the stranger; lost in translations/marker of more notes to e.d.

struggling to define a self, between the pages behind what makes the mortar of the Noir façade

~As work continues on the following scenes that stands for my allegorical map and legend to the center of a Celf, I am caught and trapped over serious concerns over my own responsibility to my personal purpose and meaning in this life in order to stay true to why I work at all on this divine comedy~ (of errors) 

dear e.d.,

but I am reluctant to leave my ivory tower. he tries to convince me to come out to see him before September. he says he wants to see me. am I ready to come home, he asks me.... but what does he mean? 

he tells me it is time to come out of hiding. he says everybody misses me. return to the fold of the band of misfits. 

we talk about growing up as expatriates, being foreign in a country ....only to find we are foreigners in our own country when we are forced to return years later to our own. we do not fit in. we do not understand our country and culture. we compare notes of the failed marriages and relationships. the partners who just don’t fit the mark and I find it reassuring to know it is not just me so lost; we don’t understand them, they are shallow with empty values; they are ignorant and self centered and they don’t understand us. the ones who were there only a short while adjust better coming back, but I guess they were only visiting. only visitors; the ones like us, where even the money here doesn’t make sense— to us that was home but we cannot go back.... we don’t belong. we are foreigners. I never thought I’d end up married to an American, I never wanted to be. such abrasive and misogynistic personalities. caught between the cultures; neither of the other.... and I couldn’t pretend to belong to any other one culture, I’d never be Dutch, I don’t think one slips on a costume and becomes. nor sheds the other. I’m too shy and reserved to be Dutch as they can be quite invasive, and it gets so exhausting having to be outgoing —but so are Americans. 

I don’t know what I am, really, but I suppose as I’m akin to one hemisphere, in particular, I suppose then I could think of myself as generally akin to European, like the friends I knew at school that I became the closest to; they were children of diplomats from other countries and went to our school. also caught between cultures. a stranger. how easy it was just to take a train and be somewhere else within hours, easy to step into other worlds of thought and see through other prisms. no enormous sea isolating you from all that is that other world. 

and I wonder of all the others too; was it cruel our parents played with our internal programming? our experience that made us forever such outsiders. would it have been better to remain among the sheep.... to be an ignorant pig, like Mills questioned, happy in not knowing better? 

and as we compare our experiences and our fond memories of teachers, friends and shared experiences, we agree why reengaging in our presumed patriotic national culture doomed us to fail in our attempts to pursue happiness; blend our requirement of needs of the pursuit among those we meet here. for too well we understand the stigma of the ugly American ....but where do we belong? ....and then I dare to confide to him the wicked and unnameable horrors about my sister.... it comes out in a few words.... everything, the worst; all she did to me.... and find in as few words as, tells me he’s not surprised and reveals to me how everybody hated her at school —feel released. vindicated ....he says to come see him. he says to come home. but where is home? 

....so strange

and with white knuckled grip, I cling to my ivory tower still, anyhow because I built it, brick by ivory brick, as I set my course on my path to escape all the deceivers with false faces; the ivory walls insulated in steel, I trust it, it is what I know and has come to be reliable and all I know ....such a stranger in a strange land.... my dictionary tower, it is what is my home, I know these walls and why they are there. and I could only belong with whom showed a true face, and whom ever could know how to translate the pages because .... surly we know by now I have forgotten how ....somewhere in those crumbs.... dear Electra 

arwyddion a negeseuon

 

ai camgymeriad oedd meddwl ichi fy ngweld?  eich bod wedi clywed y llais tawel. 

 gwnaethoch chi ateb unwaith yn unig.  ond yna dim mwy. 

 efallai nad oeddech chi erioed yno.  

Mae'n debyg fy mod yn anghywir pan feddyliais mai chi oedd e. 

 roedd yn teimlo fel chi

codau a thudalennau rhwng

ond mae'n debyg fy mod yn gofyn am arwydd. ond a yw hynny'n fwy nag y gallwch ei roi?

Noir of demons past (e.d.jmmusechron)

It is awhile that I watch the SWAT team move in, like long limbs of a black widow spider move and curl, progressing across the back lawn in a circle. Up the hill, and closing in, they move all around. I follow the paths of the sides of the barn house as others towards the front seem to mirror this progress

And so fixed am I to the spot staring through the binoculars, that I hardly see what is there before me. Perhaps it is the remote sense from seeing it all through shields of glass and lenses that I don’t really seem to connect. 

I don’t connect with the immediacy that is

And again, like the other time I watched, it is like some action film that I seem not to even believe what I am looking at and, because it takes long for me to register what I am seeing; a slow motion reflex of some kind of disbelief .... 

But—there! 

And it is only because I recognize his silhouette so well—that and the enigmatic way he moves; lithe and menacing at the same time—because I would know him anywhere just by the way he moves, would know anywhere— like his hips, his shoulders, knowing without having to see the details of every line and crease, as if I put it all there myself. Jörn comes from a different direction, from behind the arthropodrical limbs that move as one, he takes a different route, going in an angle horizontally across the lawn and stops beside a shrub at the front corner of the shed-like building that is the sauna

And for awhile nothing happens. Everyone is still. 

and fixed so intently holding the binoculars steady it feels almost fake; like a video game or an action thriller that lulls me deeper into that disbelief of what I am looking at....until I taste it in my mouth. 

