We Shall See About It

By Ambrosine Aureliano

We Shall See About It is the singular and fantastic tale of a well-versed chit and the hazards she confronts in a botanic garden. Watch! as Cliff sallies forth to do battle with peevish, mythical beings and surly, nightmarish beasts. Squirm! as she takes on the most caustically fearsome creature of all: her Great-aunt Vestia at teatime. Thrill! to her adventures which include four quarrelsome cats who would prefer to be elsewhere, and a petulant Shih Tzu who would rather be napping. Salivate! While any number of delectable pastries are described, and Gawk in wonder! when Cliff is disabused of any "iffy" notions she might have had about life being a cakewalk.

With elements of Greek mythology and Hindu iconography thrown in, it's certain to be a piquant account worth the reading. Or at least the skimming. Possibly a cursory glance or two while flopped out on the sofa. A choice no longer has to be made between cates and dainties, because We Shall See About It dishes out ample servings of both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493144556

Ambrosine Aureliano

Ambrosine Aureliano grew up being told that everyone had enough material inside of them to write at least one book. She steadfastly refused to believe such an outlandish claim because she knew perfectly well that she had-at most-enough material to fill a fortune cookie wrapper. Applying herself diligently, she was dismayed to realize that she stood little future as an aphorist. Therefore, she gave herself permission to ramble on and on until her piffle filled whole pages and constituted the length of a novel. Once finished, she apprehended the fact that what had taken her reams of words to describe, La Rochefoucauld had summed up in one sentence: “Qui vit sans folie n’est pas si sage qu’il croit.” She leads a quiet life now, bolstered by cups of rose hips tea and cake.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

C liff glared at the gravel strewn path behind her. It was inconceivable. She was certain that she had stumbled for not even a millisecond before she righted herself. And yet in that indiscernible amount of time she had managed to wrench the nail on her baby toe almost cleanly out of its fleshy bed. The almost was the kicker. It still clung by a bloody, flapping hinge. A yelp followed Cliff’s first glimpse of her bloodied toe. Her second glance elicited a Fiend seize it! while she hopped around on one foot.

Cliff felt foolish looking back at what had tripped her up. Yet there she stood with her hands on her hips, nudging the offending gravel with the toe of her good foot. She was almost daring the presumptuous chip responsible for her injury to rear its flinty head once more. Because when it did, she intended to smash it with the sheer power of her eye beams. Well, that is, if she could focus. The pain in her denuded toe was making her bleary-eyed. In this state she couldn’t even summon her Great-aunt Vestia’s withering glance. The one she always reserved for Cliff whenever she caught her pouring milk into her cup before the tea.

What amazed Cliff was how far she had managed to walk down the path before she noticed the pain. But once she felt it she could no longer ignore it. The acknowledgment of it was almost a kind of giving in that now made it impossible for the pain to go away on its own. It served her right for wearing her new sandals to walk to the gardens. She should have known better.

If she had worn her trusty espadrilles instead, measly chunks of gravel would never have made her lose her footing. As she stared at the bloody spot where her nail used to be anchored, she realized that she had a dilemma: should she finish ripping it off or let it come loose of its own accord? It certainly wasn’t going to re-attach itself. Cliff sighed and tried some tentative steps in order to continue on her way.

She would just have to leave the decision until later because her mangled nail could wait. First Cliff intended to continue proclaiming Inconceivable! as many times as possible while she changed course and hobbled her way to the paved front entrance of the botanic gardens. She didn’t care if mumbling to herself as she limped along made her appear like some deranged nana. She had set out with purpose when she came to the gardens and her plans weren’t about to be thwarted.

As Cliff passed under one of the arches of the colonnaded main entrance, she looked up at the row of flags that were waving in the breeze. She had walked past them almost daily during the last thirteen months since she had begun to volunteer at the gardens. The one which caught her attention today was the blue flag with the representation of a mother pelican vulning her own breast to feed her chicks.

The three spots of blood on the pelican’s milky white breast stood out in sharp relief. Cliff felt dizzy as she stood gazing up at this flag that was so familiar yet strangely compelling her to study it as if she were seeing it for the first time. She took a deep breath and decided that it was best to be on her way before she did something silly like swooning. Because if that happened, she would unavoidably land face first in the bed of anemones planted at the foot of the flagpoles.

Daly Seeker had inaugurated his botanic gardens in 1889. The opening celebrations lasted for three days and nights. The festivities had included ices and meringues, marzipan and marrons glacés. There were punches to refresh and others to revivify. The attending public drank it all in as they wandered the grounds. Meandering around the waterlily pond had proved especially rewarding because of the music. A quartet played from the middle of the pond where they stood atop individual waterlilies.

Each lily was as large around as a Lacedaemonian’s shield and just as strong. They had no problem supporting the musicians and their instruments. The violinist stood firmly in the center of one of the giant waterlilies. She had looked delicate in her white linen summer dress with a blue silk sash tied around her waist. Her hair was kept tidy in a Gibson girl chignon. It had stayed in place as she bent her head towards her violin and began to play determinedly.

Her notes rang out clearly from her instrument, and the waterlilies couldn’t help swaying gently when they recognized that she was playing a Barcarole because they loved it so. Although the waterlilies had never sprouted in the canals of Venice, they moved easily in time to the song of the gondoliers. How could they be expected to resist when the sounds of the quartet thrilled them to the core of their stems and straight down through to their underwater roots?

But the waterlilies made certain to sustain the musicians upright so that they could finish their set. Later, when the local police officers insisted on forming a human pyramid on top of the waterlilies while having their photograph taken, the collapse was due to a combination of their own clumsiness and too much revivifying punch. The waterlilies were perfectly capable of maintaining their equilibrium while supporting the weight of collective buffoonery. Or so they sniffed to the other denizens of the pond.

