Flowering Quince

A short story by Rick Mandler

Exploring Life and Literature

Dear Friends,

A few months ago I put out a call for submissions of short stories to share with you this month while we explore this fascinating style of literature. The response was overwhelming with more than 40 people submitting their work for my consideration. While I would love to have the space to feature them all, I selected three which really stood out to me and which I wanted to share with all of you. The first of those is shared today and the others will follow throughout the month. These articles are quite a bit longer than my normal emails and may require you to open the story in your browser as it may be cut off by your email provider.

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Born in Bayside Queens and raised in Oyster Bay, Rick Mandler has lived in New York City since the early 1980s. He and his family go back and forth between their home on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and a second home in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. Rick is married with two children and has spent the majority of his career working in media including time at ABC and Disney. He worked various roles in TV networks, radio, and internet including law, business, and later advertising. He and his team, ABC Enhanced TV won two Emmy’s for interactive television. Rick is now retired and spends his time reading, writing, walking his dogs, and traveling.

Reading has always been an integral part of Rick’s life. The library in Oyster Bay opened the door to his love for science fiction and fantasy which he still reads to this day along with other genres. His favorite book is To Kill a Mockingbird which led him to attend law school. He also encourages folks to read The Orphan Master’s Son because he believes it is worth remembering that in a totalitarian nation, everything is defined by the state, including who you are.

Rick shared these photos of his beautiful dogs.

Enjoy this short story from Rick.

Irving

Irving Quince lived alone in a little blue house on Violet Street. It was the house he grew up in, which he inherited shortly after he had earned his BA in accounting and started working at a local firm. His mother passed away from breast cancer, and his father from a broken heart.

A man of a certain age, Irving had outlived Mary, his wife, and all of her friends. He thought of them as “her friends” because people were very difficult for him. A little bit shy and a little bit on the spectrum, Irving was much more comfortable with numbers than with people. He had met Mary at the library when checking out A Prayer for Owen Meany. Being a practical man, Irving had been trying to learn more about people by reading fiction. He had tried a lot of different genres, but because of his quirks, nearly all the books were mysteries to him.

Irving had picked Owen Meany off the “featured” table, and walked to the front desk to check it out. Marge, the librarian with glasses was on the left, and Susan the librarian with red hair was on the right. A woman was already checking out a book with Susan, so Irving approached Marge. Marge always read aloud loud the title of the book you wanted to check out while she took your library card.

“A Prayer For Owen Meany,” Marge said.

“That’s my favorite book” was the first thing Irving Quince ever heard Mary say. She was checking her book out with Susan, the librarian with red hair. Irving looked up, sort of making eye contact, nodded his head thoughtfully, and said “Oh.” He had learned that this response usually was satisfactory to whomever was trying to talk with him, and didn’t invite further exchange. But not for Mary.

Mary took her book back from Susan, as Marge handed Owen Meany back to Irving.

“Do you believe in predestination?” she said, as they both turned toward the exit.

“Predestination?” Irving said.

“Predestination, it's a theme of the book you have,” Mary explained, “The idea that God has your whole life planned out when you are born, and it’s your job to live it.”

“Oh,” Irving said, and nodded thoughtfully. It didn’t work again.

“Well, do you?” Mary asked.

Irving didn’t have a religion, and God was as much a mystery to him as people. Looking down at his shoes, he said “I guess I have enough problems already, without trying to follow a plan from God.”

Mary stopped suddenly and touched Irving on the arm. Irving looked up and for the first time truly met her eyes. For a few seconds that felt like forever they looked at each other… “Do you like coffee?” she asked.

In fact, Irving did, and it was the kind of direct question he couldn’t answer with “oh” and a nod. So he said “yes.”

“Me too,” said Mary. “Let’s go get some.”

They married at town hall some time later, and Mary moved in with Irving to the little blue house on Violet Street. Both a touch too old for children they focused on each other. Irving discovered that with Mary’s help, people were less of a mystery. Mary discovered the peace granted by Irving’s unwavering support. It was a good partnership. Irving sensed that there was a story to Mary’s life before he met her, but he never asked, and she never mentioned it.

It was Mary who introduced Irving to Bill Lewin. Bill was also an accountant, but friendly and a little bit chatty. Lewin and Quince was a successful business. Irving worked with the numbers, and Bill worked with the clients. They were good partners to each other and to many of the businesses in town. When a coffee shop, or clothing store, or funeral parlor changed hands, usually it was Lewin and Quince that helped out.

Eventually, Bill retired and moved to Arizona, and he and Irving sold their practice to two younger accountants in town. Mary and Irving had a stretch of comfortable retired life, but now Irving lived alone, and possibly friendless (he wasn’t sure) in the little blue house on Violet Street.

Irving knew he was better with a partner. Being a practical man, he decided to get one, and after much careful thought, he found himself at the Humane Society looking in Danny’s eyes. Danny was six months old, jet black with a white stripe on his belly, and a white spot on the back of each of his paws. He was part of a rescued litter of black lab mix puppies and all were given names from Irish songs. Danny was short for “Danny Boy.”

