NOTE: Sorry for the slight delay in updating. There was a very sudden death in my church which sort of side-tracked me a bit.
Chapter Sixteen
Fleck's Epiphany
Celine's bridal salon just happened to be on the route that Mr. Whittington and Miss Fleck liked to walk whenever the weather was warm enough, as it was on that day, and the latter felt compelled, once more, to sigh over the beauty of the wedding dresses.
"I'm so covetous," she mourned. "But I really can't get enough of that dress in there. I love lace. If I had half the chance, my whole world would be covered in it, and all the men would be terribly flustered. See if I care, though. If it were up to men, there'd either be no decorations, or all the decorations would be antlers."
"You generalize, Ariel," laughed Mr. Whittington, watching her look longingly after the dress after they'd passed, "I happen to be a fan of modern art. What do you say to that?"
"I say you're one in a million." Miss Fleck tore her eyes away from the salon. "You're not like most men, Jay...and certainly not like Gregory!"
"Oh?"
"Indeed. He's all about cooking. Oh, yes. There's one correct way on earth to cook, Jay, and Gregory is the only one who knows it, according to him. I guess I'd let him cook anything. But if he wants to start decorating, I'll knock him out. You should have seen his little home at Phantasma. No decorations! I had to decorate it myself! Don't get me started on how he jumps to conclusions!"
Mr. Whittington chuckled.
"I love him very much, don't misunderstand. But how he ever jumped to conclusions!"
(Miss Fleck picks up the story.)
I hadn't been lying. I really hadn't been sleeping with the Master. That's the honest truth. My dear, stupid Gangle had drawn false conclusions from me and Mr. Y's conversation, although I can understand how he got confused at the "it wouldn't be good publicity if my employee and I were..." part. Here's what really happened that day:
I had tried on the white ballgown that Mr. Y had made for me, just in case I'd have to sing in Ms. Daae's place, and he was pleased with the way it looked, so much that he wanted me to leave it on when we practiced the song. He said it "set the mood". Then we had some water, to clear our throats. Mr. Y then told me to keep the song under wraps, as well as the fact that I was understudying, because not only would folks likely get jealous, but it would be bad publicity if he and I were discovered to be preparing an alternate singer, as though Ms. Daae were unlikely to perform or something. Then we sang. I guess Gangle didn't stick around for that.
It was horrid, hearing him calling Mr. Y a convict and threatening to turn him into the police-and tell Daddy- if his perceived notions of me and him having you-know-what didn't stop. He was completely wrong, on both counts! Well, rather, he was certainly wrong on one count, but the other...Mr. Y being a convict...oh no, I didn't want to even think about it! It was too awful. Ever since the day he gave me doughnuts and I saw the New York Times open on his bench, he'd been treating me differently. Nicer. Almost as though I might turn him in...oh it couldn't be! It was terrible. And then to have Gangle threaten like that!
Being accused of whorish behavior (even though it was kind of true) really hurt too, especially when Gangle didn't seem to believe my explanations, but I was also terrified at how he was, though incorrectly, detecting that I was having fun with someone. Mr. Y wasn't the one who gave me that hickey on my throat. It was Genevieve. And you'd better believe that would have been bad publicity if that got out.
But I'll talk about Genny and I later.
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I had to go to Gangle and apologize. There was nothing for it. Almost immediately after it happened, I regretted it, and when Daddy fell asleep beside me that night I presently dampened the pillow with the tears of my contrition. He had his stupid prideful moments, but after all his years of kindness and friendship with me, he scarcely deserved to be struck and told that he was hated. I should have set him straight. But no, I flew off the handle, and now I got to lie awake, weeping with guilt.
When morning at last came, I got up earlier than usual, leaving Daddy to sleep on. I dressed, gave my sad face a quick look in the mirror, and headed over to the complex where Gangle's house was, misery bringing a heaviness to my steps. He would be awake by now. An old saying of Daddy's came mockingly to the forefront of my mind: "They that dance must pay the fiddler."
I knocked on his door and swallowed the guilty tremble in my throat.
