The Thirty-Fourth Night

We had a great storm last night, and Nick called to say he might arrive late at my house for our weekly dinner.

I told him that if he came, with the wind and rain lashing the island, I wouldn’t open the door for him. I had already heard on the radio that the sea had overrun parts of the island’s only road.

- Exactlly! I am really worry with you alone in your house facing the sea! 

- I am fine. The reef gives me a good defense, you know.

He said he didn’t want to miss our meeting, and I told him I didn’t want to lose him. Nick always softens when affection is shown to him. Scars from old wounds, I imagine.

We tried to talk a little longer, but the phone signal was terrible due to the storm. We hung up, and I went to tend to dinner.

Dog, my dog, watched me with a mixture of humility and barely concealed delight at being inside my house. I had never allowed him in before, but with the storm, I let him enter, and now, I believe, he was living a dream.

— Dog, I said to him, I won’t hide that I’m very fond of you, but I’d rather Nick were here. I’m used to him, you know? We cross paths at work during the week, at the hotel, and then come Saturdays, I cook for him, we play games, we talk. We share our troubles, you see? Perhaps more him with me than I with him, but there is a true exchange. You and I can’t quite do that, can we? Nor can you and I, right, Georges?

Hearing his name, Georges spread his green wings and let out a shrill, spirited cry.

— I’m sure it doesn’t keep you up at night, but it’s a pity you can’t know what love is. And I suppose I must admit it, mustn’t I? Admit that I’m in love with this Nick. Loving him with my soul, not my body. So often I have to be the adult in the room with him, it seems God gave me a son, in the end.

I sat at the table, and Dog came to me, resting his head on my leg, tail gently wagging. As I scratched behind his ear, I continued my soliloquy:

— He’s changed me, you know? He’s made me more serious, more turned toward someone besides myself. I think I place beacons in Nick’s life, bringing order to his sometimes wounded, confused feelings. But those same beacons have brought a different kind of order to mine. And perhaps this is what love is: loving the same things and contributing to one another’s life. Did you hear him say he’s reading Socrates? And because of me?!

When he said that, I found it deliciously vain, but now I’m almost afraid — do you see the weight of responsibility on my shoulders? If I have this kind of influence over him, I must strive to be ever better, for his sake. That’s love, isn’t it? Yes, I suppose I can’t help but say I love this man. What do you think of that, Dog?

Meeting his gaze, I saw his tail wag more joyfully.

— Silly big mutt! I said with a broad smile, bringing my head closer to his and holding his face in both hands.

Georges flew to my shoulder, jealous, nipping at my ear.

— Yes, yes, you silly great parrot! I said, reaching for his head to give him a little scratch. Feeling abandoned, Dog got up and barked, and Georges screeched aggressively at him — and I was greatly amused by my companions’ jealousy.

I returned Georges to his perch and told them:

— Now I’m going to dine, and I trust I can count on your cooperation to do so in peace, yes?

Outside, the wind whipped the sea, and the rain was pouring down upon the earth.

 

The Thirty-Third Night

 

It might be the lack of human company in my life, but I’m very fond of animals.

I have fish, birds both inside and outside the house, two dogs, and the occasional neighborhood cat.

The indoor birds include a pair of budgerigars, a pair of lovebirds, and Georges, the parrot who often sings along with me. I also keep canaries and a few others in cages.

As you might imagine, the house is never quiet—with so many parrots around—and sometimes Nick gets annoyed with the endless chirp-chirp. That said, he does get a kick out of Georges, who refuses to go near him, let alone imitate him.

I always laugh at Nick’s frustrated attempts to befriend Georges.

"Such a rude little creature!" my friend complains after the bird turns down his cookie.

"That’s parrots for you," I say. "Want to know something? When I die, he’ll just go to someone else. And if his next owner is a woman, he’ll probably reject her too—just like he does you."

"Rude little creature!" Nick repeats.

"But you like him?"

"I do. He cracks me up."

"Maybe one day he’ll end up living with you."

"No way! I couldn’t deal with that kind of snobbery every day."

Georges lived in an open cage hung on the wall. I offered him my arm, which he accepted, and I gently scratched his green head.

"Would you go live with Nick, Georges? Be nice to him?"

But he answered me in parrot-speak, and I didn’t understand a word.

Later, while we were playing our weekly game of backgammon, Nick asked me:

"So how’d you end up with so many animals in your house?"

"A bit of planning, and a bit of passion. When I decided to move to the island, the plan was to buy a house that could be somewhat self-sustaining—at least food-wise. It needed a yard where I could grow a garden, plant a few fruit trees, and keep animals for meat and eggs. They also help with pest control—especially spiders."

