The Quick

Dearest Iqbal-

I wandered around the square. It seemed like something to do. I had already dusted my venetian blinds, and then dusted the tops of my books (amazing how much accumulates on unread volumes). I set out in my best shirt, sunday shirt as my parents might say, and strolled. I initially fell into my gate of choice: brisk, deliberate, and most of all, angular. Each step meaning something. But I realized how inappropriate this was. The goal of my jaunt was not only unclear, but it really didn't exist. To walk briskly would not only make it less pleasant, but it would make clear to me my own day's emptiness all the sooner. The hope was that if I did enough of nothing and went through the motions of enjoying it, then I'd be able to convince myself that I did something. 

The day was unseasonably warm and I was glad that I'd rejected the blazer, though it did match my Sunday shirt quite finely. I took my time around the square, stepping lazily and occasionally varying my direction so to clarify to all around me that I had no where peculiar to go. "There goes that man, just enjoying his day. It might as well be Sunday for him." It was in fact Tuesday. 

This was the second day the venetian blinds were cleaned. Yesterday was Monday; the first day that the newspaper that had employed me was no longer printing. There was talk of a spin off magazine or shifting the paper's weight to the internet, but no one had the organizational skill or the impetuous or the capital, so it was quietly snuffed out. An announcement ran one week before the final paper, and then on the final paper. 

I hadn't really been a great journalist, or much of one at all. A cousin was an editor of sorts, his name slept soundly on the mast and it was hard to not promote me. Up from stock boy and mail-room paper-cut receiver and assistant to anyone and everyone. They eventually gave me a column. I was instructed to keep it light, keep it local, and keep it legible. I proceeded. I wrote about Christmas parties, and coming out parties (well, we didn't really have those, this not being Dixie at all, but god damn we could pretend like the best of them), fundraisers, parades, school plays, the tearing down of old movie houses, the shooting of movies, the charm of the architecture on M____ Street, the death of certain matriarchs, and my personal reflections on the air in town. The closest I ever came to any hard journalism was an ironic expose on the decrepitude of some of the historical buildings. On a tour, I once noticed decaying electrical systems and rotted water heaters. While the piece's heart was serious, it was written in the tone of a comical rebuke. "A house, like a man, should be judged by his upstairs and his downstairs, by his front windows and his basement floor." 

I had written other things that went unpublished. Some serious "journalism," several volumes of diary, a number of short stories (which I submitted to my very paper under the nom de plume "Gerome Calhoun"), and the better part of a worser novel. All these scribbling filled my attic, boxes and boxes, but never filled a single page of mass printed paper. They existed soley and quietly on reams of paper filled with the close and precise type of my trusted typewriter, which I always wrote on.

I had few misgivings. I was published! On a weekly basis. In quite a handsome paper, in quite a handsome column. Just because it was no longer in print, doesn't mean it no longer mattered. Those papers existed in archives and on microfilm, and in a small box kept in my attic. I was proud.  And now I no longer needed to think on paper. I could enjoy the walk around the square without letting my mind wander and devise ways in which the minutest of sensations or reflections could be expanded in a column. 

The sun came out. I giggled (all to myself). "Sunlight on a broken column." That's what it is! I should have squeezed that into my last entry. Oh I could have. Too late now.

I sat down on a bench in the shade. Across from me was a sleeping man, perhaps 25, laid out on a bench. At least I thought he was sleeping, his dark sunglasses obscured his eyes. He stirred and sat up, and took out a notebook from his inner pocket. He read what was previously written and began to write. With a pencil. 

A pencil is in poor form, I thought to myself, but at least he is writing. So few today. I lifted my hat and he smiled, removing his glasses. 

"Lovely day," I said.

"Yes, it is," he responded warmly.

"I couldn't help but notice. What are you writing?"

"Oh, it's a draft of a letter. My father and I write back and fourth once or twice a month. Long letters. He lives in Bombay. Expatriate you might say. We've found that letters are much more personal and interesting than bad telephone connections or email." 

"Indeed! It must be very satisfying. And to have them all. A solid record of a correspondence."

"Yes."

"In what form do you usually send the letters? Pen? Handwritten?"

"I have tried a number. His always comes in handwriting. It's always so legible and clean, but very personal. I can see him laying in bed composing."

"Very nice. The physical artifact; lovely."

"But mine, mostly hand written. I've never been a fan of my handwriting. It looks childish, especially compared to his. I've printed out some at the library, like typed on a computer and then printed. That always feels wrong though."

"Indeed."

A thought flashed across my mind. An author retiring (me) passing along an instrument of writing to an author young (him). I certainly wouldn't need it anymore. My life was quieting, was slowing. I checked my watch. I had been out for 45 minutes, long enough for it to be substantial. I made the option known:

"Have you ever considered writing on a typewriter?"

His eyes focused then glazed, then focused again.

"No."

"They are in many ways ideal. They retain the physical element of a handwritten note, the crinkles in the paper made when you feed it in, and the specific idiosyncrasies of the typewriter, broken serifs, letters that don't mark as hard, etc., but is still easy on the the eye to read."

"Yes."

"I have one, you know. One that is of no use to me anymore."

"Really? Why don't you want it?"

"Well, I'm a writer too, but retired. Maybe I was a writer. You're welcome to it. It's not electric or anything like that, but in perfect working condition. And I've got plenty of ribbon left for her."

"Well, are you sure?"

"Nonsense. It'd please me to pass it off. It'll be good to know that it's still getting use. In my old home it will gather dust, not putting a sentence to paper."

"Well, sure than."

We stood up, setting off at a healthy gate towards my home. Destination made my steps meaningful and idle conversation filled the air. I could tell he was legitimately excited to get the instrument, and I'd get it off my hands. One more thing taking up space in my old age would be gone. 

I turned the corner to my home, pointing it out to my companion. As I pulled the keys out of my pocket and reached for the door there was a strange surge in my body.

The windows, on all floors, smashed, the glass flying out. The door was blown off it's hinges, flying towards me. Flames erupted from every orifice. The roof of the house lifted noiselessly up into the air, levitating 15 feet above the house before a loud "boom" was heard and all began to fall. I was vomited back from the front door many yards. I landed with my front door beside me. I quickly covered my head as debris began to fall. A toilet, a desk drawer, spoons and knives, rained down. Inches from me landed the typewriter. It collapsed into tiny pieces. And then the burning rain. I looked up, all through the air were pieces of singed paper, some still aflame. Hundreds of them. As they landed all around me I realized they were all typewritten. All my work.

We made eye-contact. My companion seemed fine.  "The boiler must have blown, lucky it didn't happen seconds later. We're alive!"

"Indeed we are," I said. "Indeed we are."

-Robert de Saint-Loup

Shock

Dearest Iqbal-

The weather has finally broken. It rained heavily for a number of days, soaked the concrete and in a few select places forced earth worms to rise from the muck and die on the street. Though beneath the city is dirt, dirt everywhere, it may as well be miles away. Think of the thousands of worms that rise up when the ground floods only to bump their soft heads against the underside of 6th Avenue. An inauspicious end.

Not long ago I was walking on Jane St. and before me was a construction team. They had cut a perfectly square hole out of the ground, lifted the asphalt and revealed the wet dirt beneath. I was revolted and felt the urge to vomit and looked away. Like the impact of seeing someone you love on an operating table, their generic entrails turning black in the air, the physical sensation of wrongness is overwhelming.

Elizabeth Edwards has told Oprah that when her husband confessed to being physically intimate with another woman she vomited. The bodies insistence on purging itself is quaint. It works with alcohol and putrid food, and it's funny to think that the same technique will get the truth out of us. I'm sure it helps. To see floating in the toilet before you a mess of matter, and to know that that was in you when you found out the wrongness and that now it is no longer in you: That's a start.

I was standing on line getting coffee yesterday. A girl with a shock of red hair was in front of me talking on her telephone. As she was hanging up, she made a pun to which I laughed and found myself, without a word, in a conversation with her. I asked her if she made it up.

She shrugged. "When you're a faith healer with sock puppets for the kids a little jive is required."

There we were, in a muggy, cramped coffee shop and she had the strength to reach out across oceans and time and pluck those silly nouns which seems so far away. I laughed. And wondered, can one have a shock of red hair or only white? I was shocked.

It reminded me of a story that I may well have told you. If so, stop here. Myself and another character were traveling through the backwoods of upstate New York, looking for a state park to burry Iroquois arrows we had purchased at a museum gift shop (we do enjoy this sort of archeological jest). It was late at night, miles and miles passing between junctions, and we were quite hungry. Against our judgement we stopped into a McDonalds. We were however, not the only ones there. Perhaps 10 or 12 ate at 3 adjacent tables. In the center of this group was a large, deformed woman in a shapeless dress. Her eyes were colorless and her forehead wide and her hair pulled back. Surrounding her were her children. The were all dressed like her: big dresses, white shirts for the boys. Some of the older girls gleefully nannied an infant while the older boys sat in silence. The way they interacted with each other as if in a bubble, not even seeking out our eyes or noticing my stares.

My first thought, based on their appearance, was that this was a minor religious sect, perhaps Mennonite, maybe matriarchal, likely inbred. But among them was one anomaly.

She sat at the edge, perhaps 12 years old, socializing with two other girls her own age. She was wearing a flowery print dress and a fleece pull-over. Her hair was bright red. In this sea of colorless, mottled skin and dun hair was her, her appearance was screaming and wailing. She noticed me, or I should say she noticed me noticing her. She was different in every way she possibly could be. Did she know?

My mind began immediately forming narratives of how she got there: she met one of the sisters in a school play and has become part of the family, though she obviously doesn't share their beliefs. She lives near them, and because there are no (normal) little girls for her to play with she and her parents have shrugged their shoulders and allowed her to socialize with Mennonites.

