The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 28
“Forgive me for interrupting your siesta, madam, but haven’t we met before?” asked the man in a pleasant voice.
The young woman who was seated on a bench gazing at the lake looked up to find a handsome nondescript man of medium build. “I don’t believe we have,” she said evenly.
Undeterred, the man restarted blithely. “Excuse me, miss, I was idling over there on that bench and could not help noticing what a beautiful visage you possess. Surely, you must be a famous actress.”
“Try anonymous schoolteacher,” replied the woman surly, and gave him a B minus.
“Pardon the intrusion,” the man started over cheerily, “but has anyone ever told you what lovely eyes you have?”
Curt, brusque, and terse, the woman’s reply conveyed precisely one bit of information. “No.”
“Good afternoon, madam,” the man recommenced merrily, “would this bench not be much happier with two persons atop it, preferably of opposing genders?”
The woman was about to supply an answer, when a shout was heard not far away, “Cut! Cut!” Both man and woman dug scissors out of their respective pockets and cut corners.
The director approached the man and began repeating his real-life appellation. “Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom, we cannot allow this. We will now go over your motivation again.” The royal ‘we’ had much use in the film industry. “You’re the Cliché Killer. Sleek. Savage. Suave. You’ve just escaped from the States at the eleventh hour, having almost been apprehended by the police. You arrived here in Lausanne two days ago — we’re in Switzerland, incidentally — and you’re now returning to your old game. Be sharp. Be dandy. Be trite. You’re a cereal killer, for Captain Crunch’s sake!”
“Those film people tend to get overly excited sometimes,” remarked Jesus Cohen.
“And believe me,” Annabelle Doe demanded credulously, “here in Switzerland, overexcitement stands out like a laughing hyena on the dark side of the moon.”
A moony look took over Cohen’s face. “I was quite surprised to hear from you,” he said eventually, and added hastily, “Surprised, but glad.” The two were presently seated on a lakefront bench discoursing about the past.
“It’s been a while now, hasn’t it?” asked Doe.
“Let’s see, last time we met was …” Cohen performed a short mental calculation, “during that meeting in New York.”
“Which took place over ten years ago,” completed Doe.
“Oh, Annabelle, if only things had turned out differently,” sighed Cohen. “You know, when your husband passed away all those years ago, when Mr. Doe was gone, I wanted to … To …” His voice faded into the sunset, which had just dawned on them. The lake was becoming redder by the minute, as if to commiserate with love lost.
“Jesus, I know,” whispered Doe tenderly. “I know.” They sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the sounds of evening birds, rustling leaves, and mediocre acting, which were hanging about in the backdrop.
“A couple of detectives came to see me a few days ago,” Doe finally broke the silence. Broken, but not defeated, the silence withdrew into a corner — which had not been cut earlier — to gather strength.
“They were Noro Myx’s operatives,” said Cohen. “He’s an eminent detective back in the States.”
“I think he prefers ‘famous’,” Doe said.
“What did they want?” asked Cohen.
“Oh, they just asked a few questions pertaining to the investigation of the missing War Treaties,” answered Doe.
“Which have been found in the meantime,” revealed Cohen.
“How nice,” commented Doe aloofly.
“You knew that already,” stated Cohen with assurance.
“I knew that already,” agreed Doe, demonstrating her being abreast of the current state of missing treaties. The silence had by now summoned up sufficient force to come out of its corner. There followed several quiet moments, during which everyone aboard the lake spoke in hushed voices. Even the director.
After several minutes the silence had become fed up with the quiet and left for Italy. The sun was on the verge of taking leave as well. The birds on the trees joined in a duet of some national anthem or other, while those on the ground performed the Beatles’s Let It Be a cappella. It was the hour of confessions.
“I told them about Jennifer,” Doe owned up.
The statement knocked Cohen’s socks off. “You …” Words failed him. Clearly, he would have to don his socks if he wished to continue conversing.
“You told them about our daughter — why?” asked Cohen complainingly, once his feet were covered anew.
Doe gazed into Jesus’s eyes, and said quietly, “Jesus, we’re not getting any younger.”
Cohen thought lengthily about this last revelation, and finally concurred. “No, we’re not.”
“Maybe I’m less ashamed now,” said Doe. “Maybe I’m less afraid. Maybe I’m just tired of concealment. Whatever the reason, I just felt it was time to grant this secret its liberty. It had been jailed long enough.”
Observing the immaculate state of the lakeside, Cohen sighed resignedly. “At least you picked the right country wherein to come clean.”
“There’s more,” continued Doe.
“More secrets?” asked Cohen perplexedly.
“More daughters,” answered Doe correctively.
Comprehension descended upon Cohen slowly, like a balloon whose air has been let out by that mean kid with the slingshot. When it had finally alighted, Jesus began babbling rapidly. “You and I had another daughter? But how? How? I was there in the hospital when you delivered Jennifer, remember? I would have known had another baby been born. Jesus, you’re saying we had twins. How is this possible?” In his excitement, Cohen had become all fired up.
