Robert's Choice

By R. Harlan Smith

Willard wants to write a novel, but he doesn't have any ideas, until he meets Robert on the strand at Venice Beach. Robert offers Willard a story, a story about which he swears every word is true, but there are some complications that come with it. 

Robert appears to be harmless enough, but he seems frightening at the same time. He coaxes Willard onto the beach to tell his story, and in the telling of the story Willard begins to question Robert's sanity, and his own safety. No ordinary man could do the things Robert claims. He's just too old. And no ordinary women could do the things Robert claims Berta and Lores can do. 

What really offends Willard is Robert's observation that his timid nature is exactly what Robert needs to hear his story. Timid? What an insult. No one has ever told Willard he was timid, and Willard ceertainly doesn't see himself as timid. 

And what's worse is Robert's claim that Willard must tell the end of the story for the outcome to have the desired effect Robert needs. Robert is in love and he must have Willard's end of the story for him to have the woman he loves. There's simply no other way about it. How can every word of Robert's story be true if Willard makes up the ending? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Harlan Smith
• Release date: Jun 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497769717

R. Harlan Smith

I write, for the most part, in the paranormal genre. Ordinary people with extraordinary abilities make for more interesting, character driven stories that have greater appeal than plot driven stories.  My settings are usually in and around Gary, Indiana where I attended Lew Wallace high school, and lived the better part of my younger years through the 50's. My tendency to overdo descriptive passages comes from my fondness for the suburban areas south of Glen Park, the southern most part of Gary. The years I spent in Los Angeles also contribute to my settings. My characters are modeled after people I have known, and are rarely simply contrived, so everything I write is somewhat autobiographical by virtue of the setting and my relationships with the actual characters. My interest in the paranormal arises from my own personal experiences which led to researching them and finding some explanation for them from authors such as Carlos Castaneda and Jane Roberts, as well as my education (BA Behavioral Sciences). I will tell you truths you won't believe and fictions you'll embrace like the gospel, but I won't tell you which is which.

Book preview

Robert’s Choice

by

R. Harlan Smith

1

I have never heard a more bizarre story in my life. I admit I had a tendency, or I should say willingness, to believe Robert's story. Who knows what kinds of people walk the streets these days? Anything can be true. One sees the entire zodiac of human complexity on the strand at Venice Beach, which is where I met Robert to begin with.

When someone tells me, Every word I am about to tell you is true, I'm willing, even expecting, to hear something difficult to believe, but not so far beyond the realm of common sense. And then when he convinced me his story was true, in doing so, he completely destroyed my credibility in repeating it. So, I'm left with offering the same assurance Robert offered me: Every word I'm about to tell you is true.

I don't recall how far along into Robert's story we were, but somewhere along the line he said something that has since caused me to wonder. He said, There can be ritual even in the telling of a story, Willard. These words stuck in my mind and I wonder now if he got away with something.

I met Robert in the early evening of a Sunday on the strand at Venice Beach. On the strand you can observe the beauties and the beasts from a cafe table at the Terrace Cafe, or you can put on your sunglasses and walk among them. I chose, as usual, to observe, but I found myself standing before a crowded terrace of occupied tables with my tea in one hand and two scones on a paper plate in the other. There was one table at the railing, however, with a full view of the strand, but it was occupied by a somber looking man with white, shoulder length hair and a few days of stubble. He looked to be in his late fifties. The chair opposite him was not taken. I was hesitant to barge in on a complete stranger. People do that there, but his appearance put me off, plus he was writing in a small notebook. I didn't want to disturb him.

He looked up for a moment and our eyes met. It gave me a peculiar feeling in the pit of my stomach. I didn't want him to notice me. Then he made a slight upward movement of his chin that literally took my breath away. He raised his cup, inviting me to join him.

I would have felt foolish, even blatantly rude, to refuse. The terrace was clearly filled to capacity. So I accepted, thanking him, hoping he would continue with his notes and simply share the table, but he closed his notebook and looked directly into my eyes.

Robert, he said, offering his hand.

Willard, I offered back.

Robert was not at all what he seemed to be. He was tanned like a person who spent time on the beach. His clothes – a corduroy sport coat, T-shirt, jeans, and sandals – were clean. He was certainly no stranger to soap and water. I even noticed a reasonable hint of cologne that was not at all unpleasant. It soon became obvious that he was not, as I thought, a homeless person. There was something compelling about him.