Either way, the mother stood up and without a word all the children began to finish up. They walked as a body outside and got into two unmatching vans, one being driven by the mother, the other by one of the elder sons. I'd like to think the red headed girl looked back, but I doubt it. I didn't think she needed saving or rescue or anything as dramatic as that. Maybe just recognition.

One more story I will bore you with. This one brief. I was walking down Jane St again (the hole long having been filled in). I was walking behind a girl, again red headed, who could have easily been the same girl I saw in the McDonalds, at least from behind. Flowers have been planed around all the trees on Jane St. and she knelt down to smell one. She inhaled, twice, then reached out her hand and felt the flower. From the way it moved in her hand I could make the discovery with her: plastic. She laughed in the flower's face and walked on.

It is bizarre, Iqbal. Everywhere I turn I am faced with the one open eye of a sleeping man.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

Arthur

Dearest Iqbal-

Poor bloke, eh:

Arthur was still responsible for the tulips. As he aged and became less and less able to fulfill his horticultural responsibilities there was a mild debate over whether to maintain him out of respect or simply remove him -- maybe rename a square of the garden after him or dedicate a bench to his honor. His assistants and groundkeepers-- really no more than manual laborers-- were being forced to take on truer and truer responsibilities, make decisions about when to hem the begonias and whether last years lilacs overshadowed everything around them to an unacceptable degree. It is a testament to the warmth and generosity that emanated from Arthur that no one complained about the picking up of his slack and there was no sudden degradation of the quality of the grounds-- at least none that was voiced.  Maybe the elders who'd been visiting the castle gardens for years may be experienced a pang of disappointment when faced with the variety and composure of this years flora, but that could have been easily dismissed as the gilding of memory that occurs when the senses becomes less distinct.

So a compromise was struck. A new, younger groundskeeper was brought in to take care of general management and the executive decisions while Arthur would remain solely responsible for tulips. This was ideal: the tulips were his favorite, are one of the greatest draws of the castle garden, and really needed tending only in the fall and spring-- times when the temperature was temperate and less likely to tire frail Arthur.

He now lived full time in a cottage south of the castle grounds. By bicycle he was 25 minutes to his tulips and 35 minutes to a railroad station that would happily see him to London, if he ever desired to go. On weekends his daughters (alternating) would come to visit him; both were childless, but in no way a disappointment to him. Shira and Lisa. They were disturbingly like their late mother, as if the marriage had been morganatically arranged, unbeknownst to Arthur, but this did not bother him. While a lesser man may have resented it, Arthur took comfort in it. As soon as his wife's grey eyes closed, succumbing to breast cancer quite young, Arthur looked up and saw those very same grey eyes ensconced firmly and healthily in his daughters' faces. He would tell friends that his wife hardly seemed absent at all and they would marvel at the intense spiritual connection that love had birthed between man and late wife, but Arthur silently wondered if that connection wasn't more from simply seeing his wife's eyes, and hearing her voice and witnessing her gait on a weekly basis. These women-- they came before him (his wife being quite a bit older) and would be there after him.

And really, Arthur was content. He sipped his tea, he read his Rudyard Kipling, and kept up to date on the latest horticultural trends and theories.

As a certain Spring friday rolled upon Arthur, he found himself-- as he often did on Friday-- home early. He put some water on the stove and took from the fridge and once used tea bag (twice was his limit). As the water was beginning to dance in the pot and his mind was struggling to recall what was going to be on television this evening, the telephone rang. Arthur turned off the stove and crossed the kitchen to answer the ringing. Before getting there he knew it must be Shira calling; it was her weekend to come and visit. 

"Dad, I know it's my weekend to come and visit, but me and a couple girlfriends were going to head up to a music festival outside of Kent. Ya know, Dad?"  

He was only Dad when she was trying to be "straight" with him; trying to momentarily step out of the mild infantilization she had imposed. He of course understood. 

"Maybe Lisa's got nothing on her plate this weekend. She can come again," questioned Shira.

"Oh no. No need, course not. There's some stuff to do around the house. Don't you worry a bit."   Arthur proceeded to re-boil the water.

The next morning he awoke bright and early and ready for the day, but with nothing at all to do, no plans, or prospects for them. He considered calling Lisa; maybe indeed she had nothing on her plate, but scratched that idea not wanting to be more of a burden. He stepped out and walked the grounds of the cottage. Not a thing to do.

"Ah well. Let's go to town," Arthur declaimed aloud. He hadn't been to London in years; since Shira and Lisa had taken him to see The Sound of Music. He scrambled to pick a hat and get some cash out of the jar. Because he hadn't a clue about the train schedule the only option seemed to be to rush so as not to just miss a train. 

He mounted his bicycle and peddled quickly, but not too hard, not wishing to arrive in the city tired, windy, and sweaty, but luckily it was a breezy, cool day; perfect for a trip. As the road he was traveling on merged and began to run parallel to the railroad tracks, Arthur would occasionally look over his shoulder, hoping not to see a train coming, for if he saw it here he'd miss it there. But when he arrived he had a full 20 minutes to deposit his bicycle and purchase a newspaper. 

He hadn't read a paper or bothered with the news over the radio in while and decided it best to reacquaint himself with the issues of the day so that he could be an active participant in any conversation he may find himself in. Before long the train came, and Arthur settled into a 2nd class seat and quickly dozed. He awoke to a young man sitting across from him with a computer on his lap. The computer was white and shiny with the emblem of an apple on it.

"My daughter Shira, she has one just like that," Arthur said, gesturing to the computer. 

"Does she?" the man responded, quickly returning his eyes to the screen.

Arthur peered out the window. The buildings were getting taller and greyer and closer to one another. Getting close, thought Arthur. He thumbed his wallet to be sure it was secure and prepared himself for arrival. 

Out in the street and with a sly smile, Arthur was struck dumb. He quickly and self-consciously fell into the rhythm of t he city: broad and sweeping and busy. "The financial capital of the world," Arthur mumbled to himself. 

He considered getting on the tube, but with no destination and having forgotten how exactly they worked, decided that walking was just fine. 

I'm glad Shira couldn't make it this weekend. It's good for me to get out. Nice change o' pace. I hope she's having a swell time with her girlfriends. Girlfriends? Just girlfriends? Maybe some boyfriends too, but she wouldn't tell her old Daddy that, would she? though Arthur. 

He made his way to the Queens walk, getting a sandwich and cold milk  along the way. The sun was already pretty far to west and Arthur's only regret was not having come earlier. Had he made an earlier train there'd have been time for a picture or two. 

He passed a pub and smirkily slid in. He found himself a stool and ordered a pint. The room was filled with mostly men-- of all drinking ages. Their eyes were occasionally transfixed on teh television screen. Leeds was playing Edinburgh. It had been a while since he had followed football, but the game was simple and when a goal was scored and the goalie's face buried in mud Arthur made a grimace (careful to make it a groan of empathy and not sympathy, for he didn't know which team he should be hoping for). 

The game raged on and one and he slowly sipped his beer. When a commercial came over the television advertising for the music festival that Shira was at, Arthur turned to the man next to him, "My daughter is there. Do hope she's having a good time." The man nodded, and when the game came back on, Arthur attempted a conversation: "Quite a game, eh? Must be hard with the mud so wet."

"Yes- but it makes it hard for both teams. No advantage. Really it's the same game, with or without the mud."

"I bet the team laundry women wouldn't say so!" guffawed Arthur. The other man did not. "Mind watching my drink ? Gotta run to the bathroom." The man nodded.

Loud and echoey and covered in nasty writing, Arthur closed his eyes and didn't bother washing his hands. Out in the bar, his drink was untouched but the man didn't look up when Arthur thanked him.

Lifting the mug, still a third full, Arthur made a sweep around the bar, finally settling on a brood of dart players. He didn't know if they came together or knew each other beforehand but decided it didn't make a difference. He engaged them in the most impersonal of small talk, lifting his drink when an excellent toss was made and giving mild words of encouragment when someone didn't do their best. The players seemed to accept Arthur, but the game ended they traveled on together, hardly saying a "good bye" to Arthur. 

Our man settled onto a stool beneath the dart board and worked on the frothy bottom of his now warm beer. Despite it all, he was quite content.

Then a woman walked up.

"Hello there." 

"Hello, how are you?" asked Arthur. They began to chat. The woman's name was Henrietta, a widow who lived not too far away, and was perhaps a few years his junior. They migrated over to the bar and Arthur happily ordered them both new pints. Apparently she'd been a secratary, and her husband a middling official in the Thatcher administration who'd died a number of years ago of a heart attack. She lived quite happily off his pension, spending time with her daughters, reading Rudyard Kipling, and sipping beer. They proceeded to order fish and chips to dilute the third pint they were both having.

Time was slipping away and when Arthur checked his watched he announced that he must be off to the railroad station. Henrietta put he hand on his and implore him not to go. She insisted that he accompany her back to her apartment; she had a bottle of excellent Sherry that hadn't been touched since her husband passed.

Arthur assented. The flat was clean and tasteful and the Sherry was perfect: not too dry, but not mawkishly sweet either. Henrietta made the first move, but Arthur quickly followed it up with a deeper kiss and a tighter embrace. Despite the beer and Sherry he felt perfectly clear headed and was surprised at how adeptly he still knew to hand a woman's body and how genuinely responsive it was to his touch. They were both assured; past the age when a lack of confidence has any bearing on the nature of action. 

Once in the bedroom, however, Arthur did begin to worry. It had been years since he had had sex, and while he never had trouble before he was certainly not a a young man. And while he had grown grey and sagging his ideal of beauty had not. Would this widow's nudity shock him? He supposed he could call it off, or slow it down, bring it to a halt, maybe even without offending her. But no moment presented himself, which is to say that he was enjoying each moment more than the last and didn't want to stop. 

