although I’d been introduced to him, we’d never really talked, and if we did it was only about the weather. I caught up with him in the wheel-house overseeing a mate polishing brass work on the G.P.S. system. He had an eye for detail and nothing escaped him.

“I’ve known Sonny for years. Met him on the gulf coast,” he confided. “He’s a Texan born and bred. His father’s was in oil, owned refineries. His mother died when he was born, leaving him sole heir to the estate. But Sonny would have none of it.”

“Really? He talks like a cow-puncher.”

“Don’t let the southern drawl fool you. He’s a college graduate in philosophy. He gave up the princely allowance his family set up for him, and started practicing meditation. This isn’t the first voyage he’s been with me. We first met while I was carrying loads of pipe and drilling equipment to one of the off-shore rigs."

“So what’s he do now besides babysit polo ponies?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“I can’t find him.”

“He’s up on the aft deck near the fantail. You can’t miss him, try there.”

I didn’t recognize Sonny at first. He was sitting crossed-legged on a bamboo mat facing away from me between two potted palms. He’d jettisoned his Levis and boots and cowboy shirt with pearl-button snaps. He was shoeless, wearing white canvas pants, and a loose saffron-colored shirt. His hands were resting on his knees palms up, thumbs and index fingers making a loop. I know when a person’s meditating, so I sat down nearby and let him have at it.

“Let the cowboy get comfortable in the saddle of the cosmos,” I figured. “And rock the cradle of love.”

He couldn’t have picked a better time. The sea was ironed flat, the sun was mild, the only thing moving was the gentle throb of diesel engines, and even that wasn’t hurried.

I decided I’d get in on the non-action. I closed my eyes and assumed the position. Hard to say how many minutes go by when the only measurement of time stops because you’ve finally decided to put the brakes on your mind. The cradle of love don’t rock easily. It takes effort for the mind to find its off switch.

Finally he placed his palms together, opened his eyes and took a deep breath and got up. He saw me and smiled. I noticed an ant crawling on his shoulder and went to flick it off with my finger.

“Whoa, Partner,” he said. “No living creature will ever be sacrificed, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.” He placed his finger next to it, and after it climbed aboard, he transferred it to one of the palm leaves. “Now, what’s on your cotton-pickin’ mind?”

“Have you any idea where we’re headed after we off-load the ponies?”

“No idea at all.”

“I need to get to the east coast and look for a passage across the Atlantic.”

“I reckon they don’t have many tubs like this one ferrying ponies across the Atlantic. Is there anything else you can do?”

“I do a few magic tricks.”

“Well, that’s a tough one. But here’s an idea. Can you make balloon animals?

“Just poodles, everybody can make poodles.”

“Then you look for a job as an entertainer on one of those fancy Carnival cruise ships or something like that. You twist and squeak and magic your way across the Atlantic.”

“Now that’s an idea.”

Most of the next morning was spent googling my prospects. I came up with nothing. Cruise ships aren’t what they used to be, the days of the Queen Mary are long gone and it looked like the type of ships that plied the Atlantic trade didn’t provide much entertainment. I closed the computer and fell back in my chair in a blue funk. Then there was a knock on my cabin door.

“It’s Sonny.”

There stood my partner, and his face was beaming.

“Buddy, hold on to your hat. I got news. After we dump these here polo ponies, Captain Joe is going to pick up a load of sugar cane and anise in Jamaica. Seems a company in France wants it to make Absinthe Supérieure, some kind of booze. Got some kind of secret formula they use to refine it, and only do it in France. No other place will do. From Jamaica we head north, hang a right turn somewhere out there on the Big Blue, and then on to Le Havre.

He started counting out money on my bunk.

“Now there’s what I owe you. I was ready to give you a bonus, but once the ponies are gone you’re out of a job. You were good at shoveling pony poop, a regular Hercules. So instead, I’ll give the bonus to Captain Joe for your passage.”

“Do you think we’ll pass the spot where the Titanic went down?”

