Chapter One

It was three a.m. when the young man left his apartment and walked leisurely down the street. A homeless man stood at the corner, waving his arms about and shaking his head as if in the attempt to conduct an orchestra. He screamed unintelligible curses at the imaginary musicians. He smelled of urine and stood beside a grocery cart of assorted garbage, each article, no doubt, with some meaning to his demented mind. The young man walked past trying not to laugh, or cry.

Two months earlier, on a similar walk, he had found the man in the same peculiar pose. He had approached and offered to bring him some food. The homeless man had continued to yell and then turned to look the young man directly in the eyes. The look was vacant, as if this man’s reason had deserted him and left him entirely without connection to humanity. For a moment they stood looking at each other before the homeless man returned to his irreverent cursing. The young man had taken five dollars from his pocket and held it out. A second time their eyes met, but gone was the vacant look and in its place was rage. Before the young man could step back, the homeless man pounced at him, but he missed and the young man had backed cautiously away. The lunatic did not follow.

This time the young man did not approach the homeless man, glancing only once behind before he rounded the block. He took a deep breath and watched the cloud arise and dissipate as he slowly exhaled. He considered the homeless man for a moment but did not know what to make of him. No matter how he tried, he could not conceptualize what it must be like to live in such a mind. More he wondered what such an individual felt and how, if at all, he interacted in the real world. This man, as with so much else when he took time to truly consider, did not make sense.

He found himself overlooking the sea; its waves glittering in the moonlight. His gaze turned upward; the white moon. It was almost full. The last time he had looked, it had been a sliver. He tried to remember how many days it had been but failed. He did not even know what day it was. He rarely did anymore, but what reason did he have to keep track of such a thing? He smiled at the thought. It had been that way for at least six months, since he quit his last job and moved into the plain apartment he now resided in. It had been hard working the past few years, but now that he was free, hopefully forever, from the need to work, he realized it could have been much worse. He was only twenty-seven after all. Yes, if he had realized earlier what was important to him, he might have found freedom at twenty-two, but in those five years, he had learned greatly about both life and himself. Yes, he had much yet to learn, but now he was free to pursue that knowledge as he desired.

A sharp wind broke his thoughts, and he turned toward his apartment. He was beginning to feel drowsy. A car drove by. The driver seemed to look at him with disdain. The young man smiled. He smiled often; at himself, at others, at life. Simply, he enjoyed living.

A distant church bell struck four. He did not even count the tones. He was remembering a time he walked in streets half a world away, listening to a thousand conversations he could not understand. Those streets, however, were likewise silent in the darkest night, perhaps more so. He looked at the life around him. A few lights were on. A restaurant; a few people inside. A laundromat; empty. A gym; two, three, people ran on treadmills, while one more stood with a weight belt, drinking a bottle of water. The office buildings were bare, except for in one window a few silhouettes moved slowly, as if they had been working the entire night. Another car drove through the emptiness. A morning fog was beginning to set in. Somewhere, far off, a siren briefly sounded. All these were normal. Then a strange murmur, as of delirium. The young man looked about a moment before the sound repeated.

It came from the back doorway of a small bank. He moved closer. The ragged figure of a person, half covered by a filthy blanket, writhed in the seeming agony of a nightmare. The groans were of anguish. The body shuddered, turned. The blanket slid off. He could see skin through the tears in the person’s jeans. A worn backpack and a grocery bag sat behind the person, in the corner. Unknowingly, the young man had knelt beside the shivering body. Then a scream, and the body uprose. Again he found himself staring into eyes he could not understand, but these were not of insanity or rage but rather terror and sadness.

Neither person moved or attempted to speak, while their eyes remained locked. Gradually the terror subsided in the opposite stare, though the sadness remained, and the young man came to comprehend the face surrounding the wounded eyes. It was dirty and cracked, yes, but it was yet young and, perhaps, beautiful. He was not sure at first, a hat and collar covered nearly half the face, but it was indeed a female face. He smiled. She smiled cautiously in return. Suddenly he realized the varying thoughts likely running through her head, and he sat back a bit in hopes of reassuring her.

“I apologize,” he said finally, “but you seemed like you were in trouble.”

She seemed to relax a little when he spoke, but she did not speak and remained in the position she had held since awakening. They continued to stare at each other in silence. Twice the young man opened his mouth to speak, but the words, rejected by his mind, never reached his tongue. At last he began to laugh. The girl’s expression changed, but to what he was unsure. He stopped laughing but continued to smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I couldn’t help imagining the two of us sitting here, staring at each other.”

Finally the eyes softened, and the lips parted in a smile. Yes, it was a beautiful face, the young man concluded. The girl shook her head and relaxed her position, but she still did not speak.

“Are you okay?” The young man asked, the smile falling from his lips.

“Yes.” Her voice cracked as if it had been a long time since she had used it. “Yes,” she repeated, “I had a nightmare.”

“I mean, besides that.”

She did not answer, but the sadness, which had briefly lightened, reabsorbed her countenance.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday.” As she spoke her lips quivered, and her eyes began to water. Before he could ask how much she had eaten, she turned from him and buried her face in her sleeve. She sobbed for a few minutes before turning back. His eyes were watering, but he did not cry.

“Will you let me help you?”

She looked at him a moment, wiped her face again with her coat sleeve and then nodded, but not with confidence, more as if to say, “I do not want to, but I am too weak to refuse.” Sensing this, he felt the need to reassure her.

“I know you have no reason to trust me, but please believe that I seek only to help. I have an apartment not far from here. It is not much, but I have food. There is a shower, and you can have my bed. I can sleep on the floor.”

“Okay,” was all she managed. He smiled again and stood. He picked up her blanket, folded it and handed it to her. She put it in her backpack and also stood. He reached for her grocery bag, but she halted his arm with her hand. She shook her head to indicate that she did not need it and then motioned with her hand for him to lead the way.

They walked slowly, silently, towards his apartment. The first of the morning traffic had begun as the city slowly returned to life. They passed the fast food restaurant. The homeless man continued to preach. The young man smiled at him and wondered again what thoughts crowned his head. Then he wondered about the girl walking hesitantly at his side. It seemed one moment she was about to lean on him, the next as if she would run away.

Chapter Two

The girl stumbled on the stairs leading to the young man’s apartment. He lived on the third floor of an old seven-story office building, which had long ago been converted to small, cheap, rooms. There were still businesses on the first two floors. The young man took the girl’s backpack, which had fallen off, and steadied her while they climbed the last flight to his floor. She seemed weak and leaned against the wall while he opened the door to his apartment. He held the door while she entered and then closed it behind them. He held out the backpack to her, and she drew close to take it. She looked at the floor and then dropped the backpack and wrapped her arms around his neck, attempting to kiss his lips. He turned his head and leaned back, looking into her eyes. She still looked down. He gently removed her arms and backed away. She sat on the floor and began to cry, her arms crossed about her knees and her face buried in her lap. The young man sat beside her, a few feet away, but did not look at her.

They sat as such for a few minutes before the girl raised her head and looked at him. He turned towards her. She smiled, this time with hope. She was wearied, but the fear, which the young man had sensed since their first meeting, was gone. It made him feel good, to see her smile like that.

“Do you want something to eat?” He asked.

“Yes, please.” The smile waned. “I thought that was why you brought me here, and I was ready to do, well, honestly, anything. I never have before, though. I didn’t want to, but...” She seemed ready to cry again. The young man’s heart was melting; the desire to hold her and let her cry away the world overwhelmed him.

