Breathe

By Julian Gallo

Marco Pazzolini always dreamed of being a professional musician. Virtually overnight he found himself with a wife, a daughter, and a lucrative record deal.  He soon discovered that fame and celebrity was a far cry from how he ever imagined it would be and on the brink of popularity, gave it all up and ran off to find peace and quiet on Monoxiá, a little volcanic burp in the middle of the Mediterranean which he had first encountered during a tour of Europe. For the next twenty years he has lived a quiet, peaceful, albeit frugal existence, turning his back on his music career, vowing to never pick up his guitar again. 

Christos, a life long native of the island, lived a life at sea, working on a cargo ship since he was a young man, following a long established family tradition going back multiple generations. Christos never had much of a relationship with his father due to his father’s time out at sea. Although Christos followed in his father’s footsteps he vowed not to make the same mistakes with his own son, promising to always be there for him. However things didn’t turn out that way and he turned out to be more like his father than he’d like to admit. On his final voyage, an incident occurs that will change the course of his life. 

Jenna Colt, aka Pazzolini, hadn’t seen her father since she was three years old. Although they had kept in touch via letters over the years, by the time she reached her 14th birthday all contact with her estranged father had ceased. Her life — once full of promise — turned into a nightmare which made her question her father’s motives for abandoning her. When her mother begins a relationship with the ultimate loser Jenna begins to rethink everything she had ever been told and embarks on a quest to learn the real truth about her father. 

One day Jenna unexpectedly turns up on Monoxiá to confront her father, threatening the tranquil existence he desperately tried to cultivate. 

These three stories ultimately converge and each of them learn the ultimate life lesson about the true nature of place and family as well as the difference between facing life and running away from it. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julian Gallo
• Release date: Jan 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519927378

Julian Gallo

Julian Gallo lives and works in New York City. His poetry has appeared in over 40 journals throughout the Unites States, Canada and Europe. He is the author of 9 poetry books, "Standing on Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is the Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke in the Air" (Black Spring Press 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press 2003), "My Arrival is Marked by Illuminating Stains" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Window Shopping For a New Crown of Thorns" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press 2009). He is also the author of 6 novels, "November Rust (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Naderia" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Mediterraneo" (Beat Corrida, 2012), "Europa" (Beat Corrida, 2013), the short story collection "Rapid Eye Movements" (Beat Corrida 2014) and "Rhombus Denied" (Beat Corrida, 2015)

Book preview

Sometimes you put up walls not to keep

people out, but to see who cares enough

to break them down

Socrates

––––––––

Mare Nostrum

Summer 2014

––––––––

The top of the hill offered a wonderful view of the sea. Along the horizon a line of fishing boats dotted the crystal blue waters. A warm breeze blew in from the south and Marco Pazzolini stood still, breathing deeply, his hands on his hips, taking in this wonderful vista as he always did whenever he walked into town.

He started down the hill, taking long strides, the gravel crunching under his worn out sandals, the breeze whipping into his loose fitting white cotton shirt and navy blue linen pants. The smell of sea salt in the air. The sun hot on his face. Nearing the bottom of the hill he caught his first glimpse of the marina where fishermen prepared their boats for the early morning excursion. Next to them the tables where merchants hawked olives, figs, oranges and fresh fish. Paolo was already there, his baskets filled to the brim and a few of the locals already rifling through them. This is why it was important to get down there as early as possible. Any later the best stuff would be gone.

Good morning, Paolo.

Hey! Marco! How are you? Eating well, living well, I see.

Marco patted his substantial paunch. Living well, Paolo.

I got some fresh fish for you this morning, Marco. Kept it aside just for you.

Paolo smiled, accentuating the creases around his dark eyes. Marco liked Paolo a lot, this old Italian who had been living on the island since time immemorial. He was well liked by everyone in town. Always affable, smiling, seemingly never unhappy or disturbed by anything. A lifetime on this island would make anyone as joyful as Paolo. He had to be in his mid seventies by now, Marco mused, but he had the temperament of a happy little boy. 

How’s Aella? Paolo asked, putting the fresh tuna into a bag of ice.

She’s a pain in the balls, as always.

Paolo laughed, his head back, his mouth open wide, revealing numerous missing teeth. Aren’t they all?

Marco smiled. Come on, Paolo. Not you. You love your wife.

Yes, he said, still laughing. My world. Do you know we’ve been together for nearly fifty years? Still as beautiful as they day I met her.

No doubt.

Aella is a nice girl.

She is, Marco said, without elaborating further.

You’re a lucky man to have a woman like her.