These included a pair of red-eared sliders sourced from the local canals. Capucine was the elder turtle and had a fondness for the philosophers. Mignon was younger and was still contemplating the rest of the world so as to decide what she could be fond of besides Capucine. Her favorite perch to do so was atop Capucine’s carapace when they were sunning themselves on the rocks. She found that surveying the rest of the pond while she had her front and back flippers fully extended and fanned out gave her a broader view of the world. Capucine would be in exactly the same pose with the rock underneath her to steady the both of them.

Sometimes when they were sunning themselves, the turtles would enter into lengthy discussions. One of their favorite subjects was the peculiarity of behavior that humans exhibited. Capucine considered it absurd for them to attempt to duplicate the poses that came so easily to a turtle. She was of the opinion that all they accomplished in the attempt was looking half as graceful as any stately turtle.

Mignon thought the poses were called "Asana" when humans attempted them, but Capucine insisted that they should be better known as a sorry sight. Poses in the sun were meant to be done by dignified turtles. It gave their shells shapely ridges and whorls that imparted strength and beauty. Humans were just great big blobby things who looked to be forever in search of a shell.

Capucine’s father, Bysshe, had always said so and she heartily agreed. In spite of being a poet he was disciplined and had always been diligent about his poses. He had grown a carapace of such symmetry and intricate design that the other turtles had asked him to set up a regime for them. One day while he was sunning himself and coming up with a sequence of exercises, the light glinting off of his shell caught the eye of a man strolling in the gardens. He promptly declared that Bysshe was the handsomest turtle he had ever seen with the most perfect shell to make a thumb piano out of—and whisked him away immediately.

Whenever Capucine thought of this, it made her so angry that she would begin quaking with indignation and promptly shake Mignon from her perch sending her tumbling into the pond. After that, even if she tried to take a moment to collect herself, there was nothing left to do but execute a header off of the battlements much like Tosca. Diving into the cool darkness of the pond always helped to settle her.

Cliff came around the bend just at that moment. She had seen the turtles sunning themselves many times before. Whenever they lay on the rocks with their front and back flippers extended, it looked to her for all the world as though they expected her to stop and give them a mani-pedi. She was glad that today they had the good sense to dive for cover as she drew near. Because given the mood she was in, she wouldn’t have been able to resist thumping at least one of them on its outstretched head. She made her way to the edge and studied the murky water. She had thought of dipping her mangled toe in it, but the water in the small fountain nearby was clearer. She limped the last few steps and plopped her foot into the fountain’s base. As she sat on the edge and dipped her other foot in, Cliff read the inscription on the obelisk: I may not hope from outward forms to win/The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. Well, Coleridge certainly sounded dejected when he composed his ode. The feathers in his quill must have curled into a frown to write it. No Mr. Sunshine there. As far as Cliff was concerned, all fountains should proclaim Inspected and approved by Ponce de Leon. Give a person a little hope, already, she said aloud as she let the coolness of the water soothe her inflamed toe.

Cliff eased back and looked at the sky. Gazing at clouds was something that never failed to soothe her. She had spent many happy afternoons as a child imagining whole cities with cathedrals and airships inhabiting the sky. She had even decided that her address in Cloud Cuckoo Land would be Cloud No.3, Floradora Way. She would live there with a pair of red brocade slippers by the front door, a Siamese cat on the fluffy windowsill, and wear an azure colored silk dress that shimmered in the light made hazy by the clouds.

Cliff’s reverie was interrupted by a great big drop of rain plopping on her forehead. She squinted up at the clouds and realized that they had begun to turn different shades of gray with some black mixed in. Oh wonderful, she thought. Even my timing is off today. Of course, her pathetic fallacy ought to have coincided with the ripping of her nail. You’re more than a bit late, she admonished the clouds. Try to muster the tears when… The last of Cliff’s reproof was cut off by the torrents threatening to drown her. She quickly gathered her sandals and scurried towards shelter. There was nothing else to be done because she would simply have to wait out the storm.

CHAPTER TWO

D aly Seeker hadn’t made a study of plants before he decided to establish his gardens. Really, it was just a matter of gathering them. And traveling. The traveling was the important bit. It made for a happy marriage. Before he decided on the pursuit of plants as the best way to maintain harmony in the home, he had consulted with mentalists and spiritualists, conjurers and magicians. He steadfastly avoided the necromancers. Who had need of listening to the prattle of the dead when the living were more than willing to drone on and on into eternity?

Still, he was fascinated by their utter disregard for convention. The ones he met didn’t seem to follow the rules of this world. Nor those of any of the other dominions they claimed to contact. Consequently, Daly Seeker felt emboldened to share with them a concern that had been rooting around in his mind like a beggar in his favorite dust heap. He suspected-but so far it was mere speculation, mind you-about what would happen if one were to take a certain action. Said action might include-but not be limited to-ensuring that an axe came into productive contact with his wife’s hard-as-Andesite head.

Such a feat would invariably commence with the swift and judicious application of a single blow so as to sever it from its mooring on her neck. Daly Seeker could always picture it so clearly in his mind. Yet he derived little comfort from it because he was confident that no peace would be found. For although the head might roll and the body collapse, he had no doubt whatsoever that the head would continue its conversation uninterrupted. There was no stinting Mrs. Seeker’s clapper even if she were sounding her own death knell.

In his more fevered musings, Daly Seeker would see the head rolling inexorably towards him. Ever towards him and never away. After all, why should Mrs. Seeker act any differently in death than she did in life? Daly was convinced that her surname really ought to have been Sic’im because she always hounded him. Whereas he never sought her out.

