Drafts of Recent Stories

May not be updated too often…

A Snail in a Shell

I outgrew my shell a long time ago

It was cracked as a child by the step of a giant

Unaware

Beyond repair. Unable to expand.

Now my small dark cracked shell

Needs to be replaced, hard as a nail

I want a nice soft comfy one this time

“Me shell is comfy” said the English snail

Traversing Bloomsbury

Stopping by the museum (if you can stop a snail)

In search of a key to language

He found a stone much admired

And wrote a poem about it

At snail pace it took a long time

All the way to the tulips in Russel Square

Not a land to waste there.

The mind expands to the space allotted to it

Put a double bed in my new shell. No, a Queen size.

Be royal as a bee, have a parade every day.

Come live with me and be my love in my royal bed.

Not one more line on this theme, said the editor.

Cut, cut, back to the shell, please

Before the sirens call us to the shelter.

Once in Ireland on an island

An inis in the sea

The snails celebrated diversity

In the humidity

Each had a unique shell

Colors, stripes, spirals

“That’s how I want my shell,” I said:

An open house with a rainbow

And the elusive pot of gold

Take it to the beach

And abandon it for others to find and be inspired.

For in a shell, you can hear the sea calling you back.

The Snails of Inishmore

At the end of the road I abandoned my bicycle and walked on the soft grass towards the ragged edge of the island. I was stopped by a spiral: a snail, crossing the path, carrying its house, all that it owned, towards an unknown destination. Then I realized that I, too, was like a snail: crossing a path, carrying all that mattered, towards an unknown destination, happy to find food on my way.

A few steps away appeared another snail of a pale green complexion, then another wearing stripes, yellow, red, black. There were more snails, none of a dull color, all going towards a chance encounter I could not know.

My giant steps took me to the end of the island, high above the sea on the flat stones that congregated there a long time ago and never left. The younger ones all together like teenagers having a party. The older ones allowing flowers and grass to live among them.

The island ended in water and fog. I didn’t know where to find my unknown destination.

On the slow path of life, I crossed the path of a snail. It was carrying a joyful shell with tints of green and amber. Then a few steps forward on my path, another snail carrying a colorful shell of red-black stripes. How did I appear to them? A change in the weather, a cloud passing? Or did they know that my careless step could have broken their house, making them homeless?

Visiting Another Life

On a quiet Thursday morning of May, I wandered away from the center of Cork and saw a sign for a historic site called Cork City Gaol. I remembered it was some kind of old prison that one could visit, and I became curious to see it. Why not? I thought, being there already, or rather not quite there as there were steep hills to climb to reach it. Almost out of breath, for I was in good physical condition, I reached the entrance of a small stone building, a portal really, through which the visitor goes to proceed towards the main building at the top of more stairs. A bus behind me awaited the school group in their blue uniforms about to descend the stairs in ranks. The schoolchildren appeared more joyous than anyone who ever came to enter this building. At the entrance, one could already see the life-size figures that served to dramatize the visit. After paying the entrance fee, I received a tape player with headphones to guide me to. It started at the two figures at the entrance of a woman being pulled by another. Then I saw the governor’s office and a figure of the governor himself. After that I was guided through a corridor and started to appreciate how the place could be frightening to anyone entering it, even today’s tourists, for the light at the end of the corridor came from the vast three-story interior with rows of doors left and right, and central black iron stairs and galleries linking them. The figure of a guard on the gallery above, and another one above him appeared to be watching me. I was alone in this wing and became curious to see the interior of a cell. The voice on the tape said to do just that by walking to the first open door to the left. There a figure of a priest with a prisoner kneeling down. Next, a cell with the figure of a woman under a blanket on the floor, or rather what appeared to be a bed made of a wood plank covered with canvas. Then the next cell had a door, and the voice on the tape said that if you were brave enough you could close the door behind you. I was made curious by this challenge, for this would be as unique an experience as say, bungee jumping: one will never find himself in a 19^th century cell, now that prisons were modern and the likelihood of being sent to one very slim unless one would commit a serious crime. So I closed the door. It squeaked and I feared I could be caught doing the experiment. The vaulted ceiling was matched by the arched window from which I could only see the bright gray sky. The walls were covered of cracking plaster revealing the old bricks underneath. I moved to the center of the cell, between the two flat beds and looked behind me, towards the closed door. It must have been something to find oneself in such a place, I thought. Then I did something I never thought I would do, for fear someone would open the door and discover me trying the bed. First I squatted to touch the canvas and the thin pillow. Listening for any noise outside, I proceeded to lie down on the bed.

I was awakened by the sound of keys in the door lock, and I sat on the hard bed. I could not understand what had happened: did I fall asleep? I touched myself and could not understand why I was wearing a ragged shirt. The door opened, and a man in the black uniform of the guards with silver buttons appeared, gesturing with a stick to get out. I was still drowsy when I got up. I was in an old undershirt and underpants like those we see in movies. Next to the guard, was a neatly folded brown canvas shirt stacked on matching pants. He was pointing at it without saying anything.

“What is this? What do you want?” I tried to say, for I had no idea what to say, I had no idea what this all meant.

He hit my on the shoulder with his stick and looked at me straight in the eyes. Then he pointed at the prison uniform again. I was in a dream, and it would end soon because my dreams never lasted very long.

“You want me to put these on?” I said.