If you say so. Thank you, Paolo, Marco said with a smile, taking the bag of fish from Paolo’s roughened brown hands. What else do you have this morning?

Paolo filled another bag with oranges, then a plastic container with large green olives. Marco paid for the items and turned his gaze towards the dock where the morning ferry had begun to discharge its passengers.

I see the tourists are back, Marco said, counting the number of backpack clad youths stepping onto the dock.

Yes, very good, Paolo said. Always good for business.

Marco nodded. Is Marla open yet?

She should be, Paolo said, checking his watch.

Well, I need a strong cup of coffee. Thanks again, Paolo. See you soon.

Thank you, my friend. Any time!

Marco walked past the dock, observing the number of tourists flowing from the ferry. Mostly Europeans - and some Americans - the ones who are always arriving wearing a t-shirt boasting whatever college they attended. By nightfall most of them will be getting plastered in the numerous bars along the waterfront, making spectacles of themselves.

Marla’s café wasn’t open yet but Marco saw her outside setting the tables. He liked Marla a lot as well, a serious but friendly Greek with a nest of thick curly black hair and a body that many women work themselves to death to obtain. She was young, in her twenties, intelligent and an avid reader. He had spent many hours at the café talking to her about books. Her only flaw, as he saw it, was the way she spoke to people. She wasn’t being rude but people could very easily take it that way. Marco was used to it by now. Although pleasant enough, he always thought she could lighten up just a little bit. But aren’t all twentysomethings a little too serious at times? Just like he was, a long time ago now.

Hi Marco. I’ll be open in a minute, she said.

Take your time, he said, taking a seat at one of the prepared tables.

He turned his attention back to the dock and watched the tourists milling about the merchant tables, some of them already taking pictures of one another, posing with that same pose most people take on when getting in front of a camera. He kept his eye on a young blonde, her hair swept back in a tight ponytail, her pale white skin already reddened from the sun.

The usual? Marla asked, wiping the sweat from her forehead with her arm.

The usual, Marco said, fishing a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

He watched Marla walk towards the entrance of the café, her tight, well proportioned ass swaying with each step. She must have been a lot to handle, he thought, and felt sorry for whatever man she was seeing. He had a handful with this one.

Marco waited until Marla returned with his espresso before lighting his cigarette, then slowly sipped the coffee as he gazed out his friend Christo as he gathered the nets onto his fishing boat. He waved but Christo didn’t see him, too involved in his work.

Two voices and the patter of feet. He turned to see one of the young couples from the morning ferry making their way toward the café. There were at least six empty tables at that hour in the morning but the young couple decided to take the one directly opposite his own. The girl - the pasty white blonde he had already seen earlier sat facing him - and her boyfriend, who sat with his back to him. Immediately upon sitting down the young woman screwed up her face and began waving her hand in front of her nose.

Can we change tables? That man behind us is smoking.

The boyfriend turned briefly to look at Marco, then turned back to his girlfriend. Come on, we just sat down, he said.

I can’t stand the smell of smoke. Let’s take that table over there.

The boyfriend sighed.

It’s such a disgusting habit, the blonde said, loud enough for Marco to hear.

Marco didn’t care and simply tugged on his cigarette, letting the smoke fall through his nostrils as he waited to see how the boyfriend was going to react. He felt sorry for the man. The woman reminded him a little of his ex-wife. Same blonde hair. Same scrubbed  northeastern upper middle class features. If he were a betting man, he’d swear she was from Connecticut or New Hampshire - or Rhode Island, like his ex-wife.

I can’t believe they allow you to smoke, she bitched.

Remember, we’re not at home, Bethany.

Bethany. How apt.

Still. Come on, let’s change tables. I can’t eat if that man is smoking like that.

With a sigh the boyfriend lifted his bag, hung it across his shoulder, then handed Bethany her pocketbook. They moved three tables down and over to the right, near the entrance of the café.

Marco watched them, amused by the fact that it would only be a matter of minutes before the place would be filled with smoking Greeks.

The boyfriend snuck a peek at Marco, who was still watching them, then quickly turned away. A moment later he looked at him again, narrowed his eyes.

What’s wrong? Bethany asked.

The boyfriend leaned across the table, tried to keep his voice down. Do you know who that is?

Marco could still hear them and watched as Bethany looked over at him, her brows coming together in a V. No idea. Why? You know him? How could you know him?

The boyfriend looked again. Isn’t that Marco Pazzolini, the singer/songwriter?

Bethany looked at Marco again. No way. That man’s too fat.