He placed a soft hand on her shoulder. “I do not know what has happened to you, nor do I care right now. You need to rest and to eat; here you can do that without apprehension.” He stood up and walked around the small counter the girl leaned against into the kitchen. He put a pot of water on to boil, as well as a kettle. “There is fruit in the bowl on the table.” The girl did not respond. He walked around the counter. She was asleep. Smiling, almost in a paternal way, he walked the handful of paces to his bed and pulled the covers back. He then returned to the girl and lifted her in his arms. She was light, too light. At the bed he set her down and softly removed her shoes. Her socks were stained with filth and torn in several places. He removed them also and covered her legs with the blankets. Carefully he removed the tattered jacket, and lastly he removed her cap, revealing matted waves of dark blonde hair. He pulled the blankets up to her neck and kissed her on the forehead before turning from the bed. He turned back and gazed upon her sleeping. Her face was gaunt, but as it lay sleeping, it was at peace. He yawned. The kettle whistled, and he walked to the kitchen and turned both burners off. From the closet he removed the only two spare blankets he had and laid them on the floor. He looked at her once more, turned out the lights and lay on the floor, beneath both blankets. He did not even undress or consider that he did not have a pillow. In fact, he lay on his back, a position in which he had never been able to fall asleep.

And for a long time he did not sleep. Her face played in his thoughts, and he dreamed a great many things about who she was and who she might become. But he did not know, he censured himself, any more than the few hours they had passed through life together. He thought of her smile and found himself smiling as he remembered the relief in her eyes after he had not taken advantage of her. What circumstances could lead someone to such a place? He could not help but wonder. Then he remembered the terror he had first witnessed in her eyes. What had she been so afraid of in her dreams?

Chapter Three

She was still asleep when the young man awoke in the early afternoon. It seemed she had not moved. He folded his blankets, put them away and then set the pot of water on the stove to boil. He took an orange from the bowl, and while he peeled it, he opened a curtain and looked out the lone window of the room. The world was moving as usual, cars speeding by and pedestrians hurrying along to conduct their business. When the water was boiled, he sliced four potatoes and put them in to cook. While they softened, he took a shower. He then sat down at the small table with a book and ate. He looked at her a few times, but she did not move. When the traffic was light, he could hear her breathe. His room seemed small.

He left the apartment with two books under his arm and walked to the library. He returned the books and selected two others. He then started for the apartment, but after a few blocks he changed his route to a drug store. After making a few purchases, he walked briskly back to his room.

She was not in bed when he entered, and for a moment he thought she had left. His demeanor dipped, and he dejectedly set the books and the bag on the counter. Then he heard a sound in the bathroom, and soon thereafter, she entered the room wearing one of his shirts and a pair of his shorts. He could not help but smile. Though still thin, more so than he had previously imagined, she seemed now entirely alive, while before she had had an almost otherworldly appearance to her, as if a small part of who she was had already died. She smiled too, that same pure smile.

“I hope you don’t mind.” She said touching the shirt with her fingers.

“Of course not.”

“After taking a shower, I just did not want to put back on those same, dirty, clothes.” Her spirit seemed to dampen a little with mention of the clothes.

“I bought you some socks.” He said, removing the purchase from the bag. He too was uncomfortable with the subject. “Did you eat?” He asked as he handed her the socks.

“I’m afraid I ate all your fruit, but you didn’t have much else. All I found was potatoes and flour. Thank you.” She added as she put on a pair of the socks.

“That’s pretty much all I eat. Food is not very important to me. If you’re still hungry, I can make some soup.”

“Yes, please.”

He moved into the kitchen and set water to boil in the pot again. The girl sat at one of the two table chairs and stared out the window, glancing now and then at the young man as he mixed dough, salt and water to make dumplings and then dropped them in the boiling water, which he seasoned with bullion. He also added three sliced potatoes. He then set the kettle to boil.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please.”

He searched through the cupboards a moment for a second mug and washed it out. By then the kettle sounded, and he filled the cups with boiling water. He turned the heat down on the soup and then joined the girl, setting the two cups, two spoons and a honey bear on the table. She smiled briefly, added some honey to her tea and then continued to stare out the window as she sipped from the mug. The young man likewise stared out the window, though he a few times turned briefly toward the girl. At last she turned to him.

“My name is Luann.” She held out her hand.

“Marcine.” They shook hands.

“Thank you, Marcine.” There were a thousand thanks in that one thank you. Thank you for helping. Thank you for being there, for whatever reason, in the middle of the night to hear my feverish dream and not for walking past as assuredly so many others would have done. Thank you for the bed. For the food. The peace. For your kindness. For not taking advantage of me when I was the most vulnerable ever I have been. And for a thousand other reasons you may never know, both simple and grand. Thank you.

“You’re welcome.” Then they were silent. Marcine went to the kitchen and returned with two bowls of soup. Luann at ravenously, and when she finished, Marcine refilled her bowl. She ate this bowl more slowly, and when it was finished arose and filled the kettle herself before setting it on to boil. She stood in the kitchen until it was done and then filled both mugs with hot water. When she sat down, she sighed and turned to her chair to face Marcine instead of the window.

“Why were you out last night?” She asked with her mug raised halfway to her mouth.

“I was taking a walk before I went to bed.”

“Do you always go to bed so late?”

“It depends. I have no schedule. I sleep when I am tired. Sometimes I don’t sleep for days.”

They were silent again. Marcine began to feel awkward, but then he decided, while there were many subjects he felt unable to broach, there were things they needed to discuss.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” She blushed at the questioned and answered without looking at him.

“I don’t want to trouble you anymore than I have.”

“You have not troubled me. I doubt you could. But if you do not want to talk, I understand. It’s just that; well, there’s sadness in your face.”

She looked at him with a relaxed countenance, a tear rimming on her left eye. Her cheeks were flushed, and her cracked lips were moist.

“I am so weak.” She said in almost a whisper. “Why are you being so kind? I do not deserve it. I...I.” The words drifted. She seemed to be fighting with herself. At length, she swallowed and then spoke. “If you don’t mind, I should sleep. But this time, I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s your bed.”

“Nonsense. I’ll be up for hours anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, if you’re sure. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Luann.”

She smiled halfheartedly in return and walked to the bed. Within minutes she was asleep, and Marcine turned to the window in consideration of all that had happened. After a while, he cleaned the dishes and went to the store to buy some fruit and vegetables. He also bought some hamburger and bread. When he returned to the room, she was tossing in her sleep.

Chapter Four

Luann was already awake when Marcine woke up the next morning. She sat at the table reading one of the books he had gotten at the library.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve just sat and read a book?” She said after they exchanged good mornings.

Marcine did not answer but gazed pleasantly at her face. She seemed cleaner, brighter; as if before she had been broken but now stood whole. Her hair was combed. Her face seemed a little more full. He could not but bask in her reviving beauty.

“I used to read a lot when I was a child.” Luann continued when he did not respond. “Books always set me free.” She hesitated. “I miss that life. I have for a long time.” She set the book down and sighed. “If a year ago you had been told I would be shivering on a doorstep night after night, I would have never believed you. But as it happened, I did not consider it. I thought of very little; of food, of solitude. So many hours I have walked without a thought in my head, tired but unwilling to sit on the sidewalk and be stared at, judged. But once I sat likewise once, I no longer balked at it. For so long I would not beg, yet once the hand stretched out, it would not rescind. There is a darkness that fills the mind when you fall so far. It clutches you and makes you wretched. Yet, though you know you are wretched, you are not aware of it. The conscience becomes distant. Reality becomes vague. The people passing seem like ghosts; the money they give a pittance. Language dissolves. The clerk selling bread becomes a blur. The food, once eaten, vanishes from the mind. Memory becomes corrupt. I remember trying for three days to recall my sister’s name. It was like attempting to reach across a barrier to another world. I don’t know if I ever remembered. But I do now. Roslyn. She’s sixteen, I think.”

