In The Dawn Of Her Memories

   In the dawn of her memories, there was only light. Subtle, soothing luminescence streaming through ornate windows high above her small new form as it lay mesmerized and curious about everything in the palace of her father, the rajah of a small but ancient and powerful island kingdom in the Indian Ocean, near enough for lucrative trade in ancient times, but obscure enough for safety from the Portuguese more recently. Observing the seemingly endless procession of servants who came and brought her tiny, incredibly tasty bits of food and drink even when she was an infant, she supposed they were all her family. It would take time for her to learn what the crisp, rapid bow meant, and how very different her life was from that of all about her. But in this beginning, she remembered closeness and warmth of skin, long woman’s hair and ready nipples, hunger happily met, the soft stroking of her tiny form by women’s hands and the touch of women’s lips on her head, her diminutive cheeks, sometimes everywhere. It all felt good, and she would often laugh and kick her little legs in the air. She supposed she cried, but did not recall it. She was told she could be irritable sometimes, but if she was demanding it never went very far, for all her slightest needs and whims were always immediately and completely met by the many loyal, loving servants. If she became cold, it was never for more than second; if hot, breezes real or manufactured appeared as from nowhere. If bored, she was entertained by curious, magical melodies drawn from the earliest days of the kingdom and the best voices of the most tender, glad-faced maidens in the kingdom. She did remember very early noticing the sea. It was not so much that she heard it or saw it, though she surely did, it was as if it was part of her in the same way that her own heartbeat was, or her breath, or the blinking of her long-lashed eyes. It was a constant rhythm, a neverending source of solace, a constant among numberless constants in her miraculously euphoric child’s world. Her father’s voice was also there, strong and patient, mellifluent and wondrously varied in tone. He was always telling her stories, saying how beautiful she was, how much he loved her, how grand and blessed her life was to be. She remembered so many of the things that he said, all the endearing little names—“Pooka”, “Cinnamon monkey”, “Angel”—and the colorful, yet odd, stories he told her. Though she couldn’t have possibly remembered much from infancy, it was uncanny how many hundreds of her father’s stories she retained as she grew older. Older. She would never be as totally spoiled and as utterly unaware of even tiny moments of unhappiness as she grew older, as was her experience as an infant---a totally-adorable, constantly-hugged small soul in a world far, far larger and more complex than she could have ever imagined. Though she was always dressed in the finest silk, lavender, cream-colored and of course saffron, in the beginning she didn’t even have to dress herself. She was totally, hopelessly spoiled, a condition she became accustomed to, and forever after would find her desired—no, her demanded—status quo. As soon as she could talk, she would find herself going hoarse and voiceless from constant demands upon her numberless servants and tutors, who moved ever faster and offered up ever more profuse apologies for not having met her every whim and wish immediately. So, what was wrong with immediately, she often asked herself? They were well-trained and well-paid. If they couldn’t do it, she would find others who would move yet faster and be even more nimble in anticipating the tiniest craving or most obscure request for yet another toy, a new handmade doll, or yet another mechanical device which would present her with entire little operas made up of minute painted figures moving deftly upon various exotic stages to endlessly euphonious, spirited melodies.  

   That part of her which was one with the sea led her to sneak out of the palace when she was still so small as to need to pile up pillows to reach doorknobs, hide under the fishnets or banana piles or silk goods of countless of ships in the bejeweled harbor of the island kingdom, and occasionally find herself heading toward the open sea. So carefully-watched was she, however, that she never managed to entirely escape her island kingdom; some courtier or advisor of her  father’s who feared losing his head would always catch her just before the ship totally slipped away. But this so excited her that she would dream of being a stowaway far more than being a proper princess. She could not rightly complain of not being properly tended to as she gradually grew taller and ever more clever, though she did anyway. Nor was there ever an absence of great poets, jesters, musicians, jugglers, magicians, and wise men to entertain her, and tutors whom she so routinely outraged that most eventually chose to risk their lives and escape the sublime island kingdom than have to abide with her chimeras for yet another day. Almost despite herself, she came to learn 15 ancient and modern tongues by 6, and was composing poetry in many languages before she was 8. Her graphic and design talents were a particular fascination for her father, as he was constantly being presented painfully-detailed drawings and models of new additions to the royal palace, and, not a few times, an entirely new palace. And he so adored her that he would find himself too often readily agreeing to an especially quaint addition, until he had consulted the royal treasurer, who would turn red in the face and begin pacing the floor and pulling his hair out. To make amends, her father would always give her yet another ruby, or diamond, or great egg-sized jade to add to her already staggering collection. Whenever he would make such amends, she would leap into his arms and kiss him eagerly on the cheek, bringing a merriment to the dear man’s face which he wore the rest of the day and often into the next

