Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Art / Music / Theater / Dance
- Published: 05/11/2014
Life on the Other Side of Anything
Born 1969, M, from Herten, NRW, GermanyThe artwork that is posted along with this short story is called
LOST IN THE DESERT
It was painted by Charles E.J. Moulton in acrylic colors on May 11th, 2014.
By the way, Chuck Rule was my dad Herbert Eyre Moulton's best friend. Chuck's sister Janice Rule was a big Hollywood star who starred in "The Swimmer", acting alongside Burt Lancaster.
My dad Herbert Eyre Moulton wrote many pieces I have posted here on Storystar.
Chuck and Herb went to school together as kids in Illinois in the 1930's, lived in New York together and Chuck came to visit my mum and dad and me in Vienna and often invited us for dinner at The Bristol Hotel. We went to Tout va Bien in Manhattan after seeing Lou Diamond Philipps and Donna Murphy in "The King & I" at the Neil Simon Theatre. When one of my mum's voice students needed money for an expensive dental operation, Chuck went back to performing "The Phantom of the Opera" for three months just to pay for the bills.
Chuck was a really nice guy and one helluva singer!
Now, enjoy this musical, gastronomical and philosophical story.
Life on the Other Side of Anything
A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
I don’t know if it was the background music by Johann Strauss or the meal that rested in his belly. I don’t know if it was the mellow Manhattan warmth of an April evening or the performance of La Gioconda that we had just seen at the Metropolitan Opera. I just knew that he was happy. For the first time in a long while, my dad was happy.
He had heard God sing.
What a good reason to become philosophical.
“Chilean Wine is like the abstract art of Frantisek Kupka,” he mused in the low rumble of the bass I had come to adore ever since my childhood. “The taste is in the pallet of the beholder,” he continued. “Colorful.”
“Who’s Frantisek Kupka?” I responded.
“An abstract artist. A work of his is at the National Gallery in Washington D.C. There is a painting there from 1912 called Localization of Graphic Motifs II,” he said and then pointed at the wine. “This wine has an equal amount of flavors.”
“Your voice has just as many colors, dad,” I mused. “I’ve always said that.”
He laughed. “No. My voice is old, dear. Old and shot like a running monkey.”
“You’re still the best bass baritone around, dad. Even when you speak. You know that.”
Memories of the old Broadway tunes he sang to me at my bedside now emerged up from the depths of my soul. Embrace Me, I Got Rhythm, If Ever I Would Leave You, Speak Low, Camelot, I’ve Grown Accustomed To Her Face. Whenever he sang or spoke, whether it was day or night, many a time memories of goodnight stories came flooding back, bringing a smile to my face.
“No, you,” he boomed back at me. “You are the best.”
Lifting the glass to his lips and letting the grape-juice trickle down his throat, I pictured his favorite wine from the Chilean Andes actually making his old rumbling Broadway voice go even deeper. What an amusing thought. What a faithful daughter I was. How I loved him. I would love him even if his voice rumbled lower into the subcontra-octave. How happy I was to see him smile. How happy I was ...
If only I could hope for something good to happen.
I had to think of something else. It was too much to hope for.
“You and ... her, you are the two best singers I know,” he sighed. “La Gioconda.”
“That’s so sweet, dad,” I crooned. “Thanks.”
I carefully listened to the sound of the wine gurgling in his mouth, his sighs and chuckles, the soft chatter of the couples nearby, the waiter walking so softly across the red carpet that it sounded like the seductive stroke of the bow on the violins way in the distance of the hidded stereo. The wine, the food, the laughter, the love, the memories of the opera we had just seen, the pain behind all of this, it mingled. God, how painfully it blended together.
“This chocolate mousse feels like heaven on a Sunday,” I answered, quietly.
“It is Sunday, dear,” my father said, happily. I realized he was only half at leisure, a portion of his savings giving him a daily dose of luxury, a part of him beating around the bush. I am sure he would go back to singing Off-Broadway or take a summer gig at some Shakespeare festival, if he only could. Right now, my father Chuck Rule glanced, inside himself, at a smiling Christ in the form of the operatic memory we had just created.
“As much as I want to stay here, I can’t put off my appointment tomorrow. It is too much of a good chance to pass. And you should go to bed, dad.”
“I know.”
I nodded, knowing that we had been trying to keep the conversation going for a bit now, avoiding the fact that he was sick.
“Where is it? What are you auditioning for, I mean?”
“Well, third time’s a charm,” I answered, elusively, trying to read his reaction. “You know where. Same old place.”
He waited for a moment, trying to decipher what I meant.
That proverbial lightbulb lit above his head. He raised his eyebrows, his cheeks turned red, he laughed a few times, cocked his head in that annoyed way.
“He keeps on wanting to hear you, doesn’t he?”
“He’s been insisting on making high notes flow better,” I added. “I hit them and hold them and make them soar, but Velucci wants me to make love to the high notes.”
“To him or the notes?”
“Oh, dad, stop it,” I spat. “Velucci is gay.”
“Velucci? Gay?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I nodded.
“Then go make love to your notes,” he rumbled. “But no wet dreams, okay?”
I giggled, actually feeling awkward having my dad speak to me in that way.
I lift my head and waved toward the blackhaired man that now had arrived back in his corner, waiting for someone to give him a slow wink. He looked up, twitched and blinked, for a second looking like an elegant weasel. My red dress swayed as I shifted in my seat. I took out my lipstick and let the Revlon kiss my lips. When I looked up again, my dad seemed to be dreaming, still closing his eyes and smiling.
“Your mind still in the Met?” I asked, trying to pull him out of his vision.
He opened his eyes and giggled at me. I saw that his soul no longer lingered among physical beings. His experience in the opera had been one that transcended eternity. He had called Lucilla Tracciatella a ... what was it again?
“She is a gift of God,” he mused. “Her voice must have been created by Jesus.”
I smiled, letting my make-up frame my ivories, giving that supersoft L’Oréal skin an extra run for its money.
“Well, I’m happy I could give you that experience,” I said, actually waiting for him to join me in my exit, worried daughter that I was. “Happy birthday!” Something else kept me here, though. I didn’t know what it was. “Are you going home soon, too?”
My indecisive father nodded, shook his head and shrugged simultaneously. I have no idea how he did it, only that he was able to wave away the waiter, that now had arrived at our table, at the same time. The waiter nodded siedways, cocking his head in the process, and left.
