(International Poet & Author Rev. Dr. Jitender Singh, India)
The world is carved by borders drawn by restless hands, Yet no line can divide what the silent soul understands. Languages may differ, and colors may divide, Yet one ancient echo lives quietly inside. Some rise with the East, some fade in the West, Yet one breath of eternity dwells in every chest. Hatred builds its walls, rigid, fearful, and tall, But love, like light, still rises—unconquered by all. We name the Divine in a thousand different ways, Yet one unseen Light ignites all inner flames. The body may be bound by the lines we design, But the soul was born free—untouched by space and time.
(The third in the series of Otherwise fantasy adventure novels)
Chapter One: An Unlucky Number
Petey had always hated that number. Never do anything important, major, interesting, or even just iffy on the 13th day of the month. Thirteen to dinner was of course going to end with everybody hating each other, a big food fight, and several divorces. Judas was the thirteenth at the Last Supper, after all. There was never a thirteenth floor on a skyscraper – he knew that because Aunt Marguerite had told him so after returning from her last visit to New York City.
And here he was, thirteen years old! He knew he should never have gotten out of bed this year. It was so unfair! If skyscrapers could go from the twelfth to the fourteenth floor without anybody on the elevator even noticing, why couldn’t he skip thirteen and go straight from twelve to fourteen too? In that case, he would be as old as his best friend Chace Fusillade. He wouldn’t be such a smarty pants then, I’ll bet! thought Petey.
He was still on the pudgy side, and his hair was, if anything, orangier than ever, but he had “shot up” (as his mother said) two full inches over the last year, with no sign of stopping (though Chace had kept pace and still breezily lorded it over him). His parents could hardly keep him in clothes. His pants were too short again and showed an embarrassing line of white skin above his socks. Priscilla Li must absolutely despise him, though he would rather let himself be torn apart by crocodiles (an unlikely prospect in Holloway, “the quietest, quaintest, queerest little small town in New England,” according to a brochure from the ancient 1960s) rather than ever let her know he cared two bits what a girl thought.
And his voice was starting to change – to “break,” as his mother called it, unhelpfully, as though everything about him wasn’t all breaking at the same time! It couldn’t make up its mind whether to be a manly baritone, like his dad’s voice, or a giggly soprano, like Debbie Voinovich’s in math class when she was showing off her latest brilliant solution in algebra—and which identity crisis always struck at the most embarrassing moments: usually when he was talking to a girl! (Not that he cared! But still . . .)
And then there were the pimples.
He stared at himself miserably in the bathroom mirror. There it was, below the bright orange hair and amid the swarm of freckles that, if anything, seemed to be increasing, adding embarrassment to humiliation: a white head ogled him from the top of his right cheek. It had been a measly black head only a week ago. But now it was big and a sickly yellow white surrounded by a bright red ring. Ugh! It made him look like a freak! Or like a zombie half mouldering in his grave . . . Now Priscilla Li would completely hate and despise him.
He hated it! He hated his face! He hated being thirteen!
It’s just a phase, it’s just a phase, it’s just a phase . . . Petey started repeating to himself, over and over, like a mantra. It was what his mother kept telling him, in a futile attempt to console him. It didn’t help that his dad laughed and said, “Your face is just a phase, Petey!” and accused him of having lost his sense of humor like a sock in the laundry when Petey ran angrily from the room. At least his father didn’t see him burst into tears after he got to his room and flung himself on the bed. He would never have lived it down.
And to make it even worse, today was Friday the 13th! All day until midnight – which was hours away . . .
“Peter Myshkin Stephenson!” his mother called from the floor below. “Come down this instant.”
Uh-oh, he must have done something really bad. That was the only time his mom called him “Peter.” And Petey, after giving his reflection a parting look of despair, reluctantly departed the bathroom and padded downstairs.
His mother’s finger pointed sternly at the obvious: no words were necessary. It wasn’t like he had “forgotten” to take the trash out; it was more like a little devil inside him had risen in revolt and refused to take it out. As if it were time for somebody else to burn the damn trash!
Though, honestly, in the deep meditation on his lurid existential state while staring into the bathroom mirror, it had in fact slipped his mind. Was that also part of the hell of being thirteen?
Petey opened his mouth and tried to say, “Sorry . . .” but what came out was a horrible combination of a squeak and a honk. His voice was breaking again!
He dragged the trash can outside, down the little slope in back of the house to the trash pile, and emptied it in a little heap of brown paper bags, a candy wrapper, a spent toothpaste tube, a cereal box, crumpled napkins, several paper towels, a dirty sponge, an unraveling pair of his old socks, and miscellaneous disjecta membra from the family’s last twenty-four hours, then knelt beside it, took out a pack of matches and, lighting one of the crumpled napkins, watched as the fire slowly consumed the pile.
Though something inside him seemed to in a constant state of rebellion against himself and the world, one of the symptoms being his pretended forgetfulness of doing the chores he had been happily doing for years, he actually enjoyed burning the trash every evening.
It was spring, and the sun was setting. Their house stood at the edge of Halloway, and so there was a view across the hills and woods to the west, and the open sky above was like a magnificent proscenium for the sun as it sank grandly toward the horizon, changing color from moment to moment, dimming from a blinding shapeless blaze to a great calm circle, then to the shape of an egg being squeezed between two enormous fingers, shrinking at last to a small, pressed drop of diminishing light pulling with it a vast multicolored cloak made of clouds and sky, pierced here and there with tiny points of light, that stretched across the immense dome of space overhead; new each day, unique each night, a turbulence of transformation, vast, silent, unpredictable, yet almost tender in its grandeur.
And in front of Petey, in a little corner of darkness at the bottom of the hill, the trash pile burned, with the curious effect of each piece coming alive as it turned into flame, curling, lashing, dancing, breaking away from the mass and flying up toward the darkening sky in streaks of red and yellow embers before fading to ashes and blowing upward and away into the night. It was quite magical to watch. Everything was alive: that was it. It was plain as day, though it was sometimes only made clear with the coming of the night.
“Hi ya,” said a familiar froggy voice nearby. Then it cleared its throat.
Uh-oh, thought Petey. Here comes trouble.
It was his neighbor, Bumper, a little round boy with bangs, who was always hanging around him like he was his older brother or something.
Why me?
“Are you burning the trash?” Bumper asked.
Well, no, I’m ironing my underwear.
“Yep.”
“It’s illegal in California to burn trash.”
That’s why we don’t live in California anymore.
“Hm.”
“But I guess it doesn’t matter if it’s just a little trash.” Bumper paused, then said excitedly. “Mr. Goose was fired.”
“Mr. Gauss.”
“Well, he was sure a goose to get caught with Miss Peckersmith in the library,” Bumper said with a knowing snicker. Then he stopped: “Though why was that so bad?”
“They weren’t reading Harry Potter.”
Bumper considered that for a moment.
“What were they doing then?”
Petey squirmed. The fact is he wasn’t sure himself.
“You’ll find out when . . .”
“When?” Bumper looked at him hopefully.
“. . . when they tell you.”
He fell silent, blessedly. Petey really wasn’t in the mood for either an environmental sermon or a quiz on school scandals from a ten-year-old.
“Are you going to the fair?”
At last, a diversion!
“What fair?”
“The First Swallow of Spring Fair. It’s coming to Leek’s Mill for a week.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Oh no? We used to go before we moved here.” Bumper’s family had moved to Halloway from deep inland a couple of months ago. “It used to be at Pratt’s Falls till the flood. It’s really cool. They have a balloon!”
Petey stirred the fire.
“That’s cool,” he said, indifferently.
Bumper pouted; he was annoyed by how unimpressed Petey seemed.
“Anyway, we’re going on Saturday.”
He paused.
“Want to come?”
“I’m hanging out with Chace.”
“Chace can come too, if he wants.”
The reluctance in Bumper’s voice was only too obvious.
“I thought you hated Chace,” Petey said, with a sly look at Bumper.
“I don’t hate Chace! He hates me!”
“No he doesn’t.” “But he’s so mean.”
“That’s just his way. He doesn’t mean it.”
“You think so?”
Bumper looked dubious.
“He doesn’t hate you. I promise.”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “If you say so.”
“I say so!” Bumper suddenly looked pleased.
“So, you’ll go?”
“I’ll think about it. Let me ask Chace first.”
The fair did sound like fun. Even if it meant having to put up with Bumper and his weird infatuation. Chace just might be persuaded.
Bumper smiled brightly and stared into the fire with Petey till it had all burned to ash and darkness fell over the yard, and the stars filled the night sky as though all the embers had risen there, and remained.
Chapter Two: All’s Fair
“Or . . . ?”
“Or nothing!’
They were bickering again, as best of friends will do. The subject hardly mattered – whether Barry Bonds was the best batter of all times or Babe Ruth, Oasis or U2 the best band, The Two Towers or The Golden Compass the best movies, MineCraft or Myst the best video games. They marked out spaces, drew lines in the sand, and dared the other side to attack.
“Otherwise . . . ?”
Petey groaned, “Not that again!”
That, of course, was the Big One: the bone of contention in danger of turning boys into rabid dogs. Was it real or hallucination? A fact or a dream? Truth or lie?
