I fear this boat has gone adrift, without a mast and swift
lost at sea…. all purpose gone
there lies sunk with treasure, beneath a port
insignificant and forgotten
….forever to cast that faded dawn
swept beneath the waves,
like a mermaid’s dusty basement gallery
a crypt to lay to rest all memory….
resigned to private peace
We reach back inside the underground
It seems awhile that I realize I have been lost in thought.... deep inside .... somewhere within....
not even aware that I am sat upon that strange round bed under the glass ceiling window where above the pond is....
did I see it? I was not really paying attention to my surroundings ....beyond the immediate .... concerns and....
I don’t know what I think about. Maybe I flatline.... circuits blown, but then, I should be used to this as it seems drama follows me everywhere .... despite my need for otherwise. That is, a calm life with harmony .... but that has never been my lot in life, I don’t know why and so tired of blaming myself but it must be me. The more I withdraw the more it seems to irritate those who know that I even exist
and the shock of facing a rifle has eclipsed .... how much I have .... anticipated and longed for the moment of seeing .... Jörn .... and it seems I just am frozen there shaking, questioning myself over how do I seem to bring this on? and it escalates into thoughts of why it seems disaster is all I achieve even as I think I do all I can to avoid it; like my daughter that I still don’t understand how it all went against me when I love her so much, how is it possible to attract such bad fortune at every turn, I wonder as I sit there wondering why I’m being hunted down for some code I don’t hardly remember
it all goes back to my childhood as it seems too my subconscious mind is thus so warped —and from whose loins of I was spawned from to became this identity I never chose to be.... is at liberty to reek havoc all over and through my life ...events I hardly remember ....that shaped the outcome of my life and ....will forever haunt me .... continue to destroy me.... despite all my efforts to rise above them .... I’m caught in a tangled trap of emotions I don’t even understand and hold me from release or peace
“You got so thin.”
I look up as he comes through the partition. It seems he has made me a cup of tea
and as I take it from him ....our hands touch that way. Reminding me again of .... things. Like before. On the stairs. It was this moment when .... he always comes to me when I am in danger; when it seems it is impending disaster ....like now....
“No, it is just muscle loss from not getting out to do things like hiking —being stuck in.”
“Duva, I can feel your bones right through your skin,” he says, he reaches to run his hand over my shoulder, “are you eating?”
I recoil part from his words. I pull away and draw my legs up to me,
“sorry for being hideous to you. How did you know where I was and what were you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were coming, why?!”
and because he does not reply, I finally turn to look up at him
it is the look in his eyes that disarms me.... I had not expected to see that .... hurt....?
for a moment it stuns me to see that. I have to rewind in my mind whatever we just said and .... my face burns ....
he sits down beside me.... but I become tense. I move back a few inches and when I look up at him I see his eyes react
He says,
“I ....your phone....” he looks at me and I can see he is thinking about not what he says but something else .... “your phone; the gps.... I tracked you.... I realized you left the underground and were walking right into danger —thank god I was there—skit! what were you thinking!?! I have to ask because —what if I hadn’t been there in time? What made you do that?!”
“I am sick of being stuck in here! How could you just leave me here like that, Jörn? All those weeks— and you never even said— I think I am losing my mind....” I say the last part without expecting to and start to cry but stop myself in time
....and he reaches for me
“No....!” I pull away and cover my face, “you still haven’t said why you’re here!”
“Why?—duva.... if it were up to me I would not have left you here like this. They didn’t give me a choice —to do with my government, it’s too involved to go into and I can’t really reveal classified information. As you know, I’m not even supposed to be here....”
“So why are you? Are you going to be arrested? I still don’t understand how you can travel so freely when nobody is even allowed to fly anywhere!”
I look at him
and he smiles .... in that way he has —what is that? he reaches again for me and as I start to pull away he says,
“why do you think I’m here?”
So .... I think about what Willem said
his taking foolish chances.... how he said it was not like Jörn to ....
“I have to get to the house,” Jörn suddenly says
“The house?”
“Yes....” he tells me
“But aren’t they there?”
Jörn nods in that way that seems to say “obviously”
“You can’t go up there!” I say, “they have guns!”
“Duva....” and now he looks at me in that way as if I may be a bit slow and shakes his head
“Jörn— no! —what do mean?”
He shrugs and runs his hand over his hip as if to explain —and only now I see he has a gun
“They can’t stay there in the house. Especially now that they know you’re here. They’ve been looking for the safe— that’s why they haven’t left— and you— because they know you have the code .... they know it has to be here.”
“I found them,” I say now, as if I think it would be a surprise
“I know,” he says
And only now it occurs to me that he wanted me to....
“But I don’t know the code!”
He tilts his head to one side,
“yes, you do....”
“No! I don’t!”
And this time when he moves near me to touch me I don’t pull away,
“you do.... “ he taps my head, “it’s locked in there.... but I believe I can make you remember.”
“How?— why? Why is it so important anyway? Now? All these years later, why should it matter or be worth all of this?What’s in it?”
He thinks before replying. And studies my face,
“how? You saw the sheets of music. The keyboard ....” and then he sighs heavily “what’s in the safe? Why is it so important? Yes, actually, it is still relevant if you want to know —what is in there....”
“Why? What can be in there?”
He stands up
I watch him pace around the room.
