Passeggiata (complete 2016)

"It's alright, Elsie," Mary Ann said softly, apparently now quite nervous. "Easy girl. No barking."

Unconvinced, Elsie looked at the gray face looking at Goodwin; she clung to him fiercely now, dug her paws into his shoulders and began to tremble. The face came closer still, now little more than five feet away.

Goodwin could hear the dolphin's breathing clearly, even the faint sound of it's blowhole opening and closing, and without thinking he held out his hand -- towards the dolphin. The dolphin turned slightly, looked at Goodwin's hand. The decision made, the dolphin closed the last few inches to Goodwin and held it's pectoral fin out, touching Goodwin's hand; it looked at him for several seconds more, then slipped quietly beneath the surface of the still water and was as quickly gone.

Goodwin noticed Elsie had stopped trembling, only now he was aware that he had been holding his breath.

"Good God!" Malcolm said. "I don't believe it! I saw it, and I don't believe it!"

Elsie pushed off now and swam to Mary Ann's side; she'd obviously had enough excitement and the two of them made their way back to the rocks; Malcolm followed, then Paulo as well.

Goodwin remained frozen, looked out over the water as if waiting for something, and he thought of the breeze, the feeling of wild magic in the night air...

He felt Margherita behind him, felt her breasts against his back, then her hand on his shoulder. Still he did not move, he hardly breathed.

He saw the fin again, but this time there were two -- side by side -- moving through the water.

He held both his hands out now, watching and waiting -- expecting what? He had no idea; he felt Margherita reach around with both hands, reach around and hold onto his chest, her body pressed to his, her flesh cool now, from the sea.

The first one returned; his snout rose slowly from the water and he looked at Goodwin again. Silence, an incredible stillness, only the faintest note of water passing between them, the hot breath of a million cycles, cycles of instinct and understanding -- lost and waiting to be regained.

The second dolphin slipped quietly from water and into the moonlight, and this one looked at Goodwin, then at the woman on his back. Then the two dolphins came forward and touched Goodwin's outstretched hands, and as quickly slipped under the water and disappeared.

Goodwin felt her trembling uncertainty through the hot skin of his back, but from the coldness of the water, or the symmetry of the encounter, he could not fathom the epicenter. She loosened her grip, he turned to face her, felt her nakedness conforming to his, and he looked into her eyes. She leaned into him, kissed him, reached down and rubbed him, then eased onto him.

He felt the warmth of her hand, then the all encompassing warmth of her womb as he entered her. He held her as they began to rock in the ebb and flow of a universe now all around them, her hands moved up and over his shoulders, her legs clasped his hips, and he met her pulsing need with instincts driven by a million cycles of being and becoming.

It built slowly, surely, this release, and he moved into her, with her, held her against the mounting pressure until he felt himself give in to the pressure she alone could commanded, and soon he felt this release pouring into the womb of the night.

Only then was he aware of them, of the two dolphins. They were circling this union, protecting the sanctity of this joining, holding fast to the music of the cycles, to the music of the spheres. Goodwin felt first one, then the other as they swam closer and closer, and finally as they brushed against the back of his legs. He felt them brush against Margherita, felt her orgasm stiffen through the pulses of the bodies that touched her.

That commanded her.

She slowed from this coming together, returned to earth from her journey through the stars, placed her mouth on his and he felt the warmth of love chase the coolness from the water around them.

They held one another, kissed once again, then slipped apart. He put an arm around her waist and turned toward the rocks. The Doncasters and Elsie stood transfixed in the moonlight, as did Paulo. Everything was naked and silent as if on the first day of creation, for there was no context of this union, for this passage. Shocked silence, reverence perhaps, seemed the only response.

Goodwin did not feel uncomfortable or ashamed. He did not know what had happened, or why, only that something beyond human understanding had been commanded, and had as naturally been enfolded into human experience. He felt different, altered, and if there was an opposite to feeling alone, this was the feeling that washed over him now.

He walked up onto the rocks and reached back to help Margherita climb out into the moonlight; Mary Ann passed their clothing and left them to dress in silence, then Goodwin and Margherita walked back to the road. There were no words spoken, only the memory of flesh remained, so hand in hand they walked with their friends back to the village.