I immediately received a second, harder blow in response, and the fact that I had not awakened yet indicated that I was not in a dream. I was not in a dream, but how did I end up in the 19^th century, a prisoner of that prison I had started to visit in the 21^st century? Perhaps this was a reenactment, the guard was an actor, and as the tape had said, one of the rules was that total silence was imposed. So I took the shirt and put it on. I put the pants on, and was surprised they both fit me. Did they measure me in my sleep? Did they take my clothes off and replace them by these rags? What had happened? I decided to proceed as expected, for any question was apparently not to be welcomed. The building was darker than before, and lighted by a few gas lamps that hissed. Another prisoner awaited outside the cell where the figure of the woman had slept. I followed him, walking towards the rotunda and turning left to a corridor with windows on the right and cell doors on the left. Then we were led to a door on the right which gave out to the exercise yard they had described on the tape. Two other men in the same uniform as the one I had on were walking on the circle path, watched by another guard. I understood we were just supposed to walk in circles for a while: exercise time. I started wondering how I had got stuck in this dream. Perhaps I was in a coma; perhaps I had been hit by a car and really was in a hospital bed with all sorts of tubes connected to me. I wondered how one could get out of a coma, was it a matter of awareness? I focused on that while walking in circles in the cold humid courtyard surrounded by gray stone walls pierced by barred windows. I focused on waking up, on remembering who I was and in what state I must have been. If I knew I was in a coma, lying somewhere, I just had to get back into my body as it was, I thought. After several revolutions, for I was not counting, we were all led back into the building. Following the others, and several more who had joined the party, I saw that we were to sit at tables for a meal. Was it morning? Was it evening? I wasn’t sure. We were served porridge in white enamel bowls. I looked at the two prisoners in front of me, trying to make eye contact, but they were both looking down at their porridge. Then the one on the left looked up, saw that I was looking at him and made a menacing face. I withdrew my offer. I realized that I might have kept my free man’s smile, and that that would be offensive. I ate my porridge, for I was hungry as well. It must have been morning, it felt like morning. It must have been morning, because we were led to perform various tasks. I was given a pail and a mop: floor cleaning. This coma or this dream is starting to take a long time, I thought, as I went to get the water in the pail. There was no soap in sight and I just mopped the floor of that hall, starting from the far end under the other rotunda. This kept me busy. I needed to change the water several times until I reached the first rotunda, the one where the visit with the tape had started. I looked towards where the gift shop was, but there wasn’t one, only a series of door frames almost endless to another similar wing as the one my cell was in. This was not a reenactment with actors, as there would have been a gift shop still. When I was done with the mopping, I looked at the guard who was standing a few feet from me and asked:

“Excuse me, but I have no idea how I ended up here. Can you tell me where I am, what year this is, who am I supposed to be?” I could not stand the silence any more and saying these words relieved me from the sense I had that I was becoming mad. The guard looked angry and took me by the left arm, pulling me very forcefully towards the entrance. He was leading me to the governor’s office. “Good,” I thought, as I was going to be able to ask questions and orient myself. The governor was in his round office with the windows looking outside, towards freedom. I thought I might try my luck at escaping from there, perhaps doing that would end the coma. But first my guard, still holding my arm with a grip from which I could not even consider freeing myself, stood with me in front of the desk.

“Sir, prisoner Sullivan is causing trouble. He asked several nonsense questions, and doesn’t follow his routine very well.”

Sullivan? Was that my name? Where did that come from?

“What seems to be the matter, Sullivan,” the governor said, “are you unhappy with this place?”

“Sir,” I said, “I don’t know why I am here. I am not Sullivan, I am not even Irish.” But then I wondered how I had uttered these words with an Irish accent?

The governor laughed. The guard laughed in response, still holding my arm. My hand had gone numb and I tried to move the fingers.

“I’ll remind you then,” said the governor, “you are Peter Sullivan of Cork and you are here because you stole money, and you will be here for, oh another 5 years and a half approximately.”

“No, I’m not. This must be a dream. What day is it? What year is it?”

“Monday, September 13, 1893,” was the response.

“Impossible, you see, I was born in 1963 in Chicago, my name is Steve Baker, and my family is not from here at all.”

The two had started to laugh well before I had finished my sentence. Seeing the effect of my words, I didn’t know what else I could do. This seemed to be real. The guard’s grip was certainly real, but how could I be traveling in time? The reality of it was such that I no longer believed I was going to wake up, finally in the year 2004.

“You know about the rule of silence, Sullivan, and you know there’s punishment for those who break the rules,” said the governor. I could not believe what I was hearing.

“Well, Travis, you know what to do, make sure he remembers not to break the rules again,” he added.

“Yes, governor,” said Travis, not releasing his grip from my arm which was probably blue by then. He dragged me out of the governor’s office, but instead of going back to the wing we had come from, he pulled me to the right where the gift shop was (will be? how confused could I be?), and through the corridor to a wing I had not seen before, and from which I could hear a roar like the wheel of fortune on TV, but never ending. As we entered that wing I saw what I had heard about, something I had seen in a movie once: an immense cylindrical wheel with ratchets that was kept turning by men walking on it. The racket was deafening as I was led to my station and made to join the effort. This was a mill or a pump, I wasn’t sure from what I remembered (and what did I remember? something I had read in the future?). I had no longer the mind to think about the absurdity of the situation and walked. The man next to me fell on his buttock, apparently exhausted, and I moved to help him. I thought he should get water and as I looked around I saw the guard’s stick speeding towards my sore arm. This was not a dream, for the pain I had suffered in the space of half a day was too intense. I had to return to my station and continue turning the wheel endlessly, unable to see what was happening to the other man.

The rest of my first day in the 19^th century felt like the beginning of it without its surprising novelty. I collapsed on my hard bed, unable to think what I could do to get out of this bad dream, if it was one. During the uncounted days of wheel turning, I was no longer thinking straight, as if the only things of importance were to eat and sleep, because these were the only moments for myself. When the days of wheel turning ended and the days of walking in circles and cleaning the floor resumed, I could start thinking about what was happening.

One night I was led to another cell on the top floor of the same wing, breaking my plan to start digging a tunnel to escape, as was done in novels like The Count of Monte-Cristo. Had I become so resigned to the idea that this had become my new life? I imagined that our consciousness which is linked to our body’s perception of our surroundings and that some people like to call a soul could be transferable. But that had too much of the supernatural in it. Perhaps time was a reversible entity, and instead of proceeding towards the future, it had gone to the past. Maybe I had fallen into some kind of black hole that had move me, my body, more than 100 years before. But none of these fanciful ideas made any sense to me, and none helped me to come back to 2004 when I was a free man.