Amused, Marco blew a plume of smoke in their direction. The boyfriend looked over again and without another word stood up.

Where are you going? Bethany asked.

I’m just going to find out. Hang on a moment.

Marco watched the boyfriend walk over, his faded green t-shirt hanging off his shoulders, the breeze whipping the excess material like a tattered flag. He tried to figure out whether or not this kid’s hair was naturally messy or if he used product to make it appear that way. Hard to tell. When he reached him, Marco noticed a few fresh pimples on his cheek. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-one, twenty-two. If so, how could he possibly know who he was?

Excuse me, the boyfriend said. Sorry to bother you but aren’t you Marco Pazzolini, the singer/songwriter?

Marco smiled and looked at the nervous kid. Part of him felt flattered that someone so young would recognize him. The other part of him felt nervous that he was actually recognized. It took a split second for him to make up his mind as to what to tell this kid.

No, sorry, he said. You’re mistaking me for someone else.

The kid looked at Marco with narrowed eyes, trying to be sure. He wouldn’t know Marco with his bushy beard and overgrown curly hair - nor the considerable weight he had put on over the last twenty years.

Sorry, the boyfriend said. It’s just that you look a lot like him - only with a beard.

No problem, Marco said, taking another drag off his cigarette.

He watched the boyfriend walk back to Bethany.

I told you it wasn’t him, she said. He’s too big to be him. Why do you always have to make a fool of yourself.

Marco finished his coffee and cigarette, then left the café.

––––––––

Marco peered into the bedroom to find Aella still asleep. He quietly closed the door and put the food away, then poured a glass of Campari and soda. Stepping out to the porch, he lit a cigarette and stared out over the sea, a view that sealed the deal when it came to buying his little house up in the hills.

He had first seen the house years ago when he played a couple of dates in Athens. Having a couple of free days, he took a ferry ride to the small island he now calls home. He never heard of it before. Monaxiá - a little volcanic burp in the Mediterranean. It was just a chance thing but he spent the day wandering around and fell in love with it. At the time, an old fisherman lived in it, a man named Nikolos, a septuagenarian who had been recently widowed. Nikolos had seen him outside the house and invited him in for a cup of coffee. Nikolos spoke little English but they managed a conversation despite that fact. When he left, he told himself then that if he were to ever want to disappear, this would be the place. 

That was over twenty years ago, just when his music career was taking off.

He thought about the skinny kid who approached him at Marla’s. How on earth did such a young kid know who he was? Yes, he had been popular once, but that was before that kid was born - and his popularity was short lived. In the last interview he ever gave, when asked why he decided to give everything up just when he was becoming so popular, he said, I just wanted to breathe.

––––––––

Aella puttered around the kitchen. Marco, still sitting out on the patio, could hear Aella’s sandaled feet sliding across the tile floor. He peered through the window to see her, her hair in glorious disarray, her hand on her forehead, placing the espresso pot on the stove. In her black bra and underwear, no less, with that tight, dark skinned yoga body of hers.

He could see that she had that puss on her face, that look that always indicated that he should keep his distance, that she was ready to blow up about something. A pain in the balls, as he told Paolo. He knew she was looking for something to bitch about.

She leaned forward and tossed her hair back over her shoulders, wrapped her arms around herself, caressing her muscular arms - yoga arms - and glanced into the sink to observe the dirty dishes and coffee cups. An audible sucking of the teeth is heard. As expected, he heard her thumping feet across the tiles, heading straight for the patio. He turned his attention back to the sea, awaited the inevitable thrust of the sliding doors.

Can’t you ever clean up after yourself! she spat.

He turned to look at her, the breeze blowing her thick, curly black hair away from her shoulders, revealing her long, bronze neck. It’s my house, he said. I can keep it any way I see fit.

I can’t stand living with a pig.

"Oh, so you’re living here now? When did that happen?"

She didn’t say a word, slammed the sliding doors shut.

He took a drag off his cigarette, sipped at his Campari and soda. He knew what was coming next.

I have to get ready to open the studio, she snapped after yanking the sliding doors open again. I’m going to spend the next few nights at home, that is, unless you finally decide to clean up this pig sty!

Good, he said. No one told you to stay here. Please. Do me a favor and go.

She slammed the door shut. Thumping of her feet on the tile followed.

He peered through the window with a smile. Same old routine. He watched her as she angrily stuffed all her clothes into her bag and pour the coffee she just made down the drain, dropping the pot into the sink with a bang. She left, slamming the door behind her.

He turned to face the sea again and sighed, quietly sipped his drink.