"You don’t like spiders?"

"I’m terrified of them! That’s where the chickens and geese come in. The geese have the added benefit of being excellent guards. They start honking at the slightest thing."

"That’s actually something that worries me, you know? You’re out here alone, and at night, this place is pretty exposed—open to the sea. Anyone could just walk in."

"Exactly. That’s why there’s the Dog."

Nick laughed.

"That’s the best name you could come up with?"

"He’s never complained about being called Dog—my loyal guard dog!"

"He doesn’t come inside, does he?"

"No. The outdoor animals aren’t pets. I give them food, shelter, safety—even some fun—and in return, they give me food and protection. If I give the right command, Dog will jump at your throat and won’t let go until I say so. He could even kill you, if I told him to."

"Jeez, man. You’ve got kind of a dark side, huh?"

"As you can see, I live alone in a house that’s not exactly secure. Every Catholic hopes for the goodness in others, but never forgets that there’s evil in the world—and some people embrace it. Catholics are peaceful, not pacifists."

"I thought there was, like, a ‘Thou shalt not kill’ thing?"

"There is. But it doesn’t mean you can’t defend yourself—or an innocent person being unjustly attacked. The commandment is about not attacking or killing out of malice. Or do you really think that if I saw someone trying to hurt you unfairly, I wouldn’t defend you? I would kill or die for you if it came to that."

"You’d do that for me?"

"Maybe," I said, with a half-smile.

 

 

The Thity-Second Night

Last Saturday, it was me who brought up the subject over dinner.

“Remember the lady who lives three houses down? I’ve told you about her before.”

Nick nodded. “Yeah, your friend — the one with the son who just turned eighteen?”

“That’s the one. Well, her son came over yesterday… and tried to seduce me.”

Nick choked on his wine, coughing so hard I had to get up and slap his back.

Still catching his breath, cheeks flushed, he gasped, “Wait — what?!”

“To my great surprise, he showed up alone. We were just talking, and then, out of nowhere, he made a move — verbally and physically.”

“What a son of a—”

“No, no. His mother may be a bit eccentric, but she’s a decent woman. The boy’s just young. His hormones are raging, his head and phone probably full of porn. He has desires, and I’m the friendliest — and closest — adult male in his orbit.”

“You turned him down, right?”

“Of course I did. Someone had to be the adult in the room.”

“Adult and Catholic,” Nick added, with that sharp tone of his that always catches me off guard.

“Exactly,” I said, barely hiding a smile. “Adult and Catholic. I explained the situation as gently as I could. I was flattered, yes — but I couldn’t possibly accept.”

“Flattered?!”

“Why not? How could I not be flattered that an eighteen-year-old would choose me — an old man of sixty — as the one he’d want to lose his virginity to?”

“This is an island, man. Everyone knows everyone. Especially if you're a local. If he messes with the wrong guy, he might have to leave town.”

“Well, I’m still probably his safest option. Though I doubt he was thinking about my dazzling sixty-year-old physique.”

“You actually look amazing for sixty.”

“Thanks. I credit moral strength and sheer stubbornness.”

“If you told me you were fifty, I’d think you were a bit worn, but I’d believe it.”

“I’ll take that as another compliment.” We both laughed.

“What happened to the kid?” Nick asked.

“I imagine he left disappointed. I doubt I caused any lasting trauma — just as I doubt he took my advice to guard his virginity. He’s probably out there now, looking for someone to take him up on the offer.”

“Who isn’t, at eighteen?”

“I was twenty-two when I lost mine.”

“Accidents,” Nick said with a philosophical air. “As Aristotle would put it. I was six* — but hey, I was the exception. Just like you.”

“You’ve been reading Aristotle?”

“A book about him. After our talk the other day — you remember, the one about the state of the world — I figured I should learn something real.”

“I remember. That conversation explains a lot about our young friend’s behavior, actually.”

“I signed up for the local library and found this book.”

He was finishing his plate, and I looked at him seriously, with a delightful thought: “I’m creating a monster” .

* see The Sixth Night.

 

The Thirty-First Night.

 

Nick has a cheerful, talkative, extroverted way about him; so when I find him quiet and serious, I know something's up. Not that this prompts me to ask, “What’s wrong?” Honestly, I just wait — and he always ends up bringing it up himself, casually, like someone commenting on the weather: “Think it’s gonna rain today?”

And that’s how he said to me:

“My sister wants to come visit.”

“And that worries you?”

“It scares me. I mean, she has the right to see the only family she’s got left, right?”

“She does, yes.”

And after a brief pause:

“I bet you’re gonna tell me having her around would be... an interesting adventure.”

