Chapter 3: The Note
We were, by then, more than half way over the Atlantic and I, roughly half way through my book.
I was riveted. So much so that I still remember exactly where I was, the great passage where the divine Prince of Salina was talking dowries with that crafty parvenu Don Calogero.
I could barely bare it. Real politik and all, how could the Prince actually promote the marriage of his beloved nephew, Tancredi (so handsome, Alain Delon in the movie), to the Don’s vacuous daughter, Angelica, however beautiful, however (nouveau) rich, when his very own daughter - the intelligent sensitive (if a wee bit plain, a wee bit short on cash) Concetta – was, herself, so much in love with Tancrediω Surely Tancredi would burst in any moment, put it all to rights, “Stop, Uncle!”.
It was at this point in the fictitious story that a new chapter began in my own. Because it was then that I happened to look up just in time to see a tall, dark, middle-aged man (Gadafyω) actually lift up his arm and throw something at me (a bomb!) and then walk hurriedly by.
The bomb turned out to be a note. Small. All wadded up.
I unravelled it.
“Could I talk to youω”, it read, “If so please raise your hand momentarily. If not I’ll understand.”
I had to laugh. As gambits go, this was quaint.
Still, it had been a long time since anyone had thrown me a note.
I tried to remember how long.
I thought maybe back in 3rd grade, that boy whatever his name was, the one whose father worked on my father’s farm. “I seen you at the pickchur (crossed out) picktur (crossed out) pictur show.”
I wondered what had happened to him. Remembered (god, it had been a long time since I had thought of it) how my mother had actually invited him to my ninth birthday party. How he had come to it, short hair standing straight up like new-mown hay, his Sunday-best shirt ironed stiff and glowing white. And then how he had shyly held out his gift to me - like him, all shined up: an apple.
An appleω
I seem to remember laughter welling up behind my braces, my hands over my mouth to keep it in - apples weren’t birthday gifts!
And then my mother giving me a look (one, that was enough), then just as quickly, her arm around the thin shoulders, “Cary! That looks delicious!”
‘Cary’, that’s what his name was, Cary McDonnell. His mother had named him after her favourite movie star, Cary Grant. Cary (our Cary) told us out there on the playground that she even had a big glossy photograph of Cary Grant, one that he had signed himself with all his love. (My friends and I understood Mrs McDonnell`s ardour but not its object; how could she possibly prefer Cary Grant to Roy Rogersω)
Look, I was only nine. Quite apart from everything else, I had no idea back then how very precious a gift an apple can be, Helen to someone’s Paris.
And so, after making reluctant apologies to the Prince of Salina and promising myself to get back soon, I closed my book.
And raised my hand.