––––––––

Marco didn’t mind having Aella stay at the house but sometimes he wished she’d just leave him alone. They had been seeing one another for a little over a year now, having met her down by the waterfront one night when hanging out in one of the bars with Christos. What impressed him about her was that she knew exactly who he was but didn’t care. I don’t like your kind of music, she told him. However a younger cousin of hers, who happened to live in Bayside, New York, did. That little connection to the city of his birth was enough for them to start talking and he soon learned she had been back and forth to New York City so many times she may as well have been from there herself. She knew it well enough to make one believe so.

For nearly twenty years he was alone and he liked it that way. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was being nagged by a woman. He never liked it when Vanessa did it, nor did he like it whenever any other woman did it, hence why he kept his distance from them. He never got involved with another woman until he met Aella and he was reluctant to even do that. They connected somehow and even though they’re both free to see whoever they damn well pleased, she became his sort of girlfriend, practically moving into the house with him and bitching and moaning most of the time as if she lived there. This wasn’t the first time she stormed out in anger.

What always amazed him was why she was interested in him in the first place. She was a knockout, still young, a decade his junior; she could have any man on the island she wanted. However she wound up falling for this now overweight, ex-folk-punk singer who just wanted to be left in peace.

It wasn’t all bad, though. He actually did love her but he wouldn’t admit that to himself. Extremely fond was how he put it. She helped ease the loneliness he felt now and again. That was different from solitude, though most people didn’t understand that. So long as he could maintain his solitude, she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. The trouble was she marched around the place as if she owned it, nagging, bitching, making demands of him, which often sent his temper into the stratosphere. They fought constantly, argued incessantly, yet they somehow came together again and made up, as if nothing ever happened. This time would be no different. He knew she wouldn’t spend the night at her apartment. She would be back after she closed up the yoga studio, after spending the entire day with tourists and old overweight locals who got on her nerves as much as she did his. The problem with Aella was the fact that he didn’t know who she was going to be from one moment to the next. Was she going to be the kind, caring, loving Aella, or the explosive nagging bitch who didn’t know when to shut up and leave well enough alone?

––––––––

Christos was sipping his beer, looking out towards the fishing boats. The local newspaper was spread out before him on the table, a burning cigarette in the ashtray, it’s grey tendril of smoke curling into the air. He looked considerably older than his fifty-eight years; his dark, creased, weatherbeaten face and salt and pepper hair making him look more like a man in his mid-sixties. He held his cigarette between his two short stubby fingers and brought it to is lips. When he inhaled on it, it made him look like a man without any teeth. Despite his older appearance, Christos wasn’t a man one would mess with. Years out on the sea had toughened this lifelong resident of the island and his slight frame didn’t betray the fact that he’d break in two anyone who would be stupid enough to mess with him. Marco always thought he had the air of a wise man, a seaside philosopher, which in a way, he was. Often reserved and solitary, he didn’t inspire many to sit with him and start a conversation. The fact was that Christos was one of the nicest guys anyone could ever know.

Marco met him some years ago, after he was living on the island a couple of years. They got to talking about fishing, something Marco hadn’t done since he was a kid. Soon they were meeting regularly for a beer and conversation, although Christos spent many weeks out at sea on a cargo freighter at the time. He’d since walked away from that, preferring to make his living fishing closer to home.

When Marco approached Marla’s Café and saw him sitting at his usual table he felt relieved. He was hoping that Christos would be there. He got himself a beer and joined Christos, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it off Christos’s half-smoked butt in the ashtray.

Something tells me you had another fight with your girl, Christos said without looking at him. You don’t come here at this time of day unless you’re trying to get away from her, am I right?

This morning, Marco said. The usual shit.

Christos smiled, looked at him. So you were bored.

Something like that.

They both turned their attention to the sea. There were a lot more boats than usual, older men and their younger cohorts tossing nets into the calm blue waters. Marco sipped his beer trying to cool off, the sun burning much hotter than it normally would at that time of day.

It’s going to be brutal today, Christos said, still looking out at the boats. I had to come here for a drink and try to cool off a little. I felt as if I were cooking out there.

Good day?

Very. But all those boats are starting to make me a little nervous. Never seen so many boats out there.

Word’s probably out.

Indeed.

Christos lifted his beer to his lips, took a long pull, leaving a bit of foam at the corners of his creased mouth. I don’t even know who half these people are. Some are saying they’re from the nearby islands. Why don’t they do their business over there and leave us alone?

Someone must have told them that the fishing is good here.