It is so strange to see him in here. After all these weeks.... It seems strange to see him too
And only now do I take in his appearance. What he wears. It is not his usual choice of clothes. Somewhat nondescript. Forgettable. And it makes sense now that I think about it. Ordinary jeans, a gray shirt and a plain khaki jacket and work boots; the kind of clothes that can make someone go unnoticed especially to American authorities. Maybe that is what has felt so strange about him, he could pass for American and I find I don’t like it somehow ....remembering him in the lobby that first time I saw him ....heading for his evening’s performance
He turns around,
“You really want to know what’s in there? Talk about a Pandora’s box.... let’s see, let’s start with just the little things first.... oh, just the.... floor plans of all secret entrances to all the embassies around the world, how about floor plans of places like the Pentagon, Fort Knox—? ....floor plans of all world leader countries secret nuclear bases not to mention formulas and vials of chemical warfare weapons.... Duva.... poisonous bacterias ....for the use of chemical warfare— viruses.... sound familiar? maybe relevant? not so outlandish, is it?.... to be used ....likewise ....let’s see, what else? —the early development of ....the basis of the Corona virus and SARS ....anthrax.... just to give you an idea of the scale of this....chlorine, nerve gas.... how to build a nuclear weapon .... duva.... you of all people should know what a swine that man was if he hired someone to assault you and fucking left you for dead on the college dorm room floor on a private college compass—call it revenge! —for ....?” Jörn pauses only long enough to take a deep breath as if to reload, “I managed to get a view of the contents when it was back in Sweden— it’s a type of X-ray ..... so.... you should know ....there are other things that —I discovered too that —are ....in there.... I came across an interesting letter that surfaced through .... my sources..... I found things of —a more personal nature to him —that back up his motives of revenge ....photos of your biological father with Castro to appear incriminating.... and even more personal, your mother with —Ethan in compromising situations.... taped phone calls of this nature between them, and ....two blood samples, duva that he meant to send for the definitive DNA test of —guess who exactly? One he got from the hospital in Miami where Ethan passed away....”
For a long moment I sit there even more stunned than before
and then, I suddenly surface,
“please don’t go up there!” I blurt out now filled with dread. I cover my face in my hands
“It has to be done, duva— do you really think I’m going to just stay here and hide?”
he actually laughs!
“You think you’re going to take on—what five guys!? —with rifles?! All by yourself? You are crazy! Willem’s right— totally foolish!”
“No, maybe not completely alone— actually, now that you mention....Willem will be here any minute....”
It seems an agonizing long time like that while holding back the urge to heave, breathing in the diseased, putrid reek of unclean, animal filth, half gagging while tensely gripping every muscle in my body to keep from moving. Yet I am aware that I shake, now having seen the faces of the men that have been keeping me living like a hostage, no better than a rat in a rathole underground, and ....
forced to trust the hand against my mouth ....even as, had not the whisper given it away ....the subtle scent cutting through the filth reaches me ....of bergamot and cedar ....and under different circumstances I suspect that I would be more aware of certain details, but then, this is the only reason that I comply to his command and willingly let myself be pulled along backwards slowly, and in slow and excruciating measures, am pulled backward and quietly back up the slope I slipped down what seems like long moments before
And so it seems forever that, in this manner, progressing backward through wet ground, tangled branches and dead roots of broken tree trunks with the hand across my mouth and an arm across my abdomen, slowly I notice with relief, the reek subsiding in the distance. Still it is slow going backward in careful studied movements, as the sounds of voices seem to fade into the trees even as I clumsily misjudge a step and stumble in my confusion of where I step in this manner and almost crash forward down but then am pulled off my feet with a sudden impatient half coherent grunted, “attans!” in irritation, which had I not been sure, leaves me without doubt, even as there was never a question as soon as he was near
Yet, no sooner cleared of the muck and mud, slammed hard backward past the tunnel door that he catches with his booted foot to keep from making a sound, while still keeping a pinching and painful grip around my waist that keeps me from regaining my footing, once the door is secured shut inside the tunnel I am flung up against the wall
“What the fuck were you doing out there?!!” holding me at eye level up to him he stares at me enraged, holding me against the wall, kryptonite eyes blazing at me like ice cold heat
Only, I start to pass out and cannot answer him, I see black dots that start to take over my vision and he lets go putting me down on the stair case to sit on a step as it seems I have forgotten how the breathe, as I seem unable to catch my breath, shaking still and feel dizzy and sick, like I could vomit
“Breathe,” he says, sitting down next to me and pulls me to him, “like this,” he says, leaning his forehead against mine shows me and says, “in....” breathing in with me, “now out....” but it seems the shock of the moment stuns me. And his strange calm seems so out of place to me. But then, he must do this every day, I suddenly start to realize.... but then.... like that moment so long ago ....with the coffee cup.... I get the chill knowing —we have done this before, haven’t we....? in much the same way.... and still dizzy from what has happened I don’t really think so much as know, and know ....blind faith.... “breathe with me,” he says, “like this....” and just do what he says.... as if we have done this all before and look up at his face into the vampire eyes
But in the end, I step outside the tunnel door and for awhile stand outside leaning up against it as I both try to get my bearings and also try to get used to the feeling of being outside.
