Chapter 9
The Eating and the Eaten
“You may go tonight,” he said.
“May I?”
“Yes, the night is right. Don’t forget that I am always here for you. Waiting for you. I will watch over you. Here wear this.” He pulled out a tight pair of jeans, heals, and a cropped shirt. “No bra,” he said as he watched her dress. “Let them be free, like you. Aren’t you free here? Haven’t I saved you from a terrible marriage.”
Cecelia looked at him casually. She had gotten used to his looks, the many eyes, the strange mouth parts. “Yes, I guess so. I always wanted to escape.”
“And no one has found you, have they. I will make sure of that. Don’t forget to use the name Mona.”
“I don’t really like that name.”
“It suits you. Really it does.” He smiled in his own fashion, knowing full well the multiple meanings.
Cecelia tied the ends of her shirt at her belly, a thin line of her dark skin showing between the jeans and the white shirt. She looked down at her breasts and wondered how much showed through the fabric. Her shoulder was itchy, and when she scratched it she felt a small lump. It didn’t occur to her that the was the same spot where she had been scratched.
“Off you go,” he said.
Cecelia wandered to her regular stops along Las Ramblas, then headed back to the Plaça del Pi. She sat at the only empty table of all the restaurants. Next to her she was happy to see a man sitting along. She noted what wine had been served him and ordered the same.
The waiter brought it out, announcing what he was serving. The man looked up and toasted her.
“You have good taste,” he smiled.
“Thank you,” she smiled with pursed lips and feigned bashfulness. Then she looked directly at him and with a big friendly smile asked, “Where are you visiting from?”
“GB. Great Britain, that is. Came down with my blokes, but they went off drinking in El Born. They’re loud bores when they do that.”
“I don’t blame you for having a quiet evening along. But perhaps…”
“Yes? Perhaps?”
“Would you like to join me? Eating dinner alone is such a bore.”
“Yes, it is. And to be in the company of a beautiful woman like you would take all that boredom away.” He moved over to her table and leaned forward on his elbows, chin in hands. “What’s your name?”
“Mona,” she said confidently.
“Such a pretty name.”
She tried not to roll her eyes at this predictable response, and just smiled. Their conversation through dinner was uninspiring, just two people acting like they were interested in each other without getting to anything real.
As they talked Cecelia would look at him, and then at the sky as the clouds turned orange, then red, and faded to gray. Between the billows of the clouds the stars came out, then shone fully as the sky cleared. The stars filled her heart with a hope that she didn’t understand when she looked up. She felt like she was in two places: the conversation at the table and in a vision of her future. These were the same stars she had been staring at since she was a small child, and here in this foreign city she felt like they were her home. That no matter where she was they had followed her. This was a strange feeling to her. She didn’t understand it or trust it, and pushed it down and out of her mind and heart. She turned her attention to the man before her.
“Do you have plans for after dinner?” Cecelia asked.
“I did, but I can change them for you,” he lied.
Cecelia found that she wanted to feel his touch to get herself rid of the worthless feeling that haunted her. Aurelio was her protector, he kept her from having to return to an unfamiliar home with Jordi, but he was not soft or very warm. That must be the problem, she reasoned. I need the touch of a human.
“I have an unusual home. Would you like to see it?”
He cocked his head, “Yes, I would. Unusual how?” He was intrigued, but this woman had struck him as very odd and he felt uncertain. But his desire for an easy night was greater than his concern. He could handle anything she could send his way.
They started walking, she in front as he followed her lead, so she turned back and took his hand. She expected warmth and the comfort of familiarity, but his hand was small and moist. She grasped at his wet-fish of a hand laying in hers.
He was certainly surprised by her home. There was nothing on the walls, and the furniture startled him. “Where did you get this interesting decor?”
“It was made for me by, oh by a friend. He’s a weaver of sorts.”
“I see.”
“Come sit here with me,” she said as she ignored the sofa and slid into the hammock.