And did it matter?
Even Petey had begun to distrust his own memories under the merciless onslaught of his friend’s skepticism. Even though Chace had been there too, at least the second time Petey’d been. Chace had just been knocked out and lost his memory (how convenient!).
Maybe Petey had been hallucinating all along. It would make a weird sort of sense. The more he thought about it, the more it felt like a dream, just one he could not forget, unlike most dreams, which he could never remember.
He had entirely given up trying to convince people who had not been there. He had tried that once, the first time; then, even more foolishly, the second. All it had done was make everyone think he was half crazy or a compulsive liar. It did wonders for his “popularity, lack of.” His parents even muttered about sending him to a child therapist. That was when he “admitted” he had made it up, “just to get attention,” his mother had said, accusingly (as though there was something so terriblywrong about “getting attention”).
But he hadn’t made it up!
Had he?
He was starting to wonder if he could believe anything he remembered. If that hadn’t been true, what other memories were not true too? Could he believe anything he remembered? Anything he thought?
It was enough to make you dizzy!
“‘Otherwise’ nothing!”
“Petey, old son,” Chace gave him a moue of sorrow. “You disappoint me! Where’s your spunk? Where’s your fight? I never knew such a capitulation to total defeat before the armies of derision and doubt. It’s not like you. What would Priscilla Li think? What would Bumper?”
“The heck with Priscilla Li! Who cares what a girl . . .” But the words stuck in his throat. He did, of course. No matter what he thought he thought. Aargh, it was so confusing!
Maybe he should have gone to that therapist after all, he thought irrelevantly.
Mentioning the ineffable Bumper reminded him, and gave him a convenient offramp from the perilous freeway toOtherwise.
“Bumper invited us to go with him and his parents to the fair at Leek’s Mill next Saturday.”
“But Bumper hates me.”
“No he doesn’t. He thinks you hate him.”
Chace gave Petey another moue.
“Why would I hate Bumper?” he asked, as the idea of hating so insignificant a creature was beyond comprehension.
Petey smirked in his turn.
“Because of that!”
“Let me clear the air, clarify the issue, and straighten out our ideas on this very important matter. I do not hate Bumper. I have never hated Bumper. I do not presume to hate Bumper in future, unless he behaves in ways more shocking than I can imagine him ever actually doing. And I am pleased to know he does not hate me.”
“That’s nice,” said Petey.
“What’s this fair all about?”
“It travels the western half of the state, where Bumper used to live, in the spring. It’s visiting Leek’s Mill, don’t ask me why.”
“Leek’s Mill is such a magnet for the masses,” Chace said archly. “Does it have a Ferris wheel?”
Petey considered.
“We can look it up.”
He took out his cell phone and did a search for The First Swallow of Spring Fair.
“Hm. That’s funny. I think I just broke the internet.”
“Nothing there?”
“Nope.”
“Probably the wrong name.”
Petey didn’t think so, but he tried several variations. He even looked up Link’s Mill’s website for local events. But the website hadn’t been updated in two years.
“Well, we’ll just have to trust Bumper.”
Chace scowled.
“But I must have a Ferris wheel. What’s a fair without a Ferris wheel? It’s like an angel without wings, a devil without horns, a chicken without a grievance.”
Petey stared at his friend.
“Why must a chicken have a grievance?”
“Why wouldn’t it if the only reason for its existence was to give its eggs in the morning and be a roast at night? Anyway, a fair without a Ferris wheel is nothing but a carni barker with pretentions.”
“Bumper said it had a balloon.”
“The only thing worse for a fair than not having a Ferris wheel is a fair not having balloons. It better have a thousand balloons. And enough helium to ride us to the stars! . . .”
Chapter Three: The First Swallow of Spring
It was a gorgeous Saturday morning. The first spring flowers were bursting into blossom in a careless invasion of the country brush, the woods shyly burred in tangles of branches in new leaf, the air fresh and tonic and cool, lanced with sunlight. Birds only seen or heard in spring and fall, heading north or south along the flyway passing above Halloway made town and country echo with exotic sounds that made one pause, wondering at the exotic cacophony.
And Petey and his two friends bounced along the black country road in back of the ancient, firetruck-red pick-up owned by Bumper’s dad. Bumper was beaming from ear to ear, Chace lounged like a young prince against the back, and Petey was pretending not to be enjoying himself as much as he was, but failing ignominiously. He was having the time of his life, the wind in his hair and scrubbing his face to a burnished red.
They had been riding half an hour up and down hills, twisting and turning through the woods west of Halloway, crossing the Metawny River and past half a dozen hamlets, when they made one final turn, the hills settled down into a broad valley and the woods ended, and the sleepy town of Link’s Mill, with its Kiwanis Club sign, two churches, water tower, abandoned mall, and the remains of the old watermill by the local stream appeared before them.
“Just what I was afraid of,” Chace shouted from the back, with a stentorian sigh. “No Ferris wheel!”
Bumper looked at Petey with a grin.
“But I told you there’d be a balloon!”
Above a field of booths and tents and flags at the edge of the town where the fair had put in stakes, there rose toward a monument of clouds a balloon in red, white and blue, like an enormous teardrop in reverse. Petey could see a tiny carriage at the bottom, attached to the balloon with long ropes, with a stand and an illegible sign below it.
In red letters was a sign above the fair entrance with the words “The First Swallow of Spring”; above the letters there was a picture of a swallow in flight.
“I guess nobody told them,” Chace shouted from the back.
“Told them what?” Petey asked, wearily, knowing from long experience he was being set up for one of Chace’s “witticisms.”
“It takes more than one swallow, old son, to make a spring.”
Petey groaned.
Chace added, drily: “And more than one spring to make a thirsty man swallow.”
“Stop it!” Petey cried.
Bumper’s jaw sagged open.
“That’s . . . deep!” he said.
“Well, don’t drown in it,” said Petey.
Bumper gave him a puzzled look, but smiled gamely.
“Hokay, Petey!”
You could tell Bumper was memorizing Chace’s wit and wisdom, filing it away, as he muttered silently to himself, for future use.
There wasn’t just a balloon, of course. What met the trio of boys (and Bumper’s parents – a little jolly father and a tall, thin waspish mother) after they entered the canvas-covered storm fence surrounding the fair was a little town of pleasures, jokes, and forgetfulness far from the nuisance of reality. The first thing Petey noticed was a combined smell of corn dogs, funnel cakes, and cotton candy: now, that meant “carnival”!
Off to the left was a carousel, with a herd of enamel horses, swans, zebras, unicorns, and a long Chinese dragon pumping up and down in a perpetual race to nowhere, and a banner unscrolling from its crown. To the right was a Tilt-a-whirl, dipping and plunging like a drunken beast, tickling and terrifying a dozen riders holding on for dear life like a host of flies at the whip ends of the ties as they were flung like planets around a sun. Straight ahead was a drop tower, inching up its pack of passengers, then dropping them with a collective scream at the last possible moment, only to catch them with a casual gesture and a “Well, you don’t think I’d just let you all break your necks, do you?” a second before crashing to the ground.
But the real screams were reserved for the foldable rollercoaster dominating the center of the fair: a serpentine entanglement of wood and coaster rails, precipice and chasm, soar and dip that sent out a regular tocsin of scream and shout, laughter and screeches fit to raise the dead in the six surrounding counties.
Around the feet of these dinosaurian gamesters and gynormous playsets was clustered a toy city of tents and booths, from shooting galleries to raffles, from a strongman’s hammer bell to a petting zoo, from a faux freak show (where the “freaks” showed they were all in amiable disguise) to a very real funhouse constructed of misdirection and mirrors, from an escape room to a hot-dog eating contest to a demolition derby in a torn up pasture at the far back and a pig race next door. And don’t forget the magic show, the acrobats, the puppet show, and the juggling act on the main stage near the carousel.
Or the food!
Aside from the aforementioned that tickled Petey’s nose upon entry, there were turkey legs and buffalo wings, nachos and churros, samosas and adobo, barbecue, burgers, hot dogs, knackwurst, bratwurst, liverwurst, tacos, enchiladas, and burritos, deep-fried zucchini, deep-fried pickles, deep-fried Oreos, deep-fried Whatever, salt-water taffy and ’smores, crystallized pineapple and caramel apples, and an infinite array of ice cream with sprinkles and M&Ms and whipped cream and butterscotch and chocolate chips and chocolate syrup, and who knows what else?
And don’t forget the coke and lemonade and fruit juices and Mexican drinks and Asian bobas, and coffee for the jolly father and tea for the waspish mother, to wash it all down with.
The five marauders from Halloway were drunk with delight after less than an hour, going from ride to ride (the boys insisted on trying every single one, vying with each other over who had the loudest scream), from booth to booth (Chace, naturally, won the shooting gallery and graciously gave the huge stuffed T. rex he had won to Bumper. “Thanks, Chace!” said the diminutive ten-year old. “I think . . .” he whispered to himself as he embraced a fuzzy dragon almost as big as he was), from food stall to food stall, resting only to concentrate on lunch on the benches clustered near the haunted house.
