The Blue Book

The twelfth chapther. Insects and mushrooms.

'Well, eh ... Hello. Welcome. Welcome, you're all so, so very welcome. I have a toast, a modest insignificant toast, but one I have prepared nonetheless. Yes. Eh ... well, here goes. Monica," I said, beaming a glittering smile at my wife who'd only just come home. She was shocked, I could tell, she never would've thought I would remember it, but I had, of course I had. Okay, it wasn't given, considering the constant buzz in my head; the sound of music and possible compositions, talking, laughing, arguing daughters and the times I tried to think of a solution to a problem or two I had encountered. All the things that were supposed to fit in my head, but sometimes didn't, but this I remembered. And I had planned this day, thoughourghly and carefully. Our day.

I went on: "We are all like trees, you know. When it comes down to it, we are all like trees. Maybe covered in roughness and insects and mushrooms, but in fact we all have the rings left from trees we once were there to prove that we have aged. And if you cut me in half you would see all of my rings and you could count my vintage but I don't mind because I know I have spent every single one with you.
My Helen of Troy, my Isolde, my Guinevere, my Monica we are ordinary folks, common people who've done common things. Who met at a dance for commoners, who went to the market like commoners, who got married like commoners, in all simplicity. Who had children in all its usualness, who've pecked each other's mouths when we scurried of to mundane work like many others, who've grown old just like every one else. I'm a husband who loves his wife and you're a wife who loves her husband and that's all there is to it. Happy anniversary, my love. Cheers.'
And and everyone waited for more, some politely raised their eyebrows and shot their shins forward in anticipation for me to continue, but then remembered who had made the toast and that I'd told them that it was quite simple and so they applauded, smiled, drank and returned to their conversations. All of our friends and family who we just as ordinary as one could get. Some shook their shoulders, contemplated, and then nodded in agreement. Just the reaction I wanted. This was my explanation of love every child could understand. I'm not saying I understand love overall, but I understand my love, for my wife and family and I know that's more than most can ask for. I am indeed one lucky bastard.

My wife stood by our garden-gate with her hair in a mess as always, her coat had ever so slightly slipped off of her shoulder, her practical little backpack hanging from her hand by her feet, listening intently to my humble ode to her. I had told her before, I promise, I have. What kind of husband would I have been not to tell her all this before our 30th anniversary? Maybe not in those exact words, but in times of hardship or in passing insignificant moments.

When she stood up with something bewildered on her face after picking up her keys on a stressful morning. When she yelled at one of our girls that: No it isn't allowed to throw sand at people or that they should always pack their things the night before. When she argued with the cheese-seller on St James Street that: I'll be damned if this if the price of a piece of cheese nowadays, or when she laughed at somebody, mainly me doing something clumsy like walking into a pole or telling her one of those awful jokes everybody confusedly smiled politely at but secretly were wondering what was wrong with me. She would lose her senses and laugh unstoppably for minutes to an end and never really cease to find it amusing but would go about her day smiling whenever she thought of it. Or in times of harshness, when her mama died and she'd not been able to cry for weeks,only thinking of practical matters and the girl's grief, but when she did, it was heart-wrenching. When Agneta broke her leg and laid whimpering at night, it had hurt Monica so terribly that she either slept beside her or at her friend's house so she wouldn't hear. In those times, I told her unabashed and unapogetically that I loved her more than anything. I told her with the flowers I got from James, with the music I conducted and composed, with the satisfied burp I let out after dinner she'd cooked when it was her turn. In our routine in the mornings and at night when kissed with our ageing mouths and she rested her head on my old chest. Our love was by the measure of romantic novels dull, and I was ever the happier for that. I guess we'd had a bit of passion, but in the lack of it we had replaced it with utter trust. I'm in love with her. I am so very in love with her. Don't take that away from me.

'Old man, what is this?' she demanded and wrapped her arms around me.

'I told you not to be late.' I answered.

'You told me you'd make it up to me with books. Now what good would those do me? Why waste what little time we have on earth on reading? Hm? You and I don't have a second to loose, darling.'

'Now, now, we're not dying, dear. Not in the next few weeks at least. And books are understanding.'

'For the youths, yes. But if we've not learned what we're supposed to learn by now, I'm afraid we've wasted our time. Old people shouldn't read so much.' Monica proclaimed.

'It's part of my job, you know.' I reminded her.

'Music, true. But music is our essence, even for the old and weary.' Smiling, she pressed her lips against mine for a few seconds longer than usual. I am so madly in love with her, I thought. We've lived happily ever after, without betrayal or heart-break, and when we are parted I will willingly be destroyed by grief because of every memory we've made ours.

***

'Cheers, Mr. Bookman!' Blue greeted my friend Kit, poor Kit who didn't know what to do with her. He's an open-minded man, and tells me of his troubles and joys, but never anything about this one.
'To the Bremners!' He said. He almost always got his way, unintentionally, I'm sure. He rarely has an alterior motive for anything. All he had to do was be kind and sometimes jokingly mischeivous, but never with her. He truly didn't know how or who to be with her. He reminded me of his younger self.

I myself loved talking to the girl. She made me happy to be confused. It felt good, being lost like that. The girls were still unsure but friendly to her, all but Virginia. They'd had bad luck in their encounters which seemed to sadden Blue, and my eldest seemed unbothered about this, which troubled me, but Monica said it was okay, and I hope it is. This was the kind of puzzlement I disliked. People-lost. It's often that some understand their craft better than other surroundings. Perhaps I was such a man?

Oh, it will be okay. It will. I'm a tree. One day I'll be cut down, made into paper, perhaps a music sheets and Monica will become a fiddle to play the notes I tell the player. Somehow I and Monica will remain together. The particles and atoms we're made of are entwined. Not by the hand of anything, merely because that's the way it is.

To Charles and Monica, I thought as the shot was fired and I watched her fall.