Because If I Didn't, I Would Die...

I write for the same reason I breathe - because if I didn't, I would die.    ----Isaac Asimov


 I doubt there is an author out there who can’t say this about their writing—that without it, they would die.

 The populous grumbles about those authors who spit out what seems a hundred books a day, under severe pressure to do so, to stay on the New York Times Bestseller List. I gripe about them, too. Hey, how can they really have a love affair with writing when they’ve turned into a book machine? But you know what? I’d be willing to bet even these authors would more than likely wither and blow away like ashes on a breeze if they could not write.

 Lately I’ve looked inside myself to see just why I write. What’s my motivation? What is my ultimate goal? Money? Fame? Money, fame and a big movie deal? Do I seriously harbor dreams of a movie deal in which Alessandro Gassman or Russell Crowe play my leading man? Oh, sure, in the back of my mind, I have overblown fantasies. Who doesn’t? They’re fun, they sprinkle the adventure of writing with pretty sparkles.

Seriously, though? To show you just how much money didn’t play a part in my decision to try to be published: When I received the contract for my novella, Candy G, I actually did a double take at the section that discussed a payment method. Payment? That’s right! I get paid for this! And that is the truth. Money had really never figured into the equation when I submitted my manuscript. And it still does not. It does not motivate me. Oh, yes, I do feel an obligation as an employee of my publisher to earn money for them, but if left to my own devices, I’d…yes, I’d do it for free.

 But what does drive me?

 As egotistical as it may sound, I want my writing to create characters who live and breathe, who—as so many of my favorite authors’ characters do—stay on your mind long after you close the book.

 I want you to wish you could hang out with my characters. I want you to be attracted to them, I want you to fantasize about them. To get so mad at them that you want to slap them upside the head, but still remember them.

 If you walk away from my book and shake your head, saying you can’t believe my character did this or that—how could they do that, that bastard, that bitch?—then I’m happy.

If you cry, that’s fine, although my goal is not to have a Kleenex rating on my book. I don’t feel I’m only successful if I can bring you to tears. And, on that note, those who know me well are aware that I cringe at the push in authors to see who can evoke the most tears, as though if we can’t reduce you to a sobbing mass we’ve not done our jobs. Baloney.

Okay, so I do want to create memorable characters. But what about me? What do I want for myself? That question leads me to the issue of promotion. Pimping my book. Why do I do any promo? If I claim I’d do it for free, why the promo?

 Ready for the answer? I guess you could chalk it up to ego. Not money but ego. On my characters’ behalves, though, not necessarily all mine. If I do want you to get to know them, to have all the emotions I mentioned earlier, I have to pitch them.

I suppose I could feign modesty, but I’d be lying. The fact of the matters is, yes, I would die if I could not write. But is it me who would die? Or all the characters who live and breathe inside me? It’s them. So I do have to write or that beautiful, powerful force in me would expire. And I could not bear that.

 On the other side of that coin, though, lies another truth.

With that very true, very live entity within me does go pride and the desire to share what is beautiful to me. My characters.

 Should I feel guilty because I’m proud of them, because I want you to get hooked on them? Is that ego? Maybe. But no more than a mother who tingles inside every time a passerby compliments her child. These are my children, these characters.

The trickiest part of this, though, is that other question. So, if your characters could ever really be so powerful, so memorable, are you REALLY not—just a little—wanting to bask in that glory yourself? If I answer ‘no’ to that…well, you’ve heard about Pinocchio and his nose, right?
 The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. ----William Faulkner

Sneak Peek...HONOR C...

I'm at that wonderful point in my WIP--the last stretch---closing in on those elusive words, a chapter or two away from the holy of holies of phrases....THE END.

Since I've been feverishly dedicating all my free time to getting this project completed, I've not had ample room in my brian to blog. Even my spare THOUGHTS are devoted to this manuscript.

So, in my excitement for this upcoming 'event', I wanted to introduce my main characters to you, give you a glimpse into the story.

Without further ado, please welcome----from my soon-to-be-finsihed novel, HONOR C----Honor and Raimundo...(Yes, Hispanic, what did you think?)

Psst....and they are not edited....

* * * * * * * * *

My fantasy had come to life. Alone with Honor Castillo, wrapped in his arms.

But it was in a bathroom in his home with Honor propping up my drunk, limp, oh-so-sick body to hug the toilet bowl. I thought I’d lost all the contents in my stomach long ago on the emergency lane of Interstate 10.


What had I been thinking, drinking so much?


“What was I thinking, Raimundo, by not stopping you?”


Honor’s voice—along with the touch of a cool, damp washcloth to my forehead—coaxed me gently from the swirling center of the green fog in my head.


My fingers clung to the cool porcelain and my words echoed into the deep bowl. “It didn’t…feel…like so much until I…I….” Straining once more to hurl. “Until I stood up.”


“Ay-ay-ay.”


My body, pressed against his, shook with his hushed laughter.