Danny came to Irwin, made eye contact, held it, tail wagging. Irving patted him on the head, said, ”I guess it’s meant to be,” and Danny started running around Irving in excited circles. He came home with Irving to the little blue house on Violet Street that day and they instantly became family. Every morning, Irving would walk up the hill, across the train tracks, and through the park to the dog run. There, Danny could socialize with the other dogs, and Irving found he could socialize with the other dog owners.

“A boy or a girl?”

“How old is he?”

“What kind of dog is he?”

The questions were often the same, and Irving learned how to answer them.

“He is a boy.”

“He is 10 months old.”

“He is a black lab mix.”

This was their routine for several years and both Danny and Irving were very happy with their partnership. As time went on, Irving noticed that the hill was getting harder and harder to climb, especially in bad weather. But unwavering support was what he offered, and so he persisted.

On a day with particularly bad weather, Danny and Irving arrived at the dog park to find they were alone, but for a young man sitting on a bench with his head in his hands. Danny immediately ran to the bench, jumped up, and began nuzzling the young man’s face. Startled at first, the young man warmed to the dog’s enthusiasm, scratching him in that perfect spot behind his ear. He looked up at Irving.

“Nice dog. What’s his name?”

“Danny, short for Danny Boy,” said Irving.

“Good name,” said the young man. “Did you pick it?”

“No,” Irving shuffled his feet a little. “He came with that name from the Humane Society.”

“Oh, he’s a rescue,” the young man said, and then muttered something that might have sounded like, “I could use a rescue.”

Irving paused. He knew only one line, but it was a good one. “Do you like coffee?” he asked.

The young man said he did, and they walked together to the coffee cart at the edge of the park.

The young man turned out to be Pete. There was clearly a story to Pete’s life before he met Danny and Irving, but neither of them asked Pete what it was, and Pete didn’t mention it.

Pete solved the problem of the hill. Every morning he came and picked up Danny and took him to the dog park so he could socialize. Most days, Irving would walk with them to the hill, and then wave them on. Pete also ended up helping Irving around the house, running some errands, fixing what was broken, and making himself useful enough to deserve Irving’s generosity. Eventually, Pete’s time at the dog park connected him with Martha, the director at the Humane Society who gave Pete a regular job. Still, he walked Danny every morning and evening and tried to make sure Irving had what he needed.

Pete came to pick up Danny one morning. He let himself in, and called out to Danny and Irving. Neither responded. The stairs, like the hill, had become too much, so Pete had helped Irving convert the downstairs parlor into a bedroom. He walked towards the back of the house calling, “Danny, Irving?” He thought he heard a soft whine.

Pete poked his head into the bedroom. Danny was on the bed, looking back at Pete. Irving was lying on his back, looking up, eyes unblinking.

They buried Irving in the small cemetery in town. Irving had no religion, and no friends (that he knew of) besides Danny and Pete, so it was just the three of them, Danny, Irving and Pete. Pete said a few words, mostly for Danny’s benefit, and stayed to watch Raul and John who worked at the cemetery, lower the casket into the earth and cover it over.

When it was done, he turned to leave, but Danny wouldn’t budge.

“Come on boy,” Pete pulled on the leash. “He isn’t coming with us anymore.”

Danny wouldn’t budge. He lay down next to Irving’s grave and made it very clear he wasn’t coming. Pete decided everybody mourned in their own way, and he would come back for Danny later. But when later came, Danny still wouldn’t budge.

Pete tried tempting Danny with food, but while Danny ate hungrily, when he was done, he went back to his spot next to Irving’s grave. It was a good season for sleeping outside, but Pete knew that wouldn’t last forever. After a lengthy discussion with the cemetery manager, and a quick chat with Raul and John, Pete brought some tools and lumber to the cemetery, and built a little dog house for Danny. He insulated it well, located it on Danny’s chosen spot next to Irving, and painted it blue. Every day, he visited Danny and Irving. He made sure Danny was well fed, and well cared for.

Danny made himself useful at the cemetery. He joined every funeral, sitting in respectful silence with the bereaved, offering whatever comfort he could, his black fur appropriate for the occasion. He followed Raul and John as they tended to the grounds, but always returned to his place next to Irving. It was where he was meant to be.

Mary

Mary’s heart just about stopped. “It’s a fucking Michelangelo!” She nearly screamed it out loud. Packed in an open crate covered with stamps, sheltered by shredded newspaper, was a small marble statue featuring the Madonna and the baby Jesus. The similarity to the Madonna of Bruges was striking. Of course many artists copied Michalangelo. But Mary’s heart said that somehow, in an estate sale in the Hudson Valley, she was looking at an original Michalangelo.

She was so transfixed she didn’t hear Roberto come up behind her, and startled when he wrapped his arms around her.

“What did you find, puppy?”

Roberto was from Brazil. His voice was like black coffee and chocolate. His English lightly accented. They had met in graduate school. Mary’s undergraduate degree was in Italian renaissance literature. After college she had scraped together the funds, stipends, awards and grants to get a masters in art history. Roberto was in the same program, and the person to whom everyone was magnetically attracted. Mary may have been the academic star, but Roberto was who everyone wanted to work with, talk to, be with, and sleep with. Even the faculty.

To Mary’s ongoing astonishment, Roberto chose to be with her. Roberto told Mary she was beautiful and brilliant, and like everything he said, you had no choice but believe him. Mary loved Roberto, and loved the version of herself that he saw in her.