"Eh?" I heard him shuffling, as if with clothes, within. "È qualcuno alla mia porta?"
"Um, it's... me," I replied feebly.
The shuffling stopped, and then continued for a bit, but he did not answer me. The oaken barricade of his door remained stubbornly shut. A good couple minutes passed. Still, he said nothing. I closed my eyes against the tears that were gathering on my lashes. This was what I had been fearing. He was very angry, so angry that he didn't even want to speak with me.
"Signorina!" he finally called, but his tone was like a stinging slap. "You still there?"
It hurt to reply. "Yes."
"Come inside, then. Door's not locked."
After all that, I didn't really want to anymore, but I knew I must. Humbly, I pushed open the door and shuffled in. Gangle's back was turned to me, for he was ironing a pair of pants, but even after I'd sat down near him, he did not turn around or even greet me. It was as though I were facing yet another oaken door.
"Gangle," I said sadly, after seeing him iron the same unwrinkled place seven times, "I am very sorry."
No reply. I might as well have been speaking to the wall.
"Did you hear me?" I was feeling desperate now. "I'm sorry. I don't really think you're awful, and I don't hate you. I should never have hit you. I love you."
At this, he stiffened and stopped ironing, then half-turned to look at me, his face surprised and sad all at once. That's when I noticed the pink bruise that spread from beneath his eye and across his cheek bone. I was completely horrified. Had I really hit him that hard? No wonder he wasn't talking to me!
"Oh!" I cried. "I really hurt you, didn't I, dear? It looks terrible! Oh, God, I'm so sorry!"
And I burst into tears like an idiot. He knelt down and hugged me, and for a few minutes I sniffled on his neck, my tears re-activating his aftershave and mingling into his cologne. When I finally pulled myself together, he wiped my eyes.
"The makeup will cover it all," he told me, still kneeling beside me. "And it doesn't hurt so bad now."
That didn't comfort me one bit. "It shouldn't have hurt you, not ever!" I wept on. "Oh, Gangle dear. Even if I didn't like the things you were saying, I hadn't a single right to hit you. I'm a bitch. That's what I am, a bitch!"
"No, no. You were just mad..."
"For Pete's sake, don't excuse it, Gangle. Please don't. Say it was wrong, but...but do forgive me."
His gentle brown eyes were still sad, but they brightened as he stroked my cheek and said, "It was wrong, but I forgive you." Then he swallowed and went on, "But, Signorina, I didn't want to be mean to you. I am just worried about you."
"I know."
"From this point on, I will not intrude. Your life is your life, and my life is my life. You're a grown lady, and you can handle yourself..."
But I had to confirm something that was still irking me. "Gangle dear, you don't really believe that I'm sleeping with the Master, do you? I swear to you that I'm not. I wouldn't do that. Part of what hurt me yesterday was that you seemed to think that I was someone who would."
"If you swear it," he said seriously, looking straight into my eyes, "Then I will believe you."
"I do swear it."
He rose. "Okay then. I believe you."
"Thank you."
Gangle's little home wasn't much like Fleck Manor. It had the same layout, as did all the other freaks' apartments, but you didn't get a feel of old-world ancestry and years of accumulated, knick-knacky decorations. It was utilitarian; everything in it served a purpose. There were piles of Italian cookbooks, folded trousers, coffee mugs, and a few framed photographs. Like most men, Gangle wasn't much of a decorator. As a matter of fact, there were no decorations at all. He didn't even have curtains. As I sat there, watching Gangle go to make some tea, I resolved to knit him some immediately.
"Gangle dear?" I said as he ducked into a cabinet, "I will make this up to you. I promise."
All I could see was his backside. "Make it up?" came his muffled reply.
"Hitting you, you goose. I will make it up to you somehow."
"Ah, you are both sweet and sour, Signorina." He popped out of the cabinet with a tin of tea, shaking it and grinning. "Don't worry about it anymore. You want tea?"