He walked slowly over and reached his hand out to test the surface before descending. He pulled his hand back, then tested again as it slid down next to Cecelia.
He thought that she was in his web, but was actually trapped in her web. But in reality it wasn’t her web, it was Aurelio's.
Morning came, after a night together in the hammock. Cecelia felt empty, and confused for feeling empty.
She called out his name. She rose from her bed, and pulled the sheet over herself. Again she called, then stuck her head in the bathroom. He wasn’t there.
Aurelio presented himself. “Did you enjoy your evening out? And your night in?”
Cecelia felt ashamed, felt she had betrayed Aurelio. She was swearing loyalty to him, but then finding men. This created deep conflict in her. “Yes it was nice, but no, not too much. It was nice to see the stars.” Mentioning the stars made her heart ache, she missed the stars as if they were her friends. Her fear brought her thoughts back to Aurelio, “I was happy to come back. And I brought someone for you to teach. Where is he?”
“My darling, you did well. You should be proud. All we can do is invited. It’s up to them to stay, and I am content either way. Your friend, I don’t know where he went.” Aurelio clicked when he lied.
The man had risen early, and stumbled to the bathroom. He was curious, and began to wander. That was the end of him. Aurelio had his dinner delivered to him, it had walked right up to his doorway, and he enjoyed the convenience. Cecelia thought the man had just left, but something made her think to look for any lost items like a wallet or phone, or a shoe again. There was nothing this time, but Aurelio had put a pile of cash on the table. She wondered where he had gotten it.
The days pass, the men accumulate
Cecelia tried to have a weekly routine; Friday’s always seems to have the best game for hunting. It was lively out in the city, and she enjoyed the energy. As she became more practiced her list of men grew. They came, but they never stayed.
Next was Mark, the very tall man with the red shirt, loud patterned blue shorts, bright orange shoes, and a large backpack that was stuffed full. She knew he was an a American because of those orange running shoes that Americans seemed to wear everywhere they went. He was friendly and loud, and when the evening got cold he pulled out a huge blue and red checkered hoodie to lend to her. The sleeves hung down below her hands and she looked like she was wearing a sack. He left that sweatshirt behind. And on the table the next day she found E300 and $400.
There was the red headed man, Alex, who pulled his hair up into a man-bun, wore a t-back tank and green shorts with white stripes. Cecelia had wandered out early that afternoon, and he had jogged into the plaça and started doing burpees. He didn’t hear her calling to him at first with his large silver headphones on. When he saw her he smiled and pulled them off. They chatted about exercise and the weather. There was no money left on the table the next day.
Luis was a man who liked to appear confident, and sat back in his chair, hands behind his head, and expounded on his great knowledge of the city and the people. He entertained himself quite well while she partially listened and ate her food. She wasn’t impressed with his chatter, nor his plain blue t-shirt, khaki shorts, and flip flops. That was a day that she drank more than she usually did, and offered him more in hopes of shutting him up. He was more than happy to follow her home, and she was glad that he fell asleep quickly. She found E245 on the table the next morning.
“I hope you’re enjoying the gifts that I have been leaving you,” commented Aurelio, “Buy yourself some cute clothes, treat yourself to a sweet or two.”
“Thank you for the money,” she replied, “Where do you get it.”
This made him angry but he spoke slowly and smoothly, “It is a gift, and I have my loyal people.”
She didn’t question it again, not out loud at least.
Francisco was a young man with black curly hair, a scraggly beard, black shirt and a fanny pack slung over his shoulder with the bag hanging across his chest. He wore leather boat shoes with striped crew socks, and short shorts. When he talked his bushy eyebrows would move up and down, and she wondered how he seemed to have more hair on his brows than on his chin. The next day there was E134 on the table, and Cecelia wondered if she were a prostitute. Were the men paying her or was Aurelio?
