Indelible: Scrolls From the Teatro: The Velocity Volumes, #3

By Celeste Johnson

Indelible: Scrolls From the Teatro

When the opportunity arose in a conference room of a bustling hospitality company, the unveiling of plans for an international resort destination, a Moroccan jewel, Marjorie awakened to the calling and headed across the Atlantic. Despite the camaraderie and lively cafe scene in Marrakech, when the financiers' scuffle broke out, a coercive attempt by their competition, the mysterious disappearance of her colleague, and an explosion across the border dismantled their weekend plans, an unraveling transpired sending them all off in separate directions.

Having left everything behind and carrying nothing more than a light pack and a dwindling pittance, she makes her way through Spain, and onwards into Portugal. She follows the directions to a name and address scribbled down and handed to her upon their departure: The Auberque Raphael in Persimmon Valley. When she arrives she learns its history as a Monastery later converted into a destination resort before a flood erased the town's narrative from the map. The tracing of it's deep-rooted ties to the Roman Catholic church, an order of the Sisterhood in Porto, it now funds a hostel for travelers - some academics,  wayward folks seeking respite, and some otherwise curious sorts. But, for this groups of guests, - emergents embarking on breakthrough innovation through raising cryptocurrency, academic researchers studying the topology, New York actors struggling to reignite their stale careers, and a chef who dropped out of culinary school, among others, the hostel becomes an incubator for Lisbon's dynamic global stage at the intersection of the timelessness of the fine arts, advanced technologies, and new life. But, when it comes to the pursuit of success, love and the affairs of the heart, and truth, there are many lessons in the fine line between vulnerability, hospitality, and achievement. Whether they have met by happenstance or by what some believe to be more significant reasons, their experiences create an indelible imprint spanning beyond Raphael's and Lisbon's center stage, Teatro.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Celeste
• Release date: Dec 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393077527

Book preview

Indelible: Scrolls From the Teatro

The Velocity Volumes, Volume 3

Celeste Johnson

Published by Celeste, 2019.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

INDELIBLE: SCROLLS FROM THE TEATRO

First edition. December 28, 2019.

Copyright © 2019 Celeste Johnson.

Written by Celeste Johnson.

Celeste Johnson

Indelible: Scrolls From the Teatro

Indelible: Scrolls From the Teatro

When the opportunity arose in a conference room of a bustling hospitality company, the unveiling of plans for an international resort destination, a Moroccan jewel, Marjorie awakened to the calling and headed across the Atlantic. Despite the camaraderie and lively cafe scene in Marrakech, when the financiers' scuffle broke out, a coercive attempt by their competition, the mysterious disappearance of her colleague, and an explosion across the border dismantled their weekend plans, an unraveling transpired sending them all off in separate directions.

Having left everything behind and carrying nothing more than a light pack and a dwindling pittance, she makes her way through Spain, and onwards into Portugal. She follows the directions to a name and address scribbled down and handed to her upon their departure: The Auberque Raphael in Persimmon Valley. When she arrives she learns its history as a Monastery later converted into a destination resort before a flood erased the town’s narrative from the map. The tracing of it’s deep-rooted ties to the Roman Catholic church, an order of the Sisterhood in Porto, it now funds a hostel for travelers - some academics, wayward folks seeking respite, and some otherwise curious sorts. But, for this groups of guests, - emergents embarking on breakthrough innovation through raising cryptocurrency, academic researchers studying the topology, New York actors struggling to reignite their stale careers, and a chef who dropped out of culinary school, among others, the hostel becomes an incubator for Lisbon’s dynamic global stage at the intersection of the timelessness of the fine arts, advanced technologies, and new life. But, when it comes to the pursuit of success, love and the affairs of the heart, and truth, there are many lessons in the fine line between vulnerability, hospitality, and achievement. Whether they have met by happenstance or by what some believe to be more significant reasons, their experiences create an indelible imprint spanning beyond Raphael’s and Lisbon’s center stage, Teatro.