There were days the sky was blue, as I could see from my window of from the exercise courtyard. That was all I could see of the world. New prisoners came in, old ones were freed. One day a boy, a teenager, had been brought in and flogged in his cell. I could hear the lashes and his cries in response to each one from my cell. I knew how the lashes felt on me because I had once received several of them while being restrained in those wooden implements that hold your neck and wrists in place. I had never felt so much pain. But I didn’t see the boy any more after that day, and assumed he had gone out, maybe not freed but transferred to a place with other boys. I remembered reading publications of human rights groups describing torture acts still happening in other countries in the year 2000, but could not imagine how they were in reality. Now, living the past, I knew what they were and what they felt like. I told myself I would work with human rights groups once I would be back in the 21^st century, if I ever were to return.

I no longer thought about what had happened. I had adapted to the mold of my new condition, trying to avoid punishment, and trying to function until the time would come for me to be free. This could be a form of despair. I knew there had been a better life for me in the past, which was the future, but I did not know how to get it back. I knew as a 19^th century man that I would be freed from this place in a number of years (I had started to keep a count, which was made easier by attending Sunday Mass and checking where in the cycle of the church we were). However on my one year anniversary, September 13, 1894, I climbed the railing and threw myself off the third floor. I woke up in the cell, in my 21^st century clothes, as if time had not moved. I opened the door and was reassured by the fact that I could open it, looked around the place I had lived in for a year that was now in disrepair, and ran for the way out. The woman at the entrance hailed and ran after me to recover the tape player. I threw it on the grass and kept running until I was sure that I was in the reality of 2004 with cars driving around on paved streets with painted yellow lines on the sides. I was now a free man, even if by the definition of “now” I had always been free. The surrounding felt familiar to me, but as if I had been there a year ago. Nobody would ever believe what had just happened to me.

Old story

In order to pay for the preservation of a wing of Cork Gaol as a museum, the city leased another wing to an entrepreneur who wanted to run it as some kind of a reenactment hotel. The city council had had several concerns regarding the proper use of the facilities and doubted that there would be customers for it. There were several conditions in the contract and there would be several inspections of the facilities to see that it would be run properly and safely.

Mr. E. had the whole wing cleaned up and rebuilt at great expense. The iron stairs, galleries, and bars on the windows had practically disintegrated over time and had to be rebuilt. The old gas conduits that had been installed several years after the construction were replaced. Most old wooden doors could be reused, and panic buttons were installed so that nobody could ever find himself truly imprisoned. Canvas beddings and uniforms in different sizes fitting today’s population were made, and there would be no lousing or other degrading treatments. The issue of plumbing came up, for there was none. A mobile facility containing showers and toilets was ordered from America. The reenactment called for the reenacting prisoners to use portable recipients for their needs, while they could “time out” and go outside for a nice, modern, warm shower. The treadmill was restored to working state, for guests to use at their option, much as they would use the gym at a fancy hotel.

These renovations were made at Mr. E.’s own expense, for no bank wanted to be involved in such a risky venture. Of course, Mr. E. was given generous tax concessions, but as soon as the hotel (if it could be called that) would generate revenues, they would be taxed after taking 10% directly to the museum fund.

Finally the hotel was to open on June 24. Some advertising had been put on the Tourist Bureau’s web site, and it had been published as “other” accommodations. Press releases had been sent to all major tourist publications well in advance, and the web site received a good amount of visitors. No reservations had been received at the end of May. Some inquiries had been received by e-mail and responded to. No, this was not catering to the S&M community, and there wouldn’t be any flogging permitted. Yes, you had to sleep on a wood plank with a thin canvas. Yes, meals were to be served, and by today’s standards they could be considered healthy but bland and unattractive. At the guest’s option, day activities could be scheduled that resembled those of the prisoners such as cleaning the cells, exercising in circles, oakrum picking, clothes making, and for the adventurous, running the treadmill and stone breaking. Breaking the rules of the past, absolute silence was not required. An e-mailer compared it to staying in a monastery.

The personnel had to be trained, the job being very popular among drama students. One had raised their awareness to an experiment made in a sociology department of a University, in which the jailors had turned vicious. They found the article about it and discussed it openly, making sure that the goal of the gaol was not to punish but to serve the wishes of the population to live as the forgotten prisoners of the 19^th century. There were clear instructions to not pressure guests into doing anything they did not want to do, and to allow them at all times to opt out of the program (refunds would be considered).

On June 2, a reservation was made for June 25 for one person, one night. It was from an Irish-American who had found that one of his relatives, Don Connolly, had sojourned at Cork Gaol. Mr. Connolly’s brother had emigrated to America on a boat at about the same time as his brother prisoner was put on the “Surprize” boat to Australia. Recent research of the records of the Australian prison showed that Robert Connolly had died two years later. Don Connolly had established a successful mortuary business in Chicago and passed it to his sons Bill and Tim. Their sons, showing no interest in the business, sold it to a nationwide chain. One of them, Patrick Connolly, had studied computers at the university and had worked his way up the management of an accounting firm offering computer services. Patrick had never married and on week-ends and evenings played networked computer games, simulation baseball, as well as paint ball on Saturday mornings. He had thought about going to his ancestors’ native land for a vacation and had seen the ad for Cork Gaol on the tourism web site. He had found it strange, but as it matched his taste for simulation games as well as his desire to live like his ancestor, he had prudently reserved it for one day, to see what it would be like.

Patrick Connolly showed up at Cork Gaol on June 25 in the afternoon. He was glad he had hired a taxicab to take him and his suitcase up the hill. The driver had heard about the reenactment hotel, but his customer was the first he ever had taken up there. He had to go through the museum entrance to reach the hotel, which meant he had to walk through the gate to a courtyard surrounded by the three-floor building with barred arched windows. He could already feel strange, thinking of Don Connolly who had probably walked the same steps with his wrists chained behind his back. Behind every one of those windows was a cell, he thought, and he wondered which one would be his. He wondered if it had been a good idea. He could see the entrance to the museum, with mannequins of two women of the past. At the entrance, to the right, was an exhibit with another mannequin of a man sitting at a desk.

“I am here for the hotel,” he said to the woman at the museum desk.