Rocco looked like a rocker with tight ripped black jeans, black t-shirt, a black sweater slung over his shoulder, black boots, and his phone stuffed in his back pocket sticking half way out. His hair was long and tousled, but abruptly trimmed very close to the scalp on the side. He had a very bushy beard, out of which stuck a straw that he would keep in his mouth. When he wanted to drink he reinserted the straw in the top of the lid and slurped away. When he went to pay for their food Cecelia watched closely to see if she could see how much money he had. He paid mostly with bills, but had pulled out a pocket of change and had left some Euro coins on the table. The next day there was about E296 on the table, 11 of which was in coin with spare change. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to touch this money.
When she went out hunting she had learned to recognize where people were from, some from their dress and more so from their accents. The Americans and Russians were the loudest, and would yell to each other even when they were right next to each other. She was OK with Americans—even though they were obnoxious they were also usually friendly. She found Russians to be cold and distant. Brits were a mixed bag of being either jolly or stuffy, and they were hard to read right off. The American with the t-shirt that said “top ten reasons to stay up late with a pharmacist” she followed, then turned her nose up at. The French were often just rude, Scandanavians kept their distance, and she avoided the locals.
Jack wore a loud green t-shirt with a large angry Bart Simpson on front. Cecelia thought that Jack’s perturbed look was the same as Bart’s, and it was like looking at a person with their own face on the shirt. He wore jeans and white shoes. The next day she found his shoes with socks wadded up in them, and on the table a mere E50. Cecelia didn’t want to go searching for the owner of the shoes again, so she threw them in the trash.
She thought to herself, “Wow! He was cheap, or just poor.” She didn’t like this thought popping in her head, so she stuffed that idea down and reminded herself that Aurelio had said he had benefactors.
The stories of these men can only be told in part, and this was just a sampling of the men she collected. We don’t know where all of them came from, but we can say they were alone with they met Cecelia. Some were more selfishly interested in Cecelia than others, but they all followed her back to her home. Some fell asleep drunk instantly, others had their carnal pleasures satisfied, but they all eventually fell asleep or wandered into the wrong corner.
Aurelio would always be waiting just inside his dark door, watching and calculating. He was patient and still. He always waited till Cecelia was asleep to maintain her illusion of placidity. Then he would carefully creep up to the man and bite him with his intoxicant on the neck. If he got it right, the poison would go right into the carotid artery and thereby make quick work of the man.
Since he was so large, Aurelio was able to pick up the man with 4 of his legs, and while dangling him below her would walk out carrying the man away. He would then silently tip toe back and make sure that he had collected all of the belongings, pulled the cash out of the wallet, put it on the table, and depending on his mood he would either pull up Cecelia’s blanket, or pull it off and throw it over another piece of furniture.
Back in his lair, Aurelio got to work on wrapping up the man. He was able to spin the man with his legs while a wide flat line of silk was made in his spinnerets. Then men that got stuck in the artery were docile as they were half dead, but Rocco was one who he had missed the spot.
Rocco was also quite tall, so his legs dragged behind as Aurelio carried him down the escalator into the abandoned subway station where he kept his bounty. Rocco woke up in a haze, and although he didn’t quite recognize what he was seeing he felt the danger of the situation. Grabbing at Aurelio’s legs he tried to pull himself out from under the huge abdomen. While he flailed, Aurelio was winding his legs, and pulling the silk tight to restrain Rocco’s kicking. Rocco scratching and pulled at the spiders underbelly, pulling out a few of the wiring hairs. He screamed until Aurelio spun him around and muffled his head with a big swath of silk, then around and around until he was fully a mummy.
Rocco had been fighting so much that Aurelio had neglected to bite him again so as to subdue him. So Rocco lay on the floor writhing his body back and forth in this constricted posture, only able to slightly bend and the torso, hips and knees. Aurelio made game of him and picked him up to rock him back and forth like a baby, singing a strange, haunting lullaby. Then Aurelio held him close as if in a hug, but a hug that pierced Rocco with all those thick sharp hairs. Rocco let out a yelp, and Aurelio bit him again deep into the ear. A squirt of blood and an ooze of thick clear fluid followed when Aurelio pulled out his fang. Aurelio licked at the fluids.
