Island of The World

by Michael D. O'Brien

  Then I saw you. Then music became flesh, light became form and place. Then, too, time disappeared.

  Josip, do you believe, as I do, that every person carries within his soul a hidden image of the one he loves? Is it just attraction to the beauty of the other? I do not think it is this, for women first love the character of a man and then his appearance. We love best in another what is best in ourselves, yet we also love what is not in ourselves.

  To love an ideal human being is not realism, for no person is perfection itself. Yet we can see what is truest in the other, be it only his potential, or be it fully grown. How does it come to us, this knowing? How is it that throughout my entire life there will never be another? There is only you.

  How can what I have just written fail to seem no more than a girl’s infatuation? Yet I know it is not. I knew immediately on seeing you that I loved you completely and eternally.

  Do you doubt me, Mr. Josip Lasta, with whom I have never spoken and whom I may never see again in this world? Do you doubt me? Do not doubt. It is true what I have written.

  Please do not suspect a shallow attraction. Many young men have been interested in me, some more handsome than you are (though I now think this is scarcely possible). I have liked them and have been friends with some, but none have I loved. When we hear a certain piece of music for the first time, we either drown in it with joy, or we are indifferent to it, or we are interested, yet detached, or we struggle to swim, to escape it. In all cases, we judge it by the music we have already heard in our own hearts.

  Now I have seen the most beloved music living. I have seen it with its closed eyes, its breathing body, its beating heart. I have seen the soul and the mind of this music, which is you. I have seen the music open its eyes and look back at me. And in that moment there was no distance between the composer, the musician, and the one who hears the music. Only for an instant was this given to us, and I will not seek to make it happen again.

  Life is now splendid because you exist. It is not essential to know you, though I will admit I hope to know you. You are the incarnation of everything I love. Do not ask me to explain this. It is simply that you are the one whom I have always known would come, though I was willing to remain forever without you. If we meet again and if we are free to speak with each other, then I will perhaps give you this letter. Or it may be that Life will ask us not to speak, and that I will keep it private always. The future opens ahead of us as a great mystery before which we can only kneel in reverence.

  Will it be that I shall read this to myself when I am a very old woman? And will I smile over that moment long ago, when I met a young man who was all that my heart ever desired, to whom I desired to give my whole being? And will I feel no more than a mild regret that he was here for a moment only, and then he passed on and disappeared out of my life? Or will it be that he becomes my life? If you read this at some point in the future, if you read it when you are young or when you are old, or read it unbeknownst to me, or never read it, Josip, you will not fade from the sanctuary of my soul, neither in this world nor in the next.

  Ariadne Horvatinec

  13

  November, a stormy evening, hard rain and cold wind rattling the windows of the Horvatinecs’ parlor. The third meeting of the Dolphins. A few people have dropped out, but all of the original members have returned. Josip is in his corner, incapable of thinking about anything. Behind his closed eyes, he sees only her face, each phrase of her letter flaring like a torch in the darkness of his solitude. Will she come to the meeting? Will she appear with her seashell afterward, or will she be standing outside beneath the thrashing leaves? Will she retreat as the inhabitant of a nautilus dwells entirely within, unless caught unawares? Or will she stand forth exposed and waiting for him?

  It is a stormy evening inside the house too. Vlado is speaking: “We have gone about it the wrong way, Simon. Too many people know about this. Who are those people, really, the ones who were here last time? What are their political vulnerabilities? Who will they talk to? People are so stupid. They can’t keep secrets.”

  “We have protection that you’re not aware of, Vlado”, says Simon. “As long as we are not blatant about our activities, certain eyes are turned the other way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “I think you mean spiritual protection from God and the Gospa”, says Tatjana.

  Simon’s eyes grow distant, absorbed in a private qualification: his face, so complex and intelligent, becomes thoughtful.

  “If that is in fact the truth about the world, then there will be some protection from above. Yet the world is a zone of war, and always has been. In this war, there must be human strategies. I have a strategy that offers more than spiritual cover . . . friends in the Party.”

  “Hopefully you have friends in the UDBA.” Simon looks at Vlado intensely but says nothing. “Have you ever seen a dead dolphin?” the sculptor goes on. “I have. They get tangled in fishermen’s nets sometimes. And after a bad storm, occasionally you will see them beached.”

  “We all know the risks”, growls Antun. “Why be pessimistic about it? Do you want us to give up before we’ve really begun?”

  He is in a mood tonight. Ana has returned to Zagreb, and he is brooding and despondent.

  “No, I do not want us to give up”, snaps Vlado. “But I do not want to see this school of jolly dolphins playing in the sea as if there were no real danger, as if the thrill of our clandestine counterrevolution were a boy’s adventure.”

  “Simon is a bit more than a boy”, scolds Vera. Simon chuckles, but lets the argument continue. “I know, I know. But what if this ‘cover’ he refers to is not enough? Do you really think the regime will tolerate what we hope to do? Remember what happened to Narodni glas, the people’s voice, indeed. One issue and a bomb exploded in front of their office. And that was before Tito really clamped down. If they spot an issue of our magazine, they will leave no stone unturned in Yugoslavia until they find a thread that connects to us. And then we are all dead dolphins.”

