by Leo Nation
“Oh,” Woman says.
She smiles at me.
“You are going to create the universal principle of Love,” the Author says.
“Ai yi yi,” I reply feeling stumped.
“When I stepped into the cosmos,” the Author says, “I thought it was over. I was sure I would plunge into the arms of death. I knew my life was about to end, and then, I found support. I realized I could walk in space. I had to take that risk to discover a new value.”
“What value was it?”
“That willingness to try brought courage. It made it real. It’s the space I live in now.”
“You walked in space?” Woman says. Her body goes rigid as she studies his eyes.
“We were like visitors in Central Park,” he laughs, “just taking a Sunday stroll. I took more interest in my book than in all the stars in the cosmos. I looked up occasionally to be sure the others hadn’t left me, but my mind remained in the book. I trusted they knew where they were going, so I was able to give my attention to the story. I was captivated by a book, the one you gave me, Man.”
“Oh!” Woman replies.
“I was enchanted by a story,” the Author adds with a smile. He picks up a leather bound book. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“You walked in space?” Woman repeats.
“You know we did,” the big man laughs. “You were there—you told us to go.”
“We were so sad to say goodbye,” she says.
I feel a breeze on my face.
“It was time,” he says. “We knew that. It was meant to be.”
Now I see a few traces of Big Guy in the Author’s impressive face. A few hints of the former man remain as he grins, and I notice perfect teeth, no gap in front. This man is Big Guy, no doubt about it, but he is stunningly different.
“Big Guy,” I laugh.
“Hello, Man,” the Author replies smiling.
“It’s you!” Woman cries.
He drops his eyes as if in church and lifts his hands to his heart. He nods.
I recall both of them at the brass doorframe.
“You Big Hunk,” Woman says.
“Woman!” he replies lovingly.
“I am happy to see you,” she adds. She walks to his side and lays an arm over his shoulder. “I like him.”
“Hey there,” I say, “Mr. Author.”
“You can call me Scribbler.”
“Scribbler? Is that what you want?”
“I like it, it’s good,” he says. “It fits.”
“Okay, so it is: “Scribbler!”
We all laugh. Woman repeats his name as if gathering meaning. “Scribbler…” she says, seeming to enjoy the sound of the word on her tongue. “Scribbler,” she repeats. “Here you are with us!”
“He looks different,” I say.
“I have changed….”
“Tell us about it, Big—I mean, Scribbler. What was it like?”
“He’s so beautiful!” Woman says.
“Stop or I’ll blush,” he says.
“That is good for the capillaries,” she laughs as she hugs his neck. He wraps his arm around her slender waist and pulls her close.
“She is a wonder,” he says.
“On that my friend, we do agree.”
“You saved my life. You know that?”
“How?”
“With this book.”
“I had help from a friend,” I reply. “I passed it on because I knew it was for you.”
“Did you know what it would do?” the Author asks.
“I just knew it was yours.”
“As I read about that kid on a raft floating down the Mississippi, with his friend Jim, I fell in love with him. As we walked through space I was on that raft with that boy and that man, floating down that big river.” He adds softly, “Every once in a while I would look up and check the position of that monolithic rump, just to be sure where the elephant was located, but then, I returned to the world of Huckleberry Finn. He lived in a crazy time, a world gone mad injuring innocent people. He was the only force in the story that was really honest; he was true in a world of deceit. I wanted to fall onto my knees and give thanks for his life.”
“Wow,” I say.
“Huckleberry was taught by his elders that his friend Jim belonged to somebody. He actually believed he was somebody’s property. He was taught to believe he would go to Hell for helping Jim get away, because it was stealing, and everybody knew that thieves go straight to Hell.
“The decision he made that night was so poignant I felt as if he and I were the only two left in the world. The way he made his decision was funny, but not his need to overcome his belief in certain punishment. He accepted that he would burn in Hell forever if he didn’t turn Jim in, and he made a free choice. He refused to abandon a man who had treated him with nothing but loving kindness. Huckleberry Finn defied his fear of retribution, and chose to be true to himself and his friend. If he ended up in Hell, he thought, then he must be better suited for it.”
I laugh, remembering my experience of a lonely night on the river with Huckleberry’s bodacious choice.
“When I read that part of the book,” Scribbler says, “I was so amazed at his courage I probably had my mouth open as I looked up at the stars. Huck was the only person in the story who had the courage to think for himself.”
“Yes,” I say. “He wasn’t educated.”
“You saved my life, Man.”
“Harlequin gave me the book.”
“You gave it to me.”
“I’m glad I did.”
Scribbler laughs, “Just find each other.”
“We will,” Woman says. “I promise.”
“Don’t forget Huckleberry,” he adds.
“Who could do that?” I say.
“I won’t forget you,” Woman says, kissing his cheek.
“Nor I you,” he replies.
“What about the place we’re going?” I ask.
“It might be better not to know.”
“C’mon, Scribbler!” I insist. “Tell us!”
“What kind of place is it?” Woman asks.
“Well,” he laughs, “it has everything.”
“That says a lot—and nothing.”
“It is both good and bad.”
Woman looks at me, warily. “Violence, too?”
