It is not the peaks that fall, but the hearts that falter.
This day will pass too, no day lasts forever,
My dear, do not grieve, wipe away your tears.
Look, we have reached the spring,
Look, March has entered this world!
Look!…
Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna (February 15, 1973) was born in Uzbekistan. She studied at the Faculty of Journalism of Tashkent State University (1992-1998). She took first place in the competition of young republican poets (1999). Four collections of her poems have been published in Uzbekistan: “Leaf of the Heart” (1998), “Roads to You” (1998), “The Sky in My Chest” (2007), “Lovely Melodies” (2013). She wrote poetry in more than ten genres. She translated some Russian and Turkish poets into Uzbek, as well as a book by Yunus Emro. She lived as a political immigrant with her family for five years in Turkey and five years in Ukraine. Currently Shamsiya lives in Switzerland. She is married and the mother of five children, and has come back to writing and translation after ten years.
Ozod Sharafiddinov: The role of the writer in translation science and Uzbek criticism
Abstract: In Uzbek literature, many accomplished artists are recognized not only in Uzbekistan, but all over the world, and their works are studied as an important part of the scientific and literary world. Ozod Sharafiddinov is a scientist who made a great contribution to the development of Uzbek literature and the art of translation. His scientific and practical work in the fields of literary criticism, translation theory and artistic translation introduced a new approach to some important directions. This article analyzes the life and scientific activity of Ozod Sharafiddinov and his contribution to the fields of translation and literary criticism.
In modern literary studies, the development of literary text analysis methods, theory of translation and literary criticism is closely related to the scientific heritage of mature scientists. The scientific researches of Ozod Sharafiddinov, who formed a unique theoretical approach in Uzbek literary criticism, are of great importance not only in the national but also in the context of world literary studies. He was born on March 1, 1929 in the village of Okhunkainar near Kokan. After graduating from school in Tashkent, he graduated from the Faculty of Philology of the Central Asian State University, completed post-graduate studies in Moscow and received the degree of candidate of science. One of the most famous works of Ozod Sharafiddinov is “Time. Heart. Poetry” included the literary critical researches of the writer related to the problems of poetry in those times. The work also contains literary and critical articles written by the writer about Uzbek poetry and its situation, literary works are studied from the point of view of the laws of art. His research is based on the analysis of national ideals and literary laws.
Ozod Sharafiddinov’s ideas about the creative personality and his place in artistic works are interpreted in the work “Literary Etudes”. His works such as “First Miracle”, “Talent-People’s Property”, “Literature-People’s Property” and “In Search of Beauty” covered the important issues of Uzbek poetry, prose and criticism one by one.
The first period is the years of Soviet, and the second is the years after independence. In his books “Independence Devotees”, “Sardaftar satrlar”, “On the Paths of Spiritual Perfection”, the writer analyzed with a new look and a new approach the work of his great ancestors, such as Abdurauf Fitrat, Abdulkhamid Chulpan, Osman Nasir, Oybek, Abdulla Kahhar, Gafur Ghulam. Especially, the writer’s research on the works of Chulpan deserve special recognition. For example, in the work “Understanding Chulpan”, the writer analyzes the complex path of the new Uzbek criticism in the 20th century, and sheds light on the work of many critics from the point of view of Chulpan’s work. The place of Uzbek literature in the world and its scientific and spiritual roots are studied and the book “The Happiness of Realizing Creativity” is considered as the peak of creativity of Ozod Sharafiddinov. At this point, it is necessary to pay special attention to the legacy of the writer in the field of translation.
Because the writer introduced the concept of criticism to the art of translation. “Confession” by Leo Tolstoy, “The Chemist” by P. Coelho, “Stop the plane, I’m falling!” by A. Sevela, which are loved by world readers as masterpieces of world literature His works were translated into Uzbek by Ozod Sharafiddinov and reached the hands of Uzbek book lovers. Of course, all the writer’s creative works, artistic and scientific works, as well as translations, played a special role in raising the thinking of our people and enriching our national literature.
Literary criticism: an in-depth analysis of a literary text. Ozod Sharafiddinov saw literary criticism not only as a means of evaluating the work, but also as a method of studying the internal system of the text and interpreting it in a socio-philosophical context. His research covers a number of areas. For example, in the structuralism of the artistic text, the system of literary images and their dynamics, the compositional structure of the work and its aesthetic impact are analyzed. The direction of ideological-aesthetic harmony is very important and includes the analysis of the national and universal significance of the work, the evaluation of the personality of the writer and his creative principles. Each work has its own language, style, nature, and the study of the influence of language and style on the content of the text is a special direction in the analysis of the work.