When the time came, all went well, and while her breasts were more formless than the one's that one sees in one's mind and her legs less defined, the intention and desire embodied by her body was more than enough to arouse him. He handled himself quite well and they both slept soundly and satisfiedly. He awoke to the murmur of cars below and to light streaming in the window. Henrietta made coffee and eggs, and they exchanged telephone numbers and mailing addresses. 

On the train ride home, Arthur was quite happy and contented with himself. He had affirmed that he was alive and could bring that knowledge back with him to his cottage and his tulips. And he did.

But a few days later he noticed for the first time a burning sensation, and in the mornings he'd encounter a mild drip that would accumulate putridly in this pajama pants. He decided to ignore it; "a mild infection, will clear itself up soon." But it did not. And when Shira came that next weekend, he was racked with fear and pain. She sensed it immediately and demanded to know what the matter was.

At first he lied: "Oh nothing- whatever do you mean?" But after going to the bathroom and experiencing a burning more intense than previous and a certain reddened swelling at the tip of his penis he came out dejected. "Please: will you take me to the hospital."

"Why, Daddy?" Shira leapt up. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing major. Just please, drive me to the hospital."

"If it's nothing major than why not Dr. Miniver. He's around the corner, the hospital is a good 35 minutes by car."

"No. The hospital please."

"Daddy, this is absurd. Tell me right away what the problem is."

Arthur did. He expected a moment of shocked silence, but there was none.

"How could you Daddy? How disgusting! How shameful! I cannot believe this. What would Mother say?"

She glared down at him with anger.

Meekly, "Now do you see why we cannot go to Dr. Mininver? If we went to him everyone--"

"Get your hat! Let's go." 

Arthur was too shocked and stoned for tears to come to this eyes. He took down a hat and pulled it low over his brow and locked the door on the way out of his cottage.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

agridoce

Dearest Iqbal-

Early this morning, the Girl from São Paulo (you will remember her well), sent me a piece of writing she'd been working on the previous night. At first I was shocked. I understood none of it! Her writing was so brilliant that I gleamed no meaning at all from it. Here it is... 

"agridoce

o primeiro café do dia e o amor às segundas-feiras: único sinal de que mais uma noite se foi, que mais sete dias se passaram.
ele sempre falava sobre o que ela pensava, mas não ousava dizer. era um ritual realizado uma vez por semana para provar que sim, sincronia, sim, eu conheço o fundo, ela diz.
recorrência demais não cabe na diagramação, nem deus. até aí deus não cabe em lugar algum, na verdade coisa alguma cabe direito em palavras. ela diz: eu também não, mas continuo insistindo. ele insiste menos, mas se recusa a desistir.

naquela manhã não houve cama capaz de aquietar angústias. era o pó, a claridade, solidão demais estampada no papel. o amor então abraçou bem de leve, dando a falsa impressão de casualidade, e partiu.

na semana seguinte ele retornaria, pontualmente. eles podiam pecar por excesso, por ausência, por orgulho. mas ele era constante. e, por ser espelho dela, a tornava constante também, num excercício diário de esperar.
mas só às segundas-feiras."

Quite elegant, no?

In any such case, she lovingly explained that it was in face in Portuguese and was generous and lovely enough to provide a translation...

"bittersweet

the first coffee of the day and love at mondays: the sole sign another night was gone, another seven days had passed.
he always talked about what she thought, but didn't dare to say. it was a ritual performed once a week, to prove that yes, synchrony, yes, i know the bottom.

the excess of recurrence does not fit the diagram, nor does god. but then god doesn't fit anywhere, no thing can suit words properly. she says: neither can i, but i insist. he is less insistent, yet he refuses to give up.

on that morning there was no bed capable of calming down their anguish. it was the dust, the clarity, the loneliness printed on paper. then love embraced her lightly, giving the false impression of casualness, and left.

in the following week he would punctually return. they could sin for being indulgent, absent, proud, but he was constant. and, as her mirror, he brought her constance, in the shape of a daily waiting.
it only happened at mondays."

Many thanks to the girl in São Paulo.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

Navigating the Zoo

Dearest Iqbal-

I was lost for a while in the zoo yesterday. I always have trouble orienting the map, fixing the miniature to the scale version in any meaningful way. The best I can hope for is some kind of point to point navigation. I can see that the monkey cage is adjacent to the tiger dens, and here are the monkeys, and that looks like a tiger, so I should go this way. And beside the tigers is the aquarium, so that must be it! I end up hopping from station to station, up and down the food chain, one caged beast at a time, but never quite knowing where I am.

In front of the monkey's I'm a little despondent. It's a tiny cage. The size of maybe a Grammercy studio, but the ceilings aren't as high. The monkeys seems perpetually anxious. Wouldn't you? They managed to evolve up onto two legs and they can peal their own bananas, but the lazy lions, Darwinistically static for millenia and for t most of those millenia, asleep get a lawn to lounge on. Oh for the quiet of that! They can even hear the breeze through their main.

Next to the monkeys was, as I said, the tiger den. The tigers are behind two layers of bars. The first to keep them in, the second is to keep the watchers far enough back from the first barthat they can't foolishly reach their arms in and have them ripped off. The tiger seems to sense the irony. People want to put their hands in, for the thrill and to find out how fine their fur of a killer is, and the tiger knows this. He's probably confused: "In the wild, they don't want to be fleshed, but I chase them down and kill them anyway. Here they'd love to be ripped, but the architecture won't let them."

Next to the tigers was an enclosed aquarium. I walked through a stone portico, past which everything seemed suddenly cooler. Light shined through plastic blue filters that stained the walls. It entered into a large oval room lined with different fish tanks and a pool in the middle. Some tanks held fresh water, made to simulate the muck beneath a rice patty, others coral reefs, and still others darkened like the bottom of the ocean.

I enjoyed the darkness and made my way around the oval, making eye contact with fishes as I went. They seemed entirely content and so was I. In this room I could see everything and there was no way to get lost and no need for a map.

I made two revolutions around the oval before bumping into a man making opposite revolutions. He was well dressed and grey around the temples with the comfortable air of a man who knows most of his life is happily behind him. We both apologized and continued on our way, me going clockwise and he counter. I marveled at the coral reefs, full of iridescent color. I put my hands on the glass which was warm, like the Caribbean.

I wandered to the center where a shallow pool of dark water was brimming with skates and rays. I put my hands in the water and closed my eyes. I felt the velvety flesh slide under my palms. They were playful and prodding and the cool water felt pleasant.

"The puppies of the sea, no?"

My eyes opened and I saw the man whom I'd bumped into. "Yes, very social."

"Friendly! Positively happy to see you!" And he was correct: a ray nearly jumped out of the water and flapped his wing at the man.

"Gerome Calhoun. Pleasure to meet you. Don't worry, mine's wet too."

We shook wet hands.

Into the light we stepped together. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust allowing me to get a decent idea of what Mr. Gerome Calhoun looked like. He was older than his voice and handshake would lead one to believe. By the look of him only, a cane wouldn't have been out of order.

I produced from my back pocket the map. He snatched it from my hands and quickly deposited it in a garbage pail.

"No need of that nonsense now. I know my way around the zoo."

Indeed he did. I followed him to the finest position in which to view the birds of paradise, impressive they were and where one can peer over a fence to see the hippotami sunning themselves, letting it all hang out believing themselves to be in a place quite private.

And he also knew the position of the snow cone man who used the most sugary syprup on his cones, assuring me that to end one's refreshment with a patch of bland ice can leave a bad taste all day in someone's mouth.

At last he said, "Before you go, I think there is one more think I should like to show you. It is something of secret, not by dint of being hidden but simply by dint of few caring. He led; I followed.

A angular, black building looked ahead. The sign read "Reptiles." Inside the building the air was cool and still, yellow lights shined from inside glass enclosures. I was mesmerized. Vipers, cobras in repose, constrictors relaxing. My pace slowed and jaw slacked. I'd never found this place before, and likely for good that was. I didn't know what to think, like I did about monkeys or tigers. And I was glad I wasn't there alone, for I might have become frightened and frozen in place.

"Come on! The day is late as it is," said Gerome in a raspish whisper.

"Late? It's always dark in here. Is it ever different?" I too whispered, no wanting to alert the serpents to my presence.

"Yes, I believe at night they dim the lights significantly allowing only a glimmer in each cage."

I followed him back, past cages and cages. In some, despite the sign before it specifying the species, I could not even discern the snake. Farther and farther back. The air seemed stiller and we were no longer surrounded by animals of any sort.

"Are we supposed to be here?"

"It is not proscribed, though perhaps not advertised," responded Gerome, quietly. Up ahead, I saw the reflection of a green, glowing light. We turned a corner. Before us was a long wooden bench before a huge glass cage. Unlike the others, there was no foliage or dripping water; no attempt at natural semblance. Lying in the cage was a snake of grotesque propotions. Flat out, a it was, it was perhaps the length of two rather tall men. But it's length, while huge, was unnoticed compared to it's girth. It was gorged, and swollen, only coming to a point at the head and tail. It's eyes followed us though the body did not stir. It seemed far too large for any but the most necessary motion, and even then that result was in doubt.

"Impressive? Shocking, no?"

It was indeed, but I was too taken to possibly respond.

"How about just 'magnificent'?"

"Yes, perhaps," I muttered.

"Delilah is of West African descent. She of course shouldn't..."

"Delilah? Are all the snakes named?"

"Well, no. And you'd be hard pressed to find her name recorded anywhere. But I've been coming here to see her so long that the handlers saw it fair that I do so. They all refer to her as such. Like I was saying, she shouldn't be this size. This is the result of gross over-feeding and captivity induced lethargy-- mostly during the mid-1990s when she was first brought here. I've seen pictures from before then and you wouldn't recognize her."