“It’s through this corridor to your left, make a right turn and go all the way through the corridor to your right,” she said, looking at him in a sympathetic manner.

He walked through the first corridor that had a low ceiling and found himself in the hall of the jail turned museum, high as a gothic church, with three floors of doors linked by metal staircases and galleries. It made him shiver. He looked at the ceiling and assumed the skylights had been built to give light to the museum and that the place was probably a lot more somber once. Above him was a high round cupola type of ceiling as he had seen from the outside. To his right was the corridor to the hotel. As he walked through it, with its series of wooden doors on the left and barred windows on the right, he wondered if those were special cells. At the end of the corridor, he saw a desk with a paper sign that said “Hotel” on it. Behind it was a young man in an old-looking black uniform with silver buttons.

“Hello,” said the young man.

“Hello. My name is Connelly, Patrick Connelly.”

The young man looked at a book that had three names written in pencil under the day’s date, and wrote a mark next to Patrick’s name.

“Welcome to Cork Gaol, Mr. Connelly. I have your reservation for one day, is that right?”

“Yes,” said Patrick.

“Obviously it is the first time for you here, and I will explain everything as we proceed, but don’t hesitate to ask questions. Also if for one reason or another you wish to get out, just say so. As we aim for an authentic simulation of the prisoner’s experience, we give you your own uniform to wear and ask that you store all your belongings in a locker. Please follow me.” He walked to the other side of the round room where cubicles with curtains had been set, and showed him into the first one. Looking at shelves opposite the cubicle, he said “Let’s try a medium size for you,” handed him a rough brown canvas shirt and pants, topped by slippers. He closed the curtain and said he’d wait.

Patrick took his shoes, shirt and pants off, stacking them on the wood bench next to the uniform, unbuttoned the shirt with disdain. It was certainly not the kind of clothing he would choose in a store. He put it on, feeling the rough canvas on his arms and neck (he had kept his undershirt on). Then he put the pants on, and finally the slippers. He had the mixed feeling of wanting to escape and wanting to continue the experiment, for it was more involved than any simulation game he had ever played.

“How does it fit?” said the young man, opening the curtain without waiting for an answer.

“Fine, I guess.”

“Good. Here is a bag for your clothes and personal effects. We will put them in a safe place.”

As soon as the clothes were in, the young man guided Patrick away from his real life. He explained a few details about a prisoner’s life, including the silence usually required. He led him up the metal staircase, turned to the right at the top, then left, and after a few steps opened a wooden door in and waited for Patrick to get in. The cell had two beds, if they could be called that, on which were thin blanket and a thin pillow. The ceiling was an arch and you could only see the gray sky from the high arched window. There were a few modern-looking implements, which the young man explained were the toilet and a water pitcher and goblet.

“Although the door does not have a handle from inside, you can always open it by pressing this button,” he said, showing a large red button on the wall near the door. “We will come to get you for dinner is at six,” he said while getting out of the cell and closing the door behind him.

This is it, Patrick thought. He supposed he shouldn’t look for things familiar in a hotel room, such as the TV or the phone. The window could not be reached to look out. The walls were bare. He sat on the hard plywood covered by the canvas. He had nothing to do but look at the walls, look at his body covered by the uniform, try to imagine how he could sleep on this hard surface. He wondered why he had done this, this experiment. What did he care about his ancestor’s brother? He must have been a thief, must have done something to deserve this punishment, he thought. He lied down and looked at the arched ceiling. Then he closed his eyes and started to think about pushing the red button, getting out and canceling the whole experiment. But he stayed still. Maybe he could take this time to reflect, to meditate. There were no TV, no phones, no voices but those he imagined. An occasional sound echoed outside, like solid doors being opened and closed. Perhaps he should have taken something to write with? He rarely wrote. He started touching between his legs through the canvas, getting his mind off the prison, outside in a flower garden, a naked woman seducing him. It kept him occupied almost to a point of ecstasy when the door opened suddenly from outside without warning. He rose up, suddenly back in the reality of the prison. It was time to walk out for dinner.

Pierre the French Sailor

Jacklyn was no longer herself since Pierre, the exchange student from France, had kissed her after she had worked on him for the first two weeks of his stay in Peoria. It is not that she had forced him to, but she had noticed that he had not fallen for the popular girls and thought she might have a chance. She had asked him out to a café downtown, one of those where he could find European coffee, and she had talked to him bluntly. She had said she liked him a lot, and he had responded that he liked her too. They talked about what they liked to do, and there were a few things she found they had in common. But Pierre mentioned that upon his return he would have to go do military service in France because that was compulsory. She was frightened at the idea that he could be called out to war, but he told her that everyone in France had to do it, and that the wars were taken care of by the professionals. It was like the reserves in the US, she understood, and France rarely called up the reserves. “So civilized,” she kept saying.

So the day for Pierre to leave America came up and there were exchanges of good wishes and addresses before Mr. Lejeune, the school principal, drove him to the airport. “I will write to you,” said Jacklyn, “you never know, I could try to travel to Europe next summer, and we could meet!” Pierre was not entirely enthusiastic about the idea, but he smiled and said “yes, sure!” He explained that he may not be able to get permission to leave wherever he would have to be. She understood, she said, and she wished she could go now, to be with him.

She had been the first to write after a week had passed. It was a nice letter, she thought, not pressuring him at all, just telling him how much she cared about him and a few other details of her life. She had taken renewed interest in her piano lessons and was able to master Fuer Elise in a very passionate way, she thought. Her teacher had complimented her on it. She thought of him a lot and was very sad to think that he may be in some dreary army camp while she had fun at home.