“I never had so much fun since . . . since Paddy and Patricia’s wedding!” the jolly father said, nudging his thin waspish wife with a wink.
“Arnold! The children!”
The father grinned.
“How about you boys?” he said, turning to the trio.
The boys mumbled through mouthfuls of burrito, hot dog, and samosa.
“It’s great!” Petey got out, with genuine enthusiasm. It far exceeded any expectation he had had. He had even managed to forget his pimple, which had burst overnight and made looking in the mirror this morning even more agonizing than usual.
Bumper grinned at Petey and half-choked out a seconding “Yeah!”
Even Chace smiled happily and waved his samosa.
“They say all’s fair in love and war. I say all’s love in this fine fair.”
“Clever boy!” said the father.
The mother gave Chace her first smile of the day. The truth is, she hated fairs and carnivals and circuses. Give her a book and a quiet corner; that was her idea of a good time.
A passing zephyr caught the wax paper in Bumper’s hand and blew it away. The ever-conscientious little boy ran after it—but every time he grabbed at it, another zephyr caught and blew it just past his hand; he stooped and grabbed, and jumped and grabbed, and ran and grabbed, to no avail. It was quite infuriating! It was like it was teasing him.
“Give it up, Bumper!” It was Chace’s voice, shouting after him amiably. “It’s just playing with you.”
But he wasn’t going to stop till he’d caught it and put it into the litter bin, where it belonged. So he ran and ran. No sir! I’m not going to stop till . . .
Chapter Four: The Balloon of Dr. Sazerac
He felt a shadow fall over him and looked up, startled, as the paper danced and blew away on an updraft, disappearing into the sky,
He was frightened at first. Then he gasped.
It was the balloon, rising high between him and the noonday sun, and rocking slowly in the breeze.
At the bottom was a little striped tent with a banner flying at the top, and a stand where the balloon’s carriage sat, with a long, thick cable attached to the stand, and a large sign, printed in extravagant, old-fashioned lettering:
“Dr. Sazerac’s Aerial Wonders, Exploits, Prodigies, Amazing Sensations and Preposterous Presdidigitations. Pay a Visit to the Sky! Nod Acquaintance with the Clouds! Get an Eagle’s Eye View of the Whole Country! Rides: $2”
The only thing that was a little strange was that, unlike all the other rides, there was no crowd. In fact, there was no sign of anyone.
Bumper ran back to the benches where everyone was finishing lunch.
“I found the balloon! It’s big! It’s huge! It’s wonderful! I want to take a ride! It’s only two dollars! Can I take a ride, daddy? I’ll never smoke a cigarette again!”
He had once been found smoking a cigarette behind the garage. He’d been forbidden any use of his computer for three days. It had been hell.
“That’s quite a promise, Bumper,” said the jolly little man dubiously. “And we will most certainly keep you to it! But you’ll have to ask your mom. What do you say, May?”
May looked even more doubtful than her husband.
“A ride in a balloon! It sounds awfully dangerous,” she said.
Of course, that was partly the point: everything interesting was a little dangerous. But Bumper had learned the hard way, when he had asked if he could climb the hickory tree when he was seven, not to emphasize that general truth. Indeed, it was best to deny it totally, especially when it was obvious.
Petey and Chace traded a glance. If Bumper was going to get a ride in a balloon, there was no way they’d be left out. But they had to play their cards right; let the little runt do the heavy lifting.
“Oh it’s really safe!” said Bumper. “There’s long rope attached to the ground so it can only go so far. I saw it! It’s really strong!”
His mother’s look of doubt only deepened.
“Well,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “I suppose we can at least go look at it.”
Bumper beamed. To see it was to want to ride it! It was half the battle.
So they all walked past the last booths to the western edge of the fairgrounds, where the balloon loomed, dominating the sky.
“Very impressive,” said the jolly little man as he bent his head back, appraising the enormous presence, which seemed to nod at them as it moved with the wind.
“Impressive, my foot,” said the mother. At a look from her husband, she added quickly, “There’s no way you’re getting me up there.”
“I wanna go! I wanna go! I wanna go!” Bumper whined, knowing from experience how effective, at the right time and place, chanting that phrase over and over could be. It was so embarrassing! Anything to shut him up! Too bad there weren’t more people around, to stop and stare at him and his folks. “Can Petey and Chace go with me?” he added on a sudden inspiration. Maybe if his friends came with him, it would be easier for his parents to say yes.
Petey and Chace traded another look: no doubt the prospect of all three of them being killed would close the case for sure.
“Please? I’ll be good, I promise.”
And of course “being good” would make the ride safer.
The jolly little father chimed in.
“It looks less dangerous than the Tilt a Whirl.”
May glared at him.
She had one card left.
“What if Petey and Chase don’t want to go? You are not going alone.”
“Of course we’ll go,” said Petey, with a false show of reluctance, as though it were an unpleasant duty but someone had to do it. “We’ll take care of Bumper. Won’t we, Chace?”
Chace pulled his most solemn face. “All for one. And one for all.”
The jolly little man nearly split his sides hiding his laughter.
May gave them a look. She knew when she was beaten. If she said no now, she would never hear the end of it.
“All right, all right,” she said, with a defeated sigh. “But don’t come running to me when you break your necks.”
“We won’t!” shouted Bumper. “I mean, we won’t break our necks,” he added to his mother’s sour glance. “Thanks, mommy,” he diplomatically added the cherry on top with his most winning smile.
“Our little friend’s learning the ropes,” Chace muttered as he shared a grin with Petey.
Bumper’s dad went to the booth to pay for the ride and came back with three tickets he distributed with a flourish. The gate to the steps leading to the balloon carriage opened as if by itself and up the boys went.
Petey gaped at the immense balloon above his head, the ropes attaching the balloon to the carriage, the pie-shaped red, white and blue sections, the gentle swaying in the light breeze, the white grandness of cloud rising high above like its own country. The band that had been playing in the distance up to now stopped, and in the silence that followed he could hear two robins calling to one another and the chirp of a blackbird in the field nearby.
As the three boys stepped onto the top of the stand, a door opened on the opposite side, and someone joined them.
To say “someone” is an understatement. It was a tall middle-aged gentleman dressed in the resplendent attire of a Victorian panjandrum. The first things Petey noticed were a tall silver-gray top hat and an elegant jacket with embroidered lapels, a double row of gold buttons and gold shoulder fringe, a black cross strap with gold bars, a tall white collar embellished with a purple tie above which were a smile adorned with a long imperial and an extravagantly curled moustache and two sparking eyes decorated with a thickness of eyebrows Petey had never seen outside an old Hollywood movie. He looked to Petey a little like a cross between San Francisco’s Emperor Norton and Uncle Sam.
The gentleman bowed.
“Doctor Sazerac, gentlemen” he said. “At your service.”
Bumper stared. Chace smirked. Petey did the courteous thing.
“Hello!”
“And hello to you,” Dr. Sazerac returned, graciously. “And hello to you all.”
He again bowed, as though he were greeting a crowd and not just three small boys gaping at this apparition.
“I welcome you young gentlemen to an experience it is my promise to you that you shall never forget! An experience you will hand down to your children and to your grandchildren that will leave them with bated breath and pounding hearts! An experience for the ages! Welcome to your journey in this ascending bubble, this gaseous sphere, suspended in air, beneath air, above air, this air within air, this wonder of the age, this sign of wonders to come! Such mystery! Yet so simple! Are you ready, young gentlemen, for the experience of a lifetime?”
Without waiting for an answer, he opened a door to the balloon carriage and bowed again.
“Please, gentlemen,” he said. Then, with a little cough: “Your tickets, please.”
They got into the carriage, handing the tickets to the gentleman, who tucked them into his jacket, then entered himself.
The carriage was entirely open to the air, surrounded by a parapet-like bulwark
(Bumper was just tall enough to look over its edge), and just big enough to carry up to half a dozen people. Safety vests were attached to the carriage sides, which Dr. Sazerac had the boys put on. As soon as they were ready, Dr. Sazerac called out: “Prepare to launch!”
The boys seemed to know instinctively to line up, their hands grasping the sides. A couple of young men in tee shirts emblazoned with the face of Dr. Sazerac stepped onto the platform and began unwrapping the length of cable attaching platform to carriage.
“Ready, gentlemen?” Dr. Sazerac cried. “Are we set? Then launch!”
Chapter Five: A Shape in the Clouds
The men kicked away a couple of blocks from the bottom of the carriage, and carriage and balloon rose gently into the air as platform, booth, Bumper’s mom and dad, who were staring up and waving, then the fairgrounds, the town, the surrounding valley, the forest, the fields, the hills that Petey had ridden through and across only a few hours before, slowly, then more swiftly, shrank away, widening beneath him.
Petey had never flown before. He stared down and across the landscape as it swiftly expanded beneath him. Fear was the last thing he felt; on the contrary, he felt a tingling along his back and a delicious sense of excitement and freedom as the earth showed to him its infinitely varied face as only birds had seen it for millions of years, showing it now to him for the first time.
Something that awed him was the immense quiet. He could hear sounds as they rose from below—voices, toy horns, noisemakers, the sound of the band—but immensely far away. It was most blissful moment he had ever known. It was glorious . . .