It has been months and feels so very odd —never mind how oddly I know I am dressed — having to make use of whatever is close to my size among the Cabaret boxes which still lay upon the dungeon’s conveyor belts —which have also been my main source of wearing apparel these last few months—the boxes mostly choices consisting of bizarre animal prints and bold shades of crushed velvet with some lucky finds of snug fitting faux leather jeans with unfortunately too much extra room in the crotch. But luckily, today I found a box of some things from Le chevalier line and managed to make do with a long poet’s shirt —which covers the extra baggage, along with a Louise XIV paisley, damask, silk, burgundy jacket —to pair off with, naturally, combat boots. How completely inconspicuous to be dressed like Steven Tyler in the middle of the Adirondaks but there wasn’t much choice.... needs be—as I had to get out of there, feeling like Howard Hughs after he lost his mind
I mean .... doesn’t this go all the way down the other side of the hill? I think.... deep underground —it’s through the hill— so.... that must mean the barn house would be the direct opposite ....going the other way.... I mean, right....obviously?
Still I hesitate and take a moment to review the email with the map....
still, not quite very clear as it’s confusing to visualize what I look at.... I turn around now to better look at where I just came out of ....
Weird .... it’s almost invisible with the trees and the paint
I walk around a little over the thawing ground and see— what is that?
Oh —the sewage pipe graveyard —not pretty... but effective ....
at least I don’t think those are working ....
but then....I get distracted by a sound. The snap of branches behind me
.... and
I sharply turn to look—and for a moment my heart is pounding until I see a deer leaping through the trees
So for awhile I just wait to calm myself and then step through a soggy thatch of dead, leafy forest bed. I climb up the woody incline now grateful for the combat boots and decide to take a few moments to survey the area around.... until I hear voices
Voices?
Who would be around here ....I wonder— kind of odd
the middle of the woods unless .... well, unless they’re hunters ....and.... no sooner do I think of that that I hear a sudden shot ring loudly through the air like a pop erupting in an echoing explosion
Oh shit!
I bolt back towards where I came from deciding I’d better head back ASAP and start running but .... I don’t see the tunnel entrance now .... in fact, it seems to have disappeared like Brigadoon .... as it is so well hidden.... this is so not cool, I quickly realize as I start to panic ....
and the voices get closer. I can hear the branches snapping as they call to each other in lowered tones. It is awhile before I realize they are speaking in another language —what language? I can’t place it. Maybe Slavic or.... no, I don’t know it....
But then I see someone up the hill dressed in camouflage —and just as I see him he sees me and shouts pointing at me!
Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!
I bolt and start to run — but end up falling down the steep incline, sliding down mud as I hear them shouting and running in my direction! I land, falling with a sudden thud as something hard hits against my shoulder —or rather it is myself that lands against something hard, causing a painful impact....
it is not long before I realize where I have fallen —smack, dab inside the rusted sewage pipe park.... oh god.... but there is consolation in the fact that the pipes are indeed defunct, if not overgrown with wet earth, twigs, spiders and —I suspect rodents by the smell ....and start to heave and gag
“Don’t move!” and from behind I am grabbed, a hand shoved up against my mouth, “don’t breathe, don’t say a word!”
dear dictionary .....
It is when, by following the course of the map tunnel that I take the tunnel that leads out to the highway, hidden by a kind of grove of dense woods and according to the photo of how it looks on the outside, the sealed door I come to at the end is camouflaged by the shades of the forest in paint to blend with the background. And when I reach it, daylight filters through a narrow window, overshadowed by an old tree with draping thick branches, somewhat bare from winter.
There is a staircase that leads upwards behind me that seems to lead up a hill to some other exit.
As tempting as the daylight is to draw me out— as the desperation to be outside in nature drugs my mind I .... hesitate ....
there is marked in red signs everywhere ....danger
and just go to the staircase instead .... sit down on a step .... knowing out there lies vitamin D .... which there has been no source —and there lies the light, like a promise that beckons, as it ghostly illuminates from the window .... my skin has become just as ghostly; as pale as mashed potatoes ....
but out there is so terrifying
this cave .... these walls ....
these walls to write on
intelligent life ....? I’m losing all faith .... this cave, these walls ..... that I write on .... these walls I have raised .... maybe dare not be razed .... reaching for reason in an unreasonable world is to be a human among dinosaurs; how sad the effort to try seems a futile exertion ....reading about renegades in world news everywhere; things that won’t go away; psycho fraudulent x president, madness all over, shootings, global revolts, a virus that is somehow political and controversial, never mind deadly, genocide, fascist leaders everywhere.... to be human among dinosaurs .... the isolation is terrifying; these markings on caveman walls
I want to leave
here....
but where do I go.... and who is there —who was there ever— that I could ever really trust .... just the Celf .... the celves; the selves within the self-made cell .... what I would give for just one clear sign .... these writings mark my wall
.... till later
....Electra
I spend hours at that keyboard afterwards. Losing track of the hours ....
for days after sit there....
the memory of my Beethoven recital haunts at me and finally have to leave that room.... that secret, hidden room behind a cracked wall .... and avoid it awhile
I received two first prize awards. I remember looking at them as a child; taking them out of the drawer they were hidden in, in my mother’s nineteenth century wood-carved, antique secretary. They were never displayed, they were tucked away so as not to upset my sister or irritate —him—
why do I think of this now? I find I wonder what ever happened to that old heavy piece that was as tall as the ceiling and as wide as a single bed. It cost a fortune, was my mother’s prize possession. It had so many hidden, secret drawers.... secret keys.... the writing desk folded out and two wood levers pulled out to support it. Dark walnut, always polished to a deep shine and two screen doors opened that would lock with old skeloton keys where two silk wine colored tassels hung. It was such a magnificent piece, it came everywhere whenever we moved across the ocean —twice.... my wild extravagant mother with her weakness for antiques and fine things, she had such regal style
that was why the drum table always blended right in. You would never know it was actually a key to a safe, but then even the safe is a camouflage; hide it in plain sight ....it just looks like an old sea captain’s trunk and was always shined to a high polish as well but served as a coffee table, nobody ever would think it actually opened; the perfect ruse
these thoughts that haunt ....