While speaking, her face had become melancholy. Her eyes drooped, and the light which had risen within waned. Marcine attempted to comprehend the many feelings which must have crowded her mind. He could not. It seemed she had resolved to tell him the things she had avoided the night before, but now that the conversation had arrived, she hesitated.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen her?” Marcine asked cautiously.

“More than four years.” She looked out the window and continued. It was raining. “It was my first year in college, and my family came up for my nineteenth birthday. Things were good then. It was amazing how much she had grown in the months I had been gone. I might not recognize her if I was to see her now.” Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Luann sighed and leaned back on her chair. “I started smoking marijuana a few months after I began college. I had tried it a few times in high school, but in college I smoked every day, whether or not anyone was with me. And it felt good, most of the time. There were times though, I looked in the mirror and almost did not recognize myself. It was weird, but it always passed. I suppose I became that stranger I saw at first. Who I used to be simply disappeared.

“Then one night, my roommate gave me some acid. God, what a trip that was, but I promised myself I would never take it again. I would never do anything worse than weed. But when the hand offered, I always accepted what came next. Ecstasy. LSD. Mushrooms. I tried them all. I flew, my mind so far from myself. Reality seemed to disappear. Then heroin. What a rush it was the first time the needle filled my veins. It felt as if my body had never before been alive. Nothing mattered anymore; only that feeling.”

She smiled in recollection of her past high and then shook her head as if in shame. “I lost my job when I did not show up for work three days in a row. What did I care? I felt good. My money ran out. I sold things. My stereo. My clothes. I got evicted. I still did not care. I still had my drug. I had stopped going to school altogether. I lived in my car. The world was so distant. I ran out of money again. I pleaded with my dealer to help me. He laughed. He did not care. But, to help me for a day, he gave me one dose for free, because, he said, I had been such a good customer. When I shot up, I barely felt anything. It drove me mad. I needed more. A lot more. So I sold my car.

“I remember crying as I walked away from the dealership with my money. My parents bought that car on my sixteenth birthday.” She smiled. “I remember that day vividly. My sister, she wasn’t even ten yet, woke me up laughing, jumping on my bed. I threw a pillow at her. She picked it up and hit me. We began to wrestle. I won easily and began to tickle her.” She paused. “I can hear her giggling now.” Another smile. “We went downstairs. The table was spread magnificently for breakfast, and behind stood my parents, smiling. We did not really talk during the meal, but I remember feeling close to my family, more so, perhaps, than ever before or after. Then I went upstairs to get ready for school. When I came down, they were all standing in the kitchen waiting for me. My dad asked me if I wanted a ride to school. I said yes, and he told me to go get in the car; he would be there in a minute. I opened the door to the garage and began laughing. I think I jumped up and down awhile before running to the new car. It had a bow on it and a big sign saying, ‘Happy Birthday, Luann.’ I hugged my parents a dozen times. They were so happy. I was so happy.”

It took a moment for the happiness to recede from her eyes, but it did, and in its place fell tears. Marcine put his hand on her shoulder and gently rubbed it. She looked at him and smiled weakly. After a few minutes, she had recovered herself and continued speaking.

“I sold my car a little more than nine months ago. It wasn’t that bad at first. I had money enough to buy food and heroine, even to rent a dirty room from my dealer. God, he sucked me dry. Five weeks ago, I ran out of money. Again I pleaded for help. He said he would let me stay, and supply my cravings, if I worked for him. I knew what that meant. He wanted me to be a whore.” Her eyes filled with disgust, although there was a lingering look which revealed just how close she had come to accepting his offer.

“I walked into the streets. I considered going home. I wanted to, but how could I? I had no money. I begged but earned scarce enough to supply my habit, let alone eat or attempt to go anywhere. I was lost, so desperately lost. The world had ceased to be real. Sometimes I stared at the sea and wanted to swim into it until I could swim no more. But I could not. Something would change. Something would come along. But nothing did, until you.”

She looked at him with a thankful smile and took his hand in hers.

“There is one more thing I would ask of you.” She said earnestly.

“Anything.”

In his hand she placed a small bag of heroin and needles.

“Set me free.”

Chapter Five

Luann groaned as she turned feverishly in bed. Marcine sat beside her, attempting to take her temperature. He had never known such anguish as she had faced in the tortures of withdrawal. Her face was pallid; her eyelids disheveled. Her legs kicked the covers off. Then she sat up and curled herself against the wall, staring with childlike eyes at Marcine, as if she had never before seen him or the apartment they were in. Then pain overwhelmed her face, and she fell writhing onto the bed, still curled up, her knees pinning her arms against her chest. She dry heaved. Marcine held her hair back, in case something did come out, but he did not expect anything. She had not been able to keep anything down for nearly two days. She had also not slept in that time.

“This has to be the worst of it.” He thought. “If not, I will have to take her to a doctor. It’s too much.” She suddenly ran to the bathroom. “At least she was aware enough to do that. This must be terrible for her.” A feeling of pity ran through his body, and it made him sad. It always made him sad to see people unhappy, but never before had he experienced so closely how painful life can be.

She staggered back to bed and collapsed. Her eyelids fluttered as if she was on the verge of either sleep or unconsciousness, but she remained awake, slightly moaning. He wet a washcloth with warm water and softly dabbed her face. A brief smile crossed her face, and then she screamed and retreated beneath the bedclothes. Tears creased his eyes as he looked upon her cowering in the blankets. He could do nothing, he knew, but how he wanted to help her fight the demons now clouding round her mind. He turned his stereo on quietly. Soft music played. Luann poked her head out of the blankets. She was shaking. It made him think of a wet kitten shivering in the cold. He walked to her and sat on the bed. She moved closer to him, and he wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her on the forehead and looked in her eyes. His own still were wet.

“You weep for me?” She asked in a timid, almost unbelieving voice.

“Yes.”

A kind smile lighted on her face for a moment before vanishing in the contortions of nausea. Marcine held her closer and continued to weep, but in the back of his mind was forming the beautiful realization that he was in love.

She seemed less tormented while cradled in his arms, and after a few hours of such warm embrace, she finally found the unconscious bliss of slumber. Still he held her in his arms and wished away the terror which haunted her. Gradually, her sleep became more peaceful. She ceased muttering unintelligible syllables. Her breathing became more even. She no longer shivered. He lay her down and covered her with the last clean blankets.

He felt her forehead; it still burned warm, but within a few hours it seemed to have broken. Her sleep by then was silent, her breath almost inaudible. He felt her pulse. It was languid but harmless.

Finally, he sat at his table and watched her sleep. Though he also had been awake for two days, he did not feel like sleeping. His thoughts moved too quickly for the weariness of his body to make itself known. First upon his mind was the concept of love.

He could not help but doubt the feeling. Then he remembered her smile as she realized he wept because of her suffering. But, would he not have wept had he witnessed any person suffering so? No. It had been years since he cried. But he had never seen anyone bear such pain. Perhaps he was in love with saving her. He had always dreamed of such a thing; to be like a knight-errand helping the damsel in distress. Besides, he had always believed that when he fell in love, he would know the feeling with certainty. They, also, had yet to live. The entire time he had known Luann, it seemed he had been keeping her from dying rather than experiencing life with her. He did not know how she dreamed or what she sought in life. He did not know her. But he knew her smile. He knew the pain he felt to watch her suffer. Never before had he pitied someone so much or felt such a desire to help. He did not know, he concluded, whether he loved her. Plainly, he did not know what love was. He knew only that when she smiled at him, it made him happy. When she was happy, it made him feel good. But that was nothing new; the happiness of others had always brought him joy.