Yet Elsie turned and looked back at the blackness, to the hot beating heart of the sea that remained fixed there, then she turned and looked at Goodwin and the woman. She smiled, smiled because she understood, she smiled because these human had over the span of ages lost sight of something elemental, and only now, deep in the womb of the sea, had they regained something precious.

Would they hold on to each other? Would this rebirth be lost in the light of other days?

Elsie turned and ran after Goodwin, settled in beside him as he walked. Every once in a while she looked up at him, at the music in his eyes, and she smiled as the memory came back again and again.

And he listened to the crunch of shoes on the old stone roadway, to the sigh of tidal floods finding land once again; he walked beneath gentle breezes drifting through trees overhead, and when he looked up he could smell loose tidal airs running silent fingers through his hair. The moon, now high in the vault of the night, cast spun silver through the trees, and Tom Goodwin could make out the shadows of his friends on the road as they walked back to the village, and to the boats along the quay he now called home.

But now more than anything, Tom Goodwin felt the dewy fragments of Margherita Morretti's body washing across his soul, the intensity of the union coursing through his veins like a simmering fire. She walked by his side, walked there now as if she always had been by his side, and always would be there. They had walked out of the sea, had known each other for -- perhaps -- an hour, yet some wild magic had cast its spell on them.

Now, in the sharp, moon-borne shadows of this night, everything felt different -- because everything was different. Trees felt alive in a way he had never understood before, the sea seethed with manifest purpose, like the sea alone held the chalice of memory. This silver moon arcing through the ink-stained night cast its silver light with seeming indifference, silent shadows gliding over glowing stone borne to witness the passage of time, but now Goodwin understood her shadows held more than darkness.

And he felt her arm entwined with his as an echo, her side pressed comfortably against his -- like these shadows, perhaps. He could smell her from time to time, smell the intimacy of their union mingling with the primeval flows on the wind and in the sea. She washed over his thoughts like the tide: subtly, predictably, immutably -- like their footsteps in the night.

Elsie walked quietly on the road beside them, she still looked up at him -- at him -- as if she alone understood the significance of events that had just left them all so breathlessly perplexed. He didn't understand at first, she knew, couldn't fathom what had happened, but after a few minutes looking at Goodwin she knew she was looking at someone who had just changed before her eyes. He had changed into something else -- something new -- an echo of something ancient, almost forgotten. The dog didn't doubt her own ability to perceive; unlike them, she could see that much with her eyes. No, she doubted his ability to perceive. Did he have it in his soul to understand the consequences and the workings of the universe? Or was he really so simple? Were these others really so blind?

As time passed, as they came closer to the village and further from the depths of the encounter, Goodwin seemed adrift in the coolness of air and water. His clothes were wet, he felt a the chill in the air, felt this same chill overtake Margherita and Paulo and the Doncasters. It was as if the further they walked from the precise location of their union the colder they became, as if the fire they had started was in danger of weeping away uselessly into the darkness.

He felt her tremble and he held her tightly.

"We're not far now," he told her.

"Tom?" he heard her say.

"Please stay with me tonight," he heard himself say.

"How did you know that? That those words were with me, and that it was of this that I was thinking?"

"Where else could you stay now?"

"Does it seem so clear to you? Have you felt something between us, as we walk?"

"I don't have the words to describe what I feel, Margherita. I just have, have -- I don't know -- an instinct, maybe? I feel a hand guiding me tonight. Maybe us, tonight."

"Yes, so many things are alive in this night, I feel purpose. It is hard to contradict such a feeling, but I feel the past, not the future..."

"This pup understands. I can see it in her eyes."

"Yes. I saw her looking at you in the water, when that animal first came to you. The dog was close to you, and I could have sworn she was talking to the fish, to that dolphin."

"Really? That's kind of, well, crazy sounding, don't you think?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing, the whole thing seems other-worldly, almost like it didn't happen -- like a dream, maybe."

The dog looked up at him, then bounded on ahead.

"Tom, I don't think she appreciated that comment."

"Obviously." He could see his boat ahead, still moored next to the Doncaster's, and he began to wonder how the rest of the night was going to take shape. He felt exhausted and hungry the closer he came to the village, the lingering warmth from the encounter regressing, moving back to the shadows -- as if they could not take exposure to the present for any length of time.

