Brushstrokes

By Pauli Peter

Brushstrokes is a collection of short stories, glimpses of people, events, and places observed and embellished upon, but as loose and perhaps unfinished as brushstrokes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798886546569

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Brushstrokes

Pauli Peter

Copyright © 2023 Pauli Peter

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88654-650-7 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-656-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Borderline

The Pigeon

Pocahontas

The Green Man

Running to Paradise

Tall Pine Trees Guide the Stars

Time Wasted on a Rose

Of Mortal Goods Bereft

Sunlight on Water

Initial Conditions

For Our Children's Children

About the Author

Borderline

As though someone has said, Freeze-frame, they shut up as he enters the room. They had been talking politics in a conversation initiated by the redheaded woman. Perhaps she was just naturally friendly, unwilling to eat breakfast in silence, she as her companions of chance confined by forces of strangeness each to their own island in this pink-covered breakfast archipelago. A sailor then, unafraid of uncharted seas, red hair played through by a salty wind, she had started with a casual comment as though there were no bridges to cross.

Her hair is not naturally red; he can tell. This color of polished copper pots whose only purpose is decoration, not actual use, can only come from a bottle, even though her coloring could easily be that of a red-haired woman—fair, freckled, green eyes.

Well, perhaps everyone had less, but it was more evenly distributed, she had said just before he stepped fully into the room, proving herself a defender of communism.

But she's American. He knows. He had seen her show her passport the day she arrived because the reception desk is in the breakfast room. This being a pension rather than an actual hotel.

He asked the white-haired man, Do you mind? Rather than the Turk, not because he has anything against Turks but because the white-haired man is nearly finished, and he will have a table to himself.

The woman who runs, or even owns, the pension got up from behind the desk, grabbed the coffeepot off the table, said, I'll just refill this.

Tea, he said, could I have tea, please?

Certainly. She dashed off, but he knew that it will be more trouble than she was making out.

Everyone else was drinking coffee. The tea had to be made special. The kitchen was just off the breakfast room, and it was small because this had been just a regular apartment house converted into a pension. No doubt because of the convenient location close to the railway station and the center of the city.

He wished the conversation would resume. Everyone was strangely silent, as though they did not quite trust him. There existed no reason, of course, for as far as he knew, none of them knew each other either. The silence was strangling. He remembered other times. That was the way it would start, some friendly harmless conversation.

No, he told himself, this is ridiculous.

The Stasi¹ no longer existed. Since their state has become defunct, they have become the persecuted.

Everyone wanted this, the Turk said, and now they do nothing but complain.

Of course everyone wanted this, the redheaded woman said with a smile. It makes no sense having a fence run through the middle of a country. But all the changes were imposed by the West. There were no compromises.

But people want everything right away. We had to work for it for years, the other woman said. She wore a flowered cotton dress, her hair in an intricate braid, quietly elegant but somehow drab next to the redheaded woman in her faded jeans. She looked like a schoolteacher.

And here? the redheaded woman said quietly, here they didn't work?

And why did so many try to flee? The white-haired man, already standing, apparently felt the need to contribute something before leaving. He wondered if they were all from the West.

Because of our propaganda.

We were free. They were not.

Conditions were imposed upon the people here (No, she would not call them Ossies, the derogatory term for the new and not always welcome citizens of the proud western democracy) as they were on us. Difference is all relative. They had full employment…

The conversations flowed on again, like surf on a nearly windless day gently lapping toward the beach. He lost track as the woman brought his tea. The white-haired man has left. The Turk was getting ready to leave. Both women were still there. He wondered about her. Stasi, he cannot help but think. It was something they would do, send a woman like that. Except the Stasi was now defunct, but there was always the CIA whose methods are the same, or even worse, he imagined based on what he has read.

Paranoia, he tried to scold himself, is not completely successful, however.

The wall came down, the fences fell, the border guards no longer shoot. As a matter of fact, most of them are out of a job like so many others. You can go anywhere in the world now without restriction, provided of course that you have the money, and money you have only if you have a job. That is what the redheaded woman understood as others from the West generally will not. CIA, they would want to keep an eye on the former enemy, make sure no wrong thinking would occur. Yes, she fit the bill, the perfect mole with an American passport and not really much of an accent.

The teacher woman got up to leave.

It was nice talking with you, the redheaded woman said, betraying in this moment that she was American.

Germans do not generally say things like that to people they hardly know.

Taken aback by this unexpected show of near friendship, the teacher woman half turned, said grudgingly, I hope you have a pleasant day.

They were alone for the moment, he and the mole. But she, who had been so friendly, talking to strangers as though they were best friends, ignored him. He did not find it surprising, not at all, for that was the way they operate, pretend to ignore what really interested them.

She was studying a map, appearing deeply absorbed. The young woman who worked here, perhaps cleans rooms as well, came in, asked the redheaded woman if she would like more coffee. When she declined, the girl asked him, almost as an afterthought, if he would like more tea. He shook his head. The girl proceeded to clean off the remains of the small breakfast buffet.

