by Paul Zimmer
After we check into our room at the hotel, we take a much needed nap, each of us using one of the two double beds. The room is large and the staff has placed a lovely bouquet of flowers on the bureau for us and a complimentary bottle of fizzy wine with two glasses, apparently thinking when they took our reservation on the phone that we were young lovers on a weekend tête-à-tête. C’est la vérité. We shall see, we will.
Later we have tea in the hotel bar before tottering out onto the streets. Along State Street there is a long row of shops, bars, galleries, restaurants. Cyril is fascinated with these establishments. He has never seen such an accumulation of special commerce and is overwhelmed by the crowded sidewalks. Everyone is considerate, making way as we shamble along with our canes.
It is a warm day and eventually we stop at an outdoor café to share a draft beer and some pretzels. We watch the passing of young people, professors, politicians, students, even a few common citizens, some almost as old as we are.
We walk on, and as we turn one corner there is a large, secondhand bookshop. Cyril is enchanted, becoming lost in its caverns, the section of biographies and autobiographies almost sweeping him away.
As Cyril browses I chat with the owner, a pleasant man who seems more like a keeper of catacombs than a shopkeeper. He tells me that business is sharply down, that he has had to dismiss most of his staff. His only recourse is to mine the Internet for specialized customers, so he spends most of his days on the computer—instead of like the old days when he sat at his cash register, discussing books with customers, happily watching them roam his shelves and depart with armloads of venerable volumes. He is elated to witness our excitement as we plug through his stacks.
Finally I manage to draw Cyril out of the musty shadows of the biography section. I purchase a few rare British mysteries, and Cyril has found old books on Saint Thomas Aquinas, John Clare and—most precious of all—an antique leather-bound volume called A Universal Biographical Dictionary, published in New York in 1795, subtitled The Lives of the Most Celebrated Characters of Every Age and Nation, with a description under the title, “Embracing Warriors, Heroes, Poets, Philosophers, Statesmen, Lawyers, Physicians, Divines, Discoverers, Inventors, and Generally All Such Individuals, as From the Earliest Periods of History to the Present Time, Have Been Distinguished Among Mankind,” hand inscribed in now browned floral cursive by “Arnold Aldrich of Smith-field, R.I. 1795. $l.75.” Beneath this inscription Mr. Aldrich or someone has drawn in wide ink a swirling tornado figure with five diminishing curls descending halfway down the page; inside of each swirl are notches that look like quotation marks. The “storm” curls down to land between two prominent dots which are placed above what looks like a paved, striped highway—something that did not exist in those early days. The book was later presented—as noted in fading pencil—to “N. D. Aldrich by his mother,” probably Aldrich’s child or grandchild.
Cyril is consumed by this book, has never realized that such a venerable, mysterious thing might exist in this world. It astonishes him to hold this precious object in his hand. The dealer is asking fifty dollars for the volume. Cyril paces and looks stricken when he hears this. The dealer comes down to forty dollars. Cyril, who is able to look very troubled and alarmingly feeble, continues his slow pacing. The dealer takes pity, makes a “last adjustment”: thirty-eight dollars. I am astonished and delighted to watch Cyril go to his wallet and reluctantly peel out the cash.
Since Cyril uses his two canes and I use mine, toting these books will be a problem. The bookstore owner offers to have the books delivered to our hotel by a student helper. We toddle back to the hotel, making several rest stops along the way and by the time we arrive, the books have been delivered to the front desk. We retire exhausted to our room and ease ourselves down on the beds to look through our new treasures, Cyril reverently poring over his antique autobiographical book as if he is holding a copy of the First Folio.
He has the book right up against his nose as he reads and squints at the tiny eighteenth century text. Occasionally he flips back to the beginning of the book to look at the signature and strange swirling symbol drawn beneath it. Cyril decides it is a tornado with hail in it, coming down between two stones onto a path. “Maybe it is a sign of Aldrich’s power? Or is some terrible memory of weather? It’s a storm of good luck for me.”