But the music .... it seems to echo in my mind, evasive and elusive ....driving me mad
I used to pretend to read the notes as my piano teacher slammed her stick, hovering over me, shouting for perfection. She terrified me. I couldn’t let on that I could not see the notes on the page and just would memorize her first demonstrations of a new piece; know when to turn the page .... I mean, sure, if I looked hard at the page —if I blocked out the other chords and, I could figure out what they were.... but, it just seemed an annoying step to do when I could just remember how to play them, that was so much easier and more fun and they made better sense once you understood the composer’s mood. No, I never had much patience for symbols because they don’t stay still, move around so much and just cause motion sickness
I can hear the music still in my mind ....
but then it seems I’m losing my mind.... overwhelmed by fears, real or imagined ailments that I think I might have and stuck here isolated, that I become obsessed over and find myself filled with outrageous anxiety
so tempted to escape the prison.... “shit, I’m losing my mind ....” I say out loud.... thinking: what if I die down here? no one would know ..... and spend hours with such dreadful fears of this ....Until it reaches a point I get a migraine.
I go back up to the dungeon to do my Cabaret work on orders and setting up shipments through distributors and reading the mindless nonsense in the chat room to distract my mind from fears and serious thoughts that make me sad....
Some time after hours of this my mobile phone gets a call.
But it is the other number, not Jörn’s new one, but the first one I received the call from when he and Willem were being held
I welcome the distraction and hesitate a moment wondering if I should but then think Jörn would have said something about it, I take the call
“hallo, mijn oude vriend, de ochtendschemering wacht!”
“Willem?!”
“I am just calling to check on you— Jörn is catching a flight but he wanted to make sure things are ok,” he says
“Ok?” I ask and find I doubt it but keep it to myself, “why, where is he going? What’s going on?”
“Listen, I have been wishing to talk to you a little. Some things we never got to. They have been on my mind... things from your past ....well, maybe we catch up another time with all that but ....I feel I should level with you about some things,” he says now. I hear sounds in the background ....swooshing sounds of motion, he must be be driving
“What do you mean, level?” I ask
“Let’s just say —I feel I owe it to your grandfather.... you remember it was he who first hired me years ago,” he says
“Yes, I know.”
“He was a good man, he was concerned for your safety, you know? So.... I don’t know .... I get the feeling —you don’t know if Jörn is ....well— how can I put this? It is not my business, but.... maybe I feel like I owe it to grandpa, right?”
I take a deep breath of dread,
“you think he’s deceiving me?”
“I didn’t say that, that isn’t even what I am trying to say. No, it is actually something else. I don’t know but, well maybe, I think, you should know something ....”
“What are you saying?”
“Jörn does not let on about things —what is that expression? Ja, dat is het—he ‘plays it close to the vest’ which is good for spy work but I think sometimes not so good in other parts of life,” he says
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he takes chances I worry about ....”
“Can you please tell me what you’re trying to say? Chances how?”
“I didn’t get it at first ....” he hesitates and takes a moment to take a long breath. He lets out a sigh, “let me just explain something. I have known Jörn a long time now. We have worked together for years. Other cases. I have seen how he works....” and again there is another pause
I had been sitting at the desk on my side where I do my computer work with orders, but now I get up to pace nervously between the two desks and then go the other way, stopping in all the places Jörn usual would to shuffle through things he’s looking for. I pace to the filing cabinet and then to the mini fridge
“And?”
“I remember the day he first saw your picture ....”
And something in Willem’s voice makes me need to sit down.
I wait
“From that moment on .... something changed ....”he says
and I feel that chill; the same chill from the first time I saw Jörn,
“When he saw my picture.... you were there? What do you mean....Changed?”
“About him.... “ he says, “after that he .... well.... he demanded to be put on the case, because, you see, really, it was first my case .... but he wouldn’t let it go.... “ he stops as he seems unsure of whether to say more, “I thought maybe he knew you from somewhere— so strange really .... well, I am just saying .... ever since .... well.... I just thought you should know this....” and then there is another heavy sigh ....and then silence
After the call ends I find I am somewhat stupefied. I have never really thought that ....
But before Willem ended the call he said one more thing,
“it just is not like him to take foolish chances so.... I guess I am telling you so.... maybe to just know this.... and if any reason —you can use this number to reach me, ja? —dat is alles. I should be in your area in a few days, so—voor nu tot ziens.”
At first I get up to pace back and forth as a million thoughts seem to take my mind in all directions
and then stop myself from pacing and find myself just staring at nothing for a very long time
....and only realize I have been standing in front of the filing cabinet that conceals the secret cabinet in the wall and remember how to open it
knowing what is inside ....
I am compelled now to open it....
and once opened
sit down on the floor.... and reach deliberately for the passports. I pick up each one, open them to the photo page and lay them all out in front of me— no, not even do I care what all the names say and all the fake, different nationalities.... made up names and identities, the slight nuances of disguises in the photos .... I am by now so used to knowing what he does.... it’s just a job to him....