“I think I’m okay now.” Struggling with his help, I shifted into a sitting position.


“This is the guest room and you can sleep here and—”


“No. Really. I’m fine.” I pushed away from him and, bracing on the edge of the toilet, I tried to stand. I must have left my legs back on the interstate, though. “Damn.” I slumped back onto the floor.


“Ah, no, muchacho. I don’t think so.” Honor stood and—in one swift, easy move—pulled me to my feet, holding me in the crook of his arm like a rag doll.


I’d only been on my feet a few seconds before the nausea rolled back to my stomach, full force. Because his hold was so tight, I couldn’t shove away in time to bend over the commode.


If I lived to be a hundred, I’d never forget Honor’s unaffected reaction to my puking all over him. He merely brushed off my babbling apology with a soft smile, closed the toilet lid and eased me onto it. “See, amigo, what did I tell you?”


“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”


“Shhh.” Moving to a clean spot on the plush mat, he knelt before me and his fingers began working to unbutton my shirt. He shook his head, lending a sympathetic grin to the mess which was Raimundo Munoz. “And your beautiful new clothes, too.”


My clothes, my new fancy clothes. “Oh, god.”


He paused unbuttoning to cup my cheek in his palm. “We’ll get them cleaned.”


I just nodded. Even though weak, sick and seeing him as if through a cheap pair of green sunglass lenses, I knew the pleasure of Honor’s touch to my face. I recognized it as the tenderness my body wanted.


“I’m sorry.” I seemed to have no other words in the drunken edition of my mental dictionary.


He ignored me, tugging the shirt off my shoulders and along my arms then laying it on the floor. “Grab me around the neck, Raimundo, so I can help you stand and get your pants off.”


Fortunately, my soused brain was too numb to be fazed or aroused by the fact Honor was undressing me. In my own pickled universe, I only noticed his soiled silk tee shirt which had been so beautiful only a few hours ago.


“I’m so sorry. Your clothes. Your clothes,” I slobbered the words onto his neck.


In a sober stratosphere, I’d have been turned on with the fumbling of his big warm hands at the waistband of my trousers—their gentle touch working the damp fabric down my thighs.


“Step out of them, Raimundo.”


The nausea had faded but after standing a while, everything seemed so light, a sea of fluffy clouds floating through my head. Was I giggling?


Once he’d completely removed my clothes, he maneuvered my boneless body to sit on the side of the bathtub. With one arm holding me upright, he reached to turn on the faucet and held his hand under the water until it heated and steam formed around us.


Here I was. Naked. Pressed against Honor Castillo, just as I’d dreamed so often. But shit-face plastered. This part had not been in my fantasies.


The hot water, once I was immersed in it, stimulated me and I took the washcloth from Honor’s hands and proceeded to bathe myself.


“Can you manage by yourself?” He rose from his post on the side of the tub.


“Yes.” I nodded. “The water’s helping. I don’t feel as…as….” As fucked up?


“I’ll wait outside in the bedroom, then, just in case. You might not be as steady as you think when you try to stand again.”


“Thank you. I…I think I’ll be okay.”


“Nevertheless.” He winked. Tapping his finger on a louvered closet door, he added, “There’s a robe in here.” A gentle laugh. “A little big, but…oh, well, I have nothing in your size.”


“Thank you.” I called out just as he started for the door, “And I really am sorry.”


“Don’t be, Raimundo.” Once more he winked and left the room, closing the door.


After bathing, my legs still wobbled when I stood. The thick fog lingered in my head but I managed to dry off and slide into the humongous terry robe. Collecting my discarded clothes, I folded them as neatly as possible and stacked them on top of a laundry hamper. Hopefully I could wash them in the morning.


I stepped into the bedroom and found him half-sitting, half-reclining, on a love seat before a small fireplace in the corner. His head was propped on his fist and he snored lightly.


As much as I hated waking him—he seemed so peaceful—I figured he’d want to get out of his own filthy clothes.


“Mr. Castillo.” I touched his shoulder.


He stirred and pushed to an upright position. Rubbing his eyes, he yawned. “How do you feel, Raimundo? Much better, eh?”


“Yes. Much better.” I shrugged. “Still pretty numb, but not sick.”


A tired laugh rumbled through his frame and he fell back on the cushions, raking his fingers through his already-ruffled hair. “Ah, just wait until morning, Raimundo. You’ll think tonight was a tea party compared to your hangover.”


I shuffled my bare feet on the cool, silky fibers of the carpet. “You’d better get cleaned up yourself.” In spite of its boozed-up state, my imagination crept to a picture of Honor in the shower—big, magnificent…naked.


“Si, si, si.” Sighing, he scooted to the edge of the cushions, stood and stretched his arms above his head with another deep yawn. “I’ll find you something to sleep in, Raimundo, as soon as—”


“Please.” My hands shot up. “You’ve…you’ve done enough, Mr. Castillo. Really, I—”


“Raimundo.” He held up a finger. “It’s Honor.”


“Sir?”