Chapter Six

She slept for almost two days. When she awakened, she was confused for a moment before remembering where she lay. She looked around the room. Marcine was asleep by the kitchen table. He murmured in his sleep. Sitting up in bed, she considered the days she had passed with him and found herself smiling. Then she wondered a great many things; of what he had done for her, of what he might feel for her and, lastly, what she felt for him. There was something, she concluded, but the situation was simply too odd to accurately read her feelings. She did not know him, only that he was kind. She knew nothing of the life he had lived, only that, whatever it was, it had been set aside to help her. But what if he felt nothing more than pity? She could not love someone that did not love her. But it was peaceful here, with him. But she had nothing to offer him. She had nothing. The clothes she wore where his. The food she ate was his. Still, he did not seem to mind. And then she remembered him weeping as she suffered. Yes, he cared, but she could not live entirely by his providence. What if he disowned her? She would be back on the street. No, she would have to make it on her own a little while first. She would go home. Then, when she had straightened her life out, she would return to him, and they would see. It would be best that way.

And so, careful not to wake Marcine, she gathered her few things and slipped out the door, pausing only briefly to scratch a short note and set it on the table.

A little while later, Marcine awoke and quickly discovered himself alone. Setting eyes upon the note, he hesitated, afraid of the words inscribed within. He set the note down and made himself breakfast. While he ate, he stared at the paper. The remainder of the day, he avoided it. He did the laundry. He washed dishes. He went for a jog and did everything he could to not think about Luann. It did not work. Every moment they had spent together replayed within his mind, and he searched for some reason, some fault of his, that might have driven her away. But he could find nothing, only his curious thoughts and the lingering question of whether he had fallen in love.

At last, as the evening plunged into blackness, he sat down at the table and picked up the note. He closed his eyes and opened the paper. His eyes widened and he read.

“I will never be able to repay your kindness. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Luann.”

That was it. He read it again, a dozen times. And so she was gone.

“Perhaps she will come back,” he thought. He felt as though she was gone forever. Disappointed, he lay in bed and tried to sleep; tried to make his mind empty. It did not work.

---

Three weeks later Luann knocked on Marcine’s door. There was no answer, even after the third attempt. Her nerves eased a bit as she turned from the room. She turned back and knocked one more time. The door across the hall opened, and a man of about thirty-five looked out. Seeing Luann, he entered the hallway.

“You looking for Marcine?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid he’s moved.”

“No.” Luann leaned against the wall. She had not expected this. Why, of course he was there. He had to be. “Do you know where?”

“He said something about traveling. I think Europe. I’m not sure though.”

She sank against the wall, her head shaking from side to side.

“Are you okay?” The man asked.

“He’s gone.” She replied. She looked up. The man stood unmoving, confused, sympathetic. “I waited too long.” She smiled sadly and asked with remorse, “Have you ever been in love?”

Chapter Seven

Marcine sat in a small Paris cafe sipping at a glass of wine while he waited to order. He had been in France for three weeks. Before that he had spent eleven days in England. He sat back as he realized how long he had been gone. The actual length seemed a trifle compared to the distance his thoughts had traveled.

He closed his eyes, and a line of images streamed through his mind. First to call was the grand castle in Wales where he had spent four splendid nights imagining himself an English gentleman. Such a pleasant life it was too, striking out after breakfast astride a chestnut mare and riding leisurely until late afternoon through open green pastures lined with trees and shrubs. Though they were not there, he could almost hear the lambs bleating and the baying of foxhounds. Then there was the gentle hamlet beneath the castle and the stone bridge arcing gracefully over a languid stream. He remembered two young school children, a boy and a girl, waving happily as he passed along the bridge. Merrily they laughed as they played innocent games at the water’s edge. Then at dusk, the myriads of birds dashing amongst the trees; harbingers, it seemed, of the coming rainbow which announced the setting of the sun. Dreams of Merlin, fauns and fairies. Remembrances of poets and visionaries.

The clamor of London nearly overwhelmed him after that, but still he did his best to enjoy his time. He visited the museums and tourist traps, but he took much more from the city in the days he walked alone along the Thames or the empty thoroughfares at night. Memories of literature and history mingled in his mind, and vainly he attempted to envision the city in the time of Shakespeare, King Richard or even its tattered days of World War II. History, while still remnant in small amounts, had been overcome by industry. Yet it lived.

Fondly did he recall the afternoon he spent in a teahouse listening to an elderly woman tell her history of England’s royalty. Her eyes were proud when she spoke of the good monarchs, while equally ashamed when she briefly mentioned the tyrants. She also spoke about the war and the many she had known that either died or were distinctly changed. She too had been changed, although she had been a young girl at the time. Still she had nightmares in which the bombs fell never-ending from the sky.

“One night,” she told him, “during the worst of it, we were all huddled on the first floor of our building. The explosions were close. I remember I was sitting with my mother and my sister. My grandfather was standing by the window, watching the planes fly overhead. They were that close. I looked out once; they seemed like kites flying through a storm. It seemed like there were hundreds of them. Then there was an explosion, and my grandfather was thrown to the ground. His face was bleeding from the broken window. In the street I heard people yelling. I looked out. The building across the street was on fire.” She did not speak for awhile, her eyes showing plainly that the memories now playing were hers alone. Her face was blank. At length she spoke. “Thank the Lord for all those brave boys that died to protect us.” And with that the subject was closed. They spoke for awhile of common things, awkwardly as always people do after such conversation, and then the she left him with a warm squeeze of the hand and a serious look in the eye which seemed to say, “Remember what I have told you. If ever such a threat should arise again, I am counting on you and those like you to be strong for me and those like me, just like my father and those like him were strong for us then.”

“Monsieur,” the waiter’s voice recalled him from his reverie, “are you ready to order?”

“Yes. I’ll have the soup and a chicken salad. And another glass of wine.”

“Anything else?”

“Thank you, no.”

The waiter disappeared into the back of the restaurant.  In a moment he returned with the wine, and then he greeted an elderly couple at the table beside Marcine.  The waiter pleasantly rattled off the days specials and then waited for a response.

“Thank you,” the old man said after a moment. He spoke French with a thick German accent. “Give us a few minutes.” The waiter left, and he begin to speak in German. “He speaks too fast; I can’t understand.”

“That’s okay, honey. We can order off the menu.”

“I can’t understand most of it either. It’s been more than fifty years since I’ve spoken the language. I’m just glad they speak German at the hotel.”

“Excuse me.” Marcine said in German. He rose from his table and approached the couple. “Would you like some help?”

“Thank you, yes.” The man responded, and then Marcine translated the menu and specials, as well as he could remember them. The waiter returned, and he helped them order.

“Thank you very much young man.” The man said as soon as the waiter left. “My name is Karl,” he put out his hand, “and this is my wife Heidi.”

“Marcine.” He shook hands with both. “What brings you to Paris?”

“It’s our fiftieth anniversary.” Heidi answered.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She continued. “This trip was a gift from our children; a week in Paris, a week in Rome and a week in Tuscany.”

“I speak Italian better than French.” Karl added, smiling. He had a thin face, and his cheek bones protruded when he smiled. He was also bald. “What of you? Why are you in Paris?”

