Ten Minute Tales : Peace Over Truth by Inge H.Borg

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Peace Over Truth

Inge H. Borg

                       Image of Death:

           La mort Saints-Innocents   

(Alabaster Sculpture, ca. 1530, Artist Unknown)

     Located since 1866 in the Louvre in Paris

“Oh, Heaven!”

   I had opened my eyes to check my watch, and there he was, sitting close to me. Too close for comfort in any case. With my eyes crossed, all I saw were rampant sideburns. I was spending my usual lunch hour on a secluded bench that overlooked a popular pond in our city park. Should I be shocked, alarmed or faint? I pressed my knees together tightly. Not that I expected to be raped at high noon while ladling yogurt into my mouth. It was simply the unconscious reaction of someone who in previous generations might uncaringly have been called ‘a spinster lady.’

I squinted at the man. It couldn’t be. But it was. A second glance at my bench-partner confirmed it. Yep, it was him all right; lopsided grin and all. What on earth was he doing alive?

   While I was trying to bring my surprise under control—which included closing my mouth—he watched me intently. Odd, I thought. Famous people usually tried to remain anonymous, especially when coming upon unpromising admirers like me.

   On this warm spring day, I was aware that my prim and proper outfit seemed out of place. The deep purple suit of fine mid-range wool with its pencil skirt and a jacket that I had my tailor shorten fashionably screamed Assistant. Whether a personal or an executive one was undoubtedly irrelevant to casual passers-by. What could not escape the most blasé observer was that I had long slipped past the final blush of youth. I hated to admit it, but motherly had been bestowed upon me a few times even though I never expressed any such desires. It was the hips, you see. Swaying wide as I walked, they had been my nemesis since puberty.

“Heaven,” the man beside me grinned with that side-sliding mouth of his. He pointed to himself. Then he poked his finger into my chest. “You?”

“Really, young man!” I uncrossed my ankles, ready to dig my conservative one-inch heels into the pavement for a quick get-away.

   The man now poked himself into the chest and repeated, “I am Heaven.”

I managed to mumble a caustic, “Good for you,” and blushingly assumed he was extolling his manliness. Imagine! To a woman like me. What a cad! Time to make use of those heels. [Oh, good heavens, no! I would never do that to a man; unless I was forced to.] I stalked off. One could not be too careful even with, or maybe because of, an immortal star like that.

   Immortal? Heavens! He was supposed to be dead. After my breathing went back to near normal, I decided this guy was one of those imposters who loved to play tricks on unsuspecting women. Or, perhaps this was some sort of latter-day Candid Camera. I hadn’t thought of that back there on my bench. I wondered if my hair was in place. I had it cut the week before, but the light breeze could have tousled it.

   Imposter or would-be rapist, the encounter left me unsettled. The man’s behavior was just a bit too strange for my excellent, alas admittedly, bourgeois tastes. I was annoyed. To have my lunch cut short by such nonsense was stealing precious time from me. It was only during those brief minutes that I could turn my face toward the sun, close my eyes and dream as mature women do when they are still single, wishing they were not.

   Before crossing a busy street, I wisely let a city bus roll by. As the bus passed me there, larger than life plastered across its right flank, was Elvis. I don’t mean the look-alike man who had caused me to abandon my bench. This was a huge poster for some anniversary or other from the King’s career!

   Ah, that explained it; probably a publicity stunt and the poor guy had needed a rest while having some fun with me. For once, I would be glad to get back to the office, the demands of my type-A boss with bad breath, and a workload that never seemed to diminish no matter how late I stayed.

   I stood at the elevator with my thumb stretched out to summon Mr. Otis’s creation. Suddenly, from behind, a hand pulled mine away from the blinking up button. Somehow, I knew it even before I turned back.

   “Are you stalking me!” When I wanted to I could sound rather stern.

   “We have dinner. Yes!” Now, that’s what stern should sound like.

  “Really, young man! Really!” I was repeating myself. People began to group around the two of us. I could hear snippets like, ‘Hey, lady, will it be today?’ and ‘Poor old dear, talking to herself.’

   The elevator arrived spewing its load into the marble lobby. Before any of the amused by-standers had a chance, I hurled myself into the empty car and frantically pressed the close-door button. It worked. Nobody else had a chance to squeeze into the elevator before I was yanked toward heaven [pardon the pun].

   When I looked up, Elvis stood next to me smiling rather sweetly. “I am glad,” he said.

   “Glad?” Then I remembered that I had said ‘yes.’ In my younger years, I was sometimes called adventurous. So, why would age have diminished that fire, that free spirit, that sense of excitement? Maturity. But that caution lasted all of three seconds. “Yes, so am I.” How desperate was I for a little company? Any company?