According to Ozod Sharafiddinov’s theory, literary criticism is not only a means of looking for the shortcomings of a work, but also a means of revealing its artistic-aesthetic, philosophical and social essence. Scientist emphasized how important it is to maintain the balance between the originality and the translation. O. Sharafiddinov developed fundamental scientific approaches in the development of the Uzbek translation school. He analyzed the problems encountered in the translation process and their solutions. According to his theory, translation theory should rely on several important factors.
Faithfulness to the original and maintaining the harmony of national thinking, realizing the importance of the translator’s role in re-creating the text are among these. In fact, the work of translators is very important not only in literature, but also in the world community and international friendship. Because cultural codes are transformed in the process of translation. International communication is ensured through artistic translation. Based on the scientific views of the writer, in today’s translation practice, the combination of faithfulness to the original and national thinking is seen as an important methodological principle. Today’s scientific researches show that Sharafiddinov’s approaches play an extremely important role in the development of modern literary criticism and translation theory. Based on his scientific concepts, new trends such as deep research of semiotic and linguistic foundations of translation and enrichment of literary criticism with philosophical thinking entered the literature.
Summary. The scientific legacy of Ozod Sharafiddinov left an indelible mark on the development of Uzbek literary studies and translation theory. He discovered literary criticism as not just a tool for evaluating a work, but a scientific approach that reveals its inner essence. Despite the fact that the artistic works he analyzed reflected the socio-cultural environment of his time, he also gave a guide to modern literary processes by studying their internal structures.
According to the writer, every created artistic work should be considered as a part of the spiritual heritage of humanity, different peoples and different destinies, along with being a product of the thinking of its time. The writer’s creativity and love for translation praised the fact that the translator is not only a technical creator who translates the text into another language, but also a creative person who creates a bridge between two cultures.
After all, the process of translation is not a simple change of language, but an art of keeping the balance of meaning and aesthetic harmony. By further developing the fields of literary criticism and translation theory, researchers following in the footsteps of Ozod Sharafiddinov not only contribute to the recognition of Uzbek literature on a global scale, but also serve to expand the boundaries of scientific thinking. His scientific legacy does not lose its relevance no matter how fast time passes, but on the contrary, it creates a solid ground for new research.
Interview: For the sake of this interview I’m going to refer to you as Mrs. Reynolds.
Melba: Oh, fine. Whatever.
Interview: You’ll settle for that?
Melba: Get on with it. Please.
Interview: Tell me about what happened yesterday.
Melba: That’s it? Are you serious?
Interview: Everything you can remember.
Melba: It was a beautiful day, I guess.
Interviewer: The weather?
Melba: You know I hate this season.
Interviewer: You hate all the seasons, these days. You only notice in the summer.
Melba: Still, the content was beautiful. I woke up at—
Interviewer: I’m more interested in how it ended.
Melba: In sleep, naturally.
Interviewer: And before that?
Melba: Michael barbequed. The meat came out perfectly, not too well-done. There were some fireflies in the garden.
Interviewer: I don’t care about the animals eaten or alive. Those are trivial, incidental. The details distract from the underlying truth.
Melba: I thought you wanted to know everything. Can’t you filter what you decide is important?
Interviewer: Try to focus on the subtleties. What no one but you had empirical access to.
Melba: Such as?
Interviewer: I think you know what you’re not mentioning.
Melba: I woke up. I went to work—
Interviewer: Tried to ignore it. Won’t work, won’t work.
Melba: What?
Interviewer: Boredom boredom crushing boredom. You notice your heart pumping. You’re aware when your lungs release. These things are supposed to be autonomic, but your brain sends the wrong signal. Boredom. Pump. Boredom. Breathe.
Melba: No, I like my job. It took me years to get here.
Interviewer: Not there. Not any one place. In the lining between. Underneath the perfect meat, boredom is a seasoning.
Melba: I love my children. So I love my life. I can’t be bored when I’m filled with love, I can’t. I love my children.
Interviewer: As you love your husband, Michael Reynolds?
Melba: Yes.
Interviewer: He’s someone you protect and fight for. You feel no vaginal passion and fill this gaping hole with any object you can touch. You look at fireflies and try to make them exciting. You watch your children chase them, and you watch yourself watching them. How idyllic, how artful, you force yourself to think. How lucky I must therefore be, as if life were math and you had the winning numbers.
