The Code Set In Stone

'I'm live in lonely, I was wandering in the rain, mask of life,

sunny days seem far away. How does it feel when you're all alone

and you're cold inside?'

Stranger -Michael Jackson



SUBTERRANEAN HOMESICK BLUES                  ...Johnny's in the basement        -BobDylan                                                                                                                                                                                              Monday5.20pm                                                                                          Ostend                                         



Joric



It's been a hard day's night, and I've been working like a dog.  The words of the old Beatles song sung themselves into Joric's tired mind; he had a song for every occasion, and that was the one for now even though it wasn't night.

He yawned, it was the end of another tedious day's work in Atalanta, state business precinct and suburb under the sea. The poet Swinburne had spoken of Atalanta as somewhere with Shadows and windy places with lisp of leaves and ripple of rain, he could have been describing Leopold Park's leafy recreational area where Joric might just end up this evening, but certainly not the Atalanta where he spent most of his days and nights. Shadows there were aplenty, but not a breath of wind or the slightest ripple of rain.

The lights were on in the otherwise empty compartment and he sprawled untidily across a double seat on the sub-train taking him to the mainland at Ostend, wondering what the weather would be like at sea level; he really should've checked before leaving the office. Where should he go this evening? The gazebo at the park would afford shelter in case of a sudden downpour, but if the sun were shining he would opt for the city shoreline and watch the sunset.

Vindictive Laan was the strange name of his welcome escape route to the park, it would take him past the Marina with a right turn into Leopold II Laan. On the other hand the beach was to the right of the station, along Visserskaal and onto the sand just past Montgomery Dock where he could watch the ferry on its way to good old England, beckoning him to come home. Tonight, weather permitting, he might just jog along Albert Promenade which ran parallel with the beach, before continuing along the sand which stretched for miles. He'd pass the row of old flagpoles near the palace, of late proudly displaying five different flags flying and flapping in the inevitable breeze.

First but not foremost flew a flag bearing the crest of the BruSSels Bureaucracy. This was a griffin, the beast known to represent the guardian of the treasures of divine power from Rome The Eternal City, a beast with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. The capital letters in the middle of BruSSels denoted that State Services were centralised there.

The Total Federation Flag known as The Federal towered above the rest, displaying a yellow sun in the top left hand corner with a green sickle moon and star opposite. Below were ten smaller stars representing ten kingdoms.

Then there was the Hejazi Kingdom flag of the Dominions. Joric had once seen a far larger version almost the size of an American football field, flying from a 136 metre pole in Aqaba. It could be seen from Eilat where he'd been holidaying at the time, making the most of his student vacation. Even then he'd thought it strange that the Hejazi flag dominated, taking precedence over the Transgordonian national flag.

Then came a mercury and gold triangular flag sporting the now familiar image of the phoenix. This mythical bird had appeared previously on coins of the late Roman Empire as a symbol of the Eternal City, also known as the Golden City. The phoenix reappeared in 2005 on the ex-Belgian ten Euro silver coin, representing the new Europa's Unity in Diversity as USE - the United States of Europa, and celebrating sixty years of peace and freedom. Interesting to note was the fact that during 1957 at the signing of The Peace Treaty of Rome, the then Belgian foreign minister Henri Spaak had announced, 'We the leaders are consciously re-creating the Roman Empire.'

A new one dollar coin of the Empire had been minted at the turn of the decade, this time representing the greater monetary system of G.O.D. as in Globally Obligated Dollar. This new coin bore feathers of the phoenix on one side and the words Oneworld - Unity in Diversity, on the other. Somehow the diversity had been smothered by blanket uniformity somewhere along the way!

Although not the tallest, the royal standard ensign of the Imperial City of Rome stood out from all the others, displaying a crown of leaves and acorns encircling the head of King Solomon with raised sword in one hand over baby, and scales of justice in the other.  He bore an uncanny resemblance to someone of whom Joric would rather not think at present, one who'd forcefully driven through the merger that had steered the world clear of bankruptcy after the global stock market crash. An historian might be forgiven for asking why the wise King of the land of The Prince's Dominion should be lumped together with an unholy Roman Emperor from a later era and different area.