Cyril studies some more. “I think it is more a symbol of his mentality whirling down onto the land. Maybe Aldrich was an old-time guy who collected lives in the eighteenth century. That’s more than 200 years ago. He was a pioneer life collector—a guy who came down like a tornado onto the earth to gather brief lives. My ancestor! Maybe my great, great, great, great grandfather? I need a relative!”
“Look!” Cyril points to one of the entries on page ninety-seven: “ ‘BURCKHARDT, John Lewis, native of Lausanne, celebrated as a traveler in Africa, under the patronage of the African Association of London.’ Look at this one on page 331: ‘PAOLI, Hyacinth, a native of Corsica, who, in 1735, possessed great influence amongst his countrymen as a chief magistrate.’
“What a treasure trove! It’s going to take me the rest of my life to get all this mini type into my head. Look at this! ‘SHENSTONE, William, an eminent English elegiac and pastoral poet, and a miscellaneous writer, died in 1763, aged 49.’”
It requires all of my bifocaled power to make out just a few words of the tiny eighteenth century printed text, but Cyril is seriously bearing down on this diminutive printing with his worn eyes. He will do anything to collect his lives!
“I’ll need my magnifying glass when we get home,” he says. Eventually his excitement and eye strain begin to fatigue him and the old book begins to slip from his fingers. I take it from his hands and cover him with a blanket; we nap on the two double beds until it is time to go out for dinner.
We’ve made an early reservation at a nearby restaurant—one that offers something beyond hamburgers, cheese curds, and fish sandwiches. We take a long time to determine our orders. The menu is French and the prices terrify Cyril. He is ready to walk out, but I persuade him that, because the menu is French and has sentiment for me, he must permit me to treat him. He agrees, but only if I permit him to pay for our next meal. Cyril the perfect American!
I finally decide on reaux de veau, which Americans call sweetbreads, and a starter of fresh oysters. I help Cyril with the menu and he decides on a starter of vichyssoise and an entrée of tournedos Rossini, which I explain to him is a fillet steak with Madeira sauce—and some other things. We order a bottle of the house red wine. Cyril is fascinated, relishing his food, and we almost finish the bottle. We conclude with a chocolate mousse and decline coffee. Cyril is a very happy, well-stuffed, slightly intoxicated old man by the time we finish. He has at last relaxed. He is so happy, “I wish I had been born in France, too,” he says wistfully as we shuffle slowly back down the street to the hotel, retire to our room, and prepare for bed.
I have brought along one of the pretty nightgowns that I used to wear occasionally on weekends when Heath was still alive. Cyril has put on worn wool pajamas, and is paging through his biographical dictionary again. He starts to slip into his bed.
I reach over and grasp his hand. “Cyril, come over into my bed with me. Please.”
The poor man. I have surprised him. He seems almost terrified. Surely this possibility had occurred to him; he had grown silent as we prepared for bed, and averted his gaze as I changed into my gown, but now his dear, battered face is even ruddier than usual. I realize again that everything in this new/old life is a first for Cyril. I want to comfort him and caress him, to make things comfortable for my friend, but he is old and cannot be too abruptly surprised.
“Come, sweet man. I want you here beside me. It is all right to be close to each other. I would like it.” He slips into bed beside me and pulls the covers up to his neck. I roll over and put my arm on him under the covers. He is trembling slightly. “It would be so fine to hold each other, Cyril. Let’s do it. Let’s
be near each other. We are such good friends now; let us just warm each other with our bodies, too.” I unbutton his pajama top and press toward him. He is breathing so hard and seems so bewildered it worries me. I don’t want him to have a stroke or heart attack.
“Hush, hush, Cyril,” I say as I slowly stroke his ribs with my fingertips. “This is good. Isn’t it good? Relax and feel my touch. Now reach over and hug me; it is okay; we can embrace together and share our warmth. We’ve had a wonderful day. Let’s relax and enjoy our closeness.”
Lord knows what Cyril’s thought about such things so alone in his long life. I don’t want to think about it. But now he does take a light hold of me. “Why would anyone want to hold me?” he whispers and ducks his head against my chest.
“I want to hold you because you are my dearest, my only friend, Cyril. I have never known anyone like you. I want you to know that I trust myself to you. I like having your arms around me. It warms me and completes our friendship.”