And so just stare at the photos .... and don’t at all care .... because it is him that I look for .... the one there within ....such eyes.... it is not so much just his eyes but what is there behind them that I see ....and have known ....even though I have been ignoring .... it is always there
sitting there I stare at the photos, at his face, this man with the vampire eyes from dreams .... and .... long for him .... run my fingers over the photos and across his features, wanting to touch him because of the ache of how much I long for his face, long for him
And again that question which haunts the way he haunts my soul, why now?....that he should come into my life now.... what purpose does it serve .....? when after years of wandering and lost dreams should he arrive and disarm my well constructed walls.... what is it for .... that we should meet now?
for something that he needs? —something that I need?—something that goes beyond life and time?
....the madness of isolation and what it does to the mind
What part of the intellect are emotions, I wonder? For without them entirely there could be no compassion for life or survival even to one’s self I think. Would there be no ambition even .... ?
What part of the intellect are emotions?
are they there to guide us? —rule us? or temper us....
unless it is all such a great, big accident
we imagine gods sitting up there watching and pushing us around like games of chess
we imagine an infinite king with the ultimate say and the final ruling of judgement .... with just one wicked enemy
And this is what I think about as I stand there staring at those two dominating objects in the room presiding like king and queen. Until I become aware there is something behind me facing the regal audience that is against the contoured wall. In the shadows. As the only light comes from the one just above over the other two but in the distance falls the shadows of the diminished light where yet are other things
I go over to look at what it is as I am still thinking about the meanings of emotions and what the absence of ....might render .... chaos or the clarity of impartiality .... but for what ultimate ....purpose
A keyboard
—plugged into the electric outlet .... drawn .... I go over to it
sheets of music .... sheets of music?
I look at them. By now I recognize the hand that writes these .... even the distracted scribbles of notes of sequence all in pencil .... some scribbled over, scribbled out and over the markings of dancing symbols the letters printed over them
E G B D F
then crossed out
then:
313c
printed in the margin followed by
7 r a ....added in ink as if in a sudden rush
—with a question mark ....?
313c7ra
I catch my breath and find I’m overcome because I read Jörn’s other notes; first:
313= ELE?
I feel a wave of dizziness and catch my breath ....
he writes in ink:
“It’s a lockletter”
only now I notice there is a metal folding chair in the deeper shadow and grateful for it quickly move over to it to drag over and sit down .... but have to close my eyes not wishing to let the waves of dizziness overcome me
and when at last I know they have passed I force a calmness to look back at his hacker’s notes; he writes beside this, “think like a dyslexic....”
3 (times chord played one hand ) then 1
Up a scale and again:
3 (times again)
Chord change:C
(Four notes played by four fingers) —4
313c7ra
but no it is not altogether quite right, because I know this.... I know this .... I look around at all the other things. There stacked up on the table that holds the keyboard are books of sheet music, all Beethoven and my heart suddenly begins to pound loudly in my head .... breathe .... lay my fingers on the keys and squeeze my eyes shut
Even as, it is not a common occurrence, as it happens, because as I have known of other things ....when I saw him ....again it took me by surprise as I don’t think I really believed I really ever would —not here, not now and ....I don’t think I really believed it at the time. And— he was not who I would have ever imagined despite those dreams of the boat and ....the way he stared back at me in dreams with ....such eyes ..... those dreams ....which came at intervals throughout my life. I don’t really know when they began as they seemed to always be a part of my subconscious and yet I willed them away each time. They always scared me somehow
So, it was
no, not the first day I saw him.... when I realized because I was not willing to ....
****
but it was long before that day in the elevator.
I made the connection to the dreams only ....reluctantly and I think only did I when it nagged at my thoughts out of context of the day; just coming to my thoughts and ....haunted. He haunted me. Seeing his eyes again but, not dreaming, and in the present, even as there is such a sense of having always expected him that only in retrospect did it come to be apparent to me ....and then all the rest made sense
even as ....it is quite impossible —how?
....and the wondering over why and why now ....wondering even after all this time —what does he mean to me?
.....In the dungeon, now, I write these thoughts .... but more to stop them.... I do not want to let thoughts grip hold of me; grip hold of the emptiness and cause me to long for his touch—these thoughts I write
as I sit in the dungeon watching the monitors survey the barn house
I knew there had been hidden cameras in the house but the monitors never showed anything, that is, not until Jörn told me to get into the surveillance program in his computer in the cage, which now I have access to
I suppose before there had not been any purpose to spy on ourselves
There are several of them there that come and go. Jörn also has access to viewing so he can watch what I can see on the monitors the same way he watches me in the dungeon. And by now I have become used to knowing they are there, far removed in the underground and removed now too by so many weeks so that it is something surreal to watch the house thus removed and so remote —and the odd angles make the colorless viewing seem less like real-time and more like a film
What are they doing in there? What are they looking for?
I become more anxious now to get out of here. The thaw has finally come up in the mountains and I long so much to be outside again, long to hike and be among trees, breathe fresh air
****
It is later when.....
I go back down to the deep underground, where lately I go a lot to the gym as it is a good way to force discipline ....away from thoughts or —exhaust thoughts and to keep from climbing the walls or from slamming my head up against them
I throw myself into an ambitious work out to force away thoughts and stopping only to take a short breath....