Joric eagerly looked forward to such evenings when he could bask in the heart-warming glow of the sun as it inexorably fell through deepening shades of blue into depths of glorious gold, until it finally sank ablaze as a fireball igniting the western horizon.  As he chose to ignore the ugly city sprawl behind him, with Evening spread out against the sky, his subterranean blues would slowly dissolve and vanish Like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. Restoration would flow through his being and he would be at one with nature, in touch with himself and perhaps with God. A hotline to heaven? How on earth could God be concerned with just one in seven billion after the billions who'd come and gone before him?

Changes in the seasons were never noticed by those living in Atalanta, thus the polite conversational topic of the weather hardly ever arose. Now and again someone would surface for some air that wasn't conditioned, then inform the others down below of sunshine, snow or the occasional angry winter waves causing consternation at the surface exit. 

The sub-train used to run until midnight, but with the yobbo element on the loose in recent times, danger of thuggery on trains had increased, causing the night schedule to be scrapped. Hard to believe, but it had been suggested that the absence of healthy old-fashioned church activities for the youth was partly responsible for the juvenile delinquency and general moral decline seen of late. Such behaviour was punishable under the Law Against Deviant Antisocialism, with LADA sentences being carried out under the auspices of the Bureau of Safety and Security, commonly referred to as BOSS. However, Joric reckoned that public violence was just as likely to be fuelled by soccer fanaticism stoked by the powers that be.

Something more sinister that had to be taken into account was the amnesty granted to certain prisoners at the time of the new world order's takeover. Those convicted of so-called petty crimes had been officially pardoned in an expansive gesture of goodwill by the head of the regime, and released en masse. Obviously this had been due to hopeless overcrowding in gaols, mutinous penal colonies and the cost of running such establishments. Ironically, having flown the coop, these gaol birds now on the streets were given train passes to go job hunting, giving them carte blanche to vent their frustrations on public transport commuters and other innocent bystanders.

Further aggravating this state of affairs was the flood of third world DRC immigrants spilling into the inner city, previously disadvantaged souls seeking escape from squalid outlying squatter camps. Yet there were propaganda posters plastered everywhere as part of a highly publicized five year campaign of Affirmative Action espousing equal opportunity, a euphemism hiding glaring inconsistencies with the uneasy truth of the matter.

The official explanation given for the withdrawal of nightly public transport was that the authorities couldn't provide enough after-hours security. But Joric reckoned that here was a solution to the unemployment problem. Armed and uniformed safe-guards were sparingly supplied by the Safety and Security Department's 'Sheltered In Employment Legionnaire Division,' SHIELD. Largely manned by awkward squads of raw recruits press-ganged from destabilised Central Africa, SHIELD was a paramilitary organization set up to kill two birds with one stone, firstly to beef up the martial State and secondly to provide employment for the literary challenged refugees. Why not just boost the numbers already being churned out by training other misfits from the sprawling townships eager to make a living? Surely public transport safe-guards needed minimal training and even language proficiency was not a requirement.

For now at least, there were no more nights out on the nearby coastal town for the people of Atalanta. Anyway, most Atalantians wouldn't have the necessary G.O.D. dollars for partying on the mainland unless they'd had the foresight to keep a stash hidden under a mattress. Alas, the tills on shore only rang to the sound of good old fashioned hard cash! The closeted sub-marine dwellers were certainly not living in lowly sub-economic circumstances, lulled as they were into living it up in cashless freedom. As we live a life of ease, everyone of us has all we need..in our yellow submarine. 'No worries about overspending,' Australasian regionals would comment. Atalanta being so cosmopolitan was the one thing that made life interesting in the new down-under.     

Joric's reverie came to an abrupt halt as down-under suddenly gave way to up above and the train sped into the watery sunlight which milkily shone through the Polymethylmethacrylate tunnel-bridge running all the way to Ostend Metro Station. Joric really should have checked the weather report at lunchtime - it was drizzling. A pale rainbow arched over the sea in the weak sunlight as the Ramsgate to Ostend ferry slid noiselessly by. Suddenly homesick, he dreamed he was on board, aiming for the pot of gold on the green-green grass of home, with seagulls over the white cliffs that stretched along the coast at Dover and beyond. Behind the cliffs lay Kent Global Airport from whence he'd once flown to faraway places, back in the good old days. Instead, here he was disembarking at Ostend Station; what should he do on this damp and dreary day? Joric had read in the Fantastic Atlantic that the traditional student parade of the dinosaur dragons, labelled 'Creatures from hell,' would be doing a restaurant circuit for charity in the early evening, but that would now be cancelled due to the weather. Maybe it would clear up and he'd still be able to jog.

