Ghosts of People Past

Now

Now

 

Nora is speechless. The name on her incoming mail is HIS! HIS! Her heart skips a beat, and then begins to pound with the deafening urgency of a war drum. It must be a mistake, she thinks, or perhaps a prank. She wants to open the email but her fingers hover above the keyboard like two broken sparrow wings, unable to make the slightest move. With a twinge of guilt, she decides to indulge in a drink, hoping that it will help her muster up her courage. Just one, not a drop more she promises herself!

        She shuffles her way into the kitchen and reaches for the bottle of whiskey stashed away in the kitchen cabinet below the sink. She takes down a whiskey glass, fills it to the halfway mark and reminds herself of the promise she had made to herself. Just this one! She carries both glass and bottle into the living room, pausing on the way to stoke the logs in the stove and toss in a few more. It would be a long, cold night, she knew.

        She again sits at her table that poses as both a desk and a dining table depending on the necessity of the moment. It is a beautiful antique piece made of massive oak that stands on curvaceous legs that taper into a lion’s foot. It is the very same table that HE had bought ages ago, in another life, HE who is now looking for her through the complex twisted cables of the internet. It is the only stick of furniture that has survived ‘the slings and arrows of outrageous’ time.

        Sipping her drink, she opens up her playlist selection of French songs. She clicks on PLAY ALL, shuts her eyes and settles back in her comfortable leather office chair. The room springs to life swarming with the smooth, velvety voice of Charles Aznavour. Je vous parle d ´un temps ...Que les moins de vingt ans... Ne peuvent pas connaitre... Montmartre en ce temps la…          

        Beyond her shut eyelids she can see Montmartre in the springtime. With amazing clarity, she sees the lilac trees in bloom, the roving artists with their palettes, the picturesque side streets with their retro lamps dangling from colorful walls, the cozy bistros with their round Viennese tables decorating the shady sidewalks. She can see the Sacre Coeur basilica magnificently rising above the city like a guard towering over the sprawling city’s treasures. She can see Hamid snugly holding her close to his body, raining her head with kisses. They are twenty years old and madly in love.

        That’s the life, she sighs in defeat. Life as it should be lived, freely, unconventionally, fearlessly, intensely, full of excitement and twist and turns, without reservations and obstacles, brimming with the sweet expectancy of what tomorrow may bring.

         Now, time was her bitter adversary, an unscrupulous and dauntless opponent that she could not outsmart.  No matter how hard she tried, it always reached the finish line first. It was a fixed game, a fait accompli, a losing battle. The best years of her life were now history, rotting away in some other dimension,  never to return. The mind, body and soul had weakened; life had receded, like the evening tide, revealing the crumbling foundations on which she had built the stupid and naïve dreams of her youth. 

        She drains her glass and opens her eyes.  Empowered by the alcohol now flowing through her veins, she clicks onto the email which includes an attachment.  Reaching out for reinforcements, she lights her cigarette and begins to read.

 Dear Mrs Orfanou,

 I searched on the Internet in hopes of finding you.  If you are Nora Orfanou the American girl who once long ago in the years of the dictatorship in Greece fell in love with an Algerian archaeology student then, please, reply as soon as possible. That Algerian student is I. I am sending you a photo of myself as I am today.  I know I have changed a lot but surely, if you scrutinize beyond the wrinkles and the gray hair you will be able to discern the young man I once used to be and with whom you have shared so much. Then, again, if you are not that girl, please, disregard my letter and accept my apology.