Dialogue and descriptions from The Longest Journey by Funcom - Transcript compiled by Bluejay, slightly modified by me
April found herself sitting up on her bed, her underclothes damp and sticky.
April:
What a nightmare. I'm completely exhausted. I must've been tossing and turning all night. It's so hot in here too. No wonder I keep having these weird dreams. I've basically been simmering in my own sweat every night this past week. Doesn't look like it's gonna cool down any time soon either. It's another sunny day in Newport.
Reluctantly, she got to her feet. It was a good thing the studio had got proper air-conditioning. She had promised herself she was gonna spend most of the day working and she did not intend to break that promise, not this time. She contemplated making her bed but dismissed the idea. The bedsheets were barely rumpled anyway.She looked out the window and wished there was a nice view but as it was, dull brickwork was what she had to face everyday. Her room was just as dreary, the walls painted a drab skyblue to cover over the minute cracks with rust coloured stains seeping from the metalworks. Paint had peeled off in patches from the door. The only bright soothing spot in the room was the plant on the windowsill. It had been there ever since she moved in. She was not good at taking care of living things but the plant was doing just fine despite months of neglect. She had tacked some posters to the wall in an effort to brighten the room. It was depressing to think that she had to borrow some from the cafe because she just could not afford to buy any of her own..She had aslo put up a piece of her work. It was supposed to be a portrait of her life study teacher but she thought he might disagree. The room came furnished fortunately..The wardrobe in the corner next to the window was made of real wood, and not the synthetic kind which she was allergic to.
A gentle breeze brought in the odour of the canal as she opened the window, rustling the papers on the desk beneath the shelves. Her desk at which theoretically, where she was supposed to do her work. However, she suspected her muse had departed her for greener pastures, because lately, inspiration had been fleeting at best. As if to commiserate with her, the ventilation fan in her room clacked as it spun erractically. It was supposed to keep the room nice and cool for the summer. Sure, yeah, it was at least one degree cooler in there when it was on. It kept switching off and on sporadically. The thermostat must be broken. Like everything else in the room.
She shook off the dreary mood. She picked up a photoframe on the shelf cupboard at the foot of her bed and looked at it fondly. It was a picture of Charlie, Emma and her in Florence Park. Marcus had taken it a month ago, before it got real hot.. A few books leaned crookedly against one another but she hardlly depended on them for ideas. She did not read much but she believed it was important to maintain an intellectual facade. She was part of the "should be reading more but life's too short" generation. They embraced their illiteracy. The last book she read was "How to Seduce the Man of Your Dreams". So if she could just find a man to dream about, she would be all set. The sight of the small thick notebook lying by itself brought a wry twist to her mouth It was her on-again, off-again dairy. They'd had a turbulent relationship, it and her. She had been keeping a diary intermittently since she was five years old though obviously not the same. She had started the current one in April of that year. Flipping it opened, she read her previous entries.
April 14th, 2209. A Friday.
Happy Birthday to me! The big one-eight! Joyness, right? Well...not to sound like a complete spoilsport, but 18 feels kinda like 17, only I can buy a gun and pilot a hovercraft. I'd kinda figured that the number 18 would cast light into the deep dark chasm of my soul and reveal some grand truth about the universe. Like the meaning of life, or at least some explanation as to why all guys are complete idiots. But...no. Nothing. I'm the same person today that I was yesterday. No different. Same old boring April, stuck in the same old boring life.
Which of course does make me realize something important: I just HAVE to get outta here soon. I have to leave. There's nothing here for me, no future, and a past I'd prefer to forget. And I know where I wanna go. The Venice Academy of the Visual Arts, in Newport.
God knows if they'll accept me into their fall program, but I HAVE to try. Sarah went out there last year, and she's agreed to let me stay at her place for a short while, until I can get a job and an apartment.
Writing about leaving is both scary and exciting. It's scary because I've never really been on my own before, and I've never been to Newport. And of course I'm scared that "good, old Daddy" will find out and force me to stay. Not that he can, but he will certainly try. On the other hand, it's really exciting too! I can't imagine anything that beats starting my own life in a place like Venice! From what I've seen and heard, it looks GREAT - there are lots of little cafés and criss-crossing canals just like in the "real" Venice, in Italy, and most of the people who live there are young and creative and not afraid to look or sound or be different. Which will make a nice change from this place.
April 22nd
Today I called the Academy and asked them about their admission requirements, and they told me to bring some of my work in "when you arrive". They don't really have any specific requirements, only that you're talented and dedicated and hard working. The lady I spoke to sounded nice, but she didn't make any promises. She told me there are a lot of applicants and only a limited amount of spaces. I know my work's good, even though I haven't had much training. And I'm definitely dedicated and hard working. So why am I still nervous???
May 1st.
I'm sorry I haven't kept up with events in this diary, but with my exams and everything else going on right before graduation, I haven't had the time. I know, I know, BAD excuse. I'll just have to take time out to, and I'll definitely keep my diary up to date from now on!
May 25th.
AAAAARGH! Three weeks of complete silence! I look back at my previous diaries and I wonder; where the hell did I find the time to write so much, so often? Oh well, I'll try to remember what's been going on these past few weeks...
I passed all my exams with straight A's (of course J), and tomorrow morning I'm leaving home. Yes, I'm making the leap into the great unknown, and I'm never coming back here. I withdrew all my money from the bank--$2190--and I've packed a suitcase and a bag with my clothes and work-samples and books and anything else I can't do without. Unfortunately, I have to leave so much--my old toys, some of the bigger canvases, my screen. And it's not like I can have Mom ship them or anything. I'm leaving a letter for my family, but I'm not telling them where I'm going. 18 years under constant scrutiny is enough, I really don't want to carry any of that CRAP with me into my new life.
Strangely enough, when I was packing this morning, I suddenly remembered something I'd forgotten a long time ago. When I was a kid, I kept all my drawings in a box under the floorboards so my Dad wouldn't find them and berate me for wasting my time. The box was right where I put it, more than six years ago. I didn't feel like looking at any of the drawings right away, so I wrapped the box up and stuck it in my bag. I'll open it when I get to Venice. I don't think this is the right time for nostalgic reminiscence about my childhood, but I'm glad I remembered to pack the box. So, tonight's the night. I'm sneaking out of here at 4 AM to catch the train to Greenvale, and from there on to the BIG CITY itself--Newport. At dinner tonight, I'll see Mom, Dad, Daniel and Owen for the last time in a long while. I don't really care if I ever see Dad again, but I feel sorry for Mom. She doesn't seem to care much for
me, but I know she'll miss me, and I know she'll feel very guilty for turning a blind eye to the way he treated me throughout all those years. As for Danny and Owen, I don't really know. Danny's an asshole--he could (theoretically) improve, though I doubt he wants to. As for Owen--he's still a kid, he might turn out okay, but as long as Dad's in control I'm not too optimistic...
I'm going to the pond tonight, to say goodbye. I haven't been there in a long while, not since that CRAZY day. Well, I have to see it one last time, or I'll never get it out of my head. As for my friends, I don't really want to say anything. I'll mail them when I get to Newport. To Venice.
So, this is the last entry I write here in this house, in this room. In some strange way I can't really understand, I'll miss it. Not much, but I did grow up here, I did spend 18 YEARS ...oh my god... in this place, and that's not soon forgotten or ignored. I don't want to feel bad for what I'm doing, but I can't help it; I do feel bad, a little. But more than anything I'm excited about what tomorrow will bring. I think--yeah, I believe I might actually be happy! ...imagine that...
After having leafed through the previous entries, she writes a new one.
Friday, July 28 2209.
Way too early in the morning...and I won't even TRY to describe the dream I had last night. Like, enough with the fairy-tales already! I need to start dreaming about boys and shopping...you know, the important things in life.
It just dawned on me that the student exhibition opens in less than two weeks! My "painting" - and I mean that in the broadest sense of the word - is not even close to being presentable. Even that's an overstatement. All I have is a blank canvas, and while that may fool SOME people (like in "whoa, what an expressive statement of NOTHINGNESS"), it won't fool my teachers.
So today I have to put in a solid six hours of work at the studio, and just hope that inspiration will strike me like lightning from the sky. It could happen.
She decided to add an afternote
April:
Dear Diary ... Note to self. Dreams of talking trees and dragons aside, it's still no excuse for talking to inanimate matter in the real world. So quit it.
A loose sheet of paper slipped out between the pages. She pulled it out and was delighted to find it was her timesheet from the cafe! It was a list of the hours she had worked the past week at the cafe. She had completely forgotten she had put it in there. Good thing she found it, because she was broke. She decided to bring the diary with her. She had better changed if she wanted to go to the studio and opened the small wardrobe. It was almost bare except for a grey suitcase. She could only carry one suitcase with her when she left home. There was so much she would love to bring but C'est la vie. At least it was a clean break with her past. She guess when all her hard work started paying off, she would get a house and fill it with all kinds of new junk. The past -- who needed it? A sheaf of papers lay untidily in a round box at the bottom. A bunch of drawings she had drawn when she was a kid. She was not sure why she brought them with her. They meant absolutely nothing to her. Bunch of useless old drawings she should have dumped a long time ago.
An empty cardboard box which she should have discarded sat in a corner with a brightly coloured toy perched on top. She could not bring herself to throw away uselesss things when she knew she should. The toy was constable Guybrush, her toy monkey. Ape. He did not much like being called a "monkey". In addition to being an ape, constable Guybrush played drums in the Toyburg police corps marching band. Constable Guybrush was a strange hybrid between man, ape and musician. In addition to being an officer of the law, of course. But one of her favoruite figures in any case. The mechanism began to make a din as she wound it up. It could be mildly amusing. But irritating as hell with the ruckus it was making. She shut him down and noticed one of the eyes were falling out. It could probably be repaired but she had no adhesive at hand. But she could easily do that at the studio. She decided to bring him.
Whatever clothes she had hung limply on the hangers. Her wardrobe was sort of chic-deficient but she could not afford to be cutting edge. "Useful, practical and cheap" was her shopping mantra these days. When fame and wealth come knocking, she would buy a wardrobe the size of an ocean liner and fill it with clothes for a million bucks. Right then, she would try to focus on her work. Work! She was definitely ready to start off her day. She had better head over to the studio to do some work. Only two weeks until the big show opened and her contribution was in serious need of attention. She stepped out into the hallway where a slick looking guy standing outside his room opposite hers struck up a conversation.
Zack:
Hey babe. Babe, you're looking real sexy today.