He needed to share his excitement and looked over at Bumper, who was standing right next to him.
Chace was standing on the other side of Bumper. As usual, he was pretending to be blasé and drawled:
“So of course what better way to indulge one’s little weakness than to take a ride in a balloon? Without a parachute?” Bumper squealed when he heard that.
“Don’t be mean!” Petey reproached his friend. Chace gave him an arch look, as if to say, “There’s no parting a fool from his folly.”
“Are there any problems, gentlemen?” asked Dr. Sazerac, who had been leaning his tall form out of the carriage and quaffing the air in great gulps. He looked ironically at his passengers; they were showing the usual gamut of emotions he had seen so often: terror, wonder, joy and pretended nonchalance. People were so predictable!
A moth fluttered nearby and settled on the edge of the carriage, stretching its wings. Perhaps it had been sleeping behind a cushion, or even had just been born.
“We have a fellow passenger,” noted Dr. Sazerac. “Pro bono celestio!”
There was a gentle shock as the cable reached its furthest extent.
“See, Bumper?” Chace said to the green-faced ten-year-old. “If you think about it, we’re still attached to the ground. It’s like being at the top of a skyscraper. Think of the balloon as an elevator.”
He was trying to be helpful, but Bumper was not having it.
He had once been at the top of a “skyscraper” in Burlington (it had been ten stories high – an immensity for Bumper), and he had gotten sick as a dog. He was already beginning to feel the hamburger and root beer from lunch beginning a fandango in his tummy. He sank to the floor and solemnly hugged his knees.
“Oh well,” Chace sighed. “More for us!”
Though, of course, Petey thought, that makes no sense. We can all enjoy the view at the same time.
For example, that shape in the clouds: it looked like an enormous clock, then it
changed into a grinning cow, then into a huge sieve, then into the end of a violin, then into a bottle of aspirin, then into a hammer, a snake, a rocket ship, a coil of rope, then into a face that was watching something far behind them, with its eyes wide open and a funny nose and a crazy smile that turned almost immediately into an enormous O, and then . . .
There was a crash louder than anything Petey had ever heard before.
The carriage careened, almost dumping its passengers, who clung with shouts to the sides.
The thing—wind, lightning, or some enormous hand—struck again, then again, then again. Petey grabbed Bumper’s hand and with his other hand held on to the carriage side. Chace looked grim and wrapped the side with his arms.
Petey felt something else: the carriage, with the balloon above, was moving again, but up and away . . .
The cable must have broken, and they were being blown up, up into the sky.
The carriage rocked and careened over precipitately, and Petey looked in panic as he saw Dr. Sazerac go over the side. He was the only passenger who hadn’t bothered putting on the vest tied to the carriage. No doubt he was too sure of his skill in balloon piloting to think he would never need it.
The last thing Petey saw of him was a look of bewildered dismay as his hat flew off and his beard and moustache were a sudden confusion of hair and wonder as he tumbled into a reef of clouds the balloon was soaring into as if it had acquired a mind of its own, or was being directed by an unseen power.
Sunlight vanished, a cloud engulfed them, and the balloon was seized by the storm.
____ Christopher Bernard is a prize-winning author of both poetry and fiction. The two earlier stories in the “Otherwise” series are If You Ride A Crooked Trolley . . . and The Judgment Of Biestia (winner of the Independent Press Award in Preteen Fiction and short-listed for the K M Anthru International Literature Award).
“There are loves that kill,” Narciso Cienfuegos’ Cuban grandmother used to say in Spanish. Perhaps if Narciso’s mother Fernanda had loved him a little less, or loved him in a different way, everything that eventually happened could have been avoided. Fernanda did not prepare Narciso for the vicissitudes of life but trained him to be a prince. She taught him to be considerate to nobody. He didn’t have to make his bed, never had to wash his laundry, had no chores to perform. Everything was done for him by Fernanda, who convinced her son there was no one on the planet as gorgeous or as bright as him. By the time he was in the tenth grade, Fernanda typed all his high school essays even though she came back from work at the bank exhausted. By the time he first became interested in girls, she persuaded him that none were deserving of his love, perhaps feeling some sort of jealousy herself. She never trained him to have a co-worker or a secretary or a wife, never taught him of the need for gentleness and empathy. And so Narciso grew to be selfish and self-absorbed, never caring a whit about how others felt, seeing life in a distorted way. Not surprising that by the time he was sixteen, he fell headlong in love with the reflection of himself.
Narciso began to spend hours in the bathroom, delighting in the face that gazed at him with avid eyes from the other side of the looking glass. When his uncle Cesar found out about it, he admonished Narciso to stop spending so much time in the restroom for he suspected Narciso was using the occasion to masturbate. And Cesar was not wide off the mark. Sometimes when he was staring at himself in the mirror Narciso imagined he was making love to the image of himself. Sometimes Fernanda found his bed sheets soiled by his own secretions but said nothing. She didn’t know they were produced by love of self. By the time he was in college – Princeton University no less – he derived a great satisfaction lifting weights in front of a full-length mirror in the gym, for it allowed him to see how he was gradually sculpting his body and becoming more and more perfect in his eyes and – Narciso imagined – in the eyes of all who saw him. It was around that time that he began taking on lovers left and right, never seeking a long-term relationship but only the occasional furtive encounter and the one-night stand. Month by month, year by year, his libidinousness only increased.
“I am who I am,” he would respond if anyone questioned his behavior. “I was born this way. What can I say? Women and men are attracted by my beauty.”
Narciso usually consorted with women – tall and short, thin and heavy, young and older, drunk and sober – but he was also decidedly heteroflexible although he was never the passive partner in such encounters. How could he be? In bedding men, he was not seeking to be possessed but to possess an approximation of himself. In a word, it was only another form of nocturnal pollution, an act of auto-sex. He was only allowed to gaze in the mirror at what he could not touch, and so provide a little satisfaction for his demented passion. His unquenchable lust knew no bounds but he was never satisfied with any lover. The ultimate focus of his desires was not the habitual lover but his own taut muscular body. And he could certainly never make love to himself though sometimes that is what he imagined in his tortured trysts as he shut his eyes.
“Narciso, Narciso,” he sometimes cried out in the night in anguish, “how I dream of making you my own!” Secretly he desired himself, and the one who praised was himself praised, the one who courted was himself courted, so that, equally, he inflamed and burnt.
And so what had to happen happened with little Carlito, a nineteen-year-old freshman from Puerto Rico who usually spotted Narciso as he was bench-pressing in the Princeton gym. Standing in such proximity to Narciso as he lifted the weights, his crotch only a few inches from the other’s face, Carlito felt a frisson of desire given Narciso’s beauty – his strong biceps, his perfect thorax, his shapely silhouette – but it was more than mere concupiscence. It was an incipient love, a desire for communion with the older student that grew more and more intense each time Carlito saw Narciso in the gym. One afternoon, while they were alone in the communal showers, Narciso abruptly made Carlito his own and Carlito delighted in his arms. Carlito had never been with a man and had never known such guilty pleasure even though he also felt a pang of shame as thick as mud. After all, Carlito was a Roman Catholic and the Catholic Church proscribes intimate relations between men. But Narciso’s embrace was so enticing, his caresses so inviting that Carlito ignored all scruples. And yet the next time Carlito addressed Narciso, the lovely man acted as if nothing had happened between the two.
“When can I see you again?” Carlito wanly asked after several days of silence from Narciso.
Narciso responded with a laugh.
“You can see me every day at the gym.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Carlito explained. “I was wondering if you could join me for drinks in my dorm room tonight.”
“Listen, Carlito, what happened between us was a one-time escapade. I wouldn’t think too much about it. I don’t intend for it to be repeated.”
“But you took advantage of the feelings I have for you, Narciso. I had never thought of myself as a homosexual until the day I met you. And I must admit I’m somewhat disturbed by the realization. When you took me, I was terrified and elated all at once.”
“So you’ve realized that you’re gay? Don’t blame me for your moment of self-discovery. It happens to the best of them.”
“You weren’t exactly unable to perform,” Carlito remonstrated with an implacable hostility. “If I’m a homosexual, so are you. Your body certainly responded to my kisses.”
“Depart! Get out of here! I don’t need to hear lessons on my own sexuality from you, you little gay boy. Go find yourself another secret lover and leave me in peace. There are plenty of homosexuals in this university.”
“So our moment meant nothing to you,” Carlito lamented. “Had I known that, I would never have consented. I thought with you I would find happiness.”
“If it hadn’t happened with me, it would have happened with someone else. It’s in your nature, Carlito. Just forget what happened between the two of us. I’ve already forgotten all about it.”
“You deceived me, Narciso. You said such beautiful things to me. You quoted such lovely poems on same-sex love. I remember the stanzas today. ‘I want to possess you completely,” you said. “Your jade body and your promised heart.’”
“Listen, Carlito, I’m not gay. I mostly sleep with women. And even then, the relationships – such as they are – last about a week, a month at most. Remember Mary Oliver’s poems. At one point she writes: ‘And, oh, have I mentioned that some of them were men and some were women … and the best, the most loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into my eyes, every morning from the looking glass…’ She was referring to love of self, to the delights of auto-sex.”
