Antiquities

By Francis W. Porretto

Gail was a has-been singer from a forgotten band, surviving by performing for small crowds in coffee houses and bars, near to giving up on everything.
Evan was a venture capitalist, widowed by cancer and robbed of his only child by a car crash, who kept going on momentum alone.
They were going through the motions, barely clinging to life, until one Friday evening in a central New York bar, when a faint and a spontaneous rescue brought them together.
Then the music really started.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Francis W. Porretto
• Release date: Apr 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005965778

Francis W. Porretto

Francis W. Porretto was born in 1952. Things went steadily downhill from there.Fran is an engineer and fictioneer who lives on the east end of Long Island, New York. He's short, bald, homely, has bad acne and crooked teeth. His neighbors hold him personally responsible for the decline in local property values. His life is graced by one wife, two stepdaughters, two dogs, four cats, too many power tools to list, and an old ranch house furnished in Early Mesozoic style. His 13,000 volume (and growing) personal library is considered a major threat to the stability of the North American tectonic plate.Publishing industry professionals describe Fran's novels as "Unpublishable. Horrible, but unpublishable all the same." (They don't think much of his short stories, either.) He's thought of trying bribery, but isn't sure he can afford the $3.95.Fran's novels "Chosen One," "On Broken Wings," "Shadow Of A Sword," "The Sledgehammer Concerto," "Which Art In Hope," "Freedom's Scion," "Freedom's Fury," and "Priestesses" are also available as paperbacks, through Amazon. Check the specific pages for those books for details.Wallow in his insane ranting on politics, culture, and faith at "Liberty's Torch:" http://www.libertystorch.info/And of course, write to him, on whatever subject tickles your fancy, at [e-mail]

Book preview

Foreword

This was originally intended to be a straight romance / love story, rather in the style of Love in the Time of Cinema, but as the tale grew it became far more. It’s chronologically set during the years of the Sumner Administration and shortly afterward, involves movers and shakers from several other tales of the Onteora Canon, and includes developments and crises first narrated in other volumes from the Canon, with emphasis on Statesman. So if you’ve come to this book without any other acquaintance with the Canon, please be warned: you will encounter people and events you might find puzzling from the narrations in this volume alone.

I didn’t intend that it be this way. Really, I didn’t. I can only hope that you’re reading this before plunking your cash on the barrelhead. I wouldn’t want the book’s designation as a romance to mislead you.

That having been said, if you have already paid for Antiquities and find yourself intrigued by its many references to other aspects of the Onteora Canon, that series of stories begins with Chosen One. I’ve included an excerpt from that novel at the end of this volume. I’m sure the heroes and geniuses of my fictional playground would be delighted to make your acquaintance.

May God bless and keep you, dear reader.

Francis W. Porretto

Mount Sinai, NY

October 2, 2020

PS: There really isn’t any such place as Onteora County, New York...at least, I don’t think there is. It’s too filled with wondrous persons doing wondrous things. Moreover, if there were such a place, in New York State or elsewhere, its movers and shakers might be displeased that I’ve disclosed its existence to outsiders. But one can never be sure about these things, so should you stumble across a real-life Onteora in your travels, please keep my having revealed it to you on the down low.

– FWP –

They say that hope is the weakest of reeds, the slenderest of threads. That it’s not something you could rely on when hanging off the edge of a cliff. But to one who’s been parted from the only thing that matters to him, hope can seem unbreakable.

I wasn’t yet at the pinnacle of entertainment journalism, but I was considered a rising star. I could get to see most entertainers I might take an interest in. The really big ones might resist, but the open secret of their industry, if you can call it that, is that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Anyone who can get them a little more popular attention is an asset—and even when I was a stripling with nothing but a steno pad and a brassy attitude, I was able to get them more than a little.

Still, I expected an entertainer who’s also a partner in a major venture capital firm to be a different breed of creature. I expected her to decline, especially given recent events. That she didn’t was only a prelude to the surprises that awaited me.