I should mention I continuously felt something extraordinary about Robert for the entire length of time I spent with him. And his story conveyed that message all along.

He said, What kind of work do you do, Willard?

I told him I was in Marketing with a small paperback publisher.

Interesting, he said. You do a little writing yourself, don't you?

I said, I dabble, wondering how he knew.

He said, You do more than dabble, Willard. You'd like to write a novel.

He smiled, showing healthy teeth. Well, I'll tell you a story, Willard. Something you can dabble with.

There was a playfulness in Robert's eyes that put me at ease. Hearing him speak convinced me he was not so much a part of the parade as an observer like myself. He was articulate enough, but I couldn't help but wonder if I could believe a word he said. I was suspicious of him all along. I don't know why.

He began by saying, There are consequences to the truths we refuse to believe, Willard, just as there are consequences to the fictions we embrace without question. You'll see what I mean. I'll tell you about some exceptional people. You can decide for yourself what is the truth and what is fiction. And I'm telling you right at the start that every word I'm about to tell you is true. May I have one of your scones?

Yes, of course. I pushed my paper plate to the center of the table.

Thank you. He broke off a piece and bit into it, watching me as he chewed.

I felt a fleeting twinge of embarrassment for the man. Did he often invite people with food to his table? Is he really just an addled old man after all?

He said, "First, I'll give you a name. A name rooted in the darkness of the Vandals of the fourth century. I'll tell you first the part of the story that describes Russo Varangian. I'll present to you an hypothetical scenario based on known facts. It will get our story off the ground.

It may interest you to know, Willard, as I reveal these... events, that I stood by helplessly while this man's son was run down and eaten by wild dogs.

I didn't know wht to saay to that. It didn't interest

me. Actually, it put me off. I was insulted that he would think of me as a person who would be interested in such a thing. He leaned back in his

chair and crossed his legs and he began to tell me his story.

Now, imagine this, Willard. Imagine a well-dressed Russo Varangian in his brand new, black, 1952, Fleetwood Cadillac purring slowly through the suburbs of Valparaiso, Indiana. It's a brisk, sunny, fall morning.

I had no idea what Valparaiso, Indiana looked like, but I closed my eyes and nodded, imagining.

"Russo Varangian loved the atmosphere of a university town in the Midwest autumn. His youth in the Balkans was vague these days. What he did remember was very much like the peaceful yards and gardens of Valparaiso. The air had a nip to it and the blue sky glared through the barren branches along the tree lined streets. The first snow had fallen overnight and was melting now into the matted lawns and scattered leaves of late October. Sidewalks, cracked and uneven, rose and fell over the shrugging roots of sleeping maple. And there were no curbs. Russo Varangian was especially fond of motley sidewalks and streets without curbs.

"He slowed. The address he wanted would be on the corner. Odd numbers on the left. Even numbers on the right. He stopped at a cross street and waited as two young girls pedaled through on bicycles.

"The house he was looking for was just across the intersection to his right: a tidy, gray, two bedroom, clapboard with impeccably painted white window frames and a screened porch for drinking apple cider and listening to A Prairie Home Companion on Indian summer nights. A grand weeping willow drooped over a single lawn chair in the front yard. And the finishing touch was the white picket fence, complete with weighted gate that stood square around the entire property.

When the two girls were gone and there was no other movement on the street, Russo Varangian eased his Fleetwood across the sleepy intersection. He veered casually off the street and mowed down the front stand of the perfect picket fence all the way up to the gate.

He did it deliberately?

"Oh, yes, Willard. With full deliberation and great purpose. He got out of his car and walked to the door of the screened porch and rang the bell. A pleasant chorus of chimes announced his presence and after a moment the inner door opened. The owner was a balding little man, past middle-age, wearing bedroom slippers and white pajamas under a paisley bathrobe. A pair of reading glasses hung round his neck on a cord. He held them up to his eyes, still folded, and pushed the screen door open. Another realtor, he thought, with yet another offer. He looked up into the caller's friendly face.

"Russo Varangian's cordial smile revealed white, even teeth under a Stalinesque mustache. His dark eyes were peaceful and moist from the cold. His was not a face easily forgotten. It was angelic.

