Friday, August 10, 2007

   Story!
My Grandfather, Paul, sat by the fire, he was cradling a cup of hot tea in his brown, wrinkled hands. I was fascinated with his hands. I don’t know why, so I suggest you don’t ask me, but there was something about the way he glanced down at them, a look of affection and shock in his eyes.
I watched him from a distance, in a shadowy corner of the jungle that my family called the living room. I was wedged uncomfortably between the loveseat and a coffee table, and my eyes were two tiny slits that I was trying, with all my might, to keep open. It was far past my bedtime, and yet, I couldn’t sleep, I had to know.
I had to know why Grandpa was just staring at his hands, at his tea, with such a desolate gaze. I was awaiting my chance; awaiting the moment that Mama, or Papa, or even my older sister, Emily, would bring the subject up.
Everyone had to realize something wasn’t right; my grandpa is a man who practically booms when he whispers, and when he laughs I imagine the world is shaking.
But tonight, he is quiet. His posture is almost fragile, more like a woman’s than a man’s, and the shadows flickering on his jaw and forehead make him appear years younger, almost childish. His hands tremble, ever so slightly, and there is a ghost of a wry smile on his lips. His feet shuffle about on the floor, but he seems unaware. I stifle a gasp, as he drops he cup and saucer, and they go clattering on the wood floor.
In the smoky haze emanating from the fire, the tea that is splashing out looks almost red, like wine. Paul jerks his head, and clasps his hand together, “oh, I am dreadfully sorry, Linda, I am sorry, dear; I don’t know what has come over me tonight.”
My mother pounces on the now dripping tea with a handkerchief, fretting over the broken china and stained wood floor. As she dabs it up, and sweeps away the broken glass, it seems as if a face has now taken shape in the ridges and small, miniscule valleys in the wood floors.
I cock my head, and stretch out my neck as far as it will permit me to go so I can ascertain the details of this head my grandfather’s accident has created.
It is of a woman, I can tell because of the delicate bone structure of the face; the high cheek bones and sharp jaw that is rimmed with skin and a thin layer of fat that makes it appear softer; more feminine. The figure’s nose is not describable, as there is a leaf-a leaf? - Slightly risen where a nose should be. Instead of hair, there are long trails of vines, branching off to more slender stems, which finally branch off to a small but sturdy stalk which hold an abundance of grapes.
Her eyes are blank, but there is something very intense about them, as if they are staring into you, smugly boasting that she knows very well about how you work, and while you are trying to discern what she is all about, she can easily say that she is a stain, and nothing more, and there is no way you can ever understand her.
*
Grandfather stares at the face, his lips parted slightly and his eyes so wide that I know he is shocked, and yet he reaches down, ever so slowly, and brushes his fingertips against the silhouette of the face. He draws back his hand and brushes away tears from his eyes, and, regaining his composure, says gruffly, “You’ll have to excuse me.”
As soon as he passes through the doorway leading to the staircase, I take a deep breath, hold it, and bolt towards the same door. I inhale deep breaths as I try to steady my racing heart. Finally, when I feel somewhat calm, I cautiously crawl up the stairs and into my Grandfather’s room.
His back is to me, and he sits on the edge of his bed, staring out the window into the night. My grandfather is blind in one eye, and he has the advantage of being able to appear as if he is directing his gaze in one direction when he really is looking in another. He called it, “people watching.” He beckons me with his right index finger to come in.
Startled, I jump a little, and then, step by careful step, I creep into his presence. “I am sorry, Natalie, if I scared you tonight. My behavior has been quite odd, I realize, and I’ve cause much distress to your mother.” With this, his eyes roll down to meet mine, and I stare boldly back at him.
I scramble into his lap, and turn my head so I can keep an eye on him. “Grandpa, why were you so odd tonight?” He mulls over my question, and I study his eyes. They are the palest ice blue, and the dark pupils contrast with such extremity to the irises, that the difference is breath-taking. I can see my reflection within them, and, reflected in my eyes, I see almost fear, fear to know what caused my grandfather to be in a trance, of a sort, tonight.
My grandfather opens his mouth, licks his lips, and then begins haltingly: “Natalie, my princess, you know your grandfather is an explorer, he never really thinks he is too old to travel the world. Well, many years ago. When I was a strapping young lad of eighteen, from early fall until late spring, I went on an epic journey to Italy. It was my first time visiting a foreign country by myself, without being accompanied by an older person. I was excited, nervous, of course, but excited to no boundary….”
*
“I had just checked in to a hotel known as “Prima Donna,” but keep in mind, my dear, that when I was young, all the high-tech propaganda you have today was not in existence. Back then, the world was much wilder; much more uncivilized. Cities were not like they are today; they were young and just beginning to gain their legs in the world. At the time, people relied more on farming than machines, and one of the best businesses was the making of wine.
I, at the time, was in strong favor of wine at celebrations and for relaxation, so I was interested in how wine was made; how did they create white wine from red, how did some red wines taste sweeter than ones that had keys of pungent undertones? Well, Natalie, one of the first things I did was ask for a tour, or at least an educational briefing. A connoisseur eagerly decided to take it upon himself. He was young, like myself, and was trying to prove himself to the elders. A connoisseur, Natalie, is a personage that has the skilled ability to have a refined taste in drink, food, or other articles requiring the ability to judge.
Now, his name was Pablo, and he was a very polite, but rambunctious man. He led me through vineyards, and rattled on about the process of how wine was made. Although I found this very interesting, I was even more intrigued when I learned about Pablo’s secret belief in a god, or rather goddess, which was looked up to for a good harvest, a good season. Her name was Vieira.
The pope did not allow the belief in multiple gods, and so therefore Pablo begged, pleaded for me to keep his secret, and I agreed. Now, although I was very interested in the goddess, I knew that she was a person based off of myth and legends. I did not think much of her, after I returned to my hotel and ate a hearty bowl of soup. I was in my bedroom and was about to drift off when there was a soft tapping on my window. Tap-tap-tap-screeeee. It sounded as if someone had just unlocked and, trying to be stealthy, gently pushed the glass away.
I scrambled out of bed, ran towards the window, and peered out, eyes searching. Confused, I decided I would figure this mystery out. I crawled out of the window, down the intricate twisting stems of a climbing plant, and tumbled to the ground, popped back up, and ran towards the vineyards. I just had this odd, nagging feeling that the person had gone in this direction.
Well, wheezing, I held my knees, looked around, and was about to turn back, when there was a rustling in the vines. I stalked around the area, and then pushed away the thick nest of leaves and grapes. Someone grabbed my shirt, and I collapsed on the ground. She was there, pale legs crossed, fingers twisting a lock of, well, vine. She smiled. And I knew. It was Vieira.
‘You did a very good thing, today, Paul. Pablo is a good man, and it would have been devastating to the world had you let his secret slip, even if it were an accident. As a reward, Italy will be granted a good harvest. And you…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘You will be blessed with good fortune. May all of Italy know your name and respect it. You will become a pope, a pope of Italy. You are of good judgments and have a trustworthy soul. Italy can count on you, and I can count on you, too.’ She kissed me on the cheek, and stood up, bounding off like a gazelle through the vineyards, touching and stroking grapes and vines as she went, whispering sweet words that made them blossom. I think I fell in love that day, and I can’t help but remember her. Later, I was proved right, as Pablo became a poet whose works were widely accepted, and I became the pope.
That is my story. Natalie?”
*
My head on my grandfather’s chest, I dream. I dream of vineyards basked in the white glow of the moon, and Vieira, sitting on the moon, clapping. “What a wonderful story, Paul. But Natalie, yours has just begun.”

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