“Yes, plenty of it.”
“Oh, no,” she cries.
“We heard about wars,” I say. “Is that true?”
“They fight in many—”
“Why should we go there?” Woman cries.
I feel a sinkhole drop in my stomach.
“Who would want to live in a place like that?” she adds. “I certainly don’t.”
“If it doesn’t kill you, you’ll be better for it.”
“That is not funny,” I say.
“But it is true.”
“Whoever lives there must be very slow,” Woman says. “No fair!”
“It is your job,” says Scribbler. “This trip is not optional. This is your mandatory journey. We had to step off into space. Now it’s your turn.”
“Still not fair!” Woman repeats.
“What about the people?” I ask. “What are they like? What do you call them?”
“Homo sapiens,” the Author says. “That is what they call themselves. Thinking animals.”
“Holy shit!”
∞ 34 ∞
A well-crafted set of soft clicks from inside the door now entered the room. I looked up to see Sophie juggling several packages as she blocked the door with her high-heeled shoe. She shifted her cargo onto her hip and nearly fell across the room. Letting her packages slide onto the desk she looked up and smiled at me.
“Hi, Jon.”
“Hello, Sophie!”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’ve just been thinking.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
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Sophie tore a strip of tape from a white restaurant sack. “I’m excited, Jon. This will remind you of good times in Paris. Eating and drinking outside on park benches, sharing wine and cheese with whoever showed up, the student’s life in Paris was beautiful. You are going to like this.”
Sophie was happy, which was always the case, because she had chosen happiness as her default position. To her it made the most sense, like a pillar of primary being she could count on. When Sophie said all was well I believed her. The quality she experienced in her life was a decision made, and an ongoing conscious intention.
Today was obvious. We were going to party.
“We’re gonna have fun, Jon.”
Sophie was the most honest person I knew. And the most generous. We had known each other nearly our whole lives.
“Hand me that Feta cheese, Bub.”
I opened a short vat of Greek olives as she pulled her chair close to the desk. She emptied a white sack and pushed a container of salad toward me. I removed a lid from a tub of goat cheese, and another from a slice of ripe Camembert: “My God, Sophie!”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, mon ami.”
She slid some Stilton my way, and cracked open a container of Roquefort. She waved a flute of French bread like a steel blade and cried out, “En garde!” I grabbed a short vessel of real butter.
“Before this is over, Jon, you are going to think I am brilliant. I got this for you.”
From a bag on the floor by her chair, Sophie lifted forth two bottles of white wine.
“Retsina!” I said.
Sophie was the only woman I knew who enjoyed the taste of Retsina.
“The utensils are in the hall,” she said. “In the drawer under the coffee maker, bring a corkscrew, will you? Let’s get this party started.”
I stood up to go.
“Wineglasses,” she said, “same place.”
I gathered what we needed and I heard a call: “I made coffee before I left. It’s fresh.”
I came back with my hands full.
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” A cork popped under a towel on her lap, and she laughed. “You look better, Jon. Whatever you were thinking must have done you good.”
I tore off a crusty chunk of French bread.
“This is good,” Sophie declared. “All is well!”
I laid a thick slice of Camembert on a piece of fresh bread. “I feel like I just crawled out of a cave,” I told her. “I see things better.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said. “This will help.” She pushed a bottle of Retsina my way. “Fill up yer glass.”
I poured some wine into her glass, and I poured mine to the top. “Here’s a toast to good sense,” I said.
“Salut!” Sophie cried. “To all the prisons and mental institutions: Salut!”
I laughed and filled our glasses again. We lifted them high. The super-dry taste of pine resin in the wine left a trenchant finish on my tongue.
“Perfect,” Sophie said, happily giving her lips a smack. She made me laugh. Shoving her glass at me again, she forced me to pour some more. This time she sipped the bone-dry liquid with so much relish I wanted to thank the gods for creating this bizarre feminine creature who could love the taste of pine tar in her wine.
“Sophie, you are incredible.”
“Somehow, Jon, I knew you’d say that.”
I spiked a big olive with a toothpick; the back of my throat responded. “I’m going home this weekend,” I said. “My kids need me. You are not going to believe this, but I’m going to write a book.”
“I didn’t know you could write a letter.”
“I know. It’s crazy, and I have to do it.”
“Then it must be good. Have you ever seen the seed of a Sequoia tree?”
“No, I guess not.”
“The cones of a Sequoia are about an inch long. They harbor a dozen or so tiny seeds. Each one is the size of a tomato seed. I think of my kids every time I see a Sequoia seed. Inside those tiny seeds is the intelligence and power needed to withstand all the elements and grow into a 200 or 300 foot tree that may live 3,000 years. I think human beings are like that; who knows what potentials are stored in you? Tell me when it’s published.”
“Thanks for your faith in my seeds.”
“If your book chose you, it’s meant to be.”
“Why do I love you, gal? Let me count the million ways. By the way, you won’t see my name on the cover.”
“Why not?”
“I have a pen name.”
Sophie took a bite of crisp Romaine, reminding me of the good life.
“Leo Nation,” I said.
“Wait a minute, Jon.”