He spent much of his time away from her wondering if it weren’t possible to turn her twaddle to good use? Perhaps she could be contracted out to the Foreign Legion. Surely they could arrange tours for her in ports and cities where she could teach the local women how to natter their men into submission. Make the men so distracted, in fact, that they would be desperate to sign on the dotted line thereby helping the Legion to meet the quotas for its rolls. An extended tour which kept Mrs. Seeker from returning home might prove lucrative as well as provide some much needed quiet for her beleaguered husband.

But no, undoubtedly she would refuse. Confound the woman! Daly Seeker didn’t believe for one second that she ever made a concerted effort to restrain that mad cow’s tongue of hers inside her pebble sized head. Daly Seeker had tried in vain to impress this vexing fact first on the mentalist, who referred him to the spiritualist, who in turn recommended the conjurer who then failed to bring back Franz Mesmer from the beyond. He was the one who suggested the magician, insisting that he was really very wise in the ways of women.

The magician agreed that trying to mesmerize Mrs. Seeker into some semblance of reticence might give Daly a little peace. But surely, he had said with a power of observation that penetrated matters which remained obscured to Daly, if she never draws breath yet constantly keeps her mouth open to speak it might qualify as a medical condition. He went on to add that if it did, then the best treatment for Mrs. Seeker was a prolonged stay at a spa. Abroad. For the duration of a complete cure. However long that might take.

Hearing this cheered Daly Seeker considerably. Such sagacious counsel was a rarity these days. He felt bolstered by visions of Mrs. Seeker taking the various cures. Kneipp therapy was a must. Yes, it would do very nicely to have Mrs. Seeker immersed in icy river water at dawn, followed by a sound thrashing with birch branches wielded by stout Russian women. That would bring a rosy glow to her skin. She was looking decidedly jaundiced these days. Perhaps a light lunch of bitter tea followed by remorse would fortify her for her afternoon session of falaka administered by unflagging Turks.

Daly Seeker thought he had read somewhere that aside from the face and hands the feet were the most exquisitely sensitive part of one’s anatomy. It appeared that they possessed a network of nerves capable of telegraphing pain to the rest of the body faster than anything Mr. Morse could invent. Sometimes the sensation was routed through the tropics but Daly didn’t care to dwell on the fact of that region’s existence in regards to Mrs. Seeker.

Nonetheless, he agreed that feet were awfully important. If it weren’t for the agonies caused by his bunions and fallen arches he would have followed his dream of running away and joining the Chasseurs Alpins long ago. Once he was up a mountain peak and surrounded by his comrades in arms the possibility that Mrs. Seeker could drag him down ceased to exist. Didn’t he deserve a chance to stand upright and breathe in the cool air of freedom?

After all, life with Mrs. Seeker had been one unending round of bastinado thus far—with him on the receiving end. Ah, yes, back on point. Daly mulled it over and decided that the perfect finish to Mrs. Seeker’s day would be a prolonged immersion in a bathtub full of leeches. Those little suckers of theirs should be able to draw out any impurities that the birch branches and falaka had failed to express. And they would surely have more than enough to gorge themselves on because Mrs. Seeker had been bleeding him dry for years.

Daly Seeker felt considerably lighter of heart now that he had heard the magician’s advice. So light, in fact, that he felt he could chase the bubbles in his champagne flute and come out on top. He leaned back in his chair feeling exhilarated. Even the magician’s assistant giggling into his ear couldn’t distract him. What was it the girl had just called him? Ah, well, it didn’t matter if he couldn’t make it out because her tone was so beguilingly sweet.

She was a pretty little thing and unexpectedly obliging in the way she had let the magician saw her in half earlier. Daly looked across the room at the magician who was laughing at some private joke with another one of the performers. Then he glanced back at the pretty assistant who had managed somehow to pull herself together after the performance. There she was all in one piece and sitting on his lap as she cooed into his ear. At the same time she was also brandishing her flute of Pol Roger as though it were a baton. It suddenly occurred to him that she showed a lot of pep given she had recently been sawn in half. Daly Seeker felt a sudden flush of heat as the quantity of champagne he had enjoyed made it difficult to pinpoint what was illusory and then he had a sense of bubbles bursting as everything in his world went flat.

CHAPTER THREE

C liff roused herself from her dark musings and stepped outside of the gazebo where she had sought shelter. The gazebo was part of the perennial cutting garden which provided the flowers for the arrangements seen in the offices of the gardens. The flowers were planted in rows like vegetables, and they were now plastered to the ground because of the force of the storm. She made her way past the light blue varieties of American speedwell and the white flowering bee balm. The spires of the false dragon head with their pink and lavender flowers were trailing on the ground and brushed her ankles as she picked her way gingerly around them.

The sudden storm had drenched and flattened practically every plant in sight. It had also left a decidedly sticky feeling to the air. Cliff wasn’t eager to trudge back home through the muck and slimy fallen leaves but she didn’t want to spend all afternoon in the gardens, either. Well, at least it hadn’t been a total loss. She had gotten what she had come for: one plump, undeniably soft, deliciously fragrant persimmon lay nestled in all its flaming orange glory in the palm of her hand.

The sun had begun peeking through the veil of clouds and for an instance one of its beams illuminated the fruit in Cliff’s hand. The coruscating light set the persimmon aglow and reminded her of the genus name, Diospyros. Looking at the luminous fruit perched in the palm of her hand made Cliff feel as though she truly were holding the fire of Zeus. She stopped for a moment to consider how wonderful it would be if she could wield it to vanquish iniquity. She held it aloft and tried to look imposing. Or as much like a benevolent tyrant as she could given her bedraggled state. And then the cloud passed overhead taking the moment along with it and Cliff was left feeling silly. As well as exasperated. She really ought to get home.