"The little man could see that Russo Varangian was not of the usual run of real estate people. He saw Italian, ox blood shoes, a brown, three piece suit, surely of Scottish wool, and a camel hair coat with a silk scarf. And to top it all off, an excellent Prussian Homburg hat. Russo Varangian was already successful. He dressed for respect.

The  little man pushed the screen door wide open. Yes?"

"They introduced themselves as Russo Varangian, antique dealer, and Milan Czarnecki, retired. Russo pointed out what he had done to Milan Czarnecki's fence. He apologized, offering his business card – Russo Varangian, European antiques by appointment. He explained to the man that he would restore his wonderful picket fence so that no one would ever know it had been breached, and he would do it, of course, at his own expense. It was, after all, his own doing, and it was exactly the kind of project he liked to sink his teeth into.

"Russo showed the little man his identification and wrote down his address and his license number, and both of his telephone numbers with a beautiful gold pen. He handed his card to the man, saying, 'I have an office in Gary, in Glen Park, on the southeast corner at Ridge Road and Broadway, right over the pharmacy.'

"The little man found Russo Varangian to be so sincere and so charming he invited him in from the cold where they could chat in the warm kitchen over a cup of hot tea. It was, after all, only a wooden fence.

"Over the course of three weeks Russo Varangian's expert hands restored the fence to its original, crisp look. When the job was finished they shook hands. Russo Varangian was a man of his word. The little man was very pleased and rather surprised with the result. Indeed, no one could have known his perfect picket fence had ever been breached.

"It was during this time when Russo Varangian discovered Milan Czarnecki's weakness. He was a collector of honey. Proudly, he had walked Russo Varangian through his basement display, offering sweetly scented dollops for tasting. As a parting gift the man gave Russo Varangian a generous portion from his own hives. It gave Russo Varangian an idea, a stunning idea.

The following April Milan Czarnecki received a letter from his friend, Russo Varangian, the antique dealer. He held his folded glasses up to his eyes and read.

'My dear Mr. Milan Czarnecki,

If you would be so kind as to meet me and my little boy at my Glen Park office at seven pm this following Saturday, I have for you a rather extraordinary sample of honey to add to your excellent collection. It comes from the southern shores of the Black Sea.

Looking forward to seeing you.

Most sincerely,

Russo Varangian

"Milan Czarnecki was delighted. What a considerate gentleman, he thought.

"At precisely seven o'clock on a blustery April evening, Russo Varangian answered a light knock at his office door. He welcomed Milan Czarnecki with a warm hand shake and introduced him to his four year old son, Russo, Jr., who was preoccupied at his father's desk with a mound of ice cream covered with chocolate fudge sauce. The grownups didn't interest him.

"What do you have here?' Milan Czarnecki asked.

"He was looking at six rectangular slabs of wood laid out on the carpet.

"Russo gestured with both hands. 'This is a puzzle,' he said. He was proud of his genius. He wanted his guest to ask questions. 'I have always been fond of puzzles.'

"A puzzle,' Milan Czarnecki said. He was intrigued, looking over the pieces.

"Please, sit, Russo said. He steered his guest to the leather couch against the wall. 'I'll get your package.

"Russo went to his safe behind his desk and dialed the combination. 'Ordinarily, a puzzle is put together and then taken apart. I, on the other hand, have devised a puzzle, once assembled, is impossible to take apart, unless, of course, one knows the secret.'

"Milan Czarnecki relaxed, glancing around the museum-like office. He held up his folded glasses as his eyes moved randomly across ornately carved Rococo chairs amidst a forest of ancient, hand-carved, European furniture, dark and enshrouded under a stack of old world tapestries. Dusty shelves sagged under leather bound books and fine Parian statuary and ancient, French, celadon porcelain. A family of quiet, Bavarian mantel clocks that might have ticked away centuries huddled in the shadows, unwound and yellowed and comatose, as if they had run out of time. A single window faced Broadway from over the safe where Russo Varangian was removing a package. The four year old sat dwarfed in his father's desk chair, eating now with his fingers.

"Russo Varangian closed his safe and handed the package to his guest with both hands.

"It's heavy, Milan Czarnecki said. He hefted the package.

"Yes, Russo said. The container is a bit awkward in that respect.