She stood up and rushed out the door. Returning in seconds she carried a pair of earthen bowls that were the color of burnt clay with dark southwestern designs.
“Here we go,” she said, “for the salad. Where did you get that name?”
I took a sip of Retsina, and as the warmth rose into my nostrils, I thought of good French wines I had tasted. “I must be mad for liking this stuff, but if I am, so are you.”
Sophie laughed.
I took a morsel of Feta cheese and followed it with a grateful sip of Retsina, and then a bite of ripe Camembert and a crust of French bread.
I raised my glass. “La dolce vita!”
“What is wrong with Peaker?” Sophie asked.
“Nothing is wrong with it. I got Leo from a couple of characters I met once, and the name Nation belongs to a friend. I like the sound of them together. When you take the word Nation apart it has a great meaning. I like it: Leo Nation."
“You march to a different drummer, buddy boy. I like that. Every friend of mind should be one of a kind. Let’s drink to that.”
“With pleasure,” I replied, feeling mellow. If a dozen Greek dancers had appeared around the desk in togas and sandals, shaking tambourines and playing flutes and strumming bouzoukis, it would have matched my mood. In fact, the way I was feeling now, it would have been welcome. Feeling warmth increasing on my cheeks and still enjoying the lingering taste of Retsina on my tongue, I was full of good cheer. I lifted my glass. “Here’s to life, Sophie. Here’s to you!”
Our glasses rang and she cried, “Opa!”
I answered with, “Grazie! Bella Fortuna!”
We continued to regale ourselves for a while before Sophie suggested, “Coffee, it’s ready—want some?”
“Perfect.”
She sat back in her chair and popped a fat grape into her mouth like a Borgia. “You didn’t know I had these, did you?” She grinned as she plucked another wet grape from a big bunch and plopped it into her mouth like a heathen. “Isn’t this good?”
“Couldn’t be better, Sophie.”
“L’chaim! Jon.”
“Shalom, Sophia!”
The light in the office had shifted now; the sun was setting on the other side of the building. Things were soft and golden.
“God bless this fucking planet,” I said, encouraged by the wine and blushing at my own unbridled passion.
“Amen, Jon,” Sophie said without blinking. Amen!”
She cocked her head knowing I was about to speak. I asked, “Do you know when you won me over?”
“When we were kids?”
“It happened then, too—on our bikes when we were young—but I mean as adults. You won my allegiance for life in a single instant. Do you know when that was?”
Sophie shook her head.
“It was the first time I realized that you actually like Retsina. That did it. That was it.”
“I love you, too, Amigo.”
“Milady.”
We took a moment to savor the good life, and then, Sophie said, “Do they know you’re coming?”
“I just figured it out myself.”
“There is the telephone. I’ll be right back.”
I tapped out the numbers and waited for the connection. I heard myself saying, “Hello, Phoebe? Hello, sweetheart. Ho
w’s my favorite ten-year-old—in the world? Hey, I know you do. I love you too. In fact I need a hug from you. I can hardly wait to see you. I’ll be there next weekend. Where is Elisa? … Tell her I’ll be home this coming weekend. Blossoms? Oh yeah, springtime.” I laughed. “It’s not the same out here. Let’s take a walk in the woods when I get home. I feel like hugging a tree. Then we can do a laughing meditation. I love you with my whole heart, Kid. Thanks for loving me. I’ll see you soon. Be sure to tell Elisa, okay? This weekend … I know you do. I love you.”
I looked up at Sophie.
“They will be happy,” she said.
“They are so beautiful.”
“I know.”
∞ 35 ∞
A bright yellow and blue spiral staircase descends from the ceiling. Woman and I move away from each other and it stops an inch above the floor.
“Go on up,” Scribbler says.
I grab the handrail and back away with a sweeping gesture. “After you, Milady.”
“Why, thank you, Sir,” Woman coos. She sets her bare foot on the first rung and she starts to climb. I follow under and I say, “Here’s looking at you, Kid.”
Her laughter is already outside. I climb through the porthole and squint into sunlight.
“How beautiful!” Woman cries.
Standing on a crunchy mound of gold coins, I take a deep breath of fresh air. Feeling truly inspired I shout like a sailor in a crow’s nest on a sailing ship, spotting land. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Look at those mountains!” Woman cries. She points to a distant range of mountains and, as I step back, I hear a crunch. I look down.
“Can you believe this?”
She bends her knees demurely and takes up a coin. Looking down she reads and smiles. Now she looks at the sky and laughs. She turns the coin over in her hand and she reads again.
“Hey, Big Guy!” I shout, looking through the portal. “Hey, Scribbler. Come up here.”
“What a day!” Woman sighs.
We hear a command from below: “Watch the sky, the author cries. “This is something you should see. Do you feel it? Look up.”
“Hey,” I shout. “Look at that.”
Harlequin strolls through space looking wide-eyed and as carefree as ever, but he is oversized, half as big as a cumulus cloud. He takes a big part of the sky, and his yellow-and-orange diamond outfit brightens even the daytime. Behind him, still on the elephant, Teenager and Boy point at Harlequin and laugh.