No chance! Outside the concourse hall on the big square it was now raining cats and dogs. Come rain or shine he was happy to be there, just singing in the rain, but it wasn't half cold! Oh well, nothing to do but seek shelter and browse through the shops. 

He checked his pockets and hey presto, produced a few dollars saved for a rainy day such as this. Emergency money really, but this evening Joric might just have his arm twisted to spend it, tempted now by all the luscious continental aromas assailing his nostrils. He was feeling daring and decidedly debonair, and wished he could afford the warm feeling of being shown to a table in some comfy up market bistro. He'd probably only be able to order a garlic roll, and then there'd be the tip which would no doubt earn him the the commonly known phrase of Tipping en Anglais, a poor refection on the perceived tight-fisted habits of the Brits. Well, he'd blow the lot anyway. Perhaps some chic and slick city chick strolling thereabouts might want to go Dutch with him on a Mac Happy meal at McDonald's. That would make it a so-called 'co-operative meal!' Atalanta's shabby bureaucratic new-speak with its chauvinistic and desensitizing side effects had clung to him like a damp shadow; he was going to shake it off and enjoy his two hours on the prowl as a sophisti-cat landlubber away from the usual sub-standard of Atalanta's shopping alleys.

Close by was the old-style grandeur of St Petrus-en-Paulus Kerk built in 1907, its ornate cathedral twin peaks stylishly peeping out above the dreary shop fronts. Looking for he knew not what, Joric crossed the road negotiating the rush-hour traffic, weaving this way and that, getting splashed in the process. It was worth the adrenalin rush, but he'd better refocus on the city's careering four-wheeled vehicles, prone to skidding on the wet roads and making for a somewhat alarming experience compared with his usual amble around the lanes in Atalanta with its slow battery operated tri-cars.

Strolling further down the road, he could see fine old shop façades coming into view. He meandered on, taking a step back in time as he moved away from the hustle and bustle of interconnected chain stores, through the arcade and into the side streets. Once upon a time the old city must've looked really first-rate.

Joric took great pleasure in all that was olde worlde, he was after all a crusty old-fashioned historian. Not too stuffy hopefully, and England being a nation of shopkeepers, it was in his blood to enjoy browsing along fascinating back streets. 

Suddenly he found himself outside a delightful old three storey building with a charming Juliet balcony. Aha! The sign was in English, 'Second Hand Rose,' fascinating. Below was an interesting-looking curiosity shop that thankfully hadn't been pretentiously portrayed as an 'Antique Shop,' with a 'we-can always-bang-out-another-period-piece-around-the-back-in-our-workshop' mentality.

Wow, beautifully arranged display window framing a wowish saleslady. She was blonde, but for some strange reason he felt she should've been brunette. Whatever made him think such a daft thought? She glanced up and he took the warm smile of acknowledgement as a sort of invitation; O brightening glance. His hands and feet were icy, so he made up his mind to go inside as casually as he could and circle round in feigned concentration, hoping to remain there browsing and availing himself of the central heating for as long as possible.



'The rainbow comes and goes, and lovely is the rose.'                            -Wordsworth



SOME ENCHANTED EVENING                                        ...you will see a stranger

                                                                                                      -Hammerstein 

                   

The bell tinkled as he opened the door. The blonde shop assistant, now on the other side of the old oak counter, turned and greeted him with yet another friendly smile. Evening was drawing in and she started switching on an assortment of amber lights which gave the place a welcoming glow.

“Good evening! It's so lovely and warm in here - so cold and wet outside - brr - may I?” asked the shivering Joric with as much charm as he could muster.

“May you - what?” she asked quizzically. 

“Brr - brrrowse for a while and thaw out?” 

“You may indeed.” She laughed, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners. He hesitated, perhaps expecting her to say more. “Well come on in and close the door before we both catch pneumonia!”

He closed the door behind him and stepped into the shop which offered all the cosiness associated with collectables, items once loved and no longer needed by their former owners. The pleasant mustiness of old leather mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee - what he wouldn't give for a cup right now!

“You also speak English,” Joric continued, “With an American accent? Glad about that - uh - that you speak English that is, although your accent is quite charming as well. I - I'm from England, my French is not too hot and my Flemish is non-existent!” 