I taste it..... it is as if —like a warning

It has been described as a kind of metallic taste and it is because this is what registers to me, I realize  ....that taste is danger and.... I have tasted this before

and maybe it was long ago, for certainly, it has been years.... the alien sensation triggers the reminder of.... what tastes like fear. Yes, I have tasted this before. In a dorm room feeling myself die, the air squeezed out of my throat by hands careless of soft tissue, careless of life, hands with a cruel iron grip that cared nothing for the life it was wasting. And even back then, yes, it was surreal, slipping out of myself, letting go of life, not connected to my body and seeing images of the life I was departing; a cruel father, a sneering killer telling me how that father wished me dead, so why don’t I just die? ....seeing the image of a newspaper of the dead girl found in the dorm room, raped and strangled ....and remember —as I felt life end for me—how I saw my mother holding the newspaper of that story.... about the girl ....in black and white print.... a story in a newspaper. That was me. Yes, I saw it. I saw myself. Dead.... until somebody screamed “No!” ....somebody screamed no.... but that was not me because I had my vocal chords in a vise, but somebody screamed it in my head....and sent me back to myself.... 

Retnuh Nivek.... just now I get a shudder as the taste in my mouth connects with.... the present

Something at the corner of my eye moves! Something ....There in the shadows it emerges from below and closer in the direction of the underground, where I know is mostly dense woods, slightly past the rusted and defunct sewers .... another figure emerges! This one is different from everyone. This one is not dressed in the SWAT clothes, nor is he dressed like I remember the assassins were, this one.... is different

By the way he moves I can see he is older, there is a stiffness to his movements. This one is big and heavy and, although has muscle, it is not so lithe, slightly bent and there is a lumbering quality in how he moves.... no, he is not with the SWAT team— no— this one is not one of ours

and again, like a warning, I taste it in my mouth, something I recognize

and as he moves towards the barn house something finally registers in my head

Jörn can’t see him! 

and because it is clear to me that this bear-like, lumbering figure is loaded down with weapons with one in his hand at the ready pointing towards Jörn I spring into action! I reach for my phone with fingers shaking and type into my phone, 

<look out, there’s someone behind you!> 

—and send it....

but Jörn stays in position where he is fixed and makes no reach for his phone

I bolt to the hobbit door, now glad that I had the forethought to have changed into the clothes Jörn left for me with a pair of my own hiking boots Ilya packed for me. And so in familiar footing, I move fast down the narrow, spiral stairs, through the tree trunk, through the passage, past the rover and then through the hidden doorway that leads back to the dungeon

It is the only way I know how to get there the quickest, and as I bolt through the dungeon, I have a split second to notice— there is someone in the cage— but the cage, with the iron bars, which is never shut, I notice now is and fastened with a padlock. And as I run past I see someone in there tied up and gagged that I recognize from the parking lot at Lake Placid, the one smoking the cigarette who stared so oddly at me.... but at the moment is slumped over a desk and seems unconscious 

I feel a surge of adrenaline and along with it mixed, is panic, as I head through the catacombs that will lead just behind the new imposter heading straight for Jörn but the space of time between having seen this new arrival and getting through the walls makes me afraid of what I may find, fearing I move too slow, force my limbs to move 

When I do reach outside they are much further than I expected and with the aid of the binoculars I can at least see the intruder has still not made his presence known. I decide to go wider around, under cover of trees and shrubs and head towards the sauna.

As unused to this kind of exercise of stealth and fear, I become aware I am in danger of passing out, at turns breathing too hard, between holding my breath and the pain in my shins from exertion after weeks stuck inside. Practicality forces me to calculate my actions, first concern—do not pass out.... forcing breathing to calm until the stars go away along with the black dots that had begun to take over my vision—now move! I bolt to the left corner of the shed building and find the cover of bushes I well know by heart —but by the time I reach the corner where Jörn was, he is already well past!

Shit!—as I can see he is still not aware of the imposter! I run out away from the cover of bushes and shout,

“look-out!!”

but only after having done do I realize what I left myself in for as I feel myself being grabbed from behind and before I can shout again or do anything more, I am pulled right up off my feet with a hand pressed over my mouth,

“well look who I caught!” said with an ....all too familiar evil laugh, with a voice I could never forget ....and a stench of bad breath against my face

“Retnuh ....Nivek ....” but only comes out muffled against his hand pressed to my face

“Sorry, little hussy bitch, didn’t get that—you sayin’ you recognize your old college buddy from da hood? Said I’d finish the job, didn’t I?” and reeking with body odor, his sweat dripping onto me, he laughs again, “you’ve been keepin’ yourself nice and fit, hardly weigh as much as my dawg, nice and fit for ol’ Retnuh, —yeah, I remember, you hussy bitch!”

thoughts and asides; a passing note on the dictionary:

I am not who I was when this chronicle began, as though delivered; it shifted and I shifted

after years of scrapping it; the problems, the blocks I stumbled over —and realize it is because of the antagonist.... that is why this version of my dictionary —the analogy I define myself—works....the levels —Inferno-to-Purgatory-to-Paradiso ....and past....it is shifting; the apparatus is evolving  ....to be defined onto another level, a higher next level evolved.....which I could not reach until —challenged.... to see past

Noir hide of confession (jmmusechron/e.d.)

 

The countdown to 0-eight-hundred hour seems to stretch. as if in some eternal loop, like a lapsing of time and, with it, mounting, comes agonizing tension

I sit sipping the coffee Jörn made me— still steaming, too hot to drink. And with the binoculars fixed to me, I peer out through the trees from the safe screen of the hide watching the stillness of the back of the barn house. 