I don’t know what causes me to look at a section of the the dark gray painted wall that in the odd light looks cracked. I go over to it. No, that is not a natural crack, i decide as —I can tell— I mean, by now, I have become accustomed to these hidden doorways down here but even still.... this one is quite different yet.... I get this odd feeling
I look around me thinking ..... and spinning around me looking at all the work out equipment thinking as my eyes peel all the surfaces .... there! I spot an Allen key! —at the foot of a wall of weights and walk over .... there! —beside it a watch. I pick it up to study it. What’s it doing there? I’ve never seen it before, yet.... there’s something somehow familiar about it. It’s an unusual watch that —yes.... it looks like it is made of platinum by the way it glows in the light. I turn it over. On the back of the watch there is an engraving; a kind of indentation like —the shape of a keyhole? beside the insignia ....that I know —yes! from the pendant that he made me.... the tiny platinum safe with the dangling key that I have not taken off since that day.... The key?
The chain is long enough to see if it fits the tiny keyhole
And yet, all I do is just touch it to it and I jump! just as—a red light suddenly glows in the watch face but it is not this which causes me to jump but the loud click I hear from behind me that causes me to start
I spin around fast and bolt right towards the crack as —much more clear now it is revealed.... cracks wide now and comes apart .... I lean into the wall and push against the crack to open it wide and .... it gives away—yes— like another doorway..... another passage is revealed as a light clicks on as it opens
It is hard not to stand there with my jaw wide open staring at what illuminates within
“Oh my god,” I say out loud to the otherwise empty room, “the safe and the table!”
foundations behind the seeming fiction
Part of the benefit of moving away from the US was that it allowed a great distance between my grandfather and us, which worked for the benefit of my mother’s husband. While things were never safe in that household for myself, my grandfather’s presence in my life had given me protection as up until our move away, he was a constant presence in our life back in Florida where I was born and where we lived until the move away; he came often to visit during the week and could be relied upon to always arrive every Sunday, like clockwork with a paper bag filled with bagels, lox and cream cheese and whitefish. He was always there, safe and reassuring and no doubt why I became a huge fan of old black and white movies as I spent every Sunday afternoon watching them with him on television and listening to him tell me stories of old New York. Looking back, I see he was the real presence of a father figure. And I always thought he was that for all of us in, what once had been, a very big family with extended members always showing up, arriving from their New York lives for visits.
I only realized more recently that he did not really take such a personal interest in all the family, nor all his grandchildren. Indeed, not to my sister and not to his grandson who was my aunt’s son. Only looking back now it seems clear that his two favorites had been Pat and myself. I think his particular affinity came from the fact of our sullied birth; the two bastards lacking a father. Either ignored or mistreated by the legal stand-ins. But I was ignorant of all this during the time he was alive. Pat who had been my idol of whom I had emulated as a young girl; the hippie who overdosed, older than me by a generation. Her own father had been a French soldier who disappeared after the war and whom never would choose to recognize her even after she found him in France.
I suppose my grandfather feared I would suffer her fate, but soon after Pat died, just a few months after our grandmother had who had served as the family back bone and matriarch, these events which, looking back, I see, are what set into motion the desire for some break from that life we lived in that neat, shuttered, yellow house in Miami. And only now older have I really appreciated the way he singled me out as his favorite after Pat was gone because I never saw this until years after his death.
I only half believed Willem when he said he worked for the CID that day he bumped into me at the bar in the Netherlands, producing that business card for me to hold onto— that is, until he mentioned my grandfather. It was by the second rum and coke when he said my grandfather would not approve of me drinking, and maybe that was when I started to believe him and bothered to hear what he was saying. The fact that he knew details; not just about who my grandfather was, where he lived, was from, his first, last and middle name .... but he knew about the shouting in the flat where we lived in Amsterdam; he knew how I’d often run away down the street to the local hotels to hide, finding my way to the bars inside to find someone to talk to and feel safe for awhile. I think what made me really believe Willem was not when he said I should call the number on the card if I was ever in danger at home but the fact that one day my mother told me someone came to our flat to warn my ‘father’ that what he yelled could be heard through the floor and .... with a warning, left his card
I had known my grandfather had a tendency to hire detectives; he had done it with both his wild daughters and enabled Pat to find her biological father. He was a very clever man, well educated and inspired me to learn world history as he said if we don’t know of our past, we ignorantly repeat it. He kept up with news and the world and would quiz me like a stern headmaster, sending my letters back airmail often with my misspells circled in red, which I did not much like at the time (a dyslexic’s shame) but, at least he paid attention to me and cared.
There were many strange and mysterious occurrences over those years too; the uniformed police who often would stop me on my way walking home after my journey from school to question me, asking about my ‘spy father’ .... followed home often from my wayward flights escaping home life..... Did I believe Willem was hired to watch me? ....I never forgot him and I kept his card, though I never dared call. But then, I didn’t have to. The shouting stopped. Leaving only the uncomfortable veiled threats of my ‘father’ but now said in lowered tones.