“Mine too! Oh, excuse me.”

An elderly gentleman appeared from behind a bookcase carrying a teacup and the assistant busied herself with fetching and wrapping the Regency bone china tea set that he'd selected. Joric walked past them to the back of the shop running his eyes along the shelves of bric-à-brac as he went. His attention was drawn to a wooden box intricately carved with undulating patterns of grape and vine; it appeared to be very old. He looked at the price tag - a bargain at nineteen dollars and fifty cents - and counted his money. Darn, only seventeen dollars and a few coins, oh for a few dollars more! He'd have to plead poverty and ask for a discount.  Joric couldn't believe his luck when he opened the little clasp on the side of the box and it swung open on brass hinges to reveal a beautifully bound book. He read the gold embossed title on the cover, 'The Mystery of the Fellowship.' A book? All books had been impounded, handed in on an I.O.U. basis from Benevolence Himself, pending transference to disc with educational guidelines vigorously applied. It was not permissible to sell books any more.  'Big Ben' must've suspected that people hid their sentimental little hoards, dreading every knock at the front door. Each household should have handed in all their books to the closest depot by now to be counted and assessed with the owners names and addresses electronically filed for future compensation, possibly  by way of goods in kind obtainable from the Information DVD Store or the State shops found on the touristy Oostende voor Anker. He wouldn't darken their doors in his spare time, that was for sure. Those were the kind of places where his work ended up, helping to substitute all the books in the world with Oneworld government propaganda and inaccurate DVD easy viewing material. Some historical items bore his name, but certainly not his stamp of approval.

Joric glanced up as the door opened. A truck had pulled up outside and two men were offloading furniture. The saleslady smiled apologetically in Joric's direction, indicating that she hadn't forgotten him but first had to check-in a consignment from a deceased estate as the truck was holding up traffic. 

He turned his back to the shop front still holding the volume, then returned it to the box and fastened the clasp. It wasn't only literature that had been targeted. Freedoms enjoyed in the past were rapidly being curtailed and restrictions placed on all manner of previously enjoyed intellectual pursuits along with the clamp down on all that was considered immoral or antisocial. The Internet, now known as the Information Highway or 'Super-Hi,' was centralised in Brussels and filtered to the Oneworld from the rigid control of its regulatory body. This was now within the bounds and bondage of the New Order governmental net; Out flew the web and floated wide, to quote Tennyson. Access to porn and political websites deemed undesirable had been blocked or curtailed. Blogging had been outlawed, books naturally no longer appeared on-line and Highway spyware had trapped many a cyber-dissident or 'sourcerer' of illegal information. Cardozo had once said Freedom of expression is the matrix, the indispensable condition, of every kind of freedom. The Oxford & Cairo defined a 'matrix' as being an environment in which something developed. The counterfeit matrix being worked upon by the New Order was the very antithesis of Cardozo's freedom, deceiving the unsuspecting into believing that they were free indeed.

But was true freedom to be gained by simply having the entire world's uncensored grand poetry and prose readily at hand? This sceptic bookworm seriously doubted it, and he should know after all the reading and pen pushing he'd done. This mystically titled book might just throw some light on the subject, if he could only achieve his immediate aim in possessing it.

Joric would have chosen an historical read, but instinctively he knew this was not to be the case. Nevertheless, an otherworldly sixth sense whispered in his ear that he must have the book. He was almost too nervous to look at it more closely in case it was socio-political or worse, socio-religious. Perchance he was in for a leap of faith? As he was well aware, biblically branded books were being handled at the so-called Divine Division, a totally secure section of the Socio-Religious Department where books were perused and analysed by properly trained staff. Considered dangerous, they were certainly not to be found as divine little surprises hidden in a Pandora's Box. He was going to take a gamble anyway. Mystery? Fellowship?  He needed a liberal dose of both in his rather drab, unfulfilled life. Joric closed the box.

The question now arose as to whether he should admit to what it concealed, or trust that the pretty blonde assistant would take his money and wrap the little treasure chest unopened. She glanced in his direction, a comforting spark from the corner of her eye acknowledging his presence. Joric knew he needed the source of that comfort so he allowed his return look to linger a little longer than absolutely necessary. She looked delectably sweet, innocent and probably quite naive - yes, he'd keep the box closed. 

