Rosemary and Alphonse Cheques were married on an unbearably hot Spring morning in a little seaside ceremony two years before. Her dress was beautiful, and she looked radiant in it. He looked striking, with his entire Firefighter Squad serving as a collective 'best man'. There wasn't a cloud in the sky that day- it was a perfect day. Friends, relatives- all agreed that it could not have been better.
Today, the sun was in hiding- dark clouds filled the sky, wind howling through the trees. She tucked her portfolio tightly against her stomach, then wrapped her overcoat around herself tightly, fighting the gale-force winds as she made her way down the block. If she didn't get to the car in a hurry, the imminent rainstorm would have her, and her new plans, soaked through and through. She could see her car now- just a block and a half away!
The first drop of rain fell with a wet plop onto her nose, and she had just enough to time to wipe it away when she realized she'd never make it. The downpour was sudden, like the heavens opening up and pouring down on her from above. It was more like a waterfall than a shower. Still, her overcoat shrugged most of the wet off, and thinking quickly, she ducked under the nearest business awning.
The sign on the door window said "Papa Petrovna's Purple Emporium" in a classic Gothic font, in bold gold lettering, outlined in a deep, deep purple. The door itself was oak, carved intricately with oak leaves and assorted woodland creatures. She could tell that the work was done by an artist- a true professional, and she briefly found herself touching the little intricacies of this carved masterpiece. This kind of work could only have been done by hand- no mass-produced work could even come close. If nothing else, the proprietor of this place had taste.
She opened the door, trying hard to keep quiet, which proved impossible, as the door was rigged to an elaborate string-and-pulley system, that triggered a series of concentric triangles to be sounded. It reminded Rosie of the sound her old ‘Read Along’ records used to make whenever she was supposed to turn a page. "Well," she mused, "at least now I know that 'Read Along' sounds can still find work in today’s economy."
The room that confronted her was, to put it mildly, a shrine to the color purple. The walls were a particular shade of lavender that was pleasant to look at, while still managing to be completely unnatural. The curtains were such a deep, rich velvety purple that they seemed to absorb any light that came near. The carpet was reminiscent of a Persian rug save that its primary color was violet, not red. There were little end-tables everywhere, seeming placed at random, each piled high with purple trinkets and baubles, some covered in gold metal buttons, studs, fasteners, or thread. She stared in wonder for longer than she realized.
When she realized she’d been holding her breath, she gasped. A deep, rich aroma filled her nostrils, some kind of incense heavy in the air. Lavender played a key role in the aroma, and though she couldn’t see it, per se, she guessed that if she could, the smell would be purple. She walked around the room twice, staring at each display on its pedestal, as if she were in a museum, not a store. The displays were arranged more like works of art than practical, objects were put next to each other for aesthetic reasons rather than economic.
The old man snuck up on her quite completely. "Hello, young lady! Can I help you with anything?" She spun around quickly, her face a look of surprise. He looked impossibly old- wrinkled, wizened and grey, and his accent betrayed him as foreign. She couldn’t quite make out from where, but he was definitely European. He was dressed in a long purple coat, decorated as to be gaudy. The windows of his soul were hidden behind tiny, rose-colored lenses, barely large enough to cover his eyeballs. They were held together by a thin golden wire that wrapped tightly around his face to behind his ears. He was clean-shaven, or had been earlier in the day- the faintest stubble colored his cheeks and chin a faint powdery white.
"I, uh… not really," she stammered, then motioned toward the downpour outside, "I just came in to…"
He reached out and snatched her hand so quickly she had hardly enough time to blink. "Look at those hands!" he exclaimed, "These are artist’s hands. You’re an artist, a creator!"
She blushed, pulling her hand from his, "Yes! Well, no. Not really, no. I’m an architect. I don’t actually build anything- all I do is plan."
He looked back at her with a long, sad stare. "To plan and plan, but never to do? What a heartbreaking story. So sad!" He looked on the verge of tears!