I’m not sure he really yet believes in himself. But yes, he holds me more tightly and kisses my forehead and cheek with an eagerness that, I believe, surprises him. I try to calm his breathing by placing my hand on his bare chest, then slipping it over his shoulder. I finish unbuttoning his pajama top and take his arms out of his sleeves. I hold him close, his trembling, battered, frozen and defrosted body.
“Now you must kiss my lips,” I say, and he does this hesitantly but eagerly, and I am glad for his ardor, for his clumsy kiss, such late fulfillment for him.
I dare something more—perhaps I should not have—but I reach down through his pajama fly and grasp his limp penis. He exhales loudly and tosses his head, but I feel only a slight stirring in my hand.
I hasten to reassure him. “Oh, it is such a precious thing,” I say as I gently stroke it. “It is dear—I like holding it.” Again there is a slight rousing, but that is all. I wonder if I am being cruel—I don’t want that. This is what we can do, and I believe it is very nice for him and for me to have this intimacy. We have so many other things together.
“Cyril,” I say. “Now I want you to touch me.” I unbutton my gown and guide his gnarled, shaking hand slowly to my breasts, then my vagina. “Just touch. Put your fingers on it and into it. Hush, my sweet man. It is all right. It is all right.”
He does as I suggest, almost guiltily, but I whisper, “Thank you, Cyril. It makes me feel good to have you touch me. It is what I want, for us to be together like this, doing what we can do.”
“You are so perfect,” Cyril says. “So smooth.” He has not, I am quite certain, ever said such things before in his life.
For still a while more we embrace, just stroking and holding, until finally Cyril’s breathing eases and grows even. He is old and nothing can postpone his weariness any longer as he slips into unconsciousness. It has been a long, long adventuresome day. We have worn ourselves out being adrift in the world, and thus he slips into sleep, but does not take his arms away. I hold him in the darkness and we slumber together through the night.
How fine it is the next morning to wake in each other’s arms, achy from the wine and wonderful excitement of the previous night. We are even a bit surprised, as lovers are sometimes, both of us, dehydrated, still tired, but happy to pay a little for our sins. We sip water, and I misquote from Romeo and Juliet, “Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day/Stands tipoe on the misty driftless hills.”
After a brief interlude of caressing we finally stir ourselves and get dressed. I find the Madison classics station on the clock radio. As we wash and dress, we listen to some adventurous Corigliano; we take our many medicines, then go downstairs to the dining room.
A good breakfast of eggs Benedict (Cyril’s first, he is wildly enthusiastic), huge glasses of orange juice, and pot of tea clears our heads. We chuckle with pleasure over memories of our wild capers of the night before, and agree that these newfound activities should continue, but be rationed and held for special occasions. We cannot play cozy in the home. That would be begging trouble. But we have impetus now to venture further.
In late morning we walk out and take a light lunch, pay our hotel bill, and stroll the streets of Madison awhile more before starting back. Things have gone well and we are quiet—two weary, happy old folks as we drive slowly back to Soldiers Grove. We become apprehensive as we near the home, hoping that no one has taken note of our overnight spree.
We decide to walk right back into the lobby as if nothing had happened and sneak our overnight bags in later. It is dinnertime when we arrive in the parking lot, and we know the staff is occupied; we walk in the front door, heading directly toward the dining area. An attendant is at the front desk, but she is speaking on the phone and barely notices us. We wave airily and hasten on.
In the dining room the meal is ham slices, corn niblets, and lumpy mashed potatoes. The singer is standing with her fingertips on the table, in the midst of a wavering but touchingly appropriate rendition of (yes, I risk credibility by claiming this as the solemn truth) “Last Night, When We Were Young.” We smile and poke the food around on our plates. Our entertainer sounds more in touch than usual with her song. No one seems to have missed us and no one comes to accuse us; we have a sense of accomplishment, and are already scheming about even more far-flung adventures.
Liberty. Travel. Over the many years these things had become large abstractions for me. Freedom. But these words have taken substance again—with sweet, damaged Cyril as my partner.