It took three more weeks for a letter in thin light paper with French stamps on it to arrive. Her mother held it up and said it must be from that nice young man Pierre. Jacklyn took the letter, blushing but without a word, to her room, closing the door behind her. She tore the envelope speedily, without paying attention to saving the stamp, and accidentally tore a corner piece off the letter itself. But nothing was written on that bit. He had written in what appeared to be blue ink from a fountain pen, and his handwriting was a little bit difficult to read. He wrote funny expressions like ( … ) and ( … ). He had had a good return trip, but only a few days after his return, still suffering from jet lag, he had had to travel by train to Brest, on the west coast called Brittany (it must be nice, she thought), and report to the French Navy for enrolment. She liked the idea that he was going to be a sailor and travel the world on a boat! It was hard, he wrote, as they had to sleep in a dormitory with 30 other young men, with no privacy whatsoever. They had to get up at 6 in the morning, and perform an awful amount of physical exercises. His beautiful, lush red hair had been cut, almost shaved he had written (probably a crew cut). Oh! the poor boy was so cute with his red hair, she wondered if she would like him now! She would visit him, she was certain of that, and bring him food or things he would miss in his gloomy dormitory.

“Those French know how to do it, at least in that department,” said her father, in reference to the compulsory military service.

Jacklyn argued that it sounded like a sexist practice, for only young men were called. She wished she was there with him, doing the things he was doing.

“It’s a well-known fact that sailors don’t like to have women on their boat, it’s bad luck for them” said her father.

Ignoring her old-fashioned father’s comments, she mentioned that she would like to travel to Europe next summer. She knew that her father would not approve, and that she would need to save her own money for it. But she knew she could do it. To appease her father’s concerns, she indicate that she would go with her friend Eileen.

“That girl could get you into more trouble,” responded her father, “but you will be 18 by then, and I won’t have anything to say against what you do.”

That didn’t sound like her regular father, but he had just indicated that he considered the age of 18 as old enough to do whatever one wanted. Her mother was more protective of her.

“Listen, you have known this boy for what, two weeks? Now he’s over there, you’re here, there’s an ocean between you, an awful lot of hours of difference, and what else? You should forget about him. Go with Eileen, have fun, yes by all means! But don’t fall in love with someone who isn’t here, to whom you cannot talk every day and know what he’s made of.” Her mother knew about long-distance romances. She once had fallen in love with a man who had come from New York on business, nice young man, but then it had turned out he was a gangster.

Jacklyn saved money in the 6 months she had before she had to buy her ticket to Paris. Eilen, on the other hand, had her ticket paid by her grandmother. Eileen questioned Jacklyn’s intentions when they started talking about the details of the trip. Jacklyn insisted that they include the city of Brest in their itinerary, a city that was not even in the guide book. They would waste time going there, and was Jacklyn so sure that Pierre would welcome her?

“Of course he will,” said Jacklyn, irritated. She had received another letter and had started a bundle with a pink ribbon around the thin stack of two. He had sent a photo of him in his sailor’s uniform and crew cut. Jacklyn thought he looked adorable, even without hair. She had bought a frame for the photo to display prominently on her night-stand.

Eileen finally agreed to include Brest in their itinerary, adding that they would probably have to travel on night trains in order to include all the places they wanted to include. It didn’t sound like much fun to travel all night long in those compartments with 4, sometimes 6 other people that you don’t know. But that was all part of the experience, that and youth hostels in which you had to sleep in dormitories. They found out Brest had one, and they would be sleeping in a dormitory, sharing a bit of Pierre’s experience.

Jacklyn wrote all the details in a letter to Pierre, adding that the dates had not been set definitely, so would he please respond A.S.A.P. if it looked like they should change their plans. The reply took an excruciating month to come, but he accepted her visit! The best they could do, considering his obligations, was to try to come on a Sunday, usually a free day. He wrote instructions on how to get to the barracks and ask for him. He hoped he would not be away on a boat, as they would occasionally do for extended periods of time.

Eileen and Jacklyn could now plan the entire trip around a Sunday in Brest. Jacklyn had suggested that they could perhaps plan on going a second time, on their last Sunday, but Eileen could not accept the deal. They would have to go separate ways if that should be her desire. They agreed that they would see how the first visit would go and decide then. The travel agent agreed because in order to do that they would have to add four days to their 21-day trip, changing the fare category to simply unaffordable. There would not be a second Sunday in Brest unless Jacklyn would travel all across Europe, on her own.

All the final details, with flight information and youth hostel addresses were sent to the young sailor who had other preoccupations on his mind. His best friend Marc had been involved in mishandling ammunition and as a consequence had been punished with one week in a prison cell. Pierre was especially worried that they were scheduled to sail on a 2-week training mission and that Marc wouldn’t be on it. He hoped that Marc would be back in his unit and not be moved to another because of the missed training. The news of the two American girls’ visit didn’t excite him out of his depression. Should it happen, he would also want Marc to be there to make it a balanced group of four. He neglected to reply before leaving, and the cramped conditions on the boat made it impossible to write private letters.

A rather telegraphic postcard arrived after a month, not leaving any time for Jacklyn to write back before the trip. It said Pierre had been away on a boat and could not respond earlier. It also said that he would do his best to be available on that Sunday.

“If you want my opinion, he’s being polite and courteous, but not eager to get your visit,” said Jacklyn’s mother.

“He’s been really busy,” responded Jacklyn with assurance, but feeling a bit the same way as her mother. She was not going to cancel the trip over this uncertainty. She had to go over there to know how he felt about her.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning in June when two American girls showed up at the Navy barracks in Brest, exciting the soldier in charge who was used to see relatives of sailors who came to take their boy with them to attend Mass. After a few repetitions, what with the American pronunciation of French names, he called the dormitory and showed the girls to a waiting room. The girls were not impressed with the white plaster walls, the old linoleum floor, the old wooden tables and chairs. They hoped they would not have to spend all their meeting time in such a depressing room. A young man came out the back door to meet his parents and they all walked straight out the front door. This was reassuring: nobody ever sat at these tables, people just stood in this room to wait a few minutes and leave. The back door opened again, letting out two young men in the same white shirt and crew cut as the previous one. But one was Pierre! He looked at Jacklyn and recognized her, moved towards her saying “Hello.” He moved to give her a kiss, but Jacklyn who was prepared for a single kiss on the mouth received two on the cheeks instead. Perhaps he was shy, in front of the others.

“Oh my God, look at your hair,” she exclaimed, brushing her hand on his head.