Men are capable of multitasking, after all, I thought to myself, for one moment forgetting about how sad my dad’s situation was right now.
“I’ll have another glass of my strange abstract Chilean wine.”
“You don’t have to pay for this meal,” I told him. “Really.”
“You paid for the tickets,” he rumbled. “I’ll pay for the food.”
I shrugged, standing up and giving his cheek a kiss.
“If you say so,” I agreed apprehensively. “It was fun.”
“Fun?” my dad inquired, his voice now rising to an amazing low C, which was high for him. “Disney World is fun. This was ... I don’t know what to call it. Divine. Yes, that’s it. Divine.”
“God must have a voice like that,” I said, lifting my napkin off the table and giving it an elegant French fold, “which proves that God is a woman. That’s why she made me a woman. I am heavenly.”
“So you are,” my dad laughed. “I’ve always loved your voice.”
“It will have to be lovely tomorrow or Madame Lisonka will not be as lovely to me.”
“Neither will Signor Velucci,” my father responded, giving me that odd tongue-in-cheek-like gaze that I had learned to fear. “That’s who you want to impress. Lisonka knows you since you were a baby. She knows me. She always wanted to turn me into a soprano. Didn’t quite work, though. So, I got stuck with playing King Arthur in Camelot. Damn it. I always wanted to sing Queen of the Night.”
He made a long pause and I looked at him, waited, smiled, nodded, finished the last drops of my Chilean wine. I realized that my father had been right about the taste of that grape juice. It really felt like drinking a painting, maybe a Holden Caulfield cubistic experiment, sold for a fortune and a half at some big auction. Cuisine and art had something in common.
“I would be a fabulous coloratura soprano, don’t you think?”
I nodded, gazing at the door and what lay beyond it.
Fifth Avenue lured me to enter its luxurious reality.
Then, my Park Avenue penthouse wanted me to slip inside its walls.
“Your Arthur was a cult phenomenon,” I said, disappearing into my thoughts for a bit.”
My dad chuckled and let that bubbly mirth trickle down his spine for a bit, making me believe he had actually managed to get drunk for the first time since mom’s death.
“That wine is the cult,” he said as I gazed back at him. “That wine will make forget my name. What’s my name? Joe, Jim, Johnny?”
“Stop it, dad,” I chuckled. “One could almost think you weren’t ...”
The sentence I had begun speaking actually got physically stuck in the middle of my throat. Now, I closed my eyes, not being able to believe that I had been so tactless. My face turned red. As it did, I felt my heart beating faster, thumping like crazy.
“God, I am sorry, dad,” I said, sighing. “Gee wiz, I am so stupid.”
“No, no, no,” my dad said, bravely and very quietly. “Say it.”
I bent over, caressed his head and kissed it.
“I meant to say that one almost ... couldn’t think you were so sick.”
“I don’t feel sick, Becky,” he said. “But my doctors say I am.”
He sighed, his expression turning confused.
“I am so sorry. We will find a ...”
“Stop it, Becky,” my dad spat, his voice now turning gritty. “That is not my strong daughter talking. Be brave. I taught you that, didn’t I?”
I nodded.
“Then go home and sleep,” he added. “And be absolutely brilliant tomorrow,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “Or else!”
I smiled, nodding like the good girl I was, standing where I was, lifting the glass, pretending there was a drop of wine left, realizing there wasn’t, feeling silly, stalling, as if my soul waited for something. Waiting. Waiting. For what? God, for what? I feared leaving him. A parent’s death will do that to you. Two parents? Well, that was another matter entirely.
He leaned against my chest and I embraced his head, closed my eyes and tried to calm down. We had spent a good evening together. Why did this evening suddenly turn so painful? Because the evening was over and we now had to face being alone. Alone, letting that horror of demise creep into our hearts.
“I don’t want to die, Becky,” my dad said.
“You won’t,” I answered, caressing his cheek. “Just keep breathing, that’s all, and we will find a solution. Somewhere, there is an answer to our problem. Somewhere.”
As I bent over to kiss his left cheek again, his eyes seemed to shift in a way that I had rarely seen in my life. I had seen it when he tasted a really delicious birthday cake, preferably baked by his wife, or when he woke up one morning without the excruciating pain in his back. Now, the wonder in his eyes displayed nothing less than a miracle.
I saw him gazing at the opening doorway. When I, myself, let my eyes drift over there I only saw a blackhaired woman my age in a very expensive coat.
I gazed back at my father, laughed and shrugged.
“What?”
My father giggled.
“Jesus just decided to grant me a peek at how life looks on the other side,” he said.
I winced, waited again and then looked back at the doorway.
The door of the restaurant had closed from the inside now and the woman in question was heading our way.
She spoke briefly to the waiter that my dad had waved away just a minute ago.
That man bowed in an exact 45 degree angle and waved his hand in a gesture that looked like the half movement profile of a champion swimmer. The woman followed him and glanced at us in a very fleeting way. Half way across toward the next table, however, the woman stopped. And then, in one extraordinary moment of realization, I realized who she was. Those high Italian cheekbones, those red pouting lips, those blossoming cheeks, those sparkling brown eyes, those black curls, that half-smile and a complexion that was vanilla mixed with nougat, a bosom that leaned on the size of decently small watermelons. That kind of a buxom look would definately make any woman, including me, hate her. It would also make any man love her. My dad was in love with Tracciatella’s voice. Her looks were just a nice bonus. Her voice. That chocolate-rich soprano with its brilliant timbre, warm like a Rioja-grape. If her soprano-voice were a dessert, hers would be a Tiramisu, richly rum-flavored.
The woman took a moment to look at us, while the waiter behind her gestured eagerly for her to sit down by her chosen table. She shook her head, fervently, now deciding to actually take her instincts seriously.
My father stood up out of his seat, erect like a tin soldier.
“Miss Tracciatella,” he said, laughing. “May I say that you were glorious tonight? My daughter and I heard you sing. I was,” my father laughed, “... in heaven.”
The soprano smiled. “Thank you, Mr. ...?”
“Rule,” my father said. “Charles Edwin Rule, Singora. Your greatest admirer.”
The soprano lift her hand and caressed my father’s cheek. It was a small gesture, just a young hand caressing an old man’s cheek. So gentle, so fleeting, so kind.
“May I tell you a story, signora?” my dad inquired.
The woman took a few decisive steps toward us and smiled. “Of course. Go ahead.”
My father cleared his throat and began.