The sun has long made its presence in the sky —but nothing seems to be happening; no movement anywhere that I can see —not within or without 

.... and the excruciating minutes that barely move each time I glance down at my phone to check the time

I’m no good at this sort of thing. I don’t do anxiety at all well

and each time I get up to pace, I feel sick and just go back to the spot on the floor where I’ve found it is the best vantage point to see what is going on; best spot, low to the floor for the angle it provides and I am there half-sat but with legs and feet ready to spring 

the waiting is so maddening 

and as I have no experience with ambushes —or war tactics .... I have no idea what to expect —and feel uncomfortably ready to vomit ....and just hope Jörn knows what he’s doing ....

 and ....feel myself filled with fears and worry .... 

only now .... does it strike me that this is the first time I am really confronted with the thought of.... what if something happened to him?

what if something happens to him....

and how did I seem always to never have had to actually consider this.... ?

always before there was .... the excuse ....the screen of his spy world mystery; the mystery of knowing what he was up to.... and safe in not knowing ....and then, of course —the times too busy being angry at him. the excuse....

guarding emotions

but what would I do....?

In that suspension of time that takes forever as I wait.... these sudden thoughts consume me.... 

And remember —was it almost a year ago now—?— there was the time I saw him hang from the helicopter —but it seemed surreal through the surveillance monitors ....like watching some special effects action film 

And so....

       .... it makes me wonder about him —now as I sit there.... 

and think about what he said in the truck —that things “usually” go as planned.... 

.... and.... it makes me wonder things.... and wonder too, like— if he’s ever been shot

His mystery —and his scars ....I never have asked him as they seem as subjects closed —as is the poker face he keeps and.... as unknown territory like so many other things about him. Things I wish I could know. wish he would say.... so many things behind that beautiful mask he wears.... of what lays behind....

so the thought grips me now as the nausea sweeps like a wave over me —what if he’s shot.... ?

—or worse .... or else, what if he’s horribly —maimed?

 ....and alone with my thoughts as I am ....here in my hide ....

for the first time confess to myself things I never have allowed myself

 ....like 

those things I never told him. those things.... and not wanting to, my eyes blur and I find myself whispering things .... 

whispering promises....to some silent ....beyond ....

and feel myself seem to step out of myself, as if watching from outside of myself, like I have so often watched in dreams .... watching the shore, waiting .... watching the sun in the sky and .... with it that feeling of ....dread .... 

and again think. things I never told him. never got to say. things I never even said out loud to myself —as if by not—that made it safe. safer.... and yet knowing it wouldn’t matter, I’d still —feel— this. even if the worst occurred....

killed or ....maimed.... but, I know with all that my soul does know about life. about meaning. about existence that.... that even if maimed ....or even death— that it wouldn’t change anything ....of what I feel; it would survive....even life times 

but I suppose it was wrong to suppose that he ever would ....that to him—it would be this way; that he would—could.... no, I was wrong to believe he might

but now gripped with this feeling of dread I reproach myself.... should I ....have said? and now, possibly too late—it ....was pride making me pretend that I don’t care .... pretending I don’t care .... that much. but —does he? maybe not and maybe it’s better not to say unless he does care about me, then the moment lost

No. I don’t know.... and....

why would I matter to him? to him ....I am irrelevant; easily forgotten ....more interested in his espionage, and then, there is his opera, when he gets a free moment 

....he has no time for anything else—he’s a spy—a hacker, like he told me—all he cares about are his spy games, his capers, cracking his safes and codes. And I am i anything more to him than just a code to him? no, I am nothing to him—anyway —and now that game is up, isn’t it? .... I’m nothing, nobody ....now —and no, I could not imagine he would ever consider giving his heart ....and to me....? never, I know better and I should never expect he would. of course I know. who am I anyway.... just a curiosity .... a passing curiosity

and now as I wonder, staring through the lenses focused at the landscape with a sinking faith.... 

and I wonder ....maybe

....he must have been hurt long ago.... found other means to fill what replaces the need of such things.... of course, I’m nobody, nothing to him....

but still....  

what if he should be shot ....?! 

what if....? because, I’d regret it....I know.... even still. even ....if he does not.... I mean, if I never had the chance to....

And watching the lawn, waiting tensely, my thoughts keep wandering into these places I’ve avoided wandering into; wondering all these things I never let myself before .... how many loves has he known? but then, what opportunities has he had to really find someone who was actually capable to know what is hidden within his soul.... so busy spying ....undercover;  traveling around the globe; new philharmonic symphonies, playing concerts; consumed in his opera ....that no one but he knows what it means

 —and so, I wonder—did anyone really ever come close to seeing past the façade? in his alienated world of spies and shallow concert hall acquaintances —was there really ever an opportunity for the chance for him to stumble upon someone capable of decoding him? —anyone either deep or clever enough to know there was even something buried there? 

and ....as this new turn of anguish and self-deprecating torment takes hold of me—I suddenly jump at something I see—there!!—moving in the trees!

I adjust the lens to sharpen the sight—yes! My heart lunges before it pounds like drums in my head as I see, like apparitions move! —the first shadow of change —from the woods—they are there! like an invasion of a small army!—all dressed fully in black! I have to force myself to catch my breath, feeling my pulse become erratic before it rushes too fast, sweeping that strange amphetamine wave over me....

as I watch them start to crawl slowly through the trees, and move across the lawn, holding their weapons ready; like spider legs, closing in; surrounding in a circle towards the barn house.... 