Pierre smiled and said that alas, everybody was the same. He introduced his friend Marc. Jacklyn introduced Eileen. There were hand shakings and general questions about everyone’s recent health.

“Are you hungry? Marc and I would like to take you to a restaurant,” Pierre said enthusiastically. They had not been at a restaurant in several weeks.

“Not really, you know, jet lag. But let’s go! It’s a beautiful day!” she was eager to get out of the room.

Marc walked with Eileen behind Pierre and Jacklyn, as if they were two chaperons. He didn’t speak English very well, and tried to entertain Eileen by pointing at the port, which was now below them, and saying things like “our boat,” or “the submarine.” Eileen thought he was cute, in fact she had found all these young men in uniform attractive. She wanted to touch their white sailor shirts (she thought she would like one for herself) and to brush her hand on their heads (she didn’t think she wanted a crew cut). At the restaurant she stared at the features of the white shirts: the anchor crest on the chest and the square collar with blue stripes. They looked very light and comfortable in this weather. But her mind took her to imagine pulling the shirt off and touching the breast behind the crest, the rest of the clavicle. She would keep the shirt for herself, like those girls who ran after rock stars and tore their shirts off.

“Hot?” Marc tried to suggest, seeing the beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

“Yeah, they don’t have air conditioning here,” she said, trying to recompose herself.

Meanwhile, Pierre and Jacklyn had done the round of people they knew, and ran out of ideas on how to continue the conversation. In fact, nothing very interesting was happening in Navy training.

“Where you go, after?” launched Marc. That was a good conversation starter, so the girls could tell them their itinerary and the boys could give them advice, even when they didn’t know those places. Someone was bound to have told them something about those places, an uncle, a grandmother. It made for pleasant conversation.

After lunch they walked along the rocks above the seashore, and stopped to sit on a large one, all four of them. After a few long minutes of staring at the waves on the ocean, nothing was happening and Jacklyn moved her head to Pierre’s shoulder. Instead of watching the ocean, Eileen stared at Marc’s white shirt, the blue stripes on the sleeve, the blue stripes on the square collar, the long neck it revealed. She put her right hand on his shoulder, two fingers touching his soft skin, and her index stroking the stripes. She was like an electric wire that needed to be grounded, and the touch restored her balance. Marc did not move and continued to stare at the ocean. After a while Eileen withdrew her hand, somewhat satisfied but at the same time disappointed at the cold reception.

It was soon time to go back to the bare room, but Jacklyn suggested that they part outside. She hid her emotions as Pierre kissed her on the cheeks the same way she had seen the President of France kiss the President of Russia. In fact, both girls received an identical treatment from both boys. They waved again after entering the building and said good bye again. Then the door was closed and the two young men resumed their life together, somewhat relieved that Brest had not been added a second time to the girls itinerary.

“Hot,” said Eileen, after the door closed.

“Yeah, I’m glad we wore shorts,” said Jacklyn.

“I meant: the guys in and around here. Hot!”

“Not for me, thank you. I think he was a bit rude, not recognizing that we have a history.”

“Oh, come on. Come with me, I’ll get you to know too many guys in the next three weeks. I think you and I need to do some guy watching together. As for Pierre and Marc, I don’t think they’re into girls, you know.”

“I just don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s go.”

Among Friends

Max Bilenski had to spend the week-end in London because his wife wanted him to take pictures. The training session he had given at his company’s European headquarters in a suburb west of London was ending early Friday afternoon so that the Europeans who attended could catch a flight or a train so they would be home in the evening. Not so for Max, who had to fly all the way back to Cincinnati on Sunday. Arrangements had been made for him to spend two nights in a small hotel for roughly the price of the night at the corporate hotel, so it was all going to be free. This way he could get the pictures and not spend inordinate amounts of money for them. He had considered canceling the whole thing, buying something nice at the airport instead, but the airline said the Saturday flight had filled up and that he could not possibly change his plan. He resigned himself to take the train to London, pulling his dirty laundry of one week with him.

The travel lady at his company had reserved a hotel in Bloomsbury for him, she said it was near the British Museum (he didn’t particularly care about that), a short cab ride from the train station, and a few steps from where he could take the bus back to Heathrow. The travel lady had added that perhaps he would care to see a show, like The Phantom of the Opera, but seeing the face he had made in reaction she had withdrawn the offer to look for something to do. Max cared mostly about sports and movies that have car chases in them. He knew that the British didn’t offer the kind of sports that Americans enjoy, so there wasn’t much he could do in London on a Saturday, waiting for his Sunday plane.

The train station in London was at best chaotic (and filled with diesel fumes), but he found the signs for the taxi waiting area. He gave the address of the hotel to the driver, who seemed to know where it was (something that wouldn’t happen in America, he thought), and then he had an idea.

“Say, would the Palace be on the way?”

“Which one, Sir?”

“The Queen’s palace, and the one where Princess Diana used to be” he answered.

They were not quite on their way, but the driver figured it would be feasible without getting into heavy congestion. Max understood that the extra miles would save him from the trip on Saturday. He was able to take pictures from the window of the spacious cab, and his duty was done in less than an hour. He realized that had he known when they made the airline reservations for him, he could have flown back home on Saturday. That made him even more mad to be stuck in London for a day with nothing to do.

The taxi stopped in front of a door on a wide one-way street that reminded him of Boston. The hotel was one of several identical three-story houses with black doors. There was no driveway, there was nobody to take his luggage, and the driver stayed inside the car, waiting for him to get out and pay. When he finally made it to the hotel door, he had to ring the bell. “I guess I’m the bell boy,” he thought. The door buzzed to let him push it open. A young attractive woman came to meet him, a pad in hand. She asked for his name, found it on her sheet, and gave him the pad to sign.

“Your room is #11, on the third floor,” she said, meaning the fourth floor and giving him a set of keys. “This key is for the outside door, please don’t let anyone in behind you. Let them ring the bell.” It sounded like this could be the bad part of town with vagrants ready to attack people.