“I feel like I am invading your privacy, but you have a right to know this.”
“Well, I was just on my way to a table for a solitary glass of wine. I like some privacy after all that hullabaloo. But I am on my own, Mr. Rule, and you seem to be nice people. There is no reason why I cannot spend some time with you, no?”
The charming Italian accent sing-songed for a bit, but the moment of silence that followed told both me and Tracciatella that my father was about to say something serious. I feared the worst.
“I don’t know how to say this, Miss Tracciatella, so I will just say it. My son tried to kill himself a couple of months ago,” my father said. When my father uttered these words, it felt as if I was going to sink through the floor. “What stopped him from doing that was a recording he heard, by coincidence.It was you singing an aria from the opera we heard tonight. La Gioconda.”
I don’t know why, but I had the feeling that this would embarrass one of the greatest opera divas of our century. The pain inside me, brought on by these words, flung me slowly back towards the recollection of my brother standing on that ledge.
I looked away, my lip trembling, my teeth sinking into my tongue in order to control the sobs bubbling inside me.
“Miss Tracciatella,” I said. “My father rambles on ... forgive him.”
“I don’t ramble,” my dad spat, angrily. “Miss Tracciatella saved my son’s life. She has a right to know this.”
At that moment, I realized why I had stalled and why I had waited.
This was fate at work.
Miss Tracciatella lift her hand and looked at me. “You are ...?”
“Rebecca Rule, a colleague,” I said, closing my eyes humbly, actually feeling silly for calling myself a colleague. “I am a soprano, like you, but struggling to get somewhere.”
I waited, stalled again, felt those sobs now jittering in my throat, threatening to explode onto my tongue.
“Miss Rule,” she responded, batting her long eyelashes, her lucious Italian voice meandering into a soft Puccini-like tranquillity. “I am very interested in your father’s story. Let me listen to it.”
I smiled at the woman, realizing that it didn’t matter anymore that I maybe could profit from this situation in my career. She looked at me and I saw a woman who felt sympathetic toward us, who cared. Famous or not, she cared. Miss Tracciatella, whose voice had filled the Metropolitan Opera just now, sat down at our table, gesturing for me to sit down again and join my father as he shared the anecdote.
My father fiddled with his hands a bit, played with his napkin. His eyes danced back and forth for a few seconds, he held his breath and there was a moment when I am sure both Miss Tracciatella and I wondered what would happen next.
Then, my father exhaled, speaking in that low Lee Marvin-like rumble that I had learned to love. There was a serenity to his words, a restfulness that obviously affected Miss Tracciatella as well as me. And I wondered why I had been embarrassed by my father’s story at all. It was natural for him to want to share the tale with her.
And I listened just as intently as the diva obviously did.
My embarrassment had disappeared with Miss Tracciatella’s reprimand.
“It began a few months ago, when I was diagnosed with cancer,” my father began. “That was enough to make my son devastated, of course, knowing that my tumor was the size of a tennisball. It was located in a very bad place, which made matters worse. But my son’s grief became even deeper when he fought with his girlfriend over his lack of care for me. My son’s girlfriend left him in the middle of the night, claiming that she had made a serious mistake in starting the relationship with him at all. If that were not enough, he was also fired from his job. To make matters worse, a shopkeeper screamed at him during a very busy shopping day. My son was at the way back from a social service institution. Soon enough, he found himself on the edge outside on the ledge of the third floor of my daughter’s apartment building. But then, out of nowhere he heard music. Strangely beautiful music coming from a stereo somewhere in the distance.”
My father looked at me. I knew what was coming and my father now cried silent tears full of pride. I began crying, too, and Miss Tracciatella now lift her eyebrows, knowing in her heart that her admirer actually longed to embrace her and tell her how wonderful life was.
“He recognized that voice as yours, Miss Tracciatella,” my father said. “He had always been a fan of yours, but this situation was so fateful and so uncanny that it had to be God’s finger showing him the way. It was a voice from heaven and you were singing that famous aria Suicidio from Act 4, where La Gioconda stabs herself to death. Mark my words, Miss Tracciatella, La Gioconda has lost a parent and she was singing ‘it is a beautiful day to die’. You would think that would make him want to jump?”
The Italian diva nodded.
“It didn’t.”
I saw my father’s eyes move like they had when Miss Tracciatella came into the restaurant, when he tasted a delicious cake or when the pain in his back disappeared.
“He realized that if someone could write such beautiful music about committing suicide, then life was worth living. That’s strange, isn’t it?”
Tracciatella shook her head. “No, it’s beautiful. I saved someone’s life.”
My father cried, sobs now exploding through his throat and over into his face. The grimace of his facial features turned his mouth into a tremolo of desperation. Seeing how he cried, I cried along with him. The whole scenario became clear as a bell. I had taken my dad to La Gioconda to hear his favorite singer, on his birthday, only to distract the attention from the horrible memory of his son wanting to jump. Now, he chose to face it.
“Miss Rule?”
I looked over at Lucilla Tracciatella and saw that she cried, too.
“Yes?”
“Did the music come from your flat? Did you know your brother was about to kill himself?”
That bubbling sadness now exploded even further into my eyes. Not being able to control my tears, I buried my eyes in the napkin and sobbed. Signora Tracciatella reached out her hand and took mine, caressing it.
I shook my head. “No. I had no idea.”
“My dear,” she said. “Your brother chose life. You should be happy.”
I looked up at my colleague and nodded.
“The fact that my brother had chosen my apartment building to kill himself was difficult enough,” I began. “But I could have been away or I could’ve chosen another aria to listen to or could’ve sung myself. I don’t know. Whatever it was, it saved him.”
“Then be happy,” the Signora said. “Your brother is alive.”
“He stepped off the ledge, went to his girl and patched the whole thing up,” my father continued. “Now, they have decided to marry. He is still looking for work, but he is alive, engaged and happy. Which proves that there is always hope.”
The woman sitting opposite me now was no longer a famous opera star. No matter where she came from or what she had done to get there, the woman was simply a soul whose art had made someone choose life. And so, her runny mascara covered half of her face and her lip trembled. The smile that appeared on her face turned into a sad cry, one that twitched and became a laugh again.
“The difficult thing is,” I continued, “that my father’s tumor now has turned malignant. His doctors are unsure how long a time he has left.”
The Italian woman, that happened to be a famous opera star, lift her hand and caressed my father’s cheek again. She smiled at him. My God, this famous star really cared.