*a footnote in a dictionary of synonyms & symbols

is it for money that an artist is driven to work ....?

but I cannot speak for all artists. and everyone is different. all artists are different.

of course there are many artists whose interest and only aim is to satisfy the current trends. whose purpose to work is to produce what will be a sure sell. (But will be forgotten in less than five years)

I don’t care to judge them, I don’t like to judge. I just don’t look at their work. it bores me

I am just not one of those 

like I have said, Van Gogh is a word in my dictionary; he stands for something symbolic to me

he did what he did; his style was unheard of and thought primitive and without talent. but a great artist expresses moods, emotions, and so many infinite things without a single word. To only see unmixed colors, the visible brush stroke, the crudeness of the thickness of paint you can see is raised right off the canvas as if smeared by a palette knife and it is as if you could touch it just to look at it there on the museum wall; you’d know what it feels like. It looks still wet as if he stands right over your shoulder as though he just painted it. ~It is not my style, but when I saw his works up close, I felt personally touched by them and —moved. This was the thrill I felt standing in that museum in Amsterdam.

today when we look at Starry Night, it is impossible not to feel the magic of the stars and even be in his moment; it is universal; it is infinite  

So, you see, he stands for something to me; call it my poetic license 

in his times he was not respected. he was not in fashion; not trendy. he was thought of as a bum. People wondered why didn’t stop wasting his time 

some may have wondered why he even kept at it

in our ‘modern’ times he is seen as a kind of icon which would be ironic to him. But I think, like Kurt Cobain, it would have appalled him to have become a trend

as Cocteau said, about the nightmare for an artist is to be admired through being misunderstood 

only, I think in Van Gogh’s case, he reset the bar on what is classic

why did Van Gogh keep painting? .... it was his tenuous grip, I think.... on life. I think it was all he really had. his love. his validation. to remind him he existed .... and even though he saw what Rembrandt painted and knew he did not paint the way Rembrandt did, I believe he felt that what he himself was painting came from something true within him and this drove him because it was his own personal expression, his language and it expressed what his soul ached to express. 

I think in this way he was a poet but then, aren’t all artists really? 

what is my passion for the humanities, where does that come from?— the arts; visual, literature, the performing arts (i.e. Sophocles, Shakespeare —another two who carried a conversation), a commentary about life (maybe cautionary) to be continued on .... they are the humanists who document history through all the common emotions with their reactions to life and the times they lived in. They tell a truer history than the events, I feel. They don’t lie or bend facts. I think when Socrates came around to “practice the arts” at the end of his life he saw this.... I feel the arts are the only true reality that can be depended on

I guess I am quite quirky and have been long resolved to accept this, I don’t really know what drives me unless it is my own tenuous grip and still —it is more than this, like a faith and a loyalty to remain attuned to the conversation 

even as I may not seem at the moment to have the means, the power, nor the backing to create what I envision, given these times such as they are, I can’t stop envisioning; it is just who I am, I regret to say. why do I do it? I don’t know. I have always thought in scenes where I tuck my most coveted secrets. screaming undercover of alluring diversions. but still they will not bend to adjust to the fashion, they simply cannot on principle —because that is not where the ideas are born from 

....but I promise, it will be very very pretty, like a film noir* (with the secrets blaring and all neatly spelled backwards to release the demons to the light and they will know)

Film Noir short scene/rude noir awakening after dawn (e.d.noirjmmusechron)

In the night I find it astounding that he can sleep. I lay there for the rest of most of the night apprehensive of the coming day thinking .....and sleep eludes

And find that his slumber is now most inconveniently frustrating as I am now suddenly nagged about things he said ....

and those other disturbing questions.... what has he really been up to these last several months—and more? ....where did he actually go between here before he went to Sweden weeks ago? where did —they—think he was? ....and were they right? And then the other unexpected, most odd, surprise  —how and what does he know about my old diaries....? I threw them away so long ago.... 

then thinking again of what Willem said on the phone recently—what was it again? ....he said.... he knew Jörn for years from working with him on cases—what cases? and that other odd thing Willem told me, how Jörn insisted he be put on the case when he saw my picture. And why did Willem tell me that? 

But how did I have the key, or did he just say that? Safes, locks and keys, codes and hidden doorways, hidden rooms and secret compartments.... when I should sleep keeps me awake .... 

until....

****

I don’t remember falling asleep 

It is some time after dawn and morning arrives. And still caught in a Cold War dream, I am startled awake with a sharp nudge then a shake, and a hot cup of coffee thrust at me before I am even sat up 

Jörn says, 

“here, I made this for you,” and then softens his tone, “it’s how you like it—with honey,” and smiles as if this is just a normal day at the office

I sit up as I notice he is already showered and crisply dressed as I take the cup from him

“I brought you a change of clothes,” he says, “some more suitable things. I asked Ilya to send some of your clothes —I sent a note to her with the Cabaret shipping address when I sent her the key— as I was aware you’ve been pilfering the Cabaret shipments,” he points towards some blurry beyond as I reach for my glasses, still emerging from the depths of morass

“The key....” I say remembering what kept me up all night, “how did you get it?—Jörn, I don’t understand—“

“Duva— I have to go, the SWAT team is five minutes away—it’s showtime,” and turns to leave but then suddenly turns back to me and leans to press his mouth across mine, “remember: no matter what, stay up here and do not leave, yes? —drink the coffee—I’ll text you in a bit....”