The decision immediately made him feel guilty. Here he was, a totalitarian federal employee of all people, about to take forbidden fruit not meant for extramural consumption. Thinking about the fact that he actually existed under the rule of a despotic Mediterranean megalomaniac, he came to the conclusion that he couldn't take such a harebrained chance, one that might end up with him out on the street, behind bars - or worse! He'd almost lost his head there for a moment on a mad hatter's flight of fancy.

The truck had pulled off but the striking saleslady was now waylaid in helping a couple she seemed to know, judging from her soft melodious laugh, and the swing of her platinum tresses which reflected in the grand old chandelier hanging just above her head.  He'd better look for some safer article, an under twenty dollar gem or trinket lurking at the back of an old wardrobe, just waiting to be discovered. He glanced towards the counter again as Mademoiselle carefully took a delicate Art Deco vase and a porcelain chamber pot out of the display cabinet for the couple to look at. He watched her lovingly handle each piece, so skilled in her appreciation of erstwhile things that he wasn't too sure if she were just an assistant after all. As they negotiated softly, he overheard them calling her Abigail. The manageress? Oops, let's be socio-politically correct in the prevailing non-sexist society; the manager? Perhaps, but surely not the owner, much too young for that, but one never knew.

Her youthful look kindled a flitting subconscious memory that he couldn't quite grasp. It was as if he'd already met her, had even been keen on her in the murkiness of his distant past. Imagine asking her that tired old question, 'Haven't I met you somewhere before?' even he wouldn't do anything quite so daft. Not being able to pin down the vague intuition he let it go, but feeling somehow drawn to her, he moved closer and noticed she wasn't quite as young as he'd first thought, nevertheless she was perfect for him, and perhaps not a perfect stranger after all?

The box was still in his hand, blow the hidden trinket waiting to be discovered, he'd opt for the box. But what if she were an undercover spy for the authorities, setting traps for unsuspecting bookworms and having them booked by a passing cop after pressing a silent button hidden under the counter and connected to HQ? He might have no trouble in getting his purchase out of the shop, but it would be very grim indeed if he were to be caught red-handed walking down the street like some shoplifter, guiltily concealing his contraband under his raincoat despite having paid for it.

Ah no! He knew she was different, captivatingly so. Her voice had a fascinating lilt at the end of each sentence, occasioned with a delightful peal of laughter. A rose by the name of Abigail? She was like a first class English rose of a rare American variety that he'd not encountered before. He wanted to talk to her about something - anything, so he'd still try his luck with the book-in-the-box. Bet he couldn't get her to laugh about that though!

His reverie was broken by the fact that her previous customer had left and she was looking directly at him with an amused smile playing on her lips. Something in her smile was so exciting, continued the song of the moment.

“Uh sorry - lost in thought there for a mo! I'm interested in buying this book... box,” he finished lamely, setting it down on the counter.

“It is a beauty isn't it?” she replied, “It belonged to my father.” She opened the box as if to take one last fond look at the family heirloom. The book seemed to glare at them both, daring them to remove it at their peril.

“Goodness, look at that! There's a book inside,” said Joric unconvincingly. Abigail looked him in the eye knowingly, and he wilted under her reprimand of silence, castigating himself for causing the barely detectable apprehension in her almost holy gaze. Was he part officialdom? Yes, guilty. But a whistle blower that would notify the long arm of the law, the hand that fed him?  No. He may be guilty of intimidating a sweet lass, but he wasn't going to back down now having got this far. It was within his rights after all as the price tag referred to the whole package, but then there was the matter of the outstanding dollar or so, such a small amount but in that moment a small fortune that he unfortunately didn't have. She could say that was the price and he could rush out like a beggar to accost someone on the street and ask for some small change. That would be child's play, but what if she were to withdraw his find from sale once he had stepped outside?

She looked at her watch; it was late, closing time in fact. She walked to the door, turned the 'open' sign to 'closed,' pulled down the blind, turned the key in the lock and removed it. Drat, he was right, there was a button under the counter, what was he to do now? Play it cool? Or make a dash for the door and grab the key out of her hand?



'Somewhere over the rainbow.'                                                          -Arlen/Harburg



STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT              ...exchanging glances        -Singleton/Snyder



“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Her words broke into his thoughts.

“Er - pardon? What was that? I really should be going.” She laughed and repeated her question.

“I said would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Coffee - would I like a cup of coffee?” He'd forgotten about coffee in the heat of the moment. “Is that all? I'd love a cup of coffee.” Joric replied with great relief. 