   “Just one thing.” I had to make sure as I do not like to be ridiculed in public. “Can you please not come dressed as Elvis.”

   “Elvis?”

   “Yes. Elvis. The guy you are pretending to be.” I yanked at the fringe of his white leather jacket.

    “What about this Elvis? Do you not like him?”

    “Very funny. That line only works if you tell me you are from Mars.”

    “No. It is no longer viable for habitation.”

   “You don’t say.” I hoped the man could tell sarcasm when it was flung into his face. Maybe it would be best to abandon the direction of our dialogue. If he kept this up, I might get mad enough to tell him to go to...well, if not to Mars, then perhaps Timbuktu. And if he did, I would once again be eating dinner alone, in front of the TV. A disgusting habit I had fallen into and not worthy of my cultured upbringing. I suddenly realized I was letting myself go. I needed a change. Starting right now.

“I will pick you up and accompany you to the restaurant of your choice,” he said in his somewhat stilted manner. His low bow too seemed to belong to a more chivalrous time.

   Now, I might be slightly gullible and was usually polite to a fault, but it was not a good idea to leave myself without an exit plan. In this case, I would take a taxi home. 

   “What shall it be, then,” I heard him ask.

   “You mean, where shall we meet? How about the Parker House. It’s not far from here.”

   “Sorry. My mistake. I should have said who shall I be.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake [that darn word was now stuck in my brain like dog turd to a shoe]. If he insisted on this imposter-thing, I might as well ask for the best.

   “Cary Grant,” I said and for one delicious moment I hoped he would take me up on it.

*** 

He did. Elegant, gallant, and utterly at ease as only Mr. Grant was in his movie roles, my Mr. Heaven was, well, heaven to behold. Even the bored hostess did a double-take. I could see her blink, not sure what she was seeing.

   “Do you have a reservation, Mr. ...?” she chirped but then her mouth stayed open. Did she really expect him to say Grant. Cary Grant.

   “Heaven,” he said and slipped her a banknote. “A booth for Mr. Heaven and his lady.”

   Other than sitting opposite the most gorgeous man, dinner was delightfully normal. Until I was about to let an oyster slide off its shell past my expectant lips. I was looking forward to the succulent lemon-dribbled mollusk. My head was tilted back and through half-closed lids I saw his hand snake out with lightning speed. In mid-air, he snatched the slithery delicacy away from my fingers.

   “Slime,” he said and hurled the half shell against the wall. Now, Cary would never have done that. I sat there, dumbfounded, my mouth open in spittle-gathering anticipation. Luckily, nobody seemed to have noticed. We finished dinner without further incident and, aside from the spontaneous oyster-hurling, I did enjoy his company. We agreed to meet again. 

   Sleep did not come easily that night. He never had told me his real name. He said he liked the one I gave him. Had I been younger and hence vocally less restrained at my first sighting of him, I shudder to think what I would have called out in my surprise. I doubt it would have been O. Henry.

* * *

He told me that we—those of humankind as a species— were doomed; slated to be eradicated. I wanted to alert the world; convince people that I knew something was to happen to cause our demise. But would it have made a difference in our behavior? The fact remained he knew something terrible was to happen to us. What, he would not say.

   He also told me that, as far as the earth went, it might be the best thing for this blue planet that had survived meteor strikes, sun flares, prodigious floods and voracious fires. However, the time had come that it may no longer be able to survive Man. I truly believed Heaven; and it scared me half to death. 

   After a last wondrous night with him, he simply vanished through my closed bedroom door. All that was left was to remember him in his many enjoyable forms and guises. I often did so, even during the day.

That’s when the trouble started. People said I rambled on; and it interfered with my work. The day my boss called me into his office I told him the truth. He bellowed something about a crazy old bat, and sent me to the company psychiatrist.

***

When the nice people came and assured that life for me would be much easier under their care, I went peacefully. How sad. My telling the truth was what brought me here.

   At night, I talk to Heaven. I know he can hear me. I wasn’t happy right away but soon came to realize there was no need to confuse those who are now looking after me by telling them about Heaven. They deserve not to be frightened with the truth.

   My window looks out over a beautiful park with huge trees. They said the iron bars were necessary to keep the bears out. I don’t like them. I draw pictures without bars. Of course, I don’t put any bears into my drawings either. That would be plain crazy.

   It pleases me how clean the people around here are. They wear white coats and plastic gloves. As long as I keep quiet when they prod me with their needles, they are gentle and kind.

   There are times when I feel guilty for not coming forward with what I know. But all I wish for now is to see Heaven one more time. He promised he would come for me one day.

In the meantime, can you blame me for choosing peace over truth?

©Inge H. Borg

Talking about Truth: 

Read Inge H. Borg’s Blog articles on “Fact in Fiction.”

http://devilwinds.blogspot.com/

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