Quietly, Doe explained, “Jennifer does indeed have a twin sister. And the reason you know nothing of this is because she was born two years later. She’s Jennifer’s younger twin.”
Cohen was having a hard time digesting both the news of his novel parenthood and the tasty waffle he’d bought earlier. He finished the waffle and then proceeded to absorb the news.
“Does Jennifer know?” he finally asked.
“No,” replied Doe.
“Does … Who else knows?”
“You and I, for one,” answered Doe. “And some close friends of mine.”
“You mean, you, I, and … What’s our daughter’s name?”
“May Day.”
“What a beautiful name, Annabelle. So you, I, and May Day know about this?”
“No,” corrected Doe. “May Day does not know I’m her mother. Or, rather, she doesn’t remember.”
“She doesn’t remember you’re her mother?” repeated Cohen incredulously.
“Yes,” confirmed Doe. “You see, she suffers from a rare psychological condition known as materamnesia.”
“Never heard of it,” averred Cohen.
“As I said — it’s rare,” said Doe evenly.
“How did it happen?”
“An accident. She fell down a flight of stairs when she was seven years old.”
“Can’t you simply remind her you’re her mother?” Cohen voiced a putative solution.
“No. All the doctors agreed she must recover the memory herself.”
Over at the cinematic front, the man was redefining the meaning of perseverance. “Thank heavens, I’ve finally found the scene!” he was crying. “Madam, you must, simply must, allow me to paint your loveliness as you gaze upon the sunset.”
Ignoring the ardent filmy shouts Cohen continued bombarding Doe with questions. “Where is she? Where is May Day” — he paused for a brief second — “my daughter? Why have I never met her? Why have you never told me of this before?”
“Slow down, Jesus,” responded Doe softly. “I suspect you have met her before. You see, she works for Noro Myx. In fact, she’s one of the detectives who paid me a visit the other day.”
Cohen’s jaw hesitated for a moment between dropping and drooping, finally opting for the latter.
“Then May Day is — ” began Cohen.
“Yes,” completed Doe, as if reading the mind of Jesus.
“Why?” came a question, immediately followed by a second one. “Why?”
Exercising her pseudo mind-reading abilities, Doe answered the first question. “Because he wanted to get to the other side.” On the second question she remained silent.
In a different time zone, on another continent, a discussion wholly separate in space-time was taking place. A physicist submerged in this space-time continuum would most likely find himself fighting a reflex urge to grow a prominent White Afro, thereby adopting an Einsteinian weltanschauung. (The latter being a verylongword in a language that goes by the name of German, rumored to be spoken in Germany, which most scientists believe is tucked away somewhere in Europe; the verylongword in question made up of two parts: “welt”, meaning world, and “anschauung”, meaning view; the literal translation thus being “gesundheit”.)
“I’m telling you,” the tall dwarf was saying as they left Myx’s apartment, “he knows about both medallions.”
“Obviously, he knows about yours,” said the small giant placidly, palming her treasure. Totally ignoring a sound from her friend that sounded like a snore, a snort, or a snorkel, she continued, “But are you sure he knows about mine?”
“You heard him tease us just now with that ‘second’ bit,” reminded the tall dwarf.
“My medallion,” murmured the small giant softly, fondly stroking the object in hand. “Did I ever tell you how I got this from my … My … My …”
“Quiet, please,” called the tall dwarf. “My colleague will now attempt a feat never before completed on stage. In fact, never before completed at all. She will finish the sentence, ‘I got this medallion from my …’.”
“Stop mocking,” retorted the small giant. “You have no idea how tormenting this is.”
“But I do,” said the tall dwarf in earnest. “Which is why I’ve told you a zillion times to go see a shrink.”
“A zillion and one,” smiled the small giant, and — regarding her diminutively largish frame — added, “You know I can’t stand the idea of shrinkage.”
“Then we’ll never know who gave you the medallion, now, will we?” the tall dwarf asked rhetorically.
“One day I’ll remember,” the small giant answered rhetorically. “I know I will.”
The tall dwarf grabbed hold of the silence, which had been leisurely skiing in the Italian Alps, and reflected quietly for several minutes. Finally, she began, “If he’s oneing in on our medallions — ”
“I think you mean ‘zeroing in’,” interjected the small giant.
“ — then we must consider another possession to be in danger,” completed the tall dwarf without missing a beat.
“But — ” the small giant butted in without missing a but.
The tall dwarf was adamant. “No buts. You know exactly the article I’m referring to. We must exchange its hiding place without delay for a more secure cache.”
“But where will we find such a cache?” asked the small giant halfheartedly.
“I said no buts,” the tall dwarf restated reprovingly. “Where? I can think of no better place than the ducks.”
Without so much as a smidgen of delay, the two set about playing hide, unaware their game would soon turn into hide-and-seek. Perhaps, had they known, the two would have chosen to lean their heads against the large oak tree bearing the engraving Charles Loves Burgers and count to twenty.