“Sit down and I'll make you one, and stop looking as if the whole of Scotland Yard is out to get you!” 

He watched her walk over to the kitchenette from whence came the tantalizing aroma, his taste buds tingled in anticipation as he sat on a leather couch, part of an old suite in the centre of the shop. 

“Do you have a name?” she called over her shoulder.

“Yes! Yes of course, it's - er - Joric, funny sort of name really, it's short for John Eric.” Silence. “I heard one of your customers call you Abigail? Right?” Abigail returned with a tray on which were two steaming mugs of the invigorating brew, along with a milk jug and sugar bowl. She placed the tray on a side table before answering his question.

“Right.” No longer were they strangers in the night, she sat opposite him on one of the easy chairs. “Milk? Sugar?” 

“Yes please to both - um - just a dash of milk but no sugar thank you - I'm sweet enough.” His weak enjoinder elicited a weak smile, and they sat in silence for a few moments, appreciating the warmth of the coffee. So far so good, they'd moved on to first name terms, to him almost terms of endearment. Abigail put her mug aside and fetched the box from the counter, both of them looked down as she took out the book and opened it.

The subject matter was indeed religious, the book was a socio-religious study to be exact, by a Doctor of Divinity. The maroon ostrich skin of the cover offset gold embossed lettering and Joric acquisitively reckoned it was well worth the money. Abigail raised her head and looked at him again, her shining flaxen hair appearing to him as an aura haloing the disarming transparency of her countenance, her brown eyes direct and engaging. Their eyes locked again in renewed duelling until he almost lost his composure, unnerved by her candid gaze. Did she see right through him? That wasn't too difficult, considering his empty state of being. Empty barrels make the most noise, they say, but he couldn't argue his way out of a paper bag right now. He inwardly pulled himself together and raised his eyebrows flirtatiously, as he looked her directly in the eye. She blushed sexily, was she just a little flustered by his gaze? How could he harass a young lass like this? His Mother had instructed him to be gentle with the female sex, but Joric was bewitched, bothered and bewildered, a rare occurrence. Had he touched the borders of insanity or gone to heaven? He relaxed and smiled, too broadly perhaps, but as he hadn't smiled in a long while before managing a hoarse,

“Please?” which came out all wrong. He then cleared his throat, which sounded like a machine gun going off in a silent library, she being the librarian of his dreams, except that she wasn't going to let him take this book out. She broke the silence softly.

“So Mr John Eric - Joric for short - as you well know, I may not sell books. It was an oversight. Father gave me that box for the shop, naturally I didn't realize there was a book inside or it would have been removed.”

Her slightly accented voice emerged as a whispering wind, floating clear and free into rocky mountain heights. The poet in him arose, they were children without a care in the world, hand in hand looking into tranquil pools. Depths of long forgotten peace surfaced, coming from the heart of whom and where he wanted to be, somewhere beyond human perception. Here he was, sitting there with all the time in the world that adults with money just don't have.

She replaced the book in the box, and went back behind the counter. Oh no, he was right, she'd just been softening him up for the kill before ringing that bell. He got up and walked towards the door.

“Well, I'd better be going then. Thanks for the coffee, I'm nicely warmed up now so I'll be on my merry way!” said he in a happy-go-lucky fashion, “Don't worry about the – er – box. Do you have the key?” Stupid question, of course she had the key, it was in her pocket. She reached under the counter, this was it, he was a goner! Perhaps there was a way out through the kitchen into some back alley? He was rooted to the spot, fear now had him in its paralysing grasp; he looked down at his shoes, what was she doing now? She must've rung the bell, he felt far too nervous to look up. Abigail tapped him on the arm and he just about leapt out of his skin as she handed him a brown paper package.

“Take it Joric, it's yours.”

“What is?”

“The box, silly.” She'd taken the book out obviously, but to his immense relief it looked as if she was going to let him go.

“With the book still inside.” she added.

“The box with the b..book?” Surely not a gift? “Look, I don't have the full amount,” he said said awkwardly, “But I do have seventeen dollars and some small change.” She smiled again,

“I told you, I am not allowed to sell books.” 

“But I can at least pay for the box,” he blustered. She shook her head, smoothing the package enigmatically and caressing her gift to him.

“Shalom.”

