Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Elevator Dreamin'
She was standing at the back of the elevator, leaning gracefully against the wall. Mamet stared in wonder at this beautiful creature. To him she looked like one of the elegant statues that was carved into the front of old ships, with proud eyes that radiated warmth, intelligence, and sadness. Mamet could tell that she was upset. Normally this wouldnt have phased him, however, her sadness radiated from deep inside those gorgous eyes and seemed to call out for his care. He wanted to make her happy again. It was a completely infantile thought and Mamet knew it. But it didnt change the fact that as he stared at the women from his dream, looking back at him with those eyes that held so much pride and pain, Mamet felt himself allowing his heart to feel for her. His eyes must have given him away because as he stared into hers, he registered some sort of recognition in them. This snapped him back into reality and he realized that he must have been stupidly staring at her for quite some time. Inwardly cursing himself, he stepped onto the elevator. As he turned toward the door, he caught another glimpse of her standing there. Up close she was even more beautiful than he could have possibly imagined. From far away she looked perfect, unblemished as though she had just floated down from the clouds. Up close he could see some minute, almost invisible imperfections that showed the life that she had lived. The layer of reality that these earthly imperfections added to her person, heightened his attraction toward her. As he reached for the button, she did the same and their hands brushed together. Instantly, Mamet felt as though electricity was surging up his arm and into his brain. It was as though his subconscious and his waking life had crashed together as he made contact with what had been, up unti now, only fantasy. It was the most sensual feeling Mamet had felt in a long time. But with this woman, the attraction wasnt simply sexual. This part still puzzled him, and yet the lightness in his stomach and his brain kept him from pondering over it too much. He wanted to speak to her, tell her that what ever was wrong, he could fix. Wanted to tell her that the forlorn look in her eyes was curable. He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but years of suppressed feelings, and walls around his emotions are not easily overcome, and the words wouldnt form. As he struggled, the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. Mamet exited the elevator, completely in shock by what he had just experienced. He was so dumbfounded that he didnt even look up to see Earl walking towards him across the lobby. The two collided and Mamet fell to one side. Murmering apologies, he walked out of the revolving doors, out onto the sidewalk, and toward the pub. He needed a drink.
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The Elevator
The elevator door shut slowly behind Mirela. She waited in the car for a stranger on some other floor to press the up or down button.
Scanning the small square of space, she observed the stains on the burgundy, patterned carpet, the bronze railings tarnished in the places where they were used the most, the scratches on the mirror, and in the mirror-herself.
She stroked the small scar hidden by her eyebrow, the ridge of her nose, her lips, and her jaw-line. Then she imagined the countless wounds and flaws that were invisible to the eye, yet existed inside of her. In this moment, she realized why she had chosen this town as her home. She had something in common with this unpolished town. She was comfortable amongst imperfection.
Closing her eyes, Mirela filled her lungs with a large amount of air and then released it. She did this several times before the room subtly began to lower. She opened her eyes and saw that one of the yellowed buttons was lit.
When the doors opened, a some-what scruffy, yet attractive older man stood in front of Mirela with a surprised expression on his face. After several seconds of very direct eye contact, the man became conscious of his expression and immediately blundered into the elevator. Reaching for the yellow buttons, their fingers collided, both pressing the one for the atrium.
The unexpected touch startled the both of them. The two looked up at each other slightly smiling, as their eyes locked. Mirela read his face; deep into his greenish-brown eyes, she found a hint of comfort. It was strange. That morning she had been so lost, so alone. By simply looking into the warm eyes of a stranger, her heart flickered with hope.
The intense silence was broken by the familiar “DING” of the elevator.
The doors opened and two men stood waiting to enter the elevator. Mirela recognized one of them as living on her hall and frequently rushing to work, and the other as an angry bookstore customer.
With one last curious stare, the two strangers departed, exiting the elevator.
That girl – that crying girl, the younger one – Eros couldn’t get her out of his head. He usually didn’t like children, they were so immature, lacking in taste and refinement. They were petty and lacking direction, exactly the sort of people Eros couldn’t stand.
