A Vengeful Dream

The fresh morning had unwound into the deep sunshine of the afternoon.  In Italy, it was still early for lunch when the "Americano" stepped onto the terrace and asked for the table nearest the railing.  A fat Italian cat sat purring on this wide cement perch, settled on artful white pillars that held it at a height just right for safely leaning out over the ocean. 



He sat back and breathed deeply.  The aroma of the thick purple flowers spilling over the terrace mingled with the orange trees that insisted on growing against the steep coast.  The waiter approached him, looking like the kindly old puppet maker in Pinnochio, gently welcoming him.  As Italians naturally did, the formality of the servant was replaced by a greeting more appropriate to an equal, perhaps an old friend come back from a long trip abroad.  Instant friends, he called the waiter Geppetto, and the old man made an off-color remark about long noses, quickly apologizing to a female customer with great comic effect.  In America, she might have complained, and he might have been fired.  In Italia, she laughed like a sailor, and said her father is even worse.



Unprinted, the menu was a wonderful story, about fishermen on the sea and what they found this morning, and what was in season.  Such a timeless place, millennia of history, but every day, every hour, fresh and new.  Amicably, it was agreed on a primo piatto of small shrimp on grilled polenta, followed by silver mackerel in a lemon, basil and mushroom sauce, and finally rigatoni with sea bass and rosemary.  The waiter brought him a basket of warm, crusty bread, some strong cheese, and a rustic flask filled with the most delicious red wine.  He preferred the passionate red to the lighter white, even with fish.  He poured the dark ruby drink into a simple, oversized glass.



As he sipped his wine, other patrons arrived in loud, noisy clusters.  Soon after, the first plate was served.  The food was stunning, so simple and good.  He looked out over the deep azure of the Mediterranean sea.  Two ladies settled at a table nearby.  He was always pleasantly impressed by the European desire to be near others and make contact.  He vaguely noticed that the ladies were stylish and pretty, and that they were instantly immersed in a very pleasant and public discourse.



The wine and the sun warmed his blood.  The vista from this high perch would excite even the most seasoned artist, and he wondered how happy he might be if he lived here.  But as his eyes found the sailboat speckles of white in the endless ocean blue, he became aware of a brooding sense of malcontent.  Perhaps it was being here in Italy.  Or was it the sun, or the lavender flowers?  Suddenly he was filled with...emptiness.  Screaming...emptiness.



The beauty around him was a taunt.    Barbed, distant memories found him, and he knew that he wanted to share this...with her.  Suddenly, he was prisoner again to her deep brown eyes, her velvet voice, her elegant neck, her graceful hands, her cherry lips.  Eleven years ago.  She had left him with cold, bleak determination.  There were no kind words, no warm emotions.  He was forgotten, and enthusiastically so.  She moved on to look for another, someone more to her liking.  The dreams, once so real to both of them, so real that they could talk of nothing else, were forever poisoned.  He had sealed his unwanted love in a tomb, marked the headstone with words of defiance, and buried her memory.  What choice?



He had found solace in hard work.  He had won battle after battle, worked tirelessly, built businesses, toned his body and his mind.  After so much transformation, so much progress, he was astounded to find himself still helpless, even against a faded image.  Like a warrior, cloaked in valour on the battlefield of life, only realizing when he stops to rest that he is weak, and mortally wounded.



He put on his sunglasses, afraid his eyes would betray his emotions in a such a public setting.  Mechanically, he looked around and saw the terrace had filled, and was bustling with beautiful, happy patrons.  Still lost in his emotions, he suddenly realized a face was smiling at him, and breaking free of his reverie, surprised that someone would know him so far from home.  But it was nobody he knew, just a pretty Italian woman wanting to acknowledge him.  What an unexpected tonic for an injured soul!  He took off his sunglasses and smiled at her.  She winked before laughing out loud with her friends at the table.  He thought to himself that when the puppet maker returned, he would have a drink brought to her.



Bolstered by this unexpected ally, he hunkered down behind a hard line of defiance again.  He sat up straight in his chair.  Why should he be the sad one?  Where was she now, he wondered?  He would live the dreams, make them real, but for someone who deserved it.  Someone who cared for him.  She....she had made a mistake.  He dreamed a dream, steeped in revenge.  Why, just with selling the ancestral lands from his father, he could buy a large sailboat.  He could sell his American assets and buy her a home right on the ocean.  Modest and cute, with a functional kitchen that had a great veranda overlooking the magnificent sea.  Music would fill every space, along with comfortable sofas and chairs just right for reading or lounging.



The yards would have fragrant flowers all year round, and a wonderful sailboat would wait for them on hot summer days.  He would make breakfast for her, and pack a picnic lunch.  They would sail for an hour, and then move away from the coast to sunbathe in private.  She would jump into the ocean and he would watch her before jumping in to chase her.  Laughing she would climb back onboard, and escape to the bow of the boat, where he would finally trap her.  Struggling, he would overcome her and make love to his Italian beauty, at first rough and greedy, then soft, gentle, generous.  Then they would plan dinner, go to the market, laugh and play as they picked out the fresh ingredients and some good wines.  They would plan travel to Berlin, Moscow, and Paris, tasting the food and sampling the culture and the music.  He was smiling now.  He would write poems and stories for her that would stir her soul, and read them to her from the bow of the boat as the stars listened in profound deference.



Drunk with happiness, he imagined that she was meeting him here, on the terrace, and that she was arriving in a few seconds.  Free to dream, graced with infinite choice, he consciously conjured up the image of his Italian beauty and commanded her to sit in front of him at the table.  She sat down just a moment before Geppetto arrived with the main dish, a triumph of freshness and culinary simplicity.  Geppetto was prepared to make a flourish of his great gift, pilfered from the gods this very morning, and offered to him for pittance, for something as base as mere money.  But seeing the americano's face, he almost whispered that if anything else was needed he would be pleased to assist him.  The waiter rushed away, wanting to give his friend what little comfort he could by not standing over him as he cried.  Slouched in his chair, the American did not notice him, or the gift from the gods.  Defeated, he did not even bother to reach for his sunglasses.  After all this, ALL THIS...he simply could not believe that his Italian beauty... had HER deep brown eyes, HER velvet voice, HER elegant neck, HER graceful hands, and HER cherry lips.