I didn’t expect her to answer the door herself, but she did. I didn’t expect her to delay her breakfast for me, or to invite me to join her, but she did. I certainly didn’t expect her to make and serve me eggs Benedict with candied yams, but she did. There were no servants anywhere. She seemed light years off the norm for an owner of a multibillion-dollar firm. Not that I’d met any others. I certainly couldn’t name any others who were also fashion-magazine-cover subjects and widely admired musicians.

"Nice breakfast," I said as I unfolded my napkin.

She smiled. Nice to have company to eat it with. Besides, I’m trying to keep my hand in. Coffee?

"Of course."

She poured for us both. I was about to pick up my fork and dig in when I noticed that she’d bowed her head over her folded hands. I immediately did the same.

"Father, bless this repast, she intoned, and sustain us in our faith and our love, that our trust in You and our hope of Your mercy might never falter. In Christ our Lord, Amen."

"Amen," I said. I looked up and found her regarding me with a hint of curiosity.

"Which denomination?" she said.

"I was raised Catholic."

"Ah. Mine as well."

"I know."

We set to our breakfasts.

"I was surprised you agreed to be interviewed," I said between bites.

"I wasn’t sure I would, she said. Things are a little strange at the moment."

I snorted. Now there’s an understatement. But haven’t they been strange for some time now?

"You could say so. She sipped at her coffee. The escape of the most famous political prisoner in history, the president publicly vowing vengeance against the owner of Mankind’s first space habitat—"

"Which your company helped to fund."

She nodded. The first war to be fought in orbit, and of course the death of the president and vice-president under the most mysterious imaginable circumstances. ‘Strange’ might not quite cover it.

"A lot of people think your firm was involved," I said.

"I know." She forked up the last of her eggs.

"Well? Were you?"

Her gaze was gently sardonic.

"If we were, do you really think I’d admit it?"

I shrugged. Sorry. I did have to ask.

She chuckled. No you didn’t. But I knew you would.

We finished our breakfasts in silence. She took the dishes to the sink, rinsed them, and gestured to me with the coffee carafe. I shook my head and fished my recorder out of my purse. She noted it and smiled.

"Those must be a great blessing in your trade."

"No argument. It’s worth ten times its price for the time-stamping and security features alone. I unwrapped and thumb-printed a fresh memory cartridge and inserted it into the recorder. Shall we get started?"

She nodded, and I pressed the Start key.

"The question I’ve most wanted to ask since this all started probably isn’t the one you expect me to lead off with, I said. But it’s the one that’s uppermost in my mind. Do you think you’ll ever see him again?"

She nodded. I’m sure of it.

It was one of her less satisfactory crowds, but then, it was one of her less inspired performances. She tried to suppress the feeling of pointlessness, but that night the suspicion was too much with her that her time as a performer had drawn near to a close. It didn’t help that small venues such as Tipplers’ Retreat and crowds that seldom exceeded two hundred listeners had become her norm. The sense that her career was near to its end seeped into her playing and singing against her will.

Yet except for a handful, they stayed to the end. That, at least, was gratifying. Her guitar playing was still competent, if not much more. Even when not at its best, her voice could still compel and woo. At sixty years of age, a performer by trade for forty of them, it was something to be grateful for. Probably more grateful than she was.

She played and sang for ninety minutes, interleaving songs from her years as the face of Ineffable with songs of her own composition, with a single ten minute break in the middle. It was all she had in her. The crowd applauded perfunctorily as she took her closing bow. She remained standing, wondering whether the crowd would request an encore. It had been common enough when she was better known. There came no such request. The attendees merely rose and made for the exit. Their silence was a harsher critique of her performance than anything they might have said.

Weakness born of hunger coursed through her. She drooped and started to totter. Her grip loosened and her guitar fell from her hand to clatter against the dais. Her volition lapsed and she toppled forward. A man who’d been sitting in the front row surged forward. A moment later she was wrapped in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. She moaned her thanks as she lost consciousness.