My father looked at me, insecure about his own demise.
Lucilla Tracciatella sat back in her chair, ignoring the looks of the other guests. To come to think of it, the other people weren’t only looking. They were staring. Somehow, it mattered little to us crazy artists. We were crying our eyes out, this famous star sitting at our table, the waiter now back at his position in the corner, the Signora obviously thinking very hard about something rather important. The slight similarity to the look in my father’s face sent shivers down my spine. What was this? Fate? Yes. It was.
“May I say that you are wearing the same expression my father always sports when he is thinking very hard about something?”
The star’s absent minded gaze met our eyes, but didn’t really penetrate our souls. The look lingered there, a half-smile bringing it sweet company.
“Uhm,” she said. “I don’t know if it will work.”
“What?” my father rumbled.
“I mean, I don’t know you that well.”
“Just tell us what is on your mind, Signora,” my father resounded.
Now, the diva made a decision. One that felt good. I had no idea at the time what that decision was, only that my soul told me it would change my life. She sat up in her chair, positioning her elbows on the table.
“I am a survivor, as well,” she said, closing her eyes, apparently stabbed by painful recollection.
“What do you mean?” my dad mused. “Survivor of ...”
“Cancer,” she said. “Malignant cancer.”
My eyes drifted back and forth between my dad and Miss Tracciatella. The clear insecurity that came shooting out of the star at that moment made me insecure and I think it had the same effect on my dad.
“You? When?” I said.
“My agent is probably going to kill me for telling you this,” her voice danced, consonants overpronounced in a clear Milano way. “But this has to be fate. I would not be here, hearing you say these things without a reason.”
She leaned even further over toward us, probably in order to avoid any other guests overhearing our conversation.
“The press called it Lucilla’s Sabbatical Year,” she said.
“That was it?” my dad said. “You left the opera world to cure cancer?”
The diva now opened her eyes wide, waving her hands around. “I am entrusting with secrets here, so please don’t tell anyone. Okay?”
We both nodded and I think that she knew we could be trusted.
She now laughed, a look of hope spreading across her entire countenance.
“Why do you think my hair was so short when I returned to the Met?”
“You mean, you were cured of a brain tumor?”
Sighing and leaning back in her chair, she knew her risk could cost her jobs, if her agent disagreed with her about her honesty or the press somehow found out about it.
“My doctor has his practice in San Diego,” she began. “He is famous for curing cancer patients. If you want, I can introduce you to him.”
My father looked at me and I looked at him.
When we looked back at the Signora, she had already ordered to replace the empty bottle of Chilean red wine with a full one.
When our three gazes met, no tears flooded our sweet faces.
We all knew what we wanted to do.
Call my brother and tell him that we might have found a good doctor for his father.
Maybe, just maybe, I could convince the Signora to join Velucci and Lisonka.
Maybe, just maybe, I would be able to audition not only for them, but also for Tracciatella. Not that it mattered anymore, but it felt damn good.
A year later, at the moment of writing, I am sitting back in my Park Avenue apartment in New York City after my initial premiere as La Gioconda at the Metropolitan Opera. I think it quite unprecendented that two sopranos have worked so well together in sharing one role with each other. The oppurtunities are endless. No more Callas and Tibaldi-like rivalry. Just two gals singing the same role in the same opera house and going shopping in the teabreaks.
Killing myself on stage, while singing that aria, has become extremely difficult, though. At the curtain call, however, I got my reward. I didn’t have to walk out a hundred times and bow before the crowd like Pavarotti did once or twice. I counted twenty-two curtain calls. Someone else counted twenty-five. That’s okay for an emerging star.
Oh, yes. I have to add that my dad is San Diego now. I sort of paid his hospital expenses with my money from this gig here at the opera. But that’s also okay. My brother says that once these performances become routine, I could pay for five more operations. I hope I don’t have to. My dad should remain healthy.
I keep asking them when they are both returning to New York.
They say that the climate is so good over in San Diego, they might just stay there.
So they should. After all, my brother’s girlfriend went along for the ride. Although I think, personally, she only did it because she loves going to the beach so much. But my brother is happy with his Jennifer. Jennifer and John. Sounds cool, doesn’t it?
It also sounds cool that my family is alive.
If only mom was alive, too.
Well, she is looking down at us from heaven.
Now all I need is a boyfriend.
But that is another story.
Anyway, I got to go to bed now. Lucilla is coming over tomorrow. She is here in Manhattan, singing Elisabeth in Tannhäuser. I am not quite ready for that yet. Regardless, we both have our first free days in three months tomorrow. She has spent hers mostly in Milano, I have spent most of my time here, but now we have decided to spend a day together. Cooking? Talking shop? Talking men? Talking about agents? Taking my Porsche on a spin around the country? We don’t know yet. Maybe we will just be avoiding the press.
Whatever we decide, it will be fun.
I still have to pinch myself, though. I really can’t believe I am living this dream of a lifestyle. Especially since I was just a struggling artist last year. Okay, a rich struggling artist living on Park Avenue. Still, nobody knew who I was this time last year. Now, it seems that the expectancy the press has had in hearing the new Gioconda, meaning me, has created a hype that I wonder if I am capable of facing. In any case, I am happy that my father is alive.
And I know now what life is like on the other side.
Of what, you ask?
On the other side of anything. Life, death, obscurity, fame, happiness, desperation.
I am on the other side of pain. I can now appreciate joy, because I have know what pain is like. I can now appreciate fame, because I know what obscurity is like. For where there is a light in the darkness, there is hope. And so I will tell Lucilla when she comes over tomorrow to keep breathing and never give up, even if her cancer does return.
My father is alive. That is the main thing.
Thank God. Thank Lucilla Tracciatella.
If she ever needs me, I will be there for her, to hold her hand, to sing with her, on the same stages, for the same crowds. And to show the world and the press that it is possible to cooperate, even if you happen to be two bitchy sopranos aiming for world stardom.
What is fame anyway?
Fame is fickle.
Creativity rules.
If fame arrives as a result of that creativity, that’s fine.
Ah, wait. There’s a text message on my phone.
Lucilla’s plane just landed.
She’s looking forward to seeing me tomorrow.
That’s what I always say when I get up in the morning, before I look at myself in the mirror, that is. Just kidding. If there’s one thing that helps, it’s self-irony. Good friends come in special packages. Lucilla’s package is a special one.
I will go to bed now.
What will I dream about?