Melba: Happiness isn’t simple, of course. But neither is its absence. There’s no vacuum.
Interviewer: I’m not suggesting you’re completely unhappy, Mrs. Reynolds.
Melba: Melba.
Interviewer: Merely less so than perhaps you should be.
Melba: What, then, should I be? Who should I be?
Interviewer: Someone who remembers when her last orgasm was. (Pause) My god, you do remember, don’t you? And you count the expanding days.
Melba: There’s always a blank spot.
Interview: Yours will grow until it consumes you, for you know you’re aging and pretend that all progress is good. You’re not quite jealous of yourself at 18, not yet. You remember her pain too clearly.
Melba: I always ache after the orgasm. All consensual sex leaves me sore, broken. My constitution wasn’t built to sustain the rush. The subsequent crash is too frequent, too immediate, to justify the high. And it always comes in that order: First good, then bad, with the latter more intense. It never goes in the other order, things never get better. The initial pleasure is invalidated by the overwhelming sharpness. And then: Despair sets in.
Interviewer: That sounds very clinical. Good for you that you’ve articulated your emptiness in a way that makes sense to you. How cleverly you’ve talked yourself out of what you choose to miss. You still miss it, though. You’re not a robot.
Melba: No. I’m definitely not a robot.
Interviewer: Still, you abstain from both peak and valley, turn your life into a flatline. Who gave you the authority to take that away from yourself? To will yourself, if not happy, then old?
Melba: Dread.
Interviewer: Dread is not an authority. It is a liar, even when proves itself right. How is that working out for you, by the way? Are you living without dread, now that you’ve essentially defined yourself by it? (pause)When was the last time you had enjoyable sex?
Melba: I took my children to the park. That is what sex is for.
Interviewer: Not for you? Is pleasure so shallow just because it touches skin?
Melba: For the children, I submitted. As often as it took.
Interview: And every day since is a “lovely” ordeal.
Melba: You should see them, illuminated by the setting sun, following fireflies off of my porch.
Interview: Well, sure. You have to notice the little buzzing things, enjoy each slowly dying second. This is what unhappy optimists do. They pretend the sacrifice is worth it.
Melba: What—what is the point of this interview?
Interviewer: I am conducting research and contrasting you to your alternate.
Melba: Who never married Michael Reynolds?
Interviewer: Correct.
Melba: Which one? There must be an infinite number of scenarios, literally infinite, where I don’t marry Michael. Am I to compete with all of them?
Interviewer: No, although you’re right that forks beget forks, I’m only observing two possibilities. This man or that man, zero or one. I’m judging you against Mrs. Robert Kane.
Melba: (pause)Bobby.
Interviewer: Do you remember that Christmas party when he came back into your life? Or potentially did?
Melba: Daily. But I’m sure I think of everything daily.
Interviewer: Don’t lie to your sub-consciousness. It never works.
Melba: I had already moved in with Michael when Bobby and I…reconnected. By chance at that party. I never would hurt him by pursuing other men.
Interviewer: Why not? There’s no such thing as being pre-married. In order for marriage to mean anything, you can’t give it away too early. But you thought you were more committed to a very specific universe than was the actual case. You were wrong. Cosmically, fundamentally. Atomically.
Melba: You can’t possibly know that. Not as an absolute.
Interviewer: At the rate you’re going you’ll wind up as lonely and sexually frustrated as you were when you were 18, only this time you’ll have no hope to look to. The thing you’ll most consistently dream of is the sound of your husband’s breathing, never knowing if you’re awake or not. Your good dreams will be the cruelest of false positives. That you’re lying next to another human will do nothing but make your loneliness OBSCENE.
All this because you could never recover from the hurt Bobby accidentally threw at you at 18. You could never give real love a second chance, for fear it would leave again. As if Bobby hadn’t grown up at all. So you settled for the plastic that would never decay. When did beauty become so frightening? Around the same time you confused orgasms with torture? You just want life boring so you’ll be less afraid of death. How morbid. You let death win.
I see Mrs. Kane, the one who chose more wisely. I’m sorry to invalidate everything you’ve worked for, but that’s the point—Her smile is less forced. Thus she’s the one I choose to let life breathe into, to close the gap between potential and forever.
Melba: I love my children. Michael’s children.
Interviewer: Take as long as you need to mourn them. But back they go, no harm done.
Melba: How can you say that? You’re not the one who has to go back to the age of 29, and break up with a man you genuinely love. God, I have to look him in the eye. I have to watch his face.
