Creating Cassandra

By Vincent Di Blasi

Creating Cassandra is two love stories about the same man and woman set eight hundred years apart. The story begins in the 1990s as the Boston based author is seeking and ultimately finds his model for the Cassandra of his twelfth-century novella about a man and woman who will share their names in that other age.

Both his muse and the character she inspires are ambitious women. Both marry powerful men who will die leaving them and their not necessarily legitimate fortunes vulnerable. And each will call upon her centurys version of a knight, mercenary or gangster to hold on to what otherwise would be lost.

The obsessions that drive the superstitious author and his determined Cassandra influence what will come to pass in the novella, just as what the author ascribes to his twelfth-century characters influences the actions of his Cassandra and the author himself. When the two worlds meet, there are ample warnings of danger but as you would expect in the case of a Cassandra, no warning or prophesy is heeded. Neither the author nor Cassandra would ever have anticipated the price that they had to pay for the worlds they had fought so hard to create in either century. What they created would forever change the course of their lives.

From Creating Cassandra

Giangreco slowly put his arm around Cassandra. He held her tightly as he said Anyone who writes a biography that is supposed to tell all is a fool, a liar or a person who has not lived much of a life. You know that, Cassandra. Think of your own life. And I would not want you to be any different than how you are.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532032301

Vincent Di Blasi

Vincent Di Blasi is a Brooklyn native who has lived and worked – mostly in educational publishing and program management – across North America including Boston, Mexico City and San Antonio, Texas, where he currently resides. A seasoned traveler and observer, his inclusive perspective of humanity is evident in his short stories as well as the novel Creating Cassandra.

Book preview

Book I

The Beginnings of Two Love Stories

You are more than what you were doing

For the last hour or day, the last month or year–

You will always be what you would have been

In your mind, in your heart and in the stars

Beyond Time and Place.

1

He removed the cell phone from his pocket, misdialed the number twice and then dropped the phone in the snow. While retrieving it, he looked up to see a car skid through the sharp left turn onto Boylston and all but crash into another car that was parked too far out from the curb. Superstitious to a fault, he wondered if it was a sign, a warning of some kind. He told himself that the car had not actually crashed into anything and that neither would he. He was warned that he could also lose control and skid but such things had happened before and would happen again. He had spent his entire life literally and figuratively driving on ice and snow. This is what you had to do when you did not have time to wait for sunny weather. Whatever happened, he knew he had to maintain control. He dialed a third time and finally heard the phone ringing.

And then it abruptly stopped ringing. The phone had been answered but several cold and uncomfortable moments had passed before he heard a woman’s voice cautiously venture Hello?

Why do you wait so long to say anything? You answer the phone as if you’re afraid who is on the other end.

Joseph?

Yes.

Hi! she said in a much stronger voice. Is that better?

Much. Hello, Cassandra.

I’m so glad you called. I wanted to thank you. Actually, I don’t know how to thank you. You’re my guardian angel.

Tell me about it tonight at dinner. He gave it a moment to sink in but Cassandra did not respond. He heard nothing but the sounds coming from the cars on Boylston Street and the Public Garden; horns, people shouting, a bell ringing in the distance. From the phone in his hand, no sound or word was audible.

Safe and warm in her apartment, she looked down at her toes and then applied one more full brush stroke of scarlet polish across the nail of the longest toe.

Jumping up and down to keep warm, he waited until he heard her say, I can’t. You know I can’t.

You can, he said, as another car almost lost control making the same left turn at too great a speed. You won’t, he added. You want to. You tell me you want to. But you won’t.

I can’t, she repeated, as she stuck the brush down into the bottle of nail polish, toppling it over but then managing to break its fall with the top of her foot as she heaved a sigh he could hear, and misinterpret, through his phone. I can’t do that, she said, again. "I…

You won’t, he repeated. I understand. But I’m near the Spanish place….

"It’s a Mexican place!"

Yes, I am near there and I am going there. Tonight. Tomorrow. The night after. I like the dish with the orange sauce, the one you ordered the last time we were there. I am going there and eating that. Until you show up I am eating that. Just that.

Don’t threaten me, Joseph. She had finished one coat and her toenails were brilliant scarlet against the white sheets.

Who’s threatening you? A snow plow was coming around the corner now, digging into the ice with an awful sound that made it momentarily impossible to hear her voice. He moved back further, away from the street and into the entranceway of a women’s clothing store.

You, you’re threatening me. You sent the flowers, didn’t you? She threw a pillow down next to the end of the bed and then rested her feet on it while she wiggled her toes to speed the drying.

You received flowers?

Here! At my home. No name on them, of course. They arrived two hours ago. At first, I didn’t make the connection. Now I’m almost positive. You did send them, didn’t you?

Meet me at the Mexican place. Can you meet me tonight?