Then Narciso added, without a hint of shame but more than a little arrogance, “I am the very definition of promiscuous. You are one in a long list of partners, little Carlito. Forget about it if you can.”
***
Narciso decided to spend his junior year abroad studying French literature in Paris. His mother got him a job as a teller at a branch of the Bank of America so that he could make a little extra money before his departure for Europe. But Narciso felt the job was far beneath him and treated the other workers with disdain. Here he was, a Princeton undergraduate no less, having to share the same work as tellers who had only finished high school. He neglected even the most basic duties and would have been promptly fired were it not for the fact that he was only hired to work at the bank for three months anyway. At all events, he expected his mother Fernanda would somehow provide the money so that he could live regally in France. He had never lacked for money while he was at Princeton even as his mother lived on rice and lentils so she could satisfy his every whim.
During his first week in France, he visited a discotheque named La Scala de Paris and struck oil like the wildcatter he was: a shy British girl named Charlotte Rogers who had just been dumped by her boyfriend and needed reassurance that she was lovely. During his summers away from college, while he was living in Los Angeles, he frequented nightclubs as religiously as his mother went to Mass, every weekend without fail, searching for lonely, broken, wounded women who needed a little loving and affirmation, una miguita de ternura as Mercedes Sosa wrote in a song about a woman “who bore every sin on her skin.” By then Narciso had long ceased going to Church for he had concluded he was too brilliant to believe in God. Of course that meant he engaged in the great spiritual battle against the Dog completely disarmed: no Mass, no Holy Eucharist, no Sacrament of Reconciliation. Had he listened to the reading of the Scriptures in Church, he would have recognized how vile he was in the eyes of God. After all, Saint John the Baptist furiously called Herod to repentance and threatened hell if he did not sever a sexual relationship with his brother’s wife. Had Narciso heard the Gospel message, he would have realized the precariousness of the way he lived. If Herod could suffer damnation because of a single illicit lover, where did that leave Narciso who had more than a dozen lovers in a year? But Narciso never heard the message for he never went to Church. He was walking blind and his need to be admired for his beauty and intelligence never ceased. So many were infatuated by his presence that his self-love knew no bounds!
One night, shortly after he began his coursework with NYU in Paris, Narciso was invited to a party at the apartment of a fellow student. He was immediately attracted to a woman sitting in a sofa with a friend as they were nursing drinks. One of them was named Valerie, the other Laurence, both literature students at la Sorbonne. Physically they could not have been more different from each other. Valerie was a lovely nubile woman with golden hair and eyes of turquoise, Laurence a short, overweight girl with close-cropped hair and a disfiguring mole over her right eyebrow. Narciso tried to impress Valerie with his knowledge of French literature and soon began to expound on the virtues of Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. He made various comments parroting the lessons he had learned from Julia Kristeva and Serge Doubrovsky, two literary critics known on both sides of the Atlantic, and threw around words like hermeneutics, semiotics, and autofiction. Valerie for her part had little to say. Not so her obese friend, who offered a trenchant analysis of Flaubert’s novel while eschewing the tropes of literary criticism then in vogue. She was certainly not intimidated by Narciso’s mind even as his body made her tremble.
“Emma Bovary’s suicide beggars the imagination,” said Laurence. “It is barely comprehensible. Here was a woman with a loving husband and a five-year-old daughter who nonetheless swallowed the bitter arsenic, not thinking about the family she was abandoning.”
“Do you think the story is not true-to-life?” asked Narciso. He had read the novel, but had not understood it, as he had failed to understand many other great works of Western literature.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” responded Florence. “If you read the text closely, there is a certain logic to what Emma does – a twisted logic, a perverse logic perhaps but a logic nonetheless. She didn’t die by her own hand because she was financially ruined. That would be a surface reading of the novel. She took her own life because she finally realized that all her aspirations about herself were built on sand. She longed to live the life of one of the heroines in the romance novels which she read and recognized her life was much more mundane. Even her illicit lovers disappointed her in the end since they didn’t share her dreams of passion. They offered her a base adultery – something dirty, something foul – when what she wanted was a rapture fitting one of the heroines of her romantic tales.”
“So her self-destruction was somehow justified in your view?” asked Narciso.
“Not at all,” responded Laurence. “Madam Bovary was a solipsistic wicked being who cared about no one but herself. Hers was an unbounded egocentricity. And in the end she couldn’t even love herself.”
For some reason Narciso felt uncomfortable listening to Laurence’s analysis of Flaubert’s text but he could not pinpoint why.
“Then why is it considered a great work of literature,” he asked, “if the heroine was as wicked as you say?”
“The novel teaches the reader something powerful about the human condition, the distinction between love of self and love of others. Misread it at your peril.” But Narciso didn’t understand and made short shrift of her advice. It was not the first time he had been offered the grace of self-recognition and had ignored it in his blind self-ignorance. He would continue to live a life of endless and meaningless fornication to the end.
***
Soon the crowds dwindled and it became clear it was time to leave. Narciso decided it was time to make his move. He had been lusting after Valerie all night and felt a hot desire for the woman.
“Why don’t we continue the night at la Maison Americaine? That’s the dormitory where I live, as well as a hundred other foreign students. We can continue discussing the works of Flaubert, Proust and Balzac over a bottle of wine. I’m currently writing an essay on Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night and would be delighted to hear your impressions.”
“Why don’t the two of you go without me,” said Valerie. “You two know a lot more about literature than I do. And I’m currently living in a convent which rents rooms to college students. The rule is that we must arrive no later than midnight.”
“Why don’t you go with me anyway,” objected Narciso in a desperate gambit. “There is an extra room at the Maison Americaine for guests to use.”
It would not be the last time he lied that night.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” responded Valerie. “The nuns wouldn’t be too happy if I arrived at the convent in the morning. But you should go, Laurence. I’m sure Narciso would be delighted to hear your marvelous disquisitions on French literature.”
“I’m afraid I must also decline,” Laurence stated. “Tomorrow is Sunday and I like to make it to Mass at seven.”
Narciso thought it was the last chance to satisfy the cravings which had been building up over the preceding four hours and saw Laurence as some sort of consolation prize. He wasn’t attracted by Laurence – in fact found her quite repugnant – but had always told himself sex is sex no matter how unattractive your partner is.
“Don’t they have Masses at twelve o’clock?” asked Narciso. “In Los Angeles,” he lied, “I used to go to Church at noon.”
“He’s right,” Valerie intervened. “You can also go to Mass in the afternoon. Go with him, Laurence. You’ll have fun. And Narciso is clearly interested in intellectual women and none is as smart as you.”
“Is that right?” Laurence shyly asked Narciso. “Are you drawn to women for their minds?”
“Bien sur,” responded Narciso in his Spanish-accented French with panache. “A woman’s physical beauty lasts for a few years. A beautiful mind lasts for a lifetime. And if you want, I could join you for Mass tomorrow.”
Laurence looked at Valerie seeking reassurance.
“So you think it’s a good idea?” she asked.
“A very good idea,” responded Valerie.
“Are you familiar with the poetry of Pablo Neruda?” Narciso inquired. “I just bought a copy of his Twenty Poems of Love and a Song of Despair in French. Perhaps we might read them over a bottle of wine.”
“I don’t know much about Latin American poets,” said Laurence. “But I’d love to learn. So yes, I’ll go with you. As long as there’s an empty room for guests.”
Narciso and Laurence took a taxi to la Maison Americaine. When they arrived, it became clear that there was a party in one of the rooms close to Narciso’s bedroom. Narciso then told Laurence to let him walk alone to Room 127. She could follow him five minutes later. Laurence didn’t understand the purpose of the request, but she imagined men living in the Maison weren’t allowed to bring female guests to their rooms at night. The truth was that Narciso didn’t want anyone to see him with the obese, short-statured and disfigured Laurence, for he was embarrassed by her company. It was one thing to bed a lovely woman. It was altogether different to make love to an eyesore. And yet that was what he intended even though he knew that to succeed he had to make Laurence feel desirable, to persuade her she was beautiful at least in his sight.
Narciso’s small room was sparsely furnished: just a bed, a chair and a desk. He invited Laurence to sit on the bed and she reacted with trepidation.
“You can sit with me,” he said. “I’m not going to bite you.”
Then he added in a mordant voice, “Unless you want me to,” and laughed.
“No, that’s fine,” said Laurence somewhat uneasily. “I can sit on the bed because as a Catholic I know you’ll respect me. You don’t act like those who live promiscuously like animals. Now where is that little book of poems by Neruda which you want to share with me?”
“First, let’s have a little wine. I can sense that you’re a little nervous. Beautiful women like you are always in danger from immoral men so I don’t question your reaction. But you’ll relax with a little Merlot and you have no reason to fear me.”
After they chitchatted for a little while, sipping wine, Narciso took out the book of Neruda poems from a drawer of his desk and began to read. In the middle of one of the poems, once the bottle of wine was almost finished, he repeated one of its lines and told Laurence it was his favorite.