They moved in together after six months of graduate school, and married shortly before graduation. Mary worked as an executive assistant in a big company, and Roberto ran a soccer league, and gave private lessons to wealthy kids with athletic aspirations. Their “side hustle” was what they did together. On the weekends they would travel to auctions, galleries, flea markets, and estate sales, looking for undiscovered genuine works of fine art. Mary would do the legwork to prove the provenance and authenticity of the work, and Roberto would negotiate the resale of the work to private collectors and gallery owners.

Mostly they used the proceeds from their previous find to finance the purchase of the next one.

“What did you find, puppy?”

With his arms around her, Mary knew Roberto could feel her excitement. “Look at that piece,” she murmured, careful that nobody else could hear her.

From behind her, she could feel Roberto tilt his head. “What do you think it is?” he asked.

Mary was almost too embarrassed to say it, but really she couldn’t help herself. “I think it’s a Michelangelo,” she whispered.

She felt the slight snort of derision from behind her. “A Michelangelo? In an estate sale in the Hudson Valley?”

“Look at it, Berto… just look at it. That’s the work of a master. It is an early work, and something isn’t quite right with the baby’s left foot, but my heart says it is a Michelangelo.”

Still she could feel the skepticism through her body. “Your heart says it is a Michelangelo… What does your head say?”

Mary pointed to the crate. “Look at the stamps on the crate, many of them are in Italian dating back to the war. I don’t know how it got here or why, but it isn’t some American art student copy.”

Mary felt Roberto’s posture change. Still holding her from behind he said, “Perhaps it is part of God’s plan, like in your American novel.” The novel was A Prayer for Owen Meany which Mary read over and over again, insisting anyone close to her read as well. It was her favorite book, and somehow she took comfort in the notion that she might be living according to God’s plan.

“Maybe, Berto,” she said, her voice betraying her sense this might well be true.

“Well if my puppy wants it, then my puppy must have it.” Roberto released her and disappeared, reappearing a few minutes later with a receipt for the purchase of the statue. It was more than they had ever spent on anything, and Mary had a momentary pang of regret, which she quickly suppressed. Together they closed up the crate and carried it back to their SUV, where it fit snugly in the back. Roberto drove, and Mary nervously drummed her fingers the entire way home.

The next day Mary got to work. First she carefully examined the entire piece, hoping to find something that might identify the artist. She found nothing, which was to be expected. Michelangelo signed the Pieta, but didn’t sign anything else after that.

She then removed a small piece of stone from the underside of the base of the statue, and had Roberto send it out for dating and analysis. A key step in proving the authenticity of the piece would be the science that established the age of the stone, and hopefully the location of where it was quarried from. The science could only disprove what her heart was telling her, not prove the authenticity of the work, but it was critical.

Next was to carefully photograph the entire crate, especially the stamps showing customs or shipping. When she got the prints, Mary began the painstaking task of sorting them by date and trying to make out the information on the faded stamps. As best as she could tell, the crate and presumably the statue in it, was shipped out of Venice in 1937, through Milan, Geneva, Paris, London and eventually making its way to New York in 1939.

The fact that it was shipped out shortly after Italy formed the Axis alliance with Nazi Germany was intriguing, and suggested another line of inquiry. Mary pulled out the brochure for the estate sale that originally attracted her to the Hudson Valley and made a note of the name, Thomas Comstock. She set about learning more about Thomas Comstock.

Here she caught a break. The Comstocks were a prominent Putnam County family and so it was relatively easy to find references. Thomas Comstock was an only child, born in 1936 to parents William and Joey Comstock, nee Lucretto. Mary stared at the library microfiche screen a full ten seconds before her brain caught up. Lucretto. Joey Lucretto. Probably Guiseppa Lucretto. Probably a member of the famous Italian Jewish Lucretto family, dating back to the 1500s.

Slowly, carefully, Mary was able to assemble the story. With Mussolini linking Italy to Germany, the Lucretto family quietly shipped its most prized possession, an original Michelangelo, to a trusted family member in the United States. Perhaps Guiseppa Lucretto didn’t even know what was in the crate, only that she had to hold it in safe keeping for her family –- a family that was decimated by World War Two. Clearly she never told her husband or her son, Thomas, what was in the crate before she died from influenza in 1946. Thomas was only 10 years old.

She found the reference to the work in one of Michalangelo’s letters, including his unsatisfactory attempts to rectify the baby’s left foot after an unfortunate accident – thereby explaining why he began again with a similar subject to make the Madonna of Bruges. She found the oblique reference in Lucretto family papers to an abandoned work they purchased from a “divine” artist. She found the names of the few remaining members of the Lucretto family alive today.

Finally, the results from the scientific testing came back, confirming that it was Carrara marble, dating consistent with what was used by renaissance Italian sculptors – including Michelangelo.

Throughout these months of painstaking research, Roberto gave Mary the space she needed to honor her obsession. When she was finally ready, with all of her notes, pictures and other work stored in a thick file, her research and conclusions set forth in five densely typed pages, Mary presented it to Roberto.

She walked him through the story of how the Lucrettos purchased the statue, kept it inside their Venetian Palazzo for 400 years, and then moved it to America, where it remained lost in plain sight, until the estate auction.

