Passeggiata (complete 2016)

"I do not know, I see them speak and I hear words, but I cannot understand them. Something, someone is stopping me..."

Toni tried to move closer, but Vico stepped across and blocked his way with an arm. "Do not interfere," he said.

"But..."

"You must not interfere."

Toni looked at his -- what? -- his father? Now his father's form rippled and shifted and he felt the world collapsing around him. He fell to his knees, crying, reached out with both hands: "Papa! Papa! No! Not now!"

Paulo darted past Vico and ran to his mother's side; she held out her arms and held him protectively.

"What is happening?! What is...NO!"

Paulo's scream filled the night, and he too fell to the rocks as tears burst forth and washed down his face; Maria Theresa stood beside him and comforted him as these forms twisted in the air. "No! What is happening?"

"Mother?" Margherita said, suddenly very cold, and she saw her mother drifting away; then she turned to Vico: "What is this? What is happening?"

"It is now as it has always been. As it must always be."

"Vico? What are you saying? What do you mean?"

"It is his time of death, and perhaps, of a beginning."

There was a pulse, a charge ripping through the air, then the devastating crack of thunder just overhead.

She jumped and turned at the sound, saw her brother; she watched as his body stiffened -- it was as if he had turned to stone. And he had fallen -- what -- into a deep sleep?

"Paulo!" she cried.

She cringed, turned away from the sound -- again; thunder rang in her ears -- and now Toni was rigid, motionless -- his eyes wide open, lifeless.

Elsie -- transfixed -- remained next to Tom in the wheelchair.

"What is this!?" Margherita screamed. She turned to her mother . . .

Maria Theresa was still now; it was as if she had been caught between two heartbeats -- and she had simply -- stopped. Tears filled Margherita's eyes, she ran to Vico, stood in his face: "What is this? What is happening?" She beat his chest as grief came to her, but even as her rage burned out of control, he took her in his arms and held her as she spoke again: "Why," she moaned, "what -- has been done here?"

"You must watch now, and see, if you can. It is rare that we let one watch. Be quiet, and do not try to stop this, whatever you see, whatever you feel." He turned her body to face the glowing forms and she opened her burning eyes.

A ghostly man -- was it Tom? --stood up from the wheelchair, the old woman -- Anticleia? -- now at his side. What must have been Paul Goodwin was already waist deep in the sea; he continued onward until he was in water up to his shoulders, and then he stopped. She saw, she heard him speaking into the night -- was it an invocation? -- then she knew -- knew -- what was coming.

Tom and the ancient woman walked slowly through the rocks to the water's edge -- Elsie by his side; they slipped quietly, wordlessly into the blackness; as they walked the water glowed around their receding nakedness. Elsie waded in, paused, barked, then stepped back onto the rocks and sat. The pup seemed anxious, yet alert. Margherita held her breath, bit her lip, as she watched. The three of them together, in the water -- waiting -- waiting --

She felt them before she saw them: two, no three dolphins moving into view -- and she could see Two Scar now; he went directly to Paul Goodwin. Another -- one with a golden eye -- stopped beside Anticleia and rolled over. The third circled Tom Goodwin several times, then withdrew out to sea. Paul put a hand on his son's head; he spoke quietly -- then stood aside. Anticleia did the same, though she left a garland draped over Tom's shoulders before she moved off.

Tom stood alone in the water now, his arms stretched out, floating on the water's surface. Margherita watched wordlessly, fear building in her heart, for she was unable to understand the things she saw.

'So dreamlike, I'm dreaming, I'm asleep...'

Elsie suddenly standing, looking out through clearing fog, her senses on point.

Movement. What? There again!

She saw the dorsal fin moving toward Tom, it's speed incredible, terrifying. The third dolphin -- coursing through the water directly at him -- it's speed mesmerizing -- simply impossible...

She expected to see the animal veer away at the last moment, but no, that did not happen. She felt the collision in the very marrow of her bones, shielded her eyes from the blinding light that ripped through the fabric of her being as -- as -- she felt -- herself -- falling -- falling again and again.

+++++

She felt the sun on her face -- before she felt someone shaking her awake.

She heard a dog barking.

Water . . . surf on rocks. A chilly breeze drifted across her face, her hair washed across her eyes as she opened them. She looked up, brushed hair from her face . . .

It was her Paulo. She could feel the anxiety in his eyes, even his movements to wake her were hesitant, filled with fear.