Yeah, probably. But it’s a big sea. What, did they overfish where they live? I find that hard to believe.

I don’t know.

Christos looked at Marco and smiled. So you had another fight.

What else is new.

Christos laughed. They’re a pain in the ass, aren’t they?

Mine is.

What happened?

Dirty dishes in the sink.

I don’t miss that, Christos said with a chuckle. Sometimes I think they wake up in a bad mood and just look for something to argue about.

So do I.

Why not just tell her to get lost.

Marco didn’t have an answer for him.

Yeah, I get it, Christos said. We’ve all been there.

The café was teeming with the tourists who had come off the ferry earlier that morning. Most of them young, their cameras sitting on the tables along side their plates of poached eggs and mimosas.

This time of year always unnerves me, Marco said.

It’s becoming a popular destination. That’s both good and bad.

I like it better before they come.

Christos shrugged. I don’t pay much mind to them, really. I spend most of my time on my boat. I don’t really have to deal with them.

Marco looked toward Christos’s boat. I always wanted to have a houseboat.

It’s a beautiful thing - although mine’s not a houseboat exactly.

It must be nice.

I love it - although I do admit that I miss being out on the freighter now and again. I miss being out at sea. There’s something about it that unless you do it, it can’t be explained. Makes something of a lonely life, though, being out there for weeks at a time.

You have some very interesting stories, though. Seen a lot of the world.

Christos nodded. Indeed.

Have you ever thought about going back out there?

Getting too old, Christos said. I’d rather be closer to home now. But it’s changing here - as you could see.

Christos nodded towards the afternoon ferry approaching the dock, its deck packed to the rails with tourists, some of whom were already snapping pictures with their cell phones and cameras.

It seems like more and more people are coming here, he said, lifting his cigarette to his lips. Makes me wonder how anyone even heard of this place. When I was a kid, there were maybe twelve hundred people living on this island. Now we’re over two thousand. During the tourist season, even more. It’s good for the locals who rent out their houses, those who’ve opened hotels, for guys like me who sell their fish at the market - but it’s getting out of control. It wouldn’t be so bad if these visitors weren’t so God damn noisy at night.

Marco didn’t say anything. He’d noticed the changes too. When he first moved to the island it was a lot more quiet and not even half the amount of tourists flowed from the ferries as they did now. He was thankful his house was up the hill, away from the hustle and bustle, not easily accessible. He didn’t think these crowds would venture up there anyway. There wasn’t much to see, save for the view. Most of the bars, restaurants and shops were in the marina, far enough way to close himself off from it if he wanted to.

Christos turned his gaze back to the sea and the boats. Marco could see the longing in his eyes, his wish to be back out there among the waves, the smell of salt, the bobbing of this ship amongst choppy waters, the foreign ports. It was a longing that he no longer had to return to his music days, although he does think about it from time to time, but the thought of making a return to the stage for him was out of the question. Too old. Christos wasn’t all that old and age was probably just an excuse for something else; but for a musician, age does make a difference. Who wanted to see an aging, overweight folk singer prancing around under the klieg lights again? Twenty years on a new generation had come of age, a generation who no longer cared about what he had to say.

Marco observed the younger crowd gathered around the tables. Many of them could be his own children. Most of them looked comfortable, satisfied, happy, a far cry from those of his generation, or at the very least, his own peers. There was an anger then, a darker view of existence. Everyone was pissed off at something even though no one was quite sure what  it was they were pissed off about. He felt extremely disconnected with this new generation with their electronic gadgets, their smiling faces, their upbeat attitudes and their general feeling that everything was going to be all right. Didn’t they think about the world around them? Couldn’t they see that things are even worse than they were when he was their age? How could they be so fucking happy?

How’s Aella’s yoga studio doing? Christos asked, breaking the silence.

Fine, Marco said, a little surprised by the question. I really don’t know much about it, to tell you the truth. That’s her thing. I never took much interest in it.

Christos nodded. I never went for fads either, he said. But I pass by the place every now and then. Always packed.

She’s been very busy.

Maybe that’s why she’s so high strung.

I thought yoga was supposed to relax you.

Christos made a face, shrugged. Hell if I know. All I know was that when I was young, a lot of people were starting to get into it, but it was different. Not as trendy. Mostly hippies did that sort of thing. Funny how that works out over time.

Marco didn’t say anything. He didn’t know or care. All he knew was that Aella had tried countless times to get him to join one of her classes. A quick look at his paunch, his thickened frame over the course of twenty years and thought the whole idea a joke, imagining himself trying to twist his body into all those contorted positions.