Interviewer: No doubt this will hurt. But its prevention isn’t worth a lifetime of mediocre fulfillment, which won’t hurt so much as itch in a place you can’t reach. That would be too high an avoidance cost. Tears, though, tears are cathartic, cleansing. How healthful to the body to relieve its inner conflict. (He hands her a tissue)
Melba: (She accepts it but does not take it to her face)Why would you give me this near-complete contentment only to take it away? Do my modest joys come to nothing, for being modest?
Interviewer: I care too much about you to settle for the beta version. Not when I’ve seen you in more perfect light.
Melba: Oh, Michael. My sweet Michael.
Interview: You will miss him. But you miss Bobby more now, a truth which denying fails to fix. Cognizance is better. Dissonance is a waste of your brain.
Melba: This doesn’t feel like change, it feels like death. This Melba Hazelton, this Mrs. Reynolds, is dying. I’m dying.
Interviewer: Oh, Darling. (pause) You are.
Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, short stories, paintings, drawings and photographs have been published both online and in print. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram. Playwright’s note: Between One and Zero was originally produced at Manhattan Theatre Source, in June 2009. It starred Eliza Lay as Melba and Seth Lombardi as Interviewer.
Zee exited the Lavender Day Spa and decided to walk down Primrose Street to the Stone Coffee Pot for a pumpkin latte. It was late October in Silicon Valley. The clouds had turned dark, a steel gray, and the temperature chilly, several degrees colder than at the start of her 50-minute massage; a birthday gift from Barb, one of her best friends.
“I know you never treat yourself to a ‘pamper,’ but my masseuse is more than special,” Barb had said with a wink. “You’ll want to go back. I promise.”
Zee had resisted spending money on any type of self-pampering. For some reason, she felt guilty inside when on the rare occasion she’d splurge on a manicure or pedicure, pricey haircut or facial. It had been a few years since she had indulged in any of that. But today she had let herself completely submit, welcoming the promised loving care from Zane, Barb’s twenty-something Aussie masseuse.
It was the extra care Zee needed after having just learned that her sister’s husband Gus was diagnosed with brain cancer. With two kids and a third one on the way, her sister sobbed on the phone two nights ago. Gus was scheduled for surgery next week. Zee planned take time off from work to be there with her in San Francisco, and already cleared with her employer.
Zipping up her sweatshirt, Zee stepped down the Spa’s stone staircase to the pavement, and started the half block walk. A few drops hit the top of her head. She picked up her pace hoping to beat the rain that she suddenly recalled had been predicted on the news the night before. Stopping dead in her tracks, she quickly pivoted, but not without tripping over a gap in the pavement. Rushing back up the steps to the spa’s entrance and into the shadow of the entryway, she pressed her back against the stone wall, hoping she was out of sight. He walked by. Peeking out she saw the tails of Reed’s khaki raincoat flapping in the wind, his shoulder length dark hair flying in the wind. She watched him turn up the collar of his coat.
Her mind drifted to the ‘once upon a time’ code they had between them. ‘Gitchi goo.’ It had been their private signal, their private language. If they were out at a dragging social event or family gathering that seemed to go on for too long, one of them would whisper the two words. “Gitchi goo.” The other would nod and echo back the same two words. “Gitchi goo.”
Within a few minutes, Reed would typically be the one to make the excuse to the host as to why they needed to depart. “Early meeting in the morning” or “unfortunately, the only choice of dental appointments was at sunrise” were the apologetic words he’d offer with a smile and a smooth handshake. Then Zee and Reed would go home and make love. This happened every time following their “gitchi goo’s.” Zee had even made the password to her iPhone, gitchygoo.
Zee’s full birth name was Zelda Sayre Fitzsimmons, named after Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, who was her mother’s favorite historical figure from the 1920’s and 30’s. Zelda had been a notorious flapper who had married F Scott Fitzgerald and then drove him crazy with her wild ways and high emotions. Zee’s divorced mother, Greta was a zealous enthusiast and had modeled her own life as wildly as Zelda Fitzgerald’s. Zee was embarrassed by her mother’s behavior and often scolded Greta for being out at least 2 or 3 nights a week getting drunk with her friends at the corner bar. Often Greta would bring home a man late at night, and dance to loud music in the living room, often on school nights. Zee and her sister would be forced to listen to their antics through thin walls, to the moans and giggles that would go on until early morning when the sisters would sneak to get a peak from their bedroom door. They’d see a man hurdling out of the apartment door, a stranger they’d never see again. Zee hated her given name, Zelda Sayre Fitzsimmons while her older sister enjoyed the more ordinary name of Barbara Ann, a name Zee wished she had.
