The Blue Bottle (Part 11)
Mark has returned from Afghanistan, having served nine years, and old Rosie of his near-death experience. She tells him an unbelievable story. She wants Mark to meet Frank.
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“There is a way out of every box, a solution to every puzzle; it’s just a matter of finding it.”–Captain Jean-Luc Picard
In a light rain shower, Rosie walks with Mark to the pub.
“So, let me get this right in my head, Sis. Every trip you’ve made with this guy….”
“Frank…call him Frank, Mark. He saved your life, remember?”
“Okay… Frank. So, every time you’ve…traveled back, Frank has used transport that wouldn’t look out of place, or futuristic, or…something, and this transport enables you to enter, what was it you said, a vortex to a time past?”
“Yes, that’s as best as I can describe it to you. One second, I’m here in Dublin, and I go with him and in another second, or what feels like a second, I’m in Cuba.”
“And the reason you went to Cuba, again?”
“Because Lorenzo, this wanderer likes a special type of cigar.”
“And you went to Cuba to look for a cigar…?
“No, silly, we went to find Lorenzo. The type of cigar is special.”
“Who is this, Lorenzo? What’s he to do with it?”
“It’s too long a story, Mark. Just trust me.”
“So, you bought a cigar in Cuba?”
“In Havana, actually. Earnest Hemingway gave it to Frank.”
“Hemingway, Earnest Hemingway? How far did you go back, I mean, Hemingway, he’s a dead writer. You saw dead people.”
“No, we see people who were alive back then. Hemingway wasn’t dead.”
“Clearly, he was smoking a cigar! Why would Earnest Hemingway have such a cigar?”
“As much as I understand, Earnest was returning a favor to Frank. Something that happened years before. Frank wasn’t clear about it; he said he would explain later. Something about a book Earnest was struggling with. That’s all I know.
“You actually met Hemingway?”
“No, but I’ve no reason to disbelieve Frank did.”
“I don’t know, Sis. It feels like we’ve been swallowed up in some weird dreams or, if you like, nightmare. We should be talking about warts, green eyelids, skeleton fingers, creatures that wriggle.”
“I know it’s hard, Mark, just as it is explaining your happening. Does that feel very real? Do you think you dreamt it? Peter and Simon, they said you carried them to safety? You say that didn’t happen. So, what’s your answer?”
“I don’t have one, Sis.”
“Right, so keep an open mind for now, okay?”
“Nothing to lose, as I said already.”
Rosie agrees. “Nothing whatsoever. You take a seat at the bar. I’ll open up.”
Mark takes a seat at the bar. In his mind, he was reliving that fateful afternoon in Afghanistan. But Rosie is right; no matter how he thinks about it, nothing makes sense; he remembers being picked up, remembers begging to be put with his pals.
“Hey, Mark.” Frank says, resting one hand on his shoulder.
Mark turns, “Frank?”
“I apologize for not having warts, green eyelids, and being unable to wriggle,” Frank says, grinning.
“Frank!” Mark says again, this time touching the man.
“I think we’ve established who I am, Mark.”
“You know my name?” Mark realizes.
“Yes, of course, you told me in Afghanistan. It’s not magic. Don’t you recall?”
“Yes…yes…I think I do, I mean, I don’t…well, didn’t believe it. It was all a dream,” Mark turns away, looking for Rosie, then turns back. “Rosie told me you would come; I didn’t believe her… I mean, who would, right?”
“Who would, indeed. Rosie is very special, but I don’t need to tell you that.”
“She is Frank, extraordinary,” Mark says, turning again, wondering how long Rosie will take to clean the lines to the draft beer.
Frank sees Mark’s bewilderment. “I have something outside that might interest you. Come, Rosie will be a couple of minutes, I’m sure?”
Mark walks to the door with Frank. Outside, the rain has stopped. The night is clear. A Ferrari Pista 488 in typical red paint and a rearing stallion badge on the bonnet is parked outside.
“This is yours? Frank. My God, it’s beautiful. It’s the Pista 488, right?”
“I thought you’d like it. Want to take a ride?”
“Bloody hell, yes.”
“Jump in, let’s do it.”
Mark jumps into the sportscar of his dreams and belts up.
“Ready, Mark?”
“Oh yes, I’m ready.”
That throaty roar, the one men and boys dream about, sounds out into the streets, the night, as Frank drives away from Dublin, from Ireland, from the British Isles.
Mark is speechless; it’s happening again, dreaming that he is flying over Italy.
“Frank… are we flying?” Mark asks.
“Of course, Mark. Ferraris were built to fly,” Mark answers, smiling like sunshine.
The Ferrari comes to a halt. “Where are we?” Mark questions, looking around.
“Maranello.”
“Look… that… that is the Ferrari Museum, Frank.”
“Yes, want to take a look?”
“Won’t Rosie wonder where we are?” Mark says.
“Rosie has no idea we are not there, Mark. We are in stopped time.”
“Stopped in time?”
“No, Mark, we are in stopped time. Come along, let’s take a look.”
“Okay, sorry, that took a minute or two longer than I thought. Here’s your non-alcohol beer, Mark,” says Rosie.
Mark is sitting at the bar, not looking anywhere.
“Mark are you okay…. Mark?” She says, grabbing his hand across the bar.
Mark hears her but doesn’t see her. “I think I need a stronger drink, Rosie.”
Rosie is starting to close up for the night. Mark left earlier in the evening, telling Rosie that he believed her; he accepted everything. He believed Frank had saved him, his friends, and everything she had told him.
“Why now, all of a sudden? What happened to change your mind, Mark?”
“A Ferrari Pisto 488.” He told her.
“A what?”
Mark isn’t sure where to start. “I’ll tell you at home. I need to lie down, Rosie,” he said.
“But Frank could come in at any moment, Mark. You said you’d meet him.”
“Yes, I did say that. I did say that….” Mark mumbled, leaving his sister standing behind the bar.
Rosie, confused, asks other punters to drink up. “Time, gentlemen please. Let’s have you going home,” she calls.
As the last punter closes the door behind him, Rosie begins the process of locking up.
“Hi, Rosie.”
Rosie turns around. “Frank, you’re late. I had a surprise for you.”
“You did?”
Rosie throws down the drying towel. “Mark is home, can you believe it? He’s home for good, Frank.”
“I’m glad, Rosie. I’m sure he’s relieved and is doing well,” Frank says.
“Yes….yes, he’s quite well, or was. In fact, I brought him to the pub tonight hoping you guys would meet up. But he went home early. I think he felt a little under the weather.”
“A little under the weather? Rosie”
“Poorly, you know…. sick.”
“Ah, I’m sorry.”
“I told him everything, Frank. I had to, you understand, right?”
“I understand, Rosie. I’m sure Mark is the only person who would believe you.”
“Yes, but something happened, Frank. He looked pale, like he’d seen a ghost.”
“A ghost, yes. Michael Schumacher.”
“Michael who?”
“Don’t worry about it, Rosie. Come with me, we have somewhere to go….”
“But… I have to clo…”
“We must go now, Rosie. Don’t worry about the pub.”
Rosie follows Frank out the door. There’s drizzle in the air outside.”
“Frank, what is that?”
“That…that is a donkey, Rosie.”
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