There was no elevator. There was no elevator, and he cursed the travel lady for booking a hotel without an elevator and a room on the fourth floor. Not only did he have his luggage to carry upstairs, he also had substantial amount of fat. The carpeted stairs were as narrow as house stairs when houses had them. He had always lived in suburban bungalows with only one floor, not even a basement. For him, stairs were either used for decoration, the occasional visit to a stadium, or the Lincoln memorial in Washington D.C. where he had to take his in-laws once. He had to stop at each floor to catch his breath, and with each step he became slower. He saw with concern that there were toilets and showers outside the rooms, meaning that he may not have a bathroom in his room. “I’m going to get her fired,” he thought of the travel lady. Arrived at the door of his room he realized that he would have to stoop to enter, a confirmation that he was taller than the average British subject. The room looked quaint as his wife would appreciate it: it had what appeared to have been a fireplace once, now a decoration. He checked the bathroom, which looked like it could win the prize for the world’s smallest, as if one could squeeze a wash basin, a toilet, and a shower in the space normally allocated just for the toilet. A shower in there was going to be a challenge. This must be for children, he thought, or someone’s way to claim there’s a full bathroom in the room and charge for it. But he was going to be here only until Sunday morning and he tried to make the best of it. He lied down on the double bed for a few minutes and fell asleep. Hunger awakened him an hour later. He went downstairs and asked the woman where he could find a restaurant. Apparently there were many on the street behind their block, and if he was in the mood for Italian food there were two good ones there. He walked for the first time in the streets of London, he thought, and he saw many more people walking. The cars and red double-decker buses were noisy. He walked around the block, saw an underground station and became curious: maybe he should try it? Maybe he should try riding a bus? On the second floor of the bus? It looked like many respectable people were using these services. But for the moment he had to look for the Italian restaurant. There were two next to each other and he chose the one which had a TV playing sports. It was playing Italian soccer, not his favorite, but it presented some action that one could reasonably follow. At the table next to his was an old man who was watching the game and commenting to the barman in Italian (or so Max thought). It sounded like the old man didn’t think much of the game. Without further ado he started addressing his comments to Max, who tried to show he could not understand what he said.

“He’s asking you what your favorite team is. He is from Naples, but he likes the Rome team,” said the barman.

“Sorry, I don’t know much about soccer,” said Max.

“You must be American, to call it soccer,” said the barman. “E’ Americano,” he said to the old man, who smiled and emitted an understanding “Ah.”

The old man started addressing Max by touching him on the shoulder. Apparently the old man had cousins in Brooklyn (he had said something that sounded like “broccolino” but the barman had corrected it). Max told him that Cincinnati wasn’t really near New York and that he couldn’t know the man’s cousins. He feared he would have to take some package with him to deliver to the cousins. He had heard specific instructions from the travel people not to accept such arrangements. For a while the barman had to go to the kitchen and the conversation stopped. Max’s pasta had arrived and he started eating it voraciously.

“Eh,” said the old man joyously, “buono?”

“Yeah, bono” responded Max between two mouthfuls and guessing it meant it was good. The barman was back and the old man said something to him that resulted in a pitcher of red wine delivered with two glasses. One glass was put on Max’s table.

“Compliments of the house,” said the barman.

And so Max’s first evening in London was spent as if he had been in Italy. When he was ready to leave, he left a good tip, and both the old man and the barman shook his hand. He had not experienced such warmth in the week that he had just spent in England and was both surprised and pleased by it. That night he fell asleep easily, not even attempting to turn the small TV on, and thought he had been right to stay in London.

It was raining intermittently on Saturday, but he tried to get up before the end of the breakfast service at 9 o’clock. At 8:30 he was downstairs in the basement, figured out it was a complete self-service all-you-can-eat breakfast as he liked them. The British knew how to make a breakfast resembling the American breakfast: there were eggs and bacon on one side, cold cereal on the other. Despite their insistence on drinking tea, they also had coffee and coffee mugs. There didn’t seem to be any other Americans in the room and he wondered how the travel lady had found this hotel. After the uneventful breakfast he stopped to ask the woman, a different one from last night, how to take the bus and possibly the subway.

“But, is it safe?” He asked.

“Safe? Oh, a train derailed last week, but otherwise it’s been safe, yes,” she answered, apparently puzzled by the question. She had no purse snatching story that she could remember, but she warned him that if he should find himself in a crowd, to watch for his wallet. It did not reassure him. He wanted to hear stories of having to wait a long time to have bags searched and things like those, because after all he had seen strangely foreign people at the airport of the kind that didn’t like Americans. But, hadn’t he been safe so far, and why should he assume that he would be there while an attack like those they showed on TV would occur? He decided to try. The woman explained how to buy a day pass, and where to go with the subway, how to come back with the bus. He could ride the top of a bus, get off, cross the street and ride the same bus number in the other direction. She suggested he take a flyer for guided walks, there were several going on that day. With so much information, Max set foot on the sidewalk and ventured towards the subway station. He tried not to look like a tourist, not to attract the swindlers and the terrorists. But for someone like Max it was impossible: he was the very definition of an American outside of America. There was his size, showing that he rarely walked around and had never experienced unsatisfied hunger. His clothes didn’t really stand out, being the standard department store issue in the usual absence of color. Now that cameras were small enough to fit in a pocket, he didn’t even have one protruding on his belly. He imagined that he should not look like a tourist if he didn’t look too much at the tourist sights. A quick glance would suffice, and if he wanted to take a picture, he would secure his surroundings before pulling the camera out of his pocket. He also tried hard to remember details of the path he had taken, some sort of pebbles sprinkled not on the street but inside his brain, so that he would not have to pull out a map. He had heard of tourists pulling out a map and being accosted by pick-pockets pretending to want to help. But now he wondered if that was not in the American Express commercial on TV? Was it possible that his perception of the world had been entirely shaped by TV?