She’s happy, Marco said. I suppose that’s all that matters.

It doesn’t bother you that she’s an independent woman? That she’s a business woman who can stand on her own two feet?

Not in the least. In fact, I prefer it. She can come and go as she pleases. The last thing I need is a clingy, dependent woman in my life.

Christos laughed.

How’s your son doing?

He’s in Athens now, at the university. Tough times. People are losing their jobs left and right and no one knows what the hell is going on anymore. I just hope that once he graduates he’ll find something for himself. I tried to convince him to come here but he doesn’t want any part of this. He’s too much of a city kid. He’d never go for this kind of life.

I can understand that. When I was his age, I never in a million years expected I’d be here now.

Life is funny like that. I never thought I’d be off the ship but here I am. He turned to look at Marco. How about your kid? Any word?

Marco shook his head. Not since she was fourteen.

Christos nodded, sipped the last of his beer, and left it at that.

My wife is an independent woman, Christos said. Proud of her, actually. But it’s hard to have two independent people in the same family. She wanted me to remain here on the island, get a more stable profession. I couldn’t do it. I had to be out there. Was away from home for weeks at a time. In a way, I can’t blame her for leaving. I wasn’t all that good a husband - or a father for that matter. What kind of husband spends most of his time away from home, especially when they have a kid at home?

It’s what you loved to do. Didn’t she know that when you married her?

She did, and pretended to understand. In the end, she didn’t. Selfish, she called me. How was I being selfish?

Marco nodded. He understood perfectly.

She should have never agreed to marry me, Christos said. But she said yes. How is that my fault? Women have a curious tendency to think they’re going to change the men they’re with - take a little from this one, a little from that - mash it all together and I’ll have the perfect man. How wrong they often are, huh?

I had the same problem with my ex-wife. She married me knowing full well what my career goals were. Maybe she never thought it would have gotten as big as it did, but it did, and she couldn’t handle it.

They usually can’t.

It’s unfortunate.

Quite.

You know, when I was a kid, I had dreams of being out on the sea. A merchant marine or something like that. I used to read a lot of these old adventure novels, thought the whole idea romantic, you know? To be out on the open ocean, traveling from one place to another, meeting interesting people, getting into all kinds of adventures.

Why didn’t you pursue it?

Marco laughed. I turned eight and music became my passion. I completely lost interest in the idea.

I’ve always wanted to do it, Christos said. My father did it. My grandfather did it. His father did it. It’s been a family tradition for generations. There was no thought of doing anything else. I come from a long line of seamen, fishermen. It’s the way of the island. Of course, back then, when I was little, there was hardly anyone here and just about everyone was a fisherman or on the ships. That was a long time ago, before all this. He waved his hands towards the chattering tourists. In reality, it wasn’t all that long ago but it seems like it now, you know? What are you going to do? What did your father do?

My father? He went from one ski lodge to another fucking every snow bunny he could get his hands on. Remember it was the seventies. He walked out when I was eleven years old.

Christos nodded, didn’t say anything.

"Ever think of writing, Christos? You must have a lot of interesting stories to tell.

No, he said. Don’t have the patience for that sort of thing - although I do have a lot of great stories to tell. Stories that will curl your hair more than it already is, my friend. I had a wonderful life out at sea, experienced many amazing things - but not all of it was good. There were certainly some tragic moments.

Christos went silent for a while as Marco watched him reflect over these experiences - or so it appeared to him; but knowing Christos, he merely sank into his own silence, just allowing himself to be. That was the whole point of everything, wasn’t it? To just be. A chance to breathe.

I can tell you one thing, Christos said. If not for that time, I wouldn’t be the man I am today. Sometimes things happen for a reason. At least that’s what I always thought. Even the horrible moments. We learn from them, no matter how painful they may have been at the time. Everything we experience makes us who were are - for better or for worse. For me, I’d be a much different person had I not been out there all these years, even though it caused me problems in my family life. He stubbed out his cigarette, looked at Marco and smiled. Something tells me you’ve been thinking a lot about this lately.

Marco nodded. I’ve been here a long time, Christos. Left my whole life behind. Just thinking about it because some kid recognized me this morning.

Really.

I was surprised. Flattered and disappointed. Flattered because it’s been so long and this kid probably wasn’t even born when my first record came out. Disappointed because I was recognized. I just want to be left alone, to forget those days, put them behind me. I thought I did but...

It was a major part of your life and you wouldn’t be here and wouldn’t be the man you are now without them. No reason to put it behind, my friend. Embrace it. No one says you have to be that person anymore but it is part of what made you who you are today, and that’s the most important thing. Every experience we have - all of it - even the most seemingly trivial thing contributes to the story. No shame in that.