She ended her presentation showing the names of the remaining Lucretto’s she had found.

Roberto sat in silence for over a solid minute before responding. “I believe you have done it, puppy. You have discovered and authenticated a lost Michalangelo. This is incredible.”

Mary nearly burst with pride. “Thank you, Berto. I really am proud of this work. Imagine how stunned the family members will be when we reach out to them.”

Roberto turned slowly to her, the hint of a smile on his face. “Yes. I am sure they will be excited. But tell me, before we reach out to them, shouldn’t we talk to Mortimer?”

Kevin Mortimer. The curator for Italian Renaissance Art at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He was the world’s acknowledged expert on Michalangelo, and one of the most aggressively intimidating humans on the planet. Mary had come to him once before with a small work she thought was done by one of Michangelo’s students. The meeting had not gone well.

“Oh God, Roberto… I don’t know.”

“Fear not, my love, it is time for me to do what I do best. I will get a meeting with Mortimer and present your work. He cannot help but confirm what you have already proven.”

* * *

Mary sat at the coffee shop near the Met, waiting for Roberto to return. He had dropped her off at 10:30 for an 11:00 appointment. He told her not to fret, that it might take a while, kissed her on the forehead, and left with her file and summary to present to Mortimer. It was 2pm now, and she was ready to explode from the tension. Just when she thought she couldn’t take it any more, her phone buzzed with a text. Roberto. “It is going well.” Mary ordered another coffee, tried to read, and tried to remain patient. By 5pm she couldn’t help herself. She called Mortimer’s office.

“Mr. Mortimer’s office.”

“Hi, I am sorry to bother you, but can you tell me if Roberto Gold is still with Mr. Mortimer?”

“Who?”

“Roberto Gold, he had an 11am with Mr. Mortimer.”

“I am sorry Miss, but I have nobody by that name on Mr. Mortimer’s calendar.”

“But…”

“Like I said, I have no Mr. Gold on the calendar, now if you will excuse me.” The call ended and a million possibilities began running through Mary’s head. She collected her belongings and ran for the subway home.

When she got home, all of the possibilities had been reduced to one. Her file with all the research was gone. The statue was gone. And so was Roberto. As she looked around the apartment, it was as if he had never been there. His clothes and possessions had disappeared. His toiletries were not in the bathroom. His favorite foods were not in the fridge. His books were not on the shelves. If the apartment had been wiped for fingerprints, Mary would not have been surprised.

She collapsed to the floor, too stunned to cry.

* * *

Mary never saw, nor heard from Roberto again. It wasn’t too hard to piece together what had happened. He had paid for the statue. He had the file with all of her work proving the authenticity of the piece. He had sent the sample to the lab. He had the statue, and the skills necessary to sell it to an unscrupulous buyer. Ironically, the buyer would be getting a real Michalangelo. It was Mary who was the mark.

Their Brooklyn apartment and all of New York was a festering wound that refused to heal. When Mary saw the opening at the Stanton Museum, she immediately applied. It was basically administrative work, but her years as an Executive Assistant qualified her, and her degrees sold her. She got the job and took a room in a house in the same town as the museum.

She needed to fill her time, and the local library was a great source of distraction. One day as she was checking out, she saw the man next to her had A Prayer for Owen Meany. He seemed a little awkward, but had a kind face.

She tried and failed to catch his eye. But it was A Prayer for Owen Meany. She had a feeling it was meant to be. When the librarian said the title out loud she turned and said, ”That’s my favorite book…”

Pete

Pete never knew his father. And to be honest, it seemed like his mother didn’t know him either. She said he was also named Pete, that when she met him he had a tree cutting business, and that before she knew she was pregnant, his father had moved to Alaska. His mother wasn’t all that interested in finding Pete’s father, and it did seem like Pete’s father wasn’t all that interested in being found. Despite some serious Google searching much later, Pete was never able to turn up anything. Pete’s father was very far off the grid.

When Pete turned 10, his mother got a job at the Stanton Museum in town as an Executive Assistant. The job opened up when the woman who had it previously, decided to retire. In his younger years, Pete’s mother had worked a lot of different jobs at the same time. She gardened in the summer. Snow plowed in the winter. Hustled for work throughout the year. Getting the gig at the Stanton changed things. It gave Pete’s mom steady work, and while they certainly weren’t wealthy, Pete and his mother did all right.

Still, the early years had left their mark on Pete, and when he graduated High School, he joined the Army. The Army was a clear path to a career and stability, and Pete went into the service thinking he would be a lifer.

It didn’t work that way.

Pete met Jesus in basic training. In some ways they could not be more different. Pete was white, and grew up in small town New England. Jesus was brown, and grew up in West Texas near El Paso. In other ways they could not be more similar. Both had been raised by single mothers. Both craved the clear direction, structure and stability that the Army offered. Both saw themselves as lifers.

They became best friends, brothers, and lovers.

The intimacy between them surprised and scared them both. Neither man had much experience with relationships at all, much less navigating a same sex relationship in the Army. While the official policy was “don’t ask, don’t tell” the unofficial policy was much different.