He found himself at Covent Garden, after climbing another flight of stairs to escape the subway. The name sounded familiar, and when he saw the marketplace he recognized it somehow. “My Fair Lady,” he thought, “that’s it!” He tried to remember the joyful songs of the movie which he had seen on a TV special about Audrey Hepburn. All around the square were entertainers. In one corner, or rather the middle of the street (no cars were allowed on it), there were two Chinese men playing Chinese instruments, one resembling a violin and the other resembling a xylophone with the strings of a piano on which the man was hammering with sticks. He stopped for a while, not staying too close so he would not feel obliged to put money into the bucket. He looked behind him and saw that there were shops there. He thought he could look for something more authentic than what was available at the airport for once. But all he saw were teddy bears in royal guard uniform and double-decker buses, just the same that he could get at the airport. Otherwise there were things his wife might have been interested in, but he was at a complete loss. “If only my cell phone worked here, I could call her and ask,” he thought.

On the other side of the square there was a crowd cheering, and he looked at what it could be. He approached the crowd, looking for a vantage point. In the middle of the crowd he could see a man riding around what looked like a very high unicycle. It looked like a circus act, and Max liked the circus, despite the now popular pooh-poohing of animal tricks. He had been in Las Vegas where he had seen world famous acrobatics, and he knew how to appreciate a good show. He watched it, still from a distance, but also noticing that he could go up to a deck from where people could watch. He found the entrance. It was a pub, and it was called “Punch and Judy.” He climbed the stairs and found himself quickly on the terrace. He imagined that he needed to order something and asked for a beer, a lager (he didn’t want a dark ale so early in the day). The unicyclist’s show was coming to an end, and the unicyclist and his assistant were going around the crowd with buckets to collect money. “I have the best of both worlds,” he thought, “I got a beer and a view for the same price.” The crowd slowly dispersed and he saw that another performer was ready to start another show. “Must be organized somehow, scheduled by someone,” he thought, not believing that the performers could agree to their schedule. There had to be times when there were more tourists to be entertained, and that would be more desirable to a performer who would pay more for the spot. He could not resist to believe that there was either a union or an owner of the place, or both, who had found a scheme to make money out of it. He finished his beer before the second show started and went down the stairs, realizing he may have drunk the beer too quickly. He made it down the stairs safely, however. He walked around the show area to a gate that said St Paul’s church and where he had seen more crowds watching smaller shows. It was some kind of a community fair, as he noticed from the table selling English sandwiches and tea for the choir. He bought a sandwich but skipped the tea. There was more action on the lawn behind the church, the churchyard he knew it was called, where a whole set of Punch and Judy shows, small puppet theatres inside which the puppeteer hides and does his show. There were two groups of theatres arranged in semi-circles, and each had one show going at a time, with kids sitting on the ground. He watched one, not really as if a kid, but to see how the show was keeping the kids in attention. Towards the end, he saw that someone had a bucket ready to start collecting, but this time he resisted his escape and fished a big 50p piece from his pocket. He put it in the bucket when he could and saw a table displaying puppets. He was intrigued by these people who spent their free time putting up these shows.

“Interested in a puppet, Sir?” the young man at the table asked. He was dressed in a white shirt and a colorful vest.

“Oh, not really, thank you,” Max answered automatically. But he was still looking at them.

“That’s a Punch there you’re looking at,” the young man said. “We make them ourselves so you can make your own show. If you want, you can get a whole set, with Punch and Judy, the baby, the alligator…”

Max found the idea interesting: did he look like he could get under one of those theatres and do a show? Perhaps that would make his business presentations more lively, he thought.

“Do you do a show yourself?” he asked the young man.

“Yes, sir, I’ve been doing them on my own for three years now,” the young man said proudly. “I’m also developing my own puppets and new acts. Are you American?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m here only for one day,” Max answered to defuse the possibility of a sale.

The young man remained silent, putting his puppet over his hand and making it clap.

“Are there puppet shows like these over there in America? he asked.

“No, only on TV, you know, the Muppet Show?”

The young man didn’t seem to know. Maybe he didn’t have a TV, or he was born after the Muppet Show. Or maybe he thought he could come to America and set up shows in shopping malls. He didn’t look like he could afford the airfare anyway. It was time for Max to escape.

“Thank you,” he said, walking away. The young man had his puppet clap in response.

Max walked out as fast as he could from the churchyard. He didn’t want to be asked for hospitality should the young puppeteer come to America. But then he realized it would have been unlikely, and he slowed his pace. He started regretting being so unfriendly and business-like with a kid. He wasn’t that kind of man, or was he? He had a compassionate side, when the pastor talked on Sundays about giving, or when Jerry Lewis had a telethon on Labor Day. Americans were compassionate, he remembered the President himself declare. “We are good people,” he thought. But something had happened there in the churchyard. He realized that his compassion was something that the TV talked about, and it had meant to send a check in return of which a receipt for a tax deduction would be sent. There were grand causes which almost made him cry in front of the TV. He had felt sorrow for the victims of catastrophes, the widows and orphans of dead soldiers sacrificed for them. But today he realized that he saw others as wanting something from him, and he resisted them. Random encounters on the streets of Cincinnati were rare (he never ventured downtown anyway) and he imagined they were more of the kind that David Letterman puts up, provoking comic situations out on the street. If you wanted to talk to puppeteers, you would go to a puppeteer convention. If you wanted to talk to old people, you would go to a Senior Center.

The rest of his day was spent walking around, looking at shop windows. He saw “James Smith & Sons, Sticks and Umbrellas” and was amused by the idea that such a store had existed for over a hundred years. He wondered if that was where one could get a sword hidden in an umbrella. That reminded him he had not seen anyone in a bowler hat. Then he saw a socialist bookstore and avoided staying near it, as if the devil was in there ready to grab the passers-by to convert them and convince them to move to Cuba. His legs were now tired from the walking. He stopped at a pub and got in to have a pint and to sit down. He knew he would not get much out of these legs and had an early dinner of fish and chips there at the pub. It was time to go back to the hotel and rest, making sure that his luggage was ready for the departure in the morning.

His size commanded a business-class seat, especially when traveling for work. Once the plane had taken off they started giving out drinks and he had a Beck’s (he had adopted English beer now). He looked at what his personal TV screen had to offer. There were movies, the usual lot that he had seen on cable, or the boring foreign type, and then there were episodes of Friends. He stopped the channel surfing on Friends, and had a beer in its company.