“What do you want to do, take a picture or something? One piece of ocean looks mighty like another.”

“Well, not exactly…”

“The Titanic you say? That’s quite a poser.”

Sonny rubbed his forehead.

“Come on up to the chart room and let’s see what we got cookin’.

to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

http://youtu.be/N8j9vdPSgFo Billy Idol Rock the Cradle of Love

[Steven Hunley]

Every league further north grew colder, especially at night. We’d stroll on the deck after dinner, dressed in our pea coats buttoned up to the top, stop in the shadow between two lights and talk, steam escaping with every breath. The stars were like diamonds sewn on the black canopies of Tamerlane’s tents. The Atlantic reflected them, but its clumsy waves broke them into a thousand pieces of lesser carats, therefore lesser value, in their sea-born form.

“Sonny, do you believe a ghost can haunt you?”

“I got an ex-girlfriend, haunts me all the time.” He looked up at the heavens. “So why not a ghost?”

“Sonny, have I got a story for you.”

I told him about the cufflinks. The cufflinks! Can’t believe it did it. My mouth always gets me into trouble. Maybe not this time. Sonny grew thoughtful.

“That feller Shakespeare had a sayin’. He had a sayin’ about everything I reckon.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

He may be an oldie, but I like the feller’s way of thinking. I put my money on him any day.”

He slapped me on the back.

“I’ll fix it with Captain Joe, and see you git where you’re goin’.”

Two days later we were nearly there. I ran to the cabin and found the cufflinks. Sonny walked in and tugged me to the forward rail. Captain Joe appeared from the wheel-house, waved and then pointed.

“Now,” said Sonny.

Over the side they went, with a tiny insignificant kerplunk. The whole episode seemed kind of anti-climactic. I didn’t expect much mind you, and nothing in return, after all I was just doing the right thing. And besides, I never wear French cuffs.

Crossing the Atlantic was uneventful; we weren’t attacked by pirates, or any of those unnamed diseases that run rampant among the well-healed passengers of luxury liners. From Le Havre it was just a European version of a hop, skip, and a jump to Ferrara.

There was an incident with Italian customs I might mention. I thought the train would stop at the border, and wondered how they managed customs. How long would it take, and did everyone have to get off? But no, the customs and immigration men got on at Monte Chiuso and as the train moved south they went from car to car instead. They stepped into our car first.

“What’s in the bag,” one asked me in Italian.

Most of my Italian is food language, you know, Parmesan, penne, prosciutto. I took too much time searching my brain for a proper answer. He grew suspicious and motioned he wanted it down, and most likely decided I must have something to hide, as he went through the bag thoroughly. Everything was taken out. He might have thought since I was American I’d stashed some Purple Kush somewhere, but no. In the end he just shrugged his shoulders and moved on.

I found the palace easily as it dominated the city and decided to take a tour, along with a slew of other Americans, Brits, Germans and French. I was still looking for the ticket office when it started to rain, and a guide herded the crowd into the main room, including me, ticket or no ticket. Even after the rain let up, no one checked, so it was a free ride for me, a free ride back into the Renaissance.

The Duke of Ferrara, Alphonso d'Este, lived and built on a grand scale. We toured the immense buildings and saw Feast of the Gods. I’d swear I heard Bellini and Titian arguing about it in the hall. The last place on the tour was the gardens. It was getting near lunch time and I knew they’d close, so while the others filed out I fell behind. After they’d lost me I sat down on a concrete bench where I could see the well.

It was covered by a small red tile roof made in six sections that radiated outward from the center like a pizza. Ivy crawled up one side and clung to the supports. No more oohing, and awing, and gasping and gapping in a dozen strange tongues. The tourists were gone, and their outcries were replaced with a full therapeutic measure of stillness and quiet.

A peaceful interlude settled over the garden and while the flower-scented air gave off languorous perfume, the only sound was a family of swallows making a home in the eves. I took the earrings out of my pocket to give them a good-bye look.