                  Yet who can capture the mirror of the master's image?

                       Who dares whisper in the rare morning hours of pure thought

                      A mere fragment of that unwritten inner drama

                       Unfolding with each breath and silent heart-desire

                       Of the shifting spheres of form and motion,

                          Coming together, parting, falling through countless eons

                               To bring into being for a sacred instant

                                            This conscious, radiant creature with eyes aglow---


                    Behold, ye multitudes, the human child in full flower! 

Before……..before first charcoaled sabertigres burning bright or moanlohigh a nightingale on cherrytree sang……..…..speak..no…………..glimmerwonder…

sweetholy……shallwe…….shallwe……shallwe……..darewe………darewe……

hear……..omensomeonedying……….we?………mourninglonging……..for……

…whatwasishallbe………alabastretear……..one……fallingfallingfallingfalling

               

I

        It was a cruel night in London.  The wind came from the north, and blew off the caps of all the men, and the bonnets of all the women.  Trees seemed to moan in misery as their limbs were stretched to breaking again and again.  Even the Thames, so often peaceful, was a gurgling cauldron of discontent and chaos.  No boats were out.  Several long blocks from Westminster Abbey stood a narrow, three-story brick building which appeared rather dismal and somewhat neglected.  A weathered sign said simply, "Dreams Interpreted",  and, curiously, no hours for business were displayed.       Approaching the shop from a street abandoned by people--the storm had driven everyone inside---I was startled to find the entry door open a crack.  I pushed upon it, it swung open easily, and I stepped into a room that could have existed in some earlier century.  A stone fireplace dominated the room, with bookshelves on all the other three walls extending from the floor to the ceiling.  In the center of the room was an intricate Persian rug.  If one stood at the muddy outside rungs and then followed the rungs toward the middle, one would see them becoming lighter and brighter, with all manner of animal and sea life, scenes from mythology, great seagoing vessels from various eras, and a procession---between these other scenes---of human faces, all quite different, yet similar in ways I cannot quite explain. The center itself displayed a bold morning sun rising over some unknown sea.  Upon the waters of this sea--so much quieter than the waters of the Thames--could be seen a number of fishing vessels.  Some seemed primitive and small, with fishermen casting out nets, or pulling them in replete with jumping fish.  Others seemed more modern, yet remained quite simple.  Some were merely rowboats with various people---women, children, workers on holiday---rowing about quite contentedly.  Occasionally, someone from a rowboat would jump into the sea and swim vigorously to shore, where they would then lie quietly in the sun for a time.     Before the great stone fireplace sat two chairs, both wooden rocking chairs that looked as if they had been in the same spot for centuries.   One was a tall-backed chair, and not until I drew quite near the fireplace did I notice that there was a very old, rather small man sitting in it, staring into the leaping flames of the fire.  Without turning his white-haired head, he spoke to me.  "Do sit down, please.  The tea will be ready presently", he said.  I then noticed a grill over the fire on which could be seen an intricately-decorated teapot.  Quite colorful, with tiny hand-painted enamel tiles covering it, its design seemed wrought by a young child, with all the enthusiasm and none of the reserve so typical of children's art.  As I peered more closely, I could see a tapestry of events on the teapot.  There was a small girl studying a map of the world.  Then she would point to a particular part of a certain country.  The next tiles showed her having arrived at that very spot that had been indicated. I recognized the various wine areas of France in one scene; the pyramids of Egypt in another; and in other scenes, the child was shown flying over high, snow-capped mountain peaks.  No, the child had no wings, but her arms were outstretched as though they helped guide her in some manner.  In the last sequence of tiles I could see on the teapot, the child was hovering over distant, unknown planets deep in space.  