She had called herself Zee since she was eleven-years old, and then legally changed her name the day following her high school graduation from Zelda Sayre Fitzsimmons to Zee Fitzsimmons. She spent her first day of college in the Administration office equipped with all required documentation proving the legal name change.
Out of sight, up against the stone wall of the day spa, she watched him walk down the street and turn right at the corner. She had lived with Reed for almost four years. It had been three years since their nasty break up; the break up that had shaken her to the core.
Zee walked down the street, the patter of rain picking up. She raised the hood of her sweatshirt unable to shake the thought of Reed out of her head.
The shock to her system happened at lunch one day three years ago, when her friend Edith, a friend Zee hadn’t seen for quite a while. Edith mentioned that she had attended a Silicon Valley Marketing Communications conference the week before. And not only was Reed at the same conference but he was the recipient of the coveted Brightest Star Award honoring his exemplary achievements in Marketing and Public Relations work. Edith was the leader of a much smaller PR firm than Reed’s mega company and was excited to meet Reed following his acceptance speech. It was at the champagne party at the end of the day where she had a chance to meet him in person and talk with him for a few short minutes. He was surrounded by several colleagues and admirers, all congratulating him as he held up his award. “One of his colleagues, her name was Lisa something or other I think,” Edith described. “Well, in the midst of the cocktail conversation Reed looked over at the woman and said “gitchi goo” or something like that. “It was kind of weird,” Edith said, with a shrug. “I bet it was some kind of marketing campaign slogan. Evidently.” The young woman turned to him and responded with those two same words, “gitchi goo.”
Zee stared down her crème brulee, as Edith continued.
“Then he and Lisa made a brisk exit saying that they both needed to get back to the office and prepare for the next day of marathon meetings with some new client.
Edith giggled. “I mean, you are one lucky woman. Snagging Reed Comack. He’s a gladiator. And, I didn’t realize how attractive he was until I was standing there less than a foot away from him.”
Zee pulled out her cell phone, and said, “Oh no.” She quickly made some excuse Edith about an important academic meeting she had completely forgotten about. She handed Edith a 50-dollar bill and politely extricated herself from her lunch table, the words “gitchie goo” echoed in her head. Zee knew most of Reed’s work colleagues, especially those he worked closely with. There was Ben – CFO, Dan – VP of Sales, Connie – his HR Director, Rudy from Product Development, and Jennifer, his executive admin. Zee had never heard him mention anyone named Lisa.
When she lived with Reed, Zee was instructor of Sociology at a local community college, and was simultaneously finishing up a Masters degree in Social Justice. She had been accepted into a PhD program and had started writing a book she titled FAIRNESS – A SAFE HARBOR (Re-discovering balance in an unbalanced world).
The day after Edith dropped the bomb at lunch, Zee launched an amateur investigation of Reed’s comings and goings to and from his Silicon Valley office. At home, she tried to act normal with him, avoiding too much time together, and feigning sleep when she was wide awake.
Distressed, she found him canoodling in a wine bar a day later with the tall young blonde at lunchtime. The day after that, at the end of his work day, she followed him to the same woman’s apartment in Palo Alto. The mailbox tag read, Lisa Cannon. On the third day of her trailing him, she spotted the two lovers fondling each other in his car at the north forty of his company parking lot. Zee’s whole world crumbled in three short days. She had trusted him. Then she confronted him, flashing an array of revealing photos.
Three years had dragged by since their split and there he was looking as swag as ever rushing down the street. Thank God he had turned the corner and hopefully she’d never see him again.
She dropped the idea of a pumpkin latte and instead headed to the parking lot for her car. She had agreed to a date with Chris that night, a man she had met at the gym. He was in Sales and talked a lot about his job as they stepped side by side on the stair master on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. After a month of chit chat, he asked her for a date. This weekend was the start of his company’s annual conference at a hotel in San Mateo. She was sorry she had said yes to their date. He picked her up at 6:30, wearing a royal blue crew neck sweater and black khaki’s; and drove them to his favorite restaurant in south San Francisco. It was a well-known Mexican restaurant, known for its gourmet cuisine. She had always wanted to go. Along the way, they listened to a country western music station, and sang along. Zee didn’t mind the music as much as the fact he didn’t inquire at all about her musical genre preferences.