And then watch him disappear out the hobbit door

 a fyddai môr-leidr yn dod o hyd i drysor?

ac ydy, mae'n grypt

a fy ngeiriadur yw fy nghaer

dyma'r unig le i guddio sêff

efallai aros i gael ei ddatgloi

beth aeth ar goll y tu mewn

the JM muse chronicles film noir scene continues.... with a slight touch of royal drama

Even as I stare into the blackness of that blank canvas beyond the hide’s window, it seems I see other things. It is a narrow cot. Close pressed alongside him, his fingers woven through mine as— his breathing evens ....in the darkness of the space we share and the heat still between us

It seems I am split between two lives, overlaid as if I have been exactly here with him ....before  

so many times .... 

and it plays with my mind

It seems to even question it now is so long old and merely irrelevant. As too many times I have felt  that sense confirmed

....too many times I have felt that chill with him—especially when we come together, I feel it in his body— and those things he never says, those things he never tells me. I feel it. And often it feels I feel him within me, feel his thoughts, and even know ....I feel him .... even from far away, I feel.... when he is thinking of me

And even after so much time of him away— it is instant as soon as he is near, even when I try to resist ....and even when my mind doesn’t want to trust him.... there is something inside  me that just never doubts. 

Even if I won’t say

But now I do say this instead in the dark, as I lay next to him, having already, to him —exposed all anyway, as I look out at that darkness outside the wall of window into the night,

“Jörn.... on your computer ....” but half lose my nerve and have to stop

A moment goes by where nothing is said. Does he know? ....what I’m about to ask him....?

I turn on my side to look at him, half his face in shadow, lit dimly by the candle.... yet I stare into his face.... as I know it by now so well, every line, every crease, the long bridge of his nose, the outline of his mouth, the slant of his haunting eyes....

I dig my fingers into the silk of his hair to pull it back where it has fallen long across his brow, moving over him slightly to look into his eyes,

“you know, when you told me....when you gave me your password to ....get into those files to —download for you?” I stop there afraid to say more as I stare into his eyes searching 

He just stares back at me. Calm. But his eyes penetrate through me. And still.... gives nothing away

“Well, I saw some things....” I say now. 

It is awhile before I realize I hold my breath. I keep staring into the icy steel, like double edged swords of heat and danger, warmth and ferocity 

And still he doesn’t say anything. He just looks back at me, steady and calm.

“Jörn....!” I nearly gasp from holding my breath with fear, “....you know what I saw....”

After another long moment of just his silence ....with eyes ....that measure me, he makes the slightest move with his head, almost a shrug and says,

“I knew you would see things....” and now when I start by his flippancy he raises one pale brow ....and says more with just his eyes

“When you said they expected you to be ‘more east’ ....” and again I stop myself. And then feel his hand clamp around my wrist like a shackle and watch his eyes grow fierce as he moves to sit up slightly .... “Jörn.... now it seems I think I need to know— I mean— when I asked if it was Moscow— that isn’t what I saw.... but it was definitely ....more east, but slightly more ....adjacent—“ I hold my breath again when I feel his grip tighten but I say, anyway, “is that what you meant?” which comes out in a whisper

“Duva.... listen, there are some things you would have seen which I can see might give you certain cause for suspicion about what I do.... and maybe this is why you were so strange when you first saw me again.... but.... look— I will answer you honestly if you tell me exactly what you want to know because I don’t know what you saw that you are trying to ask me.”

“It was something I found.... something I accidentally clicked on—it was in one of your documents under your company —under JMSmeden.se, Stockholm, Sverige, only— it wasn’t for your platinum work, but it was ....sales of another kind.”

He lets go of my wrist and leans back against the wall and stares out into the night for a long moment. And after another thoughtful pause he looks at me,

“you saw I was selling arms to....” and only infers the rest with a slight imperceptible gesture 

“So it’s true?!” I pull back and stare at him

“I told you I’d answer you honestly so.... look, duva....I told you I wasn’t in Sweden the whole time since I’ve been away—and, no—I wasn’t. I went first somewhere else.... “

“You’re crazy! With everything that is happening, with the virus rampant—you tell me you decide now is a good time to trade in illegal weapons too? Who even has the money for that right now with the recent death tolls !?—whose side are you on?”

“No, I’m not saying that I was just in Syria—Duva, that was an old file you were looking at, that was from —it was a past cover—now going four?—five? years back—at least!”

“A cover....” I say and stop to think.... now remembering all those passports .... 

and so now take a few deep breaths....

well, seems too late —now anyway.... I think, as I take a second to reflect on this.... to decide to not be involved with a spy

A bit too late. Over two years too late. I should know better by now.... and again get that sense of having been in this moment before; déja vu ....and with a chill, see blood on those hides stacked on the floor—and such eyes staring back at me.... 

Yes, I’ve been here before ....I think; I’ve been in this moment with him before ....and yes, I know this feeling too; the danger 

“Does Willem suspect the mole too?” I ask suddenly

“Yes. We know who it is,” Jörn says calmly

“Which is why you want me to stay up here,” I say

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t why I was strange with you,” I say now to him and now look at him. He looks back at me and waits. I say, “I wasn’t ready to trust you again. That’s why.”