I was curious about what scenes were depicted beyond that, but could not make anything out.  Obeying the wishes of the curious little man,I sat down, and, feeling immediately very much at ease, began rocking gently back and forth, staring into the fire.      Presently, the small fellow lifted the teapot just enough to pour tea into two translucent Chinese tea cups.  The outlines of daffodil blossoms lined the outside of the cup, and were very subtly painted, so as not to frustrate the eye from seeing through the walls of the cup. As I began sipping the tea, a dream I had experienced months before came to mind.  Even more oddly, between the outlines of the daffodils appeared scenes from my dream, all very delicately-painted to not obscure the translucence of the teacup.     "What do you see, my child?" asked the ancient man, still not looking at me.  "Speak up now so that I can hear you, my hearing is not as good as it used to be!"   As I spoke, continuing to rock in the venerable old chair, flames from the fire shot up, lighting the entire room as it hadn't been before.  And now, gazing about the room, where books had been appeared these various scenes and people---perhaps from the various books, I cannot say;  it was a startling yet intriguing thing to behold.  Just as I saw these many scenes, I began to speak.     "My dream began with me seated at my writing desk, examining a small jewelled box I had just received in the mail from a distant relative who lived in India.  My delight with the tiny rubies, sapphires, diamonds and moonstones was chastened by an inexplicable anxiety over opening the lovely box.  Why was this so?"     "You must open the box, but not with one bold gesture, but slowly, with immense tenderness and respect", advised the little man who had yet to gaze my way.  In the dream, I found myself doing exactly that.     "Oh!  I smell cinnamon!" I exclaimed.  "Perhaps it contains spices."  Opening the diminutive box a bit more, I could see a bit of one wall.  "Ah, I see.  The box is lined with cinnamon bark.  How very odd, such fragile bark being able to provide a sturdy structure for a box of such substance!"     "Why, you suppose the earth has always had cinnamon as you know it now, my child?" exclaimed the odd little man.  "There was a time when there were whole forests made up of nothing but towering cinnamon trees!  Traveling through such a forest, however, was a challenging experience.  The scent of the cinnamon back then was so sweet that many a traveler simply became content to remain in the cinnamon forest, forgetting their destination completely.  Even those who came to rescue their lost friend, however much they hurried, did not always succeed in escaping its magical aroma."     As I opened the box with studied reverence, a small white dove flew out of the box and perched on the rugged and worn fireplace mantle.  Almost immediately, other birds, swallows, hummingbirds, robins, finches, and nightingales also came from the box and joined the dove on the mantle.      "These are some of the birds who live in the cinnamon forest", proclaimed the little man as he tossed a few logs onto the fire.  You must yourself enter the cinnamon forest if you're to know the import of this dream, my child", he advised.       Here was a mystery.  The ancient man spoke of a forest which no longer existed, and encouraged me to somehow visit this forest!   Such nonsense!   Then again, such is the stuff of dreams sometimes.  I opened the jewelled box a bit more and instantly found myself standing alone at the edge of an intensely-scented cinnamon forest.  As much as I willed myself to turn and go in another direction, I found myself drawn deeper and deeper into this peculiar, rather-hypnotic forest.  My sense of being in the room with the old man, of sitting in the soothing rocking chair, of even having a life back in London, all began to fade.  Only immense efforts to somehow retain even a small link to that room and my other life preserved them as having any reality at all.   And the further I traveled into the cinnamon forest, the more I noted its beauties and wonders, the hazier my focus on  my other life became;  so much so, that at times it seemed to not matter at all.   A part of me feared this rupturing of ties to my own time and place, while another grew more intrigued and delighted by the second by the then more-substantial, far more interesting, cinnamon forest.  