April:
Zack, listen, I've gotta run and --
Zack:
What's going on April? How you been?
April:
I don't really have time to hang around.
Zack:
Then how about hanging out with me tonight? A few Raptures, some hot dancing .. Did I tell you I got a VIP pass to the Pavillion? Those things are hard to come by, babe.
April:
No, that's not gonna work, Zack.
Zack:
What? You got something against me, babe? Do I offend you in some way?
April:
Oh .. no, I just don't think it's a good idea for us to be -- together like that.
Zack:
Hey, whatever. You'll come crawling back, when you realize your mistake, babe. I'm outta here. (He smirked and went into his room)
April:
What an asshole.
April:
Pretty good, and you?
Zack:
Fantastic. Listen, April, how about you and me getting together sometime soon? Like tonight? The Pavillion is really cooking this week. We could pop some Raptures, do a little close dancing ... How about it?
April:
Sounds like good fun, but not tonight.
Zack:
Hey, whenever. Just don't expect me to be waiting around for you forever. No chick is worth that heartache. See you around. (He smirked and went into his room)
April:
What an asshole.
April:
I was doing just fine until you came along ...
Zack:
What's that? Hey, listen, I was thinking maybe you and I could hook up tonight, go to the Pavillion or something. We could pop a few Raptures, do a little close dancing. How about it?
April:
Let me think about it.
Zack:
So think about it, babe. But don't keep thinking too long, or I'll be gone. There are other birds in the sea, you know. Gotta go. (He smirked and went into his room)
April:
What an asshole.
On a whim she plucked a leaf from the plant at the end of the corridor. Plants were usually made of organic plastic. It grew and converted carbon dioxide into oxygen, just like real plants but it did not need nourishment of any kind. Convenient but disturbing. The rusting machine next to her door was a FACT. As in F-A-C-T. FreeAccess Terminal. She hadn't actually tried using this terminal before.
April:
Computer ...
FACT:
Voice interface is not installed. Please use the touch screen interface to communicate with this FreeAccess Terminal.
April:
Oh .. okay.
FACT:
Why not consider a very reasonable upgrade? In addition to a voice interface, TruHolo display technology and InstaKredit compatibility --
April:
No. I'll ... just use my hands, thanks.
FACT:
You are missing out on a great opportunity. If you upgrade now --
April:
Hold on. You understood that? You have a voice interface installed already. Why would I pay to have one installed?
FACT:
Current voice interface is for sales purposes only. If you take advantage of this very affordable upgrade today --
April:
No. Really. You ... this terminal doesn't belong to me.
FACT:
Noted. Please refrain from voice communication in the future or you will be reported to the FACT F.U.B. and charged for processing time.
April:
F.U.B?
FACT:
Fair Use Bureau. They are authorized to carrry deadly arms.
April:
Well, whatever. Sorry.
The terminal fell silent, to her relief. The last thing she needed was some law agency put a bill on her. There were a total of four apartments on her floor. Zack's room was directly opposite hers. She had never been in there and she prayed she never would. The last door near the staircase was Charlie's apartment which was twice as big as hers, with a private bathroom and a huge bed. She guessed he liked his creature comforts. On the groundfloor, Fiona, her landlady, was lounging as usual on the sofa in the common room. The ceiling fan was rotating very slowly in the heat. Proper air-conditioning was apparently never a viable alternative for the contractor.
The common room was small, boasting of a sofa ; they really knew how to design tacky furniture back in the late twenty-second century. And what was supposedly to be a coffee table that Emma had picked up at a flea market for ten dollars last month. To her, that was nine dollars more than it was worth. She peeked through the window next to the sofa, a window with a nice view of the bridges of Venice in fact. They were deserted. She picked up a matchbook from the Fringe Cafe was lying on the coffee table. She had brought it back with the intention of doing something with it for her project, and then forgotten about it. The omnipresent Screen was currently running through a slew of advertisements. She did not know how they worked, but all the data were apparently sent through tiny little black holes in the fabric of the dimension. It really freaked her out when she thought about it.
She decided to check the corkboard. A big poster from the Fringe Cafe announced.. "Annual Summer Blowout!@ the Fringe Cafe, Friday August 4, 8 PM. Free food! Live performances by Royn Dale, Harlequin Masquerade. The Gogetters! Tickets available @ the bar! $10 only! Spread the word!"
Someone had tacked a picture of a football star behind the poster. Probably one of the female residents. Big sweaty jocks did not turn her on, she'd take a nerd any day. A small pink note was pinned next to it.
April:
I can't tell what that notes says as long as it's up there. Fiona's handwriting is not particularly legible.
She took down the note, pocketing the pushpin. It said "Found a gold ring under the common room sofa, if it's yours, let me know ... but no false claims please!!! fiona."
April:
I did lose a gold ring a few weeks ago. I hope this is the one. I'll have to ask Fiona about it.
She continued looking over the board. Another scrawled note from Fiona exhorted "Be considerate. Keep the volumn down after 11 PM. Fiona"
A timid piece of plain paper with a picture of a pizza was almost lost among the papers "Pizza & Movie Night! Monday, July 31 - BYOS!" B-Y-O what? Soap?
The roster schedule was hard to miss "Common room duty roster. July 27, April & Emma." The joys of manual labor.
A former resident had sent a postcard from San Francisco. She'd love to go there someday. Some day soon, hopefully.
And inexplicably, there was a photo of a monkey
April:
Morning, Fiona!
Fiona:
Good morning, darling! You're up early.
April:
Yeah, I couldn't sleep.
Fiona:
Are you feeling all right? You look a little pale.
April:
I had a bad nightmare.
Fiona:
Again? Well, you're not the only one darling. Mickey woke me up screaming in the middle of the night. She wouldn't go back to sleep until I made her a cup of herbal tea.
April:
Nightmares?
Fiona:
Apparently. But she refuses to tell me what they were. I think she's embarrassed.
April:
That doesn't sound like Mickey.
Fiona:
I know, darling. Don't tell her I said so, but I've never seen her so agitated in my life. She scared the hell out of me.
April:
I don't know why I have nightmares. I guess they could be stress-related. After all, the exhibition is right around the corner.
Fiona:
Oh yes, the school exhibition. How's that going?
April:
God, don't ask. I have no idea how I'm going to finish my painting on time. I haven't felt inspired in ages.
Fiona:
I think you work too hard, darling. You need to relax once in a while. Live. Enjoy your youth. There's inspiration to be found in hedonism, you know.
April:
No, I don't know. But apparently you do.
Fiona:
(laughed) I'm an authority on the subject, darling. Ask Mickey. She'll tell you I don't lift a finger around the place unless I absolutely have to.
April:
Where's everybody this morning?
Fiona:
Mickey's tied up in the basement ... Mind you, she's not really tied up, of course -- although that is a tempting thought.
April:
Are we getting into your sexual fantasies here, Fiona? Because it's a little too early in the morning for that, don't you think?
Fiona:
Sorry. I just can't help myself. Anyway, the plumbing is ... you probably noticed when you took a shower, yeah? There's no hot water. So Mickey's working on that. Getting knee- deep in putrid canal water is her job, thank God.
April:
What about Charlie? He up yet?
Fiona:
No, he's still sleeping and Emma just went up to bed. I saw her come in when I was making breakfast. Do you know who she's seeing now?
April:
I don't know. Some guy.
Fiona:
Those lads I see her with, darling ... she's too good for those arseholes. I wish she'd find herself a man who'd treat her right for once.
April:
She hasn't had much luck with love, no.
Fiona:
She's a magnet for creeps. And she's so pretty. They prey on her, you know. Bastards.
April:
I've tried to talk to her about it but Emma's ... implusive. She doesn't listen.
Fiona:
She's just as headstrong as you and me, darling. But I'm sure she'll be all right. She's smart and resourceful and not afraid to speak up for herself.
April:
Shouldn't you be outside enjoying the good weather?
Fiona:
You joking? Bollocks to that, I'll stay inside until September, thank you very much. It's too bloody hot.
April:
Can I ask you a few questions?
Fiona:
Why, certainly, darling. About what?
April:
Tell me about Emma.
Fiona:
Emma? Why, she your best friend, darling. I don't know what to tell you that you don't already know. You girls are so close.
April:
That's true. The day we met, we clicked -- instantly. It was strange but cool.
Fiona:
Like me and Mickey, then. Except for the sex, of course.
April:
That's a pretty big 'except for', Fiona.
Fiona:
Oh, I guess so. She's a crazy one, Emma is. Not crazy as in "mad as a hatter", but crazy in a good way. Fun to be around.
April:
Emma's always been a little weird.
Fiona:
Exactly, darling. She's a flirt, too, and the boys seem to drop like flies at her feet. No wonder. She's a real looker, I don't have to tell you. I'm sure she could've been a model if she'd wanted, but she's an artist and good one too. I really think she'll be a successful artist. Her sculptures are getting a lot of attention.
April:
Anything else you can tell me about Emma?
Fiona:
She ought to be a little careful sometimes. She's a flirt, and although she doesn't mean any harm, some lads don't take too well to being teased and rejected. You should tell her that, being her best friend and all.
April:
I have told her. She won't listen.
Fiona:
No. She does worry me a little. But she's a big girl and she can take care of herself. I'm certainly happy to have her living here. Next to you and Charlie, she's my favourite tenant.
April:
What did you think of me when we first met?
Fiona:
That's a peculiar question, isn't it? I thought you were lovely. I still do, darling.
April:
Do you remember the day I arrived?
Fiona:
Of course, darling, it wasn't that long ago and I'm not senile quite yet. It was in May, wasn't it? Charlie referred you to me and you were quite at a loss. First day in the city, wasn't it? I remember, you looked like a lost puppy.
April:
Puppy? Me?
Fiona:
When I saw you lugging that suitcase across the bridge, my heart went out to you. I'm glad you came here -- you'd have been lost anywhere else.
April:
How long have you known Charlie?
Fiona:
Oh, he's one of our oldest tenants. It's close to three years, I believe, since he moved in. Charlie is always in a good mood and he is such a gentleman.
April:
I agree, he's an actual, genuine gentleman.
Fiona:
And you don't see a lot of gentlemen these days, trust me. You have a very good friend in him, darling. Perhaps even more than a friend.
April:
What do you mean, more than a friend?
Fiona:
Not for me to say, darling. If you don't realize it yet, you will.
April:
What's up with Zack Lee?
Fiona:
Zack? I think we both feel the same way about him, darling. He's not actually a bastard -- if he was, I'd've had him out of here in an instant. But he is an arse and a stuck up, pompous, arrogant wanker.