And -- who was this woman by his side? She was a stranger, and yet something impossible had just passed between them. Something neither real nor surreal, something beyond imagination and understanding -- and it had passed between strangers. Now the realization hit him like a physical blow, winded him as insurmountable implications ran for the shadows.

"Obviously," he said again. "I think we need to change clothes. Would you like to come aboard? I could make us some coffee?"

"Oh, doctor, I think I too must change into something dry, but . . ."

"But would you meet me for dinner?"

She seemed to drift in the implications of his offer for a moment, then came to a decision in the road. "Do you see that building, by the two street lights, there? That is the Ristorante Lo Stella. I will meet you there, in one hour."

"Alright."

"And doctor, bring your friends, would you? They seem very nice."

"Yes, I'll ask them."

They came to their boats; Malcolm and Mary Ann were just going below, but Paulo was waiting for his sister, standing in the pale flickering light of an old gaslight on the quay.

"Paulo?" Goodwin said, "would you join us for dinner tonight? Your sister has recommended a place we meet in an hour."

"Si, doctoré, that would be -- nice. We have, I think, much to discuss about this night."

Margherita seemed to turn ever so slightly away from her brother when she heard that, then she disengaged from Goodwin's arm and stepped away, stepped out of the light and into the shadows once again. "I will see you both in an hour. Ciao!" she said lightly, but the cares of this night were already growing heavy on her mind.

"Yes. I will see you in an hour," Paulo said as he turned to walk back to the village.

Goodwin stepped onto the Donacster's boat to cross over to his; Malcolm was sitting in the cockpit surrounded by complete darkness. He had coffee on the table and was wrapped in a blanket, drying his face and hair.

"Ah, there you are, Sport! Got it together now?"

"I'm not sure that's a word I would choose."

"Yes. I don't suppose I would, myself. Odd, wasn't it? That animal?"

"Odd? I'm not sure 'odd' quite covers the sensation, Malcolm. Matter of fact, I'm not sure about much of anything right now."

"Quite right. No reason to be. A complex situation, perhaps more so than you might imagine."

"What are you...? Oh well, you're both invited to dinner. In an hour, at that Stella place."

"Sorry, Sport, but Mary Ann ducked into the head and said she's straight off for bed."

"Would you join us, then?"

"I'll ask the Admiral when she gets out. Well, in any event, you'd better get cleaned up and to it. You're frosty looking, getting hypothermic."

"Yup, right you are." Goodwin stepped across to Springer and opened the companionway; he reached in and flicked on a light and disappeared below. Doncaster looked at the village for a moment, then turned to look back toward the rocky cape where they had been not a half hour before. Shaking his head, he wrote in his journal, then dropped below to talk to Mary Ann, now as confused as she had been. Maybe even more so, given what he already knew about these things.

+++++

Goodwin and the Doncasters -- both of them, as it turned out -- walked to the ristorante and stepped inside. Paulo had a table and waved at them as they walked in the door. Goodwin took in the scene: this place was like any one of a million nice, upscale Mediterranean dives that seemed to sprout up all over Boston's northside with nauseating regularity, but this was, he told himself, the real deal. The mood of the room was delicate, subdued, if not quite elegant then very Old World. The room's lighting -- all amber-hued crystalline shards casting oblique shadows on cream colored walls -- only seemed to hint at deeper mysteries waiting to unfold, out there, perhaps, beyond the darkness, but waiting even now.

Goodwin made his way between tables as he followed the Doncasters to Paulo, and was surprised to see the young man dressed imperiously in black suit and tie. He felt a little out of place in his habitual khakis and polo shirt, and he really regretted leaving his boat shoes on.

He took Paulo's hand. "Nice place...I can smell the kitchen from the boat? Surreal..."

"It is a nice place, doctoré. The octopus is the best in Italy."

"Octopus?"

"Oh come on, Goodwin!" Malcolm said. "Remember, when in Rome..."

"Oh Mal, do shut up and leave the man alone!"

"Aye-aye, Admiral."

"So, Paulo," Mary Ann ignored her husband again, "where is that delightful sister of yours."

"Here," Margherita said, now walking up behind the Doncasters. Goodwin stood and held a chair out for her, and she came and sat next to him. "Sorry I am running a little late."

