Sun pours down on the outdoor café as a slight wind blows across the patio. A hand presses the newspaper flat, holding it against the wind. It is the August first edition of the International Herald-Tribune. The news stories are idly scanned as a cappuccino is sipped. Nothing about him, that's good. He finds his way to the classifieds and sits very, very still as he looks down the agony column. The ad is the first one in the column. He does not make a sound, not even drawing a breath as he reads it.
A.A. Aaron
Opera and crab by the Bay.
If you would care to join me.
She who was named twice
Carefully removing his knife from his coat pocket he cuts the ad from the paper. He reads it one last time, deems it to be true, and returns the knife to his pocket. Emily Amelia, she who was named twice. His sweet, sweet Emily. He leaves a bill on the table and walks off in the London morning.
Eight Months Later
San Francisco, California. Home to the Giants, the Forty-Niners, the Transamerica Pyramid, and the Golden Gate Bridge. The sunlight plays on the bay as the ferry cuts through it, its wake churning spray over the stern as children feed pretzels to the seagulls that follow. The children giggle and flinch as the noisy shore birds swoop in on them, they clamor against the rail under their mothers' watchful eyes. It is beautiful for a March day, warm and fortunately not raining. The ferry passes by Angel Island as it travels back towards the city. The deeply wooded island where the Asian immigrants were granted citizenship into America. Home of the free, land of the brave. Freedom, what America in her greatness has come to stand for. That same freedom which they seek to deny him. As the ferry continues across the Bay, another island comes into view. This one is more fitting to his plight.
Alcatraz Island, home of the infamous federal prison. Once home to the likes of Al Capone and assorted others. Aptly nicknamed 'The Rock', for that is what it is. No trees grew on this barren island, only having been transplanted there from neighboring Angel Island. Now, to walk on it today, there is a profusion of fuchsias and eucalyptus trees on its grounds. The tower of the lighthouse stands sentinel over the former prison. It presents a striking image against the backdrop of the famed city and the Golden Gate bridge. Its name is derived from los alcatraces, the pelicans. He should ask his wife if she has ever seen a pelican there, for he refuses to step foot on the island. Touted as a tourist attraction, it will always be a prison, and he will not walk inside the doors of one willingly.
He sits on his bench on the upper deck of the ferry, eyes shaded by a white fedora and a pair of stylish square framed sunglasses. If the accessories were not enough to obscure his features the minor cosmetic surgery should be. The latest trend of Botox treatments has given him a more youthful appearance, and his wife approves highly. She herself had them done, along with collagen injections to plump her lips. She also wears colored contacts now, deceiving the world as to the ocean water color of her eyes. Now they are a deep indigo that complements her honey colored hair. She was almost unrecognizable at the opera that evening as he was introduced to her. He finds himself missing the pale blonde strands that he would slide through his fingers.
He is broken from his reverie, looks to see someone sliding onto the bench next to him. A woman, lithe and supple from what he can tell through her jacket. He smiles and nods pleasantly to her, maroon eyes behind the glasses sizing her up. It is nagging at him, somewhere deep in his memory, that he knows this woman. She nods in reply and takes a book from her satchel, opening it and beginning to read. He strolls the halls of his memory palace, looking for the information that will serve him. A name. Ah, there, in the pigeonholed manuscripts of the library in the Palazzo Capponi. He marvels at the discovery, he did not expect to see her again. He decides to wait until he is off the ferry before he confronts her. He still wonders idly how she would taste.
*****