I will dream about life on the other side – of anything.
Life on the Other Side of Anything(Charles E.J. Moulton)
The artwork that is posted along with this short story is called
LOST IN THE DESERT
It was painted by Charles E.J. Moulton in acrylic colors on May 11th, 2014.
By the way, Chuck Rule was my dad Herbert Eyre Moulton's best friend. Chuck's sister Janice Rule was a big Hollywood star who starred in "The Swimmer", acting alongside Burt Lancaster.
My dad Herbert Eyre Moulton wrote many pieces I have posted here on Storystar.
Chuck and Herb went to school together as kids in Illinois in the 1930's, lived in New York together and Chuck came to visit my mum and dad and me in Vienna and often invited us for dinner at The Bristol Hotel. We went to Tout va Bien in Manhattan after seeing Lou Diamond Philipps and Donna Murphy in "The King & I" at the Neil Simon Theatre. When one of my mum's voice students needed money for an expensive dental operation, Chuck went back to performing "The Phantom of the Opera" for three months just to pay for the bills.
Chuck was a really nice guy and one helluva singer!
Now, enjoy this musical, gastronomical and philosophical story.
Life on the Other Side of Anything
A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
I don’t know if it was the background music by Johann Strauss or the meal that rested in his belly. I don’t know if it was the mellow Manhattan warmth of an April evening or the performance of La Gioconda that we had just seen at the Metropolitan Opera. I just knew that he was happy. For the first time in a long while, my dad was happy.
He had heard God sing.
What a good reason to become philosophical.
“Chilean Wine is like the abstract art of Frantisek Kupka,” he mused in the low rumble of the bass I had come to adore ever since my childhood. “The taste is in the pallet of the beholder,” he continued. “Colorful.”
“Who’s Frantisek Kupka?” I responded.
“An abstract artist. A work of his is at the National Gallery in Washington D.C. There is a painting there from 1912 called Localization of Graphic Motifs II,” he said and then pointed at the wine. “This wine has an equal amount of flavors.”
“Your voice has just as many colors, dad,” I mused. “I’ve always said that.”
He laughed. “No. My voice is old, dear. Old and shot like a running monkey.”
“You’re still the best bass baritone around, dad. Even when you speak. You know that.”
Memories of the old Broadway tunes he sang to me at my bedside now emerged up from the depths of my soul. Embrace Me, I Got Rhythm, If Ever I Would Leave You, Speak Low, Camelot, I’ve Grown Accustomed To Her Face. Whenever he sang or spoke, whether it was day or night, many a time memories of goodnight stories came flooding back, bringing a smile to my face.
“No, you,” he boomed back at me. “You are the best.”
Lifting the glass to his lips and letting the grape-juice trickle down his throat, I pictured his favorite wine from the Chilean Andes actually making his old rumbling Broadway voice go even deeper. What an amusing thought. What a faithful daughter I was. How I loved him. I would love him even if his voice rumbled lower into the subcontra-octave. How happy I was to see him smile. How happy I was ...
If only I could hope for something good to happen.
I had to think of something else. It was too much to hope for.
“You and ... her, you are the two best singers I know,” he sighed. “La Gioconda.”
“That’s so sweet, dad,” I crooned. “Thanks.”
I carefully listened to the sound of the wine gurgling in his mouth, his sighs and chuckles, the soft chatter of the couples nearby, the waiter walking so softly across the red carpet that it sounded like the seductive stroke of the bow on the violins way in the distance of the hidded stereo. The wine, the food, the laughter, the love, the memories of the opera we had just seen, the pain behind all of this, it mingled. God, how painfully it blended together.
“This chocolate mousse feels like heaven on a Sunday,” I answered, quietly.
“It is Sunday, dear,” my father said, happily. I realized he was only half at leisure, a portion of his savings giving him a daily dose of luxury, a part of him beating around the bush. I am sure he would go back to singing Off-Broadway or take a summer gig at some Shakespeare festival, if he only could. Right now, my father Chuck Rule glanced, inside himself, at a smiling Christ in the form of the operatic memory we had just created.
“As much as I want to stay here, I can’t put off my appointment tomorrow. It is too much of a good chance to pass. And you should go to bed, dad.”
“I know.”
I nodded, knowing that we had been trying to keep the conversation going for a bit now, avoiding the fact that he was sick.
“Where is it? What are you auditioning for, I mean?”
“Well, third time’s a charm,” I answered, elusively, trying to read his reaction. “You know where. Same old place.”
He waited for a moment, trying to decipher what I meant.
That proverbial lightbulb lit above his head. He raised his eyebrows, his cheeks turned red, he laughed a few times, cocked his head in that annoyed way.
“He keeps on wanting to hear you, doesn’t he?”
“He’s been insisting on making high notes flow better,” I added. “I hit them and hold them and make them soar, but Velucci wants me to make love to the high notes.”
“To him or the notes?”
“Oh, dad, stop it,” I spat. “Velucci is gay.”
“Velucci? Gay?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I nodded.
“Then go make love to your notes,” he rumbled. “But no wet dreams, okay?”
I giggled, actually feeling awkward having my dad speak to me in that way.
I lift my head and waved toward the blackhaired man that now had arrived back in his corner, waiting for someone to give him a slow wink. He looked up, twitched and blinked, for a second looking like an elegant weasel. My red dress swayed as I shifted in my seat. I took out my lipstick and let the Revlon kiss my lips. When I looked up again, my dad seemed to be dreaming, still closing his eyes and smiling.
“Your mind still in the Met?” I asked, trying to pull him out of his vision.
He opened his eyes and giggled at me. I saw that his soul no longer lingered among physical beings. His experience in the opera had been one that transcended eternity. He had called Lucilla Tracciatella a ... what was it again?
“She is a gift of God,” he mused. “Her voice must have been created by Jesus.”
I smiled, letting my make-up frame my ivories, giving that supersoft L’Oréal skin an extra run for its money.
“Well, I’m happy I could give you that experience,” I said, actually waiting for him to join me in my exit, worried daughter that I was. “Happy birthday!” Something else kept me here, though. I didn’t know what it was. “Are you going home soon, too?”
My indecisive father nodded, shook his head and shrugged simultaneously. I have no idea how he did it, only that he was able to wave away the waiter, that now had arrived at our table, at the same time. The waiter nodded siedways, cocking his head in the process, and left.
Men are capable of multitasking, after all, I thought to myself, for one moment forgetting about how sad my dad’s situation was right now.