Now the question that remained was, which bridge to take? The Egipetsky was closest and she would be home more quickly than if she doubled back. Yes, that decided it. The Egyptian bridge in the gardens was a duplicate of the original in St. Petersburg. In fact, all of the bridges which traversed the canals were faithful reproductions of originals that could be found throughout the world. As Cliff approached it she made a point of stopping in front of the Sphinx. Whenever Cliff passed it, the statue always seemed to be taking its ease as it lay stretched out on its stone pedestal.

And why shouldn’t she be at ease? Being crowned with a nemes insured that the wily creature never had a bad hair day. No riff-raff was going to catch a glimpse of her coif. And what looked like a gilt ostrich plume right at the tippy top of her headdress just added that last note of devastating allure. Some creatures have all the luck, Cliff groused as she wiped strands of wet hair from her eyes. Honestly, her own hair clung to her forehead like seaweed to a rock.

Well, at least you wouldn’t get me with one of your tired old riddles. Cliff held her hand up in front of the creature’s lips. No, she said, shaking her head. Please don’t bother. As if I didn’t know that the answer to your first riddle is Man. He’s the creature who walks on all fours as a baby, then two as an adult, and a total of three when he’s a geezer in need of a cane. Of course, Cliff continued, if he manages to side step his own drool and not slip, then he graduates to four again as his walker helps him complete the full circle back to being as weak as a baby. Therefore Man walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, three in the evening and four again in the nearly dead of night.

The answer to the riddle was like a memento mori. It reminded Cliff that every day of life brought her one step closer to the grave. And really, once she gave the matter some consideration, it appeared that everyone alive was headed in the same direction. Although Cliff was of the opinion that some people made it a point of tripping others up so as to hasten them on their way. The only difference appeared to be how many legs a person had to stand on once they were teetering on the edge and about to be tipped into their own grave. And how many nails were still sported by the toes on the feet attached to those legs. Cliff could feel the throbbing in her baby toe starting up again. So much for keeping her thoughts on the sunny side of the street.

Cliff focused her attention on the glittering water droplets that clung to the statue. The ones in the ostrich plume shimmered like diamonds and added an additional layer of smugness to the Sphinx’s expression. No, she thought, you would know better than to tease me with a riddle as simple as that. Cliff recalled that the Sphinx had possessed more than one riddle in her arsenal. What was the Sphinx’s second riddle? It was something about two sisters, one giving birth to the other and she in turn giving birth to the first.

Cliff studied the headdress further. Was it an ostrich plume after all? It might be an acanthus leaf. Well, really. Neither one made sense. What ought to be on the nemes was a depiction of the Two Ladies who represented Upper and Lower Egypt. Of course, one of the Ladies was a vulture, so perhaps it was a feather after all. The other Lady was a cobra. But how could a vulture give birth to a cobra and vice versa? Cliff thought that if her head kept spinning like this it might dry her hair. She took a deep breath and tried again.

The uraeus was a symbol of the unification of the Upper and Lower kingdoms of Egypt. She was certain of that much. But what did that have to do with the riddle? Probably nothing. As Cliff rolled the word uraeus around on her tongue, there was something to it that reminded her of the word uroborus. That is, if she pronounced both words fast and through at least two good mouthfuls of lemon tart. Considering that she was nowhere near a lemon tart, Cliff decided that she had better get on with it.

The uroborus was the symbol of a snake eating its own tail. As though the cobra were continually giving birth to itself. But that left out the vulture. Now what? Something was tickling her brain as though the Sphinx were trailing her ostrich plume back and forth across its surface. Cliff scratched her head as she stepped on to the bridge to ponder the Sphinx’s second conundrum.

Walking always helped her to think. She strolled past one of the two obelisks on either side which held the lamps that illuminated the bridge at night. She paused at the parapet after carefully setting down her persimmon on the walkway. There were trees lining the banks and the last remaining droplets of rain were falling from the tips of their leaves and forming concentric circles in the water. Cliff hadn’t realized that she had been contemplating them until she was snapped out of her reverie by what sounded like a sonic boom from something tiny swooshing past her ear.

In the moment it took to fly past the tip of her nose Cliff thought that she caught enough of a glimpse to discern that it was a hawk moth. It had always amazed her how fast they were. The moth had already made it to the trees and selected the mulberry blossoms it was going to enjoy for dinner. It was hovering and swinging around them so that it was easy to mistake it for a hummingbird. Most people did, especially in the dusk. Cliff glanced up at the lamps hanging from the obelisks. They would be lighted soon.

It was getting dark and she should be making her way home for her own dinner. Wait. Cliff gripped the railing tightly with both hands. It was getting dark! Where before it was light. So that the day was giving birth to the night just as one sister gave birth to the other which meant that at dawn the night would give birth to the day! That was the answer to the Sphinx’s riddle. That was the cycle. Cliff turned to look at the mythical creature. Ha! she exclaimed, and you don’t get me that way, either. The statue remained impassive in the face of Cliff’s outburst.

Cliff was feeling decidedly more chipper. She had bested the Sphinx. Well, perhaps chipper wasn’t quite the word. Less of a twat might be the phrase. Let’s see… t-w-a-t. If I substitute the w with a u I get T-u-a-t, thought Cliff. Certainly, why not? I wouldn’t mind being an Egyptian goddess. It’s not as though I haven’t already stood toe to claw with the Sphinx. If memory serves, Tuat was a household deity who was often portrayed as having the body of a hippopotamus. The mighty, irascible hippo. There was something majestic about it, too. Or else why would the Egyptians have bestowed the title of Mistress of the horizon upon her?

Yes, Cliff quite liked the way it rolled off the tongue. Suits me, she thought. She had always admired the physical attributes of the hippo. For instance, they were one of the few creatures she could think of who had only four teeth rattling around in their mouths yet avoided looking like rubes. Perhaps it was because in spite of being stingy as to how many they were willing to hold in their skull, at least the four they did have were of the best quality—ivory. For a moment she wondered what it would feel like to have teeth made of ivory, and then conceded that only the hippos and George Washington would ever know for certain.