"Wake up," he said again, softly. "Margherita! You must wake up!"

"Let her sleep, Paulo." Toni's voice, still half asleep.

"But you, we, we must go home now."

"Where's Mama?" she heard Toni say.

"Down by the water, with Paul Goodwin."

Margherita's eyes were wide open now. "Paul -- Goodwin?" she said. "Is he here?"

"Where else would he be," Toni asked, his voice full of nervous confusion. "Really! You should go back to sleep!"

"Where's Tom?" she said anxiously as she sat up. She was lost, trying to remember something important, but her memory was a black hole.

"I don't know. He wasn't here when I woke up."

Wide awake now, she looked around... "Paulo? Have you seen him?"

"No, but maybe Vico and the Danish woman took him back to the boat last night."

She looked at Paulo; he was scratching his head as if trying to remember something. She heard voices out on the rocks and stood up -- too quickly. She felt light-headed, almost dizzy; she held her hands out to steady herself. Through squinted eyes she could make out Paul and Maria sitting on a gently sloping rock, their feet dangling in a clear blue pool.

Paul saw her and waved.

She returned the wave, stumbled down to them. Now she could see her mother was asleep on Paul's shoulder.

"Nice morning," Paul Goodwin said quietly in his bristly aviator's accent.

"Yes, yes it is. Have you seen Tom?"

"Nope."

"No? Do you know where he is? Paul -- Mister Goodwin?"

Goodwin shrugged, looked out to sea. "I don't know. I thought he must be up there with you."

Margherita shuddered as the incongruity of his reply washed over her. What could this mean? She looked around. Tom's wheelchair was up in the grass, back in the trees. Toni was standing up now, rubbing his eyes. Paulo was standing as well, looking back down the hill that led to the harbor, and the village. She saw him waving at someone and her heart lurched; she ran up the rocks, knowing she would find Tom.

But it was Vico. He had a basket in one hand, some blankets in the other.

She ran to him, her mind searching, her eyes seeking Tom.

"Have you seen Tom?" she asked breathlessly when she reached the old man.

He smiled: "I brought some croissants, and preserves. Strawberries, too. And Champagne. Merry Christmas!"

Margherita stood before the old man, she blocked his way as confusion rumbled from some place deep beneath her feet: "What?! Christmas?! Yes, but have you seen Tom?" Her voice shook as fading memory lifted into the air, her world tinged with looming hysteria.

He looked down at her, his moist, ancient eyes full of sympathy. "His suffering is at an end, child" Vico said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "All is as it should be. Come, sit with me." He was reaching for her . . .

"M-mm--uhn--no...no..." she tried to say more but her throat felt like it was being squeezed by an unseen assailant; she felt herself standing on her toes, her body twisting as if to cut off the scream she felt bursting from her soul.

She felt his hand on her shoulder; felt she was being guided to the rocks. Paulo and Toni looked at her and rushed to her side, helped her sit down as Vico handed them blankets.

"What's wrong with her?" Paulo cried. "Margherita? Vico, what's wrong?"

"It has been a long night. She is tired..."

"Tom..." she said. "Tom is dead."

"What!" Toni cried. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come now," Vico said. "You must all relax. Life goes on. Have a strawberry."

"What!" Margherita said, her incredulous voice strained by the man's obtuse deceptions. "A strawberry!"

Vico looked hurt. "Yes, of course. They are ripe, fresh, and it is Christmas, is it not?"

"Are you mad?" Toni shouted. "Christmas!? Are you out of your fucking mind!? Where's Tom?!"

Vico's form rippled and shifted in the air, his skin grew transparent. An older, more powerful form shimmered under the old man's skin -- but it was as quickly gone. "No. I am not mad," he said as he looked out to sea. "You must understand; I too am tired."

"Who...what are you?" Paulo said, his voice quivering with barely contained fear. Toni stood beside him, staring at Vico's face. He felt lost, alone, afraid...

But the old man looked at them, care in his eyes: "What do you mean, Paulo? I am Ludvico; I am your mother's friend." The old man seemed to stiffen, dark resolve simmered beneath a furrowed brow. The man's visage rippled and reformed again: "I have held you on my lap since you were a child! And you would ask who I am?"

Margherita stood and faced him. "I think it is a fair question. Who are you?"