“Just traveling;” Marcine answered, “seeing the world.”

“Where did you learn the languages?” Heidi asked.

“I learned German in college, and I learned French while living in French Guinea.”

“What on earth were you doing there?” She asked with a curious look. Heidi seemed younger than Karl, although she still must have been in her seventies. He might have been as old as ninety.

“I taught English for a year.” The waiter was placing Marcine’s food at his table. All three noticed. “It has been a pleasure.” He offered his hand.

“Yes,” said Karl, shaking his hand, “thank you again”

“Enjoy your meal.” Heidi added as they shook hands.

“Thank you. You also.” He returned to his table and began with the soup. He could hear Heidi and Karl talking at their table, as well as a dozen conversations in French. The restaurant was full. Then he heard voices in English. Instinctively he looked up. At the host’s counter were two women, one middle aged, one younger. The younger one was frantically flipping through a French phrase book while the host spoke. He seemed upset. Marcine walked to the counter and addressed the man in French. “Would you like some help?”

“Yes!” His face was flushed. “Tell these stupid Americans to learn French before they come to France.” He shook his head in exasperation. “Every day they come here. Every day. Sure, they spend lots of money, but boy are they ignorant. Not like you. You at least try to speak French. You don’t succeed, but you try.” He was smiling. “Seriously, tell them it’s a forty-five minute wait.”

Marcine turned to the women. They seemed a little upset, but mostly embarrassed, especially the young one. She was perhaps twenty-five, and her face, while not beautiful, was kind. She resembled the older woman. They both wore expensive looking but simple dresses. The daughter’s white with red flowers, the mothers’ green.

“It will be forty-five minutes until a table opens,” Marcine addressed the mother in English, “or, if you would like, you and your daughter can share my table. I’ve just begun to eat.”

The mother sighed in relief, while the daughter blushed. The mother spoke. “Thank you; if you don’t mind our company.”

“I look forward to it.” He turned to the host and informed him of the arrangement.

“Good.” Said the host. “Get them out of my hair.” He smiled again. “I’ll let Jean know.”

Marcine led them to the table. “The waiter will be here in a minute.” He said after they were seated. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Some wine would be nice.” The mother answered.

Jean arrived with a menu. “Do you need me to go over the specials again?”

“No, but I’ll take a bottle of this wine and two more glasses. Then some more bread.”

“Right away.”

Marcine turned to the ladies. “Do you have an idea of what you want?”

“That salad looks good.” The mother replied. “Is that chicken?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have that. What do you want Dorothea?”

“I just want a sandwich. Roast beef or pastrami; it doesn’t matter, just as long as there is no mayonnaise.”

Jean returned with the bread and wine. Marcine began to order.

“Did you want soup as well?” He said, turning to the mother.

“No, just the salad will be fine.”

He finished ordering and then poured the wine. At last he sat back and smiled. Then, as if remembering something, he sat forward.

“My name is Marcine.”

“Sadie Wells.” The mother responded, reaching across the table to shake hands. “This is my daughter Dorothea.”

“Dorothy.” The daughter amended. There was silence for moment while they began to eat and drink. Dorothy was first to speak. “That man was upset with us, wasn’t he?”

“Who, the host? No, he’s just a little tired of people coming here that don’t speak any French. I can understand though. How would you like it if people visited America and expected you to speak their language?”

“That’s true. I feel kind of bad about it. It’s only for a few days though. My brother is flying in on Saturday, and he speaks French.”

“He’s supposed to be here now, but he was called away on business.” Sadie said with annoyance. Then with pride. “He’s a lawyer.”

“What do you do?” Dorothy asked.

“I live.”

“One hardly gets paid for that.” Sadie said somewhat harshly.

“No, but one enjoys life.” Marcine smiled. “I used to be a painter, among other things.”

“As in an artist?” Dorothy asked somewhat hopefully.

“Yes. I had a little studio where I worked and sold my paintings. I did well too, but I got burned out. It ceases to be art when you paint as much as I did. It felt like I was working a production line. Anyway, I made enough money that I no longer have to work.”

Jean appeared with the ladies’ food and talk turned briefly to the meal before Marcine was politely pulled aside by Karl and Heidi to help them order dessert. This task finished, Marcine returned to his table. Dorothy and Sadie had been talking quietly while he was away, and after he sat down, Dorothy, blushing, asked Marcine if he would accompany them to the Louvre the following morning. They had an extra ticket, and it was too late to change their reservation. So if he wasn’t busy, they would appreciate his company, especially because he spoke French, although it did not matter as much there, and because he was an artist, although that was not the only reason she, they, wanted him to come.

When he said he would be delighted, she blushed again and smiled briefly before looking at the table. Marcine noticed all this and wondered how the conversation might have gone had her mother not been present. To avoid more awkwardness, he asked Sadie for the details of the outing; the time, where they should meet and such. About the time they decided they would meet for breakfast at the same restaurant, Karl and Heidi paused at the table to again thank Marcine for his help. As they parted, the bill arrived, and Marcine, despite a mild protest from Sadie, paid. They then parted until the following morning.

Chapter Eight

Such is the world of today that a traveler can sit in a Paris hotel and listen to music from Uzbekistan while he reads alternately two books, one written in England, one in Lebanon, drinks tea from Tibet sweetened with Canadian honey and eats fruit from New Zealand, Brazil and Turkey, while wearing clothes manufactured in Indonesia, Bangladesh and India and shoes crafted in China. A few centuries past, even the most wealthy would have struggled to compile such a list. Such is progress. Such is commerce.

Marcine sat as such, but his mind would not focus on the pages before him. A line in one of the books mentioned both war and death, and these in turn drew his thoughts into reminiscence.

Two weeks earlier he had been standing on beach in Normandy, gazing across the English Channel. The sky was cloudy, gray, and the waves chopped with a mild wind. And though it had been more than sixty years, he could feel death still lingering. He closed his eyes, and he could almost hear the terrible screams of drowning men, gunfire and exploding mines. Echoes of blood teased his senses. It was around him, the war; tugging at his humanity. He opened his eyes. The beach was quiet, except for the distant laughter of a child running forth and back before the waves and the ever-present murmur of the waves themselves. He turned from the water and gazed upon empty hills that once rained bullets. He looked at the sky and tried to forget the sadness which had risen within. He could not. Some things are simply too real to push away.

Later, he stood before his grandfather’s grave. There was an eerie silence in the place; the white crosses standing motionlessly in sterile lines of death. But they once were life; each of them. He felt like kneeling before every grave and asking, “What would you have done if you had not died?” And then it hit him; these before him were but a few that died. And then he wept and asked aloud, “Why?” Why is there war? Why are men so easily led to cruelty? Why?

In his hotel room, he set aside his books and fruit and looked blankly at nothing. He felt down, and after a few minutes feeling as such, he left his room and headed to the hotel lounge. He ordered a whiskey at the bar, downed it and then ordered a cognac.

“Hallo Marcine.” A friendly hand grasped him on the shoulder. “Would you care to join me?” It was Karl.

“Certainly.” Marcine said emotionlessly. “Are you at this hotel?”

“Yes.” They seated themselves at a table. Karl was drinking a dark beer. “You are as well, I assume.”

“Yes.” Marcine did not feel like small talk.

“You seem down. Is everything okay?”

“It’s nothing. I was just reading and one of the books stirred up some memories.”

“Ah, yes, memories. Believe me, young man, I understand. May I ask what dampens your thoughts? It may help us both to talk.”

Marcine looked at him for a moment and found comfort in Karl’s face. “Normandy.”