April:
My thoughts exactly. Aside from that "wanker" bit.
Fiona:
Still, he pays his rent on time, he doesn't make a lot of noise, he keeps to himself and most importantly, he's shit scared of me. So I just can't kick him out.
April:
Tell me a little about yourself, Fiona.
Fiona:
Me? Why, there's not much to say, darling. I love my job, I love Venice and I love being with Mickey. I'm a happy girl. Sure, sometimes I wish I could back to England to see my family but that's...water under the bridge, so to speak. I'm very happy with myself and my life here in Newport.
April:
How long have you and Mickey been together?
Fiona:
Mickey and I've been together since I was nineteen. She was in her late thirties then. The older, wiser, wordly woman. I found her sweet and charming and intriguing ... When I finally realized she was neither of those things, it was too late -- I was in love (laughs). She stole me away from my dreary, British inner-city life and she brought me here. She was no knight in shining armor, that's for sure but she knew how to treat me like a woman.
April:
You guys make a great couple.
Fiona:
You think so, darling? Yes, I guess we do. And the sex is amazing.
April:
You never get tired of talking about your sex-life, do you?
Fiona:
Never. And if I ever do, please shoot me.
April:
Can you tell me something about the Border House?
Fiona:
That's one of my favourite topics, darling. What precisely do you want to know?
April:
What made you decide to run a boarding house?
Fiona:
That's a long story. One of the reasons Mickey and I got together was that we shared a passion for the classic English country inns. You know -- quaint, weathered buildings, funny old ladies and oddly suggestive names like "The Lazy Cock".
April:
So why come here, to the big city, to America?
Fiona:
We wanted to create a place with a similar atmosphere and hospitality here in Newport. Like a safe-house for people like you and I to call home, if only for a short while. So we discussed different options for a few months and then we decided we wanted to start a boarding house for young, penniless students and artists.
April:
You'd decided you wanted to do that here in Venice?
Fiona:
We knew that Venice was the place for us, long before we came here but the hard part was finding a building cheap enough.
April:
And this building was available?
Fiona:
Not at first. Like most of the buildings in Venice, this one used to be a factory but when we first looked at it, a local company was planning to turn it into a bar and nightclub. It was so perfect for our purposes, though, that we appealed to the Venice borough council and after outlining our plans, they gave us the go-ahead at a reduced price -- provided we kept our promises regarding our tenants.
April:
What inspired the name "Border House"?
Fiona:
That came quite naturally when we saw the place. It's on the border between two worlds, isn't it? Between Venice and the city itself. And at the same time, I also believe we're on the border between two more abstract worlds. Between art and spirit on the one hand and science and technology on the other.
April:
That's very poetic, Fiona.
Fiona:
Yes, I've practiced. I may be an inner city girl but I can philosophize and bullshit with the best of them.
April:
Do you and Mickey own the place together?
Fiona:
We own it together, yes, and we've shared the responsibilities between us. Mickey takes care of the maintenance of the building, I busy myself with the administrative tasks. I also take care of the day-to-day management of our tenants, like deciding whether or not to let someone rent a room. And, of course, the unpleasant business of booting someone out.
April:
I thought you enjoyed that part.
Fiona:
Yes, all right, in some cases, I do. But not always. It can get quite messy.
April:
What can you tell me about Venice?
Fiona:
I don't really know much about the history of Venice. You should really ask someone with an interest in local affairs. What I do know is that this whole neighbourhood used to be an industrial area and that about one hundred years ago, they converted most of the buildings into residences for students and the homeless. And it's a nice place to live, certainly. Friendly people, liberal attitudes, great clothing stores...quite perfect, aside from that dreadful stench from the canals in the summertime.
April:
What's the story behind my apartment?
Fiona:
Your apartment? It's more a room than anything else...not much more than a large closet, really.
April:
It's not that small.
Fiona:
It's one of our smallest rooms but it's cheap and it's on a nice floor. I hope you're happy there.
April:
I like it. It's convenient. And it's got a, uh, interesting view.
Fiona:
That's nice to hear, darling. As for the story behind it? No unexplained deaths or hidden pirate treasures, I'm afraid. Just a long string of students on a tight budget.
April:
Do you like Newport?
Fiona:
The city? I stay in Venice most of the time and it's easy to forget we're just a tiny little pocket in the middle of a sprawling urban wasteland. But do I like it? I think Newport is one of the great cities of our age. Love it or hate it, you can't argue with that.
April:
And which one is it? Love or hate?
Fiona:
I haven't decided yet, darling. Ask me again in another fifteen years, perhaps I have an answer then. (laughs)
April:
Thanks for the information. I don't have any more questions right now.
Fiona:
I'm glad I could help you out, darling. Don't hesitate asking if there's something else you want to know.
April:
I'd better get going.
Fiona:
Off to school?
April:
Yeah, there are no more classes this semester but I have to finish my painting by next Thursday.
Fiona:
For what it's worth, darling -- good luck. And don't work too hard, all right?
April turned to go and then remembered the pink note which she handed to Fiona.
April:
I saw this note on the corkboard. I think the ring might belong to me.
Fiona:
I'm sorry I have to ask but could you describe the ring?
April:
Sure thing. It says "Sweet Sixteen". My Dad gave it to me. I think it was the only birthday of mine he remembered, or at least acknowledged.
Fiona:
Yes, that's the one. I found it under the sofa when I was vacuuming. Here you are, darling. (She handed the gold ring to April)
April:
Thanks. It's not worth much but it's got a certain...sentimental value for me.
Fiona:
It's a very pretty ring.
April:
Yeah. Yeah, it is. My Dad never gave me anything pretty, before or since. He must've won a poker game or something that day. You know what's strange? I don't hate him. He's a bastard and he treated me like crap almost every single day of my life but I don't hate him. I feel sorry for him.
Fiona:
Why?
April:
Because he doesn't know how to love. He can't love anybody or anything. And because he'll be miserable every second of every minute of every day until the day he dies. God, I'm glad that life is behind me. I hope I never have to see him again. No, that doesn't sound right. I've made a choice not to see him again. Ever.
She put away the ring, nodded a farewell to Fiona and took her leave. At the front door steps of the Border House, she turned to look at the mural painted on the front facade of the building She loved the mural, even though the motif was a little trite: fairy-tale forests and magical dragons? Still, it was pretty. She wondered what happened to the artist. Probably making a bundle from chessy fantasy. On a bench in front of the Border House sat an old man with a ponytail, dressed in an outdated mountain man shirt, reading his book. The old man was Cortez. He sat in the same spot almost every day. She would hate to admit it but he scared her a little. Pipes protruding from the side of the building gurgled as water rushed through them. From the little she knew of local history, they were hundreds of years old, installed way back when Venice was an industrial area. As such, bits and pieces of metal were flaking away from the bridges and in most parts of Venice. It was a miracle they were still working, rusty as they were. Rust was the very definition of Venetian architecture, that and stinky canals, so corroding metal could be seen on the older structures. Venice would not be the same without rust, it would be like San Francisco without the hills, Paris without the cafes. Venice may not be the same without rust. It would be better. But not the same.
The machine attached to the pipes had so many contraptions she was not sure what was what. A mystifying and completely absurd contraption to her eyes.. All those valves and wheels and thingmajigs. What grand purpose did it all serve? It made no sense to her. The machine was apparently not working. A clamp was clipped to a cracked pipe. She surmised that it was the waterpump for the Border House and decided to leave it alone. She had better make her way to the academy.
As she went by the bench, Cortez looked up.
Cortez:
Oye, senorita!
April:
Yes?
Cortez:
How are you this morning, senorita bomita?
April:
Hot.
Cortez:
Ay, si. The summers in Newport are never pleasant and it will get worse before it gets better. They say there's another heatwave headed our way...
April:
Yeah, so I heard. So...you gonna be all right? You don't look dressed for the weather.
Cortez:
Si Dios quiere...Sunshine and pretty senoritas give an old man like me the blues. I like my days cold and rainy. In fact, I think I'd prefer the world to be in black and white.
April:
Like an old movie.
Cortez:
Like all good movies. But tell me, senorita Ryan...how would you describe your perfect day?
April:
Hot and sunny, like this one.
Cortez:
Well, then you should be happy to be alive today, yes? It's a perfect day. But you're not happy, are you. You are troubled by nightmares.
April:
Busy.
Cortez:
Ay, si. Everyone's busy today. You have a big show coming up soon, yes?
April:
That's right. Gotta run. I'll see you around. (He lfits a hand to indicate he has further to say as she turns to go)
Cortez:
Sunshine and pretty senoritas give an old man like me the blues. I like my days cold and rainy. In fact, I think I'd prefer the world to be in black and white.
April:
Like an old movie.
Cortez:
Like all good movies. But tell me, senorita Ryan...how would you describe your perfect day?
April:
Cold and rainy, like yours.
Cortez:
Esta bien... We are alike, you and I. But this heat is not why you're unhappy, no? You are troubled by nightmares.
April:
I'm sorry, but I have to run.
Cortez:
Espera! Hold on. Even if you keep running all day you'll still be just as unhappy. You are troubled by nightmares.
April:
What?
Cortez:
You are afraid of them. You even fear your dreams may be real.
April:
(angry) Who told you about my nightmares?
Cortez:
No one. I can tell from looking into your eyes. I see the ghosts that haunt you.
April:
I don't know who you've been talking to but from now on, stay the hell away from me and my personal life!
Cortez:
No puedo, senorita Ryan. You have a destiny.
April:
Destiny? I don't care what you think, just...just leave me alone!
Cortez:
If you don't face them, I'm afraid your nightmares will continue. Soon, they will appear to you when you're awake.
April:
You need some serious help, you know that?
Cortez:
We all do, April. That's the reason we are here, you and me.
April:
That's it! I don't have to listen to this.
Cortez:
Perdoname, I've upset you. We didn't think you'd react this way. I hope we can talk again soon?
April:
I don't think so, no.
Cortez:
Please, think about it? And senorita? Cuidado. Be careful.
Friday morning (again)
Okay, so I'm, like, on my way to school. I'm half asleep, I'm hot (the weather's been unbearable these past few days, to say the least), and I just want to get to the studio as soon as possible...and then this guy Cortez, who's sitting outside the house like he does EVERY SINGLE DAY, calls me over... Fine, okay, I got nothing against the guy, personally. I make small-talk about the weather, just trying to get it OVER with, and then...