The Night Train Blues

One

The departure from Seville was bittersweet, despite how smooth - holding onto that latte like a child clutching the ears of a favorite stuffed bunny, a comforting warmth to bring along from the awe of a place filled with the kind of magic that can make one fully come alive. Now fleeting into the past with each cyclical grind of the train trekking forward. It was all happening too fast to develop any kind of anxiety or delve too much into the logical concerns about what lied ahead and why things were happening as they were - all the unanswered questions. A place that exceeded all expectations, the boldness in heading there with no particular agenda or return, disappearances, and the fleeting feeling like no sooner did I fall in love with everything that it all began to dissipate like a morning fog stretched out over the water followed by days of strong rainstorms. Yet, it was no less beautiful or alluring - the intrigue of it all. The antiquity of a place where the iron carved Giraldillo atop the Minaret of Giraldo, the bell tower of the Cathedral served as the directional guide for finding one’s way. She stood prominently like the ancient wisdom of a mother standing above the city keeping her eyes on things.

Growing up as a sort of ordinary American girl despite a stated goal of ‘not trying to be like everyone else,’ but still not too weird as to not fit into most situations, I’d always fantasized about tracking exotic animals across the Serengeti, hiking the rugged green plains abutting mountains of Peru, bathing alongside orangutans in hot springs in Bali, dining on rooftops of Piazza’s with Italian men. So, when I left a comfortable routine and took the job in Marrakesh, and escaped for a weekend interlude with the Moroccan, French, and Italian comrades crossing into Spain, entire worlds were opening up - ones that would combust in an altercation none of us had anything to do with, but sent us all in different directions with lasting abrasions as the incidents were too close. Sebastian’s brother was still missing, the friend who had been killed, the company’s abandonment of the project - more coercion than economics, but none of it bode well for continuing. And, a ripple through the group that was less binding and more dissipating - each of us needed to go off alone to face our demons. At least that’s what it felt like - no choice left. The mystique of cities explored, cathedrals climbed, the late evening jazz, and espresso cafes of tireless work - work that we chose or did it choose us?

But, that was becoming ancient history - months prior to stepping off the train in Seville, a respite to regroup, a week that turned into twelve, but not meant to last. An important lesson that was unfolding after leaving the familiar is that exploration has a sort of entropy; You can’t grasp onto anything too firmly - just becomes like a dog chasing its own tail, or worse, like grasping at snowflakes drifting between your fingers melting on your tongue, mesmerizing --

their delicate, crystalline shapes casting prisms, each one comprising a tapestry, wisping, a few landing with the grace of a ballerina, a dousing of a frigid droplet melting on the tip of the tongue. It’s only to be witnessed, experienced - not held onto, at least not permanently. Places whose histories cross chasms of borders, regimes, country rule, and religious doctrine, morphed into a kind of resemblance of the journey, standing firmly in the present. A guide forward if the lessons are passed on. Amidst the shuffling about, those quiet pauses to pay tribute, to hear the stories, walk in the footsteps of daily life, to feel the wounds of the past, and celebrate the victories. Then despite the blemishes, the tarnished bronze sculptures, paint-chipped building facades, the aging of the cityscape, and some unresolved or lingering grievances from the past, one can still fall in love - not just accept it for what it is, but really connect with something far more significant - that is where the future unfolds, a new chapter in the narrative born out of that kind of inspiration. Despite an ever-growing expectation for standards of quality and seamlessness between places, it’s something monoculture just can’t compare to even if it is convenient.