After some thought he nods and then asks,

“and now?” but it is something in how he says this; something.... I can taste the spray of the water and feel the lurch of a ship under me just from that glimpse of kryptonite —and with it, that unreasonable sense of knowing ....beyond all doubt —and press my mouth to his, closing my eyes and feel his mouth answer me like a seal of fate; then climb across him to wrap around his hips with a strange fear and need for suddenly remembering what is to come tomorrow ....soon after the dawn

***

it is awhile after when he says, reaching for his phone,

“there’s something I wanted to show you—remember I told you I had another angle for getting the lock-letter code for the safe? I recently found something your sister auctioned off through Christie’s for four grand that once belonged to your mother....” he shows me a picture on his phone

“That’s my mother’s antique secretary! You found it?”

“I bought it,” he shows me more pictures as he says, “you said it had a secret hidden compartment. The people who bought it from your sister said she didn’t have the key— but you did.”

“What are you talking about? The key? I never had it....”

“You didn’t know you had it. It was in a box you tossed into some dumpster where you lived with your first husband in Cedarhurst New York; a box also filled with all your old diaries ....”

the shock of all he says does not fully register as I am somehow more distracted by the photos of the antique secretary as it brings back so many memories .... of my mother 

Then I recognize where the photo was taken,

“This is the penthouse?”

“I had it shipped there —last month. Last week I had the key sent to Ilya and told her where I thought the hidden compartment was —and....she just sent me this before, guess what we found?” he shows me a photo, “....your award for your piano recital with ....the title of the Beethoven piece.”

“The code.”

Personal notes from the Cell inside; shelf notes from the Celf

 

In efforts to search for truth I have found the ability to speak it most clearly through my fiction 

Part of that has to do with how dangerous truth really is

On one hand I could have decided to smile the status quo code, be a cog, and play the American dream game because I knew how, I watched a father do it every day

but one day I consciously chose to walk away because

On the other hand I could recognize the face in the mirror and not despise it and though my pockets are empty I guess it always meant more to know who I am 

I never fit the American dream, I rejected the popular crowd even in school, but then I am reasonably content to go my own way, ok with an allegiance to humanity and the humanities because that is the notion that countries are born from before they decay .... but I can see why it bothered my mother knowing that for me it just never was a choice whether to sell myself for the brass ring 

my stories have always been a part of me, woven in my own drama and all based on a part of me but it’s the allegory I speak in and if I could say it without too much compromise, I would be willing to sell a ticket for it to be heard if addressed to a theatre attuned to the subtlety 

have I just been looking in the wrong direction.... ?

too bad Van Gogh didn’t know he was already successful with empty pockets and a blind society lacking an ear

a muse before dawn (a short quickie) e.d. noir

He says to try to sleep.... 

I have tried a warm shower in the sterile ad hoc stainless steel stall (and as refreshingly cozy as a vertical cow trough)—with the soap from the trunk which afforded more luxury than the narrow shower unit did. It smells of Provence and almost makes me believe I am there with the film it leaves on my skin 

At least clean and human again 

Fixed as I am after looking for distractions in the various trunks on the floor. But they have lost their appeal and instead I stare at the blank canvas that is the hide’s wall of window; right now total black in the darkness

And because I feel like I am in a fishbowl with all the openness and the feeling of exposure, I sit on the floor with just one candle lit beside the cot where I have dragged the last trunk I inspect in order for distraction 

How long before daybreak? 

I keep looking at my phone for the time and in the end decide to use it, as I do, to write my thoughts 

....then at turns.... pace the hide in circles 

....then go to sit down again, huddled on the floor next to the cot and shiver; my hair still damp and my arms pulled out of the sweater sleeves inside the sweater and rock for warmth .... it seems forever I wait 

At some time after two I hear the sound of footsteps treading the stairs and hold my breath watching the hobbit door, pulling my knees up to my chest under the big wool sweater 

.... I don’t know who I expect but I am relieved to discover it is actually Jörn. His presence, a dark silhouette in the round doorway, but I can clearly recognize him by his distinct shoulders and slim hips that taper down to his boots

“Where are you?” he says from the doorway, closing the door and walking towards the candle 

“I’m over here,” I say, waving my hand in front of the candle, “I feel like the light might draw their notice,” and I wave out towards the trees

“No, it’s completely made of black out material, no one can see in. I’ve tested it,” he says coming over to where I am

“So, did you guys work out a plan? Have the feds contacted you?”

He clears his throat and sits down on the cot,

“come here, don’t sit in the floor,” and reaches for me saying, “yes—to answer your question. It.... has taken some convincing but—once I sent them the link to the surveillance footage from the micro cameras I installed on the surface of the fake safe .... they have come around to listening to what I have to say....” he sighs with cautious relief as I move to stand up and now drawing me to him he says, “they will have the house surrounded by o-eight hundred—Smulagan and a SWAT team— they’re asking us to wait as some of their people are still en-route.... I just am uneasy about waiting, but.... the weather being what it is—it’s been sleeting and could go on all night, well into morning,” he shrugs

“Mountain weather,” I say with a shiver and move closer into his body warmth 

“It’s not so different where I come from,” he says into the sweater and moves his hands under the wool and cotton

it has been a long time. It seems a shock to be aware just how long. I have forgotten what this feels like 

but some things come back to you fairly quick. Once reminded 

....I press my mouth against his 

and let it come back to me

The Noir Hide; Electra’s dictionary

And while I wait for Jörn to return, I try to not think of what is actually happening and at first I just sit on the cot staring at the space heater where it sits there.... 