“And the cups of your breasts! And your eyes full of absence! And the pubic roses of your mound! And your voice slow and sad! Body of my woman, I will live on through your delights.”
“Don’t you love it?” asked Narciso. “Neruda was the champion of carnal love. He loved women’s bodies with an almost religious veneration. ‘And the pubic roses of your mound.’ Who else could have written a poem with such a sublime eroticism without lapsing into the grotesque?”
Laurence was disturbed. She had never discussed female anatomy with a man, certainly not women’s sexual organs. And yet she was also in some way excited, moved to what her priests called thoughts of concupiscence. When Narciso spoke of “the pubic roses of your mound,” it was as if he was addressing her directly. His words made her remember that for all her flaws she inhabited the body of a woman and made her think that was the way Narciso saw her, as a coveted woman and nothing less.
“I think we should call it a night,” said Laurence nervously, fighting the instinct to sweat. “Where is the room for guests that you mentioned?”
Narciso sensed her vulnerability and decided to pounce. It was now or never.
“Listen,” he told her as he put his hand on one of her legs and started gently rubbing, “I think we have an intense relationship ahead of us. But that would only work out if you forgo your old-fashioned scruples, all the obscurantist taboos that keep lovers apart by bridling feelings. I desire you, Laurence. I desire you with all my soul.”
Then he kissed her and she did not resist the kiss.
***
Laurence slept at the Maison Americaine for the next two weeks. At some point Narciso decided it was time to sever the relationship but he felt a certain reluctance to do so. It was not that he felt compassion for her – he couldn’t care less about her feelings – but he dreaded her reaction for he was sure she would react in anger as so many of his lovers had done after they realized the extent of his deception. But one time, after a final night of loving, he confessed that he was no longer interested in seeing her. He could have told her he needed to work out matters in his own mind or some such bromide, but he opted to tell her the cruel truth instead. He was utterly indifferent to the needs of others and that included the miserable Laurence.
“When Neruda wrote his twenty love poems of love, it was not because he was rapt by his partner’s intelligence. It was because he was transfixed by her erotic beauty. There’s a reason his most famous poem is ‘Body of a Woman’ and not ‘Mind of a Woman.’ And I suffer from the same affliction. I can discuss Flaubert and Proust and Celine with any other woman – heck, with any other man! – and I don’t need to be involved in a sexual relationship with them in order to do so. But to share a bed with a woman I need to be fiercely attracted to her. And you don’t attract me in that way, Laurence. I would be deceiving you if I continued seeing you. To have a woman as an ongoing lover, I need to be aroused in the depths of my being.”
“You’ve certainly been aroused every night of the last two weeks,” reacted Laurence defensively. “There was not a single time you were unable to perform.”
Then Narciso responded brutally, “That was only because I imagined myself in the arms of another lover when I was in bed with you. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. I closed my eyes and dreamed that I was with another. Away with your encircling hands! You can keep your chains! You didn’t let me take you because of love but because of a rank stupidity.”
He didn’t tell her the one he desired was himself.
“Tell me the truth, Narciso,” asked Laurence, perplexed, surprised and enraged at the same time. “Is that why you never let the two of us be seen together in public? Is that why you told me to walk to your room alone? Is that why you never took me to the cafeteria in the basement? Is that the reason you never took me to a restaurant or another public venue? Because you were too embarrassed to be seen with me…”
“How can I put it?” responded Narciso witheringly. “A man is judged by the clothes he wears and the woman at his side. If we were out together, what would people think?”
“You’re a monster, Narciso Cienfuegos. Your mind is completely twisted. You took the rose of my virginity and yet weren’t attracted to me in the least.”
Narciso laughed.
“You should thank me for having initiated you in the glories of erotic passion. Now you are free to take on other lovers as is your wont. And it’s not impossible, Laurence. You just have to lose a little weight, let your close-cropped hair grow a little longer, perhaps undergo an operation to remove that ugly mole.”
Laurence covered up her naked breasts.
“I never want to see you again,” she told Narciso. “Your cruelty knows no bounds. You didn’t treat me like a woman but as a piece of meat. Surely you will be eventually punished for such depravity. You should consort only with whores but I have a sense that you delight in debauching virgins.”
A month later, Narciso received a short letter from Laurence.
“The more I think about it, the more my blood boils at your deception. You even pretended you were a Catholic when you are an unrepentant atheist. However, there is something I need to discuss with you and time is of the essence. Please let me know when we might meet.”
Narciso took the letter and threw it in a trashcan. He had no intention to meet with her again, but soon he found Laurence waiting for him in front of room 127 at the Maison Americaine.
“What do you want?” he asked with a grimace on his face. “I thought I was fairly clear when we last met. Our relationship is over. Please don’t grovel.”
Laurence handed him a piece of paper.
“What is this?” Narciso asked.
“Just read it,” demanded Laurence.
Narciso put on his eyeglasses and realized it was a note from a gynecologist stating that she was pregnant.
“What is this to me?” asked Narciso imperturbably. “If you weren’t using birth control at the time of our encounters, it was to be expected. At any event, this can be easily solved through an abortion. I’ll do the right thing and pay for the procedure.”
“I’m a Catholic, don’t you remember? I have every intention to bring the child to term.”
“Well, that is certainly your right. But I have nothing to do with it. Surely you don’t expect me to marry you because we spent a couple of weeks together.”
“Under French law,” responded Laurence with unmitigated scorn and an almost murderous intensity, “I can get an order from the court forcing you to contribute to the support of the product of your vicious loins. You’ll have to get a job and make a payment to me every month. After all, you didn’t even have the decency to use a condom.”
“I don’t want you to be part of my life indefinitely,” Narciso said with an impatient gesture on his face. “By the time you get a court order directing me to pay child support, I’ll be in the United States, far from the reach of French tribunals.”
“I don’t need your filthy money to feed my child. But I curse you, Narciso. I curse you with all my might for your abominable behavior. May you fall madly, hopelessly in love and may it be an unrequited love! May you feel what you have made me feel. May you suffer as you have made me suffer. So may you love, Narciso, and may you fail to conquer what you love!
***
By the time he was in his third year at Yale Law School, Narciso kept a tally of all his male and female lovers. Fifty-three! Fifty-three! What was a vice in the sight of God, Narciso saw as a virtue which filled his pride. But in some sense he hated them, for the one who inflamed his passion was himself and they could never provide that to him. His abiding passion for himself could never be reciprocated no matter how many lovers he took on. By then, he had tri-fold mirrors in the bedroom of his apartment. He delighted in pulling them together such that his extraordinary beauty seemed to be multiplied a hundred times. He felt he was more handsome than ever, his hair was carefully coiffed, his muscles bulged under his shirt and his nails were perfectly manicured. But then something strange and wondrous happened: he fell in love with someone other than himself for the first time and for the first time in years thought about someone other than himself.
Her name was Mariana Rivera, a Puerto Rican girl from Ponce who was attending Wellesley College, a twenty-year-old with alabaster skin, auburn hair held in a barrette and deep brown eyes. And she was brilliant! Narciso had lied when he told Laurence that intelligence in a sexual partner held no interest for him. The truth is that it was a powerful aphrodisiac but only when the woman was physically lovely to begin with. Beauty and intelligence were a powerful combination for Narciso as they are for many men and women. And Mariana was familiar with all the Latin American and Spanish poets that he loved. The first time they made love, she rhapsodized, both before and after the moment of jouissance, about Neruda’s Body of A Woman. ‘I forged you like a weapon, like an arrow in my bow,” she cried out, “like a stone in my sling… and I love you.” Then she pulled Narciso toward her by pulling at his jet black hair and curled up in his arms.
The first time that Narciso saw Mariana, he was at Mory’s Drinking Club, hoping to find a lover for the night, and was powerfully moved by the sight of the Puerto Rican girl. He felt a visceral attraction to her and from the very outset knew that she was not someone he wanted merely for a one-night stand. And so he didn’t make a pass at her that first night. He mainly spoke to her about his love of poems and his grandmother’s love for flowers, about some friends he cherished, such that by the end of the night she was convinced he was a man of a great nobility of spirit and didn’t hesitate to provide him with her number. Narciso wondered whether she would be the unrequited love of Laurence’s curse but soon concluded that she wasn’t as Mariana seemed to adore him and she always greeted him with joy. They soon began to spend every weekend together, sometimes in New Haven, Connecticut, sometimes in Wellesley, Massachusetts, and the months they spent together before their marriage were the happiest of Narciso’s life.
Aside from her intelligence and beauty, he delighted in her ebullient laughter, her mirthful personality, the fact she seemed to love life with an unbridled pleasure. And he was faithful to her! For the first time in his life, he abandoned love of self and didn’t seek solace from his solitude in other men or women. By the time she was pregnant with their child, he felt that no love could surpass the passion he felt for the baby in Mariana’s womb. He was terrified during her labor, afraid the child he already loved might be stillborn given how long it took Mariana to give birth. But old habits die hard and after Odette’s birth Narciso strayed again. For the first time in his life he wasn’t looking for temptation but temptation found him nonetheless.