Then there was that death jig they did with sharks. She had read that they could flip sharks onto the riverbank and while they lay there on their back the hippo would stomp them into shark mush. Most satisfying. Cliff could envision a few people she knew who would make excellent stand-ins for the sharks. That was an image to savor. But there was something else.

What was it she was trying to recall? Was it about Tuat’s consort? Bobek. Was that his name? No, it had been Sobek. Yes, that was it. There was that confusing bit as to why the Egyptians had chosen a crocodile for Tuat. Because it occurred to Cliff that much like an actual hippo Tuat might decide to bite Sobek in two if he had the misfortune to find himself caught between her jaws on a day when she was feeling snappish. Well, no sense in going on about it. Ancient gods seemed to be forever hacking away at one another and tossing body parts about as though they were party favors. They were usually able to cobble themselves back together and come back to life. No worries there.

As she continued to lean on the parapet, Cliff contemplated the advantages of a hippo’s life. After all, on any given day the only requisite body parts that had to emerge into the world were their ears, eyes, and the tips of their nostrils. The rest of them could remain submerged in the river. Cliff thought how often of late she would have been grateful to just stay in her bed and not have to greet the day and go out into the world. She was no Oblomov but being in her bed surrounded by books and not having to listen to the idle chatter of others was a prospect that appealed to her more and more.

The throbbing in her baby toe reminded her to look down. It was entirely possible that she might have already taken her first step towards hippohood. She saw that the outside of her foot appeared to be covered in the so called bloodsweat that hippos excreted. Of course it was just her mangled nail reminding her that she needed to dress her wound.

Well, it was a lovely dusk dream while it lasted. Cliff wasn’t certain that she would make a very good hippo. With her luck she would more than likely be captured and sold to some Colombian drug lord for his exotic menagerie. What would she have to look forward to? His child brides trying to paint her toe nails and international police raids interrupting her cozy naps among the reeds? No, thank you very much.

Cliff leaned farther out on the parapet. She closed her eyes and stretched her arms in front of her as though ready for lift off: ‘On Zephyr winds which blow on high. Lift me now, so I may fly. Oh mighty Isis,’ she intoned. Then she opened her eyes and confirmed that she remained grounded. So much for trying to catch a break and not having to limp home. Cliff sighed as she picked up the persimmon and went on her way.

CHAPTER FOUR

C liff reached Chartrand Court fairly quickly, her injury not withstanding. She paused to lean against one of the carved white lions that marked the entrance. The one on the left that had Chartrand inscribed on its pedestal. She tried unsuccessfully to arrange her sandal around her toe because it was really starting to chafe. Botheration and blast it, she would just have to take it off.

Cliff patted the lion’s marble haunch and threaded her way across her neighbors’ lawns. The grass felt deliciously cool under her foot. As she walked, Cliff mused about what had happened to her that day. It could be regarded as just a series of small imponderables that didn’t merit close scrutiny. But racked together they had an unsettling effect on her. She made slow but steady progress and was soon within sight of her neighbor’s lawn.

It wasn’t quite dark yet and Mr. Eom was out there surveying his afternoon’s work. His yard was a sight to behold. What had begun as a two day long project to reconfigure his flagstones had become an earthworks. There were mounds of grass-covered soil dotting the yard along with slabs of stones sorted by color into different piles. It had the look of a fairy ring strung together by robust fairies who ate four hearty meals a day and took their vitamins. And now Mr. Eom’s efforts had spilled out onto the street.

For reasons Cliff had yet to understand, he had also grown dissatisfied with the concrete slabs that had once formed the sidewalk in front of his house. The slabs had lain there innocently enough until he had begun prying their number loose so that there was no longer anything separating his yard from the street. Nowadays he always seemed to be trying out different recipes for mixing the perfect type of concrete. As Cliff wended her way around the various piles of stones and mounds of grass she could see that he was wearing his satjat as usual. As with most things, Mr. Eom was particular about his headgear. He favored the conical hats made in Vietnam, not Korea. The ones from the city of Hue to be precise.

These hats had held an enduring fascination for Cliff since she was little. She had pestered Mr. Eom many times by asking him to remove his satjat and hold it up to the light. That was the only way to see the Chinese characters that were incised into the woven leaves that formed the hat. Mr. Eom had explained that these were verses from famous poems. But the satjat that fascinated Cliff the most when she was little was the one where a bridge seemed to materialize magically within the confines of the hat, as though it were being drawn by the light.

Mr. Eom had pointed out that it was merely a depiction of Trang Tien Bridge. When he added that the bridge spanned the Perfume River, Cliff wouldn’t be dissuaded that it was magical. In her child’s mind she had imagined a river that flowed with her mother’s perfume. Mr. Eom had taken the time to explain to her that the river didn’t contain perfume, but rather the blossoms from the orchards upriver that fell into it gave it its name. His explanation only served to entrance Cliff further because even the reality of it was still beautiful. As a child she was convinced that it had to be magical.

But as she walked across the flat expanse of grass where the sidewalk used to be, that seemed like so long ago. Cliff was grown up now, so she didn’t ask Mr. Eom to take off his hat to see which design would shine through. She went up to greet him and they chatted for a while before Mr. Eom asked her about her persimmon. She told him she was going to make the spicy Korean punch called sujeonggwa once she arrived home. Her reply made Mr. Eom smile.

We always have the spices and pignoli on hand, she said, and I’ve watched Mrs. Eom prepare it before, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. I’m going to stud the persimmon with the pine nuts the way she does so it’ll look pretty. Mr. Eom smiled again and replied that his wife used the traditional dried persimmons for the sujeonggwa and that he didn’t think that a fresh persimmon would hold up in the punch.