The old man grew rigid, fury pulsed through the veins of his neck and face and, as if dark storms had suddenly gathered in the sky, the air around them grew charged with electric dread -- and yet, as suddenly, the man -- Vico -- appeared to relax, a smile parted his face and he began to laugh. He laughed so hard he began to cry; soon Paulo began laughing, then Toni. Confusion shook the earth under their feet.

Vico held out his hand and gently stroked Margherita's face while he caught his breath. "I have held you too, on my lap -- when you were younger still. Look into my eyes, Margherita. Will you say that you do not know me? You do not know me, who I am?"

Margherita felt more people by her side; she turned, saw Paul Goodwin and her mother. They stood silently, questions on their faces. Even Elsie, sitting by Paul's feet, was looking up at Vico -- an oddly confused smile on her face.

"Margherita," her mother said. "It has been a long night. Let us go home. I will..."

"But I have brought food!" Vico said, looking out to sea again. "Sit down, all of you, and rest for a while."

"Why?" Margherita asked, her voice now full of unanswered questions. "Why do you want us to stay here? What are you...?"

"Because, my dear, these are fresh strawberries! Do you have any idea how hard they are to come by this time of year?"

"But Tom? Where is Tom?"

Paul stepped closer. "What do you mean, 'where is Tom?' Isn't he up here? With you? The wheelchair is..."

Vico stepped aside, laughing, and walked over to a patch of grass and lay blankets down in the sun. He sat, opened his basket, began pulling out fine china plates and delicate crystal flutes. Fresh baked croissant, orange marmalade, chocolate spread, and strawberries -- huge, red-ripe strawberries -- bigger than any anyone had ever seen. When he had set these things out he turned to them, opened his arms: "Come! Eat! All is as it should be! You should relax now!"

Paul came, sat on a blanket. Maria took her daughter's hand and joined him.

"Paulo, Toni, do not make me ask again. Come!"

They came, they sat. Vico passed around flutes, then opened champagne and filled their glasses.

"Merry Christmas!" the old man said as he held up his flute.

Nobody moved. Nobody.

Except . . . Paul Goodwin.

The others were still, their open eyes lifeless and remote.

"Ah, thank you," the old one said to Paul. "I must be losing my touch."

Paul looked at the somnambulant group and shook his head. "No, old friend, it is I who should thank you. It was a beautiful night, was it not?"

"Ah. Yes. Could you hear the stars?"

"Yes. Sublime." Goodwin looked up at the sky. "They sang well, my friend."

The old man looked proud. "We must leave, soon."

"Yes. Where is your grand-daughter? I haven't seen her."

"Anticleia?" The old man shrugged. "Who knows. Probably painting again."

"It is a nice rendition."

"Yes. She grows better with time."

"Maybe you should try."

The old man chuckled: "Me? Haven't I better things to do? Or have I grown so irrelevant?"

Goodwin laughed too, then looked out over the sea. "Is it time?"

"Yes."

Goodwin began to stand, but the old man reached out, stopped him. "Wait. Hand me the strawberries."

"What? Oh no, what are you going to do?"

"Let's put one in each of their glasses. When they wake up, they'll pee all over themselves!"

"You're incorrigible, you know that, don't you."

Hermes laughed as he reached for a strawberry. It was a nice, big, fat one, and he laughed for the longest time...

+++++

(excerpt from Malcolm Doncaster's journal)

Aboard Diogenes, Portofino Harbor

Christmas Morning

I hate growing old. The mystery, the very magic of life seems to fade with age. Time seems to unravel all those precious gifts that youth bestowed, and she leaves us with only memories to keep us company as winter comes. Cliché, I know, but Christmas is a time of clichés.

Well, dinner last night was a bust. Before we could get the soup down the balloon went up! Talk about your holiday cheer going up in flames!

Who would have thought old Paul Goodwin had it in himself to father not one! but three boys! And nobody knew a goddamn thing except Mama. Mama-mia!

Anyway, Mary Ann and I sat up and brought the day in with a nice brandy; everything was quiet on Springer. We turned in about 0100; assumed everyone returned to the ristorante, particularly as Elsie never came back and we never felt or heard anyone all night.

Mary Ann got up at 0700 and we opened our presents (can't quite give up that tradition, now can we!) in the cockpit. Chilly morning; must have been a fog out last night -- the deck was wet, almost like we'd had rain.