How would he know that I've been having nightmares? Unless Emma or Charlie or Fiona told him - and I know they wouldn't have - how could he know? And I know he's nuts, but to think that I have some kind of "destiny"? The guy's been doing too many Raptures or whatever they popped back when he was double-digits.
She continued on towards the studio.
A young man with a colourful crest of green and red rising from the middle of his shaved head, ambled with little skips from the subway. The smaller residences bordering the bridges were overshadowed by skyscapers that towered overhead. Streams of hovercraft flowed busily in the sky overhead and large transports glided quietly by a chimney belching thick heavy smoke. An ancient clock stood forlorn and silent in the centre of the bridges. Its rusty needle pointing to the numeral four. From what she had been told, the clock stopped on the very day of the infamous Venice massacre in 2109, to the minute when the police opened fire on the squatters.
The bridges were a nuisance at best as they wound in a roundabout way. Picking up her speed, she trotted to the stairs leading to the park. A train rumbled by on the railway tracks of a bridge running through the park, breaking the serenity of the place. Nothing added more to the tranquility of a city park than a huge rusty iron bridge. The freight trains passed by at least once every five minutes, all day long. One get used to it though. Eventually. A dry fountain stood in the middle of the park. The usual denizens of the park were already there: a homeless man napping on one of the park benches, an old man sat musing at nothing and a young woman on her morning workouts. The aspiring artist was already at work on his canvas. She had seen him out there, all day long, all year. He never stopped painting. Ever. And she doubted that he had ever finished even one painting. The park also had some strange objects. Like a strange archaic metal container with intricate designs on the top that she could not even begin to guess what it was supposed to be. A blocky statue with no discernable features stood like a block next to the dry fountain. Very cubist. And not her style at all.
She made her way up the path to the academy ; the Venice Academy of the Visual Arts.World renowned. Prestigious. Expensive. And her future alma mater. If all went welll with the exhibition and she got her grant. Painted on the front facade of the first floor was the portrait of Mary Samm, VAVA's founding mother and pro-Venice activist back, before the riots. She was assassinated by a corporate hired gun right after the school opened, some ninety years ago. Two flags swayed gently in the breeze above the entrance. A couple of students stood chatting near the noticeboard; Bishop and Ann-Marie. He was a photography student, she was in her life study class. Nice couple. She took a quick glance through the official VAVA noticeboard where only registered students were allowed to put notices up there.
"The Annual VAVA Summer Exhibit, August 11-18". Oh God, I'm actually expected to be ready by then.
"Need model to pose nude for serious work. PS! Only looking for young and beautiful --" It used to be "chicks", then he crossed it out and wrote "women". That's smooth, man.
"Film equipment for sale. Antique 16mm camera, projector, tripod lenses -- all for just -- "Holy cow" -- $8000"? Who has eight thousand bucks to spend on an old camera? Wait a second, this was posted by Zack! Oh, so it's definitely overpriced then. That guy would do anything for money. Anything. ...
"Actresses wanted for snuff movie parody. Meet up at Dock 12, Newport Harbor, Saturday at midnight. And keep quiet about it!" If I was the suspicious type, I'd think, this was kinda...fishy.
She hurried into the building and to the studio. A student was already working on his project. It was Olav, on a roll again. The guy never ever seemed to run out of inspiration or energy. Must be the cold Norwegian winters. Nothing else to do but paint. She looked over his shoulder to see he was painting something very Van Gogh-ish. With just a hint of Munch. Very nice. She moved away quietly as she did not want to disturb him. The shelves in the studio were stacked with books and a row of sinks lined the wall below it. They were all art books with a really nice one on Turner. She loved his landscapes.
As she headed for the stairs leading to the upper floor, she noticed a rubber glove someone had thrown away, hanging over the edge of the wastepaper basket . Why would somebody toss out a perfectly good work glove with just one big hole in it? What a terrible, terrible waste! Thinking she might have a use for it, she picked it up.and dumped it into the satchel as she trotted quickly up the stairs.
More art books, along with cans of acrylic and oil paints, lined the wall shelves on the upper level. She had browsed through all of them, looked at the pictures, but she had much prefered to see paintings in real life. There were books on color, composition and even one on duck hunting. Sketchbooks belonging to some of the other students who shared the place were also filed away on the shelves.. Her own sketchbooks were similarly piled among the lot. Those were some of her most recent sketches. Unfortunately, they served only as a barren testament to her lack of inspiration. Two sinks were fixed below the shelves. They were as old as the building itself but at least they' had been renovated quite recently.
She stopped to admire Emma's holosculpture which looked like some winged creature twirling brilliantly in the light. It was her contribution to the exhibition. Emma was really good with the holosculptor, and her imagination was so vivid. She had no idea, though, what it was, and neither, apparently, did Emma but it looked absolutely beautiful! Good thing they were best friends or she might be jealous.
No point in putting off the inevitable, she picked up the tools of her trade from the sink. Her paintbrush and palette. What more could a girl need? Maybe a blank canvas, a handsome nude model and six hours of uninterrupted...painting? The best thing about working up there was that nobody "borrowed" her stuff. She looked morosely at her canvas The fruits of her labor amounted to nothing at all. She could only think of two things more depressing than a blank canvas. Death and taxes. Dipping her paintbush into the paint, she began to paint.
She paid no note to the shadows shifting and shortening in the moving sun. The sound of footsteps up the stairs and halting behind her brought her round.
Emma:
Hiya.
April:
Emma? Hi! I didn't expect to see you today.
Emma:
Me neither. Are you busy?
April:
Nah. Well, I am, but I was about to wrap up for today anyway. Why? What's going on?
Emma:
I have an important message for you.
April:
Yeah, from whom?
Emma:
Believe it or not, girlfriend, but it's from Cortez?
April:
Excuse me?
Emma:
He said to tell you that he wants to meet you -- these are his exact words -- "Where children visualize their dreams".
April:
"...visualize dreams"? What's that supposed to mean?
Emma:
Me? I was hoping you would know.
April:
Did he say anything else?
Emma:
Nope. That was it. Why does he wanna meet you? Oh, don't tell me -- you guys are having a secret love affair!
April:
Oh yeah, we're eloping and flying to Africa tonight. It's all been happening ..so fast! My heart's a flutter!
Emma:
Ah, how romantic. I couldn't imagine a better catch than senor Cortez, the Latin lover.
April:
(laughed) ... Did he talk to you about nightmares?
Emma:
No, why?
April:
I don't know. It's just...my dreams are really starting to bother me...
Emma:
There you go again with dreams. You're obsessing, April. They're just dreams! Sometimes a banana is just a banana.
April:
Cigar
Emma:
Cigar? What do you mean, cigar?
April:
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Not a banana.
Emma:
What-ever. The point is, you're reading too much into your dreams. I'm sure they're perfectly logical.
April:
Even a talking dragon? Is a talking dragon logical?
Emma:
Especially a talking...dragon? You had a dream about a dragon? Okay, that's not logical, that's just silly. Still, this ought to be interesting. Go on..
April:
Well, there was a dragon.
Emma:
I think we established that already. You had a dream about a dragon.
April:
Not just any dragon. A talking dragon.
Emma:
Yup, we been through that. Talking dragon. Covered. What did it say?
April:
She. It was a she. A female dragon.
Emma:
What, you could tell from the skirt, high heels and lipstick?
April:
Don't mock me, Emma. She said something to me...something about being the mother of the future.
Emma:
She probably said "time to get up and go to school, April".
April:
If you don't want to take my dreams seriously, I'll just stop telling you about them.
Emma:
Is that a promise?
April:
Like you're in any position to make fun of my dreams. Have you looked at your sculptures lately?
Emma:
Oh, that's low. I'd punch you out if I wasn't so hungry. You wanna go get some lunch at the Fringe?
April:
No, I'm not that hungry.
Emma:
Did you eat anything at all today?
April:
I don't think, so. I just don't have any appetite.
Emma:
You really should eat something, April. Today's special is tortellini, so think about it? I'll be hanging out there for a while.
April:
I'll think about it. See you later?
Emma:
Sure! Bye!
April:
What's the message?
Emma:
Believe it or not, girl, but it's from Cortez. He wants to meet you -- these are his exact words -- "Where children visualize their dreams".
April:
"...visualize dreams"? What's that supposed to mean?
Emma:
Me? I was hoping you would know.
April:
Did he talk to you about nightmares?
Emma:
No, why?
April:
I don't know. It's just...my dreams are really starting to bother me...
Emma:
There you go again with dreams. You're obsessing, April. They're just dreams! Sometimes a banana is just a banana.
April:
And a dragon is just a dragon?
Emma:
What's dragons got to do with it? Oh, don't tell me, you had a dream about dragons.
April:
A dragon. A talking dragon.
Emma:
I'm gonna regret this, but...what happened in your dream?
April:
Well, there was a dragon.
Emma:
I think we established that already. You had a dream about a dragon.
April:
Not just any dragon. A talking dragon.
Emma:
Yup, we been through that. Talking dragon. Covered. What did it say?
April:
She. It was a she. A female dragon.
Emma:
What, you could tell from the skirt, high heels and lipstick?
April:
Don't mock me, Emma. She said something to me...something about being the mother of the future.
Emma:
She probably said "time to get up and go to school, April".
April:
If you don't want to take my dreams seriously, I'll just stop telling you about them.
Emma:
Is that a promise?
April:
Like you're in any position to make fun of my dreams. Have you looked at your sculptures lately?
Emma:
Oh, that's low. I'd punch you out if I wasn't so hungry. You wanna go get some lunch at the Fringe?
April:
I'll drop by after I clean up around here.
Emma:
I'll be there for a while, so...bye!
April:
I really hope it's not from my Mom.
Emma:
Not even close, girlfriend. It's from Cortez.
April:
Cortez?
Emma:
Yup. He said to tell you to meet him "Where children visualize their dreams".
April:
"...visualize dreams"? What's that supposed to mean?
Emma:
Me? I was hoping you would know.
April:
Did he say anything else?
Emma:
Nope. That was it. Why does he wanna meet you? Oh, don't tell me -- you guys are having a secret love affair!
April:
Oh yeah, we're eloping and flying to Africa tonight. It's all been happening ..so fast! My heart's a flutter!
Emma:
Ah, how romantic. I couldn't imagine a better catch than senor Cortez, the Latin lover.
April:
(laughed) ... Did he talk to you about nightmares?
Emma:
No, why?
April:
I don't know. It's just...my dreams are really starting to bother me...