“I’ll have another glass of my strange abstract Chilean wine.”
“You don’t have to pay for this meal,” I told him. “Really.”
“You paid for the tickets,” he rumbled. “I’ll pay for the food.”
I shrugged, standing up and giving his cheek a kiss.
“If you say so,” I agreed apprehensively. “It was fun.”
“Fun?” my dad inquired, his voice now rising to an amazing low C, which was high for him. “Disney World is fun. This was ... I don’t know what to call it. Divine. Yes, that’s it. Divine.”
“God must have a voice like that,” I said, lifting my napkin off the table and giving it an elegant French fold, “which proves that God is a woman. That’s why she made me a woman. I am heavenly.”
“So you are,” my dad laughed. “I’ve always loved your voice.”
“It will have to be lovely tomorrow or Madame Lisonka will not be as lovely to me.”
“Neither will Signor Velucci,” my father responded, giving me that odd tongue-in-cheek-like gaze that I had learned to fear. “That’s who you want to impress. Lisonka knows you since you were a baby. She knows me. She always wanted to turn me into a soprano. Didn’t quite work, though. So, I got stuck with playing King Arthur in Camelot. Damn it. I always wanted to sing Queen of the Night.”
He made a long pause and I looked at him, waited, smiled, nodded, finished the last drops of my Chilean wine. I realized that my father had been right about the taste of that grape juice. It really felt like drinking a painting, maybe a Holden Caulfield cubistic experiment, sold for a fortune and a half at some big auction. Cuisine and art had something in common.
“I would be a fabulous coloratura soprano, don’t you think?”
I nodded, gazing at the door and what lay beyond it.
Fifth Avenue lured me to enter its luxurious reality.
Then, my Park Avenue penthouse wanted me to slip inside its walls.
“Your Arthur was a cult phenomenon,” I said, disappearing into my thoughts for a bit.”
My dad chuckled and let that bubbly mirth trickle down his spine for a bit, making me believe he had actually managed to get drunk for the first time since mom’s death.
“That wine is the cult,” he said as I gazed back at him. “That wine will make forget my name. What’s my name? Joe, Jim, Johnny?”
“Stop it, dad,” I chuckled. “One could almost think you weren’t ...”
The sentence I had begun speaking actually got physically stuck in the middle of my throat. Now, I closed my eyes, not being able to believe that I had been so tactless. My face turned red. As it did, I felt my heart beating faster, thumping like crazy.
“God, I am sorry, dad,” I said, sighing. “Gee wiz, I am so stupid.”
“No, no, no,” my dad said, bravely and very quietly. “Say it.”
I bent over, caressed his head and kissed it.
“I meant to say that one almost ... couldn’t think you were so sick.”
“I don’t feel sick, Becky,” he said. “But my doctors say I am.”
He sighed, his expression turning confused.
“I am so sorry. We will find a ...”
“Stop it, Becky,” my dad spat, his voice now turning gritty. “That is not my strong daughter talking. Be brave. I taught you that, didn’t I?”
I nodded.
“Then go home and sleep,” he added. “And be absolutely brilliant tomorrow,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “Or else!”
I smiled, nodding like the good girl I was, standing where I was, lifting the glass, pretending there was a drop of wine left, realizing there wasn’t, feeling silly, stalling, as if my soul waited for something. Waiting. Waiting. For what? God, for what? I feared leaving him. A parent’s death will do that to you. Two parents? Well, that was another matter entirely.
He leaned against my chest and I embraced his head, closed my eyes and tried to calm down. We had spent a good evening together. Why did this evening suddenly turn so painful? Because the evening was over and we now had to face being alone. Alone, letting that horror of demise creep into our hearts.
“I don’t want to die, Becky,” my dad said.
“You won’t,” I answered, caressing his cheek. “Just keep breathing, that’s all, and we will find a solution. Somewhere, there is an answer to our problem. Somewhere.”
As I bent over to kiss his left cheek again, his eyes seemed to shift in a way that I had rarely seen in my life. I had seen it when he tasted a really delicious birthday cake, preferably baked by his wife, or when he woke up one morning without the excruciating pain in his back. Now, the wonder in his eyes displayed nothing less than a miracle.
I saw him gazing at the opening doorway. When I, myself, let my eyes drift over there I only saw a blackhaired woman my age in a very expensive coat.
I gazed back at my father, laughed and shrugged.
“What?”
My father giggled.
“Jesus just decided to grant me a peek at how life looks on the other side,” he said.
I winced, waited again and then looked back at the doorway.
The door of the restaurant had closed from the inside now and the woman in question was heading our way.
She spoke briefly to the waiter that my dad had waved away just a minute ago.
That man bowed in an exact 45 degree angle and waved his hand in a gesture that looked like the half movement profile of a champion swimmer. The woman followed him and glanced at us in a very fleeting way. Half way across toward the next table, however, the woman stopped. And then, in one extraordinary moment of realization, I realized who she was. Those high Italian cheekbones, those red pouting lips, those blossoming cheeks, those sparkling brown eyes, those black curls, that half-smile and a complexion that was vanilla mixed with nougat, a bosom that leaned on the size of decently small watermelons. That kind of a buxom look would definately make any woman, including me, hate her. It would also make any man love her. My dad was in love with Tracciatella’s voice. Her looks were just a nice bonus. Her voice. That chocolate-rich soprano with its brilliant timbre, warm like a Rioja-grape. If her soprano-voice were a dessert, hers would be a Tiramisu, richly rum-flavored.
The woman took a moment to look at us, while the waiter behind her gestured eagerly for her to sit down by her chosen table. She shook her head, fervently, now deciding to actually take her instincts seriously.
My father stood up out of his seat, erect like a tin soldier.
“Miss Tracciatella,” he said, laughing. “May I say that you were glorious tonight? My daughter and I heard you sing. I was,” my father laughed, “... in heaven.”
The soprano smiled. “Thank you, Mr. ...?”
“Rule,” my father said. “Charles Edwin Rule, Singora. Your greatest admirer.”
The soprano lift her hand and caressed my father’s cheek. It was a small gesture, just a young hand caressing an old man’s cheek. So gentle, so fleeting, so kind.
“May I tell you a story, signora?” my dad inquired.
The woman took a few decisive steps toward us and smiled. “Of course. Go ahead.”
My father cleared his throat and began.
“I feel like I am invading your privacy, but you have a right to know this.”