As the train’s vibrations moved in rhythm to the speed so did the hum of passenger voices chattering about into the night - families, friends, and solo travelers meeting for the first time, and some just dozing in the lulling of the reverberations. As the first few stops disembarked and unloaded and loaded, a different kind of momentum ignited with a group warming up with the bottles they brought into a cadence in which one name stood out in a calling out - ‘Ricardo, Ricardo, Ricaaardoooo’ like an opera singer warming up, a prelude to an acapella smoke break between train cars culling together these comrades. They howled in lyrics to a moonlight eclipse, a nocturnal flipping of the switch in turning on the life of the night train. Strong voices not overpowering, a cajoling of spirited passengers on their journey, and somewhat barricaded between the cars to soften the raucousness - freedom.

Isn’t that what everyone sought in moving across the border tonight from the southern coastal region of Spain into Portugal, the freedom to experience, and those spontaneous moments that no one could have scripted, but nonetheless leave an indelible imprint. People going about their lives - living them out loud making memories. It differs from the intrusiveness of the ‘loud talker’ or the unwanted interruptions of everyday life - commuting where one is so focused on their responsibilities, the ever-crowding conditions that require greater accountability to be respectful of those around us, the dread of an ill-mannered child kicking the back of your plane seat without the discipline of someone telling them to stop it, and the person who still hasn’t gotten the memo that headphones are, in fact required on any noise making mobile device because no one wants to hear anyone else’s bleeps, blings, blitzes, music, ringtones, or anything from anyone else’s devices ever.

But, Ricardo and the gang singing acapella was part of the journey that brought to life a sort of spirited sense of adventure, a feeling of a broader community among travelers despite departing from the group I’d began with - solo, but not totally alone. When it comes to whether it’s the journey or the destination, one can’t help but point out that it’s both - it’s just where you feel you’ve arrived as to which it is at any given moment, I suppose.

The better one gets at it - the ability to be fully present, the better. But, when something far exceeds expectations igniting beyond the sensorial to tapping into something deeper, it pierces something a bit, which can make moving on more difficult. Seville was all of that, and perhaps more. A lingering tie with too much ambiguity over Sebastian’s brother, and now his whereabouts, and Khalid returning to fulfill his destiny in marrying - all prescribed upon her graduation despite an impending tour arrangement in Nice. An invitation once extended by Pierre, but reaffirmed by enamored audiences after just a few shows. The French welcomed him in and it was mostly small venues, an opportunity to pursue his passion, but the sense was that he declined in order to fulfill his familial duty. Maybe the system knew better - the beautiful, young Malayna would graduate from the University in Fez, the second oldest in the world, a pedigree and tradition - maybe it would be worth the wait. Maybe none of us fully understand - not as onlookers or even when it comes to ourselves. But, it was a sharp contrast to Pierre’s stoic determination towards independence - something he advised me on as he headed off to an assignment in Paris. The abruptness of the departures in a seemingly fragmented type of transition, some shatterings in terms of loss - the explosions, and a dark shroud over the vision once cast on the glistening tides of moonlit waters. The mystique over what it will become on the other side of dawn once the project comes to fruition. A similar scene, but more on the opposite shores, a unification, harmonization.

The latte was tepid, almost cold like breakfast rather than comfort, a slow sipping between the interludes of voices chirping and the intervals between the vivaciousness of the next smoke break and intermittent rounds of the conductor between stops where only a few people in the car got on or off, a quiet shuffling about past midnight strokes of the night.