Emma:
There you go again with dreams. You're obsessing, April. They're just dreams! Sometimes a banana is just a banana.
April:
Do you want to hear about my dream, or not?
Emma:
Sure, go on, like anything I could possibly say discourage you?
April:
Even if there's a dragon involved?
Emma:
Especially if there's a ...a dragon? You had a dream about a dragon? April, that's pretty sad. Was it...a magical dragon?
April:
It was a talking dragon.
Emma:
I think that qualifies as a magic dragon. You know, I can't wait to hear this.
April:
Well, there was a dragon.
Emma:
I think we established that already. You had a dream about a dragon.
April:
Not just any dragon. A talking dragon.
Emma:
Yup, we been through that. Talking dragon. Covered. What did it say?
April:
She. It was a she. A female dragon.
Emma:
What, you could tell from the skirt, high heels and lipstick?
April:
Don't mock me, Emma. She said something to me...something about being the mother of the future.
Emma:
She probably said "time to get up and go to school, April".
April:
If you don't want to take my dreams seriously, I'll just stop telling you about them.
Emma:
Is that a promise?
April:
Like you're in any position to make fun of my dreams. Have you looked at your sculptures lately?
Emma:
Oh, that's low. I'd punch you out if I wasn't so hungry. You wanna go get some lunch at the Fringe?
April:
No, I'm not that hungry.
Emma:
Did you eat anything at all today?
April:
I don't think, so. I just don't have any appetite.
Emma:
You really should eat something, April. Today's special is tortellini, so think about it? I'll be hanging out there for a while.
April:
I'll think about it. See you later?
Emma:
Sure! Bye!
As Emma left, April put her palette and paintbrush back on the sink. As she washed her hands, the holosculpture behind her suddenly blazed into life. It solidfied into flesh, streaks of light and shadow rippling gently like water across its back, its wing-like arms stretching forth towards April. Sensing movement behind her, she whirled around. Who's there!! She stumbled back against the sink in shock. As quickly as it had moved, the holosculpture returned to its original form.
April:
(nervously) Oh...kay. That was not a dream. I think.
It's Friday afternoon, and I actually got some work done on my painting this morning! What a shocker, right? What triggered this avalanche (okay, it was more like a light drizzle, to be honest) of creativity? The cup of cocoa I had last night? The weather? My pent up sexual desires? My dreams?
Sure, a nightmare about a talking tree - wait, no, a "Wood Spirit" -a female dragon, and a...what, a Chaos Vortex?...that's sure to release SOME kind of creative juices. Yeah. Right. Okay, so I work on my painting for a few hours, and then Emma drops by and drops a bomb on me. This...person. Cortez. He wants to meet me. And not only that, he doesn't just come out and say WHERE he wants to meet me: no, he gives Emma a riddle for me to solve. "Where kids visualize their dreams." Oh boy. The guy IS nuts. He can just wait "where kids visualize their dreams" for the rest of the summer as far as I'm concerned.
So I've finally snapped and gone off the deep end. I just knew my nightmares would fry my brain cells eventually, but I never imagined I'd start SEEING things.
But there it was, as clear as the day, and I'm thinking, should I go get myself committed now or after dinner? Because April, girl, I gotta tell you, what you saw today is not exactly the product of a healthy mind. Holosculptures don't just come to life without there being drugs or plain, old looniness involved.
But then again, if I AM insane, why aren't I seeing fluffy pink rabbits right now? And how come nobody has noticed anything weird about me?
I think maybe...and I hate to say this...I think maybe I gotta talk to this Cortez guy after all, because he did say something about my nightmares coming to life...
Okay, now I KNOW I'm going crazy!
Olav had already gone when she went downstairs. The academy was almost deserted except for a girl with light pink hair outside the building. The park was more populated with people taking their breaks for lunch. At the bridges, two woebegone young skaters stood glumly by as a police officer brandished his weapon to emphasis his lecture. She was not surprised those guys were in trouble. They should have known that skateboarding was strictly prohibited in Newport. The Fringe cafe was located just after the canal. A huge black rusty metallic ball with chains attached to it rested on some metal gratings above the canal. It reminded her of the Death Star from Star Wars ; "Let's blow this thing and go home!" It definitely deserved to be blown.
Nobody knew where the canal tunnel near the cafe went. It was not important anyway. Already, there were customers at the cafe. Backpackers lounged lazily at a table. It amazed her why backpackers flocked to Newport. They surely would have the good sense to stick to India, Australia and the near-Earth colonies. A pair of lovebirds were engrossed with each other seated at the next table. To her, people should have the good sense to do that kind of stuff behind closed doors. At least, as long as she did not have a boyfriend. The signboard above the cafe was already lighted up. "The Fringe Cafe" was her home away from home. She really did not mind working there. It was a nice place. It ranked "nice" on a scale from "begging for food" at the bottom to "just scraping by" at the top. She did not intend to make a career of it however. The building to the left of the cafe looked as dead as a doornail as usual. She had never ever seen anybody passed through that door. Which was peculiar. And if she was Nancy Drew, she might actually care.
The temperature in the cafe was a stark contrast to the heat outside. Her good friend Charlie was polishing glasses behind the bar , his back to the entrance. He was the first person she met when she came to Venice, and she loved him dearly. As a friend The smell of imported draft beer hovered strongly around the bar. She was not a beer person, though. She prefered a glass of white wine or a cup of steaming mocha. She debated on snitching a few candy from the jar of complimentary assorted colorful candy on the bar top.. No doubt also extremely toxic. For paying customers only. Stanley had a habit of taking it out of anyone's salary if they got the munchies. She decided on getting a couple although Stanley was sitting at the other end of the bar, near the jukebox. His view, however, was blocked by a burly man drinking beer. She was sure Stan would not notice if she dug gently into his supply. He had got crates of them in the back. Still, she waited until Stanley's view was well and truly obstructed before pocketing a few of the candy.
April:
Hi, Charlie.
Charlie:
April! Nice to see you, girl. I came to wake you this morning, but you'd already left. Early bird catches the worm?
April:
No. Early bird finishes the damn painting on time.
Charlie:
(laughed)
April:
Have you seen Cortez around?
Charlie:
As a matter of fact, I have. And he was asking for you.
April:
He asked about me?
Charlie:
Yeah, where you were. He had a message for you. I told him to give it to Emma, that she would be more likely to bump into you.
April:
I got it. But I have no idea what it means.
Charlie:
Cortez can be a little strange.
April:
Do you know where he was going?
Charlie:
No, but he seemed interested in that poster next to the jukebox. They put it up earlier today.
April:
Do you have any ideas where kids would be able to, uh, "visualize their dreams"?
Charlie:
Maybe in therapy?
April:
I don't think that's it, Charlie.
Charlie:
Then I don't know.
April:
How's work going today?
Charlie:
Aside from the trouble with the plumbing, everything's been peaceful. Emma's here with Marcus and Isabelle, other than that, you know, it's been a quiet morning. Everybody must be at home, out of the sun, yeah?
April:
Or on holiday.
Charlie:
Perfect time for it too. The city's just boiling in July and it gets even hotter in August. You should've stayed out in the country until the autumn, girl. It's cooler out there, yeah?
April:
Yeah, the summers were cooler back home.
Charlie:
I remember, back in St Vincent, it got so hot sometimes...my father worked as a volunteer fireman, and sometimes he'd "borrow" the old truck from the garage... He'd fill it with spring water from the river up in the hills, and then he would hose me and my sisters down with the ice cold water. We'd laugh and scream and run and the funny things is, his eyes'd light up and he'd be so proud of himself... He could be so good and he could be so bad. On those days, I loved him so much. They were good days.
April:
I think I prefer this heat to the heat I got at home.
Charlie:
You're safe now, yeah? We take care of you, April.
April:
You do. I'm lucky.
Charlie:
It's not luck. You're a good person and you deserve good friends. You help me out when I'm in a state, yeah?
April:
You're always in a good mood, Charlie.
Charlie:
Yeah, but you never know. You're there if I ever need you, I know that.
April:
You doing anything special tonight?
Charlie:
Working. I should really be at rehearsal but I need the money. I'm going home for a week before school starts in September.
April:
Right, you told me. Well, that's great. It's been years since your last trip home, right?
Charlie:
Yeah, right, you remember well, girl! Four years. My father and I, we haven't been on good terms since I left.
April:
I know how that feels.
Charlie:
Isn't it such a cliche, though? I don't look forward to seeing him again, but it will be nice to be back with the rest of the family. Especially my sisters, you know, and my Mom.
April:
Mind if I ask you a few questions, Charlie?
Charlie:
Why would I mind, girl?
April:
What's your take on Cortez?
Charlie:
Why do you want to talk about Cortez? I don't know him that well. He's been around for as long as I can remember, but I never really talked to the man.
April:
Do you think he's as crazy as some people say?
Charlie:
No, he's not crazy. Just a little eccentric. He doesn't give a donkey's ass what people think or say about him and that's cool. I don't know, I have the feeling there's a lot more to Cortez than what he wants us to believe. That man has had an eventful life, I'm sure.
April:
Anything else that comes to mind about Cortez?
Charlie:
What else? I don't know what to tell you, girl. When he's not talking about books, he talks about old movies. He loves the classics. Calls them "real art".
April:
What was it about me that made you want to be my friend, Charlie?
Charlie:
Everything, girl! You're a sweet peach (laughs). No, it's true -- I liked you from the very beginning, when you first came into the cafe with a suitcase in each hand, lost and bewildered.
April:
God, thanks for reminding me I was such a country bumpkin.
Charlie:
No, everyone who comes to Venice looks like that, girl. This is the village of the damned, don't you know? (laughs)
April:
How long have you known Emma?
Charlie:
I met Emma about a year ago, when she started studying at VAVA. She moved into the room just opposite mine, and we became friends almost immediately. I like her a lot, and the two of you are the best friends I've ever had.
April:
Thanks, Charlie. The same goes for me. Did you ever tell Emma that?
Charlie:
Yeah, I've told her, and she jokes about it...that's just Emma. I know she appreciates me telling her, though.
April:
Does Emma's behaviour ever worry you?
Charlie:
She can seem a little out of control from time to time, but she's smarter than people give her credit for. I think she's able to take good care of herself. She's a brilliant artist. Her sculptures are inventive and beautiful.
April:
I know. Sometimes I'm in awe -- they just don't seem to match her personality.
Charlie:
She's a deep person, but she hides it well. She's more comfortable being a dizzy teenager than a professioanl artist, but around the two of us -- sometimes she lets the disguise drop.I love her when she does that.