Seated at a corner table in the back of the restaurant, Latin music played softly in the background. Chris ordered a pitcher of margaritas. Once their glasses were filled, he started to talk about himself. It went on non-stop from the time they ordered until they were served and then didn’t stop jabbering throughout the meal, pausing only to finish the pitcher and order another margarita, only this time a single Cadillac version for himself. Zee barely touched the first one he poured for her. At first, he went on about his job, the big deals he was doing as Director of Sales, then about the four bedroom-house he purchased three months ago. He moved on to his passion for downhill skiing, and the new Cyber truck he was set to buy. Zee attempted to insert a few things about herself but without any success. He spoke over her whenever she spoke. As if in the midst of auditioning for a lead role in a stage play, he spewed a monologue that seemed like it would never end. She wanted to escape, regretted that she had agreed to a date with a narcissist. It was a mistake. She had enough experience with that type in the past. She noticed that her head was starting to ache. The walls of the spacious restaurant seemed to be closing in on her. Her brain jammed with the events of the last 24 hours: her sister’s tragic news, the morning at the spa where she allowed herself to have a few minutes of ecstasy after the massage, and then having spotted Reed on the street. It was all too much for her to handle. She closed her eyes for a moment. Her head was pounding, Chris’ voice hammered away on his achievements without a pause.
Zee reached out to the small wicker basket at the center of their table. Inserting her hand under the red cloth napkin, she snatched up a warm over-sized flour tortilla. She held it high above her head, flicked her wrist and pitched the tortilla across the high-ceilinged dining room. It sailed through the air and landed on the top edge of the elaborate wood entry door which had been left slightly ajar. In awe at the height she had achieved with the flying tortilla, she was more astounded at what she saw as her eyes came back to table level. There he was again, Reed, sitting just a few tables away. It was the second time she’d seen him in last eight hours. But this time he was staring at her.
Zee hadn’t been in the same room with Reed since the day she walked out the front door of his townhouse three years ago. A memory flashed before her eyes, the moment when she had confronted him with the photographs, the ones she had secretly captured of him and his blonde-haired lover. She recalled how he looked baffled, then shoved his hands in his sweatpants pockets, shrugging his shoulders, and dropping his head to avoid eye contact.
“I’m a bum, Zee. I’m just a bum,” he had said, looking down at his bare feet. “I don’t deserve you.”
His reaction to her accusation had been almost more devastating to her than his infidelity. It stung. She had stormed into their bedroom to pack her three suitcases. He didn’t go after her or have any words to offer while she rushed to get her things together. Instead, he wandered into his study, sat in his leather swivel chair, his back to the open door. Once she made the three trips to load her car with boxes, suitcases and the two framed museum posters she had hung on the bedroom wall, she walked into his study. “I’ll be back tomorrow to get the rest,” she said. “While you’re at work,” she emphasized. “I know how busy you are with your work.” He didn’t turn to look at her.
Now here he was, Reed Comack, less than ten feet away in the Mexican restaurant. He sat across from a beefy man wearing a dark suit and red tie. Sporting his signature preppy look, Reed wore a black turtleneck and herring bone wool blazer. The lock of dark hair, a long curl that fell below his left eye still hung there, like it had three years ago, the same curl she’d brush away from his eyes when they were in bed making love. She had often teased him often about that lazy curl. It was the only lazy thing about him.
They locked eyes across the restaurant for at least three beats of Zee’s still wounded heart. Then he looked away back to the man across the table. Zee’s date had finally stopped talking.
“Geesh. That was kind of disruptive, don’t you think?” Chris said, pushing his chair back from the table. The three seniors at the table next to them stared.
“I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “I-I…” She looked up at the tortilla dangling at the top left edge of the high arched entry door. The door opened wide and the tortilla Zee had pitched hit the well-dressed young woman on the top of her head. The woman’s mouth gaped wide open as she looked up. A busboy quickly retrieved the tortilla from the tiled floor and tossed it into a plastic bin set at the side of the wood-carved restaurant bar.
“Oh my God,” Chris put a hand to his forehead, trying to shrink himself in the cane chair. “This is some date.”
“Oh, sorry for that,” Zee said apologetically. She glanced back at Reed and could him sign for the check.
“Are you feeling alright?” Chris asked her, with a hint of sarcasm.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Now, what was I just talking about?’ he said. “Oh yeah, I was telling you about my biz trip to Switzerland which turned into an unforgettable ski trip. I was on the summit, skis pointed downhill, goggles on, gazing up at the glorious sky when…”
The server appeared at their table interrupting. She was ready for a likely reprimand from the restaurant staff.
“Miss, I was asked to hand you this note,” their dark-haired server said. He placed the note by her dinner plate and rushed away.