"You look beautiful," Goodwin said, and everyone smiled knowingly when he blushed. They looked at one another and a sudden, awkward silence fell over the table.

"So, doctoré, you have not had octopus before?"

"No, Paulo, 'fraid not, unless you count calamari."

"No, no, no! Calamari is bait! You are in for a rare treat tonight, doctoré. You will see."

"Paulo," Margherita said, "just because it is your favorite, you must not force it upon the doctoré; you must let our guest choose."

"But..."

"Oh really, Tom," Malcolm interjected, "anything they serve here will be beyond good. Very nice place. Top shelf kitchen."

Mary Ann looked around the table. "I don't want to talk about food. I want to talk about what happened out on the point tonight."

An ancient man, the owner perhaps, came and dropped off a wine list; he looked at Tom as he asked if anyone cared for an aperitif. Paulo asked the weathered old man to bring a bottle of red wine the house recommended, then settled-in to look at Mary Ann and the elusive kindling she had so indelicately thrown into the flames. "What is there to talk about," he stated. "We saw what we saw. There must be an explanation in nature, and that is all." He seemed embarrassed, perhaps because he had stood by silently, helplessly, while events unfolded in the water, but he looked down at his own imploring hands now as if asking, no pleading, with his companions to drop such an unpleasant matter.

"I don't know, Paulo. Something unusual happened," Mary Ann was placating him, easing him into the topic. She needed an ally, and though the young man seemed reluctant to talk about the encounter, she sensed he was as deeply intrigued by events as she was.

Yet, she could not see fear behind his eyes, and she wondered why.

The ancient man returned with a bottle and opened it, passed the cork to Goodwin -- who sniffed disapproval and handed it back. The old man poured a little and arched an eyebrow; sniffed the cork tentatively as he held the glass up to the light and frowned, then walked back to the kitchen.

"This is not something that happens everyday, Paulo, is it?" A tenacious Mary Ann wasn't going to let the matter drop, and Malcolm sighed as he looked at Paulo.

Paulo shrugged, looked away.

"Paulo! Have you heard of something like this happening before?"

And still Paulo looked away.

Mary Ann grew stern, unrelenting. "Paulo? Why won't you answer me?"

The ancient man returned with another bottle and began opening it.

"Oh come on, Mary Ann," Malcolm said. "Leave the man alone. Two fish came up and played with Tom and Margherita. That's all it was."

The ancient man's hands stopped, began to tremble; his eyes darted about the people around the table.

"Excuse me?" the old man said. "What did you say?"

"Tonight, off the cape, two dolphins came up to Dr Goodwin here," Mary Ann recounted, "and Margherita joined Dr Goodwin and the fish circled them for a while, then swam off."

The old man handed the bottle of wine to Paulo. "You pass this around Paulo." He took a chair from another table and sat down next to Goodwin, then looked at Goodwin for a moment, then at Margherita. "Goodwin? From America?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I'm sorry to be so indelicate, but was there a union between the two of you? A joining? Perhaps unexpected, out of the blue, light a bolt of lightning on a clear day?"

Margherita looked away, acutely embarrassed.

"That about sums it up," Goodwin said; he then looked at Mary Ann and Paulo, both now judgmentally red-faced and suddenly quite unsure of themselves.

"You know," the old man said, his voice now subdued -- yet full of ancient purpose, "many people think the name Portofino means something like 'fine port', and though of course it is a fine port, those people are wrong. Quite wrong. Yes."

He looked around the table at each of them.

"Pliny the Elder tells us from that most distant past an altogether different tale, and History has, you understand, a way of repeating itself." He looked at Paulo again and frowned: "Eh, Paulo, I told you to pour the wine! Now get to it!"

"Si, Vico."

The old man turned to a boy coming out of the kitchen: "Giuseppe, bring Marco here! Now!" he said as he clapped his hands twice, and the boy darted back into the kitchen. He drummed his fingers on the white linen tablecloth impatiently until a man in chef's attire came to the table.

"Si, patron?"

"Bring us dinner. Nothing too heavy! That is all. Now go!"

"Si, patron!" The chef hurried from the table.

"He is a good cook, but, eh, what is this word . . . conceited? Yes? Too proud of his creations? Quick to abandon my own."