Aurelio had grown to love the freshness, but this was not the correct diet. Being undigested, it made him giddy in the head, intoxicated. Like a dog returning to its vomit, Aurelio learned to crave this treat and began to treat his victims accordingly. He started to capture the men fresh, keeping them alive for days as he would poke them to draw more blood. Eventually he could tell that there wasn’t much more to milk from them, so he would inject them with his digestive enzymes and consume the rest of the body in soup form
The bodies began to pile up, but being mostly ingested they didn’t smell as much as a full corps. Aurelio threw their still wrapped remains in a pile near the end of the train platform. Satisfied, he would go back up the escalator and sit and watch Cecelia. Always planning on how to keep her off kilter, he would appear randomly and disappear erratically. After a good meal, an especially large man, he might sleep for over 12 hours.
In between men, Cecelia’s days were lackluster at best. Full of boredom in a minimally lit room. She would comb her hair, primp in the bathroom. The lump on her shoulder had grown from a small pimple size to something more like a boil. She twisted herself to look at it in the mirror, and only saw a smooth lump. It continued to be itchy, and sometimes if felt like it moved when she scratched it. This grossed her out, so she tried not to touch it.
After she would take an extra shower, the rearrange her books. Cecelia had been using the money to buy herself books, and had accumulated a small library. Her favorite was her astronomy book with pictures from the Hubble telescope with detailed descriptions.
The summer had worn on and it was hot and stuffy. Cecelia’s back was slick with sweat, Her blouse stuck to her back, and the hammock felt like a wool blanket in this heat. It was Tuesday, too early for her weekly dinner, but she just couldn’t stand to breathe this stagnant air that was always strangely stale with wafts of a neglected refrigerator pulsing through with each breeze from the back. She had become accustomed to this smell, as one who works on a farm doesn’t smell the animals anymore. When she had guests she had learned that it was best to burn some incense or a scented candle depending on how thick the air seemed that day. Today the smell was even too much for her. What she had smelled when she said good-bye to Lorelei had passed, and had slowly been accumulating again. Now, in this humidity is seemed to cling to her like the stickiness from sea water.
Emerging from the coldest shower she could get to come from the shower head, Cecelia dried and dressed as quickly as she could, before the the moisture from the shower felt like sweat again. She wore her in her yellow dress with orange, and dark purple flowers, which seemed all the more bright and cheerful against her rich dark chocolate skin. She quietly ducked out. Normally she professed her loyalty when she left, but today it was too hot to wait for him to return from his deep den.
There was the temptation to see where he was, what this other part of his home looked like, but the fear of the chasms opening below her unexpectedly froze her curiosity. Each day she would tiptoe off to the back, and she thought about what he might be eating, where he might be defecating--probably into a chasm, she hoped, or how he slept. Did he hang upside down like a bat, or slump on the floor like a dog? Maybe he sat on a perch of a web and sat like a statue much as a horse sleeps standing, or a bird’s claws grip automatically.
At this particular moment, he was in the back, be it sleeping or defecating or eating. Cecelia couldn’t let her mind think about how he ate. That was too unfamiliar a task for her to imagine with his claw-like mouth, fangs hanging down and no obvious opening for food to enter. When they had their sexual trists together, she might catch a view of his face close up. Usually this was the night after she had brought a human lover home as this seemed to be when he was happiest. He would be so closer to her, but she would close her eyes quickly, and choose to pretend the experience was happening to someone else. Her body always responded; it was a slave to his touch as he was very studied in the art of sex. It was a violation that confused Cecelia, because her body had become accustomed to it and even anticipated him coming to her.