“Call me Honor. Please.”


“All right.” I heaved a shaky breath. Did he realize how easy it would be for my feelings to be painted into every syllable of his name if I said it out loud? “Honor.”


There he stood, weary but smiling—clothes rumpled and stained with the ruins of my night. I’d wondered earlier if I loved him. At this moment, gazing at him and warming like happy toast under his heat, I knew. I did love him. How or why, I had no clue. I only knew I did.


“Well, I will get cleaned up, if you’re sure you—”


“I’m fine.” Drawing a circle with my toe on the carpet, I shrugged. “Still drunk as a skunk, but….”


He nodded and that odd, now-familiar but still unreadable smile feathered across his lips. Hesitation. “Okay, then.”


As he passed me, heading to the door, I caught a whiff of my own vomit on him. Oh, damn.


When the door shut behind him, I shuffled to the bed. How huge it was, how inviting with its khaki-colored bedcovers and bank of overstuffed pillows. I climbed onto the firm mattress without even slipping under the comforter and tightened the gigantic robe abound my body.


My eyelids fought to stay open and I lay, burrowed in the pillows, studying the bedroom. No paintings on the walls, only large tapestries woven in rich, earth tone colors.


I’d been too sick when I’d been brought through the house earlier to recall its furnishings. Was this room a sample of Honor’s taste? Crisp, clean, natural and—as always—classic. Masculine. Inviting.


I reached to turn off the bedside lamp and allowed the last thing before I drifted to sleep to be the pleasure of knowing somewhere in the house, under the very roof with me, Honor was showering. Naked.


During the night it hit me again. A green, roiling tide of nausea so strong it jerked me awake and sent me stumbling to the bathroom. This time, for some reason, the bout was more violent and I gasped and struggled to breath between each dry heave. I’d never felt so sick. I thought I was dying.


The bathroom door crashed open and, through a dizzying haze, I heard Honor’s voice behind me. “Raimundo! Are you all right?”


He rushed to the sink, grabbed a fresh washcloth and held it under running water. In seconds, he was on his knees beside me, holding my hair back in one hand and swabbing the cool cloth on my forehead with his free hand.


“This is my goddamn fault,” he growled. “I knew you didn’t drink You told me the night I met you that you didn’t drink. I should have stopped you, but—”


“No!” Pulling away from the commode, I tried to shove his hands away. “I’m a grown…man….” I fought to wriggle free of his grasp but didn’t have the energy. “I thought I could…handle it.” I thought I could drink my way out the disappointment of seeing the lovey-dovey crap between you and Jorge.


He let me recline against him, my back melded into his big body, and his fingers gingerly brushed the hair from my face. “Do you think you can go back to bed, Raimundo?”


I just moaned and shook my head. Not yes. Not no. Just let me stay against your body. How long we remained like that, huddled on the bathroom floor, I didn’t know. I might have even fallen asleep.


At some point, I became aware of his arms around me, picking me up. I might as well have been a sack of sugar, he lifted me so effortlessly.


I didn’t even try to wake. Whatever was happening felt too good, too right, and I didn’t want to open my eyes and realize it was a dream. My body nestled into his where it seemed to belong and I whimpered when he bent to place me on the bed.


He moved to straighten but I wrapped my arms about his neck, pulling him nearer. His body, so close, smelled of the freshness of a shower. Clean, touchable, irresistible.


“Don’t leave me alone.” My fingers twined at his nape in a death grip.


I didn’t know—so lost in a sleepy all-white world of clouds and glittering mist—if I wanted to be fucked or just to be held, loved, touched. What goddamn hell it was to know you wanted something so bad you could die from it, and to know who you wanted it from, but not to know what the hell it was.


“I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.” With my arms still locked around his neck, he eased his large frame onto the bed beside me.


I arched into his body.


He slid an arm under me, drawing me closer, and circled his other arm around my waist. “Now sleep, bebe.” A funny tone in his voice, as though begging me to be too sick, too tired, to respond to the warm, stiff dick pressing against my body.


Proof positive rested between his powerful thighs, in his labored breathing. He wanted me. Maybe it was only for the moment, nothing more, but it was enough for me. He was hard for me.


Delirious with the fever of hunger for him mixed with alcohol, I buried my face in the softness between his chest and shoulder and mumbled, “I’m so sorry.”


“Shhh.” A shiver tripped through his body into mine and he cupped the back of my head, pressing me harder against him. He might have been able to hide any desire in his face by avoiding my eyes, but the need in his groin had grown stronger. “I told you. Nothing to be sorry about.”


“I won’t lose my job over…getting drunk tonight?”


A slight laugh, shaky. “Ah, Raimundo, if I fired everyone who got drunk, I’d have no employees at all.”


“Honor….” I breathed the word against the downy soft cotton of his shirt.


His name fit so well in my heart, on my tongue.


“Si?” He rested his chin on the top of my head.


“I really don’t drink.” I wriggled nearer but it seemed I’d never be close enough.