                                                                                            II

        If one has never been in a forest which hypnotizes with every new step taken into it, they are fortunate, for this forest was an enticing monster of a thing, disguised in multitudinous shades of colors, reflections, and shadows one sees only in the works of the greatest masters of art.  I fought mightily to remain that connection with my own time and place---even scratching my hand deliberately on a coarse branch to as to remember by seeing my own wound.  After foolishly trying to hold my breath for a very long time, I exhaled violently, then took in a full measure of the forbidden scent.  Again and again I inhaled, as if to dare whoever or whatever was behind my predicament.  Then I began to run in the cinnamon forest, deeper and deeper, so that less and less light was seen.  As I ran, I inhaled even more deeply and began to see winged creatures hovering about me as I went along.  They had the face of women, but the body of large pheasants, quite colorful but not overdone. One seemed to smile at me, so I addressed it.     "Is this your amusement, to fly along with one such as I as I run ever more wildly toward my certain doom?" I asked.   Its smile grew.   "Oh foolish human, what do you know of such places as this?   You humans live your entire lives not knowing that your dream worlds are far more real than your waking ones;  if you would learn this one thing, there would be virtually nothing that could not be accomplished in your realm."  Mocking me, it tilted its head a bit as if to look at me quizzically.      "So I am to believe a flying pheasant with a woman's face can tell me that where I am is more important than...than..."  My mind went blank!  "Oh, yes," seeing the wound on my hand, I remembered, "you would have me think that this is more real than where I came into this world and have been ever since?"   The pheasant-woman laughed, "But this is your very problem----how astute of you to define it so well!   Yes, this lovely forest which all love and in which all life thrives and knows joy is indeed far more real than your silly world of politics and businessmen, with their buffoonery, greed, and refusal to acknowledge that they control only the tiniest tip of a tip of the grand iceberg of existence!  And give them a natural calamity---an earthquake, a draught, a changing of the billion variables that have clicked together as the tumblers of a huge bank vault might accidentally click together once every 10,000 years if a child kept turning it enough, so as to make their arrogant little world possible---and they are ruined!   Yes, they are like blind beasts running stupidly into walls again and again, because they are so accustomed to having every door opened for them!"     "What do you know of my world, really?  This incense forest is your home---it is possible, however, that I now know more of your forest-world than you will ever know of mine through rumor and myth!"  The creature was annoying me.     "Ah, my friend, yet again you have put your finger right on it----rumor and myth are far more important ultimately than any number of skyscrapers in your vaunted world;  indeed, though some of us have occasionally traveled there, we found it far too boring, much too busily concerned with silly matters of no consequence when compared to our happy forest."  The creature tipped its head in that odd little way once again, flying along and peering at me with mock-amusement.     "Well, dream-being, what if I should decide to wake up entirely---your world would utterly vanish!   Indeed, how do I know that you are not merely the product of my feverish imagination, and have no reality apart from it?"  Now I smiled, and felt a certain victory in my words.  I even cocked my head to the side a bit and peered at the flying pheasant-woman as it had peered at me!     "Oh, if you wake up, we will not stop being!  And it matters not to us whether we have lived here for billions of your earth-years or were created ten minutes ago, as is truly the case with some who live here----for we will continue to be here, and know great merriment and genuine joy as you return to your superficial world of toil and worry!   Then, perhaps years from now, or, more sadly, even on your death bed, you will remember this forest and we creatures of delight and beauty, and you will weep, for you would have poorly chosen to not return to the very heart of who you are as a human----no, no, I would not wish this upon you!   Much better that you stay as long as you can, and get to know all of us well.   Then you can return to your realm a complete person at last."  Yet again, the odd cocking of its head.     I thought of a new tactic.  "Well, what if you are the true monster, and I am the benevolent one, come to speak to you of peace and reason and a harmony with nature that you have not considered?"  Now I gazed at the flying thing and laughed, tilting my head to first one side, then the other, then back again.     "Oh, you are such a nonsensical being!   I truly hope that all humans are not as ill as you, for the simple fact is that we ARE nature!   When you experience those rather brief moments of bliss and transcendence in your pallid world, you are in truth communing with us!   And you are going to 'instruct us' on nature?   Ah, it is much too funny;  if you continue like this, I will hasten to bring all the others to hear this great amusement that you toss out as if you were the Master Sage of the Ages!" Now its woman face passed through a dizzying array of images, from that of a tiny baby to that of a matronly society woman to that of a young girl whose face glowed with the unmistakable peace, contentment, and wondrous mystery of her first love. I was in a ferocious otherworldly chess game, and though I spoke boldly, the fact is I continued running, running, ever deeper into the great cinnamon forest, the branches of the trees becoming higher and higher, so that the sun barely came through at all. What madness was this?  And where was I running so desperately to, anyway?   I tried to make myself stop running, but it was fruitless.  Such was my unhappy state as I traveled along in the company of this angel-demon of a flying creature that made me feel as though I knew nothing---nothing at all----and it knew everything.    