Pete and Jesus knew that if their relationship became known it wouldn’t be good for their careers, and possibly not good for their health. They managed to stay physically close, both in airborne infantry, and discreetly intimate for nearly five years of service.

* * *

Pete and Jesus sat at the bar of the on-base club, enjoying a beer and being together. For not the first time, Pete thought about how much the place reminded him of the Elks Club back home.

“Look at these faggots!”

The words stuck Pete like a knife in the stomach. He and Jesus both turned from the bar, to see Bulkowski, Bull, wobbling on his feet, and practically drooling, he was so drunk, his eyes squinting with alcohol-enhanced hatred.

Jesus spit out, “Fuck you, Bulkowski!”

“Fuck me?” said the Bull, “No thank you, faggot.”

“One more time, Bulkowski… don’t do it” Jesus said as he stood up, Pete joining him.

“Don’t do what, faggot?”

Being essentially sober, and faster than a cheetah, Jesus landed three quick punches on Bull’s face before anyone knew what was happening. Bull, being essentially soused, and more than 50 pounds heavier than Jesus, didn’t care.

Pete vaguely remembered hitting, and being hit, a lot, and then the MPs breaking it up and carting them all off. But his first clear memory was waking up in the hospital and seeing a badly damaged Jesus in the bed next to him. “Finally,” he thought, “the Army has us sleeping together.”

“Peter Harris?”

Pete turned from Jesus. A nurse was on the other side of the bed, holding an envelope.

“Letter for you.”

Pete took the envelope and grunted thanks. His hands worked well enough to open it. He wished they didn’t. The letter was from his mother. It was characteristically brief and unsentimental.

Jesus saw the look on his face. “Bad?”

Pete nodded, “Yeah. My mom.”

Before Jesus could say anything else, Harris heard someone clear their throat. Where the nurse had been a minute ago, now stood Captain Larkin, their company head.

“I am sorry, Harris,” he said. “I wonder if I might be in a position to help.”

“How so, sir?”

Larkin fidgeted a little, but came to the point. “Well that was one hell of an incident last night. And the MPs took statements about how it started and what happened, and well, with your mom not doing well, and everybody looking to avoid controversy, I wonder if you might appreciate a General Discharge?” Turning to Jesus, he added “Figueroa, with Harris taking the heat here, I believe your career could proceed.”

Pete and Jesus looked at each other. Like most things they were of one mind. Jesus knew Pete had to take care of his mom, and that it was better one of them have an Army career than neither. He nodded his head.

As best as his battered body would let him, Pete sighed. “I think I would like to accept that offer, sir.”

“We can work out the details when you get out of that bed.” Larkin turned and left. But like the third ghost of Christmas, another figure replaced him. It was Bulkowski, face bruised and swollen, but otherwise intact.

“I… I heard that,” he stammered.

Jesus was always the quicker one. “So you got what you wanted, huh Bull?”

“No” said Bull. “I mean… I’m sorry… for everything. I didn’t… sorry.” Bull just turned, and nearly ran off. Jesus and Peter looked at each other and would have laughed if they didn’t hurt so much.

* * *

Pete had six months with his mom. He lived on the couch in her rented apartment, drove her to the hospital for treatment, and did his best to keep her comfortable. The first three months she had the energy to go out a little, and they would sometimes catch a movie, or even dinner out. The last three months were spent in her apartment, or the hospital. The last two weeks with home hospice care as his mother faded away.

She passed quietly in the night, and they buried her in the local cemetery after a well-attended short service at the local funeral parlor. Pete went back to the apartment and cried himself to sleep on the couch.

The next morning he needed to keep moving. He threw on some clothes and started walking. The weather was pretty bad, and Pete wasn’t really paying attention to where he was going. Eventually he just sat down at a park bench and put his head in his hands.

Cold, wet, and quiet outside, he felt something warm, wet and boisterous in his face. It was a mid-sized black dog, tail wagging, greeting Pete like a long lost friend. Pete looked up at the owner.

“Nice dog. What’s his name?”

“Danny, short for Danny Boy,” said the man.

“Good name,” said Pete. “Did you pick it?”

“No,” the man said looking down, “He came with that name from the Humane Society.”

“Oh, he’s a rescue,” Pete said, and thought to himself, “I could use a rescue.”

The man paused, and then, like he was delivering the only line he knew, he asked, “Do you like coffee?”

Roberto

As usual, it came down to a bribe. There was nothing subtle about it. Santos repeated himself.

“Eight thousand Real.”

It was a little more than Roberto expected, so he tried to negotiate.

“Eight thousand? That gives you 40% of what I am going to make my first year!”

Santos gave Roberto the “don’t be stupid,” look. “No moleque. Four thousand Real for me, and four thousand for the boss. The boss always gets paid.” Roberto was about to make a counter offer, but Santos cut him off. “Don’t negotiate with me, moleque. There are many people who want this job.”

There were many people who wanted this job, but perhaps none as much as Roberto. It was not a high paying role, but it was entry into the most exclusive country club in Sao Paulo, and for Roberto a chance to dip his ladle into the river of money.

His family was not poor, but they certainly worked hard to make ends meet. They lived in a nice enough apartment building in a nice enough neighborhood. Mr. Pacquetta, their next door neighbor had taken Roberto under his wing at an early age. His parents were happy for Roberto to spend time with Mr. Pacquetta. He was a respected member of the neighborhood, and a former college professor. Well dressed. Well spoken. And though he walked with a cane, spry for his age.