Tonight her desired for human touch has risen to a tortuous level, and the heat was driving her out early. She padded out quietly, putting her shoes on down the alley a little ways. The buildings that rose up on each side of her hid most of the sky. When she had run away they had appeared to be melting down on her, but today they just felt like zoo walls that she wanted to climb to get out. She wanted to be observing, and not be the one caged. She knew it wasn’t the walls that trapped her, somehow it was herself. She kept returning to Aurelio out of a warped devotion that confused her and she had no logical argument against. No logical argument that she was willing to entertain, that is.
El Ingenio: she goes wandering and buys her puppet friends.
Even though her desire was for human companionship, she found herself heading to El Ingenio, the toy and curiosity shop, instead of to the restaurants and tourist areas.
A crowd of people was coming out of the shop as she was entering. Her way was eventually clear, so she stepped into the vestibule and almost ran smack into a man standing by the door.
“Pardon me,” she shouted in surprise.
The man did not respond. Cecelia caught her breath, then shouted in his face, “You cork headed ball-burner! Why are you always doing this to me?”
He stood there silently, his shiny painted face unmoved. Cecelia tilted left and right to get a better look at him with his grey balding head, face lined and dented with age, and the striped shirt. “I guess you’re supposed to be Picasso, but your head is SO big.” She sighed and shook her head, and wondered if this paper mache man would forever be her bane. Looking into the store to make sure no one was watching, she made a quick kick at his leg.
She took a moment to read the sign: El Ingenion, ARICULOS FIESTAS, MANIQUIES, GIGANTES, CABEZUDOS, BROMAS” (The Witty Ingenuity, Party Articles, Mannequins, Giants, Big heads, Jokes.) The joke was always on her, she felt, as she recovered her whits and walked back to the store front.
She wandered the store slowly, trying to take in everything. Floor to ceiling there were heads with a variety of bizarre expressions, juggling pins, party supplies, masks, toys, books, trinkets, wigs, and faces everywhere. She wandered past the paper mache masks, wigs, and latex masks into the joke section. She studied the money snatcher, sticky cigarettes, penis leash, fart machines and wondered who she could play these jokes on. There wasn’t anyone. There were so many wonders in this store, objects of silly, strange, and bizarre entertainment from floor to ceiling. It was an overload of primary colors, accented by neon pinks and greens, and deep purples.
The marionettes grabbed her attention. She liked the Charlie Chaplin with his silly big mustache, and the bishop looked friendly. She didn’t really like the bride marionette, but was captivated by it still. The bride had on a white satin long sleeve dress with a lace skirt and veil, her rough blond hair put in a bun, her large nosed face framed by two large pearl earrings. Cecelia picked up the huge foot to look more closely at the crudely sewn moccasin style shoes that this bride wore. She hated it, and love it, and added it to her purchases.
Cecelia came home with the three marionettes, a long purple wig, pink feather boa, a small package that she had the store wrap, a pop-up card, and twinkle lights and a hot air balloon model to hang in the apartment. She wrote out the envelope to herself, signed the card, sealed it up and lay it and the package aside. Cecelia hung the three marionettes from the hooks on the wall along with the wig and feather boa. She thought about going back out with her new fun outfit and her present to celebrate her birthday this weekend. Maybe she would just go all by herself, no men.
While she mused about her birthday, she grabbed Charlie. Swinging back and forth on the hammock slightly, she began to rock the sticks back and forth to make him walk across the floor. She had seen puppeteers before, so she knew that on these simple marionettes to grab individual strings with the other hand to make limbs move on their own. She played with lifting this arm and the other to make him wave, made him nod his head, and wondered what his voice should sound like. Or should he always be silent like his movies.
Cecelia practiced with each of the puppets over the next few days, more often with Charlie, then the bishop, and lastly and quite rarely with the bride. She started to get quite good at it, and acted out their voice parts too. The puppets immediately became her friends, and her thoughts of real people diminished.
On Friday she dressed in her purple wig and feather boa over a black jumper, and grabbed her package and card to take out with her.