The woman owner or manager of the pension came in, sat down behind the desk, pored over a book but not with great concentration apparently for she asked the redheaded woman, Did you find your grandparents' house all right yesterday?

(So she had or used to have grandparents here. That would explain the way she spoke German. It would also be a great cover, of course. After all, who could check the story?)

Well, the house isn't there anymore. But I went were it used to be. It's really close to the streetcar stop. A lot has changed, really a lot. There used to be all fields and my grandparents' orchards. Now there are lots of new houses. And on the road out all kinds of businesses, almost looks like a street in the US.

But you found it all right? the woman said, strangely single-minded before returning to the book, which seemed to be her record of reservations.

The phone rang. The redheaded woman shoved her map in a bag, which was a little big for a purse, slung it over her shoulder, said, Bye, to everyone or no one in particular.

He heard her walk along the hallway, open a door, to her room apparently, and with a start he noted that she had not used a key, heard her close it again a few seconds later, and now she locked it, walked past the door of the breakfast room and down the three stairs to the front door.

He felt a surge of emptiness wash over him. A piece of him has been wrenched free, is drifting alone in a minute part of a much too vast universe, and all because the spy was gone, the redheaded spy with the American passport. Of course they must feel the need to keep track of backsliders, immobilize them before they become too powerful. He tried to convince himself that he was being melodramatic, has seen to many films, but the tight band around his brain did not loosen.

Even before the appearance of the redheaded spy, he had decided to spend an extra day in the city. He had not been here for several years, had observed the changes with some bewilderment and much interest. The new train station was actually quite nice with its stores and restaurants and what must be the cleanest toilets of any train station anywhere in the world. He had not, however, decided what to do, had considered the zoo, just for old times' sake, was however still bothered by seeing animals in cages even though logically he can acknowledge that zoos give many endangered species the chance to survive in relative comfort.

Still undecided, he got up, nodded vaguely in the direction of the woman behind the desk, and unhurriedly strolled down the stairs to the street without returning to his room. He walked past the zoo, though, across the bridge over the creek, toward the city bus center outside the train station. Still without a definite plan, he boarded a bus going to the monument, another place where he has not been in years. He recalled a vague sense of gloom and a tremor just on the edge of fear of the oppressive structure looming squat and dark over a grass-bordered pond.

The bus line ended in a side street running along the park at the far side of the monument. He bought a coffee from the vending booth outside. They used to have only ice cream. They must have changed to accommodate the Western tastes. He walked along the sandy path, behind a group of tourists who had gotten off a bus—a tour bus, not a city bus—shuffled through the thin layer of September leaves giving him nearly the same pleasure it had when he was a boy.

He spotted her in the distance; her hair gleaming in the sunlight like a copper helmet. A flash of thought brought a painting seen in a book by Rubens—no, Rembrandt—of a warrior wearing a copper helmet reflecting the light. She was not a warrior, at least not so directly. Yet she had chosen this monument of a battle for a visit. He wondered about her choice. She was taking pictures, searching for vantage points or perhaps trying not to shoot against the sun. Not like the ordinary tourist, just pointing and shooting. She changed lenses, appearing adept at working with a camera.

While he stood at the ticket counter still sheltered by the group of tourists, she moved up the stairs hesitatingly, slowly, pausing several times, looking back out over the city.

How had she known that he would be here? No, of course she would not need to read minds; he had not known himself that this is where he would come. She would simply have followed, seen which bus he got on, took a small chance that this is where he would come—a small chance because there was no other point of any interest along this bus route. She would then simply have taken a taxi to get here before his bus. It made perfect sense and could be accomplished quite easily.

He was vaguely looking for some sign that she had spotted him. But no, she would move with the certainty of knowing where her prey was at all times, revealing nothing. By the time he reached the stairs, she had disappeared into the monument. He climbed the stairs behind another group of tourists, entered the monument, found a showcase displaying pictures of the history to stand behind while his eyes adjusted to the change from the bright sunlight outside to the artificial illumination in the huge chamber. She was there with her camera like any tourist, except she was picking odd angles. At one time, she appeared to be taking a picture of a foot of one of the giant statues. He wondered why the foot, lost sight of her, and before he could move, she backed around the corner into him.

She said, Oops, sorry. She turned to face him. She looked vaguely puzzled as though she might know him but could not quite place the face.

She was good, he thought, really good at what she does. He finally said, I saw you at breakfast. We are staying in the same pension.

Oh, yeah, sorry, she said. I guess I was a little preoccupied. She seemed to be apologizing for not having recognized him.

You…uh…like this? He made a sweeping gesture encompassing the room.

She grinned. "I wouldn't exactly call it like. It's a bit oppressive. But I've never been here, even the times when I've stayed with my grandparents. I saw a picture somewhere recently, and I wanted to check if this thing is as big as it looked."

Is it?

It's bigger. I wish someone would build a monument this big for peace. Her forthcoming candor amazed him.

He nodded. Have you been all the way to the top yet?

She shook her head. I get vertigo.

The revelation surprised him. He would not have thought that agents would have such weaknesses. It would make them vulnerable to extortion or torture. Or perhaps such frank admissions would render them above suspicion and therefore make them more effective.