Wait here, he said. I think Eunae made some earlier today. He returned with the sujeonggwa. See? he asked. It’s at its best when it’s cloudy. That way you know that the persimmons have had time to perfume the punch. He muttered something as he crumpled a piece of paper which had been taped to the container of sujeonnggwa. Another one of my wife’s jokes, he said with irritation. She’s left me a diagram of where she’s going to plant the rice paddy.

Cliff tried not to laugh as she accepted the punch because she knew that Mrs. Eom was frustrated by the state of their front lawn and their vanished sidewalk. She had told her husband repeatedly that it now looked as though he were widening the road in front of their house for use as an emergency runway. Korean roads often had extra wide shoulders that went on for half a mile to accommodate air planes in case an invasion from the North destroyed major airfields. But day to day they were put to practical use by farmers who spread out their grains on the roadway to dry.

In doing so, they enjoyed the added advantage of the heavy traffic winnowing the grains from the chaff as the vehicles rolled over them. Mrs. Eom had threatened more than once to start planting rice. She claimed that laying the rice out and periodically raking and sweeping it so that it dried thoroughly would help her to relax. After all, her husband shouldn’t be the only one allowed to have a hobby.

Cliff thanked him for the punch and said she had better hurry home and wash up for dinner. She took her fresh persimmon in both hands and gave it to Mr. Eom. He accepted it and smiled as he went inside his house. As she continued walking, Cliff’s own house came into view. It helped to have the expectation of seeing it in order for it to materialize. It was nestled comfortably in between the larger houses on either side. Since the house wasn’t a manse, it could be overlooked but it wasn’t overshadowed. It still managed to draw the attention of the discerning eye to itself because of its style and colors.

A half moon shaped staircase led to the front balcony. Iron grill work in the shape of wild pomegranate flowers ran up the staircase and surrounded the balcony instead of a balustrade. It was a two story house, with the ground floor wrapped around in cream colored bricks. The bricks continued their ascent to the first floor where they joined with orange colored bricks to form alternating stripes. They also made an appearance as accents around the shuttered windows and doors that gave out onto the second story balcony that almost spanned the length of the house. The balcony stopped short of Cliff’s bedroom, which was the one on the right with the oriel window.

She didn’t mind that she couldn’t step out onto the balcony from her room because Cliff liked the feeling of being tucked away in her niche. Besides, it couldn’t be considered a true oriel window anymore because it no longer stood on its own. The brackets that had once been underneath for support had been replaced by another window. The previous owner had renovated the house and added a bay window when he expanded the kitchen. It had been a meticulous renovation. The bay window had been constructed of materials that were made to match exactly the existing structure so that it was difficult to discern it from the original construction.

Mercifully, the renovation hadn’t included stripping the painted lady of her more fanciful embellishments so the fleur de lis cornice remained. Cliff paused for a moment on the front lawn to look up and admire it. Yes, the upside down fleurs de lis still ran underneath two of the larger gables at the front of the house. The oriel window and the bay window stacked together resembled a tower. They were topped by a slightly fan shaped slice of roof with its own fleur de lis cornice which sat tucked under the right side gable of the larger roof. Sometimes when Cliff considered the house she thought it looked a bit like a confection.

Cliff had taken the opportunity to study her house at different hours of daylight. Depending on the quality of the light it might look more solid then at other times. That was when she anticipated that if she licked one of the bricks she would be sure to taste orange sorbet and whipped cream. After all the house did appear to have been layered like a parfait.

But really, her house wasn’t the most pudding-like in the neighborhood. That honor belonged to one a few blocks away which had been painted entirely in white. It had a wide veranda wrapped around it that gave the house a circular appearance. It had been embellished with intricate scroll work which looked as though someone had taken royal icing and piped it all around its façade. No wonder everyone referred to it as the wedding cake house.

Whenever Cliff passed by it, she thought it resembled more of a Spanische Windtorte. It really did look to her as though someone had stacked rings of meringue on top of one another and decided to call it a house. If the roof ever came off, she half expected to see giant strawberries come tumbling out. Those would be followed immediately by currants balanced atop chocolate shavings as they rode waves of whipped cream.

Still standing on the front lawn, she remembered that afternoon long ago when she and her parents drove through the neighborhood for the first time. Her father was a classicist and he had decided to accept a teaching post at the college. Because the term was about to begin, they needed to find somewhere to stay as soon as possible. They were on their way to meet a friend of a friend who could show them around when Maman had decided to turn on to this street.

Both Cliff and her father were taken by surprise when the automobile came to an abrupt halt and was then put in reverse for half a block. When it came to a complete stop once again, Maman urged both of them to get out of the auto. Neither Cliff nor her father knew what the fuss was about as Maman pointed excitedly at the house directly in front of them. Don’t you see it? she asked impatiently. It’s Arcachonnaise! An Arcachon villa. I never thought that I would see one outside of France. Isn’t it beautiful? Cliff had wrinkled her nose while her father had stared uncomprehendingly at her mother.

Despite her family’s tepid reactions, Maman wouldn’t be dissuaded and ushered them up the garden path. While they walked around the exterior of the house, Cliff and her father had taken turns pestering her with questions. Cliff still didn’t grasp why her mother was so enthusiastic about the house, although she did like the fact that a singular playhouse had been constructed on the lawn. It was a miniature replica of the bigger house, right down to the peculiar colored bricks and the fleur de lis cornice.

As they concluded their tour, Cliff and her father still couldn’t get her mother to explain what was so special about the house. More than likely it was because Maman was French. Which meant-among other things-that she was splendid as well as vague. In the end, she could never pinpoint what had compelled her to turn onto that particular street that afternoon, or how she had perceived that the house was on the market when it lacked a sign.