Mr. Pacquetta began teaching English to Roberto when he was only 5 years old. He played VHS tapes of American movies so Roberto could hear English spoken by natives. He took Roberto to places where tourists congregated, and would tell him to offer help to those who looked lost. They spent a lot of time visiting museums, especially the Pinotecca, where Mr. Pacquetta began to cultivate Roberto’s interest in visual arts.

To the neighborhood, Mr. Pacquetta was an avuncular retired professor. Only Roberto knew there was a dark, driven side to him as well, a side he chose to show very few people other than Roberto. Mr. Pacquetta constantly challenged Roberto, and Roberto lived for his sparse praise. He pushed Roberto to excel in school, and accelerate through the curriculum. He constantly reminded Roberto that he needed to always look out for himself. For reasons Roberto never understood, Mr. Pacquetta polished and shined Roberto, and ground him to a very sharp edge.

By the time he stood in front of Santos he had recently completed his degree and had been working as a tour guide for American and English tourists. But none of that mattered to Santos. All he cared about was eight thousand Real. All Roberto cared about was getting access to the wealthy membership of the club.

“I will bring it in cash, tomorrow at this time,” Roberto said.

“I will be here moleque, don’t make me wait,” and with that Santos turned and went back inside the club service entrance.

Roberto contemplated his problem as he walked home. He had six thousand Real, he needed two thousand more. But he knew where Mr. Paquetta kept his cash. “Alway look out for yourself,” he thought.

Mr. Paquetta had never given Robeto a key. But the two apartments were adjacent and both had small balconies overlooking the interior courtyard. Roberto climbed up on his balcony and made the short jump on to Mr. Paquetta’s. A knife through the seam where the doors met was all that was needed to pop the hook. In short order he was in.

He listened quietly for two full minutes. Mr. Paquetta was almost never home at this time but Roberto wanted to be sure. Satisfied that he was by himself he went to the front hall closet, opened the door, and bent over the small box with the false bottom where Mr. Paquetta kept his cash. He heard the woosh of the cane through the air just as it cracked the side of his skull. He went down hard, but didn’t quite pass out.

Through pain clouded vision, he saw Mr. Paquetta standing over him. Strangely, he was smiling.

“Good student,” Mr. Paquetta said, “it is time to graduate.”

He helped Roberto to a chair, and brought him some ice wrapped in a wet towel.

“How much did Santos want?”

“How did you…”

“Zzzt zzzt” interrupted Mr. Paquetta. “How much did Santos want?”

Speaking softly through the pain and ice, Roberto answered “Eight Thousand Real.”

“And how much do you have?”

“Six thousand Real.”

“Here.” Mr. Paquetta reached into his pocket and took out a wad of bills neatly wrapped with a rubber band. Roberto took the money, too shaken to wonder how Mr. Paquetta had exactly the right amount waiting in his pocket.

“Leave now Roberto. Our time together is over and we will not see each other again.”

Roberto got up, and walked towards the door.

“Roberto.”

Roberto turned and looked at Mr. Paquetta.

“Remember that the boss always gets paid. That crack across your head is my price for 2000 Real.”

Roberto nodded, and left the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.

* * *

Ana Maldanado had “borrowed” Roberto, and a few other staff at the club to set up her show. When Mrs. Maldanado wanted to “open” a new artist in her gallery, she would rent the club ballroom for an evening, mount the works around the room, have a band play tasteful music, and waiters all in white, pass with light hors d'oeuvres. It was a chance for wealthy non-club members to hobnob with the very wealthy club members, and put a glitzy shine on the artist in question.

For this event, the works were oil paintings by an European artist that specialized in what looked like to Roberto’s eye, peasant portraits. The distinguishing feature of nearly all the works were the eyes, which the artist had made just a little too large, and a little too blue, with thick, circularly stroked paint. It made the faces a little unnerving.

Roberto worked with the rest of the crew setting up the temporary walls, helping to dress the room, and setting up the bar and bandstand. While he did this, he kept an eye on the professional art movers who were unpacking the paintings from their crates, and mounting them on the walls Roberto had helped set up.

They worked with careful and focused efficiency, making sure that the correct painting was mounted with the correct printed tile setting forth the title, the date the work was painted, the materials used and and of course, the price.

Roberto helped the band lug in their equipment, and while they were unpacking, took a moment to walk through and give the paintings a look, carefully reading each title. He was standing in front of a painting of an old woman, head covered in a yellow scarf, featuring the bright blue eyes of nearly all the works, when he felt someone behind him.

“So, what do you see?” purred Mrs. Maldanado, her lips close enough to his ears that he felt the breeze of her voice.

Without turning around, Roberto answered, “Well most people think it was Shakespeare who first said “the eyes are the window to the soul” but there is some scholarly dispute. Some believe it originates with the great master Leonardo de Vinci. This artist provides a deliberately ambiguous window into his subject’s souls. They are unnerving because these eyes do not say whether this is a soul destined for heaven or hell. They are unnerving because these eyes reflect back on the viewer confronting whether he or she is going to heaven or hell.”