No. Not tonight and not tomorrow night. Please understand how much I appreciate…

I can’t, he responded.

What did you say? The street noises were making the conversation more and more difficult. I don’t know where you’re calling from but it is hard to hear you. Where are you calling from?

I’m outside and it’s freezing. I was walking toward Newbury Street. There are snow plows and skidding cars. I’ve been jumping up and down to keep warm.

It is hard to hear you, she said, but I want you to hear me so I am going to shout: I can’t see you but I do appreciate what you’ve done for me!

I can’t believe you, Cassandra. Joseph was yelling above the street noise. How can I? You tell me you don’t know how to express your gratitude. I ask you to meet me for dinner so you can find a way in a safe corner…

‘Safe corner,’ Is that what you said?

I did.

So, I should want someplace safe?

Don’t you?

"After you sent flowers to my home. To our home, the one I share with him. You say that to me?"

You told me he’s never home.

What do you want from me, Joseph?

Dinner with you.

I don’t believe you.

I want dinner with you.

Why?

To talk to you.

Why should I believe you?

Why don’t you believe me? He was not paying attention as he moved to keep warm and, taking a step backward, he barely stopped before he would have bumped into a woman passing behind him. Do you have any reason not to believe me?

The roses, which she had placed in a long, green tinted glass vase on the nightstand, were the same shade of scarlet as her toenails. The flowers you sent look so intense; they look so demanding of attention, so audaciously Italian.

They are just flowers, Cassandra!

No, Joseph. They are flowers you will not admit sending. They are as audacious as you are. And I have no reason to believe you.

You have no reason to not believe me, do you?

Yes, I do. It is what you would never say, isn’t it? You could never admit it, could you?

What are you getting at? He sneezed and turned his head from the phone for a second so it would not echo in her ear. Maybe you are the one who should say what you’re getting at.

You could never be direct and honest about it.

I am being honest and I thought I was being direct. I am being very direct.

But you could never come out and say what you want, could you?

Dinner with you is what I want. I want to eat Mexican food with you and talk to you.

"Go eat your Mexican food. Mexican food! Do you hear me?"

Yes.

And eat it alone! She hung up.

2

Three days later, Cassandra marched into the Mexican restaurant while he was eating the pork in an orange colored sauce made with dark green chili, orange slices and chocolate. Once inside, she immediately saw him seated at the same table where they had eaten the last time they had met there. It might well have been the third night in a row he had been waiting there for her but he still looked perfectly calm, his dark hair neatly cut, his navy-blue suit without a wrinkle, his maroon tie perfectly knotted. Everything about him expressed a level of confidence that infuriated her. It was only Joseph Giangreco’s lips, which were curled and always pursed as if to kiss, and which would grow a bit redder when she stared directly at him or casually touched his arm, that hinted at true vulnerability. Otherwise, he might as well have been made of stone.

Cutting between tables, the presence of the other man at the table with Joseph caught her eye and she began taking very small steps toward them, steps very different from the bold ones she had taken when she had first entered the restaurant. The other man, she suspected, was the one Joseph had spoken of all along. He looked older than Joseph and he did not wear his clothing as well although she could tell that what he wore was expensive. His tie, suit and, and – as she would learn upon getting closer – even his eyes, were gray. He seemed to have no lips at all and quite narrow eyes. His skin had a yellowish tinge giving him an appearance that was not all that healthy. Still, she found the second man attractive in his own austere way. His wavy but well cut gray hair looked like wire. But gray and yellow as he was, his presence could never be overlooked. She had felt that presence from halfway across the room and it eclipsed that of Joseph almost completely. She was certain that this was the man her boss had been trying to reach for months. The way Cassandra saw it; it would be a good thing for her to find this man attractive, to like and admire him. He had to be a man who welcomed the acknowledgment that he was who he was.

Cassandra wore a long black, hooded cape with a red lining. It seemed to be catching on chairs or gathering under her feet as she crossed the restaurant so she ripped her black leather gloves off and then rubbed the palms of her hands along her sides to smooth the cape against her body. Her hood still on, her short golden blond hair still wet and sparkling with snow, she stood in front of the table as the two men stood up. Calmly, as if he had been sure of her arrival there all along, Joseph simply introduced her to the other man saying, This is Mr. Corso. While Cassandra and Corso shook hands, he added, and this is Miss Alexander. Then he excused himself adding, Mr. Corso knows almost as much about you as you know about him. He has business to discuss with you and I need to leave Boston. As if to reinforce the truth of this statement, his suitcase was there on the floor next to the table.

You haven’t been waiting for me to come? Don’t tell me you have been waiting for me for three nights? The two men looked at each other but she could read nothing in the expressions on their faces. They were not smiling. She discerned nothing; neither from their mouths nor their eyes that might indicate that they were laughing at her or her question.