"Milan Czarnecki held the package on his lap. He could wait a minute more to open it. 'As you were saying... about your puzzle.'

"Ah, yes. What you see here is a device of my own invention. A puzzle that cannot be taken apart even though it is assembled quite easily.

"He put his hands on his hips like a workman about to take on a job. He pointed. 'Each of these six slabs is two inch cherry, a hard, heavy, tightly grained wood. As you can see, I have created specially tooled edges by which each piece will lock inseparably to the other. The Japanese are masters at this sort of thing, you know. They build entire houses this way. When the last piece, the top panel, is inserted, it also locks forever into place. What I'll have then is a wooden box with the foot print and the appearance of a steel Purser's safe. The surfaces facing the floor are already painted and lacquered and appropriately stressed.'

"Remarkable, Milan Czarnecki said. ‘No screws. No nails. No adhesives.'

"Russo Varangian was proud. 'Correct. The entire piece is locked together seamlessly and cannot be disassembled.'

"Milan Czarnecki shook his head with admiration. 'My fence is one thing, but this, this is quite another.'

"Russo's eyes closed as he smiled. 'I enjoy the title of Master Carpenter. It is my only passion.'

"Milan Czarnecki nodded. 'Ingenious.'

"Milan Czarnecki  was again impressed by yet another facet of his friend. 'How do you open it?' he said.

"Open it? Russo said. That, my friend, is the secret of the puzzle. One need only exert the pressure of a single finger to the top panel to release it and it will come apart as easily as it was put together. Otherwise, it is a replication, a deception. The dial you'll see recessed into the door is a mere fixture. The mechanism twirls, but there is no combination.

"Milan Czarnecki shrugged. 'What will you do with it?'

"Russo smiled and slowly wrung his hands. 'It will lie on its back in front of the couch where you are sitting with a thick, glass table top.'

" ‘Oh,’ Milan Czarnecki's eyebrows went up. 'A coffee table.'

"Ah. Satori.' Russo said. 'The glass provides exposure of the invisible craftsmanship as well as a surface for a dressing of flowers, or magazines. A unique statue, perhaps.'

"Fascinating, Milan Czarnecki said. 'You're a clever man, Mr. Varangian.'

"Russo Varangian was convidant he had won over the little man’s trust. He said, 'I thought you might appreciate it a bit more than the next man. Now, please...'

"Russo motioned to the package on Milan Czarnecki's lap. He watched his son for a moment while his guest tore the wrapping from his package. The child's hands and face were a muck of fudge sauce and ice cream.

"It came all the way from Turkey, Russo said. 'From bees that range south and east of the Black Sea. You have a rare collector's item from friends of mine in my line of business, a full litre. Why don't you taste it?'

"Eagerly, Milan Czarnecki untwisted the wiring and removed the stained wooden plug. He dipped his finger into the thin, red-tinted honey and hurried it to his lips. He paused and savored.

"Excellent, he said.

"Allow me, Russo said. He took a long, narrow dessert spoon from his desk drawer. 'Use this. I keep extras for the ice cream.'

"Thank you, Milan Czarnecki said.

"Russo Varangian sat against his desk with his arms folded. He watched, pleased, as Milan Czarnecki tasted spoon after spoon of his delicious new honey. Finally, he stopped himself and reinserted the wooden plug. 'Beautiful decanter,' he said.

"They're rather... common to that part of the world, Russo said. A novelty here in the American market.

"Milan Czarnecki blinked and shivered as a strange glow swept through him. Russo took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. 'Now that you're here, you can watch as I assemble my apparatus. I planned to put it together in your presence.'

"The pieces matched and locked as Russo Varangian set the base and fitted the side walls upright in their precision-cut slots. It was beginning to take shape.

"Milan Czarnecki felt his face flush. He set the decanter on the floor and leaned back on the couch as the room expanded and contracted right before his eyes. Waves of electrically charged, sub-zero air rushed through his brain from nowhere and disappeared farther away than he could see. An annoying, bright light fluttered behind his eyes. He could hear it and his heart raced with a terror he had never experienced before.

"Russo calmly locked the front panel into the base and onto the side walls. 'So far, so good,' he said. 'You must be hallucinating by now, my little friend. In a moment you'll experience some rather severe muscle spasms. You'll stop breathing off and on. It will all be over in short order.'