“That’s quite the ensemble,” said Aurelio, who was just inside the main room. “Are you expecting to see someone in particular.”
“No, no one in particular. Maybe no one at all,” she smiled.
“What do you mean by no one at all?”
“Just that. It’s my birthday, and I want to have a simple celebration.”
“Well, happy birthday to you,” he said in a mocking tone, “No birthday should be spent alone, especially this one.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m hungry!” he shouted. “I mean,” his voice became soothing again, “I am so desirous to see you happy. And no birthday alone is ever happy.”
“No, I guess not.” She felt ashamed and admonished.
Birthday Celebration, catches Bruno the irritating one
Cecelia didn’t have a favorite restaurant, but feeling like a change was in order she wandered La Rambla, then main tourist drag. It was just a few blocks when she found Habibi restaurant, and the smells reminded her of home. She wanted so much to eat her food, her home food. She was sat at a small table just outside the door. Instantly she was glad that she had on this ridiculous purple wig, thinking that someone at this restaurant might have heard about her and be looking out for her. She wrapped the feather boa around her neck again, as if that would hide her a little more. It didn’t.
After she ordered her falafel, chicken tangine, and green tea with mint she spread her card and package before her. She read her name on the card, then opened it up and read through it as if she hadn’t seen it before. It was an intricate pop up card of a circus scene. She placed it open on the table in front of her. Then she pulled open the wrapping paper carefully at the tape, and spread it flat out on the table with the little box in the middle. Then she carefully pulled up the lid and pulled out a little box that looked like a small thick book with a bent handle with a red ball on the end. Printed on the top was a happy little turtle, which had made her smile when she saw it in the store.
She held the box delicately in her left hand, and turned the crank in her right to play the the tune “Happy Together” by the Turtles. She sang snatches of the verses in her head: day and night, hold you tight, so happy together. The music box played through the verse, then in her head she sang part of the chorus: I can’t see me loving nobody but you for all my life. She looked at the circus card with unfocused eye and bit her upper lip. This song was stabbing her with a hope that she didn’t feel she could believe in or that she deserved.
“Looks like a celebration, young lady,” interrupted a voice.
Cecelia looked up to see a handsome man with a goatee, and a small silver hoop earring. He had on a plane white t-shirt, ripped jean shorts, and his jacket tied around his waist.
“What’s a pretty lady like you doing celebrating all alone? What is it? Your birthday?”
“Yes,” she was startled and didn’t know what else to say.
He sat down uninvited, and threw his leg up on the table. “See this?” he pointed at a tattoo running down his leg. It said “BE A SUPERWOMAN” in chiseled Greek lettering. “That’s you,” he continued on looking right into her face, “a superwoman! I think all women are super, and I just thought you needed to hear that.”
“Uh, well, thanks.”
“And happy birthday!”
“Thanks,” then thinking quickly, “Do you want to join me? A friend told me I shouldn’t be celebrating alone, but I’m alone here in this city.”
“I have some friends I was going to meet, but I think they can wait,” he smiled at her.
Their conversation was not what Cecelia expected. Bruno was overly friendly, constantly telling her how beautiful and precious she was. It felt good, but ingenuine. There were too many “you should”, and “why don’t you” statements about how she should be treating herself and looking at the world around her.
“Where is this friend of yours anyway? Why isn’t he here with you?”
“He’s home. He can’t go out.”
“And you don’t want to celebrate with him at home.”
“No!” she surprised herself with her answer, “The fan made shit, and it hit everywhere.”
“The what, oh, the shit hit the fan. Ha ha! I like that. I’m sorry that happened. You should tell him how you feel and just tell him ‘désolé’: thank-you-very-much-go-fuck-yourself.”
She nodded, and he continued, “That’s what strong women do. They need to tell their men how they feel and how they should be treated….” He went on like this for about 5 minutes without breathing.