Marco didn’t say anything. He turned his attention back towards the dock, watched the last of the tourists exiting the ferry, some of them making their way towards the café.

A good time to go, he said, nodding towards the group of tourists. It’s starting to get a little crowded around here.

A good idea, indeed, Christos said. Besides, I have to get back to the boat.

Christos stood up with a grunt, stretched into a yawn, picked up his pack of cigarettes and his lighter and put them in his pants pocket. Good talking to you, Marco. Always a pleasure.

Marco watched Christos walk back towards his boat, fished another cigarette from his pocket and left, weaving his way through the crowd of happy, excited tourists who scanned the patio for available tables. He noticed one or two glance his way and continued on with his head down, back up the hill towards home.

––––––––

Marco opened the sliding doors to allow the breeze in, resumed his seat at the dining table. He reread the last couple of paragraphs he had written in his journal, something he had been keeping since the first murmurings of his musical popularity. Over the course of twenty years he had amassed a collection of over twenty-five paperback sized notebooks, complete with - along with his personal musings - club passes, tickets, articles from the music papers, boarding pass stubs, restaurant business cards, handwritten notes from friends and admirers, photographs, and just about anything else that caught his fancy.

He never thought of keeping a journal (he refused to call it a diary) but it was Vanessa who had encouraged that he did so, especially after Jenna was born. At first, the idea seemed absurd to him, then he thought it would be a great thing for Jenna to see once he was long dead. He had nothing to remind him of his own father - with the exception of why he left home whenever he saw a perky blonde in a ski jacket - so he wanted to let Jenna know who her father was. Of course, at the time he began keeping the journals, he hadn’t expected that he would never see her. Once Vanessa left him, he kept a record of his life at a furious pace, notating just about every conceivable moment no matter who trivial. There were even some budding song lyrics, songs that he would never write.

He put the pen down, sipped his Campari and soda and looked out the open sliding doors at the full moon that had arisen just above the horizon, the sky awash with stars. This was another reason why he loved this little house. Being a city kid all his life, he had never seen so many stars in the sky. It humbled him, reminded him of how insignificant he actually was, especially when his ego got the better of him.

Aren’t you Marco Pazzolini, the singer/songwriter...?

How on earth did such a young kid know who the hell he was?

He hadn’t heard that question in nearly two decades and upon hearing it he couldn’t help think about his music days. It would be a lie to say that he put it completely behind him. The plethora of artifacts and other sorted keepsakes proved that he was still proud of those days even though he no longer wanted anything to do with music, save for listening to it as he puttered around the house. Also, his monthly bank statements couldn’t keep him from thinking about it, amazed that people were still buying his two, thought long forgotten albums. Obviously, someone was still buying them, as the bank statements indicated. It wasn’t a lot of money but it was enough for him to live comfortably - albeit frugally - all these years.

He sat back in his chair, lit a cigarette and looked over at his old, beat up, sticker covered Martin guitar hanging on the wall, where it had been since he first hung it there twenty years earlier, only having taken it down to play twice in all these years - and that was his first two years in the house. For eighteen years the old guitar collected dust on the wall. A piece of furniture. A decorative item and nothing more. Even now he had no temptation to take it off the hook and play it. It was enough to merely look at it, snicker over some of the more amusing and politically naïve stickers he had amassed as he trudged his ways through the New York club scene. It was a period piece for sure, a reminder of a world long since gone. Some of them were merely ads of his former friends, those he had played the clubs with, those who eventually turned their back on him once he started becoming famous. How petty, he thought, and how ridiculously sad.

He finished writing in the journal and closed the book, carried it off to the shelf in his closet where he kept the twenty-five other volumes, meticulously labeled, dated and arranged in chronological order. A virtual library of the self. As he slid the book into place his eyes fell upon an old Doc Marten shoe box, which had been used as a bookend, propping up the far right end of the line of journals. He touched the box, rubbing his fingers across the dust which had accumulated along the lid. Feeling a little more nostalgic than usual, he removed the box and carried it over to the dining table.

He stared at it a moment then removed the lid.

Letters from Jenna.

He choked up a moment and began removing them, one by one, unfolding the now aged papers and reading the scrawled handwriting that could have only been written by a little girl.