"The astonished Milan Czarnecki stiffened and fell over on the couch, struggling to breathe. He could breathe out, but he could not breathe in. He clawed at his sweater, his jaw locked in a grimace of sheer physical exertion. His eyes were tearing down his cheeks. He began to salivate as a mountain of nausea crushed down on him.

"Hi, a voice said, Hi.

"Trembling, he struggled to see where the voice was coming from. The child watched, fascinated.

"Russo pulled his partially assembled invention toward the couch. The squirming little man was purpling now and blinking, wide-eyed. His entire being was fiercely outraged and trapped in an acute state of emergency.

"Russo dragged the man off the couch. With a single heave, he tugged the body, still snapping with wrenching spasms into the box and locked the back panel into place. As an afterthought, he dropped the decanter and the wrapping paper inside.

"The final piece was the top panel with the fake combination dial. He set it carefully in place, sinking it into its snug, seamless position with only the edge visible. Then, with one finger, Russo Varangian pressed it into its permanently locked seating. He tipped the shuddering fabrication onto its back and placed the glass tabletop perfectly even on all sides. In the exact center he placed an elegant, gold-plated statue of the Egyptian Ra.

"Russo Varangian carried his little boy into the washroom. He cleaned the child's hands and face and flushed the paper bib. 'Such a handsome little man,' he whispered. He dried the round, little face and kissed both cheeks. He held the child up to the mirror. 'Like father, like son.' He was a good dad. He brushed his son's hair aside. Little Russo loved his father.

"Russo stopped to let little Russo flip the light switch on the way out as they did every ice cream night. Russo closed the door quietly behind them.

Imagine, Willard, if you will, the dark, stillness left behind in Russo Varangian's office, the muffled, scuffling sounds, the wobbling glass table top, and in its center a tottering Ra.

2

That's it? I said. That's the story?"

It seemed to me there was a murder to be solved. Some heroic detective had to step forward and drive things to a conclusion. It was a treacherous, deceitful murder, for sure, but Robert didn't have a story.

I said, Okay, that's not a story, Robert. First of all, who was Milan Czarnecki? Then, why was he murdered? What was Russo Varangian's motivation? How did he get caught? Who caught him? That's where the story is, Robert. Besides, the police would find the man's abandoned car and trace it back to his address. They'd find his house abandoned, too. They'd investigate. They'd go through his things and  find Varangian's note, wouldn't they?

Varangian didn't get caught, Robert said. " Milan Czarnecki's house was burned to the ground. Our story isn't a murder mystery, Willard. It's a story about consequences. The untimely death of Milan Czarnecki is what sets our story in motion, today, fifty-nine years later.

"Milan Czarnecki was murdered twenty years before I was born. I lived near Valparaiso in Gary, Indiana. That following summer I was close to tears because I had failed my English class. I had to attend summer school to make it up. My summer of freedom was ruined. I couldn't have been more disappointed. My grandfather had taken me fishing. He said he wanted to talk to me. He rowed to his favorite spot under the umbrelliage of a huge shore line oak. We baited our lines and tossed them over the side with red and white bobbers. He took his pipe out of his pocket and said, 'There is no freedom without responsibility, Robert. That includes your freedom to choose, the nemesis of the reasoning mind. Risk and freedom  are at the fork in all paths of life. It seems to be a rule. You must remember that.'

"I believed the things my grandfather told me, and that was the first of the rare few times I've been awed by the inescapability of the truth, then later learned to rely on it. He lighted his pipe and said, 'There's one more thing. When an opportunity arises and you don't make your choice, the cosmos chooses for you. Sometimes you have to let the cosmos make the choice, but if you don't have to, don't.'

"I asked him, 'What if I don't notice the opportunity and the cosmos makes the choice?'

"He took a few puffs before he answered. I loved it when he did that. My conversations with my grandfather were always scented with the aroma of his tobacco. Then he said, 'You watch. Very carefully, you watch.'

The cosmos. I was mystified. At twelve years old the word 'cosmos' was one of those fascinating little words with not only an enormous meaning, but vast implications in only two syllables.

I asked Robert, Watch? Watch what?

Robert paused a moment. He didn't say.

And you didn't ask?

"No, Willard, I wanted to figure it out