Lulled by the strong rise and fall of his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, an unexpected yawn escaped me.


“I believe you.” His large hand touched the side of my face, his thumb tracing my temple. He laughed. “I believe you.”


I fought sleep. I didn’t want to sleep, knowing he’d leave my side. But my body and mind sank helplessly into a blissful nothingness, almost a coma, where I could hear him and feel him but couldn’t open my own eyes or speak.


Later—it seemed as though hours later—he stirred and the mattress jiggled slightly with his shifting weight.


Instinctively, afraid he was leaving, I protested by curling closer to his body. I opened my mouth to beg him to stay, to let him know somehow I wasn’t asleep. You promised to stay until I fell asleep. I’m not asleep, I’m not!


Deep, deep, deep, I rode a sleepy tide back into my white oblivion and struggled to be conscious of his presence. Was he still there?


A soft warm palm rested with a touch soft as butterfly wings against my cheek and, somewhere far inside myself, I smiled.


Honor’s voice wafted to my ears on a whisper, one he surely thought I wasn’t awake to hear. “Ah, Raimundo Munoz.” A sigh. “What was I thinking, hiring a man when I knew, I goddamn knew I would end up wanting him so bad it would hurt?”


Silence. Was he really there? Wake the fuck up. Wake up.


The voice—deep but so hushed I wanted to cry with the strain of trying to hear it from my bottomless pit of slumber—spoke again after a delicate chuckle. “You are the tiniest little thing. How huge and clumsy I am next to you. And you are so…so….” Reverent fingers brushed my lips. “Perfect.”


Like one trapped beneath a frozen pond with no escape hole, I clawed on an impenetrable barrier keeping me from rising to the surface of my dream.


Kiss me! Please kiss me! Could he hear me?


The pressure of lips—ever so light like a wisp of sweet breath—touched my forehead.


By the sudden rush of cool air beside me I knew he’d risen. Wrapping my body into a tighter ball to replace his heat, I finally mumbled words that did penetrate my sleepy barrier. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”


My proclamation was met by the soft click of the light being turned off and the bedroom door closing. He hadn’t heard me.

Like Fine Wine...Alessandro Gassman...

I only like two kinds of men, domestic and imported.   --- Mae West


First of all, let me tell you. I've been busy trying to finish up my WIP...titled Honor C, and I'm on the final stretch, crawling toward the finish line to those beautiful, SCARY words---The End.

In this rush to this goal, I've not had time to blog not the energy to think of bloggable (is that a word?) subjects.

So today I'm going to relax and bask in the smile of my very favorite contemporary Italian celebrity...actor Alessandro Gassman, my favorite imported male.

Those who know me are VERY aware that Alessandro has been the inspiration for one of my most beloved characters who is going to be showing his face this year---Enrico Di Paolo.

So...let the buffet of Italian gorgeousness begin...

Ah! Off to a beautiful start as a very young actor, Alessandro is the son of the late legendary Italian actor, Vittorio Gassman.

Beginning to be well-known, getting better looking as time goes by. More rugged, the boyish smoothness giving way to rugged lines. Perfect character. Brooding, dark, gloriously masculine, almost sinister. My kind of man.

In 2001 he'd become so popular, he made the Italian calendar, Maxi. A fabulous, sensual collection of twelve nude photos.

If you never saw him in any of his Italian films, I'll bet you remember him as one of the sexiest villains in filmdom, Gianni Chellini in the American film, Transporter II. Deliciously wicked with the sexy accent to boot.

Okay, Alessandro, you can stop growing more and more beautiful now! My heart can't take much more of your beauty! The above photo was the one which inspired the persona for Enico DiPaolo. The picture is from his stage role in the Italian version of Twelve Angry Men.

And he even obliges by being cast in noir roles. What more can a woman ask?

And now? Just look at him. The smile. From that brooding, cloudy astmosphere of man shines this bright sun. And better looking than ever.

What can I say? Ay-ay-ay!

And, last but not least--because I love putting the rich baritone voice to this gorgeous man, treat yourself to this video. He sings. And damn well, too.

Enoy.

Wonder if he appreciates what I do for him? Sigh.

Ti Amo, Alessandro.....

Like Fine Wine...Rudolph Valentino...

Women are not in love with me but with the picture of me on the screen. I am merely the canvas on which women paint their dreams.  --- Rudolph Valentino


Although Rudolph Valentino never lived long enough to age into his autumn years or beyond, I thought--browsing through photos of him taken throughout his life--he really did mature just as beautifully as a fine wine.

Most of us know THE Valentino of film glory. The first screen lover to break the mold of the wholesome boy next door the public had become accustomed to in early film. He was the first Latin Lover. To most--inlcuding this girl--he still, to this day, is the only Latin Lover and cannot be usurped from his position of celluloid sexuality.

But for those who aren't familiar with his life--with the stages which show a remarkable maturing and, more importantly, a very obvious growth in elegance and style--I wanted to spotlight him as my Like Fine Wine subject.