  “First you called us moles, now you admit we are dolphins”, says Stjepan. “Thank you for promoting us to a more advanced class.”

  “Both metaphors remain applicable”, says Vlado, clenching his fist and pounding the air. “Look, all I’m trying to say is that the pleasure we take in each other’s company may exact a terrible price. If we keep the door wide open the way we have, strangers will just keep coming in on the arm of people we barely know. Some merely curious. Some suspicious, and some—I am sure they will eventually come—some who believe in nothing and only want a bit of information, coinage to trade with the regime. People aren’t what they used to be. They’re changing, and most of you don’t even know it.”

  “Yes, people are changing,” says Simon, “but it’s not because of ill will; it’s due mainly to ignorance and indoctrination. That may be one of the purposes of our group, Vlado, to help such people.”

  “You hope for too much, Simon. You think too highly of mankind. Scratch beneath even the noblest character, and you will find the seeds of betrayal. People always can rationalize their betrayals.”

  “This is true,” Simon replies in a pensive tone, “yet should we permit this reality of human nature to overpower our higher qualities? Should we capitulate at once, hand over everything to the enemy, simply because the seeds of the enemy are also within us?”

  Vlado shakes his head. “No, I’m not suggesting that.”

  “Then what are you suggesting?” demands Zoran the philosopher, who has until now remained silent.

  “He is just expressing his fears”, says Tatjana. “The fears we all feel.”

  Vlado hangs his head. “Maybe it’s no more than a feeling. Maybe. But I still sense we are overlooking reality here. Yes, we are dolphins. Yes, we must continue and not capitulate. Yes, we must overcome fears. But have you ever looked at the face of a dead dolphin? Even in death his lips continue to smile.”

  I
van the musician interjects: “You’re saying the dolphin is a naive child. He plays in the sea and doesn’t understand the threat of death. You’re saying that we too are naive.”

  Vlado nods. “And someday, perhaps sooner than you think, you will be caught in a net. You will be dead or dying and in pain, and you will have smiles on your faces because you printed a few poems and pictures on paper and handed them out to a few people who won’t even understand what they’re reading, or even guess the cost of producing them—the cost in terms of human sacrifice. But you—you will have your smiles.” “You ?” asks Antun.

  “Yes, you. I will be there in the net with you, but I will not be smiling.”

  “Come, come, now”, says Vera, getting to her feet. “We’re being so serious this evening. Let’s have some wine and a bite of something. I wish Iria were here to play for us, but she’s sick in bed with a bad cold. Nevertheless, she sent us a great surprise, and I’ll tell you about it after we all cheer up.”

  After the break, Vera stands in the middle of the parlor and rattles some sheets of paper before her.

  “Iria has completed her new composition, ‘In the Homeland of the Soul’.”

  Spontaneously, everyone bursts into applause.

  “But who will play?” someone asks.

  “I could try”, offers Ivan.

  “Good, Ivan”, people murmur, and clap again. In everyone’s thoughts, however, is the realization that he is young and surely not as accomplished a pianist as Iria. They worry that he will mar this first performance, yet they cannot bear to leave it unheard.

  “I will ask Ariadne to accompany you”, declares Vera. “It’s for piano and violin.”

  Simon frowns. “Vera . . .”

  “Don’t worry, darling. After all, it’s a musical evening. If the watchers are keeping an eye on the house, it will be better if they hear some music.”

  “An aquatic musical group”, Stjepan shakes his head. “Unique. And perhaps not quite credible.”

  “In any event, I will go ask her.”

  “I am here, Mama”, says a young woman, stepping into the parlor from the dining room, a violin under her arm.

  In the corner Josip is paralyzed with wonder. Ariadne goes to the piano and leans over the music sheets Ivan has propped above the keyboard. The piano is positioned so that both of them are facing the audience. Side by side, they read through the sheets silently, turning pages every so often, familiarizing themselves with the work.

  She is slightly built, but not small. Her dark brown hair is pulled back neatly and hangs in a French braid down her back. A gray sweater covers her white blouse, and her skirt is gray also, the hem near her ankles. Her feet are in pink slippers. Josip is breathing shallowly now through his parted lips; his face is flushed, and his heart is pounding with a mixture of agony and joy. The sound of it must be audible to others, it must be shaking the walls of the room. But no one seems to notice. Ariadne does not look in his direction, not even a flicker of her eyes. She is reading the notes swiftly, her brows lightly knit. Her lips are without tension, and her entire expression is poised and thoughtful.

  Ivan glances at the girl, and she nods.