Roberto turned around to find Mrs. Maldanado looking at him. Mona Lisa like, she might have been smiling, or not.

“Interesting,” she said, and walked away.

At the end of the evening as Roberto was tearing everything down, he felt a tap on his shoulder. A well dressed young woman he had never seen before told him that Mrs. Maldanado would like him to meet with her at the gallery at 9am the next day and that he should dress appropriately.

* * *

Promptly at 9am, Roberto entered the A World Apart gallery. Nearly all of the works displayed the previous evening were now lining the walls of the gallery, and in the center was Mrs. Maldanado and another woman, sipping coffee and chatting. Roberto thought to wait patiently, but immediately upon entering, Mrs. Maldando called him over.

“Roberto, this is Mrs. Marques, she is interested in Not Much Longer to Wait. Would you please help her? Camila, you are in good hands with Roberto.”

“When you are done, dear,” she said looking at Roberto, ”please come see me in my office.” With that, Mrs. Madanado winked at Mrs. Marques and walked away.

Camila Marques gave Roberto an appraising look, and clearly liked what she saw. Roberto didn’t hesitate a second. “Camila, such a beautiful name, would it be ok if I called you that Mrs. Marques?”

“Of course, Roberto”

“Let’s go to the painting you are interested in, and I must say you have excellent taste. Last night at the show, Mrs. Maldanado and I both ended up transfixed before it…”

* * *

Camila Marques bought Not Much Longer to Wait, as well as a second painting of a much younger woman that both she and Roberto thought might be the daughter of the older woman featured in the first painting. Without checking, Roberto gave Mrs. Marques a small discount because she was buying two. Roberto left Camila with Maria, the woman who had tapped him on the shoulder the night before, to work out payment. He gave Camila a friendly air kiss, congratulated her again on her good taste and good fortune, and walked to the office in the back. The room was one note, all in white. White shag carpet. White textured walls. Two white lacquered chairs with white upholstery in front of a white lacquered desk which Mrs. Maldanado was sitting behind. He chose to remain standing, and not sit down in one of the chairs.

“Did you sell the painting”

“Yes, and another.”

Again the Mona Lisa smile. “At list price?”

“I gave her a 5% discount because she bought two.”

The evidence in support of the conclusion that she was smiling weakened slightly. “And why did you think you had authority to do that?”

“Because she was buying two, and because she said she wanted to bring her husband back to look at a third, which she thought would be perfect for his study and she said her friend would ‘die for’ this work, and she planned to bring her to the gallery.”

Roberto thought she was definitely smiling now, wasn’t she?

“That is an acceptable answer. You are hired. Maria will walk you through the paperwork. It is a small base salary and commission. I will let the club know you will not be coming back. I have a few things to take care of here, and then we will be going shopping. I can’t have you wearing the same outfit every day.

* * *

The gallery was waterfront property on the river of money and Roberto did well, amassing a small fortune, and Mrs. Maldanado did very well amassing a much larger one. Roberto was handsome, articulate, and seemed to have a natural instinct for saying the exact thing that people needed to hear to get them to write checks for expensive artwork. He had a good eye for what would sell, and helped choose which artists to represent in the gallery. He enjoyed the company of his colleagues, and learned that on those days when Mrs. Maldanado… Ana… ended the day with a glass of red wine, he was expected to stay back, and join her in the small apartment above the gallery.

Roberto gave little thought to what the next step in his life would be, and for over two years it didn’t matter – until it did.

He was often the first person to arrive in the morning, but this morning found the door unlocked and two large, but well dressed men looking at the artwork. Roberto had a very good memory for faces and didn’t recognize either of the men. They looked up as he came in. One had only a moustache, the other only a beard.

“Ah, you must be Roberto,” said Moustache smiling, “I have heard so much about you.”

Roberto smiled back.

“You have? I hope it was all good? How can I help you.?”

“Well, let’s start by heading back to the office. The boss has some questions for you.”

Beard had interposed himself between Roberto and the front door. Moustache graciously motioned toward the office. Alarm bells ringing, Roberto followed him into the office. Sitting behind Ana’s desk was Antonio Costa. Roberto definitely recognized him.

Antonio Costa was of unknown wealth and unknown power. It seemed like he had his finger in everything and nothing in Sao Paulo. Never written about. Never photographed. The details of his life – obscure. But still well known as a man not to be crossed. And there he was sitting at Ana’s desk, smiling back at Roberto.

“Ah, so here is the young man who has worked so hard to give my wife financial independence.”

Roberto’s heart stopped. “Your.. wife?”

“Yes, of course. Ana Maldanado, my bride. She chose to keep her maiden name. Very modern, and occasionally useful. Please sit down.” Costa waved at one of the chairs. Roberto sat down, and before he could blink his wrists were zip tied to the arms. Moustache and Beard positioned themselves on either side.

As if they were having a perfectly normal conversation that hadn’t been interrupted briefly by zip tying, Costa continued from behind the desk.

“Surely Pacquetta told you Ana was my wife?

Roberto felt like he had been slapped across the face. Before he could summon speech, he felt again like he was slapped across the face. This time by Beard. Moustache conversationally suggested he should “answer the questions in a timely fashion.”