No doubt the circumference of her stomach at it's center exceeded her length, and it was barely possible to perceive of any motion in her breathe.

"At first she hunted. Live game was presented and she happily finished them. But she's become lazy. So very lazy. When I first came she'd only approach freshly dead meat that was dropped into a corner, but now anything. They lower food, whatever they deem most low and unwanted by the other animals, into the cage from a pulley above. It dangles, dry and putrid over her head and usually lands inches from her mouth. She seems to not care about anything any more."

The snake seemed genuinely touched by Gerome's compassion. It's eyes followed him closely, imploringly.

"I've taken quite a liking to her. Isn't she beautiful? Or at least, don't you find it undeniable that she could be stunningly beautiful?"

Gerome settled onto the wooden bench. I was unsure if I was supposed to follow him.

"Look! They are feeding!"

From a hook descending scratchily from the ceiling a piece of meat, dry, cracked, and likely just defrosted, came into view. It swirved over her head and fianlly came to rest in front of her face. The tongue flicked.

"It's sad. Never easy for me to watch. So unnatural!"

The snake eyed the food but then returned his gaze to Gerome.

"Oh I doubt she'll eat before you. It was years before she even considered eating before me. It's humiliating for her too."

I glanced at my watch, unreadable in the dark of the room.

"Then perhaps I better go."

Gerome looked to me. "Yes. Yes, maybe that's best."

"How does one get out of here?"

"Walk back the way we came, keeping an equal distance from the vipers and cobras, and then a mild left at the anacondas. You will see the light. Once outside, follow the path before you to the right, and then take every right you can while staying on that path. You will arrive at the parking lot."

"Thank you. Thank you for everything."

"Any time."

I left Gerome sitting there, watching Delilah, and having no idea what to possibly think.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

Tableau Vivant

Dearest Iqbal-

Have I told you lately about my friend Lauren? After a stint at the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation she decided to strike out on her own in a valiant effort to redefine her life. She coincided this with dumping her boyfriend of 8 months and leaving her apartment on the upper west side. No more philanthropy, no more coddling, no more cozy apartment. Kids in Africa can take care of themselves, and so could Benjamin Santos, and, God, who needs a fire place. In a fit of independence she melted daddy's credit card and poured it into key hole of her former abode on her way out.

She found herself serving coffee in a cafe that catered to over-employed 20-somethings. That's where I met her, in the coffee shop. (As you know, I'm not an over-employed 20-something, but I like the cut of their dresses and the tailoring around the shoulders of certain men's shirt so it affords a nice place to sit and look). She approached me, probably cognizant that I didn't belong, and offered me a coffee menu. I perused it and ordered the sumatran because the list of adjectives beside it was so inclusive that there was no way I could not absolutely love it. She laughed, probably at my feigned indecision, and returned soon with the coffee.

And while the cut of her dress didn't flatter the way the girl two table's over did I noticed a certain charm to her carriage and her voice. The way she asked "And should I bring sugar to the table?" lead my mind to wander, before bringing it around with a definitive "absolutely." 

I watched her go, quite avidly.

As I was wrapping up I decided, "Well, I don't come here all that often. If I leave my number the worse thing that could happen is it becomes a little awkward the next time I'm here, if I even ever return. Why not?" I scribbled my number and my name down on the receipt and left, quite happy with myself.

Out in the fresh air I breathed deeply, but as I exhaled all my confidence and self-satisfaction slipped out of my mouth and left me deflated but for a nugget of fear. I began to sweat. What if she's offended? Sexual harrasment of sorts? Or worse: what if she's thrilled with my boldness, but my handwriting is illegible. 4's for 9's, or 2's for 7's. We'll never find each other and next time I come in she'll be angry for leading me on and standing her up.

I dashed back in, my hands fumbling through my pockets pretending I was searching for my cell phone that perhaps I'd left behind. The table was cleared. Mistake made. Done and in the past. I turned around and headed for the door.

"Change your mind?"

I spun around, there was Lauren. Far less attractive when seen at eye level and not bearing gourmet coffee, but still charming I suppose.

"Why no. I was just afraid...."

She held up the receipt, I could read the numbers quite clearly.

"Do you want it back?"

"No."

"Well, then get out of here."

I left. The whales belly no longer holds Geppeto. I was scared, but less so. A few days went by before a strange number appeared on my cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Robert? It's Lauren, the waitress at Cafe Tableau Vivant."

"Oh, hi. Yes."

"Well you left my number, I assumed there was something you wanted to say that you didn't want to say quite then."

"Well yes. Shall we... what would you say to a drink or a walk or something sometime?"

"Alright."

So we got tea and walked along the river front with a cool breeze blowing. She told me about her childhood growing up between yachts and royalty, about her well heated trip to the north pole, about being accosted by somali pirates outside the Straits of Hormuz, and about ignoring the invitations of a certain hotel heiress. "Oh anyone can tell you: Iran was better under the Shaw. How can we even have this conversation?"

We came to the Brooklyn Bridge and decided to cross.

"I love it over there in Brooklyn. It's all half done and plenty of non-white people to make you feel smaller."

"Smaller?"

We stepped over the water.

"Did you know that more than 150 people died in the construction of this bridge?" I asked realizing the only currency I might have with this mystic trust fund receptacle was knowledge.

"Maybe, but look how worth it was," as we gazed up the stones upon stones reaching into the sky. She put her hands against it and rubbed them down, making her hand red with little scratches. I took that hand in mine.

We marveled for a moment at the Statue of Liberty.

"Isn't it a shame that she's stuck? She can't move, totally unchanging," she said wistfully.

"Why a shame?"

"Well, what's the point of liberty if you can't change or move?"

"Well, it's the institution, the notion of liberty, that is unchanging. That can't change. If that changed than we'd all be like her, turning green from the oxygen and unable to switch hands."

"Maybe," she said.

We landed in Brooklyn.

We perused a used book store or two. She was taken by anachronistic pornography. "Can you believe this turned people on?"

"What will they say about what turns us on?"

"Probably that it's hot." She giggled.

We eventually, crossing under two bridge and out of the trendy areas replete with Czechoslovak furniture stores and couture wedding dress galleries, ending up in her "hood." 

We sat at an Indian restaurant that was open air. The seats of the booth were cracking and upholostery was spilling out. A waiter walked up.

"The usual, miss?"

"Si." 

"And you, sir?"

No menu was offered, "I'll have the same."

"Indian? 'Si?'"

"Welcome to New York, cowboy." She laughed at her own with-it-ness. 

The food was wholesome and green, wrapped in a thin bread. A vague taste of curry and vegetables and was surprisingly nice. The bill came to 9 and a half dollars, which I happily paid. 

Outside she took my hand and led me to her apartment. Drunk off nothing but roti and bad breathe we stumbled upstairs. I did not know what to expect. The building had "character" and "history." I gently reserved judgement, not out of generosity but for fear of feeling myself a fool if the inside was magnificent. 

A strange site once the three locks were released: a dirty futon on the floor, the smell of mold, maybe a cockroach (not sure now if I saw it or it's appropriateness was so perfect that my mind's eye was insistent). Along a wall was an exposed closet bar, hanging from it was seemingly hundreds of dresses, clearly designer, often beautiful. In a corner was a pile of shoes: pumps, sling backs, espadrilles, ballet flats. In the center, dominating the room, was an antique apothecary table with a sculpture, in copper, of an elongated horse in mid stride. 

I must have been staring at it for she mumbled some name, an artist I didn't recognize. "It's an original. Nice eh? I feel it matches the room."

The horse's upturned head and devout snout, insisting on dignity, threatened to trample the room, but maybe she was right. Maybe the defiance and self-regard was fitting. 

I quickly realized that I didn't belong here. I had nothing but affection for Lauren. I desired, and still do, an intimacy of sorts with her, but certainly not closeness. I left. 

Since then, we have seen each other a few times. A movie here, a butterfly exhibit there, but nothing serious or even vaguely romantic. To increase to you, who are so far away, the reality of this I've included a photograph of Lauren that I took -- after our first date, post any romantic possibility. You will note the lightness of it, derived from a deep connection unencumbered by real world evidences.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

The Flying Machine Flies

Dearest Iqbal-

As a lover of revisionist history you will love what came to me in the bath tub this morning. It was written in bubbles and standing water:

In October of 1897 Samuel and Edgar Culpepper mounted their horses and set out on a long, ranging trip. They were looking for a suitable location to test their Flying Machine. They each envisioned a hill that gradually fell away into a long, flat valley, devoid of trees and rocks and sudden changes in temper. They set out South from their home.

The Flying Machine was not yet completed but they were both confident enough in it's eventual success that they wished to have the location chosen before hand so they could complete their test before the winter months. 

On the fourth day of November they set out, the Flying Machine resting on flat bed being drawn by two horses. They avoided main roads so they would not suffer under the eyes of their neighbors.

Atop the hill the wind was blowing as they would have wanted and with enough consistency that it could be leaned on. The flipped a coin to decide who would ride in the front seat and who in the back, quite strangely for neither knew which position would be more desirable. 

Their faith was distinctly bisected. They knew in their hearts that the machine would work; they could close their eyes and see it clearly. But their bodies told them differently. When they looked up and saw sparrows and hawks moving stilly through the air, they could feel in the small of their back and the tips of their fingers that this could not be. But the weight of wood and time was against this doubt and the machine was slid slowly off it's bed and placed at the crest of the hill.

They took their seats and turned on the locomotive engine. With a slight gliding off a lever, the engine became louder and the machine lurched forward. The lever was pushed harder and things no longer made sense to the small of their backs. The ground fell away beneath them, they stayed straight and even. Both Culpepper's clenched their stomachs and stared strait forward as if a loss of focus would make the ground snap up to meet them. Samuel broke his silence and looked to his left. They were indeed flying. A mild increase of locomotive intensity was applied and suddenly they were no longer strait, but indeed rising. 