I did, and we both sipped from warm mugs at his undecorated table. (I resolved to knit him a tablecloth as well) The morning sun was streaming in, buttery yellow, casting a lovely haze around the room and making my dear Gangle look pleasantly drowsy, giving a watery depth to his eyes, bringing a charming, European sensibility to his features. There was that bruise, though, and in that moment the thought of hurting him was detestable. Oh, why did I do that?
"I will make it up to you," I said again, because I really meant it. "I will."
He smiled. "Drink your tea, Signorina."
That's what I did, but my guilt moved me to start up some pleasant small-talk. "So, Gangle, how are you and Maria?"
"Ah, good," he replied. "Very good. Excellent, actually. We are getting on very well."
Something about the way he said it made me completely miserable.
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Take it from me: if you ever want to make someone feel absolutely horrible for something they've done to you, forgive them as graciously and sweetly as you can, and then forget it. It may not have been Gangle's intention, but that's what happened to me when he forgave me like that. During breakfast, when people commented on the puffiness of his left eye, he just blew it off with some "ran into a door" explanation, and I didn't detect even a hint of bitterness.
"You'll want to be more careful, Gangle," Daddy admonished, his forehead wrinkling as he helped himself to the bacon. "People are likely to think you got clobbered."
"Yeah, really," added Damien. "Play it safe, pal. Wouldn't want Mr. Y to have to weld you a new face, too!"
Gangle shrugged. "Don't worry, don't worry. Ariel is always telling me to go slow in the dark, and from this point on I'll listen!"
Which made me hang my head and look miserably at my jam-smeared toast. Boy, was I rotten.
"So, the Trio here is going to learn how to fly a balloon some time soon, I hear," said Genny pleasantly, diverting the topic. "And I'm perfectly jealous. You three have all the damn fun."
"Genny," cautioned Aggie-Ann.
Daddy's face tightened; he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. "Yes, we are," he said grimly. "I'd much prefer that carriage, though. I stand by what I've always said. Man wasn't meant to fly! If we did, we'd have wings!"
This sparked an interesting conversation about aeroplanes and birds, and it eventually led into the theory of evolution, which made Aggie-Ann grumpy. Nevertheless, it was an intelligent, lively discussion in which everyone was soon partaking. It was during this discussion that Genny took advantage of everyone's diverted attention.
From her skirt pocket she brought a cherry lollipop. My heart fluttered, for I knew what was coming. Unwrapping it oh-so-delicately, she looked deeply into my eyes and made the suggestion. Then she brought the exposed, glittering ruby of cherry candy to her lips and lolled her tongue around it, slowly, maddeningly, and a sharp shiver of excitement began to start somewhere I'll not admit. She was teasing me. She was good at that.
"When?" I mouthed silently.
She made a circle with her hand and used her other one to make a little person, who sat on the edge and did acrobatics. After my aerial routine, that's what she was saying.
I nodded, she nodded, and then we continued eating breakfast, like nothing had happened.
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Genny enjoyed baiting me and letting the anticipation burn. Today was no exception. There I was, up on my hoop, doing what I always did, but my whole body was infected with a magnificent pain. Was I ever hungry. In hindsight, it's pretty obscene to think of all the bodily sensations I was feeling in the full view of all those people. I mean, they had no idea, but if they did, they'd likely be charged an extra fifty cents' admission. I really do hope nobody noticed.
At last, the end of the routine, the crashing of applause, and I hustled into my dressing room, where Genny was already waiting, with my heart pounding. I locked the door. The clock said 10:30. We had twenty minutes.
"Ariel," purred Genny, wasting no time, and in a moment I smelled her smell and felt her breath against my neck as she grabbed me, kissed my temple, and felt my chest. "Take that get-up off."
The dressing room couch is where all the magic took place. In a frantic moment our clothes were off, and then our warm, unadorned bodies were together. Outside, I could hear the usual hubbub of folks walking around and preparing for the next performance, but all I could concentrate on was Genny, myself, and the fufillment of the longing she had kindled in me at breakfast.