“Well, I was just on my way to a table for a solitary glass of wine. I like some privacy after all that hullabaloo. But I am on my own, Mr. Rule, and you seem to be nice people. There is no reason why I cannot spend some time with you, no?”
The charming Italian accent sing-songed for a bit, but the moment of silence that followed told both me and Tracciatella that my father was about to say something serious. I feared the worst.
“I don’t know how to say this, Miss Tracciatella, so I will just say it. My son tried to kill himself a couple of months ago,” my father said. When my father uttered these words, it felt as if I was going to sink through the floor. “What stopped him from doing that was a recording he heard, by coincidence.It was you singing an aria from the opera we heard tonight. La Gioconda.”
I don’t know why, but I had the feeling that this would embarrass one of the greatest opera divas of our century. The pain inside me, brought on by these words, flung me slowly back towards the recollection of my brother standing on that ledge.
I looked away, my lip trembling, my teeth sinking into my tongue in order to control the sobs bubbling inside me.
“Miss Tracciatella,” I said. “My father rambles on ... forgive him.”
“I don’t ramble,” my dad spat, angrily. “Miss Tracciatella saved my son’s life. She has a right to know this.”
At that moment, I realized why I had stalled and why I had waited.
This was fate at work.
Miss Tracciatella lift her hand and looked at me. “You are ...?”
“Rebecca Rule, a colleague,” I said, closing my eyes humbly, actually feeling silly for calling myself a colleague. “I am a soprano, like you, but struggling to get somewhere.”
I waited, stalled again, felt those sobs now jittering in my throat, threatening to explode onto my tongue.
“Miss Rule,” she responded, batting her long eyelashes, her lucious Italian voice meandering into a soft Puccini-like tranquillity. “I am very interested in your father’s story. Let me listen to it.”
I smiled at the woman, realizing that it didn’t matter anymore that I maybe could profit from this situation in my career. She looked at me and I saw a woman who felt sympathetic toward us, who cared. Famous or not, she cared. Miss Tracciatella, whose voice had filled the Metropolitan Opera just now, sat down at our table, gesturing for me to sit down again and join my father as he shared the anecdote.
My father fiddled with his hands a bit, played with his napkin. His eyes danced back and forth for a few seconds, he held his breath and there was a moment when I am sure both Miss Tracciatella and I wondered what would happen next.
Then, my father exhaled, speaking in that low Lee Marvin-like rumble that I had learned to love. There was a serenity to his words, a restfulness that obviously affected Miss Tracciatella as well as me. And I wondered why I had been embarrassed by my father’s story at all. It was natural for him to want to share the tale with her.
And I listened just as intently as the diva obviously did.
My embarrassment had disappeared with Miss Tracciatella’s reprimand.
“It began a few months ago, when I was diagnosed with cancer,” my father began. “That was enough to make my son devastated, of course, knowing that my tumor was the size of a tennisball. It was located in a very bad place, which made matters worse. But my son’s grief became even deeper when he fought with his girlfriend over his lack of care for me. My son’s girlfriend left him in the middle of the night, claiming that she had made a serious mistake in starting the relationship with him at all. If that were not enough, he was also fired from his job. To make matters worse, a shopkeeper screamed at him during a very busy shopping day. My son was at the way back from a social service institution. Soon enough, he found himself on the edge outside on the ledge of the third floor of my daughter’s apartment building. But then, out of nowhere he heard music. Strangely beautiful music coming from a stereo somewhere in the distance.”
My father looked at me. I knew what was coming and my father now cried silent tears full of pride. I began crying, too, and Miss Tracciatella now lift her eyebrows, knowing in her heart that her admirer actually longed to embrace her and tell her how wonderful life was.
“He recognized that voice as yours, Miss Tracciatella,” my father said. “He had always been a fan of yours, but this situation was so fateful and so uncanny that it had to be God’s finger showing him the way. It was a voice from heaven and you were singing that famous aria Suicidio from Act 4, where La Gioconda stabs herself to death. Mark my words, Miss Tracciatella, La Gioconda has lost a parent and she was singing ‘it is a beautiful day to die’. You would think that would make him want to jump?”
The Italian diva nodded.
“It didn’t.”
I saw my father’s eyes move like they had when Miss Tracciatella came into the restaurant, when he tasted a delicious cake or when the pain in his back disappeared.
“He realized that if someone could write such beautiful music about committing suicide, then life was worth living. That’s strange, isn’t it?”
Tracciatella shook her head. “No, it’s beautiful. I saved someone’s life.”
My father cried, sobs now exploding through his throat and over into his face. The grimace of his facial features turned his mouth into a tremolo of desperation. Seeing how he cried, I cried along with him. The whole scenario became clear as a bell. I had taken my dad to La Gioconda to hear his favorite singer, on his birthday, only to distract the attention from the horrible memory of his son wanting to jump. Now, he chose to face it.
“Miss Rule?”
I looked over at Lucilla Tracciatella and saw that she cried, too.
“Yes?”
“Did the music come from your flat? Did you know your brother was about to kill himself?”
That bubbling sadness now exploded even further into my eyes. Not being able to control my tears, I buried my eyes in the napkin and sobbed. Signora Tracciatella reached out her hand and took mine, caressing it.
I shook my head. “No. I had no idea.”
“My dear,” she said. “Your brother chose life. You should be happy.”
I looked up at my colleague and nodded.
“The fact that my brother had chosen my apartment building to kill himself was difficult enough,” I began. “But I could have been away or I could’ve chosen another aria to listen to or could’ve sung myself. I don’t know. Whatever it was, it saved him.”
“Then be happy,” the Signora said. “Your brother is alive.”
“He stepped off the ledge, went to his girl and patched the whole thing up,” my father continued. “Now, they have decided to marry. He is still looking for work, but he is alive, engaged and happy. Which proves that there is always hope.”
The woman sitting opposite me now was no longer a famous opera star. No matter where she came from or what she had done to get there, the woman was simply a soul whose art had made someone choose life. And so, her runny mascara covered half of her face and her lip trembled. The smile that appeared on her face turned into a sad cry, one that twitched and became a laugh again.
“The difficult thing is,” I continued, “that my father’s tumor now has turned malignant. His doctors are unsure how long a time he has left.”
The Italian woman, that happened to be a famous opera star, lift her hand and caressed my father’s cheek again. She smiled at him. My God, this famous star really cared.
My father looked at me, insecure about his own demise.