It became irritating, but she knew that she had better bring him home or be in terrible trouble. When he started telling her about the cuisine and where it came from and how it should be eaten she almost lost her cool. This was her favorite dish that she grew up with, and he didn’t even think she knew anything. She let her irritation with Bruno fuel her desire to reel him in for the catch.
The dinner was finished, their bitter demitasse drunk, Bruno’s leg slung back up on the table. Cecelia thought he had no manners, but said, “My place is just around the corner.”
He gave her a knowing squint, popped up, and offered her his hand. “Then let us go,” he said with a flourish of his hand and a bow of his head. “I don’t supposed you would like to walk a little and get some birthday desert.”
“No,” she said abruptly, wishing the evening to be over quickly, “No, lets just grab some port and have it back at my place.”
They stopped in at a little wine shop a block out of their way. Bruno was eyeing the ports in the E 200-300 range, “Would you like to get this one?”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“Oh, I, I thought you were buying.”
“Well, I guess I am. It’s my party, and I’m the host, so it’s up to me to buy.” She was quite irritated by this, and perusing the shelves she found a bottle for E9.15, not the cheapest which was E8.67. She lied, “This is my favorite.” Then she quickly spun and walked to the cash register. “This way,” she led him down the alley, and then down through her courtyard.
She had cleaned up the courtyard quite a bit, put a few plants in, found some cafe chairs and a little table. It was looking quite welcoming. Cecelia plunked herself at the little table with the port, and Bruno followed.
“Oops, forgot glasses and an opener. I’ll be right back.” Inside she lit the scented candle to freshen the air, grabbed the glasses, opener, and unbuttoned the top of her blouse. She had no intention of sleeping with him, but wanted to lead him on and keep him there.
They sat and drank the whole bottle, Cecelia sipping little, while refilling his glass much. Feeling heady, Bruno let Cecelia pull him up by the hand and followed her inside. He slid his hand up her shoulder they passed through the door.
“Ooh, what’s that huge lump?”
“Don’t touch it.”
“That’s gargantuan! You should pop it or something. That’s just gross.”
“Just a moment,” she said as she pushed him into the hammock, and then headed to the back of the place. Whispering, “Aurelio, Aurelio!”
“What?”
“I don’t like this one. I’m going to the bathroom.” She marched off with her hands on her hips and went into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Cecelia looked in the mirror and brushed her hair, humming. Waggling her head, she spoke to herself, “He’ll scare him away, and I’ll have done my part. I brought him back and did my duty, didn’t I? He’s the one who’s supposed to share the secrets, he’s the one who won’t let me just tell them.”
Bruno had laid back on the hammock, thinking he was just waiting for her to emerge in some tiny néglige. His eyes were resting closed, his lids felt quite heavy, so he didn’t know that Aurelio was by his side.
Cecelia heard a thump. There was something that sounded like scratching, then Bruno was screaming.
“What are you? Oh, god, NO! Lady, Lady, help me.”
‘Lady? Couldn’t he even remember my name?’ she wondered. ‘He’ll get over it in just a moment. I got used to Aurelio, so he can too.’
There were a few more thuds and a muffled scream. When it got quiet, Cecelia came out of the bathroom and found a chair knocked over, and Bruno’s wallet on the table. She picked it up and laughed to herself that he had been so scared he had run off without his wallet. She knew, though, she knew deep down he hadn’t run.
“Scaredy-cat!” she called, and she opened the wallet and counted the money. “What a cheap ass!” There was over E 1000 in his wallet, which now empty, she threw at the door. She pocketed it and rolled her eyes. Sleep eluded her that night. She would startle every time she heard a scratching sound, and was afraid to go near the door to Aurelio’s lair again.
Marionette Conversation
In the shadowy early morning light, the soft outline of three figures loomed by the wall. The mysterious shapes took the form of people in her mind. One had an arm raised in defense, but it was attached to a line and pulled against its will. The second looked as if it was falling, legs stopped in motion as if he were running and trying to catch himself. He was caught in a tangle of strings, some taught, some slack. The third had its arms flailed up, back arched, hanging from the lines as if stunned. The more she looked, the more criss crossed lines became visible. The figures didn’t move, as as the sunlight sharpened, the shadows focused, looked more desperate.