“You’re right,” I replied. “After all these years, you and she have taken up a bond that seemed lost. Now she wants to see you again. Welcome her! She can’t stay more than three months on the island as a tourist, so it’s a visit with an end date.”

“She actually can’t stay more than a month with me — she’s got some obligations.”

“I tend to trust women. They’re usually more emotionally intelligent than we are. Of course, they talk too much, and that can get a bit unbearable.”

“I can't imagine my sister needing help writing an email the way I needed yours,” he said with a smile.

“True,” I laughed. “They never need help finding the words!”

After a pause, I continued:

“Are you afraid she might ask tough questions?”

“The memories I have of my sister are really, really good — and she still seems like the same bright little kid she was, just... older now. But there’s also the darker side of what was going on back home. The part I don’t like to remember. Emailing’s one thing. Seeing her face-to-face? That’s different.”

“Does she have a date set for the trip?”

“No, she just kind of brought it up. Said she could even stay at a hotel.”

“Nick, tell her to come. Tell her she can stay at your apartment. Also let her know there’s not much to do on the island besides walking, swimming, watching TV or reading a good book. And if after a few days, the two of you feel like living together is too hard, send her here to me — or to a hotel.”

And placing my hands on his shoulders, I said:

“Just don’t suffer about it. It’s probably not easy for her either. Did you ever tell her about the abuse you suffered at home?”

“Not really.”

“Then there’s a good chance she has questions — even if they’re not fully formed. And maybe telling her everything is the only way for you to be free of this weight you carry. Sometimes, the only way out of the horror... is through it.”

He looked at me and said:

“That’s deep. Go through the horror. Face it head-on.”

“Welcome her. If she asks, tell her the truth.”

“What would I do without you? You’ve changed my life so much! You make everything sound so easy.”

“Life is easy. I don’t mean it’s all laughs and joy, but it’s not difficult. Each day has enough trouble of its own, so we take it slow — one day at a time.”

“You sure you don’t wanna be my therapist?”

“Not for all the gold in the world” I said in a mock-solemn tone, and we laughed together. Nick was starting to come back to himself.

 

The Thirtieth Night

 

Last Saturday, Nick was annoyed after watching An American Werewolf in London.

He had wanted to impress a colleague from work and went with her to a midnight screening.

— What a ridiculous movie!

— You don't like horror films?

— Not really. They're just so ridiculous and absurd.

— A young man turning into a savage beast under the full moon seems ridiculous and absurd to you?

— You’re not about to tell me you believe in werewolves, are you?

— Never have I shared a room with one, I’ll admit. Perhaps they don’t exist. But the idea of someone being the victim of something inside themselves, something uncontrollable… that’s deeply dramatic. That American Werewolf in London is just as much a drama as Duet for One is a horror film.

— Wait—what's that one?

— Ah, a marvelous film. It's about a violinist who is struck with multiple sclerosis.

Nick chewed on my words for a moment, then said:

— So you're sayin’… lycanthropy is like, a symbol for something real.

— Exactly. As though the fantastic element is the ‘X’ in an equation; a space where any value could be placed.

— And those little ghost dudes that keep following him around?

— It’s quite clear that, as the wolf, he has no memory of his actions. So those he killed return to remind him of what he’s done. And more: they tell him that as long as he lives, they can never rest — which means he’ll forever be haunted by his victims.

— Guilt!

— Perhaps remorse. So we have this werewolf he can’t control… and, let’s admit it, remorse — which he also can’t control. And he can’t escape either, unless he kills the beast… which means, killing himself.

— So the movie’s about euthanasia?

— I wouldn’t go that far. Others might interpret it differently. Let’s use a broader term: suicide. According to the film, he must take his own life to kill the beast and bring peace to those he killed. Taking one’s own life is suicide. Of course, the movie also allows for the beast — and the man — to be killed by others, which would make it murder.

— One way or another, it’s gotta end in death. Huh… when you put it that way, it kinda makes sense.

— Of course, if we put these ideas to the film’s director, it’s quite likely he’d call us fools and laugh in our faces. Perhaps all he wanted was to scare people and make them laugh between the screams. Maybe for him, the point of the movie was simply to put money in his pocket. But once he made the film and released it into the world… well, the child is no longer his. Each viewer becomes a sort of “parent” to it, projecting their own values and interpretations — often more revealing of themselves than of the filmmaker’s intent.

— Yeah… I guess I’m not really into fantasy stuff. I like more down-to-earth stories.

— Wanna watch Duet for One?

— Totally! Let’s do it.

By the time the film ended, we were two souls in love with the same story.