I wondered about their owner. She was the daughter of a Pope famed for her beauty and ill-used for the same reason. Was she an innocent woman who’d received a lot of bad press, or a blond femme fatal with a poison ring on her aristocratic finger and a heart of stone to match? If she had been born more recently she would make the Yahoo headlines, she’d be, as they call it, ‘trending’. Lucrezia would leave other notables like Madonna and Lindsey Lohan in the dust, unworthy to, as they say in romantic novels, ‘touch the hem of her skirt’.

Was she a manipulator or manipulated?

I looked down inside. It was bottomless. I danged the pair from my fingers, then contemplated, examined, decided, and let them fall into history.

That’s me, the ultimate gentleman acceding to a great lady’s wishes no matter the cost.

Now it was two down, and one to go. Next stop-Jerusalem.

The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was the first place I checked out. It was rife with problems. There were too many people around at all hours and nowhere to hide the grail. Besides, I didn’t know where it was originally discovered, and between you and me, wasn’t sure it wasn’t genuine, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. It was the last card of the game, and I was determined to play it correctly. But the church? No nooks, no crannies, so no go.

That left me the Garden of Gethsemane with plenty of loose sand, easy to get into at night, and not so frequented by pilgrims. It was the perfect place to do my midnight creep. I figured Jesus didn’t have much choice where his tomb was going to be, but he had plenty of choice over where he’d reappear, and that was in this particular garden.

If there was any place to enjoy a cup of wine it was here. Unlike the last supper, it was a drama-free place, no wonder he chose it.

At midnight I was on my knees under an ancient olive tree scooping handfuls of sand. I put the cup in the hole. Something about it didn’t look right. I had the impression I should stand it upright in its tiny grave, like a warrior in Borneo in Pierre Schoendoerffer’s novel Farewell to the King. I dug more handfuls and then a few more. I wanted to position it just right, like when you get disc TV and they position the disc to align with the Hughes satellite to get perfect reception. When it was just right, and I mean just right, I covered it back up.

Then I returned to my hotel and got ready to check out. Figured I hit the Silk Road, wearing Sufi sandals and a kaftan, doing the Sir Richard Burton thing, looking for the real magic.

But the story wasn’t over. A big change was on its way, and its first manifestation was this:

The next day a Jewish fellow ran out of gas a block away from a filling station in Gaza. A Moslem fellow decided to help push his car. The day after that about a mile away a small tour bus from Damascus got a flat tire late at night, and nearly ran off the road. Nearby, a league of Jewish women in a sewing circle found out, took them in, and fed them tea and cakes and sympathy.

In Iraq, the Sunnis stopped fighting the Shias. In Ireland the Protestants and Catholics kissed and made up.

Some kind of hocus-pocus was definitely happening.

In Bosnia, the Serbs started partying with the Croats and vice-versa, at first just on the weekends, but later all week long. In Korea the north finally shook hands with the south, and it didn’t stop there. I read about it in the papers, had my suspicions, and began to follow it on a map.

“Yes, that it,” I said. “There’s a definite pattern.”

The earliest transformations started in the holy land and were radiating outward in a circle, like a shockwave or an atomic bomb of good will and non-violence. It blasted sub-atomic particles of love way up into the jet stream and was carried around the world seven times.

Africa gave up seething. South Americans forgot what juntas and cartels were.

When it hit the States all the gangsters and fearful people exchanged their guns for food coupons and tickets to Disneyland. Even the cops gave their weapons up. Mayor Garcetti of LA said in a speech,

“Why bother with guns? They’re just not needed any more.”

Scientist said later that they didn’t know what caused it, but it was the biggest natural explosion since Krakatoa, in a quiet and peaceful sort non-invasive way.

I’ll be the first to admit my tale is a little fantastic. But isn’t that what life is?

Fantastic, incredible, unbelievable, as Hammett once put it, “The stuff dreams are made of.”


©Steven Hunley 2013