When we pass by the front desk again on the way back from dinner the attendant suddenly hails Cyril, and we both stop in our tracks. Have we been overconfident? Are we uncovered? Cyril approaches the desk warily. He is told there is a phone message for him.
“For me?” Cyril asks. He has never received a phone message in his life.
“Here it is,” the woman says. “It was taken down earlier by one of the afternoon volunteers. Maybe it’s a prank,” she says as she studies it.
The message reads: “Charlotte Brontë called. Please return her call.” A number is scrawled below the message. We take the note back to Cyril’s room; he dials and sets his phone volume high so I can hear what is being said.
“Oh, Cyril,” Charlotte says when she hears his voice. “A man came into the bookstore today looking for you. He said he was an old friend and had heard you were in the hospital. He came to our store because he said he knows you are a bookish sort, and he thought it possible that we would know your whereabouts. He said he was concerned when he’d checked at the hospital and found you’d been discharged. The hospital doesn’t give address information, so he’s been scouting around for you. He was polite, but was such a large, rough-looking man, he intimidated Anne. I’m not sure she did the right thing—he was so imposing and made her feel so disengaged, she revealed that you are back in the home.
“He seemed . . . very determined. Anne is still upset by the incident. Emily is furious with Anne for telling him your whereabouts. Emily is always suspicious of everyone. She tried to move the man along without giving him any information, and he suddenly became very gruff with her and it frightened her that he might become physical. He called her ‘sister’ when he addressed her—and Emily hates that sort of reference. It boils her blood.
“Cyril, I’m afraid this man might show up sooner or later looking for you at the home, and we didn’t want you to be surprised. I’m so sorry if we’ve done something wrong or caused difficulty for you,” said Charlotte. “I hope he really is an old friend stopping through for a visit.”
She waits for a moment for a response from Cyril. It does not come. “But I guess not,” she says at last. Cyril thanks her for taking the message, hangs up, and turns to hold my hand.
CHAPTER 15
Cyril
It is Balaclava. The realization sends a shock down from my balls to my hobbled feet, then all the way back up my spine.
Lucifer himself! The monster. The one who left me to the eternal deep freeze. What in God’s na
me does he want? What do I do now? Call the sheriff? Buy a gun?
Louise is a quick study. She recognizes the problem. “It’s the man who put you out in the storm, isn’t it?” she asks in alarm. “Cyril, you’ve got to call the police. That man is a dangerous fugitive!”
I try to be mister tough guy for Louise, but she can see that I am knocked flat. I start lurching around the room, forgetting to use my canes, stumble and almost go down. Louise grabs me and guides me back to my chair. She wants me to call the sheriff now. She looks up the number and I dial.
He answers his phone himself after one ring. “Yeah,” he says, “sheriff.” Perhaps he’s out cruising and speaking to me on one of those little telephones that everyone carries now. Of course he remembers me from when he pulled me out of that pile of snow in the blizzard. The sheriff is the guy who saved my bacon when I was about to change into a block of ice. That whole episode has become one of the legends of these parts.
When I was in the hospital he came to ask me questions, but I was still loony, looking at the world through frosted glass, and I have no distinct memory of him.
When I tell him now that Balaclava might be back in town, he tells me he will come over immediately. We wait for him in the lobby of the rest home and he arrives in five minutes. “Mr. Solverson,” the sheriff says, putting out his big paw for a shake.
I dimly recollect him from my frozen time, a substantial guy with a surprisingly high, but husky voice like Aldo Ray. He has a slight beer belly and his uniform fits him snuggly. His big-brimmed sheriff’s hat is tilted forward almost to his eyebrows, and there’s just the faintest ribbon of moustache over his mouth.
He looks me up and down. “I can see those docs rolled you over pretty good, Mr. Solverson. You doing okay?”
“Fair to middling,” I say. “You know, I never did have a chance to thank you for what you did, but that blizzard got a piece of me. It took the docs a lot of time to finally get me put back together—it took all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Now I’ve got this problem. That hood who snatched me and then put me out into the snow . . . I think he’s back in town looking for me. I wish I knew why.”