Would you believe this photo was the future Love God, the screen legend, the sachem of hearts? Yes, this is Valentino in 1913 on his way to America. Only here he was not Rudolph Valentino (later to be his screen name), but was Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentina D'Antonguolla. Try saying THAT three times fast. Whew.

He was a kid alone in a big, new country. Scared. But he worked his way through life with any job he could get his hands on. Even gardening. He dreamed of having his own vineyard.

Young Taxi Dancer Rudolpho.



Utilizing his dark---and very foreign----good looks, the young man began work as a taxi dancer. Dancing for money. Wooing women. Different accounts report he did many other things for money during this period, but it remains to be proven.

With the sleepiest bedroom eyes in the world, how could he have missed fame? To this day, one of the most incredibly sensual men to have ever lived.

Valentino wanted to be in movies--the bright, shiny new penny of indutries--and hung around motion picture studios, taking work as an extra and small roles whenever he could.

Beginning to show more refinement. Still the exotic beauty.

And then---and then---his life became the stuff dreams are made of.

Screenwriter June Mathis, one of the most powerful women in the industry, spotted young Rudy in a nondescript role in a film. She was overwhelmedw with his dark beauty and used her influence to push for him as the lead in the anxiously awaited motion picture The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. This was a film even the top stars of motion pictures vied for. But Mathis knew her man, she knew what would make the film work. And she was right.

Valentino was cast---a virtual unknown---as Julio Desnoyers. Mathis' gut feeling paid off. A star was born.

 

Rudy in his famous tango scene from The Four Horsemen...The role that put his sopt on the map forever as the Love God.

He went on to make more films, all memorable. In all of them, he stole the scenes...

He was SO believable on screen, SO handsome, even the famous Nazivoma had him deleted from her famous death scene because his charismatic presence would steal her thunder.

He married a woman with a name as exotic as his own, Natacha Rambova.

The role for which he is perhaps most famous. The Sheik. Sweeping onto the screen as the hero of Edith Maude Hull's famous erotic novel, he took the world by storm...again. Women craved to be taken by their very own desert sheik, men hated him.

He played opposite THE Gloria Swanson in Beyond the Rocks. The public adored the pairing of their two screen darlings. But it was their only chance to co-star.

Blood and Sand as the fated Juan Gallardo. Getting more and more handsome by the minute.

While the public knew him mostly as the man behind the heavy actor's makeup, the real man--the Valentino on the street--was a suave, toned-down shadow of the screen's smoldering heartthrob. But still as handsome, if not more so.

A goatee. New look, started a craze in men's fashion. The sleek hair and goatee. Barbers protested, as more and more men started to go for this look and they lost business.

The real man loved to work on cars, and loved to buy elite foreign automobiles. And was quite the dangerous driver, as it's told he refused to wear glasses for his poor vision.

His last role, The Son of the Sheik, a sequel to The Sheik. He died the year this film was released.

Valentino died while on a trip to New York to promote his last film. Only thirty one years old.

Although he never had the chance to reach old age, he still matured through his short years and left the world with an unforgettable image of true beauty, potent sensuality and unmistakable class.

He died so very young, yet that brief life was just long enough to create a household name that still whispers romance and sets pulses racing...Rudolph Valentino.

This photo says it all.

 

Carmen...

This holiday season, I've felt my father's loss more than ever. So please accept this humble contribution to the magic that is all fathers as my gift to you for Christmas.

Bronx, 1944

The perfect Christmas Eve.

The heavy slate clouds had finally let go their burden, sending fat snowflakes—legions of delicate white crystal angels—swirling crazy and silent on the twilight breeze.
In the department store window, a collection of phonograph records hung from strings of glittery garland and the Christmas tree lights reflected on the shiny black disks.

The record jackets, propped in rows among blankets of fake snow and more lights, caught Carmen’s attention. Especially one. Thomas Beecham Conducts Carmen.

“Daddy.” Carmen shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets and shuffled sideways on the sidewalk to nudge her father. “Tell me.”

Benny Franchino shot a gloved hand to the spotless glass to brace himself against his daughter’s playful shove. He tugged the brim of his fedora. “Tell you what, baby?”

How embarrassing, how silly, to want to hear the story again. He’d been telling her the same tale since she’d been a tiny tyke—probably before she even learned to talk. In fact, for years she probably never even understood the words at all.

She should have outgrown it by the time she reached her teens but she hadn’t. She never would. And here she was at twenty-five, still wanting, needing to hear the ridiculous tale. And the funny part? It was make-believe, purely fabricated in her father’s unending supply of tall fables. But Carmen didn’t care. It had been created for her and her alone. And it made her smile.

Pointing to the Carmen record cover, she sideswiped her father once more. Even to ask for the cockamamie story, as though she believed it, sent heat to her cheeks. She shifted her gaze to the sparkly flakes on the sidewalk. “My story. The Carmen story.”

“Ah.” Benny nodded. "You mean the story of how the opera Carmen got its name?"


