I entered the following for a short story competition on the theme of ‘ageing’. I didn’t win, so I thought I’d post it here instead. I hope you enjoy it.
A window on time
The window where I sit does not offer much of a view; just other buildings and a large paved area. Nevertheless a dozen or so people wander there, enjoying the sunshine, chatting quietly. A few young men kick a football between each other without much enthusiasm. The sun is hot so I don’t blame them. There are no sparkling seas or snow-capped peaks, or even gentle gardens or woodlands to grace my gaze, yet this view has become comfortable for me. The chair I sit on has become so familiar I no longer notice its imperfect contours. Instead the view and the chair have conspired to do something I treasure. They release my mind from the present and what I truly see as my eyes gaze out is the past. I set aside my tray; the plate scraped clean as I still have a good appetite, and let the gentle magic transport me once more.
As the history of one man goes, mine is quite full and sometimes chaotic. You might think that I would look back at times of chaos with unease and instead treasure memories of peaceful times, but the truth is upheaval makes one crave peace, yet too much quiet has always sent me looking for excitement again. My life has tick-tocked between the two for the ninety five years I call my own. No regrets? Well, who can truly say that. Certainly not me. On a very mundane level one thing I have regretted, no, resented is the loss of my hair. When I was a young man seeking his way in life, I had a wonderful head of blond hair and I was very proud of it. At seventeen my first job was working as an assistant in a pharmacy. It was a family run establishment and the wife it was who ran the till while the husband looked after the dispensary. She was very fond of my hair and rarely missed an opportunity to rustle it with a hand as she passed. I never minded as she was a fine looking woman. Indeed, it may be that I can thank my hair for an educational encounter in the store cupboard on one occasion when the husband was away. I flatter myself that I was reasonably good looking below the eyebrows as well mind you.
There are people in any person’s history who are the anchors; the stakes in the ground from which our life is strung. That fine lady was one and not just for the cupboard encounter. She taught me hard work and attention to detail, sometimes with considerable emphasis, and those life skills came to be very important in the next phase of my life when war arrived in Europe. We all know the history, the major events, the terrible loss of life, so I won’t bore you with too much of the back story. For myself, I volunteered straight away. I was well educated with a sharp mind, so found myself being fast tracked through officer training. It was a time of huge excitement for all of us young men, despite the danger. We have such uncomplicated minds at that age, don’t we. Black and white. Well anyway, I did well and rose up the ranks, finding myself undertaking many different tasks within the army. It was a shining time of my life, despite the horrors of war. I have met many old soldiers on both sides who see it the same way. Life after the war was pale by comparison for a while, but I heaped excitement upon myself as I shall explain, and that brought the colours back.
When the war came to its conclusion, I felt the need to get away. It was quite visceral. I travelled for a while, seemingly ever further from Europe, never staying anywhere for long. I worked as deck hand, office manager, gardener and security guard in my travels. I never made much money, but kept my head above water. Eventually though, I did find somewhere to settle. I was working on a freighter doing the Atlantic route between Lagos and the port of Cumana in Venezuela. It was my first and, as it happened, only trip on the rusty old ship. We arrived in a late afternoon in early December. The sun was setting and even as we approached the dock I was taken with the beauty of the place; the palm trees and sun drenched streets, the lushness of the land. It is at the mouth of the Manzanares river and is a place rich in history both European and native. I went ashore with my pay in my pocket that evening. It will surprise no-one that I soon found myself in a bar with a cold beer in hand. The surprise for me was to find my next career and the love of my life in the same encounter.
Yaneth! Even now, I can but smile at the memory of her. That day, she sauntered up to my table and sat herself down. She was tall and slim, but moved with such grace! Auburn hair and green eyes made her stand out from the locals. Even in the moment of meeting her, I knew there must be some Irish in her descent. For all that, she was a Caribbean woman through and through. I bought her a drink. Then she bought me one, and we talked. We talked all night. It is such a feeling, that sense of immense relief when you meet the one person who is the perfect match for you; their Yin to your Yang. Yaneth was that to me, and me to her, from the moment we met. We got up and danced to the music playing on the radio as the locals hooted and clapped and laughed. We didn’t care, we barely sensed anything outside of that cocoon of connectedness we had found with each other. Later we walked to the shore and paddled in the water gently lapping on the sand. Hand in hand as though we’d known each other for years. We found a spot far from view and made love in the moonlight. We lay in each other’s arms until the sun rose again the next day.