Zee read the hand-written note.
Zee, you still know how to steal a scene. BTW I still have your high school yearbook and what looks like your grade school diary. Been saving them for you. Reed. 408 723 1414.
“Someone wanting to sign you for the Giants team?” Chris said jokingly, then rolled his eyes, placing his napkin on the table. “That’s quite an arm you got there.”
“No, it’s a note from the restaurant manager requesting that I have the server discard items from the table instead of me doing it.” She stuffed the note in her purse.
Chris narrowed his eyes and signaled for the check. Zee kept still and quiet. He quickly paid with a credit card, not even waiting to see the total on the bill. As they exited the restaurant, she resisted the urge to look over at Reed. Chris was quiet on their drive back. No music. No talking. No boasting. She had achieved her desired outcome from her date. He turned into a hotel parking lot, slowing into a space close to the hotel entrance. “Spend the night with me,” he said, taking her hand. “I have a beautiful suite overlooking the bay.”
“What?” she said. “But you…”
“I’ll get you home early in the morning,” he interrupted. “We’ll have a nice breakfast first.”
And that’s when Zee dished back her own monologue, letting him know that the tortilla thing was her reaction to his non-stop bragging without giving one God-damn to learn one thing about her life. “Take me home now or I’ll call an Uber.” He obeyed without another word. At her door, she uttered a curt “good night.”
“See you at the gym,” he said. She slammed the car door. She wanted to kick his passenger door before she walked away, but resisted.
In bed, Zee had trouble relaxing. She realized that she wanted her high school yearbook and diary back, and she couldn’t stop thinking of Reed. Awaking the next morning, she pulled out the note she had zipped into her wallet the night before and phoned Reed to arrange to meet. His voice was playful and he said he was happy to reunite her with her two nostalgic two items. She agreed to having a quick coffee with him. Sipping her pumpkin latte at the coffee spot opposite the man she once considered her soul mate, she had the jitters. As Reed sipped on his coffee, he confessed not only to the love affair with Lisa, who had been a college hire at his company but that he had actually fallen in love with the young woman and they had married two years ago. When she heard the words, Zee was felt traumatized and wanted to bolt but then quickly noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“Lisa passed away,” he whispered.
“She died?”
“Five months ago,” he said, and brushed away the curl which usually hung over his right eye like a perfect half-moon. “Car crash. I’ve been trying to focus on work. But…but, I can’t get her off my mind. She was everything to me.”
“Reed. I’m so sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have said all that,” he said, pushing his coffee cup away. “Let’s change the subject. Tell me about your PhD. Should I be calling you Dr. Fitzsimmons?”
“No, I didn’t pursue it after we…”
“Because of us? Damn it, Zee. You still teaching Sociology at the college? Did you finish your book?”
She stared down at the cinnamon bits floating on the latte, the white foam having disappeared into the now light brown liquid. “No, I quit teaching and never picked up with working on the book again.”
“So, you’re doing what now?”
Zee squirmed, feeling guilty to focus on anything to do with her life after his devastating news. “I’m actually a private investigator,” she said. “Worker’s compensation cases mostly but the occasional wayward husband, grand theft and maybe a dozen embezzlement cases now under my belt. I work three days a week for a small firm. I also run my own private business on the side.”
“That’s fucking amazing,” Reed said. His cellphone chimed. “Please excuse me,” he said. “Don’t leave, ok? This will only take ten seconds. I promise.”
Zee nodded. “No prob. I’ll get another latte. You?”
“No thanks, I’m good,” he said and walked away speaking into the phone.
Zee ordered at the counter while Reed stepped outside the entry door to take the call. Settled down at the table with her drink, she felt confused, processing the fact that her ex had fallen in love with his young lover enough to actually propose and get married. How could she blame him after the poor woman died? But he had been a liar and a cheat, and there was no excuse for that.
Reed sat down. “You really are a private eye, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” she said, taking a sip.
“I just googled you. You’re with Harker Day. Good firm.”
“You didn’t believe me? Thought I was lying? Like someone else we know? Fuck you.” Her buried anger spilled.
“I want to hire you,” he said.
“What?” She started buttoning up her coat.
“I think someone killed my wife,” he said. “She was targeted. A truck hit her Mustang and the fucking driver disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Reed reached down into his black leather laptop bag and placed her old diary and tattered school yearbook on the table.
“What you left behind,” he said.
She noticed the tiny hairline scar under his left eye, the product of a third-grade schoolyard accident he had told her about some years ago.