It didn’t take much to get him into the heart and mindset to retell the absurdity.

Yes, make me three years old again. “Yes!”

“Oh, well….” Adjusting his hat once more, Benny glanced to the thick gray sky as though the words hid in its depths. “It happened, just as I’ve told you a million times….”

“Yeah?"

“The composer needed a name for his newest opera.”

“And…?” Oh, how terribly silly to even be listening to—much less asking to have it told—this outlandish fantasy.

“He came to me, Benito Franchino, because he'd seen your ma and me strolling with you in your carriage.”

Noting the smile, so lost in another world, on her father’s face, Carmen’s heart ached. A nice, beautiful ache, though. Could she possibly love him more than at this very minute? She thought not. How could her soul not swell to nearly bursting, seeing the reminiscing in his soft brown eyes, the contentment on his handsome face?

It wasn’t only the story she found so sweet. It was how he told it.

“And they—”

“Wait a minute.” Rearing back in mock disapproval, Benny narrowed his eyes. “Who’s telling this story? Me? Or you?”

Carmen slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. She nuzzled into the comforting wool of his overcoat. “You."

“Well, the composer proceeded to tell us he’d been inspired by the beautiful kid in the carriage.”

“Me.”

“Yeah. You.” Benny stopped, brushed flakes from the brim of his hat and continued walking. “Could he please ask your name, he said. A child so beautiful, he said, I gotta name my opera after her.”

Wanting to be a little child again, Carmen tucked her chin, fishing for the words she still loved to hear. “I was beautiful?”

“Ay-ay-ay.” Benny’s gaze rose to the gloomy sky again. Was it a habit or did he really see answers there? “You were the most beautiful kid in the world.” He draped his arm about her shoulders, drawing her nearer. “You are beautiful, bambina.”

That rushed the warmth to her cheeks once more. Not embarrassed but pleased. “And so the opera composer…?”

“Oh, yeah, him!” He held up a finger. “Well, I put up a fight, of course. You know me.”

“Yes.”

Benito Franchino, former middle weight boxer. His career may have been over, but the fire, the intensity, in his soul burned just as bright as ever.

“Your ma begged me to reconsider. You know she always saw a future as a singer for you.”

“She did.”

“And she’d be so happy, baby, to hear about your contract with The Met.”

“Are you happy about it?”

Her father stopped so abruptly, a tiny avalanche of snowy dust drifted from the brim of his hat. “Am I happy? Am I happy?” There went his stare, squinting to the heavens, then returning to her. “I’m so goddamn hap—” At Carmen’s surprised gasp, he grimaced. “Sorry about the language....” He made a sign of the cross. “I’m so happy. Oh, baby, if I could only shout to the world just how happy I am.”

Carmen’s throat tightened. Tears were soon behind and she swallowed past the constriction to fend them off. “I’m glad, Daddy.”

Too tough—as always—to get caught in the sappiness of the moment, Benny cleared his throat and shot out his cuffs. “So this opera fellow….”

“Yes. Him.” How the love inside her wrenched her heart. Tears did well to the corners of her eyes, only to sting in the chilly air.

“Well, he put up a pretty good argument, too. So, finally, your ma and me figured why not? Quite an honor it was, we thought. You know?”

“So that’s how the opera got its name.” Carmen sighed. Yes, it was a crazy story, so whimsical. But, even in its zaniness, so necessary.

Benny turned his face to the clouds where evening had finally snuffed the feeble, muted light of day. “Guess it’s time I got back.” This time his gaze didn’t leave the darkening canopy.

“Not yet, Daddy.” Carmen wrapped her fingers around his forearm to pull him closer, a desperate grip to keep him from leaving. To hold the day like a still life painting. “A malted at Bernbaum’s?”

With a forlorn glance at the bustle of Christmas shoppers—as though watching for an approaching train—he shook his head. “I’ve stayed too long already, sweetie. I have to go.”

Like the baby in the carriage in her father’s silly story, Carmen yanked away from him. “I hate—”

“Carmen.” His gloved finger touched her lips.

She gave the tears permission to fall in earnest.

Her crying always tore her father's heart out, and she could at least make him feel guilty for leaving.

“Baby. My baby girl.” The sadness in his voice assured he couldn't be deterred by her tears this time. “You know I can’t stay.”

Carmen stalked to the store window, her boots crunching on the thickening snow. “Then go. Go.” Jerking from his attempt to cup her elbow, she moaned, “Why drag it on, huh? Just go.”

“Carmen.”

“Why did you come anyway, goddamn it?”

“Carmen.” Was there a chuckle in his tone? “Pretty talk, bambina.”

“Well….”

“I tell you what. Maybe you’ll forgive me if you see what I left you.” Tucking a finger under her chin, he coaxed her to meet his eyes. “You just check under your Christmas tree. You just look, eh?”

“Sure.” Carmen shrugged away from his touch.