Of course, Maman would have her way and the house was purchased despite her father’s protestations of I’m not Paganini, you know, before they signed on the dotted line; and Did I say Paganini? Pardon my optimism. Croesus. Only Croesus could manage this, afterwards. Nonetheless, the family moved in just a few weeks after they had first seen the house.

In the years since, Cliff had grown to love it and as she stood on the front lawn admiring it, her heart seemed to relinquish the next beat as she thought about the inevitability that they would have to sell the house and move away now that her father was dead. With her sandals in one hand and her container of sujeonggwa in the other she walked slowly up the steps and stood in front of the wood and beveled glass door. Cliff hesitated to go in just yet.

She looked to the left of the door at the diminutive bronze plaque that hung there. It was inscribed with three simple words, Parva sed apta. She knew the rest of the inscription by heart; mihi was the fourth word. Mine. My house. It suited perfectly her father’s sense of humor to have part of Ariosto’s quotation greet visitors. And he never failed to laugh uproariously when someone mistook it for the family name. As though it were hyphenated, Cliff said discontentedly. When Maman had pointed out that some of their parcels were being misdirected and the confusion might be due to the plaque being misread, her father had replied that it was such a pity that the study of Latin was no longer required.

It was a very tidy language where every thing was sorted and put in its proper place. Latin declensions were like pigeon holes because they kept the order and accommodated only what fitted. The civilized world would still retain its sense of the fitness of things if it hadn’t released its hold on Latin, was one of his favorite sayings. And if more people knew how to sort things correctly it would certainly keep the mail running smoothly, he would add with a grin. Cliff smiled at the memory and leaned her forehead against the plaque.

If only she had been able to retain the sense of how simple things were when her father was alive. She drifted along with her memories until her thoughts steered her around to Ariosto’s creation, Orlando Furioso. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she thought fervently, if everything that was lost on the earth and dearly missed really could be found on the moon? Cliff pictured Astolfo riding his hippogriff to the moon and bringing back to earth Orlando’s wits in a bottle.

In order for his sanity to be restored, all Orlando had to do was inhale the contents of the bottle. It was as simple as that. No djinn required. As Cliff continued to lean her warm forehead against the cool surface of the plaque, she scolded herself for being childish. Her father was lost to her forever. And with him went the family that all three of them had shared and participated in.

It no longer mattered what came after, or what didn’t. Nothing would prove a restorative. Her mother’s life and her own would continue, of course. But they would never be the same. There was no way of suspending the essence of who they were as a family and capturing it in a bottle that would be magically transported to the moon for safekeeping.

Their family’s combined essence would never reside in a bottle on the moon. A bottle which could be retrieved by a paladin riding a mythical beast at the crucial moment when an elixir was needed most. Cliff didn’t need to remind herself that such things were purposely outside the realm of possibility. Yet she continued to fret because she was aware that even in the short span of time since her father’s death there had been changes. Changes in how she perceived herself and how she viewed others. And none of them felt for the better. As for the sadness, it was always there. Some days it took pride of place, and other days it seemed content to skulk in the shadows rattling a spear. But it always made its presence known. Cliff sighed as she righted herself, opened the door, and went in.

CHAPTER FIVE

A s soon as Maman caught sight of her foot she insisted that Cliff sit and submit to her ministrations. Torrents of French swirled around her as Maman carried on, but considering her day, Cliff found the sound of it almost soothing. In fact, she hoped that her mother would be sufficiently distracted so as not to notice the sorry state of the rest of her nails.

Maman had always emphasized regular pedicures as part of correct grooming. She maintained that it was impolite to go about unkempt. No doubt it was the French in her, but she was adamant that harpy talons were never a help to a woman but rather a hindrance. No woman could maneuver a stable path in life with them. She would have to be content to claw her way through it, snatching what she could. And that meant that she could only be the sort of woman who counted other harpies as her friends.

Really, Clifford Briony, Maman said. That made Cliff wince. Not because of her toe but because Maman had called her by her given name. She never did that unless she were upset. However did you manage it? It’s hanging by a thread. You do realize that it will have to come off? Yes, I know, Cliff answered. As to how I managed it—well, you have as good an idea as I do. Which is to say none at all. I simply don’t know. One minute I was walking and the next I was hobbling. Go figure. Cliff hated it when she sounded like a sucky baby to her own ears.

She nestled back deeper into the cushions and tried to relax. It looks like you caught it on the edge of something, Maman observed. Did it happen at the cemetery? Cliff had spent the better part of the day at the cemetery washing and tidying her father’s grave. It had to be in Bristol fashion for tomorrow when all the families made their annual pilgrimage to the Crescent City’s cemeteries to remember their dead. The graves were scrubbed and polished until their stones sparkled. They were also picked clean of any weeds or stragglers. In addition to that Cliff had inspected the decorative mosaic slab that rested on her father’s grave. The gold smalti tiles were intact and in place. Just as they had been laid a little over a year ago.

Cliff had fitted the vase in its groove and filled it to overflowing with water so that it would be ready to receive the flowers that she and her mother would be bringing tomorrow. Maman had intended to make all the preparations on her own but Cliff had wanted to do this by herself. She wanted this time alone with her father before the public displays of grief the next day. As she went about putting her father’s grave in proper order, Cliff had kept up an ongoing conversation which she was convinced hadn’t made any sense. But these were the things she felt compelled to say to her father.

Cliff felt that first she ought to apologize for not having visited his grave since he was laid to rest. She had made many failed attempts throughout the past year to come and see him, but she always balked at the last minute. She had never managed to make it straight through to the cemetery until today. Cliff murmured all of these things to the tesserae that stood in place between her and her father. As she had polished the luminous tiles, she traced the pattern of the golden honeycomb that was the mosaic. It wasn’t that she was trying to tell anything to the bees that they didn’t already know. Her father had been dead for over a year, but Cliff still wanted to say the words that were in her heart.