The letters, like his journals, were arranged chronologically. They began writing one another as soon as he settled on the island. He wanted her to know that even though that he was no longer living with them, he had no intention of forgetting her. When Jenna wrote her first letter, she was six years old. The last of them were dated when Jenna was fourteen. He hadn’t received another letter from her since, despite numerous ones of his own. He could never figure out why she stopped writing him. What happened? Had he written anything that upset her, or was it something - as he always expected - that Vanessa told her that prompted this long period of silence. Or was it the fact that she grew up and was angered by his absence, his, in essence, abandonment of her?

He spent the next hour reading them, reliving the moments when Jenna would tell him about her art and music classes, her science projects, her excursions with her friends, what movies she’d seen, what records CDs she had bought, and of course the more meaningful lines about how much she missed him and hoped that he would one day come home to see her.

He put the letters back in the box, put the box back in the closet and returned to his seat, finishing off his drink while looking out at the full moon, which had risen higher over the horizon, casting a slanted, glowing trapezoid over the calm waters below. He then took a long shower. While drying himself off he heard the water running from the kitchen sink, the clink of dishes and glasses.

Stepping out of the bathroom, a burgundy towel wrapped around his waist, he saw Aella putting the wet dishes in the dish rack. It took a moment for her to realize that he was standing there watching her. When she saw him, she smiled. He returned the smile, then went into the bedroom.

When he came out to the kitchen, Aella had just finished the dishes. He walked up behind her, wrapped his hands around her waist, kissed her neck and shoulder tenderly. She tilted her head sideways, making room for his lips on her long, brown neck.

I thought you were staying at your place, he said, kissing her repeatedly.

Aella didn’t say anything, closed her eyes, felt the chills running down her arm as he continued to kiss her.

Then they went into the bedroom.

––––––––

You’re going to really enjoy it out there, Christos said, pointing his chin towards his boat, The Odysseus, where two young figures were gathering fishing nets in the early morning sun. That’s my nephew Iakovos and one of his dumb friends he’s always hanging around with. I agreed he could come along too. He has some experience. Iakovos’s friend, that is. My nephew’s been with me every summer. He lives in New York, actually. You’re neck of the woods. He’s slowly becoming an expert.

Marco watched the two boys putter around the deck of the fishing boat. Iakovos was a primitive looking sort - dark skin, wild black curly hair, hairy arms. His friend was much smaller, leaner, more clean cut in his pale blue LaCoste polo shirt and khaki shorts.

Marla stepped out onto the patio with a tray of two Greek styled coffees. Christos’s eyes lit up as he reached for his cup.

Now this is real coffee, he said before taking a small, tentative sip.

Quite familiar with it, Marco said. This shit will put hair on anyone’s chest.

In the distance the morning ferry was making its way towards the dock, packed to the rails as usual.

Another boat load, Marco said.

Indeed, Christos said. I told you things are changing. But what does it matter? You’ll be out there with me all day. You won’t notice them.

What do you expect me to do? I mean, I’ve never done anything like this.

Watch and learn. That’s all. You don’t have to do anything.

I might want to.

Christos smiled. I’ll let you know. I’ll show you. It’s not an easy job. We’re going for sardines today. A lot of money in that.

I’ve seen them at the market.

Paolo, the old Italian. He likes to buy from me.

I buy from him all the time.

He’s a good man. Trustworthy. Honest. Not too many people are like him these days.

He must make a good living. He’s been out there for as long as I remember.

For this island’s standards, yes, he makes a decent living. He lives on the other side of the island, in a small house with this wife of God knows how many years. They live very simply. They don’t want for much.

I admire that.

Christos nodded. It’s very admirable. Unlike these kids who all want to be millionaires. Like my son. You know, I thought he’d want to follow me but you know how it is. Times are changing. And judging from how things are going these days...

He didn’t have to explain any further. The situation made Marco uneasy. What would happen to him if his royalty checks dried up? What would he do?

You’re not wanting for anything, I imagine, Christos said.

So far, so good. One of the benefits of my old life. Frankly, I’m amazed that my old records still sell enough for me to get by. I’d love to know who the hell is buying them after all these years.

No word from home?

Marcos made a face. I’ve been happily cut off from there for twenty years. For the most part, anyway. Occasionally I still get a call from people, looking for this or that. The old business people anyway, who unfortunately have my number. But they won’t come here to bother me, though. Too inaccessible for them. That was the whole idea.

And you don’t miss it at all?

Not at all.

Well, Christos said, taking the last sip of his coffee. Let’s get going. The ferry’s almost here. Soon this place will be crawling with people.

They walked down to the dock to where the Odysseus was anchored. Its size was impressive, much larger than it appeared to be from the café. It looked