The Blue Bottle (Part 6)
Rosie is convinced she is not dreaming. She wants to tell someone, everyone, but who would believe her? Mark, her twin brother, would he believe her?
“To boldly go where no man has gone before.”–Captain James T. Kirk
Rosie sits on the edge of her bed looking at a photo of her with her twin brother, Mark, that sits on the bedside table. A little tearful, and then smiling, she asks herself, ‘Where are you, Mark?
In her head she is thinking how to describe Frank to her brother. That he looks much like any other man, has the same habits, and same faults, smoking, drinking, he is not like any other man. He is a time traveler. No, that won’t sound right. Mark will think her crazy.
I have met someone; his name is Frank. He is two thousand years old! OMG, that sounds worse.
Mark, I’ve met a guy. He’s a little different. He’s not like anyone else I’ve met. He takes care of me. I hope you’ll trust him. Yes, that’s it, that’s what I’ll say. Rosie feels better and takes herself off to the shower.
Outside, the weather is dull, a typical Dublin gray. Rosie decides it will be a stay-at-home day, a day to write some songs. After breakfast, Rosie takes her cup of tea through into the front room and picks up her guitar. Writing has been the way she has dealt with Mark off fighting a war in a country she knows nothing about, for a cause she does not understand. She just wants him home.
May is for juggling, getting rid of spring and moving into summertime. So much is passed off, praised, and handed down as love in this life that reality at best must be unreal. I worry only that when love does come, I might not know its smile or recognize its face.
Rosie’s cell phone rings and is quickly picked up.
“Rosie!”
“Mark, OMG Mark, I love you, I was worried. Are you okay? When are you coming home,” Rosie cries.
“Slow down, sis. I’m fine but shouldn’t be. It looks like my platoon is coming home in a couple of days.”
Rosie bursts into tears. “I’ve been so worried, Mark. What do you mean, shouldn’t be?”
“It’s too weird to explain over the phone, in fact you’re the only person I would tell. Anyone else would think me insane.”
“And I’ve got so much to tell you, Mark. Wait, why would anyone but me think you insane?”
There’s a pause in the conversation, then, “I met Jesus, Rosie.”
“Jesus, you mean, like in the Bible, that Jesus?”
“Yes, that Jesus. It was a miracle, Rosie. My pals think I saved them, but I didn’t. Jesus saved us, except He didn’t call himself Jesus…”
“Frank… he called himself Frank!” Rosie exclaimed.
The pause was pregnant. “…. How the hell did you know that, Rosie? That’s impossible, I never told another soul, not even my pals.”
Rosie laughed. Those green eyes smiled with a deep intensity Mark could only imagine. “Mark, come home soon, okay. I have something to tell you, and you’ll want to hear it.”
Mark insisted on knowing but Rosie was adamant. When he arrives home.
Rosie closed the call feeling so happy she thought she would surely burst with joy. Her head was spinning. The room was spinning. Then the spinning stopped. Rosie held herself tight as if asking Frank to never let her go. Rosie picked up a pen a wrote in the book…
My songs are letters to the world, Frank, they speak of how I feel, tell of my dreams, express my love to the world. These words must first flow through my veins, fill my heart, stir my mind to create something so utterly beautiful, something that makes one want to dance, to think, to dream, to re-live past loves, to bring children back, to let children go, to dream of what can be. Whatever happens will happen, but I must concentrate on working and creating ideas and dreams for those who have none, I want them to live mine with me, I want them to know about you, Frank, about how you make me feel, all the dreams I want to make real. I know you saved Mark, I just know it, and I want to live in your heart, Frank. I love you; I cannot imagine my life without you, so I don’t try. I think more about the punched-out notes of unheard songs, those yet to be written.
Frank runs through all the clues learned at the farm, sifting them in his ancient mind. This anguish, this torment has a name, and that name is Lorenzo. I can beat him; I can release myself forever if I can find and taste the secrets of the Blue Bottle, Frank thinks, muttering those thoughts aloud.
The Blue Bottle holds the secret to Frank’s full and happy life. He hadn’t told Rosie, but while at the farm a new vortex opened, one Lorenzo had opened, daring Frank to enter, but Frank knew better, for now, Rosie is the one, she is Raven’s girl, and the reason he is here, to reunite them. He was not going to be tempted into the vortex no matter how badly he had wanted to follow Lorenzo.
Rosie arrived early for work, taking the usual verbal abuse of the regulars.
“Where’s your boyfriend tonight, Rosie? Have you worn him out?”
“The only thing worn out around here, Jimmy, is that tongue of yours,” Rosie says, handing him his pint.
As the evening continues, there is no sign of Frank. Rosie holds a conversation in her head, knowing what she wants to say to Frank, if she ever sees him again. There are thousands of words drifting around her mind, but all of them, she knows, can be best said like this: Come back, Frank. I want to be with you, I don’t care about your past. I love you. If you are hearing me, you must show courage and want me.
The last bell has sounded as clients begin to drift away. As the last regular left, Rosie cleared away and closed up. As she closed the door, and walked into the darkness of the street, something moved and it made a scratching, skittering sound. Then silence. The sense of being watched suddenly overwhelmed her. So close and so cold. Something frightening is almost upon her. It’s coming for her. She knows it is.
Rosie quickens her walk, but as she does, so does the despair, sighing after her until it is all but upon her.
Then a wandering light appears, the coming of a throaty sound, and the muttering of despair disappear into the darkness.
“Climb in, Rosie, hurry.”
“Frank… Frank, oh God, thank you,” she cries out, jumping inside the open door of the Duesenberg II SJ Phaeton. “I was so afraid, Frank. Was it him, was it Lorenzo?”
“You sensed him?”
“Yes, yes, it was him, I know. I felt myself being devoured…it was terrifying.”
“You’re safe now, Rosie. Try to calm yourself”
As Rosie begins to relax, she feels a change. Looking down, she asks, “Frank, my clothes are different, did you change them?”
“You cannot stand out, Rosie, not where we are going.”
Rosie secretly wonders if Frank saw her nakedness. It gives her a pleasant sensation.
“Do you know people who own antique cars, Frank. What the hell is this thing, its enormous.”
“A Duesenberg. It fits perfectly for our destination.”
“And where is that?”
“Cuba.”
“That doesn’t help me, Frank, where is Cuba?”
“Here, but don’t get out yet. We need to drive around a bit.”
Rosie looks out from the car.
Havana’s beauty is marvelous in its sadness. The dusky cream faces of children’s smiles that must have been dipped into moons, and orgies of women crying on street corners, while men, rolling their cigars between fingers, gamble away their money on the crowded market streets that hold expensive produce: ripe plantain, sweet potatoes, malanga, guava, papaya, the fruits of poets, and the core food of poor people.
“Frank, I have a very important question to ask you.”
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