Finally there was enough light that she could see that these shadows came from her marionettes, that they’re body positions were caused by her haphazard hanging of them on the hooks. She breathed a sigh of relief, but the images were seared in her mind like the afterglow of something too bright on your eyeball. She adjusted each on their stands, tried to make them look more comfortable.
Charlie: Why thank you. That’s much better.
Cecelia stopped and stared at him, wondering how he was talking.
Charlie: Don’t be stupid. You’re the one that’s talking. I sound just like you, don’t I?
Cecelia: Yes, you do, even if I’m trying to talk like you.
Charlie: How would you know what I sound like? You’ve never seen any of my talkies.
Cecelia, grimacing: It doesn’t matter. I’ll just do you like this.
Charlie: Blah blah blah-dee blah blah!
Cecelia: There you go! That’s what you get!
Charlie: I stand corrected.
Bishop, in a slow smooth voice: What about me? What will I sound like?
Cecelia: Just like that, you idiot.
Bishop: Name calling is unnecessary, especially when you’re talking to a religious ruler.
Charlie: Religious ruler? Where are we? I’m just going to call you Padre.
Cecelia: I like that. Padre’s better.
Bishop: Padre is fine with me, as long as you’re respectful.
Cecelia: Ok, Ok. Settle down.
Bride, high and squeaky: And what about me? What shall I sound like?
Charlie: That’s awful! I don’t want to listen to that voice.
Cecelia: Then what should she sound like?
Bishop: Like you.
Cecelia: No, not like me. I made a terrible bride.
Bride, in various voices: Then how about like this? Or like this? Like this? Like this?
Cecelia: I think I like that last one.
Bride, low and husky: Then this will be my voice.
Cecelia, laughing: You sound like a smoker.
Bride: Sexy! Huh? —breathing heavy
Charlie: Seriously! That’s enough. —Cecelia waved his arm around— Seems that we gave you a bit of a scare this morning.
Cecelia: Yes, you looked like you were all caught in a spider’s web.
Bishop: Aurelio’s web?
Cecelia, too quickly: No!
Bride: Be nice to the girl. She had a hard night.
Cecelia: Yeah, I did.
Bishop: There, there, my child. —She lifted his hand and leaning forward, placed it on her forehead.— I will pray for you. —mumbling— Amen.
Cecelia: Thanks.
Charlie: What are you going to do with that E1000?
Bride: Oh, I could use a new dress, and some new shoes! Look at how big my feet are!
Cecelia: I don’t know. That’s a lot of money.
Bride: You don’t deserve it. It’s not yours, and you know that it’s your fault.
Cecelia: What’s my fault?
Bride: The way he went.
Cecelia: He deserved to be scared. He was an ass.
Bride: That’s not what I mean. He was terrified. And who says he left?
Cecelia picked up the bride marionette and threw her against the wall.
Charlie: Whoa! Why’d you do that?
Brishop, shaking his head: Young lady, that was unnecessary.
Cecelia: Shut up! You all shut up! I don’t want to hear any of you.
Cecelia sat on the hammock and rocked with her head in her hands the rest of the morning. She neglected breakfast and lunch, then curled up in a ball and fell asleep through the afternoon into early evening. Waking at dusk, she got up and walked out into the city, tracing back the path that she and Rocco had taken. Maybe she would see a glimpse of him again, but she knew—she knew that wouldn’t happen. She avoided eye contact with everyone, kept her head down, and just watched her feet as they stepped across grey paver after grey paver. Step by step she walked until she was exhausted, then went back home and collapsed on the sofa. She wanted the smell of dusty upholstery, not the hint of sweet, yeasty smell in the silk spun hammock.