But that girl, there was something about her. True, she was hardly a child any more. Eros assumed she had to be at least 18 years of age, perhaps a little older. So she had to be here with her parents, or perhaps she was on her own already. That was a sad thought, the notion that a girl so young was already on her own. But it was now hardly any of his concern – he hadn’t seen the girl since that day. She really didn’t have any bearing on what Eros was trying to accomplish.
Today Eros would be taking steps to secure the rights to the lot, his lot, from Mamet. The old man had been very obstinate and he insisted that the lot had to be “preserved in its current state for the pleasure of future generations.” Eros hadn’t dared ask permission to merely excavate the site, as that might arouse Mamet’s suspicions.
But there had to be a way. Eros had not come this far to be beaten by circumstance. In Italy, when Jennifer had told him everything, the treasure had seemed so close. Eros felt he would only need to reach out and touch it. Now, his destiny was just meters away but he was powerless to achieve it.
But this obsessing was getting to Eros. He decided a good distraction would be in order. For Eros, this meant a good book. He’d taken several dozen books with him from Italy, but they were his favorites that he had read over and over again. Most were Italian and Venetian histories, but he also had several works of classic fiction: The Inferno, Queen Margot, Treasure Island and The Count of Monte Cristo. He also had the poetry collections of Andrew Marvell and several art histories. Eros, however, had already read all those books several times from cover to cover. He decided it would a good idea to try to read something new for a change.
He’d noticed a rare book store just down the way from the apartments and he thought that just such a place would have the tome he was looking for.
Eros left his apartment, being sure to turn out all the lights and to securely lock the door on his way out. On his way down the stairs, Eros always took the stairs, as he found them far more pragmatic than having to wait for the dilapidated elevator, he passed that girl he’d met early, Karen. She was talking with some man in greasy overall who smelled of gasoline and exhaust. Eros inclined his head to Karen as he passed her and she smiled radiantly in reply. The man she was with also greeted Eros, but with a solid upward tilt of his head.
Outside, the fiery sun had yet to burn off the chill of the morning. Eros began to regret not bringing his leather jacket but at this point he decided returning to fetch it simply wasn’t merited.
The book store was a couple blocks away but Eros didn’t mind the trek. In Venice, he’d grown accustomed to walking several miles of day, so this charming little jaunt was nothing. When he arrived at his destination, he strode through the door with a confidant swagger he assumed whenever he was in public.
Inside the small store, which was positively swamped with books, Eros saw an alluring younger woman casually striding through past the many shelves. She would gracefully extend her hand and run it over the tops of the leather tomes, placed neatly, side-by-side, gently caressing each book with the tips of her fingers.
She rounded a corner and stopped before an older gentleman who was flipping through a novel. She said “Hello, Everett.”
The man, Everett, looked up from his book and smiled at her. His gray hair framed his square, masculine face well. His eyes were alive amongst the weathered, yet supple, folds of his skin. He said, “Hello, Mirela. How’re you?”
“Busy,” she said. “I’ve had divinations all day – this was my only free hour. So I came down here to look around. How about yourself? How’s your next novel progressing?”
“Well, I suppose.”
“That last chapter was difficult for you?”
Everett looked suddenly and quizzically asked “Yes…how did you know?”
“A feeling.”
“Oh. I see.” Everett smiled weakly but looked almost uncomfortable. Eros wandered what ‘a feeling’ could possibly mean.
Mirela smiled softly and said “But I’m sure when you’re finished with it, it’ll be great.”
Her smile completely changed Everett’s expression as he chuckled and said “Another feeling?”
“Yes,” Mirela replied, giggling slightly. She glanced at a small wrist watch on her tanned, elegant arm and said “But I need to go back upstairs and prepare. I have another divination at 2:30 and I need to prepare.”
“Then good day, Mirela,” Everett said, nodding.
“Bye,” she said, casually waving as she exited up a flight of steps near the back of the store.
Everett returned to glancing over the books on the shelf in front of him. Eros approached and slowly turned towards the books, standing next to the man, who smelt of a charming sandalwood cologne. Eros picked a book off the shelf at random and began to glance through it. He could feel Everett’s casual glance on him.
“You like court dramas?” Everett suddenly asked.
Eros revolved slightly on his heels and looked at the man, saying “Not really. I go more for the European classics. I’m not a denizen of modern literature. Modern anything, for that matter.”