Somehow, it helped to bristle. She could pretend it didn’t hurt if she could feign anger. Of course, in time the resentment would fade and love would flood back in to fill the wounds. Love that would last until the day she died.

“No goodbye hug?” He made a big fist—the perpetual boxer in him—and gingerly grazed his knuckles on her cheek. His gentle prod was filled with the same sadness that rent her own heart in two.

Reluctantly, Carmen turned and leaned into him, melted into the familiar strength of his arms. She breathed in the comfortable aroma of his Bay Rum, the sweet smooth scent of his hair pomade.

Years in the boxing ring gave his arms such super human strength.

Carmen could hardly breathe in his tight embrace.

Tremors rippled through his body to hers. He was crying, too.
After a short eternity, he loosened his hold and stepped back. “You finished being mad at your old man?”

Shuffling and not able to stifle the smile sneaking to her lips, she murmured, “Yes.”

He swiped tears mingled with tiny snow crystals from his cheeks and turned to leave. Over his shoulder he blew a kiss. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

“Merry Christmas, Daddy."

He started down the sidewalk but stopped and jabbed a finger in the air at her. “Under your Christmas tree.”

And then he left—a tall, powerful figure in a long black overcoat and hat, blending into the flock of shoppers. Soon she couldn’t see him at all.

Carmen barely remembered the walk back to her tiny apartment. She stood on the stoop for a moment, drinking in the scene of the neighborhood kids shouting in the snow. Bundled in their thick coats, hats and gloves, they constructed a gaunt snowman. The white stuff hadn’t fallen thick enough yet to make much else—not after snowball fights, anyway.

With a sigh, she shuffled up the steps to the entrance and pushed through the thick wood door.

Christmas music from stereos echoed in the warmly lit stair well. Laughter pealed from behind closed apartment doors.
Maybe she’d go to a party later. After a good nap, she’d know if she felt up to mingling and wine and Christmas trees with big bulbs of bright light.

Upon entering her apartment, the first thing to greet her was her own tree. A tiny laugh escaped her. Why did she put up a tree every year? No one ever saw it but her. Yet she could no more think of not having a scant evergreen in the small abode than she could imagine holding back the wind with a butterfly net.

Growing up, she’d given up many childhood things. But a tree was the one thing she couldn’t part with. Maybe because of her parents, she figured. The warm, happy holiday memories she had of them when—no matter how little money they had—her father made sure there was a tree.

Kneeling on the worn carpet, she plugged in the lights and sat on her knees to watch the red, green, blue, yellow and white glimmer on the fragrant branches.

Peace. There was something so comforting about a green tree with lights and bogus icicles.

Carmen carefully plucked the snow globe from its cozy nest beneath the tree and wound it until Silent Night began to twinkle from its music box. She returned it to its lonely spot, dragged a couple of pillows from the nearby armchair and tossed them to the floor.

Reclining, she rested her head on the pillows and closed her eyes. The delicate music caroled from the globe and, within a few moments, Carmen drifted to sleep.

Later—had it been hours or minutes? She didn’t know—a soft, husky voice tiptoed through the mist in her mind. Under the Christmas tree, baby. Her father’s words filtered into her thoughts and excitement jolted through her. She jerked to a sitting position and studied the tree skirt for his gift.

Nothing.

Carmen’s body shook with the sobs that finally made it to the surface in her soul.

So it had been a dream. Just a dream. Beautiful, warm and tender, gut-wrenchingly loving. A year from—exactly, on Christmas Eve—the day he’d died.

There was no proof to assure he’d really visited her this evening. Yes, just a dream. Her father, so real, so touchable, so gentle. Daddy.

But even so, even that fleeting imaginary encounter, that silly re-telling of the absurd opera story was precious to her. She supposed it was the gift.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a something—something very small—nestled in the folds of the white tree skirt. Whatever it was, it wasn’t wrapped.

With trembling hands, she reached to pick up the item.
A tiny figurine of the saucy opera character, Carmen. The very porcelain trinket her father had given her on her fifth birthday.

The figurine which had tumbled from the knick-knack shelf years ago and shattered into a handful of countless colorful pieces. Its breaking had splintered Carmen’s heart into as many fragments.

But here it was, still worn but in one piece. Impossible.

She strained to scrutinize it through the limited lighting from the tree. It was the very same diminutive sculpture whose red dress had faded with millions of loving touches. The same chipped mantilla on the tiny opera singer’s shiny black hair.
But, oddly, no marks to show it had been repaired. Except for the fading paint and injured mantilla, it was as though it had never broken.

Carmen’s breath caught and she nearly dropped the trinket. Clutching it to her bosom, she closed her eyes tight. Now she knew she was dreaming.

Another search under the tree revealed no note, no explanation. Did it matter? Even if it was a dream, it was perfect and Carmen refused to let any doubt, any questions cloud the sunshine filling the small room.

With a huge sigh she lay on her back on the floor and scrunched the pillows under her head to get a full view of the bright star glistening through the window.