April:
Do you like living in Venice?
Charlie:
I love Venice. I've been here three years now and I haven't grown tired of it yet... I don't know if I ever will. Venice's like a college campus -- there are so many people here, from all over the world, and the mix of nationalities and ideologies and ethnicities is refreshing and inspiring. The fact that we're also right in the middle of one of the great cities on Earth is just a bonus. Call Newport whatever you want, at least it's alive and there's always something going on. Yeah, Venice is my kinda place and I'm not planning on leaving anytime soon. At least not as long as all my friends are living here.
April:
What about you Charlie?
Charlie:
What about me?
April:
Yeah, when was the last time you talked about yourself?
Charlie:
I don't talk about myself, girl. You know that.
April:
Still... I'd like to talk about you for a bit.
Charlie:
If you want...just in general, or is there anything in particular you want to know?
April:
What's your biggest dream?
Charlie:
A dark stage, a packed auditorium, and a single spotlight. Dancing, girl, don't you know? I'm a good dancer but I need to be among the best to make it out there in the real world. So I'll keep studying and I'll keep working as a waiter to support my studies. Just like you.
April:
How did you end up in Venice?
Charlie:
At home, there wasn't much professional training available for dancers. And my father, he was not happy about my choice of career. He wanted me to work in the factories like him and his father. Out here, in Venice, everyone's got their own dreams and people are supportive of each other no matter how crazy those dreams might be.
April:
Your dream isn't crazy at all, Charlie. You're already half-way there.
Charlie:
But I still have a long way to go. You're right, girl. I can make it if I work hard enough. So can you, 'cause we're both just so damn talented! (laughs)
April:
Are you happy working here at the cafe?
Charlie:
We make decent money, if that's what you mean. I don't want to be a bartender for the rest of my life, obviously, but yeah, I'm happy I have a job. And you work here too, so I get to hang out with my friend, right?
April:
If it wasn't for that, I don't know if I'd be able to do it. Hard work and lousy pay. But the hours are flexible and like you said, I get to hang out with you and my other friends. That's all I wanted to know, Charlie.
Charlie:
Okay.
April:
Thanks, I've to get going, Charlie.
Charlie:
Take care, all right? Remember you're supposed to get paid today. Stan's not gonna remember unless you bug him about it.
She spotted her friends, Marcus and Emma relaxing and chatting near the jukebox. Marcus was really Emma's friend. He was a VAVA student as well. When Emma was not working, or out on a date, she was always hanging out here, Just like her. Just like all of them. Stanley was hard to miss, as he was wearing a bright vermillion shirt that stood out in the gloom.
April:
My boss, Stan. A hard man with a soft...nah, he's just a callour bastard.
Stanley:
I heard that.
April:
(jumping at his answer) Uh...I knew that!
The jukebox by the wall was playing techno jazz music. According to Stan, it was an original -- almost two hundred years old. It looked like a replica to her however. A good replica, but still... It took some convincing but Stan finally agreed to put the jukebox on free play. She would just choose a track at random. Recalling Charlie's words on Cortez's interest in the poster advertisement by the jukebox, she scrutinized it as a new track began to play) "Roma Gallery present 'Growing Pain' -- An exhibition by and for kids and teenagers".
Could this be what Cortez was talking about, where kids visualized their dreams? It might be it. But where was the Roman Gallery located? She noticed a ticket pinned to the poster. "Complimentary student pass". Cool. She liked anything that was complimentary. She never said no to a complimentary ticket. To her delight, an address was printed on the ticket. The gallery was located near the Watertown Bridge. That was all the way over in West Venice, if she remembered correctly. She would have to catch the Metro Line subway to get there.
It turns out that "where kids visualize their dreams" is an exhibition called "Growing Pains" at the Roma Gallery. That's down by the Watertown Bridge, in West Venice, too far to walk, I have to take the subway. It's an exhibition of work by inner-city kids, and I guess the theme is "dreams". Which, by some strange twist of fate, is what EVERYTHING's about today.
So the Roma Gallery it is. Can't say I'm looking forward to it. Señor Cortez is just a little too creepy for comfort. But I'm in desperate need of some answers, so it's bye-bye to choice, hello "destiny".
She went over to sit by Emma, who was having a debate with Marcus.
Emma:
Settle this one for us, April ; when did Royn Dale release "sidetracked"?
April:
'04. Right after the Morning Star exile. "Those sons of bitches"--
Emma:
--"with blood on their boots". Yeah. Hah. Told you so, Marcus.
Marcus:
You said '03.
Emma:
I was closer than you. '07. And you call yourself a fan.
Marcus:
I don't.
Emma:
Did you speak wtih Zack today?
April:
Why?
Emma:
He was upset. Called you a stuck-up bitch.
April:
He what? You gotta be kidding me. I wasn't even that rude to him.
Emma:
He thinks so. Said that even if you came crawling to his door, he wouldn't give you the time of day. Said you called him "an asshole".
April:
Oh God. I really don't know when to shut my mouth, do I.
Emma:
Who cares? It's Zack. He hates you, so what? No great loss.
April:
That's true.
Emma:
So what else is going on? What are you doing this afternoon?
April:
Actually, I came by to see if I could find Cortez.
Emma:
What's with you and this guy? You'd rather spend time with him than us?
April:
I have to find out what that message means.
Emma:
Don't look at me. I don't know anything except what I already told you. Ask Charlie. He spoke with Cortez earlier.
April:
What are you doing?
Emma:
Staying here, what else? I'm meeting a friend later, but that's not until nine. We're waiting for Isabel, and then we're gonna eat. But I guess you're not hungry.
April:
No.
Emma:
Figures. I don't know why I bother asking.
April:
Who's this "friend" you're meeting later? Don't tell me, it's that guy you were out with last night.
Emma:
Are you gonna tell me I shouldn't get involved with men like him?
April:
No. No, of course not. I'm not your--you don't need me to tell you that, Emma.
Emma:
Well, I wish you would. 'cause you're right. I shouldn't. He's a bastard. But he's so cute and charming, and--you know, very good in bed. I just can't help myself. But he's not a keeper, don't worry about that. It's just this thing, just a fling.
April:
Mind if I ask you some questions, Emma?
Emma:
Like I don't tell you everything that's going on anyway? Of course, you can ask me questions! Like, duh.
April:
What's your, uh, take on Cortez?
Emma:
My "take" on Cortez? What's that, like a diplomatic way of saying "what the eff is this guy's glitch"?
April:
Sure, let's go with that one.
Emma:
You know -- I think Cortez is a barrel of laughs ...in a good way. Everybody thinks they got him all figured out, you know. Like he's the resident weirdo. But I know that just ain't true. I've talked with Cortez, and the guy is brilliant. He's weird, yeah, and he's up in the clouds, and I think he believes in aliens...which is cool...but girl, he's smart. I mean, I'm not talking professor smart here. I'm talking real life, seen-it-all, been-there-done-that smart. Useful smart. Experienced smart. And oh, I gotta tell you -- the guy's cultured. Ask him about anything...art, music, movies, books -- he's current on most topics, which scares me, because it seems he's always just, I dunno, hanging around doing nothing. He rarely goes anywhere. It's almost like he's waiting for something. Or someone.
April:
Yeah, maybe Jerry Garcia.
Emma:
(giggled) You bad. No, I don't think he's a doper. I mean, listen to the guy. What he says may sound a little...out there, but the way he says it... No, he's not on Amathin, that's for sure. And one more thing...he's cute.
April:
He's what?
Emma:
Cute.
April:
Emma -- he's, like sixty!
Emma:
Did you ever see his eyes? Those are the eyes of an old man. And so what if he is sixty. He's better looking than most of the guys I date, and so much nicer.
April:
Then I think you've been swimming in the shallow end of the gene pool for too long, Emma. I mean...come on, sixty-year old screwball with a ponytail and an "exotic" accent? Hello?
Emma:
(sniffed) Well...we'll see.
April:
Did you speak with Charlie today?
Emma:
Yeah, for a few minutes. Why?
April:
Nothing. Just wondered, is all.
Emma:
Uh, April? Did he...say anything to you at all?
April:
About what?
Emma:
About, um, nothing. I mean, I don't know anything. Which isn't true, because I don't lie. But he--Ah, forget it. If we were having this conversation in a movie, I'd be going, like... Shit girl, get your act together! Open your eyes! But I...don't think that's a good idea. Not in real life. Because real life has a nasty habit of hurting people's feelings.
April:
Did you finish your sculpture for the exhibition?
Emma:
Pretty much. I'm happy with it and I know that if I go back and keep working on it, I'll just kill it. So, I think I'll leave it alone. You?
April:
You know what? Don't ask. I'm praying it'll finish itself one of these days.
Emma:
Sure. It could happen. It could so happen. But I wouldn't count on it.
April:
(taking a deep breath) I'll have it ready in time.
Emma:
Yes you will, or I'll kick your ass so hard that you'll...
April:
Okay. I got it, I got it. Thanks for the inspiration. (She got up to leave) Thanks, Emma.
Emma:
Thanks for what? For talking to you? Girlfriend, what the hell is the matter with you? Snap out of it!
April:
I gottta run.
Emma:
See ya 'round, stranger.
Thinking she might be hungry later, she pocketed a small fresh bread loaf from the bread basket on the table before her. She loved the food at the cafe. They had a great kitchen. Recalling Charlie's reminder about getting paid, she decided to buttonhole Stanley. Who seemed to know she was coming on a particular errand. His thick eyebrows beetled at her as she coughed to get his attention.
Stanley:
What you doing here?
April:
I --
Stanley:
You ain't working this afternoon, are you? I don't want my employees work twenty-four hours day. Go, get sleep!
April:
But I'm just --
Stanley:
Damn, woman! Do I have to babysit you?
April:
It's nice you see you too, Stanley. No, I'm not working today. I just came by to --
Stanley:
Oh, don't ever say those two words when I'm around. I don't think my ulcer can take it.
April:
"You" and "nice"?
Stanley:
That's funny. No, "working" and "not". Don't use two words in the same sentence. Damn, I get creeps even when I say them.
April:
I thought you'd be ecstatic to have people work twenty-four hour shifts.
Stanley:
Oh, don't get me wrong, sweetheart. There's nothing I'd want more. But, you see, for some weird reason it is illegal to make people work that long.
April:
What a downer.
Stanley:
Yeah, I'd make you guys work triple shifts if I could.