But then something changed. It sounded as though the locomotive propellers were pushing against the wings, not with them. The equilibrium was lost; the Flying Machine seemed unhappy. Samuel clutched himself and Edgar buried his head in his palms. They entered the water harshly. Samuel watched with one eye his brother's head slam against the panel before him and bound back like a rubber ball.

After the burn of the impact the submergence in cool water was refreshing. Samuel could see a line of red water snaking from behind the back of his brother's head. "He isn't well," thought Samuel, maintaing his mildness. Better to be mild.

Samuel reached over his brother's shoulder and unsnapped Edgar's harness and then his own. The river washed the blood and the Flying Machine away. Samuel watched as it slowly fell away from them. Samuel looked down. He was flying. Higher and higher above the Flying Machine. It got darker and faded into the black. 

Samuel kicked his legs twice and brought his brother above water. They both coughed and inhaled and rested on the beach. The river kept going along, somewhere with the Flying Machine.

"It flew," said Edgar through the blood on his nose. His nose, broken severly, was now uglier than it had been before the flight.

"Yes. It flew in the sky," said Samuel.

"What river took it?"

"I don't know." 

"Might you gentlemen be requiring of assistance?" a voice echoed.

Samuel turned around. Looking down upon then was a silver haired woman sitting side saddle on a silver haired horse.

"The last time a more forlorn looking package washed up beside a river it was under the rule of Pharoh."

"Yes, Ma'am. I see the connection. Where are we, Ma'am, if not Thebes?" 

"My home, Thank You. I assume you boys did not intend for a swim?"

"No, Ma'am. Our Flying Machine worked and then stopped working."

"And where is this Flying Machine?"

"At the bottom of the river. Lucky we too are not there!"

"Indeed you are lucky. I will ride ahead back to the house in order to arrive firstly. I will set aside some dry clothes and instruct a supper to be laid. You walk up the hill to where I am now and you will be able to see a line of weeping willows planted by my late husband. You will follow along them, until you come see the house. I will be expecting."

The silver haired woman rode off.

"Where have we landed, Samuel?"

"Within a circle of generosity."

Up the hill they did in fact see a line of weeping willows which pointed back towards an estate house. It was certainly not as big or grand as one might have imagined or hoped, but certainly larger than the homes that the Culpepper's had been accustomed to living in.

The matriarch, who then introduced herself as Mrs. Sarah Batchworth, the widow of the Colonel Nathaniel Batchworth, esteemed cavalry commander of The Army of Northern Virginia.

The table was set with worn but white table linen and the food was wholesome though the portions were small. The matriarch seemed to have forgotten that her appeitite had declined along with her stature and those in the prime of life needed more sustenance. But the brothers were hardly to complain. 

She asked the boys mild questions about their Flying Machine, seeming unwilling to take on the weight of belief or the energy of suspicion. She took their words as gospel; more than true, less than believable. 

After dinner Samuel stepped out to the phone line to make a call to their home town to put at ease their mother and arrange for a passage home. The only one with a phone in town was Judge Wilcommen, to whom Samuel explained their situation. The Judge giggled and said he was happy to come pick them up straight away tomorrow morning.

Meanwhile Edgar was inside having his nose bandaged by the old woman. She was quite adept despite the quivering of her hands. 

They settled in before a fire place that sparked but seemed to give off no heat, and Sarah Batchworth poured off some Brandy into dusty snifters.

"It has been a number of years since anyone has partaken of this Brandy. I hope it has held. My late husband, the Colonel, he was a great lover of mild liquors such as this. He never indulged, mind you, never had a need to, but he liked the way it felt in his mouth and the way the vapors drifted up from his mouth into his dignified nose. He would doubtless be glad after all these years to have two fine boys enjoying it quietly in his home.

"I know the house isn't as big or as grand as some others. The portico is corroding a little and between the Grecian columns there is a hint of slouch, but I have a great affection for the stead. My husband, while he did not build it or design it, not being a licensed or trained architect, was the sole artistic inspirer. He decided the elements that would be used, the feel it would have, and the tonality. He didn't decide how long each piece of wood would be cut, or the shape of every brick, but his spirit did guide it. The actual architect, I have long forgotten his name and countenance, was an underling of my husbands during the war, a Corporal or Major or something. My late husband took a liking too him, as my husband was wont to do to anyone who had much to offer but small hands to offer with.

"I'm sure you're father must have spoken well of himself in the war. Your nods suggest a mildness and modesty which I find most appealing, especially in young men like yourselves. Yes, you would have surely fit in quite a fashion with my husband's outfit. He was a military man all his life, academically trained the way few soldiers are. They tried to stick him in the infantry, as a General, but he said 'No, not for me! I'd rather be a Colonel among cavalry than a General among infantry' and then that's what they made him, just like that. He loved the cavalry. He'd fly on his horse; arms outstretched, being baptized but the wind. That's what he'd say.

He had the distinction, one that still makes me prideful -- bless my soul -- of continuing to battle the invaders after the official surrender of the Army. Even after word had spread of the end of conflict, he traveled north, forcing the Union Army to fend for their supply lines. For a number of weeks, through April and May, that glorious spring, he managed to harass and discomfort the occupiers in quite a manly fashion. And what was most manly was when the time came, he surrendered himself, best sword outstretched.

"In must be so difficult for you young boys. Born to late to have been there when it mattered. There must be a guilt. To be born after the end. There was a time where all this mattered quite a bit. But do not worry; we all know that were you there you would have spoken well for yourselves. What do you boys do?"

"We build Flying Machines," said Edgar quietly.

"Yes, but you said that yours was successful. You assured me that you flew most of the way here."

"Indeed." said Edgar.

"Well now what?"

"I do not know."

The next morning the honking of the Judge's horn roused them from bed and took them home.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

apocrypha

Dearest Iqbal-

Why is there no Gospel according to John the Baptist? 

It could start like all the others:

"The Book of the Generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham.

"Much to the chagrin of Herod, John, called the Baptist, lived along the Jordan, preaching of a divine apocalypse that was near.  He, wearing only a raiment of camel hair and a leather belt, would bring the sons and daughters of Israel into the water and cleanse them on their sins.

"'I indeed baptize you with water unto repetence' he told them that came, 'but he that cometh after me is mightier than I, whose shoes I am not worthy to bear: he shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost, and with fire.'

"Then came Jesus from Galilee to the Jordan unto to John, to be baptized of him."

Etc.

But then he could go back! John the Baptist could tell how, what distinctions recognized the Christ to him, and what lead him to to know that which he did. And the moment when he came to see his own role. 

In the dark he could hear the light shuffle of Salome's dance as he hurried to complete the story, a story not even completed but one whose ending was clear from the beginning.

The narrative repetition of the Gospels (to read them strait through, like chapters in a book is to return to start at the beginning and go to the end 4 times) reminds us that this was always meant to be, always was going to be, and is still happening. It matters not, to Elijah, that his death comes before the Christ's demise. 

Upon completion, John takes the pages and folds them into his mouth, lining his gums, and tucking them under his tongue. Three guards enter the cell, all masked, one carrying a scimitar, the other a cutting block, and the third holding a silver platter. The block is laid on the floor before him. 

"Would you like to pray or speak?"  

His mouth  filled with paper, his tongue immobilized, John lays his head down on the block. 

The head is presented to Salome on the silver platter. "He was silent to the end," the guard happily tells her. She pretends to be pleased, and smiles to her mother. She has the head brought to her boudoir and the party continues, the men lasciviously eyeing her.  

But isn't done with her. She feigns fatigue and excuses herself to her room, much to the disappointment of Herod. The head sits before her mirror, eyes and mouth shut. She runs her hands through his hair, pulling his curls back and accidently opening his mouth. A piece of paper emerges. She removes it and searches the rest of his cavity with her soft fingers, plying page after page of tightly folded paper out. "Silent indeed."

She locks her door and lays them out on her bed. They cover he entire mattress. The dead man's saliva is quickly deteriorating the pages and smudging the ink so she furiously copies it in her own girlish hand, filling the final third of her gold lined notebook that had begun as her journal. She slips the notebook, now filled, under her mattress, places the head of John the Baptist on the pillow beside her, and drifts to sleep.

She is discovered by her mother, who assumes that her daughter has been indecent with the prophets head (hence the rumor, perpetuated by Oscar Wilde, who has another appearance to make, that Salome was enamored with the severed head of John the Baptist). Whether Salome is killed here or merely spirited away from the head (and her adoptive father) is not important, what is important is that she loses her journal, the one that contains the Gospel according to John the Baptist. 

Now why would Wilde perpetrate such a myth about Salome's lasciviousness? Who is he protecting? Certainly Salome was not indecent with the severed head. Her respect, like the respect that Herod had for John (which fundamentally was the cause of his death), would have precluded any vileness. A hint is found many years later, and still more. 

The journal fell into the custody of Herodias. Flipping through it she sees that it is entirely filled and it's subject is often the affections that Herod has for the little girl. The mother is jealous and displeased. Nonetheless the journal is quite pretty and she keeps it displayed (partly as a keepsake for her daughter whom she no longer saw). 

Upon Herodias' death in 39AD, the journal becomes unaccounted for for centuries until it shows up rather miraculously in the inherited library of George Cecil Ives, a knownhomosexual and acquiantance of Oscar Wilde. By this time the gold flaking has been cast off by humidity and rough treatment and the book hardly seems anything special. But one evening Charles takes it down and starts on page 1. 