Rendezvous

   The night had fallen suddenly and without warning.  What had moments before been a busy avenue, full of speeding vehicles and the eternal rush of humanity, now seemed strangely deserted and silent.  Even the bustling harbor, jammed with multitudes of vessels from various nations, large and small, had exchanged its daylight identity for that of the dark hours.  The ocean was now a vast, blackened plain, unmoving as far as the eye could see but for the occasional pitch of a great hulk upon the murky waters.  Except for the presence of the young man standing on the decaying wood of the oldest section of the dock, the night had enveloped the entire area with an almost lifeless quality.        He had been standing on the aged boards for hours, gazing with searching eyes far out to sea.  His face was nearly expressionless and his erect frame, clothed in a neat, dark blue business suit, was immobile.  It was a body which, though motionless, looked as agile and limber as an athlete's.  Only the fingers of his taut hand moved, occasionally digging unconsciously into the rotting wood of a nearby piling.  His face, strong and well-shaped, was distinguished by peculiarly bright blue eyes which almost glowed in the darkness, and his thick hair was wind-tossed and damp.  He might have continued in his solitude had it not been for the unexpected appearance of another figure.        From one of the denser pockets of fog on the dock slowly emerged a hazy form. The image moved with seeming difficulty along the worn planking in the direction of the young man, who still stared straight out at the sea.  The approaching figure walked partly crouched over, and with a limp.  Around it was an ankle-length, tattered plaid overcoat which so completely covered the frame that not only was it impossible to tell the sex, but it was also hard to ascertain if it was a human being at all.  The head was well-protected from sight by a large, battered hat.        The young man, standing silently by the piling, did not hear the approaching, uneven footsteps until they were a mere ten feet away.  Startled, he whirled about-- and saw the figure jump slightly at his movement.  For a long moment neither stirred nor spoke.  Then, the great, worn hat slowly lifted and beneath it appeared the squinting eyes of a very old man.  He spoke very softly.        "Sorry, son, if I scared you.  Didn't expect to run into anyone out on the old dock this time of night."        "I-uh-didn't expect you either."        "Well, guess I'll leave you to your thoughts..."        "No...it's all right.  You can stay," he said with some hesitation.        "Why, that's very kind of you, son," the old man replied in a now trembling voice, seemingly greatly touched by the small favor.        The young man had wanted to be alone.  Yet, being unaware of how he had come to the dock--or even why--he now noticed the gentle quality of the old man's voice and thought that, in his almost irrational state of mind, it might be wise to have another human present.  Hopefully the old character, whose face now bore an odd smile, wouldn't babble on with some meaningless hard-luck story.        This sort of place suited the tramp, but why had he come here, the young man thought.  What was this desolate place?  He seemed bewildered, stunned by something that he could not fathom.  Had he not left Elisabeth but a short while before?  Had he not kissed her gently on the forehead, and whispered to her a few words of the endless unwritten poetry which formed in his head when he was with her?  They had sat quietly under the veranda of his newly-purchased estate a few minutes north of the city.  Still fresh in his mind was the scent of the lilacs around the delicate Florentine table, the way that the afternoon sun illuminated the entire portico and garden area, enhancing the natural sheen of her golden hair and the grey of her eyes, her voice subtly filling the air like music and intoxicating him with its mellifluent tone.  All was brightness, all was light.  They had talked, he remembered, made plans, laughed in the manner of those who speak the unspoken, who know, who live as only lovers do. He felt, even now, as though he was yet there.  They had planned something, he knew that, but what?  He was incensed, not accustomed to such lapses of memory, not willing to tolerate the slightest loss of either concentration of self-control.        The tattered overcoat fluttered slightly in the breeze, evoking in the young man the memory of a sail flapping in the brisk salty bay wind of last week's cruise with Elisabeth.  