and it is a long time before I feel myself aware of being outside of myself 

of being .... as if .... well.... somewhere —or.... in another sense of time 

....slipping to ....it seems.... repressed memories .... and I think now of Dr. Rothschild as I become conscious of.... the comfort —or—safety .... of being wrapped in the hides 

and it is strange as I really do not like the ....savagery of ....animal skins

it is this alone that draws me to remember something that happened in my psychiatrist’s office when she was trying to regress me to.... remember locked memories, but she had only the purpose to free me from —those things from my childhood and of course what happened when I was older in my college dorm room that night .... it was only for this she had intended to try regression because —I have always had such fears of being able to trust anyone; things like intimacy ....I’ve always erected such walls around me and suffered the backlash of desertion; creating my self fulfilling prophesies of always picking the wrong partners to avoid letting anyone near me and making such disasters of my life 

So she regressed me one day in her office and the last thing I remember of what happened was ....her saying to me “imagine yourself in the most lovely place where you feel safe....” and I really don’t know what happened after that. 

She recorded it.... but never told me what was on the recording 

but I remember how she stared at me after when I —woke up from it.... this was around those first occurrences of those dreams 

I think of this now as I stare at the spot where Jörn has placed the space heater. And maybe it is.... despite my aversions to.... animal skins .... but something jars in my mind as I find this need to search for .... some safe place 

and even as I recall those dreams of the hut and the forge it really is something else I think of. Looking out to the doorway there.... to the sound of the water far in the distance and recalling the little grove ....it was the grove my mind went to; the stunted shrubs and how they looked in the warmth of the sun, that leafy shade of dark green with the warm scent of earth, how the sun lit through to my haven of shade .... on one such summer day .... that strange, strange light that would not set and when night without darkness could not come

It was the way the light of the sun looked .... through the canopy of dark green leaves 

I do think her regressions opened that doorway I had been for so long blindly on the precipice of, searching in the darkness of unconsciousness and thus unleashed my monster giving vent to a tidal wave of emotions I have never been able to name but oddly, it consoled me.... this inexplicable sense of knowing .... the void once held a meaning 

Still, her intentions to heal me in the contemporary manner I guess were just not meant to be 

So this exercise now.... at least works .... to calm me 

remove me

from present fears and nightmares 

I get up now and decide to look at what is in the trunks set around the hide in various spots in a kind of octagonal design that mirrors the circular shape of the treehouse hide.... I find an interesting assortment of camping accessories; dried vegetarian packets of food, oh—tooth brushes, toothpaste, soap .... I take this out and keep looking through ....wool sweaters, some white generic cotton T-shirts, men’s long-Johns.... which can’t be worse then what I’ve been stuck wearing, I’m thinking—and desiring to get out of my Steven Tyler clothes, I shed these as soon as I make this discovery, and without hesitation I’m gladly pulling on the long, waffle textured underwear along with the t-shirt and warm wool sweater —grateful for it as it feels so much softer against my skin then what I’ve been living in.... and with this, a pair of imported woolen hand knitted socks that —all this—feel better than satin damask just now ....

And then make my way to the next trunk.... this one has even more interesting camping gear and take my time going through them.... Swiss Army knife .... flash lights, utility knives .... and things I don’t have any idea what they are .... a gas mask .... then find amongst these ....infrared binoculars—neat—! wow, cool! —it’s like double-O-7 spy equipment, I think ....

and so, well occupied, I sit there on the floor trying to figure out how it works ....So why not try it out? ....on switch .... ? .... a red light goes on.... I get up to look out through the hide’s wall of window and —look into the blurry lenses as I figure out the focus ....

First I just see branches of the web of all the surrounding trees outside .... but nothing exciting that I can see from here.... I guess the birds must be asleep—not even a squirrel in sight. And with the leaves now growing in —even now, despite that it’s long past spring —it is still snowing in the mountains .... but I notice that —I can see, there’s the building—through the branches and.... realize —that must be the barn house ....yes, of course, I realize now and focus better; Jörn said the hide faces our bedroom window there .... and now I try to look .... but.... all I see is the shape of the house and the back deck, and everything it seems still and strangely quiet

Eye Spy; touch on Adirondaks Noir Night

When we return, it has begun to snow covering the windshield and the hood of the car. By now it is about twenty past midnight, I notice, glancing at my phone as we pull up to the old general store front, alongside the fuel pump to park; the Chevy parks at first beside us until Jörn quickly jumps out of the truck, and to Deiter in a kind of snarl he says,

“Deiter, can you be more fucking obvious?” but doesn’t wait for a reply and says, “how about you park this behind the trees— oh, and—try not to have another flat tire while you do that,” I hear him say

I watch Jörn as he stands by to watch Deiter get back into the van. Jörn walks around then to follow and direct exactly where to move it to. 

There is a tension now surrounding Jörn that I become more hyper-sensitively aware of. It sets me somehow on edge, like an alert that seems to send shock waves through me

I tell myself it is only that he is now in his combat mode, but a cold sets into my bones with a chill that runs from the top of my spine down, and with it a shudder that rushes through me that lingers up my neck to my face and causes an uncomfortable aftershock everywhere and all through me.