Her eyes are the yellowish green that is sometimes called olive. Witches were said to have green eyes and red hair. Again, he tried to chide himself for his paranoia, the inclination to be melodramatic. Perhaps she was no more than an American returning to her roots. Was that not what so many of them were doing, those from the West, who would prefer the East without the ossies?

Well, I guess I'm going to be moving on, she said, putting the camera gently back into the bag, slinging it over her shoulder and walking toward the exit.

He said nothing, watched her on the verge of disappearing, not following him, wanting nothing. He walked a few rapid steps to catch up. Wait, he said, added when she turned, surprised, Have you had lunch? I mean, we're practically neighbors…perhaps— He stopped.

This was always how they worked. They were never glum-looking people with gruff manners. On the other hand, there existed the minute chance that she was just a redheaded woman with vertigo and green eyes. People used to scale the barbed wire fences for lesser promises.

Bit early, she said. For lunch, I mean.

I suppose, but there is nothing around here anyway. One would have to go back toward town. He felt himself sliding from the pedestal of safe silence, found fence poles toppling and barbed wire dissolving into the harmless gossamer of spiderwebs as she said, It might be nice, actually, to have some company.

The Pigeon

It was actually still a little early, but since she was near the galleria anyway, she thought it might be nice to at least look for potential Christmas presents. She had been participating in a food drive as a volunteer, of course, commenting only half jokingly that she did volunteer work for free, which she would never do for money. Actually she hated asking perfect strangers for food. So the break was well deserved. She had not actually bought anything either, just made mental notes and then had looked for a place in the food court that sold vegetarian food. There were several; she had picked the Indian booth then taken the food on a tray outside because it was sunny and rather warm for the season, even in California.

In spite of the noise inside and the sunshine, the outside area was not very populated, and she had no problem finding a table for herself. She always took a book along, having an irrational fear of finding herself sitting somewhere with nothing to read, but rather than reading, she watched the pigeons who are not at all shy. Because she cannot finish all the rice, she dropped some for the pigeons. The older couple at a nearby table died not look at all pleased. However, she refrains from making a comment. The day was mellow, and she did not want it ruined by a potential argument about the right of pigeons. She spread some of the rice on the table next to hers so that the pigeons would come closer.

She made some encouraging remarks then stopped with a start, for among them was a pigeon with crippled feet. It looked as though its toes have been melted together by a hot flame. She felt a sharp stab of pain as her imagination provided scenes of how the feet might have become that way. She wanted to find a comforting word, but of course, there was nothing much one can say to a pigeon, which would make a great deal of sense. Instead she spread more rice on the table, glad that the pigeon with the crippled feet got a fair share and quietly hoped the couple would say something after all so that she could be nasty to them. For however the pigeon was hurt, she was quite sure that a human was the cause.

For ecological reasons, she rode the bus home, tried to read but kept thinking of the pigeon, wanted to cry but cannot. As she checked the mail, she ran into Asher and Jaimie, asked how the search for a cat or dog was coming.

This is not a good time, Jaimie said. I'm working rather a lot, and I think one should spend some time with a new dog.

Jaimie was right of course. They discussed pets for a while and then Asher talked about a TV show he had seen about cats and dogs as food somewhere in Asia, and that young cats get boiled alive, taken out of a box by a stick to which they cling in desperation but trusting. While she had not seen the TV program, the description burned an image into her mind.

She went in and hugged her own cats. Knowing that while she was a pacifist, went to demonstrations, a vegetarian, if anyone hurt her cats, she would feel quite capable of hurting such a perpetrator. She tried not to think of boiled kittens, and immediately the pigeon with the melted feet intruded into her mind. She wanted to run and hide, dug out a crossword puzzle, which was more distracting than the book, turned on the TV, and with a cat on her lap, imagined the world in her image.

On Monday, she took Karen to the doctor in Karen's car. Karen had a brain tumor and could not drive, so she takes her when she needs to go somewhere. She has a part-time teaching job and tutors as well, so her time is pretty much her own, and she fills it with volunteer work whenever she can. The pigeon came back at unpredictable intervals because she was trying to figure out how its feet got that way. The imagination supplied pain. She wanted to feel secure in the thought of having fed it rice, but the rice did not fix the feet.

She had dinner with Jeremy, wondering again if she should give in to his subtle hints for a deeper relationship. She did not quite want to commit. She did not tell him about the pigeon, although she wanted to. Sometimes she did not want to be alone, thought it might be comforting to share life with another but generally concluded that she would rather not have to fight for understanding or even acceptance.

She went window-shopping some more. Not fond of religions in general, she did like Christmas for the opportunity it provided to give gifts to anyone she knew, spend hours finding just the right thing. Most of all, she loved buying presents for her nephews. The oldest one collects CDs. She knew the music did not matter half so much as owning yet another CD. He appeared to be in competition with his buddies at school, and the count alone seemed to matter. The youngest was easy to find something for. She liked Phillip, the middle one, the best because he was the family rebel. He pretended to be a rightist sometimes for it drives his