It was his beauty – his cursed beauty – that moved Sharon McGivney to seduce him. By then, he was a junior associate with a white shoe law firm in Los Angeles and Sharon was the partner who ran the litigation department. They were jointly working on a brief in connection with a case brought against their client, Meat Cleaver Industries, by a butcher whose hands had been mutilated by a grinder. They worked on their motion all night, since it was due the next day, and only finished it by five in the morning, by which time there were no other lawyers at the firm. And that is when the predator became the prey. The forty-year-old Sharon knew that Narciso’s advancement at the law firm depended on how she evaluated his work and decided to use her lofty position to advantage. So she appealed to his ambition as she dreamed of falling in his arms and making love to him.
“I see a great future for you,” she told him as she slowly moved closer to him. “Your legal research is impeccable and your legal writing is bar none. I have about ten other Meat Cleaver cases. The company gets sued by injured butchers left and right. You know all those butchers wouldn’t be maimed if they followed all the rules. How hard can it be to use the pusher for the meat? I want you to help me with all those cases since you’re the best of our new associates.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” replied Narciso. “I guess I’ll be going now. I’ll be back by noon to see everything gets filed.”
“Why don’t you stay a while?” Sharon purred. “There’s no hurry. My secretary will take care of all the filing so you can take tomorrow off. You’ll see. We’ll have fun.”
Then she placed both arms about his neck and kissed him fully on the mouth.
Narciso did not recoil. Instead, he gave himself fully to her embrace, not even thinking about Mariana. Soon they were lying in the couch at her office, exchanging hungry kisses and caresses. For Narciso, it was as if a dam had broken, as if all the desires he had held in check for so many months had finally erupted. He bit her hard, leaving tiny bruises about her neck, and was elated when she achieved orgasm in his arms. From then on, they would often meet for bouts of lovemaking at her sprawling mansion in the Hollywood Hills, forcing Narciso to lie to Mariana constantly. He told his cuckolded wife – again and again – that he had to work late as he was preparing briefs that needed immediate filing the next day. Mariana suspected he had a paramour, but she didn’t confront her husband – she loved him so! – and accepted her fate with a muted impuissance. Soon Narciso was back to his old haunts, taking on lovers wherever he could find them. And Mariana continued saying nothing but her cheerfulness was gone, her ebullience disappeared and she briefly considered death by suicide. She understood exactly what her husband was doing with his time, all those nights of absence, all those weekends lost. Only the care of her daughter Odette helped her avoid complete despair.
Narciso wouldn’t be able to make use of the same lifeline in his night of anguish.
***
In every life, there is a tipping point, the moment when the past and the future are forever riven asunder. In Narciso’s life, that moment came when he met Isaac Gabrieli, Narciso’s doppelganger, his double, his twin. The Israeli man was a client of the firm, he was a Jew and Narciso did not know if he was straight or gay. From the first time Narciso met him, the young lawyer was struck by how physically similar the two men were. The resemblance was uncanny. Narciso and Gabrieli both had the same jet black hair, the same piercing blue eyes, the same taut muscular body, the same finely manicured white hands. And their facial features made them seem as one as well, the same full lips, the same fine aquiline nose, the same soft cheeks. From the very outset, Narciso felt he had finally met the object of all his unsated desires, a man as beautiful as him. Narciso immediately decided to bed him, for he would at long last be able to make love to a reflection of himself.
When Sharon McGivney introduced Gabrieli to Narciso, the young lawyer felt a cold sweat permeate his entire body and his heart stopped dead in his chest. Here at long last, he found himself in another human. After years of desperately searching for himself in bodies both male and female, fate had granted him the singular grace of letting him find what he had been longing for since childhood. When he first shook Gabrieli’s hand, Narciso felt he was about to faint, such was the pleasure which he derived from an act as simple as touching the other man’s long manicured fingers and feeling the white palms of his hands. Narciso felt an inordinate instinct to seduce him and felt at a loss for words, all the while being unable to take his eyes off the Israeli man.
“The two of you look like brothers,” observed Sharon McGivney. “It’s quite extraordinary.”
“They say every man has a double,” responded Gabrieli mirthfully. “Since there are billions on the planet, I’m sure we all have multiple doubles. The surprising thing is to find them.”
“Well, you two are going to be working together on the breach of contract action brought against you. I suggest you get together soon as a deposition is scheduled for early next month.”
“Why don’t we meet at the Jonathan Club at seven tonight?” Narciso suggested. “Then I can give you a general idea of the issues in the case. And then we can cap off the night by going to a nightclub. Would that suit you, Mister Gabrieli?”
“You can just call me Gabrieli. And yes, I’d be delighted to see the night life in L.A. I haven’t been here in years.”
That night they had a generous dinner at the Jonathan Club. Gabrieli was an intelligent man and understood all the legal claims against him. Then Narciso subtly brought up the issue of homosexuality, for he wondered whether Gabrieli too might be bisexual or heteroflexible. After all, since Gabrieli was a beautiful man, he must have been pursued by both men and women, just like Narciso. He might also have been attracted to a vision of himself.
“I am planning to take you to Xenon’s Club tonight,” said Narciso peeking at Gabreli through obsessive eyes. “It’s one of my favorite haunts, but it has a mixed clientele. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
“Mixed clientele?” echoed Gabrieli.
“I just wanted to let you know that gays frequent the nightclub. It’s not technically a gay establishment per se since the majority of guests are heterosexual, but you will see more than one homosexual at Xenon’s if we go there tonight.”
“That wouldn’t bother me at all,” said Gabrieli. “Israel is one of the few countries outside Europe and North America where gays are protected under the law.”
Narciso was encouraged. At least Gabrieli wasn’t an out-and-out homophobe. But Narciso kept his fingers crossed. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps tonight I won’t have to make love to the looking glass!
Once they arrived at Xenon’s, they found a long queue of people waiting to enter the popular discotheque. It was just as Narciso had described it, many groups of heterosexuals as well as clusters of gay men showing off their muscled physiques in tight t-shirts or none at all, a trail of gays and straights hoping to be among the few allowed admission to the nightclub.
“See, you’ll fit right in,” said Narciso piquantly. “Your taut muscular body is as well-sculpted as any of the gay boys in the line.”
Gabrieli seemed to make nothing of the comment, apparently shrugging it off as a meaningless compliment. Narciso silently admired Gabrieli’s manly figure silhouetted against the neon lights of the discotheque as the two moved slowly among the throngs.
The crowds were so thick and dense that Narciso saw an opportunity. There were no open spaces in the large group awaiting entrance to the nightclub such that all the bodies were tightly fitted together shoulder to shoulder. In fact, Narciso and Gabrieli were so close to each other that they could smell each other’s breaths. And that is when Narciso made his initial gambit. As they were moving forward in the line, Narciso allowed his hand to lightly alight on Gabrieli’s crotch. But Gabrieli did not respond in any fashion. He did not move any closer to Narciso, as if he enjoyed the touching of his sex, but neither did he protest against Narciso’s action in horror. Perhaps, thought Narciso, Gabrieli had thought the contact was unintentional. Or perhaps Gabrieli was open to a more direct approach later in the evening. At all events, Gabrieli’s nonresponsive conduct was inscrutable. How could he not have realized that Narciso had looked on him all night, even during dinner and talk of depositions, with an inexpressible desire?
When they appeared at the entrance to the nightclub, Narciso and Gabrieli were shooed right in. Many of those standing ahead of them in the tumultuous throng had been turned away, but Narciso and Gabrieli were both so handsome that they were exactly the type of patron encouraged by the owners of the discotheque. The two sat down at a corner table adjacent to a group of gay men and Narciso ordered a bottle of champagne. At some point, once he was tipsy enough to be brave, after ordering and drinking a second bottle and a third bottle of champagne and rebuffing various requests to dance, Narciso finally decided to cut to the chase.
“A number of these queer boys are lovely, don’t you think?”
“I guess it all depends on whether you like men,” responded Gabrieli, vaguely ill at ease as he scrutinized Narciso with curiosity. “But yes, in a general manner, I would say many are what one would commonly call handsome, except perhaps for the transvestites. I find them somewhat grotesque.”
“I don’t find effeminate men attractive either,” confessed Narciso.
“To each his own,” said Gabrieli.
“Have you ever dabbled?” asked Narciso point-blank.
“Dabbled? What do you mean?”
“I was just wondering whether you’ve ever been with a man. You’re so gorgeous that I’m sure many men are attracted to you. I for one find you exquisite.”
“No, I haven’t,” Gabrieli answered, uncomfortable given the sexual tension of the moment. “I suppose you’re gay. Tell me, Narciso, are you making a pass at me?”
“I’m not technically gay. I think the correct term for men like me is heteroflexible. I’ve consorted with dozens of women and only a handful of men. And even when I’ve been with men, it was only because I wanted to have sex with someone who reminded me of myself. You’re my doppelganger and twin so you fit the bill. Tell me, Gabrieli, don’t you dream of making love to your mirror? You’ve been cursed with the same beauty as mine so I wouldn’t doubt it for a minute. Are you an autosexual just like me? That’s a word for a man who is primarily attracted to himself.”