She sat down as Corso returned to his own seat. To Joseph Giangreco, who remained standing, she said, I don’t know what to say! But then her eyes returned to Corso. So did the direction of her entire body as she rearranged her seat so that she was squarely facing him. She smiled warmly. She unbuttoned her cape without standing and effortlessly draped it over the back of her chair. She repeated, her eyes never leaving Corso, I don’t know what to say!

Joseph Giangreco carefully removed his raincoat from the back of his chair and put it on. Are the planes flying? he asked. Do you happen to know?

I doubt it, she quickly said, her eyes straying from Corso, but only for the moment. The weather is horrible. Nothing will get in or out of Logan tonight.

Well, I will wait at the airport until I can get out. You two have a lot to talk over.

3

But Joseph Giangreco did not go to the airport. He took a taxi to the train station and then he took the train to New York. From Penn Station, he took another cab that, after a long ride over snow and ice, deposited him in front of a brownstone apartment building in the Park Slope area of Brooklyn. He used one key to enter the building and then another to open the door of a third-floor apartment. As soon as he entered, a thin, pale woman with a small round face under a mass of curly red hair kissed him gently on his lips. I don’t want to talk now, she said. Is there anything you need to tell me that can’t wait until tomorrow?

No, nothing, he said, as she led him by the hand into the bedroom where they undressed each other and made love until his back was ripped and bleeding from her nails and he was sure that her screams had been heard in all the apartments around them. The next thing that either of them said was said by him. It was in the middle of the night when he said it. I missed you.

Good, she replied. I thought you were going to ask me to get the peroxide so we can clean the scratch marks on your back and get the blood stains off the sheets.

It’s probably too late to save the sheets or do my back much good.

Deirdre got up anyway and returned with a bottle of peroxide and cotton. She first washed the cuts she had dug into his back hours earlier and then, pouring the peroxide into the lid, she doused what was in the lid over the bloodstains on the sheet where it bubbled white. It’s working, she said. I think the stains will wash away. I have to stop doing that to you. She looked up from her task and mustered the most mischievous smile she could. I don’t do it on purpose; I just lose control. She caressed his lips and then his cheeks with the tips of her fingers. Was it very hard to come to me tonight?

It is terrible outside. I didn’t know if I would make it. The train kept stopping and when it started again, with each stop it seemed to be going slower than it had been before.

Now there are more wet spots.

What?

The peroxide, Joseph; I’ll get a towel. And off Deirdre went to retrieve a towel which she placed over the sheets she had just dabbed with peroxide.

Once she was back in bed she announced, We won’t need to go anywhere tomorrow. I have movies for us to watch and Italian sausages and peppers for us to eat. I have wine and I have gin. The vermouth never seems to dry up. Someone told me that if you drink your martinis dry like we do one bottle of vermouth can last a lifetime although someone else told me you should keep vermouth refrigerated and throw it out when it gets old. Did I mention that I have Italian bread? It was hot when I picked it up this morning; I guess I should say I picked it up yesterday morning. There are bagels, too, for breakfast. And cream cheese. And we have strong, dark coffee but nothing for lunch. I don’t want to eat in the middle of the day. In the middle of the day when other people are working and shopping or watching television or eating, I want to make love to you. There is nothing better than making love in a big bed in the afternoon. No talking or eating. It seems such a waste of time to eat in the middle of the day, to do anything but make love. Is that all right?

That’s fine.

Then you want what I want?

Yes, I do.

Then want me now.

I don’t think I can.

You can. You’re creative, uninhibited and imaginative; you always find a new way. And I promise I won’t hurt you this time.

In the early morning before it was light and before the red-haired woman arose, he went into the living room and removed his cell phone from his briefcase. He made a call to Corso. Did you two work it out?

Jesus, I would have thought you would have something better to do at this hour of the morning! Joey, you got to get your mind off that woman.

What I need to know is if this thing worked out.

Oh yeah, I’m sure Cassandra can do it, Corso replied. She’s bright and eager. Had lots of good ideas. She’s creative and quick and she wants it so much that it would have been hard to imagine saying no to the young woman.

From deep inside his chest, Giangreco felt the laughter explode. He struggled to find words that would help his friend understand what had triggered this response. I can’t imagine it, was what he finally came up with.

What, Joseph? You can’t imagine what? I didn’t get it.

I can’t imagine saying no to her, Sam.

Yeah, well…

I know she has the ability, Sam. Now she also has a way to channel her talents. Thank you

Sooner or later that would have happened, even at her prices.

But it might not have been sooner, Sam. That’s the point. And what does that ‘at her prices’ mean?

"It means I’m paying more for her than I ever thought I would for someone I’m hiring to do what she’s going to do. When I balked, she had the nerve to tell me that it would be cheaper if I put her on full time. No one can say she isn’t confident,