The position in Marrakesh was an assignment, a project to which we reported to work weekly and were accountable to the company and our team mates until it unravelled and the project was abruptly cancelled. The departure to Gibraltar was as a tourist - Leandro’s guests, but the jaunt on into the southern coast of Spain was an escape from the encounter - the explosions braising Sebastian’s group. We still don’t have answers and the local, small presses were full of sound bytes and some images without any real explanations as if that sort of thing happens on occasion. While landing in Seville was a chance encounter, it turned into a choice, staying on months longer than anticipated. Love at first sight, a sort of magic left in the universe that presents itself only if you are open to it. But, like the sequence of things since leaving the states, leaving was not a choice either. The expenses were beginning to tally and with next steps still undefined, and the severance package dwindling, it was time to leave Seville. The unreality of everything that had occured over a few months was too much to process in making any kind of permanent or even semi-permanent kind of decisions like calling on someone back home or knocking on doors that were closed behind purposefully - keeping demons of the past at bay to begin without a shackling of things that weren’t meant to be. So, the decision was indecision, a path undefined. Leandro’s cousin had just returned from a month in Portugal - the northern hills, and sent me some options for a longer term stay. It was timely and without another option, it sounded intriguing - a village overlooking rugged hills, ravaged by a flood in need of some rebuilding, but affordable to the less discerning. Sophia was headed back there next month, which made it compelling enough that it would at least suffice, and could perhaps be more. It was definitely one of those ‘he said, she said’ conversations that was believable enough to send me packing off on the night train. With the abundance of internet data, apps, and digital resources, sometimes you just need one good solid piece of information at the exact moment. This seemed like the lead I needed and I took it.

flickerings of light, reverberations of sound, and the steaming of the window from breaths more like those of someone asleep than awake, head leaning against the metal window frame ever-so-slightly, the long thick coat collar a sort of pillow, eyes glinting as opposed to wholly closed; It’s the best kind of passing through the night. A perfect calming in which you feel connected to everything around you without wholly partaking. The mind and body in tune with the momentum of the train and its inhabitants, unknowing of what awaits and experiences amassing from what already transpired - a state to which no one can ever return. A return to Seville would always be imagined, but it would never be the same experience because one can only experience something for the first time, once. The danger lies in comparing it against this initial experience against all future encounters rather than accepting it will be an entirely different experience, or maybe the same experience, but felt differently. Sometimes places change or they don’t, but we change - the way we think about them or how it makes us feel.

There was a sort of continuity in the movement and the first hues of dawn, an orange luminescence and some shuffling of baggage, the awakening to transition and a herding towards the dining car warming up to the morning’s brew. The people shuffled between the cars, a sort of unison in the journey - stretching and moving about. A large man, slim, but tall and muscular like a machine burst through with a large piece of luggage slamming into my shoulder. It was not as if I were still neatly tucked in the window seat having already positioned myself to venture into the aisles among the travelers, a morning stretch seeking that cup of fuel, the aroma to ignite the senses to sip through the journey. We were headed into Lisboa onwards towards Porto and eventually into the Northern hills. But, it wasn’t the kind of haste of the speed and crowds of Manhattan - more leisurely with tourists and travellers throughout the night. Was it haste in the shuffling about that he didn’t see me fully, a lack of spatial awareness or had he meant to do it. The infliction of pain like a punch in the arm was familiar as it had happened before and I wondered if he’d meant to. A hasty shoving through like a bulldozer. He was speaking German and while there was a concentrated effort to not hold onto past grievances, a grudge that could incite bias, it wasn’t the first time this had happened. It would seem crazy to lurch some kind of demand for an apology like a middle school teacher or parent instituting discipline and manners in children and teens. But, chalking it up to an accident and a lack of his own bodily and spatial awareness as if he didn’t know the effects of his own actions doesn’t seem right either.

I yelped out an, Ouch, an honest reaction with a resentful tone seeking an apology to which I did not receive one. The mere act of the refusal made me call it out. Directness seemed like the only appropriate way to address the matter to settle this in terms of preventing any type of obliviousness.

You hit me with that bag and it really hurt, I said.

He just looked on as if I were some kind of lunatic or how dare I acknowledge something as if no one had the right to address him that way - whatever that was. Truth. Yet, still there was no apology, just a look of surprise and disgust that I should even suggest he did that despite a lingering jolt in the arm. There was no denial and no apology as if the lack of response really said, Too bad.

And so he shuffled out of the train with his enormous bags like a rugby player armed taking it to the streets, and now he wore a scowl having been confronted. A moment’s breathing exercise of inhaling and exhaling as not to go off on a tangent still in shock over not receiving the demanded apology or at least acknowledgement that perhaps his carelessness may have caused some unintended pain still seemed like an outrageous act of rudeness and a lack of civility on an otherwise dream-like escapade.