She shook her head, bewildered by the creepy old man. "No, my plans do get made, just not by me. I get to see the end result without having to worry about all the building stuff."
The man looked crestlfallen. "I see. You’re one of those people who wants results right away? Very well, I have just the thing for that…"
She shook her head in protest, "No, I didn’t come in here for… I was just trying to get out from under the weather."
"Feeling under the weather? Oh, I have just the thing for you! You’ll get your speedy results, but the creation will still be yours."
Now she was a little angry. "Are you saying that the buildings I dream up aren’t mine, because I didn’t physically build them?"
He reached out quickly- too quickly for her to react. His finger came to rest on her forehead, just above the eyes. "Ideas come from here. Dreams. Plans. The head. You work your head too much, you forget the other parts of the soul." He waved his arms about like a crackpot trying to gather in spirits, finishing with a hand on either side of the head, gently massaging his temples.
She would have none of his mumbo jumbo. "Look, I’m sorry I bothered you. Your collection is lovely, but I don’t feel it’s right for me…"
He rushed her, his hand leading the way with a long bony figure. It darted out, stabbing her deftly in her left breast, directly over the areola. She gasped and took a wild swing at him, but he was already too far away by the time she’d even started. "Feelings come from here," he said. "Love. Hate. Anger. Emotions. You are married, no?"
She blinked, surprised. "Yes…" she said hesitantly. She was more than a bit uncomfortable. "How did you know that?"
The old man smiled a big silly grin, showing his yellowing teeth brightly. "Your heart is banded. An artist’s grace tells all." Again he waved his arms about, this time coming to rest crossed across his own chest.
She stared at him for a moment, watching him stare back at her with the same stupid pose. How had he known that? She seemed a little confused for a moment, when realization struck her, "Band? Oh, my wedding ring!" She toyed with it with her thumb, shaking her head. "You’re smooth, trying to act psychic! I don’t know what you’re trying to do, making me…"
His hand darted out again, this time stabbing a finger into her stomach just below the navel. "Action comes from here!"
She doubled over, the blow knocking whatever snarky thought the had right out of her. She finally hissed, "Where, the intestines?"
"The gut!" he bellowed, causing her to take a step away from him. "Movement. Decision. Creation. The gut!"
This little nut was really creeping her out! She didn’t care about the rain anymore, she decided she’d risk getting wet. She took another step back, when her portfolio slipped out from under her coat and landed on the floor. In a flash, he stooped down and gathered them up, marveling at the designs he could see poking out around the edges.
Her eyes boggled, "Give those back!" she demanded. The sooner she had these, the sooner she could get the hell out of here!
The wizened old man nodded once, then stepped behind the counter near the back of the room. "These are marvelous! Such lines, such elegance! You are an artist. These are hand-drawn, yes? I can tell- they aren’t done by any cold, heartless computer. There’s creation in these!"
"Whatever," she replied, annoyed. "The rain’s letting up. Give them back, and I’ll leave you to your purple store."
Now the man looked deeply hurt. "You are upset. Have I offended you? A gift maybe, to make things better?"
She shook her head, impatient. "That won’t be necessary. Just give me my portfolio!"
He held his hand out in protest, "Now I am offended. I insist that you take my gift- an apology from an old man who doesn’t know when to quit." This said, he reached down behind the counter he was standing behind, and pulled out a small, flat box, wrapped in glossy purple cellophane. He put it on top of her portfolio, then offered it.
She sighed. Fine, if it meant she could leave, she’d take the stupid package! She grabbed for it, but found that he held it fast. "My gift will help you, Rosemary Cheques. It will help give you what you lack in your gut. And your heart."
Again she was stunned- how in the world could he know her name? She nabbed the portfolio and package and pulled them tightly to her, staring at him the whole time. Then she shook her head, shivered, and made a dash for the door.
The door made the noise again as she rushed out. The old man smiled as she went, then mumbled, "Turn the page… now."
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