She touched the figurine to her lips, hoping it would still be there in the morning. Hoping it wasn’t only her imagination.
“Merry Christmas, Daddy.” Wrapping the statuette in her fingers and clutching it to her chest. “See you next year?”

Then she felt—didn’t hear, but felt like the tender touch of a palm on her cheek—his voice, Merry Christmas, bambina.

Carmen smiled to herself, closed her eyes and fell asleep.

The Last Bus of the Night...

Chase down your passion like it's the last bus of the night.  ~Terri Guillemets

Do you believe in signs? I do.

In what will be the craziest, off-the-wall post I've probably every made, I wanted to share an event that happened to me. A sign. A beautiful, crystal-clear signpost on the road to my writing journey. 

Why crazy? Why off the wall? Because when you read it, you'll probably snicker. Hey, go ahead. I'm laughing at myself but--on the same token--it's just too powerful for me to ignore, though I even admit to myself how zany it is.

Last week I popped in a DVD from my Blockbuster queue. La Vie en Rose, a lavish French film of the life of the legendary French singer Edith Piaf. I highly recommend this movie, by the way. It's not only stunning cinematography but superb acting, especially by the lead, Marion Cotillard. 

Mid-way through the film the viewer was introduced to Piaf's lover, the love of her life as she called him, French boxer Marcel Cerdan.

And that's when it happened. My sign. 

The moment---the second---I saw the actor I knew him. I'd never seen him before in films, but I knew him intimately from my own writing. He was a character I'd written.

I knew him SO thoroughly that I immediately recognized him, even from just a shot of his back...the masculine silhouette of a stocky man in a dress coat and dark fedora. The slope of his shoulders, the outline of his body. 

I thought how very cool! There he was, in the flesh. His body, anyway. I'd seen his type many, many times. What? Did you think I invented the noir figure with overcoat and fedora? Nah. But, even so, I always appreciate it when I see its form in films and pictures. 

Then...then...the camera zoomed in on his face. He spoke. And no longer was he just a look-a-like, a resemblance to the TYPE of man I'd written, he WAS the man I'd written.

Just as Piaf recognized him, after just one date, as the love of her life...I knew him as the love of my writing. 

The gentle twinkle in his eyes, the tilt of his head, the style and darkness of his hair, his soft yet masculine voice, his shape, his five o'clock shadow, his hands, even down to his damn wrist watch. His personality. His very soul. It was my character.

In fact, guess what? I'm going to force him on you. I was ecstatic to find a scene on Youtube featuring his first date with the singer. He's played by French actor Jean-Pierre Martins.

 That's my guy. Those movie folk used him and never even consulted me. They stole my man. 

All kidding aside, it gave me wonderful chills to walk smack-dab, right into my own creation. To see him so perfectly, vividly brought to life.

It was a sign. A sign for what? 

Oh, geez, I get so excited thinking about this, I can hardly contain myself.

The fact is, this character--my name for his is Salvatore--was the very first character I ever penned. The very first. And, yet, through the few years that I've been writing, I've never quite placed him in the setting he belonged. I've written and re-written him so many times, I finally became frustrated I put him aside.

But a while back, I mentioned I was going to start back into my hetero romances. I saw a beautiful, romantic painting by Jack Vettriano titled Back Where You Belong. It touched my heart, it was that same dark character with the sleek hair. 

 Back Where You Belong by Jack Vettriano

Salvatore had begun to call again. My beloved character wasn't happy being buried beneath hundreds of other creations. He was there first, and by gods, he was demanding attention. 

And then, SO determined to be noticed again, he showed up in La Vie En Rose. 

Here's the part where you will agree I'm certifiably off my damn rocker. 

When I first saw the actor's smile, when he opened his mouth to speak? I cried. Yep, I cried, tuned up the waterworks and cried. Not a sweet little dainty cry, either, but kind of sobbing. Happy tears, the kind when you find something lost. So ecstatic you want to shout but there's no one to shout to. 

Who on earth would EVER understand that sort of emotion over something so silly? Another writer, maybe. Or maybe just anybody, everybody, who has a dream and they stumble right into it by accident. 

Or is it accidental? I don't think so. I truly believe in signs, and even hold in my heart that our characters--existing ones and ones who are merely dreams yet to come--DO speak to us, they DO let us know when their time has come.

And my man spoke to me. 

I've some other things to complete, but he is next. 

And another thing? In retrospect, I'm really sort of glad I did NOT write him back in the day when I changed him daily like a baby's dirty diapers. THAT was a sign that--at that time--I wasn't ready to write him. 

But, since I did envision him so long ago, I've learned a lot. I've got a universe of knowledge still left to learn, but I feel I'm at least in a position to return to him. 

Now he's smiling as I write that I'm taking him back to his roots, back to his original storyline.  

See? Told you I was crazy. 

But I'm hoping--no, I'm betting--that I'm not the only one who's encountered beautiful visions that nudged them onto the road, the direction they should go. You know. Signs.

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.  ~Anne Sexton