“It has brought many spirits down, including my own. My brother was killed there.”

“So was my grandfather.”

They were silent, gazing at each other with empathy. Marcine knew his own sorrow was much less, but this did not make him feel better. They finished their drinks, and Karl motioned to a waitress.

“A bottle of cognac for me and my young friend.” He said when she arrived, and then to Marcine. “Let us drink and remember those that have died, and, if you will listen, I will speak to you of things I have never spoken of. I have carried these sorrows for a lifetime, but now that I near the end, it seems appropriate, if for the only time, to share them.”

The waitress returned with the bottle and a glass for Karl. Karl poured two full glasses and then sat back. The room was dark, and close though he was, Marcine could barely discern Karl, except for his face, which was lit by a candle in the center of the table.

“It was a strange time in Germany back then, even before the war.” He took a long drink before continuing. His eyes seemed to be sifting through various memories. “I was in the university when the army took me. They made me a pilot, an officer. My brother had just graduated secondary school. He was eighteen. They put him in the infantry.

“We were no Nazis. I remember them strutting around at school. God, I despised them. I knew they were bad for the country, lots of people did, but not enough to do anything. Once they were in power, no one could do anything. Besides, they began to turn people. The country had been bad off for quite awhile, and they actually did improve a lot of things. Enough at least that everyone accepted their increasing power; the good with the bad, you know.

“Personally, I didn’t pay too much attention to politics. I was too busy studying. But what I did see, I did not like. Hitler was a power hungry and hate filled man. I saw it, but most others did not. I will admit, though, that he was a powerful speaker. I remember listening to him on the radio. He made you love Germany. He made you willing to do anything for the Fatherland. When he blamed the Jews, hate stirred within. He knew how to feed the mob. I always felt ashamed afterwards, knowing that I had allowed his words to rouse me. What had the Jews ever done to me? Nothing. What had they done to anyone? Nothing to deserve what we did to them.

“Thank God I never had to work in one of those camps. I would have gone insane, or worse, I might have done everything they asked of me. I knew guys that ended up working in those places. They were normal guys, but God knows the things they did; how many innocent people they killed and watched starve to death. I know one guy killed himself after the war. I spoke to another one back in the mid fifties. His eyes were dead.

“But those were nothing. I interned at a mental hospital in forty-seven. We had quite a few of them there; guys screaming the entire night, hallucinations. I think they had ceased to be human when they worked at those camps, and for some of them, the transition back to humanity simple destroyed their minds. I remember one of more docile patients saying that he simply could not overcome his grief. All those tears he should have shed as he watched and took part in those wretched crimes flowed each night as the images replayed before his eyes. He could be heard shouting, ‘No! Let them go. Let them live.’

“Shortly before my internship was over, he told me that when he had lived through that time, he had not thought, simply acted. The cruelty spread, even to the Jews themselves. The guards would kill people and laugh about it. They beat people for any reason. They were beasts, he said, worse than beasts, for what creature but man had ever been so wretched? Then one day came, when he was a Russian prisoner, and he was a man again. He said it was like awakening from a long nightmare, except that it was not a dream and he had been the monster. He implored the Russians to kill him, he tried to kill himself, but he lived and would do so for many years in constant torment. But even he realized that such suffering was good. It meant he was human again. Others, however, never ceased to be beasts, or perhaps they were born so. Either way, such creatures have walked among us without guilt or shame, laughing at memories of torture and death, desiring still that they had had time to finish their act. And what frightens me the most is that there are fiends such as these born still, and should ever such a hateful regime again rise to power, again shall their hands be harbingers of death and sorrow. It has happened in Cambodia and Rwanda. It happened previously in the Americas with the Natives. Wherever there is a policy of hate, there will be sadistic creatures to undertake all sins with pleasure.”

A mystified look covered Karl’s face. Marcine refilled their glasses, and Karl continued.

“As I said, I was a pilot during the war. I was okay with it at first; we bombed other armies. I guess, at the time, I had distanced myself enough to not become burdened by the death dropped from my plane. I simply flew the missions. But when we started bombing England; it was different. I could not look upon London burning in our wake without knowing that somewhere in the flames and rubble were people dead and dying who were not soldiers. Then I came to the terrible realization that those soldiers I had killed before, and thought so little of, were mostly men such as I, fighting not by choice but simply because no alternative existed. These people had not harmed me. They had not harmed the German people. One could say that I lost faith in war.

“But what could I do? I felt myself fading; my life torn between the reality of my actions and the terror of the consequences of those actions. I was helpless, sad. I began to drink every night. I was reprimanded, but still they sent me off to kill. I considered many things, all of which would have ended with my death. Thankfully fate prevented me from taking any action.

“On a mission over London, I was shot down. I broke both legs in the crash. Everyone else was killed, but though I knew the men well, I little cared about their deaths. They were just a few more on the pile.

“I told the British everything. They cared for my wounds, and because I cooperated they left me fairly well alone to heal. By the time I left the hospital, the war was nearing its end. I shattered my collarbone in the crash, and for a long time I did not have full movement in my right arm. Even now, if the climate is right, I feel a little pain in my shoulder. I also lost one of my kidneys and part of my liver. I owe my life to those British doctors. I, who had killed so many.”

The old man poured the last of the cognac and swallowed it. He shook his head and sighed. Then he leaned over the table and looked Marcine directly in the eye.

“I should have done something; we all should have. Too many people died. Too many good men. God, how my dreams have haunted me all these years. I should have done something.”

His eyes bore tears, and his face was long with a lifetime of suffering and doubt. Marcine was silent. Nothing he had ever known compared to the things this man had witnessed. Never had death been so near as to haunt his every action and to ask whether he had lived life more meaningful than would have those destroyed by his payloads. Not once had he stared blankly at a wall and seen the eyes of corpses and children never born; lovers to whom no one ever returned home. His life had been empty of strife, yet, looking within Karl’s mournful gaze, he understood, a little.

“You know, I lost my faith in God during that time and have spent the rest of my life trying to regain it. Never lose your faith, Marcine; never. It is more important to a man than anything.” Karl stood and walked by Marcine, pausing only momentarily to press Marcine’s shoulder warmly with his hand and whisper, “Goodnight and God bless.”

Chapter Nine

Marcine, Dorothy and Sadie ate breakfast on the patio, where they could watch the foot traffic and soak in both the sun and a gentle breeze. The conversation was pleasant but halting, especially when Marcine and Dorothy began to speak. Dorothy was guarded and repeatedly, after glancing at her mother, answered Marcine’s questions with monosyllabic answers. Thus, Sadie did most of the talking. She spoke of her son and briefly her husband, whom had passed away a few years earlier from cancer. She spoke also of Dorothy. She was twenty-four, having recently graduated with a master’s in anthropology. Sadie’s eyes rolled just a little when she said this, as if she had hoped for something more concrete from her daughter; something like a lawyer, like her son. Marcine wondered if she had told Dorothy such things. Dorothy did not seem to notice the tinge of irony in her mother’s voice, but perhaps she was used to it. At any rate, it was little of his business.

When the bill came, Sadie paid, and then they were off to the museum. In the taxi, they spoke very little, and through the first exhibits the quiet remained. Marcine scarcely noticed his company as he moved amongst the art. He was used to visiting such places on his own. Then, after an hour or so, Sadie decided she needed to rest, but she encouraged Marcine and Dorothy to go on ahead and she would meet them at one of the restaurants for dinner.