It begins with a the musings of a rather spoiled, wealthy girl. She writes of what she wants and what she fears. But later becomes obsessed with "the love which dare not speak it's name." It is unclear from the context of the journal what this refers to (likely it is her mother's husband, King Herod, who she may or may not return the affection to), or it may be a homosexual attraction, or an affair with a peasant (inappropriate for the 12 year old daughter of a queen), or simply a love that must be kept secret. Some modern historians, myself included, suspect that Herod himself was quite enamored with Salome, and Herod's marriage to Herodias was merely a ploy to become closer to Salome (which if it is the case doubles the irony and wisdom of John the Baptist: for nominally when Salome is offered anything she'd like by Herod, she looks to her mother for guidance. Now I ask you, what 12 year old girl doesn't know exactly what she wants? She knew, but it was "the love that could not speak it's name," so instead of revealing it, she turns to her mother. Herodias tells Salome to tell Herod that she, Salome, wants John killed. Now of course Herodias was the one who really wanted John killed because John had denounced the marriage of Herod and Herodias because Herodias was already married to Herod's brother [see Matthew 14:3], but if Herod had no interest in his wife, but much interest in his adopted daughter, then John's death completely circumvents Herodias' scheming and separates Herod from the one who it is sinful for him to have).

Now as soon as Ives discovers this "love which dare not speak its name" he passes the book on to a number of his friends, including the Lord Alfred Douglas (who, knowing that the book will likely never see the light of day, takes the line and uses it in a poem, where it denotes a specifically homosexual love) and Oscar Wilde, who was at the time being mildly persecuted for homosexual tendencies. Wilde, recognizing a kindred spirit in Salome through the lens of his own oppression, decides that he must cover for Salome's crime by reaffirming her heterosexuality. So he has her kiss the severed head of John, get caught in the act, and be killed. Now there are plenty of things to say about this. Is Salome being punished, in Wilde, for her indiscretion or for her lie? Or is it punishment at all? By severing her head she becomes a martyr of sorts.

It is unclear who, if any, of Ives friends actually got to the end of the journal and discovered that the last 23 pages were actually a gospel, and the only one written during the lifetime of the Christ. Maybe they were all too taken with Salome's secret to find her real secret. 

-Robert de Saint-Loup

a house divided

Dearest Iqbal-

I've suddenly realized that you know nearly nothing about my childhood spent growing up on the ruins of Civil War battlefields. My parents coveted the space because it was in most cases protected by the state and buildings had what they called with "character." Both of their childhood homes had long been demolished or had "additions" which made them entirely unrecognizable and incongruous with their precious memories. They wanted nothing so jarring for me. Many a night, as I drifted off to sleep in rooms where great Generals made mistakes and history, I was assured that the state of Virginia or the state of Pennsylvania would keep this house standing long after I was, and that my children would be able to come and see what I saw.

I grew up in General A.P. Hill's headquarters for the second Battle of Bull Run, the hospital in which General James Longstreet was taken after being tragically wounded at the Battle of the Wilderness, and they have kept General Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson's dying place as a "summer home."

While the irony is not lost of them they are decidedly unglib about the whole experience. "This is our home, right now. It is a lovely home. Not many people are lucky enough to live near decent sized towns but also have big open spaces all around them. You can smell the apple blossoms."

And you could.

To live in Fredericksburg is to live in the shadow of something that likely holds no interest. Historians pilgrimage there, they cross the river, they sit on the ground, and then they go back to Cincinnati, or Cheyboygan, or Lake Champlain. Fredericksburgers cross the river to get to work and some of them even still live off the fruit of that ground.

We were of course not of Southern stock. Technically we could be called "carpetbaggers" but that distinction only seems to stick if you let it, and my parents did not. And the strange, ignoble position of most of our homes deflected most of the standard commentary.

I met a girl named Hannah when we were living in Fredericksburg. She was from real southern Stock, further down the coast, but we met in the middle. Her locker was several down from mine at the public school where the Rape of Carthage was described with more life and verity than any more local narrative. We smiled and lingered, like we were wont to do, before saying "Hello" sometime in my second year.

We previously had sat together in a history class.

"In exchange for sparing the city and allowing it to remain free of Roman rule, the Carthagians sent 300 'well born' Cathagianian children as hostage to Rome, for purposes of sex and imperial humilitation. Carthage assented, the children were sent, but Rome was still unsatisfied. The siege was brutal. A dam was built cutting off the harbor from supplies. The Romans burned the Cathagian fleet with the entire city just staring. Starvation was rampant, and when the military collapse finally came, 15 days of burning followed."

A map was pulled down, showing the Mediterranean flush with earth tones.

"Before the military left they salted the ground so that nothing could grow there. Many historians have subsequently found that to be apocryphal, made up sometime during the 19th century, but like any good rumor people need to believe it for it to be spread and people do believe it."

"Where do you live?" asked Hannah.

"Off Caroline St. Towards the water."

"Are you serious? That's the battlefield, isn't it?"

"Yeah, we live in a protected house. You go through the parking lot for the soccer field and there's a dirt road that leads to my house."

"Is it haunted? Or old and creepy?"

"I don't think it's haunted."

She did eventually come over, I think a few months later, and by then the fact had receded out of what she considered interesting and the only thing that was mentioned was how old and pretty the house was.

"Oh, yes. Luckily it's protected," intoned my mother from the kitchen.

The only other time the issue came up was when Hannah asked where we lived previously. The answer was Gettysburg. And before that? Chancelorsville.

In Gettysburg we lived in what had been an abandoned farmhouse for much of the 20th century. A developer named Edmon Peatons, an associate of my maternal grandfather, purchased the barn and painstakingly refinished it from the inside, leaving the bullet ridden facade untouched. The house was given as a wedding gift to my grandfather and had remained in the family until my parents sold it in 2002.

Beside the house was an apple orchard. That was the one my father often talked of when he'd stand up at his window, which had once been elevated barn doors, letting the breeze blow strait through the house filling it with the odor of apple blossoms.

This house may have been haunted. We never stopped hearing creaks and groans, some quite formed and articulate, and my mother claimed that no home built by the Edmon Peatons and Lindsay Rowland (my grandfather) could ever need to shift that much. We reminded her that though they did the refinishing the house stood long before.

"And will goddamn stand long after."

Unlike Fredericksburg which hides its looming past behind a thin curtain of normalcy, Gettysburg was born again after the events of three days more than 150 years ago. During the day I kept my head down. On the way to school and back I avoided looking at the lookers, those who came with binoculars and cameras and tramped the ground, with each step pushing the dead deeper under ground.

They stand around and some fool in a top hat recites Lincoln's Gettysburg address. But dammit does a single one listen? "In a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground." Of course you can't, because I live here and you are trespassers on my life, not vice-versa.

But at night things changed. The tourists withdrew to the over-priced restaurants and the indoor pools of their hotels. Sometimes I'd go out and hallow the ground.

In middle school, my best friend was named Samantha. We'd occasionally meet in the apple orchard beside my house in the middle of the night. The great benefit of my house being haunted was that no one paid very much attention to creaks and the sound of hinges slipping against itself.

I seem to remember the ground being wet beneath my feet, and running barefoot through the orchard smelling the candied breeze. I'd look back to make sure the house was still dark and we'd sit in the branches of an old twisted apple tree. We had plenty of privacy to do illicit things and we were of the age, but we never did. I don't it ever crossed our minds. We'd whisper. Why? There was no reason. We were hundreds of feet from a road, more than half a mile from either of our houses. But we'd whisper.

We didn't talk much about the history. Unlike me, she had been born and raised there, but we felt different out there alone. It may just have been because we knew that all around us were people who were enthralled and excited to be there, who had travelled to our home to see it. It made sense and felt right that they would. We were excited and enthralled to be in that tree.

I have been back to none of the sites in the past few years, but a careful review of google maps has revealed that each stands exactly as I remember.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

hearted

Dearest Iqbal-

I hope you have passed a pleasant Easter. I have been told on numerous occasions the apparently intriguing morsel of knowledge the the Muslims (they too!) thought that Jesus Christ was special (if not exactly the Christ). Was there a celebration? I seem to remember also (separate morsel) that they Muslims suspect he did not die but simply went elsewhere. It's like two editors arguing over the same manuscript. One wants to silence the hero on page 287, the other is inclined to let him lounge on earth out for another hundred pages or so. Give me the punch-line over the peter any day.

I was in the Kingdom when Easter dawned, but Angela wasn't there. I met the girl from Sao Paulo instead. Why in God's name was she here? Well apparently Sao Paulo has the greatest population of Japanese outside of Japan. So why in God's name are you here? Well, of course, no prophet is understood in their own home. I got her a gin and tonic, before she asked for it.

As the bar was closing, I made a proposition to the South American beauty. I wholly expected her to say no, so when she didn't I questioned her again.

The girl from Sao Paulo told me that she wasn't exactly half-hearted. I was thrilled because I knew there was no way I could jump the gate by myself. I'd need to push her over, and then she'd pull me over. It was thrilling even if there was no serious criminal intent. We weren't going to break anything or take anything, and our goal was not even the place that we were trespassing.  

I'd been here many times before, always with a girl. Always with a girl that I'd stumbled out of the Kingdom with. When I describe the view of the sunset from the loading dock they are always enthralled. "Let's go."  But when we reach the fence, and they see how high it is they always change their mind. "My skirt is too short," is a common excuse, but really it's the fear of legal recrimination that sends them scurrying home on the L train. 

The fence was high and metallic. Probably 10 feet; that wasn't the problem. The issue was the top 2 feet which were angled out, making it nearly impossible to scale. But two could do it, without a problem. 