She only hoped that she would be able to see it through before she broke down completely. As she worked, Cliff had thought that it might help if she concentrated on something solid, like facts. Let’s see, she had said while studying the bees and the honeycomb in the mosaic. She tried to recall what she knew about it. The tesserae had been imported from Venice. In each tile there was a small sheet of gold leaf that was suspended between two layers of glass. This lent the tiles a golden shimmer whenever the sun danced across their surface. Maman was of the opinion that the tesserae looked their best in the early morning light because it was then that a roseate glow blanketed all of them.

Cliff sighed and decided that this wasn’t helping because her thoughts were still too slushy. She tried directing her gaze at the epitaph instead. It read "Blanca cera y dulce miel. Her father had chosen it from Machado’s Last Night as I Lay Sleeping." It was from the second stanza where Machado described how he dreamt there was a honeycomb in his heart where bees were fashioning white wax and producing sweet honey from his past failures.

How like Daddy, Cliff had thought as she recited the poem while making certain that the area around the grave was free of weeds. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what he considered his failures to be because for one thing, Maman still adored him. As for Cliff—and she felt certain that it wasn’t merely because he was her father—she suspected that there was no one else like him. In spite of her best efforts, Cliff couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.

She had sat back on her heels and given herself permission to weep as she covered her face with her hands. When she was finished shielding her sobs, she laid her hands in her lap and took a look around. Cliff had the impression that time moved differently in the cemetery. She could have been crying for any duration, short or long. She really couldn’t tell. Mercifully, the other sections of the cemetery were busier than the one she was in, so it was unlikely that anyone had seen her carrying on. After she composed herself, she still had the greater part of the mosaic to polish. Cliff had finished the job while continuing to recite some of the poems that she and her father both loved-many of which he had taught her. That had helped to calm her down.

Well, chou-chou? Maman asked. The sound of her voice brought Cliff back to the room where her mother was still tending to her injured toe. Coming back suddenly like that when her thoughts had been so far away made Cliff feel discombobulated and she blinked rapidly before replying, Such a nice fellow. Maman looked her up and down carefully. What did you say? You sound as though you need some Mandarin Napoleon applied to your wound to help you gather your wits. That pronouncement made Cliff sit up in alarm.

Maman was a firm believer in the salutary and antiseptic powers of Cognac. She never hesitated to anoint a bruise with it. But this was a wound and it would surely smart. Don’t you dare, Cliff exclaimed. And I hope you realize that you sounded just like Great Aunty Vee for one scary moment there, she added as she sank back into the cushions, hoping that the danger had passed. Ha! I knew that would grab your attention. You seemed a little far gone for a few moments, Maman replied. Such a nice fellow? Is that supposed to mean some- Maman’s eyes lit up with laughter. Oh. Of course. We could never face your father tomorrow if we had done that to him.

Cliff was glad that her mother had remembered. Long before he had become ill, her father had made the off-handed comment that he believed Such a nice fellow to be the single most abject epitaph that should never be put on his headstone. In fact, he hoped that no one ever said that to him while he was still alive. The namby pamby sentiment of it might just manage to bore him into a catatonic state which could be mistaken for death.

Now, chou-chou. I know that some parents tell their children not to be in a hurry to grow up, but I can’t believe that I have to point out to you that it isn’t a good idea to try to evolve too fast. Really? Her mother’s advice made Cliff laugh. Yes, really. It looks like you were on your way to slicing it off. Now some scientists believe that the pinkie toe is poised to become obsolete in a few generations and it might eventually be phased out. But my advice to you is to keep yours. Both of them. You still need them for balance—never mind aesthetics. Just as you say, Mater, Cliff said meekly. I do say, cheeky. Now, how about dinner? It was hot out today, why not have a cooling salad? I have some of that marinated octopus that you love. Cliff readily agreed since it was one of her favorite dishes.

Yes, I could have it before I go over to Mrs. Elgin’s. Do you still feel up to it? Maman looked doubtful. Well, I promised and it’s almost become a tradition. Anyway, my costume’s all ready. Cliff hated to pass up the chance of donning her costume since she had spent the better part of the previous week working on it. It was a white empire gown with a red sash. That constituted the easy part of the costume. The difficult part was that Cliff had wanted to decorate it with verses from The Giaour. It hadn’t been possible to print them, so she had ended up writing them free hand in blue ink across the fabric. When she was finished, she had modeled her creation for Maman.

After a few minutes of walking around her in complete silence, Maman had said, "Well, I know it’s not Hammurabi’s code, so you’re not a stele. You’re dressed in the Tricolour, but you lack a Phrygian cap. So you’re not Marianne. I give up. What are you supposed to be? Aha! Cliff had crowed. I thought I might be able to stump you. I’ll have you know that my costume is that of an ardent Byron groupie. She attempted to accompany this revelation with sighs and flutterings of her hands. I see, Maman had said. So ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know’ is the flavor of the night, is it? That’s right, Cliff had answered. I lay down the law. Or rather I inscribe it on a stele," she added with a giggle.

Maman looked just as skeptical now while she studied Cliff’s bandaged toe. Yes, well see that you do in fact help out Mrs. Elgin. But don’t overexert yourself. Of course, Cliff promised. Mrs. Elgin owned Mi World. It was a bookstore which had been fashioned out of an old house that otherwise would have been demolished. It had originally carried only books of esoterica but it had branched out over the years and added sections covering other disciplines, including cookbooks and self-help. That last section had been Cliff’s undoing. She had never understood the need for the self-help books. Mi World already had extensive Literature and Philosophy sections. What on earth did people think the books were there for? Simply to fill up space on the shelves?

Cliff had been