April:
Nah, I don't think you would. I think you're a real angel at heart, Stanley. You're just afraid people will find out.
Stanley:
Yeah, yeah, I'm a real God damn sweetheart. Go on, take advantage of my kindness while I'm still outta my head.
April:
I'd like to get paid.
Stanley:
Damn, woman, don't you know I got a migraine already? "Paid". God dammit, why they have to make that word sound so...obscene. Listen. Why don't you leave old Stan alone, huh? It make me feel a whole hell of a lot better. Shoo, shoo, be a good little girl, hmm?
April:
Sorry to bother you.
Stanley:
That's my favourite word. How sorry are you?
April:
Don't push your luck, Stanley.
Stanley:
Hey!
April:
(persistent) I'd still like to get paid though.
Stanley:
Mighty Manu, woman. You really know how to rub it in. God dammit. Yeah, all right, you got your timesheet?
April:
No
Stanley:
No? So you want me to pay you based on the hours you claim you've worked?
April:
Yes?
Stanley:
You really do know how to make me laugh. Why don't I just give you the code to my uniCard so you can withdraw your salary yourself? No timesheet, no money. Sorry.
April:
Maybe
Stanley:
Maybe. Christ, that's an intelligent answer. How about finding out if you do before you bother me again, huh? Does that sound like a plan we can agree on?
April:
Yes.
Stanley:
Yes? Yes? Let's see it! God dammit, you think I'm gonna take your word for it, woman?
April:
(handing over the timesheet) Here you are, my timesheet.
Stanley:
(taking the paper from her with a scowl) Don't say that word too loud, sweetheart, you're killing me. Let's see. ... Hmmm. What's this? Uh? No. No-no-no. Did I sign this? What I thinking?
April:
So?
Stanley:
At least it doesn't look like ti's been forged. Thanks.
April:
Thanks? Where's my money?
Stanley:
Oh, you ain't getting it now. Next week, honey. I write down this amount in my ledger, don't you worry your head from it.
April:
Next week? You promise?
Stanley:
Sure, sure, I promise. Next week, and if that falls through, the week after. But you'll get it, sooner or later.
April:
I need the money now, Stanley.
Stanley:
Yeah, yeah, we all need money "now", but that ain't gonna happen. Next week, I tell you.
April:
Forget that, I quit.
Stanley:
You're quitting? You can't quit. You work for me! Nobody quits this job, honey!
April:
I can quit, and I'm quitting. I quit.
Stanley:
Damn woman--you know how hard it is to find people to take a crappy job like this one? I need you!
April:
Just as much as you need the money?
Stanley:
All right, Jesus. I give you your damn money. What was it--fifty bucks?
April:
Three hundred and severnty-five dollars, Stanley. Cash.
Stanley:
Oh, sure, cash. Three hundred...are you sure? I pay you guys way too much. All right, gimme your CC.
April:
(handed over her cashcard) Thank you, Stanley.
Stanley:
(disgruntled) Fine. Sure. Whatever. .. Hey, just a minute. You free tonight? Wanna pull a shift? Sandra, she out sick, and I need a replacement pronto. How about it.
April:
Yeah, I need the money.
Stanley:
Great, hon. I'll see you here later. Don't forget.
Working at the café
Just a tiny little reminder here, April Ryan:
YOU'RE WORKING TONIGHT! DON'T FORGET! BIG "REMEMBER" SIGN! STAN WILL KICK YOUR BUTT IF YOU DON'T SHOW UP ON TIME!
So there. Apparently, Sandra, that swell little girl I love so very, very much (ahem!), "she out sick"...again... Like, cut back on those Raptures already. Or not. I don't mind getting her paycheck.
April:
No. Sorry. I have plans
Stanley:
Plans? Plans on a Friday? Mighty Manu, what's the world come to. Get out from here! Leave me alone with my migraine and ulcer.
She regretted having to go out into the hot sun again. Litter was strewned all over the ground, an old rusty iron gate that read "East Venice" pointed the way to the subway. Another similar gate with an old sign; "Newport Waterworks", led to the park. It was strange to think that the whole area was once an industrial park. It was deserted except for a young woman reading a commemorative plaque commemorating the Venice massacre of 2109 set by the park gate. It read "In honor of those who died defending our right to live".
A white cube logo sat atop the subway roof. Newport Transit System. It was not one system anymore. All the different lines were owned by different companies. The current station, the Metro Line, was run by Bokamba/Mercer. She trotted down the stairs to the underground subway station and paused before a pair of electronic gates The gates scanned everybody who went in and out of the station, and compared their genetic signature with the database. If the fare was not paid, the alarm would go off and the cops showed up. She decided to get a weekly pass. A scanning eye protruded as she made her selection. It hummed, whirled and chirped as it read the cashcard she placed before it and a scanning device slide out and ran the scanning light over her.
Scanner Voice:
Fifteen dollars subtracted from cashcard. You are now free to travel on all Metro Line subways for exactly one week. And remember, genetic forgery is a federal crime. "Keep your genes clean!" Have a nice day.
The gates chimed as she passed through them. A sqeaky voice announced the arrival of a train over the P.A. Sparks spiking from the other empty railway track caught her attention. It came from a high voltage cable running parallel with the rail. Something had gotten stuck between them. It looked like a large iron key whcih might be useful. She would like to climb down to get it but with that frayed high voltage cable, it was out of the question. She hadn't brushed her teeth that morning just so she could be fried bacon with a pretty smile. She turned away from the key, and stepped into the train that had just arrived. The carriage was empty except for an old lady sitting aft. She elected to stand as posters and litter were scattered on the seats and floor. Graffiti wandered all along the walls of the carriages.. The ubiquitous screens flickered dully.. There was no escape. Anywhere.. She looked at the subway map overhead and wondered how long the journey would take ....
Loud music and the beat of a solitary drum greeted her as she exited from the Watertown subway. A dazed looking woman stood rocking unsteadily on her feet next to a busker outside the building next to the subway. Another victim of Amathin. The source of the loud music blared from the small portable boombox at the busker's feet. It was amazing that such a small box could emanate so much noise. The busker was hitting his drum to the music but he was sadly out of sync. It was not surprising really, the poor guy was drugged out on Amathin too. They said the first motor function to suffer was always rhythm. A man stood looking through the glass panel of the building, tapping his foot impatiently. She looked around for the Roma Gallery and realised that it was right in front of her. As the door of the gallery closed behind her, the blaring music was cut off abruptly. In its place was the stentorian snores of a napping attendent seated by the entrance.
April:
Sir? Excuse me, sir? (The attendent snored on blissfully) I'll just leave my ticket here, then, shall I? Yes, I guess I'll do that... (She slide the ticket under the green folder on the table)
She glanced through the glass of the front window and the sight was a little depressing. There was absolutely nothing out there. There was a city, an entire world, even. But to her, it meant nothing. On display were statues placed around the gallery. The one near the table was an atypical pointy-edged swan, the second statue stumped her, she did not understand what it was supposed to represent ; a short, nude creature with a snout? All sizes of various paintings were mounted on the wall . As she looked through them, she spotted Cortez at the end of the gallery. For the life of her, she could not figure out why Cortez wanted to meet her. Come to think of it, why did she want to meet him?
Cortez at the gallery
Cortez:
About time you showed up.
April:
About time? I spent more than...
Cortez:
Mira -- this painting, right here. Look.
April:
Why?
Cortez:
Just look at it.
April:
No, I have more important things to do.
Cortez:
No? Then we have nothing to talk about. Goodbye.
April:
Goodbye?
Cortez:
Yes, goodbye to you too. Come back when you're ready.
April:
About this morning ...
Cortez:
Apology accepted, senorita. It's a hot day, and tempers run high.
April:
But I wasn't --
Cortez:
Just look at the painting.
April:
It's nice work.
Cortez:
It's very nice. But there's more to it than "nice" Keep looking.
April:
Who's the artist?
Cortez:
A boy named Warren Hughes. Not so long ago, I knew him and his family quite well. But he doesn't paint anymore...
April:
What am I looking for?
Cortez:
What do you see?
April:
I see a statement on loss. The guy, he's hugging a girl, and by all rights, he should be happy. But he's not. He's probably already mourning the loss of her, even though that's still somewhere in his future.
Cortez:
Statements! Who cares about statement? Tell me what you see!
April:
I see a guy hugging a girl.
Cortez:
And?
April:
They're probably boyfriend, girlfriend, and she's dumping him. He looks really depressed.
Cortez:
Yes, yes, forget the story -- what do you see?
April:
I see an oil-painting of two humans locked in an embrace.
Cortez:
That's all you see? But there's so much more. Look. Look!
April:
I see art.
Cortez:
Art, yes. And beyond that? Beyond art?
April:
Illusion?
Cortez:
Skill and imagination allow the artist to create an illusion, but that is only skin deep. Beneath the illusion, what else is there?
April:
Technique?
Cortez:
Technique is what enables an artist to create art. Beyond technique, beyond artistry, what else is there?
April:
Truth?
Cortez:
Truth, exactly! A deeper truth. This painting, this particular work of art, speaks of a deeper truth. It has a soul.
April:
How can a painting have a soul?
Cortez:
It has a soul because it has an identity, it has a heart. The memory of this painting will survive beyond this moment, it will linger in your mind, become part of the tapestry of your subconscious. It has made a lasting impression on you, and you're not quite sure why.
April:
It's just a painting by some kid. It's not as if it's a Picasso or a Monet.
Cortez:
Now you're arguing technique. Not every painting by Van Gogh or Michellangelo is real art either, although they all demonstrate great technique and craftsmanship. And the scribbled drawings of a five-year old child are rarely technically impressive, but they may still have a soul, they may still be real art.
April:
So you're saying "real art" is not defined by the skill of the artist? Then what is art, if just anybody can create something more "real" than artists who've spent their entire lives developing their skills?
Cortez:
Art is still the work of artists. And skill, craftsmanship, technique -- those things are critical to the success of the an artist's work. But alone, those things are merely pretense. For something to be real, to be truthful, the artist must transfer -- shift -- part of him or her into the work to transcend the illusion and reach for the truth of art.
April:
And what is the "truth of art"?
Cortez:
Who knows? I've been asking myself that question for years.
April:
Excuse me? You don't even know? Then what's all this about, all the questions and lectures on "truth" and "illusion"? For that matter, why did you ask me to come down here in the first place?
Cortez:
Because --
April:
(interrupting furiously) Actually, you didn't even ask me to come down! I spent my entire afternoon travelling all over Venice, deciphering a cryptic message, spending money I don't have on a subway ticket, only to have to stand here and listen to...to...