He did not yet own a yacht, but went out with a stock broker friend. Elisabeth had looked out at the horizon too then, murmuring, "It seems as if you could sail away to where the sea meets the sky, and just keep going forever.  Would you like that?  We can do it, you know.  Of course sometimes we would have to stop at a friendly island for water and cocoanuts and things...."  Dear Elisabeth, so like a child in her ways.  What had he then said to her?  It was coming back.  He had to fight to remember;  it had been what they were also discussing earlier that very day. Yes, it was coming...        "Have we met before?" the old man interrupted cruelly, interfering with his faltering memory.  Was he going to drag out the sad story now, the pitch for the spare dollar?  Possibly he had erred in allowing this old wretch to stay, he thought.        "I really don't think so," came his sharp reply, "and I would like to tell you that I don't appreciate..."        At that moment he looked directly at the old man and, as if seeing him for the first time, was unable to voice another word.  Observing the deeply wrinkled face of the old man, his shaggy white hair showing beneath the great hat, the shape of the mouth and nose, and then viewing his body as a whole, the younger man could not recall having met him, yet was distressed to find himself staring aghast, minute after minute, at the tiniest features of his form.  As he stared, he became increasingly aware of a chill which the night air did not justify, a growing, inexplicable sense of dread in sensing that there was indeed something very familiar about this miserable creature.        "I think you are mistaken, my young friend, when you say that you do not know me.  Look more closely at my face, at my eyes--ah, I see that you are--and do you hear the timbre of my voice?  It is the voice of an old man, yes, but it is still a voice that you should recognize."        "What are you saying? I--I've never known anyone like you in my life.  We live in very different worlds.  Mine is the business world.  Yours...well, it's doubtful if you"ve ever been with a firm in the financial district."        "Not for many, many years," came his unsettling reply.  "There was a time, though, when I too haunted those streets, watching the ticker tapes and manipulating vast sums of money.  I lived well, and even fancied myself as something of an adventurer.  Why, my first voyage, to Europe and the Mediterranean islands, began from this very dock.  It was newly-built then.  Yes, that was long ago..."        As the old man continued, the excitement in his voice grew as he spoke ever more rapidly about the distant past.  The young man in turn became increasingly troubled.  The business life of so many years ago, this man's plans for the future back then;  the mundane facts which he heard only intermittently, as from a great distance, caused the young man to desperately want to leave.  A particular name, a place that he himself knew intimately occasionally came though the many words, and he could feel his hands dripping sweat, his mouth becoming so dry that it stung, and the chill becoming a force that incapacitated his every muscle.        "It was so very long ago--nearly sixty years now, I believe.  Oh, but that was a grand ship, the H.M.S. Marcelina..." At the sound of this name a visible shudder went through the young man.  "It was the most beautiful, most captivating ship of its time.  Even its rails were made of solic cedar.  Its dining room had two grand pianos which were always occupied by one traveling virtuoso pianist or another. The tables were covered by specially embroidered silk of many colors and there was a built-in horticultural unit with a refrigerated room which assured fresh bouquets of exotic flowers for all the tables..."        The young man seemed to be hardly there at all.  His previous inner turbulence was now amplified by the unforeseen impact of this old man's words upon his heart and mind.  He tried to hold on to only Elisabeth, trying to imagine her child's face, her voice, her mannerisms...      "I was in love, you see," the old man said proudly, "with a most splendid girl.  She was my world, all I'd ever wanted, all I thought of through the day.  One afternoon we were on an outing and something she said led me to pop the question and, would you believe it, one week later we were off on our honeymoon?"     "Wha-what was her name?" the young man finally stammered.     The old man, his face suddenly lit up, looked directly at the young man, noting his quivering lips, his dilated pupils, his ashen face, his whole body arching forward slightly as though all somehow hung on this one name.     "Why, Elisabeth, of course," came the matter-of-fact reply.     In that instant, something passed between the two men, a shock of realization in the face of the young man followed by a sudden transformation.  The young man's unlined, strongly sculptured face rapidly lost its glow, its vitality, its shape sagging and becoming coursed by wrinkles.  Soon, his body became bent, his hair shaggy and snowy white.  He fell backward to the ground and lay unmoving, utterly still.     In that same moment, the older man's pale face tightened, gaining color it had not had in decades.  His hair became dark, and as the wind gradually became milder, he happily reached into the pocket of his well--tailored blue suit, retrieved a comb and arranged his hair.  He studied the body before him only briefly, his face betraying no sign of surprise.     The sound of a gay brass band came unexpectedly from someplace high in the air further down the dock.  They were playing John Philip Souza and other favorites of the day.  Raising his head, he saw floating quietly there before him, but for an occasional pitch, the great, elegant vessel known to all ship lovers as the Marcelina.  It rose above the dock like a small, well-lit city, warmly shining in the mists, an oasis in the midst of the desolate, black sea-plain.  The slight chill of the night seemed to vanish into summer balminess, just as the reserved air of the affluent business man was eclipsed by the irrepressible boy within.     He walked on, noting that the wood of the new dock already was chipping, though its planks were firm and handsome.  He whistled happily to himself and there seemed an air of anticipation about him.  His walking became a trot and soon, looking high into the air and grinning broadly, he began running as hard as his young legs would propel him.     Skipping up the ship's ramp, he handed the passage ticket to the impeccably-dressed porter and, slowing to a fast walk so as to not upset an approaching pair of matronly ladies, he then peered eagerly through a small porthole into the main dining room.  And there, as previously agreed upon, sat the imperishable image of youthful grace, absent-mindedly fingering the bouquet of white and yellow orchids which were placed upon the apricot-colored silken tablecloth.  Elisabeth!     He sat next to her, his coatsleeve brushing the pleats of the pale orange taffeta formal which she wore over her delicate girl's form.  Placing his hand very gently upon her slender fingers, he wondered if she would there feel in his pulse how totally his being wished to mingle with her own.  Looking into her grey eyes, he moved one hand to her cheek, barely touching its perfect softness for awe of her and of the sacred moment.     She looked back into his moistened eyes, hesitating with astonishment at the singleness of his devotion, caught between a child's curiosity and accompanying fear over this intensity, and a woman's crying desire to answer his unspoken plea by falling into his eyes as he had fallen into hers.  Her face painted by a slight blush, she inhaled suddenly with difficulty, releasing an all but inaudible, "Oh!"--and within her something new was born.  It felt like the crashing of a thousand waves upon distant waters, like the dawning of myriad suns upon unseen worlds far in space.  This, this was what they had been created for.  All of life, now and always, they saw for the first time, was a series of marriages, communions of varying intensities.  The ceremony was but an important foreshadowing of this moment, a ritual tying before Transcendent God with hopes that the two would see, would know that here was the point from where all was maintained, preserved, and cherished, and that this unfathomable devotion was to live and be reflected within them from thence onward.  It was all so simple somehow, simple and right.     "Elisabeth..."  More was then said in his intonation than had been said in the whole of his previous life.  "Now we can begin.  Now we can look for the most distant horizon and just keep going..."     "Forever.  Yes, dear."     The jeweled chords of Debussy could be heard coming from one of the pianos;  perhaps it was an Arabesque?  Its euphoniously ecstatic song merged with Elizabeth's naturally musical voice in the fragrant innocence of that timeless moment and, as her words fell so softly, like the spring rain upon the grassy meadow, like the whisper of a mother to her sleeping child, even in this beginning all was peaceful, all was complete within, and, again, all was light and brightness.