At any rate -- along about 0800 here comes the group -- Vico walking ahead, and pushing an empty wheelchair! Everyone there, but no Tom. That got our curiosity going!

Mary Ann went to meet Margherita, who seemed to be in quite a state! Lots of animated chatter!

Bah! Women!

At any rate, everyone save Vito and Maria Theresa came aboard, they were all blathering away about Tom being gone -- dead, Margherita said (if you can imagine that!) -- and, well, everyone was in quite an agitated state, let's just say that and be done with it. Paul had a truly magnificent painting of Springer with him, which he took below and set beside that other painting of Sarah, and the odd thing was that he didn't seem the least bit perturbed by all the commotion. I suppose it's all those years flying, learning to deal with emergencies and all nonsense. Calm as a cucumber.

So anyway, Paulo is up on deck and just frantic, frantic! Going on about needing to call the police and the coast guard, how he would lose his job! Oh, the poor boy. Mary Ann and Margherita sat in the cockpit; we gave the girl some coffee and she was just blathering away like a machine gun, and Toni! -- he was beside himself -- going on about how he'd never had the chance to know this new brother and on and on -- and then Tom up and pops out of the water and there he was on Springer's swim platform -- and as naked as the day he was born!

Of course Margherita faints dead away! Toni falls to his knees and starts praying for all he's worth, but -- and this is the best part -- poor old Paulo races across and for all I know was going to hug poor Tom, when bam! -- he trips just as Tom is climbing into the cockpit. There they went, another rear summersault, and in perfect form, mind you -- five point zero - and then there they were, sputtering about and laughing and carrying on like two children. Toni got in to the spirit of things and jumped in -- which would've been all fine and dandy except the poor sod can't swim worth a damn!

And Paul! Just standing up there in the cockpit, looking down on his three sons. What a story his grandchildren will hear. As for me? I think it time to move on soon; this endless quest to immerse myself in all things Greek has been fun, but perhaps it's time I grew up, did something useful with my time. Hard to believe an old codger like me could still be gallivanting around the Mediterranean wasting his time chasing after moldy Gods no one's cared about for two thousand years.

It makes me curiously sad, however. I wonder what happens to Gods when people stop believing in him. Perhaps they would dare to just fade away, drift off into obscurity. I don't know. Perhaps, if he was really clever, he'd find a way to a place like this. I can't imagine a better place to spend eternity than right here.

So yes, all in all, quite the Christmas!

Addendum

Onboard Diogenes, 1930 hours

Just wanted to add a note to what has been an astonishingly dull day. I was out on the quay taking Elsie for a walk before dinner when out of the blue a couple dozen strawberries rained down on my head! Not a soul around, either, but I did hear someone laughing. I hope I can catch 'em at it; I'll tell the cheeky buggers to sod off!

Bah!!!

Epilogue:

Seven Years Later, an afternoon in early April

Portofino

Paul Goodwin walked down the quay under the trees, holding his granddaughter's hand -- as was his fondest desire. The promise of spring seemed alight in the air -- the first real warmth of the season kissed the sea breeze in its passage through trees just budding overhead, and the old wanderer felt it a miracle to be alive on a day like this. He loved this land, this harbor, these people, and he loved calling the village home -- as he had now for almost seven years. He couldn't fault Tom's logic, either; his family was here now, he could best be true to his life only in this village, surrounded by the people who loved him -- and by the people he loved.

His granddaughter Penelope was now, of course, the light of his life. Though he had finally married Maria Theresa, she had passed quietly almost five years ago, and in the emptiness that followed he had found first solace, then redemption in a little girl's smile. She played his heartstrings mercilessly, however, yet he loved every minute of it.

Though Paul was now ninety six years old, he still walked out to the cape almost every afternoon with her. Most sunny days he waited outside the village school for her, and they walked together slowly, quietly, usually out to the cape, but sometimes just home, where he spent countless hours helping her read. Though Margherita would never understand this passion, Paul always seemed to return to the classics, to the myths of Gods now long gone from this world. Not surprisingly, Paul encouraged the little girl to take on an active fantasy life. Some days she demanded he call her Athena.

And he always smiled when she did.

They made it to the rocks at the cape that afternoon and walked carefully down to the waters edge. Most days they spent this time in silence, just looking out at shadows of clouds running across their sun-dappled sea, but from time to time they would slip quietly into the water, and a special friend would join them. Penelope thought those days were the best.