With trepidation, I open the passenger door to get out as I watch Jörn walk around the van and in a low tone, direct the others to wait as they get out of the van. Jörn turns to me and motions with his hand for me to walk over

“Wait here a second,” he says into my ear before he goes to lock the truck, but not using the alarm remote. When he walks back to me, he takes my hand and we walk past the small group but he keeps me away from walking too near them, then once we climb the steps to the porch to the door, he unlocks it and stands by the door and with a motion to them, waves them to go in, then waits as they file past us

They go first up the darkened stairwell and— like the other time, I can hear the ruffle of bat wings in the darkness and along with that comes a distinct and somehow eerie scent, rather hard to describe 

“What the fuck!” one of them says

I look up at Jörn as he hides a smile and locks the door behind us, enclosing us all in the darkness. I watch him text into his phone then and a moment later, the door at the top of the stairwell opens and lets in light where Willem stands and says,

“goed— now we are all here; alles is goed,” and ushers them past the door, “the others only just arrived.”

The light in the dungeon seems almost bright now stepping in, but the chill still remains with me; then a kind of whimper escapes me involuntarily as I feel myself object when Jörn lets go of my hand.... presently back in the dungeon which has been my private prison of domain but now occupied by eight men all at least twice my size in muscle and body mass and all clearly carrying loaded devices I’ve mostly only ever seen from the safe cover of a monitor or film screen —besides that moment earlier briefly, facing the deer-hunter’s rifle 

It is obvious they all know each other as some trade remarks to each other in other languages; it is hard for me to distinguish the dialects in the rush and find it all overwhelming 

I inch back towards the conveyor belts that feel more like familiar friends to me, knowing these corners of the underground, knowing where the belts lead, the turns and now— all the secret doors. And right now I find I want to melt right into the walls. 

But Jörn introduces me, moving over to me, and as he does this, I watch him look around, his eyes stopping on one of them briefly before he says,

“make sure nothing happens to her—protect her with your life, do I make myself clear? If you slip up, you’ll live to regret it and I don’t just mean by me,” then he nods at Willem, “Willem will walk you through the plan but first—any news on the feds?”

“I got new intel updates on ops from my guy inside— they are due to arrive at Point Au Roche around dawn,” Willem says and I see the look of surprise on Jörn’s face, “I just received word as you showed up,” Willem explains 

For just a second I see Jörn’s expression change as if recalibrating and then he says,

“....ok.... then that changes things....” Jörn looks at me and then with a kind signal by raising one brow at Willem, Willem steps away and walks over to us

“What’s up?” he asks Jörn

“Take them into the bunk room—I don’t want them to see where we go. Just let them get comfortable in there. You can show them the kitchen and the showers—there’s beer in the store. I’ll join you shortly.”

Jörn waits as we watch them go towards a curve in the catacombs and disappear past and then he says, 

“let’s go.”

We go the other way. Then stop at one of the glowing lamps and Jörn looks at me,

“you do it.”

Only it’s a different lamp. I am not sure where to find the inverted part to hit. I look up at him

He shakes his head,

“find it. It’s there. You know the code.”

But I feel shaken as the fear seems now to have taken over me,

“I can’t see it! —Jörn....”

“You need to do this. Look for it,” he says

I take my phone and use the flashlight. Then find it. It takes a few hits before it pops the flap where the keypad is.... and hesitate as I think of the numbers going backward and press them in. Then hear the click 

“You lead the way,” he says to me

“I don’t know it....” I say 

but he waits 

I start to walk to the right but change my mind

“What are you doing?” he asks me

I go back to the right again and he follows me. We pass the rover but he says,

“do you see how it curves in the wall there? Right by this lamp? It’s different, isn’t it? And this light is more yellow, you see?”

“Yes,” I stop at that light and find the place and hit

Then we go up the narrow tree trunk winding stairs to the hobbit door

and once inside I rush over to the cot —and without thinking, reach for the hides stacked up on it and press my face into them falling against them

“Are you ok?” Jörn asks me and sits down next to me

I don’t answer. 

I feel his hand against on my shoulder and then he gets up, I hear his boots as he walks and then hear a click and the telltale whirr of a space heater motor turn on. He walks back over and sits down next to me on the cot, reaching for me,

“you’re shaking....it’ll warm up in here soon....” he gets up again and in a moment I feel the heaviness of a blanket fall around me in warmth. “You’ll be safe in here. Just stay in here. I’ll be back in awhile. Is your phone charged?” but he reaches into my pocket for it and then replaces it, “we have to go over strategy—it won’t be happening tonight— but possibly some time around dawn—possibly can get some sleep. I’m glad, it’s better this way —I’m actually relieved they’re on their way—“

“You think you can sleep?” I sit up to look at him

He shrugs,

“you should. It’s been a long day.”

“Jörn, how can I sleep?”

He turns now and walks back towards the door,

“at least try. I told you there’s a lavatory through there—there’s a shower and a water-cooler I put in. It has hot water. You’ll find some packets of tea and snacks and things in a cabinet. You haven’t eaten, maybe you should.”

“I want to brush my teeth,” I say

He smiles and opens the door to go,

“look in the trunks, you should find some things. I’ll be back—just stay in here, ok? No matter what, don’t leave.”

He starts to go 

“Wait—Jörn!” I run over to him and pull him back

He smiles and says,

“I’ll be back,” and leaning down to me, presses his mouth against mine 

    ....and then goes