I hoisted her up lifting her from the waist. She clenched the angled part of the fence, settled the toe of her boot into the metallic grate of the fence, and then gently (and modestly) pulled herself over. I began my ascent while she waited atop. When I reached the vertex of the angle, I reached through the fence for her hand. This was the moment where two was needed. She held me as I leaned out away from the fence and slid over it. We propelled down in easy jumps. We wiped the rust off our hands and set out. Between us and the loading dock where we could watch the sunrise was an empty factory.

We moved quitely and swiftly, but easily. Once the first law had been broken the rest seemed venial. We came to the gate of the factory. It was bolted with a rotted wooden latch. It crumbled as we pulled on it and slipped into the big open room. 

It was empty, but so wet that our footsteps didn't echo. We walked down the long corridor, the dirty window, dirty from years of rust and shit and rain were like stained glass, different colors reflecting in the dark room as the light outside got bluer and brighter. 

We reached the far end. I could smell the river. I held my watch up to a beam of dirty light; 7:12. Minutes until sunrise.

"There must be a door," she said. And we began to blindly feel along the walls, looking for a frame, a knob or a latch. "By the time it will be bright enough to see where the door is the sun will be up!"

"Who the fuck is in here?" screamed a hoarse voice from the far end. 

Me and the girl from Sao Paulo froze. "We left the door open," I whispered. "He must have seen it."

The security guards flashlight beamed down across the empty space.

"Go along the walls. We can get out behind him."

We each followed the walls, opposite walls, towards the front. His location was apparent, the source of the beam, but we were hidden, clinging to wet walls.  We reached the door at the same moment and slipped through, but the door creaked slightly. The beam of light swung around towards us. We broke out into a run heading for the gate. 

As we reached, she hoarsely implored "You first this time." I leapt for the gate, climbing to the top and then waiting there on the angle for her. But I slipped and fell on the far side, landing on my back, the breathe was knocked out of me and I couldn't see. When I awoke the guard had handcuffs on the girl from Sao Paulo and the sun had risen.

They both stared at me.

"Do you know this girl?" the guard asked. Her eyes were quite large. "Do you know this girl, I said. Do you recognize her?"

I was silent.

"You fucking alright, kid?"

"I'm fine. Yes, I know her. We broke in together. Climbed the gate."

The guard looked away. "Fine."

He turned the key and released the girls hands. She stared at me, while the guard inserted a key into the electronic lock and the metallic gate slide out from between us.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

remission

Dearest Iqbal-

Last night I was taking a repose at the Kingdom, sipping a drink, wondering where Angela was, when I noticed a strange interaction going on across the darkened space. In the light of the juke box I could see a beautiful girl. She was facing away, but I'd seen her before and knew her to be beautiful. Standing across from her was a deformed man. A cursory glance seemed to suggest leprosy in full remission. He was missing several fingers on his left hand, and seemed to have lost part of his cheek because the right side of his face was pulled taughter than the left, slightly disfiguring his nose and always suggesting that his eyes were in disagreement over where to look, and twisting the slightest smile into a sick grimace.

They stared into the hot neon light of the juke box and cycled through the paper flaps that revealed the songs, photocopies of CD inserts, black and white reproductions of color photographs. Journey, Duran Duran, Queen, Alicia Keyes, the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I couldn't make out their speech, but in the reflection on the juke box I could tell they were talking, sharing taste, maybe even laughing, though it was hard to read the man's face.

He slid his arm (the good one) around her, just lightly. She didn't recoil, but nor did she get closer. A song was chosen. The girl slipped away, across to the other side. He exit was not sudden, but it was final. The man was left standing with a sneer, a sneer which I have come to assume was nothing but a smile. He approached the bar and put his drink down, he stepped out, seemingly in  no rush. 

I followed him, with Angela absent there was nothing keeping me in the Kingdom. I looked both ways down the street, he was no where. Vanished? A man like that doesn't blend. I peered around. He had strolled down an alley that ran parallel to the bar. The song they had chosen, "Jukebox Hero" could be heard through the early 20th century brick.

He was on his knees, hands folded beneath his chin, bobbing slowly, rhythmically. I could hear a mumbling. I stepped forward slowly, not wanting to reveal my presence or invade his privacy, but I quickly noticed that he was far too taken in prayer and that if I screamed in his ear he'd hardly here. I could make out what he was saying.

"Oh Dear Lord, I am Sad, but I am Grateful. I am Sad, but I am Grateful. Oh Dear Lord, I am Sad, but I am Grateful. I am Sad, but I am Grateful. Oh Lord hear me, I am Sad, but I am Grateful. I am Sad, but I am Grateful. Oh Dear Lord, I am Sad, but I am Grateful." Ad infinitum.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

aged

Dearest Iqbal-

I was recently at my grandparents house. Up from their moldy basement my grandfather came holding a black garbage bag. He dumped it on the ground in front of us and out spilled photographs, hundreds of photographs. Most were black and white, some were dated in a meticulous script, some were pasted onto a piece of cardboard, some we corroding by the second. They reeked of mold and degraded chemicals; the glue on the back of same had rotted leaving only a sticky finish.

They showed my grandparents in their voluptuous prime, remarkably similar to how they are now: the same eyes, the same smiles, but different shapes. If your eyes were squinted or your glasses removed, the washed out emulsions depicting them at the beach could hardly be told apart from the more recent images that reside on digital cameras and facebook profiles.

We passed them around, pointing them out, though they all were the same. Familiar, comforting, like looking backward through binoculars, the way a dream you know to be a dream can be indulged in.

And then at the bottom we found letters. Hundreds of letters. On hotel stationary, on copy paper, on envelopes, on medical reports. "Dear Darling." "My Beautiful Wife." "To My Husband Whom I Miss."  "Kisses and All" "If I am to die." "The children are well." "Mother said this would happen." "Came so close to a car accident." "Kennedy killed." "Was sick last night." "We may need to push the wedding back." "Always Zoe." "Love and Tenderness to the kids."

I was flabbergasted and excited. Reading snatches here and there I rifled through, never finishing a whole letter before going on to the next. The pages were yellow and thin, some were near breaking, but unlike the photographs they had not aged a day, let alone decades. The voices poured out. Voices familiar, clear. 

I ran my finger over a page, I could feel the indent left in the paper by a ball point pen. Even if I were blind, I'd know there was writing here.

The smells of roasted chicken wafted in from the kitchen. "It's almost dinner time," my grandmother proclaimed, walking into room with a smile.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? DO I LOOK DEAD YET? PUT THOSE AWAY!"

-Robert de Saint-Loup

Solo

Dearest Iqbal-

True story! This afternoon I stepped out of my office to get myself a cup of coffee. The streets are now dry and warm, and a cool breeze was blowing off the Rio Hudson. As I entered into the establishment I saw in the the corner of my right eye something that I certainly could not be seeing. But I turned my head a few degrees and confirmed it: There, sitting behind the wheel of a parked Lincoln was a man playing a trumpet. The bell of the trumpet was aimed directly into the center of the steering wheel as if he had read the button that said "horn" and took it as a command. 

I proceeded into the coffee establishment, though through the front glass windows I could still clearly see the musician. His fingers were purposefully pounding the pistons, repeating phrases and practicing motifs. At one moment he seemed despondent, but then rallied and his fingers danced a can-can of sorts which seemed to please him. 

I stepped forward on line, stepping incrementally closer to the register but never taking my eyes off the solitary player, in public but without an audience.

"A black coffee, no room for milk."

The player began to dance, or at least bob and dip his shoulders to the left and then the right to the tune he heard. A sonata? The opening blast of Mahler's 5th (duh duh duh dahhhhh), or his own composition? I began to wave my hand in the air and conduct ("was that room for milk?"), signaling the tympani to come in low, giving a round wave over my head to signal a sweep of strings, "give some room to the first trumpeter, won't you?" He needs his room! 

"With room for milk, sir?"

"Without!" Crescendo. 

No that won't do! The horn must be more prominent. Staccato doesn't mean deafening!

"Do you wish to pay, sir? There are actually other customers."

I spun around, taking my eyes off the soloist. I was waving 2 dollar bills like a baton in the baristas now red face.

"Sorry. There's a..."

"There's a line, sir."

I handed him the two dollars. 

"At the counter." He dropped a pair of dimes on the counter and looked over my shoulder to the next person.

I got my coffee, sipped in cautiously and stepped out. I looked both ways, checking if anyone else had seen the soloist.  I gingerly approached his window and knocked. He spun to me, wide eyed and rolled down his window.

"Oh I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't mean to disturb. I didn't meant to do it here, but, see, I've got no place else to practice. Such an imposition on my part."

He was red in the face, near melting with embarrassment.

"No, not at all," I beseeched. "No worry, I was just..."

"No, it's terribly inappropriate."

He tossed the trumpet on the passenger seat, and turned the key in the ignition.

"So sorry. Never again! I Promise I'll never do it again." He sped away.

I looked around. Had anyone seen? I peered into the coffee establishment. The barista was glaring at me with unbridled hatred.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

Reunion

Dearest Iqbal-

I have just returned from a family reunion. Not my family, mind you, but the reunion of a good friend's family. I was to be his "plus 1," but upon breaking his toe, I had to go alone, like a stand in or alternate juror. My family sadly never reunites in this fashion, all in a picnic ground, each aunt or cousin bringing salty sandwiches and pink lemonade.

I arrived early, the field bare but for a spray of picnic tables, their rusty nails years ago hammered away. I sat on a table top, my feet on the seat and wondered how I was to perform at this function: I could be the friend of the absent family member, making introductions, apologizing for my outcast state, trying everyone's own recipes. Or I could forget that I didn't belong. Maybe if I willed belonging they would accept it and forget. The sky was so blue and the grass so green that I fell into a reverie in which distinctions like family and stranger, mother and sun, present and absent, seemed at best quaint.