Cortez:
You saw something this afternoon. A waking dream. And you can't explain it. That's why you're here, isn't it?
April:
How the hell do you know these things?
Cortez:
It's as plain as the day, senorita Ryan. You're under a lot of stress. My point about art and truth is this, April. Some things look real, but are not. And other things may appear to be of no consequences at all, but are, in fact, invaluable. Like Warren's painting here. And your dreams. There is both truth and illusion in dreams, and in the images they create. The problem is in sorting the one from the other.
April:
Didn't I tell you to stay out of my personal life?
Cortez:
Yes. Yes, you did. But I chose not to listen. My point about art and truth is this, April. Some things look real, but are not. And other things may appear to be of no consequences at all, but are, in fact, invaluable. Like Warren's painting here. And your dreams. There is both truth and illusion in dreams, and in the images they create. The problem is in sorting the one from the other.
April:
Yeah
Cortez:
Good. And I'll do my best to explain everything. Just be patient. My point about art and truth is this, April. Some things look real, but are not. And other things may appear to be of no consequences at all, but are, in fact, invaluable. Like Warren's painting here. And your dreams. There is both truth and illusion in dreams, and in the images they create. The problem is in sorting the one from the other.
April:
You're telling me my dreams are true?
Cortez:
I'm telling you there are things afoot, and that you need help in sorting the truth from illusions. My help.
April:
Well, that figures.
Cortez:
Good. I was hoping you'd understand.
April:
No, actually I didn't understand a single word. You talk about art, and truth, and dreams, and illusion, and I still don't understand what it all has to do with me. There are things happening, yes, and I came here because I thought -- maybe you're crazy enough to believe me to help me...I don't know...sort through the debris and come up with a plausible explanation. But no, you tell me my dreams might be true, that I need your help and that there are things "afoot". I mean, who says "afoot"? I've never heard anybody use that word before."There are things afoot".
Cortez:
Esta bien... I understand your reluctance to believe me, senorita. But I cannot convince you here, now. Meet me tomorrow.
April:
What?
Cortez:
Meet me tomorrow, and I will tell you...everything.
April:
Not again, no way.
Cortez:
But your will. Because you are compelled to do so by your own curosity. Because you are drawn to mystery. And because, despite your scepticism, you believe I have the answer to all your questions. Yes?
April:
No. No, I don't care. I just want to have a normal life, no nightmares, no visions, and no strangers telling me that "things are afoot". Comprende, amigo?
Cortez:
Ay Dios mio, is that the time? I've got to run, senorita Ryan. I see you tomorrow then?
April:
I said...
Cortez:
Goodbye.
With that, he walked away, leaving her feeling worst off than ever.
Still Friday (this is a busy day for Dear Diary, a busy and WEIRD day), late afternoon...
Cortez is...how shall I put this nicely?...completely and totally out there. I mean, he goes on and on about the truth of art, and then it turns out that that's NOT the reason he wants to talk to me. But does he tell me why it's so urgent we see each other? No, he says, that'll have to wait until TOMORROW! Right, yeah, as if.
There's something strange going on, I know that. And it's obvious that it isn't just me losing touch with reality...why would Cortez be involved if that's the case? So what the hell IS happening? And does Cortez actually have some answers? I SO don't wanna hook up with the guy again. He freaks me out, big time. But I'm getting to the point where I'm thinking, do I have a choice? Do I?
By the time she returned to East Venice, it was dusk and time to begin her shift at the Fringe Cafe. Stanley was already waiting for her.
April:
I'm all scrubbed and ready to work, sir.
Stanley:
You'll be on the floor tonight, honey. Start taking orders!
Customers began to trickle in. The cafe hummed with the sounds of voices, clinking glasses, dishes and the techno rock playing from the jukebox. Sometime near midnight, as she was taking down the order of a customer, the music from the jukebox fluttered into noisy static before dying away. Streaks of running lights on the jukebox coalesced blindingly, conversations and all movements in the cafe came to a startled halt. Everyone's attention was focused on the strange phenomenon. April gasped and Emma surged to her feet as a strange creature suddenly popped out from the light. Lilting piping music issued from the flute it held in its hands. April craned to see more clearly as the creature which looked like a mole with a luminous green aura danced merrily. It became aware of its surroundings and faltered to a stop, looking with wide terrified eyes at a place it no longer recognised.
By the time she returned to East Venice, it was dusk and she was weary by the events of the day. A couple togged out in jogging clothes sat at the bench as she crossed the bridges to Border House. She was astonished to find both Mickey and Fiona sitting in the common room. Mickey was not usually the sit-in-front-of-the-Screen type of gal. Unlike Fiona, she was always working on something around the house. She guessed that was why they were such a great couple.
April:
What's going on, Mickey?
Mickey:
The water's been fixed, so you can take a hot shower if you want.
April:
I smell that bad?
Mickey:
No, I didn't mean that you--I just, you know, in case you wanted to take a warm shower, I just wanted you to...the water being hot. As it were.
April:
Great, I'll take a quick one before bedtime.
Mickey:
Mind you don't let everyone else go before you, 'cause in that case I can't gaurantee that you'll...the water gets cold, you know.
April:
I kinda liked taking a cold shower in this heat.
Mickey:
You can still take a...a cold shower if you really want to. I'm just saying the hot water's there, you know, in case...in case you need it.
April:
Thanks, Mickey.
Mickey:
Yeah.
April:
What was wrong with the pipes?
Mickey:
They're just old. Like all of Venice, they're really old. Twice a year, every year, I have to spend half a day freezing my ass off down in the canal performing emergency surgery on the pipes. Not that I don't loved doing it, especially when my so-called partner's curled up on the sofa watching soaps all day long.
April:
I heard you had a nightmare last night.
Mickey:
Did she tell you that? She can't keep her mouth shut, can she. You can't, can you?
Fiona:
As if your screaming wasn't enough to wake up the whole building? And so what if you were having a nightmare? You are human, you know. Even though you like to think differently.
April:
(hastily) I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause an argument. It's just that I had a nightmare as well.
Fiona:
Good luck trying to get anything out of her. She's so very together, you know? There'll be no chink in her armor. She's the iron lady. Well, bollocks.
Mickey:
Would you shut up, Fiona? I mean, for once, would you just shut up? Yes, I had a nightmare, and yes, it's none of your business. So don't try to make it your business.
April:
I wasn't trying to...to intrude.
Mickey:
Fine. I just don't like talking about my dreams, yeah?
April:
I'll talk to you later, Mickey.
Mickey:
Yeah.
April beat a hasty retreat and took the chair nearest Fiona.
April:
Have you been sitting here all day?
Fiona:
Pretty much, darling. I feel like a vegetable. How was your day?
April:
It was good.
Fiona:
Did you get any work done?
April:
You know what, I think I did. Surprised the hell out of me, that's for sure.
Fiona:
That's wonderful, darling. See, didn't I tell you? I knew you'd be inspired again.
April:
You were right.
Fiona:
I usually am.
April:
It's been a weird day.
Fiona:
How so?
April:
Well, you know how some mornings, you wake up, but you're not sure if you're really awake or if you're still just dreaming?
Fiona:
I feel like that every morning, darling. A pot of black coffee cures that in a flash.
April:
That's how I've been feeling all day. Like I said, it's been a weird day. How was yours?
Fiona:
Exceedingly ordinary. Almost depressingly so. I poked my head out the door once, for about a second, but thought better of it.
April:
I've had a horrible day.
Fiona:
Really? What happened?
April:
Just...everything. But I did get some work done.
Fiona:
That's good then. See, didn't I tell you? I knew you would.
April:
Yeah, you were right.
Fiona:
I usually am.
April:
What are you watching?
Fiona:
Nothing special. We were thinking about watching a movie later, though.
April:
Yeah? Which one?
Fiona:
They have quite a few new releases out. Did you ever see "Victory Hotel"?
April:
No. Is it good?
Fiona:
That's what they say. So we might catch that one.
April:
Can I ask you a few questions?
Fiona:
Why, certainly, darling. About what?
April:
Where did you find my ring?
Fiona:
Under the sofa, darling. It must have slipped off your finger while you were watching a movie or something.
April:
That's strange, because I've been keeping it in a box in my room. I rarely ever wear it, and I've never carried it around in my pocket.... What do you think of Cortez?
Fiona:
I'm not sure what you mean, darling.
April:
Don't you think he's a little creepy?
Fiona:
Oh, he's harmless. That old hippie's been drugged up for fifty years, and he's not likely to come down any time soon. Mickey likes him, but I'm not a big fan. But what can I do? He just sits outside the building smoking or reading a book. He doesn't harm anyone.
April:
How long has he been around?
Fiona:
Oh, I don't know...a year, maybe? He just showed up one day, and he hasn't left since.
April:
He never leaves his spot?
Fiona:
He sleeps and eats, obviously. And sometimes, he goes to some revival cinema uptown. Says that, second to reading, old movies are his greatest passion.
April:
What else can you tell me about Cortez?
Fiona:
One word I wouldn't use to describe him is "lucid". He's always on about some bollocks idea, and you'd never know from listening to him that he's got any sense at all. People say he's quite sharp, though, quite intelligent. Well read, multi-lingual, and he's travelled all over the world, apparently. But still completely bonkers, if you ask me.
April:
Thanks for the information, Fiona.
Fiona:
You're welcome, darling. (April got up to leave) Why don't you sit down and watch a movie with us, April?
April:
You know what, that sounds like an excellent idea.
As night fell, the air became cooler and more bearable. The Screen flickered in the dimness of the common room. Sounds of tribal chanting and drums filled the room as the movie scene panned through a forest. Feeling the pangs of hunger, April helped herself to the bowl of buttered popcorn on the coffee table that Fiona had prepared. It was delicious. As she was reaching for another helping, a sudden flare of brilliant light from the screen startled her that she missed her intended target and fell to all fours to the floor with a yelp. The four walls of the common room vanished. Fiona, who had fallen asleep, was startled awake as Mickey jostled her as she leapt to her feet. Smells and sounds of the jungle surrounded them ; an isolated island of carpeted flooring, sofa and coffee table. They looked around them in shock and bewilderment. A bird warbled as it flew overhead and the leafy green canopy rustled in the wind. The vision did not last long. As abruptly as the snapping of the blinds on a shade, the walls of the common room rolled up and the forest vanished. Stunned, Fiona dropped limply to the sofa as they stared at one another.