                                                      Finis 

TO IRMA

    At the hotel, the man in charge was asleep again.  Huge folds of fat defined his greasy white shirt and his unshaven dark face vibrated against the high-sheen check-in desk as if it were a sanding machine.     Anna Elena wouldn't come to the hotel anymore.  It wasn't deemed respectable by her immense, muscular police sergeant father who was rarely home, day or night.  A fine protector of virtue, this man, a blessing to those in need.     I thought Anna Elena had liked the hotel, as she and her sisters had checked me in there after I'd flown in.  Light fell cathedral-like through a 125-foot long skylight which nourished these skinny, large-leafed potted plants which grew all the way from the bottom floor to my third story  balcony.       Within my room was a shaky flame-red closet with a couple of hangers, a bright yellow chair by the bed which she could sit in, and music----lots of it.  Radio speakers were built into the wall, no on-off switch or volume control, so all the guitar-strumming and horn wailing of the country was pertetually present.  I even came to mostly like it.  "Be my lover, Be my lover.  I am a tiny white bird alone in the night.  Hear my song, Be my lover, little one" it sang.     I lay on the small, springless bed with its white cotton spread and  shedding tassles and thought of her.   At night the room was cold, so I turned the shower on, hot as it would go.  Steam filled the air.  The cracked, stained walls and frail closet, the yellow chair, blurred.  Only the music penetrated this welcome fog:  "No one but you, my heart, No one but you, little one.  Come to my arms, come to my arms."     I dreamed.  Her perfume---a gentle magnolia scent----filled the room, her child's voice spoke quietly to me as we lay together suffused in  timeless peace.  Painted vases with violets and sweetpeas surrounded  our bed, and in the distance stood a proud pagan chieftain atop an elaborate temple.  A plaintive song-chant arose from him and united us before all her people.  I belonged.  I was part of the glory of what had been.     The scene changed.  There on the cruel stone slab was Anna Elena, and I......I was for a moment the unwilling knife piercing her innocence for the gods.  Her face paled and fresh blood ran down the temple steps.     I awoke, damp and chilled.  The walls were wet and shiny, the floor slippery everywhere.  Damn tile!   My clothes in the tiny closet were dripping water.  I arose, sneezing, turned off the shower, bludgeoned the wall with my fists a bit, then studied a card which she had given me. My fingers traced the loops and squiggles of her writing again and again. Tumbling to the bed, my lungs burned and my form seemed awkward, out of place, like some abandoned marionette.     Morning sifted painfully through the thick green bottle-glass window above my bed.  The room was an eerie lime color now, and I felt closeted in some vast, anonymous tubercular institution, too weak to rise from my sickbed.  The radio music seemed dirge-like and mournful now and I stared indignantly at the relentless speakers, wondering if I stared intensely enough if they would simply melt.     A knock on the door.  The young boy who wakes me and brings messages was calling to me.  Yes, I can hear you.  What?  A visitor? In the lobby?  A young lady?     Unshaven, unwashed, my clothes musty, I descended the circular stone staircase toward Anna Elena.     Expensive dress for the country:  a lush Dresden blue print with delicate white lace collar.  Those dark, dancing eyes that blink nervously. Soft, clean hair with that ancient shine to it.  Quick smile, the easy  laugh which dissipates all grief and disappointment.  At sixteen, a child- model's face and form, exquisite, luminous, not yet fully aware of her powers.  Desire.  In that moment I desire her with a ferocity which  darkens her cheeks with new knowing.  I hold her to me, her cheek  against mine, the slender body tight upon my own.  The palpable  miracle of her being!  She pulls away from me, gazing into my eyes, astonished.       "I cannot be here again," she states simply.  "I am a young girl yet. I will dance and laugh and be crazy sometimes.  I cannot marry with  you.  I love you very much---very much---but not to marry now."     In the ghastly green glow of my terminally moist hotel room I pack my suitcase, wishing every moment I was dead.     The man at the desk still sleeps as I leave.  I numbly drop my keys, my rent on the counter.  I will not see him again.                                                

                                                      Finis