They walked awhile in silence, and Marcine, still absorbed in the art, paid little attention to Dorothy and scarcely noticed her awkward glances and brief beginnings of questions she never managed to ask. Finally, as they stood before a painting Marcine could not decide if he liked, Dorothy asked him what he thought of the painting.

“I don’t know.” He replied. “Its quality is okay, but it’s missing something. I guess, if it was anywhere else it would seem a nice painting, but in this building, it seems quite plain. What do you think?”

“I like it,” she replied with a meek voice, “but you know more about art than I do.”

Marcine laughed a little and turned towards her. She was still looking at the painting.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” He said amused.

“Because you are a painter.” She turned towards him a little and looked at his face. Marcine noticed something in her eyes which might have been affection, but he dismissed it and continued with a topic which had always bothered him.

“Okay, so I paint; that means nothing as to whether you like a piece of art.” She turned to him completely, and then they moved to a bench and sat down. “Art is entirely individual, or at least it should be, both in making it and enjoying it. It has always bothered me when people try to tell others what is good art and what is bad art. Granted, there is much art I do not like, but that in no way means that others will not. There is no artist that will please everyone, but of course the true artist is not trying to. Yes, there are pieces of art that are superior to others in technique or are better examples of certain styles, but still if to your eye they lack something or are not beautiful, it means simply they are not to your taste. There is nothing wrong with that. In fact, it is good. It would be better if more people decided for themselves what they liked instead of listening to what the so called experts say. That’s true of many things, not just art.”

“Like food.” Dorothy answered. “I remember eating at a restaurant where all the food critics lauded a certain dish. I forget what it was, but my family went there and we all had it. It was awful, and I know for a fact I wasn’t the only one that thought so, but everyone else ate it and pretended to think it was wonderful. I’ve just never thought of art in the same way.”

Now they had spoken, they conversed easily as they moved through the remainder of the museum. They spoke mostly of the exhibits, art and anthropology, and they laughed and were merry. A little too merry Marcine realized when they stood before the Venus de Milo and he could feel her warmth beside him. He glanced sideways at Dorothy. She was glowing, and it suddenly made him uneasy. He did not move away, nor did it seem that she noticed, but his relaxed pose tightened. Could she possibly be falling in love with him? No, he told himself. But as they walked toward the restaurant to meet Sadie and Dorothy took his arm in hers and rested her head on his shoulder, he knew she was beginning to feel something.

At dinner, he spoke almost exclusively to Sadie, even though he felt cruel for doing so. Still, when he did look toward Dorothy, he saw in her eyes that she thought nothing wrong in his behavior. And when Sadie, nearing the end of dinner, asked Marcine how long he intended to stay in Paris, Dorothy’s eyes widened, as if the event was something frightening.

“Not much longer.” He answered. “I’ve already stayed longer than I intended.” It was a lie. He had had no definite plans since he began his trip.

“Well, if you’re still here when my son arrives, you must meet him.”

“Yes, of course.” Then, looking once more at Dorothy, he decided to extract himself from the situation. He looked at his watch, and then with feigned surprise said, “I did not realize it was so late. I’m sorry, but I must go.”

Sadie looked at her own watch, and replied with what seemed real surprise, “Why the time has gotten on, hasn’t it. We’ll need to hurry if we want to change for the opera, Dorothea. Marcine, if you’re free we have an extra ticket. It’s supposed to be an amazing performance.”

“Thank you, but I have plans. And it is. I saw it last week.”

They had risen from the table.

“Very well, would you like to share a cab?”

“Thank you, no. I’m just going a few blocks so I’ll walk. Thank you again for the ticket to the museum. I’ve had a lovely time.” Which was true.

“Good evening Marcine.” Sadie shook his hand with a polite smile.

“Goodbye.” Dorothy said as she shook his hand with an affectionate smile. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Goodbye.”

As they entered their cab, Dorothy turned back with a smile and waved at Marcine. It made him feel guilty. But maybe he was imagining things. Maybe she was just glad to have someone to talk to. But no, there was definitely feeling in her looks and smiles. But why did that make him uneasy? Why did he suddenly feel like leaving Paris? True, he felt nothing for her, but that she did for him; what fault was that of his? He had merely been nice to her. That was all. He would have to tell her the truth. But what if he was wrong. He was not wrong. But why tell her. It would be better, and easier, if he just left.

Such were his thoughts as he walked back to his hotel and for the second night in a row found himself in the lounge. This time, however, he had no one to distract his thoughts, and he continued to consider the situation for many hours. At last, when he had nearly fallen asleep, he laughed a little at it. Then, he stopped. His thoughts had turned to Luann, and he realized he had not thought of her for many days. When he first set out on his trip, she had haunted his dreams without end. He wondered if, after he had gone, his visage would likewise haunt Dorothy in the guise of someone who might have been.

Chapter Ten

When Marcine returned from breakfast the following morning, there were three messages from Dorothy, politely asking him to call her. He did not. Instead he set about packing his luggage and preparing to leave. While he did this, the telephone rang another two times. He did not answer, but when he checked out of the hotel, he was told that the same woman had called twice more. He thought for a moment to call her, to see her and tell her the truth. But in the end he decided against it and set off to the train station.

The memory of Dorothy faded as he traveled through Germany, and he enjoyed himself immensely. He stayed a week in a small village in the Black Forest, and while there wandered through the woods with freedom of mind. He watched an old clockmaker finish a cuckoo clock he had begun from scratch. He not only carved the wood but set the workings of the clock. He also made watches and little woodcarvings of black bears. They spoke about various topics, and Marcine bought the clock when it was finished.

In Berlin, he spoke to no one, except the many clerks, stewards and waiters one finds it hard to avoid on vacation. In such large cities, he rarely spoke to anyone. Actually, when he traveled, it was generally solitary; a lone man moving through the lives of others, observing. Paris had been the exception. And so the weeks passed. He walked through many museums, visited battlefields, ruins and landmarks. He walked along streets both empty and full and listened to bits of passing conversation. And he wondered where in all this he fit in.

It was the same back where he lived. Everyone else ran around busying themselves with the business of life, while he strolled along with empty time to kill. He read his books, took his walks and dreamed away his life. He had stepped away from the life that every good member of society lives, but he was alone in that place. He forewent the luxuries he might have had had he continued on the path he quit. His pile of money went generally untouched, and he lived meekly on the interest. And even then he felt guilty at times for not sharing his wealth. But if he did that, he would soon find himself having to work again. He did not want to arrive at that place. So perhaps he was selfish. Perhaps the reason no one quit the world is because without the world one has no one to share the daily life one lives. No one else could relate to his life. Oh, of course there were others, but they, like him, were in some corner of existence watching the world pass and to their eyes, when he passed he seemed just like everyone else, just as they seemed when they passed before his eyes.

But there were moments which attempted to draw him back into society. That is all Dorothy had been doing; acting like everyone else would in the situation. Yet he had run from it. Why? Because he felt nothing? That reason did not stop so many others from joining in union, even if for only a brief time. Yet he could not deceive her; although, had he not already to some extent? Had he broken her heart? He could not know. He wondered how it felt. Was it any worse than when he realized that Luann had gone? But he did not know her. It had not been love. Nor could have been Dorothy’s affections for him. They were merely the building blocks upon which love might stand if circumstances had constructed the correct course in life. There was nothing grand about love; it might happen to anyone.

Marcine realized he wanted to go home. True, he had nothing more there than where he currently stood, but there were friends he had not seen in a long time. They probably wondered where he had gone. He had not really told anyone. It would be good to talk to someone who was not a stranger. Someone who would not ask the same questions as the previous person and pretend to listen to the answer.