Everett chuckled robustly and said “I feel the exactly the same way sometimes.” He extended his hand and said “Everett Carson.”
“Eros Dandolo,” Eros replied, accepting the handshake. Everett had a firm grip which spoke of vigor even in his advanced years.
“Dandolo? That’s an Italian name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m from Italy.”
“Tu da dove e?
“Sono Veneziano. Parle Italiano?
Everett chuckled and said “No, no, I’ve just spent a lot of time working with Italian Americans and I picked up the language from some of them.”
“What do you do?”
“Well, used to do, technically – I’m a retired trial lawyer. My specialty was organized crime, so I met up with a lot of Sicilian, Calabrian and Neapolitan Americans.”
“Oh, southern Italians, naturally. Yes, the Mafia. Well, I am from the North of Italy and we do not like people from the South so much.”
“Oh. Well.” They stood in silence for a moment. “So how long have you been in the States?”
“A few weeks. I was staying in a motel now for a while but now I’ve got an apartment. It’s a little ways away from here – the Thallow Flats.”
“The Thallow Flats? Really? That’s where I live! What a coincidence!”
Eros nodded and smiled but didn’t mention that he didn’t believe in coincidences. “It’s a nice enough place to live.”
“Yes, a little old, but rather charming,” Everett agreed. “They’re just the right place for me, though. And the people are very friendly. In fact, we have a little game of cards in the back room of the Tavern bar. You should drop by – it would be a great chance to meet the other tenets and maybe earn a little cash.”
“No, I don’t think,” Eros replied softy. “I don’t like gambling, I prefer sure-things.”
“Ah, well, suit yourself,” Everett replied, not unkindly. “Still, its fun to just sit and watch the game, anyway.”
“I may do that some time.”
“Great. Here, let me give you my card.” Everett dug around in his pocket and extracted a neat stack of business cards bound with a rubber band. “I had all these in a little holder on my desk when I was practicing and I’ve still got hundreds of them.” He handed over the piece of stiff paper. “Be sure to give me a call sometime. There’s always one for one more.”
“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
The two men parted company as Eros moved off to peruse some of the older books in the back. In the “History” section he saw a special grouping of books about World War II. He was glancing past a few biographies of the great American generals and a dusty copy of Mien Kampf when he spotted a large tome bound in black leather that was lying under the shelf. Eros picked it up off the floor read the title, worked out in gold letters on the spine: The Italian Theatre – 1943-1945: From Monte Cassino to Rome. The cover of the book was completely blank, leading Eros to discern that the book had once had a dust jacket that was now lost. He flipped through the table of contents. The chapters alternated between the Allied and Axis perspective of the battles in Italy during each skirmish. The pages themselves were thin and yellowed, which was strange, since the cover was still a slick, inky black, in almost excellent condition. Perhaps the missing dust jacket had done its job very well.
World War II had always fascinated Eros, unlike it did many Italians, and this was one of the few major histories of Italy during the War that he had ever seen. He quickly bought it and prepared to left the bookstore, waving to Everett as he left and saying “Good day, it was a pleasure to meet you.”
Back in the Flats, Eros was mounted the steps to get back to his rooms when, on one of the landings, he paused because a thin, mousey man with wild tufts of hair was standing, completely still, staring at him. Eros looked at the man, whose piercing blue eyes were wide with terror, and said “Excuse me? Can I help you with something?”
The wild man just kept starting and then slowly began to creep backwards. Eros took a step forward and said “See here, what’s the matter?”
Giving a little shriek, the man fell backwards as though in shock. Eros advanced to help the man up, but he only screamed and jolted away, kicking wildly, with his eyes still bulging out his sockets and he scuttled backwards. He extended his harm and pointed at Eros. No, Eros realized, not at him, but at the black leather book.
“Sir, please, what is the matter? Let me help you!” Eros cried, completely exasperated, but the little man just gave one final yelp then darted, on all fours, then rising to his up on his legs, to flee down the hall.
Eros stood in the now empty hallway and glanced casually at the black book in his hands. Why does he fear this book? Eros though to himself.
Tense, for no real reason, Eros turned and proceeded back up the stairs, but not before taking note of that floor this strange event had taken place on – floor 300.
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