I awoke from my day sleep when I began to hear the sound of children's voices being carried on the breeze. I peeled my eyes. The 4th generation was cresting the hill and descending into the flat that would soon house their family. Each child was brandishing an iron sword above their windy hair. One in particular, Samuel, led the charge, liberating the valley with the tip of his sabre. I smiled with irony when I discovered the swords to be palm fronds.

"We have the same eyes and I bet a cut a similar figure when I was his age," I thought as I rose to greet the hoard. I opened my arms and Samuel leapt into them, I hugging him and lifting him above my head.

"Have you been here long?" he asks.

"No, I just recently arrived. Where are the rest?" I looked around at the handful of children surrounding me, none coming higher than my chest, all clenching the palms.

"Oh they'll be along, they are bringing the food and table clothes and the chairs for Big Nana to sit in."

"Mama said that Big Nana's back is too squishy to to sit on this hard picnic tables" chimed in a girl with pimples and freckles.

"I like 'em just fine," intoned a boy with fiery red hair as he through his behind down on the chair whipping his legs up as he did.

"Now you do, but you're only 9, wait til you're 91 like Big Nana. We'll see how much you like the wood," said Samuel.

Before a fight could ensue all eyes were turned back towards the hill. Along came the third generation. They were young parents with glow and grace. They had all the vitality of their sworded scions but it was at peace, no anxiousness.

They came in pairs, each holding blankets or picnic baskets or glass pitchers of pink lemonade or foldable beach chairs. Their hands were full, except for Angela's. She walked in the center, like the icon being paraded, her hands gently resting on her dome-like middle. The others of the 3rd generation walked slowly, matching pace with the graceful mother to be.

As they came closer, Iqbal, I could see their cheeks flushed with blood and their hair reflecting the sun like brunette mirrors. It was a sight. The children ran to them and surrounded them and I watched with mild jealousy. The fresh adults came to the tables and begin to spread their blankets on the grass and smooth their table clothes on the wood.

They paid me no notice; they were too busy setting up their food and making pleaseantries with their children. At last, deciding that I needed to begin somewhere to ingratiate myself into this family I approached the woman with-child and offered to help her. She seemed not to hear me as she struggled to lower herself to the seat. Once down and at rest she glanced up and said no, but offered me a sandwich.

Her face let me know it was fine to say yes, and I did, but I insisted on retrieving it myself with her instruction. The sandwich was cold and delicious, but before I could compliment all eyes seemed to focus past me, back to the hill. I could see nothing at first, and then just a grey quivering. From below the horizon emerged sets of lumbering elders, some carrying newspapers, some carrying umbrellas, others cradling bibles.


They came slowly, taking each step, watching the grass beneath their feet bend to their weight and then spring back as if they'd never been. Grandpa Earl came leading his two lambs. Grandma Petunia emerged, Bible open and her lips gliding over the book of Ecclesias, mumbling to no one. Great Aunt Edna, shielding her eyes from the sun and yelling "Oh my darlings, oh my darlings" upon seeing the circle of children. Grandpa Christopher with a parasol protecting his bald head.


Uncle Isak emerged. I learned later that no one knew who's Uncle he was, but everyone called him that. He wore a pince nez that had reduced at least 2 if not 3 generations to laughter and glee. There were handshakes and hugs and "peace-be-with-yous" and promises of visits. No one bothered that I didn't belong. Iqbal, I was happy, and little did I know it'd just begun!


I sat under a tree with Granpa Earl.


"Weather is fine, no?" he asked.


"Sure is, not a cloud in the sky." I looked at the lambs, their legs tucked neatly under their wooly bodies, asleep.


"You seem contented. May I photograph you?"


"Surely." He took out a camera and without moving from his repose against the tree snapped my photo.


"That'll be a good one, no?"


Grandpa Earl again put the camera to his eyes and aimed it up. I followed the lens to the pregnant woman, her hands resting on her bump.


"You better take a picture Earl, it'll last longer," she said with a sweet weariness.


"It takes all kinds, this camera. Where is your husband, Angela? He should be along soon?"


"Any moment he should be here, with Big Nana."


"So good of him. You've met Robert, no?"


Angela smiled at me. "Yes, we've met."


I leapt to my feet and wiped the grass off. Grandpa Earl laughed. "No need to stand, my boy, she's pregnant not dying!" He chuckled.


Everyone, even the hard of hearing, started when Samuel screamed. At first it was formless, no sense of joy or distress or color, just noise. My eyes settled on the boy and then followed the pointed end of his palm frond out over the field to the hill. There standing on the crest were two men, and between them a shapeless mass taking small, pained steps.

"Big Nana! Big Nana is here!" All three generations shuffled their repose and prepared for her arrival, here was the 1st generation.


As they came closer I could see: a tall, youngish man with broad shoulders and a large forehead, and an ageless Priest who seemed to walk from his temples, and between them Big Nana, a round, sexless object, all folds of skin and intimations of extremities under her gown. She walked slowly, taking deep breathes between each step. She was guided under the tree, beside the lambs to the chair prepared for her. She settled into it, the young men lifting her legs onto the rest. She exhaled and smiled, old wrinkles being subsumed and new ones being revealed as the ends of her mouth lifted.


The generations gathered around her, but not too close as to hamper her vision or breathe. The priest stood off the side, very much at home. The young man who had walked Big Nana went over to this wife and placed his hand on her dome of a stomach. I was so taken aback by their youth and health that I must have stared, for she called me over and introduced me to her husband.


I began to mingle, stepping in and out of conversations.


"Did you know that Shelby Foote and Walker Percy went to visit William Faulker? Drove across Tennessee and Mississippi and when they got there Walker Percy wouldn't get out of the damn car."


"What? He's never seen a depressed alcoholic before?"


"I swear to you, my love, that when we shave the lambs, even down the skin, they don't feel an ounce of pain. Think of how nice you feel in the summer when you get your long hair cut off!"


"But you must grant, it's pretty humiliating for them. Would you want to go around naked?"


"Why yes, I would. But you wouldn't want me to."


"Did you taste Mary's pink lemonade? A bit bitter for my taste, I'd say. Makes my lips purse."


"I think Big Nana likes it."


"Do you imagine you could even tell if her lips were pursing?"


"I quite liked Father Tully's sermon today, no?"


"Yes, it was uplifting, as it should be on a day like this. I think a priest should always take his cues from G-d. When it's dark and stormy and the windows rattle, well then feel free to tell us about hell and damnation and smashing of perfectly fine idols. But when the weather is as it is today, why it's a sin to break the spell."


"Do you remember Father Howell? He went blind towards the end."


"Why yes I do. Never cared much for his type of prostration."


"Not a cloud in the sky."


"I don't remember our children being so poorly behaved."


"Right, but then Big Nana's husband was there, and who would have dared misbehave?"


"I often wondered how she put up with such a man. Never seemed to have a bit of humor, good or funny, in his body."


"Maybe he didn't seem so, but he must have, for look around, look at all the good humor around you. This all came through him."


"Oh I suspect it passes through the mother."


"Do you imagine Father Tully will speak?"


"If tradition holds."


"Who is that Robert? The one sitting with Uncle Edgar?"


"Oh I believe he's a friend of Thomas.'"


"Shame he couldn't be here."


"Well, whoever he is, he's family today."


"Little Samuel seems to have taken a liking to him."


"Indeed. In fact if I didn't know he was a man apart from us I'd swear him and Samuel were of the same brood."


"Did you hear Cousin David is marrying an episcopalian?"


"Oh my! What are those even?"


"They're like Methodists, but a little fancier, I think."


"Methodists? I have a method, thank you very much. Early to bed, early to rise."


"Yes, but your method puts me to sleep."


"Oh God, the Father is getting up to speak."


"I promise, I promise I will only speak for a moment or two. I promise."


The crowd settled, the children sat, Big Nana focused her eyes.


"I am of course not a part of this family, but for a great many years, I, and before me my predecessor at St. Agnes', has been invited here to join in this annual event. And it is one the purest pleasures to see members of my flock with their flock, all of us together in this beautiful place, on this beautiful day. Before I move on to a brief reading, I want to publicly wish my best to dearest Angela and David, blessed will they be with a child. Blessed are they and blessed will that child be."


They was a round of approval and mild applause. "Upon us will soon be a new generation, a blessing to all generations. And, lastly, it would be negligent of me to not show my respect and undying admiration to our matriarch, Ann."


"Yay! Big Nana!" cried Samuel with no hint of self-consciousness. Oh Iqbal, I was green.


"And lastly, I will be brief, but it would behoove us not to acknowledge. If you please, take hands, but only if you please."


I quickly positioned myself between a 7 year old girl and an old man.


"Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the lands!
Serve the Lord with gladness! Come into God's presence with singing!
Know the Lord is God! It is he that made us, and we are his;
we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise!
Give thanks to him, bless his name!
For the Lord is good;
his steadfast love endures for ever,
and his faithfulness to all generations."


A round of applause rose and fell.


With a smile, Father Tully continued: "G-d's neat, let's eat!"


Merriment ensued and gifts were presented. Uncle Isak was given a silken handkerchief, embroidered with his initials (U.I., of course) to polish his pince nez, little cousin Julie was presented with a doll that miraculously closed it's eyes when you laid her down, and Big Nana was presented with the most colorful, hand sewn quilt one has ever seen. Each square was a different texture and color and luminosity and feel. Bright greens, and pink polka dots, and blue silk, and red angels on a white background, and barn yard animals, and yellows like the sun. Big Nana's eyes opened wide and her leather hands brushed from square to square. Occasionally cooing, her eyes widening when she came across a particularly colorful or pretty pattern. Big Nana, with help, wrapped the quilt around her so only her round, shapeless head stuck from it. She smiled. Samuel beamed.


Oh Iqbal, I know that Zanzibar must hold endless wonders, but this was nice too.


-Robert de Saint-Loup