It was like a kiss blown from he knew not where. Perchance from the lips of a kissing cousin long ago, or the peck on a cheek from an affectionate aunt in some far corner of Old England to whom he had waved from his coach, her special sandwiches that he liked so much packed in a lunch box. Why had that foreign word had such an effect on him? Shalom. It sparked a remembrance of things long forgotten that had intrigued him once way back in Sunday school, a little piece of heaven had descended.

“Well, I'll be on my way then.” If only he could stay there forever wrapped in the warmth and ambience of that dear little shop, but he had a train to catch and a candidate date waiting for him at the end of the journey. Atalanta called in her sonorously dull and dreary voice.

“Take care.” Abigail replied in her mellifluous one.

He left the shop, walking into the cold damp night his treasure tucked under his arm, a new man. A mystic mantle of heavenly peace settled on his shoulders like a warm angora shawl. He glanced back over his shoulder in case she was watching and caught her eye once more. Boldly he blew a kiss, waving as he disappeared from view.  Why had he left so soon? If he'd been on the ball, they could've been getting on like a house on fire by this time, but he'd be in trouble with the authorities and a complaint would no doubt be filed if he didn't meet the candidate lady on time. 

A sense of déjà-vu still wrestled inside - had he seen Abigail somewhere before? Had she been one of those nubile schoolgirls in Old England, unrecognisable without the school uniform? No, she was American; he mentally scrolled through the memories of all the girls he'd loved before, metaphorically speaking of course, trying to jog his photographic memory, result of search? Not found. He'd ask her next time, should there be a next time.  Abigail? Joric couldn't think of a song about an Abigail, he'd just have to write one.

He wandered the streets like a drunkard, he had the box, touch wood, and perhaps he'd get the girl too, so with gay abandon he handed all his remaining coins to an old man with dim watery eyes leaning against a lamp post on the corner, and mystifying tears welled up in Joric's own. When last had he wept with such inexplicable joy? What on God's earth had happened? He was clueless, and why the 'Shalom?' She didn't look Ha-kodeshish, but then again he did with his curly black hair and hopefully beautiful brown eyes and a nose that could've been less prominent, thanks but no thanks. That's why she'd said it. He normally didn't appreciate people's comments on his so-called Ha-kodeshishness, but did now for the first time. You handsome, biblical rogue you, with biblical book in hand!

Oh-oh, he had forgotten to check on Abigail's managerial status so he ambled back, almost reaching the surreal shop before realizing it might startle her if she were to see him checking the details of the vendor permit displayed above the door, as if wanting to report her to the boss or the law. As if. All he wanted was her, and now  the book was his, she was an outside possibility. He didn't half want much! One of Mother's quotations echoed darkly, Thou shalt not look lustfully upon a woman. He left for the station once more, passing the nodded greeting of the broad-smiling, toothless old man, now with steaming cup of coffee in hand. Joric felt on top of the world, 'Real good' as Americans would say. He wanted to fly from his grey prison of constricted circumstance and follow some wild intuitive prompting, the book in hand might turn out to be just the ticket! Could there ever be true freedom? He wanted to switch focus and start reading about mystical things, at the same time he needed to get a grip on his fantasy, his runaway infatuation; 'Don't wear your heart on your sleeve,' the lucky-in-love would tell him.

Slowly walking back to re-enter the real underworld, it suddenly dawned on him that if he were to make his candidate date he'd better start running or he'd miss the train. Just when he was starting to feel so tranquil and laid back! He jumped over the turnstile and into the first carriage as the doors began closing. 'A close call if ever there was one' he thought, slumping into his seat.

Joric decided there and then that he was going to change his lifestyle and deactivate the Eligible Elite status programmed into his mobile phone first thing in the morning. In fact, if he could throw the damn thing into the sea he would; but he needed it to eat, buy groceries, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Huffing and puffing from the sprint, at the same time glancing furtively around the compartment to ascertain there were no CCTV cameras or other commuters, he settled back in his seat, opened the box and took out the book.

It was written by Dr R Brelli. He knew the name well and was in fact on personal terms with the gentleman having met him twice, if it were indeed the same Doc Bob; strange but true, would this book turn out to be just what the doctor orderd? Extraordinary things were happening this enchanted evening, and no longer was Abigail a stranger across a crowded city.



'(Can This Be) The End Of The Rainbow.                                              -Chaplin/Calm