  The performance begins with the piano’s bass notes, repeated in monotone until Ariadne lifts the base of the violin to her chin and draws the bow across the strings, making a long bass note that is slightly higher than the piano’s. Slowly, slowly the score gathers force, releases a swell of lamentation. At first the violin and piano work side by side, then they gradually merge, and then become one. From that point onward, the melody rises and takes all the listeners with it. Into what realm? Into what sea of memory and what undefined future? Everything is there, the world and the land and its people. Violence and pain subsumed in an eternal harmony that returns again and again. The tides of sorrow heave and lament, yet are contained within the infinite sea of harmonious order. The cries of mankind rise and are heard by the mysterious presence within the music, some vast intelligence that sees and grieves and suffers with the people. Then the second movement begins and draws the listeners still deeper and higher. Now the women in the room shed silent tears. Soon after, the men begin to wipe their eyes. By the end of the third movement, the personal pain of each one has been incarnated in the work, and their sufferings revealed as meaningful, of inestimable value.

  As on the night of the first meeting, silence follows the conclusion of the performance: a solemn and contemplative repose. There is no need for words because everything has been expressed.

  Gentle applause, sighs, murmured bravos.

  People sit without moving. It’s getting late, and some must leave. One by one, they stand and shake hands, embrace, say their good-byes. Ariadne and Ivan are talking quietly, discussing details of the score. Josip remains motionless, facing the piano across the room. Will she look in his direction? Will she leave without speaking to him?

  Ivan, clearly, is somewhat overwhelmed by Ariadne. Her manner with him is polite and pleasant, restrained; she says little, only a few comments about the composition. He is prolonging a discussion about music solely for the purpose of speaking with her. Any subject matter would do. It is common knowledge that he is engaged to someone else, a girl from his home town of Livno. Josip detects the exact moment when Ivan recalls this, overcomes his attraction, and firmly puts it from his thoughts. His manner becomes professional, and he departs soon after. This leaves Josip alone in the room with her.

  Now she looks up and glances directly toward him. By this he realizes that she has been aware all along that he is here, conscious of where he has been standing. He takes a step toward her.

  “Ariadne”, he says in a low voice.

  She blushes and turns to leave the room in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Ariadne, I would speak with you, if you wish. Your letter . . .”

  She turns back to him and closes her eyes.

  “I should not have given it to you”, she murmurs.

  “And my letter—should I not have given it to you?”

  “No, no”, she breathes earnestly. “It is . . .”

  Confusion races back and forth between them. Each is treasuring the letter he has received, yet both are embarrassed by their candidness, afraid that the message may have ruined the possibility of knowing the other.

  Has he turned her away? Is she disappointed in him? Has he been such an inarticulate fool that this fine and serious girl could not possibly retain any interest in him? Yet her letter said . . . did she mean what she wrote? Was it a passing interest or infatuation? He does not know, and for the moment he does not care. It matters only that they are here together, even if it comes to an absolute end.

  “Please, speak with me”, he pleads.

  She meets his eyes, and nods. “I will ask my parents. Do not go.”

  “I will not go.”

  She leaves the room and shortly after returns with Simon, her arm linked in his.

  “Was it not wonderful, Josip?” he asks. “Iria has surpassed herself. But of course only she will play it as it ought to be played. Even so,” he bends down and kisses his daughter’s cheek, “you were magnificent. How did you and Ivan play together like that, seeing it for the first time?”

  “It was the music itself, Tata. It took us to itself. We did not need to master it, for it mastered us.”

  “Yes, exactly. Now, where is your mother. You wanted to ask us something?”

  “Mama is upstairs showing Tatjana to her room. She flies to Istria tomorrow for a culture conference.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, I am not your mother, but perhaps I can function in her absence.”

  “Dr. Horvatinec”, says Josip, squaring his shoulders and tipping his head forward in a gesture of courtly deference. “I ask your permission to speak with your daughter.”

  “Speak with my daughter?” Simon replies with a puzzled look. “No one has ever before asked my permission to speak with her. People speak with her all the time without obtaining royal approval.
What do you think, Ariadne?”

  “I would like to speak with Mr. Lasta”, she smiles.

  Simon regards them both with a thoughtful look, then his glance settles on Josip. Josip’s life hangs entirely on this glance. He struggles to remain calm and dignified, a young man worthy of seeing such a daughter. Then in those aging eyes he sees that Simon understands everything.

  “Of course”, he says at last. “Why don’t you two sit here by yourselves and talk. I must go say good-bye to Stjepan, who is trying to break up an argument between Vlado and Antun out on the sidewalk. Those boys are one and the same kind, and they do not know it.”

  When he has gone, Josip and Ariadne remain standing a few feet apart, looking at each other, unable to speak.

  Josip clears his throat. “Should we sit down?”

  They sit on the settee, a few feet apart. There are so many words that rush through the mind, questions, declarations, reassurances. As each considers what most needs to be said, they simultaneously abandon all of it. Josip is the first to speak.

  “Your letter is life to me”, he says in a trembling voice. “As yours is to me”, she replies.

  “It is unimaginable. That we should feel this at the same time and write what we did, and give it the way we did, even though we had not met. Surely this has never before occurred in human history.”

  She smiles, “Probably not.”

  “I do not want to presume. I fear I am presuming too much. I only hope to know you.”

  “Then we will know each other, you and I, because this is my fear and my hope also.”

  He swallows and extends his hand to hers, which is resting on the cushion between them. He touches her fingers with his own, then withdraws his hand.

  “I scarcely can believe it, Ariadne.”