I remember turning to her as we gathered our belongings and dressed in the cool air of the morning. I asked her “Why did you sit at my table last night?” I find myself chuckling as I recall her look at that question. “Oh dear I forgot!” she had exclaimed. “My father asked me to find someone to do a job for him. I thought you might be interested!”. I was, so we went to her father’s home that morning. It was a few miles out of town and we walked slowly along the gently rising road while Yaneth explained to me what to expect. The job was somewhat ill-defined. Her father was a businessman with varied interests; some legitimate, some not. He found he needed someone to help things along, to grease the wheels. A facilitator in fact, although that term was never used. Within minutes of meeting me and seeing the way Yaneth looked at me, he laughed and told me I had better watch out. I liked Lisander. He didn’t judge anyone, even though he could be ruthless. Then, so could I. The job worked out well for all of us. Mostly I set up meetings, talked people round, negotiated and bribed. Occasionally I had to get physical. I have no love of that kind of activity, but when the situation required it I didn’t hesitate. It was just the job. Lisander grew richer and I made myself a good living too, putting aside enough to ensure I could expect to retire before I was forty.
Lisander’s only restriction was that I must be discreet with Yaneth and would not have his blessing to marry her until I retired. We kept to that restriction. To be honest, life was so busy all the time it did not feel like a burden. We both knew our time would come, and eventually it did. I had been particularly successful in helping Lisander defeat a business rival and one evening shortly afterwards he invited me to eat with him, just the two of us. We chatted amiably for a while and then he handed me a package. “There’s one hundred thousand dollars in there” he told me. “It is time for you to take my daughter to be your wife and go away!”. He smiled as he said it, and I didn’t need an explanation. His line of business was rarely one that accommodated a long and happy life, unless you were right at the top like Lisander was. He wanted me to provide for his daughter and to ensure she could live free of the risks of his business. We shook on it and he called out for Yaneth. She ran out and we kissed. The three of us hugged and drank an awful lot of champagne, laughing and smiling into the small hours.
The wedding was incredible. Like many grooms, I actually remember very little detail about the day, only that it ended with Yaneth as my wife. We went away that night on a yacht that had been Lisander’s wedding gift to us. We had a crew of four and could concentrate on each other. We sailed to Cuba and made ourselves a home on the outskirts of Havana under assumed names. It was a gentle time for us. We didn’t have children, a regret for both of us, but sometimes that’s just the way of it. But we enjoyed a good life, with parties and holidays enough never to get too bored. Lisander came to visit every few years, arriving secretly as he would never risk anyone making the connection. Yaneth and I had twenty five years of loving each other.
Cancer took her. It was fast and terrible. The Doctors could do no more than ease her pain and I could do no more than hold her. It was over within a month and I was alone. Lisander had passed a few years previously in his sleep.
I found that I could not stay in our beautiful home. Not for one more day. I packed a suitcase and fled. I still had my health and enough money to last so I just took to wandering and drinking. A rich drunk homeless man. I tried to convince myself that I had an urge to see new places, to discover more of South America where I travelled. In truth I had lost my connection with the world when Yaneth died. I had no urges at all. Nevertheless the years took their toll and I slowed down, little by little.
Inevitably I suppose, in the end my past caught up with me. It was a relief really. So here I am, and have been for many a year, gazing out of my little window. I am shaken out of my reverie by the door opening behind me. I look round as Peter walks in, a concerned look on his face.
“Was the meal good Sir?” he asks. I nod and smile back at him. Uncomfortable with the situation, Peter steps back as others enter. One reads from a clipboard.
“Kurt Ackermann, war criminal and former SS officer, rise. Come with us.”
I am led away. Yes, that last meal was good
Copyright (c) 2016 David Hollick.
Filed under: Fiction