We moved on; The doors closed and the train pulled out of the station. Light looming out over the distant waters, and the reliability of the sounds of forward motion. The past nor the future was clear, but the present was spanning the vast windows welcoming the onset of a new day. Beyond the greenery, the buildings cascaded over the hills speckled in an assortment of Easter eggs with the firmness underneath having withstood a century or more’s infliction, exterior paint chipping - the signs of weathering like ageing gracefully, some more rugged. A tapestry to experience for onlookers. Lisbon was a destination for another day - today a mere passing, a stop en route.

As we moved past the first stop in Lisbon, the distant water and all that lied across from it was seemingly more removed in a ‘no regrets’ kind of way despite the uncertainty. Peace begins when you can accept having to let go of things that weren’t meant to endure and those which you’d prefer you could make last, but can’t. It opens up the windows of possibilities for what can still be. It all depends on whether you think the best days lie behind you or ahead. Someone asked me this once on what could have been considered a date or at least a romantic prospect, and I hedged. Perhaps just a pause to reflect, but regardless, it must have been enough of a cautionary concern to never receive a second invitation. It’s like having to scan every memory, the profound impact of experiences throughout a lifespan and try to imagine enough to comprise a future all in a few blinks and a sip of Pinot Noir. I just paused. It’s like if I said no it would indicate a bleak outlook as if still lingering in the backpages - what is now history. But, if one is too quick to propel themselves forward, does it somehow minimize everything that came before it. It was a rugged climb in parts and the views were spectacular from all directions. Greenery more abundant and roads meant for exploring. There was yet another crossing of sorts over the border, under the city, and moving closer to the destination - the place I would be spending the next month. It was too much to think beyond it, but enough to savor. I decided this or maybe it was just a feeling as I held on, sipping that first cup of coffee holding on with both hands.

As we pulled into the second Lisbon station, thoughts adrift towards the destination on up beyond Porto, hillsides, and the beginning of a new chapter: it was too far to walk and so there was a number to call to the place I would reside. They would send someone to pick me up. Apparently, it was a former church that had been converted into a dormitory of sorts for workers and travelers. Since the flood last year, most services had stopped so the rates were extremely low in exchange for otherwise scenic views. This was all per Sophia who had travelled over the past summer and ended up staying - her third stop intended for a few days evolved into many weeks rather than continuing her journey. I gathered this in our very brief online exchange. Her fixation with the place along with a plan to return met budgetary constraints despite a ‘flood story’ that I related to all too well.

Breakdown

Two

The stop was less jilting through the transition with passengers in high mobility mode - a confluence of tourists with morning commuters, the daybreak and the uptick in numbers of people and the pace of the crowds. But, the throttle forward was a screeching lurch followed by a sputtering of failed attempts. The crowds quieted to the grinding of the mechanics and shrill engine spewed a number of attempts before a prolonged stillness and humming of passengers processing a situation that typically follows an announcement on loud speakers - the explanation and anticipated delay. But, we just sat still to the rattling of an idle stance. Everyone had taken their seats as the doors closed following those exiting and those embarking. After about fifteen minutes, the milling about had begun, searching for conductors, answers, and a general impatience. As the sun beamed brighter passing the morning’s fog and early dawn, the town glistened like an invitation that despite the inconvenience, stirred an imaginative flickering over a possible opportunity. One of the benefits in lacking the reliability associated with accountability is that you can take advantage when such situations are presented. I was learning. As the impending news unfolded that the mechanical failure meant we would be transferred to a different station via a bus, and then other train tickets would be issued. They were unsure of departure times and encouraged passengers to do what made most sense for them depending on the final destination. The mental leap between what will happen if we are stuck and an opportunity to explore Lisbon had