Lucilla Tracciatella sat back in her chair, ignoring the looks of the other guests. To come to think of it, the other people weren’t only looking. They were staring. Somehow, it mattered little to us crazy artists. We were crying our eyes out, this famous star sitting at our table, the waiter now back at his position in the corner, the Signora obviously thinking very hard about something rather important. The slight similarity to the look in my father’s face sent shivers down my spine. What was this? Fate? Yes. It was.
“May I say that you are wearing the same expression my father always sports when he is thinking very hard about something?”
The star’s absent minded gaze met our eyes, but didn’t really penetrate our souls. The look lingered there, a half-smile bringing it sweet company.
“Uhm,” she said. “I don’t know if it will work.”
“What?” my father rumbled.
“I mean, I don’t know you that well.”
“Just tell us what is on your mind, Signora,” my father resounded.
Now, the diva made a decision. One that felt good. I had no idea at the time what that decision was, only that my soul told me it would change my life. She sat up in her chair, positioning her elbows on the table.
“I am a survivor, as well,” she said, closing her eyes, apparently stabbed by painful recollection.
“What do you mean?” my dad mused. “Survivor of ...”
“Cancer,” she said. “Malignant cancer.”
My eyes drifted back and forth between my dad and Miss Tracciatella. The clear insecurity that came shooting out of the star at that moment made me insecure and I think it had the same effect on my dad.
“You? When?” I said.
“My agent is probably going to kill me for telling you this,” her voice danced, consonants overpronounced in a clear Milano way. “But this has to be fate. I would not be here, hearing you say these things without a reason.”
She leaned even further over toward us, probably in order to avoid any other guests overhearing our conversation.
“The press called it Lucilla’s Sabbatical Year,” she said.
“That was it?” my dad said. “You left the opera world to cure cancer?”
The diva now opened her eyes wide, waving her hands around. “I am entrusting with secrets here, so please don’t tell anyone. Okay?”
We both nodded and I think that she knew we could be trusted.
She now laughed, a look of hope spreading across her entire countenance.
“Why do you think my hair was so short when I returned to the Met?”
“You mean, you were cured of a brain tumor?”
Sighing and leaning back in her chair, she knew her risk could cost her jobs, if her agent disagreed with her about her honesty or the press somehow found out about it.
“My doctor has his practice in San Diego,” she began. “He is famous for curing cancer patients. If you want, I can introduce you to him.”
My father looked at me and I looked at him.
When we looked back at the Signora, she had already ordered to replace the empty bottle of Chilean red wine with a full one.
When our three gazes met, no tears flooded our sweet faces.
We all knew what we wanted to do.
Call my brother and tell him that we might have found a good doctor for his father.
Maybe, just maybe, I could convince the Signora to join Velucci and Lisonka.
Maybe, just maybe, I would be able to audition not only for them, but also for Tracciatella. Not that it mattered anymore, but it felt damn good.
A year later, at the moment of writing, I am sitting back in my Park Avenue apartment in New York City after my initial premiere as La Gioconda at the Metropolitan Opera. I think it quite unprecendented that two sopranos have worked so well together in sharing one role with each other. The oppurtunities are endless. No more Callas and Tibaldi-like rivalry. Just two gals singing the same role in the same opera house and going shopping in the teabreaks.
Killing myself on stage, while singing that aria, has become extremely difficult, though. At the curtain call, however, I got my reward. I didn’t have to walk out a hundred times and bow before the crowd like Pavarotti did once or twice. I counted twenty-two curtain calls. Someone else counted twenty-five. That’s okay for an emerging star.
Oh, yes. I have to add that my dad is San Diego now. I sort of paid his hospital expenses with my money from this gig here at the opera. But that’s also okay. My brother says that once these performances become routine, I could pay for five more operations. I hope I don’t have to. My dad should remain healthy.
I keep asking them when they are both returning to New York.
They say that the climate is so good over in San Diego, they might just stay there.
So they should. After all, my brother’s girlfriend went along for the ride. Although I think, personally, she only did it because she loves going to the beach so much. But my brother is happy with his Jennifer. Jennifer and John. Sounds cool, doesn’t it?
It also sounds cool that my family is alive.
If only mom was alive, too.
Well, she is looking down at us from heaven.
Now all I need is a boyfriend.
But that is another story.
Anyway, I got to go to bed now. Lucilla is coming over tomorrow. She is here in Manhattan, singing Elisabeth in Tannhäuser. I am not quite ready for that yet. Regardless, we both have our first free days in three months tomorrow. She has spent hers mostly in Milano, I have spent most of my time here, but now we have decided to spend a day together. Cooking? Talking shop? Talking men? Talking about agents? Taking my Porsche on a spin around the country? We don’t know yet. Maybe we will just be avoiding the press.
Whatever we decide, it will be fun.
I still have to pinch myself, though. I really can’t believe I am living this dream of a lifestyle. Especially since I was just a struggling artist last year. Okay, a rich struggling artist living on Park Avenue. Still, nobody knew who I was this time last year. Now, it seems that the expectancy the press has had in hearing the new Gioconda, meaning me, has created a hype that I wonder if I am capable of facing. In any case, I am happy that my father is alive.
And I know now what life is like on the other side.
Of what, you ask?
On the other side of anything. Life, death, obscurity, fame, happiness, desperation.
I am on the other side of pain. I can now appreciate joy, because I have know what pain is like. I can now appreciate fame, because I know what obscurity is like. For where there is a light in the darkness, there is hope. And so I will tell Lucilla when she comes over tomorrow to keep breathing and never give up, even if her cancer does return.
My father is alive. That is the main thing.
Thank God. Thank Lucilla Tracciatella.
If she ever needs me, I will be there for her, to hold her hand, to sing with her, on the same stages, for the same crowds. And to show the world and the press that it is possible to cooperate, even if you happen to be two bitchy sopranos aiming for world stardom.
What is fame anyway?
Fame is fickle.
Creativity rules.
If fame arrives as a result of that creativity, that’s fine.
Ah, wait. There’s a text message on my phone.
Lucilla’s plane just landed.
She’s looking forward to seeing me tomorrow.
That’s what I always say when I get up in the morning, before I look at myself in the mirror, that is. Just kidding. If there’s one thing that helps, it’s self-irony. Good friends come in special packages. Lucilla’s package is a special one.
I will go to bed now.
What will I dream about?
I will dream about life on the other side – of anything.
- Share this story on
- 5
COMMENTS (0)