“Will you do an investigation? I’ll pay you well.”
“Reed, I can’t. Anyway, I’m off for two weeks starting this Monday. I’ll be in San Francisco. My brother-in-law is having brain surgery to remove a malignant tumor. I’ll be watching my sister’s two young kids while she goes back and forth to the hospital.
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” he said. “Beth’s husband, Greg?”
“Beth’s husband Gus, not Greg.”
“Oh yeah, I knew his name started with a ‘g.’ He was a good guy. I mean, he’s still a good guy. But you won’t be wrapped up every minute watching those kids, right?”
Zee shook her head and look down at the latte.
“You still have that wild red hair,” he said.
She looked up at him and wanted to reply with: and you still have those chocolate brown eyes that could melt a woman’s heart.
“Not my fault,” Zee replied instead.
“It was all my fault, Zee.”
“Reed, I meant my wild red frizzy hair. Not my fault.” She grinned. “It’s the legacy my dear mother left me. You still think I’m holding a grudge, don’t you? Look, I moved on from us. Very quickly!”
“I-I didn’t mean to offend you,” he murmured.
“Reed, I’m very sorry for your loss but I can’t possibly help you with this.”
“$10K cash up front and no matter what, even if you find nothing in a week or so, you keep the money. No, make that $15k up front. Like I said, no refund back to me after a week of you investigating.”
“Are you trying to make reparations for what you did years ago with a cash settlement now?” She peered into her second pumpkin latte which sat on the table, the light foam topping she had requested having disappeared entirely.
“No, that’s not my goal. I want you to do this,” he whispered, his voice scratchy.
“You’re a rich man. Why not hire a big-time firm to investigate? Why me?”
“Because I want to keep this on the down low. That’s the main reason. And, I trust you.”
“You trust me. Thanks for the compliment,” she said, looking away. “Let me think about it.” She I’ll call you tomorrow.” She knew that she was opening the gate to the devil’s garden. She could hear the rattle of the rusty hinges, as she left the table and walked out the door.
The next day she didn’t call him back and by close to 5 p.m. she had successfully changed her phone number with Verizon. She tapped in a new phone password which was now ‘nomoregitchygoo.’
Linda S. Gunther is the author of six published suspense novels: Ten Steps from the Hotel Inglaterra, Endangered Witness, Lost in the Wake, Finding Sandy Stonemeyer, Dream Beach, and Death is a Great Disguiser. Most recently, her memoir titled A Bronx Girl (growing up in the Bronx in the 1960’s) was released in late 2023. Ms. Gunther’s short stories, poetry, book reviews and essays have been published in a variety of literary journals across the world. Website: www.lindasgunther.com
blue light shows through. the world awakens from slumber. inside dreams the soul was around others once known, but they did not recognize the soul and the soul did not reach out to them. some kind of auditorium. just the filtering and remnants of the far past perhaps. the mind has its own time, and is time. identify the dream but ignore. like when your foot is asleep. it will go away, through time, or be walked and healed. the blue gets lighter. it had snowed all night. the snow had its own beauty and nuance. on eaves. on branches. on rooftops. even on cars. somewhere a solitary fox perhaps walks, looking at the world, the grounds, fluffy tailed and red. there was a field immense and if the soul glanced at it, well just sometimes there would be a coyote near the middle standing.
and if the soul stared long the coyote would notice and look back. but this had not happened in a long time. the field seemed to be without anything but the snow reeds here and there and the lines like small narrow swaths some farmer must have made with a tractor in the brighter warmer days. the soul still imagined that the coyote was somewhere, and took refuge in the thought. why? because the world around there was so hum-drum-glum,- mediocre, full of sameness. sometimes a hawk watched the fields though. the blue that turned light blue had become almost a white firmament. to be a poet is to be invisible for better or worse, mused the soul passively. to be a poet is akin to being a ghost. ‘You are like a ghost,’ someone had said. but it wasn’t positive or pejorative, it had just been a statement. a stationary tractor sat forever by a field. in the late spring or summer the tractors moved again, like bees come to life buzzing and when they did, it could be incessantly. make way air. make way field. make way. there was a place on the outskirts of towns not overtaken by progress. once the soul knew the people there. they liked the soul but the soul was solitary and aloof from birth and this must have been written in a natal chart. somewhere. in the Akashic. not on anything in life as the time was unrecorded, unknown. and the birth time was needed for a proper chart. journey. the dawn. the snow. the times. the opacity of the upwards air. ah well. good enough. step and step. one day spring would see fit to show itself again.