The bugged phones at home; what was that about? The spy equipment I found in desk drawers; the papers in briefcases hidden in locked filing cabinets .... do I think he was a spy? Probably. A lot over the years that turned up supports the likeliness and the sudden exodus he left the Netherlands around the time of my assault ....who I am, not just to acknowledge but to bring home a point; has something to do with a high profile person considered by many to be one of the most dangerous men in the world when he was alive, and he was but, I believe with all that I have learned of him, for good. Sure he had his weaknesses and his slightly wicked ways, but he was a good man who got in the way of a dominant political mindset he meant to liberate and they took him down with his vices to set back and disarm all his causes

upon thoughts of identity, as in coming to terms with who you are, ‘knowing who you are’ and having the courage to acknowledge who you are and then accepting this to wear upon your sleeve in how one presents themself truthfully to the world they encounter
this one aspect which goes with my exploration of a purpose in life that I suppose somehow I have found I feel obligated to serve; why I ever wound up with this so called ‘gift’ (or curse) of this obscure art of communication through artistic expression seems to place me on a personal platform compels me each day to search deeply to look inward at a massive collection of intentional research and experience that never felt like a choice but a mission ..... presses me to I guess underline what comes in those rare moments of epiphanies
to abandon this philosophical project to understand purpose would be like wastefully tossing away time labored over doing this and .... conclusions I reach ....just in the off chance these words blow across that allegorical subway floor like a leaf of paper from a notebook just into the right hands of a fellow traveler ..... I never had lofty ideas for myself, never wanted grandeur or fame because I saw what all that did to someone I .... am connected to but could never claim to be—not publicly anyway. that too was never my point
still, the things that went with all of that are part of why this Pandora’s box became this identity to do this so only for this reason do I mention it. to have to grow up being a secret.... it is so hard to feel one has the right to feel. to speak. to stand up .... for the self. no matter the horrors and injustices .... to live like someone erased; invisible; inconsequential
why should that leaf from a notebook fall into the hand of some other lost soul? one example comes to me; it is because of what impact she did, and it was the very words of Charlotte Brontë, years even after her life ended. I think often what would have happened had she never written them, what if I never saw them .... it was her actual words that reached me when I read them that struck deep into my soul and saved me at the right time in my life when I needed saving. They could have been written by me as she said things I felt. though long gone as she was she is so vital for all that she stood for and this is what gave me courage not to lay down on that highway to wait for a truck like I had on that road on Bard campus days after my assault knowing who had been behind it
but not knowing why
well, no truck came that night. I did walk back watching the dawn come up. I did that night after night but I guess someone was watching over me
the other day just upon waking, in between sleep and awake my mother came to me to explain and as wild as that may seem ..... I fully understood what I had been unable to before
I don’t think that came from inside me, it came from somewhere else because I never understood it all and somehow now I can —even as I have said I forgave her, I guess a part of me still deeply hurt for what had always felt like her choice to abandon me to the cruelty I endured by her husband as she stood there silently allowing it all, turning a blind eye and then later cutting me out of their lives; holidays, her illness, even telephone calls ....shut out
why?
So, you see, when I woke up completely after that conversation between sleep and awake
the fact that I understood it all .... maybe I feel it requires me to .... integrate this into .... whatever this exploration for the understanding of purpose, self, acknowledgement
You see, it was not so much what she said to me .... you see, it was like I stepped into her shoes. I felt it from inside her. It made me understand what she really felt .... how? I don’t know. But we had a kind of telepathy when she was alive so, there is not the slightest doubt to me she felt it necessary I ought to know
and I suppose I could list all her reasons but .... I think perhaps I would rather say about it that .... she grew up in different times and the choices she had to make in life are not how we live now.... so..... that is what I woke up to .... finally
I think she was giving me permission to acknowledge who I really am
and maybe I will burn all my words one day.... disappear erased from invisible , who knows.... blow away ....but this mission keeps calling me back
choices in shop windows
she opened her diary to an old page, flipped the pages back to read, the ink was smeared in places and she read to herself the old words there.
‘he said to me, “I can’t offer you romance but I would like you to be by my side, I need you to be the mother of my child and be what I need you to be, although I don’t love you and never will, will you marry me?”
she turned the page and then another. and another and another....why did she? she thought as she read each yellowed smeared page, why didn’t she keep to the bargain, be what he needed? She found more pages that came after years and more years, the risks, the safe choices and the words of despair swam before her eyes from other years, more and more words, faith given and chances taken of another
the oppression of the room drew her out into the night. she drove aimlessly for hours finding herself walking past shop windows and looking in at scenes displayed then wandered down a side street of houses. And as she passed the houses, she saw scenes of families within, laughing families and living rooms warm and snug filled with life and, eventually, wandered back to the street where her car was parked but stopped and turned to look at the nearest shop window and walked over to it to look inside
she found it beautiful, like a painting, it had a glowing fireplace lit behind by an electric light. There was no one in this window, it lay there like a promise and she pressed her forehead to the glass seeing herself there surrounded in what wasn’t there
then walked back to her car
she returned home and found other diaries and one by one she burned them and then walked to her window and looked out into the night and caught sight of a young girl looking in, and so because the girl looked so lost she went outside to find her but when she got outside there was no one there so she went back inside
when she went back in she saw a message on her phone from a name off those burnt pages. it said ‘it wasn’t great but it wasn’t always bad even if we nearly killed each other, there’s safety in the devil you know’
the weight of life pressed heavy on her shoulders of things remembered and family lost and ugly scenes that weren’t there swam before her eyes
she went back to stare outside the window and the lost girl reappeared ....and stared back at her
From the novel A Spy in the House of Love, by Anaïs Nin
“She had lost herself somewhere along the frontier between her inventions, her stories, her fantasies and her true self. The boundaries had become effaced, the tracks lost, she had walked into pure chaos, and not a chaos which carried her like the galloping of romantic riders in operas and legends, but which suddenly revealed the stage props: a papier-mâché horse.”