Chapter Eleven

“You know,” said Marcine, “in all the time I lived in this building, I never ate in this restaurant.”

“Really?” His friend answered. They had just finished lunch in a diner on the first floor of Marcine’s old apartment building. He had been back from Europe for a little more than a week. “You didn’t eat out much then though.”

“That’s true.”

“Marcine?” A semi-familiar voice drew his attention. After a moment he recognized one of his old neighbors. “I thought I recognized you.”

Marcine introduced his acquaintance to his friend, and then his friend excused himself, paid his bill and headed back to work.

“I’ve got to get back to work too, but if you’ve got a minute, I’ve got something for you up in my apartment.” They left restaurant.

“What do you have?” Marcine asked when as they climbed the stairs.

“An address. A girl gave it to me just in case I ran into you. I don’t know why I kept it. I guess because she was pretty, and she seemed so distraught when she found out you were gone. It’s here somewhere.” He rummaged through coffee table drawers for a minute before retrieving a scrap of paper, glancing at and handing it to Marcine. “Luann; sound familiar?”

Marcine took the paper wordlessly and looked at it.

“Thank you.” He said in a distant voice and left the apartment. His neighbor said something, but he did not hear. When he was outside he walked to his car and sat in the driver’s seat staring at the address. It had been how long? Months. Would she still want him to come? He had to. It was not far, maybe an hour’s drive. He started the car and headed to the freeway.

It did not take long before he was nervous and thought to turn back. What would he say? The truth, of course. After reading her note, he had thought she was gone forever.

The drive, which seemed to take a long time, was over extremely quickly. He drove by the house twice to make sure he had the correct address before parking across the street. He opened his door, closed it and sat for a few nervous minutes before laughing half convincingly at his nervousness. He left the car and turned towards the house. A deep breath, and then he walked across the street and up the steps. He raised his had to knock but hesitated. Another deep breath, and then, noticing the doorbell, he rang. After a few moments he began to pace the porch. He did not hear any noise inside, and after a minute, he rang the doorbell again. He continued to pace, and then turned to leave.

As he reached the steps, he heard the door open behind him. He turned around and saw a teenage girl peeking from behind a half open. She looked a little like Luann.

“Can I help you?” She said in a wary voice.

“I was looking for Luann.” She closed the door a little when he spoke.

“What for?” The voice was distrusting.

“I;” Marcine realized he was not sure, “I need to speak with her.”

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

Marcine turned half way around and sat on the steps. He looked at the girl but did not speak. He was trying to decide whether to ask for Luann’s new address, if she had one, when the girl spoke.

“Who are you, and what do you want with my sister?”

“My name’s Marcine, and; I don’t know; I just need to talk to her. She...”

“You’re Marcine?” The girl interrupted. She smiled and opened the door. “Why didn’t you say so? Come in. Come in.”

Marcine, somewhat bewildered, rose to his feet and walked to the door. Then, even more to his surprise, the girl clasped him in a hug.

“Thank you.” She said as she let go. “She told us about everything you did for her. Thank you for giving me my sister back.”

Chapter Twelve

“And this is Luann when she was three.” Roslyn laughed. “Isn’t she cute?”

Marcine nodded to the affirmative, and she flipped to the next page in the photo album. They were sitting at the dining room table, waiting for Roslyn’s mother to return home, as Roslyn would not give Marcine Luann’s address until he had met her parent’s. Roslyn stopped laughing.

“This was taken when we visited her at college.” It showed the two sisters sitting on a Luann’s bed in her dorm. “That was the last time I saw her until she came back.” She closed the album. “I couldn’t believe how thin she was; how old she looked. It must have been terrible for her. Is it true you found her sleeping on the street?” Marcine nodded. “I don’t think she told my parents everything, but she told me if it hadn’t been for you, she probably would be dead by now.”

They were silent, and then the front door opened. Roslyn quickly wiped her eyes and ran to meet her mother. She returned leading her mother by the hand and introduced Marcine.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Luann must be so pleased. She said something about you leaving the country.”

“I was in Europe for the past few months.”

“That must have been fun. I hope Roslyn hasn’t bothered you too much.”

“Not at all.”

“Is Luann here too?” She asked a little perplexed.

“She doesn’t know.” Roslyn answered smiling. “She left him this address, but he didn’t get it until this afternoon. And he drove straight here when he did. Isn’t it romantic?”

“Roslyn.” Her mother said with a look of slight embarrassment. “And did you give him her address?”

“I was waiting until you came home so he could meet you. Besides, Luann won’t be home from work for another hour. He’s got plenty of time.”

“Really. You are some trouble.” She smiled. “I apologize Marcine, but it is true. She won’t be home for at least an hour, maybe two. She goes to school in the mornings so she doesn’t start work until noon. Anyway, here is her address, but if you’re in no hurry, would you like to join us for dinner? John, Luann’s father, will be home any time now, and I am sure he would like to meet you.”

“I would be pleased to stay. This address is just down the street?”

“Five minutes, at the most. Roslyn, would you run down to the store and buy some milk?” She handed her daughter a five-dollar bill and waited until the teen left to continue. “Now, Marcine, while she is gone, I would like to thank you for what you did to help Luann, and also to ask you some questions.” They seated themselves at the table. “Is it true she was sleeping on the street when you found her? I didn’t want to mention it in front of Roslyn. I don’t know how much she knows.”

“Yes, it is true.”

“And was she on drugs?”

“I think that is something you should ask her about.”

“I have, but she won’t answer. But she was changed when she came back. I just want to know what she’s been through.”

“If you want to know that, you will have to speak to her. From what I know, I can tell you this. Your daughter has suffered, more so than either of us can probably imagine. This suffering is in the past, and perhaps, it is best to leave it there.”

“You’re right. I know you are, but it’s just hard to think of my daughter in that situation. I can’t help but remember what she looked like when she came home. I wept for days, from joy and terror.” A pause. A smile. “Is it true you only knew her for a few days?”

“Yes, less than a week.”

“And you haven’t seen her since?”

“Correct.”

“You will hardly recognize her. She looks like herself again.”

Chapter Thirteen

Marcine knocked on Luann’s door. There was no answer, even after the third attempt. His nerves eased a bit as he turned from the room. He turned back and knocked once more. A rustling of keys behind him. He turned.

Luann stopped as she rounded the hallway corner and looked up from her purse, from which she had just retrieved her keys. In her left arm she held a bag of groceries, and for a moment it felt like they were going to fall before she regained control and squeezed them tight. She did not move. Neither did he. At length he smiled.

“Hi.” Marcine said softly. She finally returned his smile. Her mom had been right, in one way. She looked different, alive, undoubtingly beautiful, but he would have recognized her at a glance, especially when she smiled. He felt like rushing to her and embracing her, but his feet would not move.

“Hi.” Luann answered just as softly, and for a time her feet were also solid, but after a few moments she walked forward, set her groceries on the ground and opened the door to her apartment. Then she turned, looked at Marcine and rushed into his arms. She buried her face in his chest as a few tears fell, and then they parted and she led the way into the apartment. He picked up the groceries and followed.

Inside, they seated themselves at the kitchen table and stared gently at one another. They smiled. They held hands, and at last they spoke.

“I thought you had gone forever.” Marcine said first.

“As I you.”

And they were silent again for a time.

At last they laughed.

“So tell me,” Luann asked, “where have you been?”

And so he told her of his travels, and she spoke of returning to her family, of work and school. Then they were again silent. And in that silence something changed, and when it was broken, they spoke their feelings.