The Inside Diaries

Museu Machado

Mrrrrrrrroooooooooooow—

Melanija groaned, arm over her eyes. Was it morning already? Yawning, she pulled herself out of bed and padded to their bedroom door, opening it to find a most indignant Catticus.

Feeding time—meow. As in, now.

The feline threw her an annoyed look, though relented once the writer scratched the back of his right ear—in that particular spot. Soon enough, he was purring. Turning around for the most infinitesimal of seconds, Melanija felt a certain stab of envy that Fernando was able to sleep through anything.

It had been a couple of weeks since the cozy movie night and in that short of a time, much had happened around Villa Veneto. The kitchen was finally finished and clean, to her utmost satisfaction, she thought to herself, as she retrieved Catticus' food and water, placing it on the floor, where he happily fed.

That, and the ancient Romanesque bath-pool embedded just outside was refurbished, the patio walk-around trellis reeds replaced to allow a modicum of shade from the unrelenting sun, and they were going to go on a date.

A real date.

She reflected on the very idea for the next minutes as Catticus finished his meal. Not that the previous vineyard what-have-you's and beachfront walks weren't. But Melanija craved variety, at times, and Fernando happily acquiesced. Exiting the kitchen directly and moving a couple of feet to the right of the reeded trellis, she cupped her visage, staring into the darkened bedroom. She sighed, Catticus winding figure eights about her ankles.

Why did he have to sleep so freaking much?

It wasn't as if he had an army of twelve hundred to command. He didn't have a corporate job—unlike the many others who had absconded the island in search of ten-hour workdays and business wear. No, Fernando preferred the serene life. The island life.

If she didn't know any better, she would have presumed herself jealous of him. But then she realized that his property came at a cost—he'd only inherited it after a greater majority of his male relations had passed. That meant non-existent family reunions, quiet nights along the water, and a great more solitude than anyone should be allowed.

For him, that would be untenable in the long term, she surmised, turning her attention to the trellised vines. To her, however, it was bliss. To each their own, she supposed, before making her way back into the kitchen, Catticus following at her heels.

A berry smoothie and a spinach Florentine should do the trick.

Smiling to herself, she went to the fridge, pulled out the necessary comestibles, and began making breakfast.

Three hours later, Fernando and Melanija walked slowly through Museu Machado, a tall, resplendent manor-like museum open to the public. She admired the ornate gilded artistry, while he took note of the shipwreck collection—heavy rusted-over anchors, chains, and similar, plus what appeared to be centuries-old pirate gold, glimmering despite their age.

If she were entirely honest with herself, well...she had chosen the museum for a bit of cultural edification, but she had also chosen the location due to it having air conditioning. Such a Western mindset, that, she understood. Sure, this island had electricity and cooler indoor climes overall, but most spent their days outstretched on a towel, listening to the crest and roar of each ensuing wave.

Making her way to another stately room, she inhaled sharply, noticing a grand painting of a ghostly white stag, and a pearlized bowl just in front, the ceiling lined with fancy glass light sconces. That seemed oddly familiar, she thought, the hair on her neck prickling at the eerie déjà vu.

A dream—a shoreline—cobalt, turquoise, fading into silver and ochre, and a male deer—a stag—leaping forth, dancing upon the horizon, reveling in the sheer, unrelenting joy of simply being alive.

This stag, she noticed, walking back and forth in front of the painting, looked to be the dream counterpart's twin.

What could it mean?

As if on instinct, her fingers gravitated toward the polished pearly bowl—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you—"

The writer froze. Fernando. Turning around to meet his gaze, she asked, "and why not?" with a mock-pout as he moved closer, gently intertwining her hand through his.

"Two reasons." He pointed at the painting, then the bowl. "Rumor has it these were my ancestor Alfonso's back in the day. He cursed anyone who stole it."

Frowning, the writer peered at the two resplendent pieces. "And you believe that myth?"

"Well..." Fernando paused. "Considering the way my male relatives went...let's just say...I don't not believe it."

"And the second reason?"

Fernando pointed to the adjacent placard, which, written in at least several languages, including English, stated the following: "DO NOT TOUCH. ALARM WILL TRIGGER."

"Oh. Right."

The rest of the afternoon had been spent exploring the rest of the manor museum, admiring various coats of armor, glittering and polished, and turn-of-the-century carved furniture. Bamboo, teak, ebony. Melanija's favorite exhibit was the carved glass animals in one of the upstairs halls—tiny sea stars, birds, cats, dogs in every which shining form.

Hours later, Fernando led her to a distant poolside picnic at sunset, the sky a blossoming lilac-pink, the water beneath a glowing iridescent turquoise. Palm fronds fluttered in the breeze casting an elegant night-time silhouette as the couple toasted to a wonderful day spent.

Here's to today.

And many, many more tomorrows...