—-Anaïs Nin
I receive a message from Jörn but it is not through the usual means. Instead it comes to me through the Cabaret website in the ‘chat room’ that was set up during the contest from the launching of “Party in My Closet” which has taken on a life of its own
I have glossed over possible reasons for weeks about why shipping had stopped, using excuses it is due to bad winter weather but not wanting to destroy Cabaret’s recent success I had managed to get some distributors to agree temporarily to ship some orders direct. Even as my mind has not really been focused on Cabaret; besides being distracted for obvious reasons, my personal commitment to it has felt impaired by conflicting thoughts of where I truly stand with Jörn
yet I have found any excuse that provides some way to keep myself occupied with some illusion of normalcy which requires that I not look too deeply as to why I may chose any task as long as it seems to provide something, however menial, that is somehow necessary in some way, which is why I have continued to keep up with things going on at Cabaret, checking in every morning and going over orders and sales, reading through emails from customers
Jörn appears in the chat room messaging platform that only automatically pops up on my screen if someone directly addresses me through my username which is ‘Le Chevalier’ ....and I only realize it must be him when I see the username ‘GretaWearsFishnets’
as I am half asleep at the desk I bolt awake at the appearance of it and glance self-consciously at the cameras
The message in the dialogue bubble reads:
<I have a new # to give you>
At first I have to wonder over the possibilities this could be someone else in his spy world either trying to trap me or just some wild coincidence —but I don’t think much is known elsewhere of his fishnets or his Greta cover
Still I hesitate as how to reply.... and —as I was about to ask if it was him and actually start to but— then backspace realizing how idiotic that is ....and then his message comes with just a phone number to call
I reach for my mobil and start to tap it in when a call immediately comes in with the number
his voice lowered, comes in crisp and dry,
“it will be safer to talk now,” is the first thing he says; I notice he sounds different now; less tense and exhausted
“Where are you?”
“I ....Duva —I still can’t say. It’s better the less you know—but first, Willem said you tried to call a few times last night. What was it? Is something wrong?”
“Oh did I? Gosh—my phone must have butt dialed you,” I say
“Three times....?” he says after a slight pause
“Why do you have a new number?”
“They took my other phone —they’re trying to search for things but I wish them luck, they won’t find anything.”
“They?”
“The government officials. They’ve been holding us....” he’s vague
“‘Been’? Are you still there?”
“Uh— no....”
“Stina?”
“And her ensemble....” again he is vague
“So they let you go?” I ask
and I don’t know if I imagine it or I think I hear him hold back a laugh before he says,
“maybe not willingly.”
“Jörn— so.... ‘not willingly’ ....what does that mean?”
“Uh.... it is necessary to collect some evidence and that is just not possible while they keep us locked up, is it? They think we are linked to some activities that were perpetrated by —the clowns we have been after. Which was exactly their intention. With us locked up they are free to carry out the rest of their plans ....Duva, those things I asked you to do....”
“What things?” I ask
“In my emails to you that I sent —remember ....? There were the ones about the underground tunnels and then the other one about— “
“Shit! Oh my god! I —I completely forgot!” and only now I turn in the swivel chair to go back to the emails, babbling excuses as I do this, “sorry, I must have been brain dead with hunger, no, I never read them through,” and apologize again but say as I search through the list of mail for this one, “are you guys like ‘on the run’ or something? Are you both fugitives wanted by Dutch and Swedish government?”
“To name two, but —I need you to do this now—I gave you instructions on where to find some documents, can you find the emails?”
“I think —yeah— here.... I just found them —here’s the one called ‘docs’ —are these emails safe?” I ask
“Duva, this is my work, I built firewalls on all our devices and networks—” he says with strained patients
“—our....? Our?”
“Yes.... so—you see the email?”
I open it now and look at it and —force myself to focus on all the words as there are a lot of instructions.
“Oh....” I say when I realize .... what it reads ....and still holding my phone, walk over to the tall filing cabinet by the bathroom door.... it says it is behind .... but it isn’t easy to move the cabinet, “wait, hold on, this is too heavy for me ....” I say and put down the phone to try to move it; it is far heavier than my own weight but I lean onto it anyway with all of it and manage to tilt it aside adjacently. There is a hidden little built in cabinet with a locked little metal door. I pick up the phone, “wait....” I say and go back to the email where it says where I will find the key.... it says the built in dry bar ....where the phone charger was —but under it. I have to get down onto the floor and.... cobwebs and dust I feel an envelope stuck on the underside of the unit “I just found the envelope with the keys,” I say into the phone
“It’s the yellow one,” he says and quickly says, “don’t loose those keys! Put them back when we’re done.”
I find the one with the yellow rubber thing on it and go back to the little hidden door behind the filing cabinet and it opens,
“oh, what am I looking for?—I forgot what you said—“ and in the dim light see the little cabinet is filled with various odd things ....discs, papers, passports, metal boxes....weapons— “oh my god, there’s a gun!”
“You’re looking for a thumb drive— a flash drive; there are several in there but this one has a red piece of tape around it.... Duva? Do you see it?”
I find it,
“yes.”
He says now,
“go back over to my computer—“
“Jörn, but it never lets me on!”
“Well, in the email I tell you where you’ll find my password for it but —that will take too long so I’ll just tell you now—are you in front of it?”
“Aren’t you watching me?”
“I’m currently walking somewhere and have to see where I’m going,” he says and then tells me the password. Then he says, “I need you to start downloading some files ....”
It is the middle of the night .... I try the number —but he does not answer ....and lean against the wall beside the little bunk bed ....deep in the witching hours .... ever since the loss of my friend, this panic overwhelms me. I have dreams of death ....and dying.... of dying all alone ....in sleep ....and afraid to sleep ....alone and forgotten here, who would know ....? I try the number again but my fingers shake so much it takes several tries ....but he does not answer.... he does not answer ....why does he not answer?