#

She awoke slowly, finding herself in a high-backed chair that was sidled up to the bar. Across from her sat a stranger, presumably the man who had caught her when she fell from the dais. He was of medium height, perhaps a little taller than she was. He had a trim but broad-shouldered build, a weathered but pleasant face, and a mass of dark brown hair around a prominent Saint Anthony’s bald spot. He wore a navy blue sport jacket over a blue dress shirt, neatly pressed navy blue slacks, and black walking shoes. He watched her with open concern. Apart from the two of them and the bartender, Tipplers’ Retreat was empty.

What time is it? she slurred.

Isn’t it customary to ask ‘where am I’ first? he said.

She shook her head gently and waited for her head to clear and her eyes to focus. Thank you, I’d forgotten the rules. And thank you for catching me. That hasn’t happened in quite a while.

There was still concern in his eyes. But it has happened before?

She nodded.

Have you had a checkup recently?

No, I...I’m fine.

His look became frankly challenging. I hope I won’t offend you if I express a smidgen of doubt about that.

She grimaced but said nothing.

When did you eat last? he said.

She shrugged. Yesterday afternoon.

He swore under his breath. That would explain a lot. Do you think you’re able to walk? Safely, I mean.

She levered herself out of the chair, stood, and tested her balance. It seemed restored. I can manage from here. Thanks again. She started away.

His hand flashed out and took her by the forearm. She gaped at him in surprise. He did not relent.

Nothing doing, he said. You need to eat, and right away. Pull up the hem of your gown so you won’t trip.

In her younger days she would have responded with violence. Even ten years before she would at the least have protested his assertion of authority over her. That night she did as she’d been told. She allowed him to wrap an arm around her waist, to lead her out of the bar to a large, dark automobile parked a few dozen yards away, to install her in the passenger’s seat, and to drive her away into the night.

"You didn’t even protest?" I said.

"It would have been pointless, she said. I could never have fought him off, he wasn’t about to take no for an answer, and no one else was likely to pitch in. I had to trust him. Anyway, he was right. I was in need of nutrition I wasn’t going to get from the complimentary peanuts at the bar."

"So you let a perfect stranger herd you into his car and drive you God knows where!" I shook my head.

"Indeed I did, dear, she said. And it turned out to be the best decision I’d made in forty years. You know what they say about getting involved with a perfect stranger? I shook my head. Perfect strangers are no danger at all. It’s the imperfect ones that cause the nasty shocks."

Why are you doing this? she said as the waitress moved away. She attacked her eggs Benedict and candied yams with unconcealed hunger.

Shouldn’t I? Have I embarrassed you?

No...well, maybe a little at the bar, she said between bites. But I didn’t really mind. It’s just that kindness isn’t something to expect around here.

He smirked. Tough area?

You could say so.

You had a pretty good turnout this evening.

She shrugged. There isn’t much to do in Hamilton on a Friday night.

That’s true of a lot of continental New York, he said. But Hamilton had you.

The note of warmth in his voice piqued her curiosity. He seemed entirely sincere.

You’re not local? she said.

He shook his head. I was in town for business.

Where’s home?

Onteora County. About an hour’s drive south and west. You’re not a New Yorker, I take it?

She shook her head.

Where are you from?

I’m not really ‘from’ anywhere any more. I’ve been living and performing wherever I could get a booking for quite a while now.

Where originally?

Virginia. A little town in the Blue Ridge named Crozet that doesn’t even have its own post office.

Ah. Well, my appointment ran late, so I decided to hang around rather than drive back home right away. He extended a hand. By the way, I’m Evan.

She clasped it briefly. Gail. What sort of business?

Venture capitalism.

Hm?

I look for new business possibilities that could use more money than they have, he said. If I find one that I like, I give the principals a shot in the arm and take a piece of the action.

A big piece?

Not usually. It averages around ten percent. I want the people I fund to feel a little obligation, but also to remember that they’re largely working for themselves, just as they were before I happened along. His brow furrowed. You’ve never heard of venture capitalism before?

Well, no, she said. Business stuff is sort of out of my orbit. Is that what you’ve always done?

Most of my life, he said. "I started out as an industrial chemist. I got lucky early on. I patented a process I came up with on my own time, and I was able to license it to a Fortune 100 firm for a big advance and some serious royalties.