Sometime in the early hours of this morning, I undertook an incredible journey to many parts of the world where I prepared the ground for the arrival of a very special event that only my family were privy to, battled for my life against evil forces that threatened to destroy the coming of paradise and forged an intense bond with a child-princess who I suspect was the incarnate of everything that was, is, and will ever be. My aunts, uncles, and cousins, even my own mother, had kept from me an immense family secret (through reasons of safety; the less you know the better). They all appeared to me to be members of an ancient and obscure cult that had passed on their traditions and preparations through the generations in readiness for the great arrival and I, the last one to know, was assigned the status of emissary to the princess. Although I was unaware of her credentials at the time, I now realize that my purpose in this journey was to meet, befriend and protect her arrival from saboteurs who would do everything they could to destroy her (for reasons that were never divulged. To me anyway).
She was almost divine. A mere child by physical stature, she contained a passionate beauty and a fierce wisdom that caused anyone in her presence to shed tears of appreciation and praise. In my dream, I often found myself cowering in front of her, weeping unabashedly, or gazing into her serene features with streaming eyes. She never left my sight, not for a moment. I held her tightly with a conviction that I didn’t understand until the sleep drifted away and I woke to an immense feeling of sadness and loss. We ran through abandoned shipyards of Indian cities at night, hiding in alleyways and shopfront doorways as our pursuers searched in vain. In Bangkok, we ran through a shantytown, me holding the child tightly against my chest with both arms, in a desperate (and, as it turned out, fruitless) attempt to make the secret family rendezvous in a dilapidated guest house. A muezzin chanted calls to prayer from the minaret of a grand and opulent Jerusalem mosque as we ran and ran, my chest heaving from both my exhaustion and an unfathomable, overwhelming love for the child that I carried.
My mission was a success. In the end, the child lived to fulfil her destiny, but there was a terrible price to pay. She was the sole survivor of the expedition and all my family, with myself the last to succumb, died a violent (but not meaningless) death. My last action in life was to release her like a bird into the air; I watched her fly as the life ebbed from my limp body.
Today I am sad. Sad that the journey ended in such a tragic manner, and sad that I have lost a love so deep and so pure that I fear I will never love again.
1 Comment
July 30, 2009 at 2:44 pm
Ive read John Fante