“Making love to the mirror?” Gabrieli echoed. “That’s entirely demented, Narciso. Come, let’s call it a night. I’ll forget everything you’ve said tonight so we can continue our professional relationship and keep planning our legal strategy.”
Then they exited the nightclub and sat in Narciso’s golden BMW. The young lawyer was already feeling an unmitigated grief, as if someone had died, as if he himself was dead. When the key was already in the ignition, Narciso, his face full of tears, turned to Gabrieli and held him desperately by the arm.
“Don’t think it is animal lust and nothing more,” Narciso said. “You must understand that I’ve been waiting for you for a lifetime.”
“Just drive,” Gabrieli commanded. “And compose yourself, old man! I am strictly heterosexual and will never spend the night with you.”
Suddenly Narciso remembered Laurence’s curse, that one day he would truly fall in love and that it would be an unrequited love.
He lunged at Gabrieli, trying to kiss him fully in the mouth and loudly sobbing in despair.
“I want you so badly,” he cried out as his eyes burned with fire. “I want you like I’ve never wanted anyone before.”
Gabrieli pushed Narciso forcefully away and punched him in the face. A trickle of crimson blood ran down his chin. Crying convulsively, shaking from head to foot, Narciso exited the vehicle and ran out into the streets until he found a freeway overpass from which to jump.
As he was leaving, Gabrieli cried out, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re just a little confused about things.” “I am not confused at all,” Narciso riposted. “You attract me as honey attracts flies. There is no limit to my ardor for you which makes me burn inside.”
Without thinking of his wife Mariana or his daughter Odette, without thinking of his mother Fernanda for such was his despair, Narciso leapt into the vastness of infinity since he could not think of a life without Gabrieli and he could not think of another means to flee. It was a decision made in a moment, gestated for a lifetime, as inevitable as the sunset.
“There are loves that kill,” Narciso’s grandmother used to say.
Socio-Political Impact of Uzbekistan–United States Relations on Social Life: A Sociological Analysis
Student of the Faculty of History and Social Sciences, Andijan State University Abdumaxamediva Gulchexra Email: abdumaxamedovagulchexra@gmail.com
Abstract: This article analyzes, from a sociological perspective, the impact of the mutual cooperative relations between Uzbekistan and the United States on the socio-political life of our country. The main objective of the study is to determine the role of the bilateral relations between the two countries in social changes within society, the education system, and the formation of political consciousness. The article provides an in-depth look at issues such as the influx of Western culture, the impact of exchange programs in education on the worldview of young people, and the socialization of Uzbek immigrants into American life.
Keywords: Cooperation, Socio-political, Sociological, Research, Western culture, Worldview.
Аннотация: В данной статье с социологической точки зрения анализируется влияние взаимоотношений сотрудничества между Узбекистаном и США на общественно-политическую жизнь нашей страны. Основная цель исследования – определить роль отношений между двумя странами в социальных изменениях в обществе, системе образования и формировании политического сознания. В статье подробно рассматриваются такие вопросы, как приток западной культуры, влияние программ обмена в сфере образования на мировоззрение молодежи, а также социализация узбекских иммигрантов в американской жизни.
Ключевые слова: сотрудничество, социально-политический, социологический, исследование, западная культура, мировоззрение.
Annotatsiya: Ushbu maqolada Oʻzbekiston va AQSH oʻrtasidagi oʻzaro hamkorlik aloqalarining mamlakatimiz ijtimoiy-siyosiy hayotiga koʻrsatayotgan taʼsiri sotsiologik nuqtayi nazardan tahlil qilingan. Tadqiqotning asosiy maqsadi ikki davlat munosabatlarining jamiyatdagi ijtimoiy oʻzgarishlar, taʼlim tizimi va siyosiy ong shakllanishidagi rolini aniqlashdan iborat. Maqola mazmunida gʻarb madaniyatining kirib kelishi, taʼlim sohasidagi almashinuv dasturlarining yoshlar dunyoqarashiga taʼsiri kabi masalalar, o‘zbeklarning Amerika hayotiga ijtimoiylashuvi atroflicha yoritilgan.
The outcomes achieved through cooperation between Uzbekistan and the United States are primarily aimed at improving the welfare of the population. The creation of new jobs, the introduction of modern technologies, opportunities for training qualified specialists, and economic stability are among the changes clearly reflected in the lives of our people. Based on this, it can be said that bilateral cooperation contributes to effective improvements in public welfare.
A vivid example of this was demonstrated during the meeting held within the framework of the 80th anniversary session of the UN General Assembly in New York City. The conversation between the presidents took place not only in an official diplomatic spirit but also in an atmosphere of sincerity and trust. This indicates that relations between the two countries have reached the level of a true strategic partnership.
It should also be noted that trade relations between the two countries have significantly expanded in recent years. In 2024, trade turnover reached a historic high of 882 million dollars.
The influence of Western culture has both positive and negative aspects. On the positive side, it contributes significantly to education and worldview development, such as expanding critical thinking, mastering new technologies, keeping up with modern times, enhancing creativity, acquiring global knowledge, and increasing attention to personal development. Individuals are becoming more focused on self-improvement rather than relying on others’ opinions, and they are paying greater attention to career growth. The widespread use of the English language is also a positive outcome.
However, there are also negative aspects. Every nation has its own traditions and unwritten values, such as language, respect for elders, and care for younger people. These values are at risk of weakening. For example, increased self-centeredness among youth may lead to disrespect. Changes in national dress styles, such as wearing shorts or overly colorful clothing, and the tendency to view modesty in communication as “outdated,” can also be considered negative consequences
Research Methodology
Using the observation method, we examined youth behavior in public transportation with respect to respect for elders. It was observed that some young people do not offer seats to older passengers, push to enter transport first, pretend to sleep, or hold a book while using their phones instead of actually reading.
We also used comparative analysis in studying clothing culture by comparing people’s clothing styles in the 2000s and in 2026. Clothing in the 2000s was more traditional, modest, and less attention-grabbing, whereas modern clothing tends to be more open, tight-fitting, and visually striking.
In terms of language culture, there is a growing tendency to mix Uzbek with foreign words. For example:
“Is everything clear?”
“We have a meeting tomorrow”
“I posted your picture”
“Write to me in private”
“I deleted the channel”
“I blocked that person”
From these observations, it can be concluded that Western culture does not always bring only positive changes.
Results
The strengthening of strategic partnership relations between Uzbekistan and the United States, the activation of trade and investment cooperation, and the implementation of joint projects across various sectors of the economy have been discussed. In recent years, trade turnover has increased fourfold, reaching nearly 1 billion dollars.
More than 300 American companies are successfully operating in Uzbekistan. Major cooperative projects are being implemented in industry, agriculture, energy, and innovation sectors.
The growth of economic investments (with over 300 American companies operating) affects the population’s standard of living and social mobility. This, in turn, accelerates the integration of Western management styles and corporate culture into Uzbek society.
The Government of Uzbekistan signed a $300 million agreement with the John Deere Corporation to supply agricultural machinery. According to the U.S. Department of Commerce, half of this amount—$150 million—will be directed toward cotton harvesting equipment in Ankeny, Iowa. This agreement is part of a series of investment and trade projects within the “C5+1” framework, which includes Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan.
Additionally, Boeing and Uzbekistan Airways signed a final agreement for the delivery of 8 more Boeing 787 Dreamliner aircraft, increasing the total order to 22.
Analysis
Uzbekistan and the United States have also signed agreements on the extraction of rare metals, modernization of pumping stations, implementation of drip irrigation, and the supply of beans and cotton.
Former President Donald Trump announced an “incredible trade and economic deal” worth 100 billion dollars between the two countries.
The inflow of U.S. investments and technologies is opening new opportunities for young people. How does this happen? The presence of more than 300 American companies in Uzbekistan acts as a “social elevator,” motivating young people to learn foreign languages and modern technologies to achieve higher social status. This increases the social demand for knowledge among youth.
Conclusion
The conducted analysis shows that the new stage in Uzbekistan’s foreign policy, particularly the strategic and large-scale economic agreements with the United States, directly impacts all segments of society, especially the worldview of young people.
During the transition from the conservative approaches of the 2000s to today’s more open and technological society, an increased interest in American lifestyle and corporate culture among youth has been observed.
As identified in the research, economic investments (such as those by Boeing, John Deere, and in IT sectors) not only create new jobs but also shape new forms of social interaction.
In conclusion, Uzbekistan–U.S. relations serve as one of the key drivers accelerating the process of social modernization in society.
The world needs more touch, more poetry, and more love.
That’s why I am launching the GLOBAL MOSAIC OF LOVE and inviting you to become part of it.
I invite artists and creatives from my country and around the world to share,
their poetry along with images of their hands and palms, creating a network of touches filled with love and respect, where we share both sorrow and joy, and strengthen the golden links of our hands around the Earth.
Without borders, every contribution becomes a diamond in the global mosaic of love.
GLOBAL MOSAIC OF LOVE 
April 20 – May 20, 2026
their poetry along with images of their hands and palms, creating a network of touches filled with love and respect, where we share both sorrow and joy, and strengthen the golden links of our hands around the Earth.
E-mail: 
Messenger: send your poetry and images of your hands directly to me, Sandra Fabac