Roberto tried to make his mouth work. “No. He didn’t. The last time I saw him was the day before I started at the club. He disappeared. I haven’t seen him since. I have no idea if he knows I work at the gallery.”

“Tell me about your last conversation with him.”

“He gave me money to get the job at the club. He told me this was the last time we would see each other. He gave me the money, and I left.”

“He gave you 2000 Real?”

Again, Roberto felt like he had been slapped, but this time had the presence of mind to answer quickly.

“Yes.”

“Where did this conversation take place?”

“In his apartment.”

“What was he wearing when he answered the door?”

“He was dressed to go out, and carrying his cane, but…” Roberto hesitated but not enough to earn a second blow. “He didn’t answer the door. I came in through the balcony, and he found me there.”

“Why did you come in through the balcony?”

Roberto’s brain couldn’t fashion a credible lie, and so he confessed to the truth.

“I was going to steal the 2000 Real from him.”

Santos exploded in laughter. Even Moustache and Beard chuckled a little. It took Santos nearly a full minute to compose himself.

“What did Pacquetta do when he found you?”

“He cracked me across the head with his cane. Then he gave me the 2000 Real, and told me we would never speak again.”

Costa looked thoughtful.

“He said nothing else?”

“Just one more thing,” said Roberto, he told me the boss always gets paid, and the crack across the head was his price.”

Costa seemed very pleased with this response.

“Ah, finally we get to the heart of the matter. Clearly Pacquetta tried to teach you an important lesson, and you did not learn it.”

Roberto slumped in the seat. “I don’t understand.”

“My wife started this gallery to have something that wasn’t part of my business. She called it A World Apart. Very clever. Or perhaps not. She and I have a special arrangement and because we are married I do not think of her as an employee. But I am still the boss. Now that doesn’t apply to you. The money for starting the gallery came from me. You are an employee. And just like you did to get your job at the club, you need to pay the boss. I believe this payment is quite late.”

Beard smacked Roberto hard across the face. A spray of red blood and spittle added a second note to the white of the office.

Costa nodded slightly.

“Consider that a small amount of what you owe me.”

Shaking now, sure that his life was coming to an end, Roberto asked the only question left.

“How much do I owe you?”

Much to his surprise Costa named the exact amount in Roberto’s bank account, “plus…”

“Plus?” said Roberto.’

“Plus you leave Brazil and never return again.”

Roberto knew not to hesitate. “Yessir,” he stammered.

“I am not an unreasonable man. Here is a first class ticket to America. I have learned that there is no man so desperate to find his fortune than a man who has already lost one. Perhaps God is not done with you yet?”

Antonio Costa got up and walked out of the office, followed by Moustache. Bears cut Roberto free from the chair, and escorted him to the airport. He watched Roberto exchange the first class ticket for economy and receive the balance, but said nothing. Beard walked untroubled through security and stayed with Roberto until he was on the plane and the doors closed. As the plane taxied out, Roberto could see him standing in the window like a loyal dog waiting for his master.

Danny

Danny knew his name. The people called him “Danny.” It was easy to understand that when they said his name they wanted his attention. Danny knew that he once had a mother and brothers and sisters. He remembered them only dimly, mostly by their absence.

Danny remembered a little about where he had been, the different places, but they receded as his time in this place went on. It was beginning to feel like he had always been in this place. It was not a bad place. They fed him twice a day, and the food was good. He always ate all of it, just in case there was none tomorrow. They took him outside where he could play, sometimes with the other dogs. He liked playing with the other dogs, and they seemed to like playing with him.

Danny was content except for one thing. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Danny had a feeling that he had a purpose beyond eating, playing, and bodily functions. He remembered always feeling like he had a purpose, and always wondering what that purpose was. But Danny was a patient dog, and so he waited patiently for his purpose to be revealed.

It happened all at once. He was lying in his crate. It was mostly dark and all the other dogs were asleep. Suddenly a light shone brightly and Danny saw it all. He saw a man, Irving, and how the man would come to this place and take Danny home to a blue house. He saw how the man would be his father, and they would love and care for each other. He saw another man, Pete, who would come to help them, and be a brother. He saw how he would never leave his father, even after he was gone. He saw all this in the light, and discovered his purpose. And it was good.

The next day the man came to the place. Danny and a lot of other dogs were all outside in the run. Irving came into the run, and Danny trotted over to him, sat down in front of him, and looked him straight in the eyes, tail wagging. All the other dogs stopped playing and watched intently. “Well hello,” said the man, patting Danny on the head, “I guess this was meant to be.”

Pete

After Irving passed, Pete moved in to the little blue house on Violet street. Irving Quince, being a practical man, saw no reason for the house to be sold off to the State, and so he had executed a simple will, leaving everything to Pete and Danny.

One day Pete was working in the front garden when he looked up to find Jesus standing at the gate. He invited him inside for coffee. They married at Town Hall some time later and Jesus moved in with Pete to the little blue house on Violet Street. Together they visited Danny and Irving every day and took good care of each other.

Eventually, Danny joined Irving in the earth at the cemetery. Pete, Jesus, Raul, John and many many others came for Danny’s service. Pete planted shrubs around their site. The shrubs produced beautiful blossoms every spring. Flowering Quince.

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