If I actually described what we did to each other, it'd burn your eyebrows off, but I can say that it wasn't just me lying back and enjoying the ride anymore. As you can deduce, the encounters between myself and Genny hadn't stopped after that bathing machine episode. I had avoided cigarettes, alcohol, and all those sorts of addictions at Genny's party, as per Daddy's orders, but now, however, I was powerfully addicted to something else he couldn't have forseen, a newfound guilty pleasure that would horrify and hurt him.
So why on earth was I doing it?
I didn't even know why. Intrigue likely had a hand. For eighteen years, I thought I'd finally gotten to know myself, understand myself, but now, with Genny, I realized that there was this unexplored and previously unknown dimension to me called sexuality that I had never given an ounce of thought. I was perfectly well acquainted with the cold, clinical facts o' life (dear Daddy had to cough up the info eventually), but I had no idea of what intense enjoyment my own freakish, malformed body, even if I were in total solitude, could give me. Genny did, though, and she was like my teacher, introducing this compelling new concept to me, her student.
The slow but steady climb to the top no longer confused me, nor did the ecstacy of climaxing scare me. I knew what it was and how to get it. I could lie back, let my mind fill with dreams of Mr. Y, softly instruct Genny as to what I needed and when, and doing the same for her. Twenty minutes was a bit of a squeeze, but it was do-able. By the time it was over, we were in each other's arms, skin against skin, belly against belly, the clock impersonally ticking out of sync with Genny's heartbeats. Her honey-colored hair had tumbled around her shoulders and curled around her breasts.
"Until next time, gorgeous."
I robed myself in blackness and feathers again, touched up my makeup, and headed out into Phantasma to re-assume my "Miss Fleck" duties in a much more gratified state of mind.
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I felt really good up until I saw Gangle and Daddy again. Then I felt disgusting. There they were, smiling, ignorant, unknowing, my dear Gangle greeting me with a grin and Daddy -my dear Daddy- offering me a shaved ice.
"I forgot whether your favorite flavor was lemon or cherry," he said in his usual half-apologetic mumble, like it was all his fault. "So here's lemon."
I felt like an animal. "Thank you, Daddy."
His act was up next. I sat up on the bleachers with Gangle and licked my ice, and as Daddy went about the usual business of picking up dumbells and Ford engines, I watched his weathered old face of tattoos for signs of fatigue, my conscience squirming with guilt. In just a few hours, Genny and I would likely lie with each other again. I didn't have to do it. Genny wouldn't force me. I could do the proper, decent thing, and foster some self-discipline, focus on pure thoughts and stop letting myself indulge in this unchecked lust. I could bite the bullet and do as I should.
That's what Daddy did. Day after day, stage-fright, intensely private Daddy had to put on performances and fly about in hot air balloons and all sorts of things. He did what he needed to do, regardless of his feelings. On top of it all, he was sick with seizures. Poor Daddy. What was wrong with me? In light of all this, and with everything he did, I couldn't even muster up the decency to be good. Not even that one little thing.
"You okay, Signorina?" Gangle's hand came across my back. "You look sad."
I kept watching Daddy down below, a black and silver figure in a spotlight of yellow, but I answered, almost without thinking, "I am sad. Gangle, have you ever...found yourself unable to control things, even if you want to?"
"What do you mean?"
"The things you do, actions you find yourself doing over and over." I looked at him sadly. "Behaviors you can't renounce."
He was trying to understand, I could see it in his face. "You mean," he ventured, "Like things you know you shouldn't do, but you do anyway?"
"Yes."
His eyes clouded over with a sort of guilty pain. "I do. But...Signorina, you mean you're having this sort of problem? Ah, if I may ask, what is it exactly?"
As friendly and willing as he was, there are just some things too dreadful to admit, even to a friend.
"I don't feel quite right admitting it, but it's not very good, Gangle. I'm not in any trouble, or anything, but I feel as though I've been sucked in to something I can't escape from. I don't expect you to be able to cure it. You can't. But comfort me, please."
There was silence for a bit, other than the usual oohing and aahing of patrons and the flashing of camera bulbs, and then he leaned over and hugged me.
"Okay," he said. "I think I understand a little. I comfort you."
And for a few moments, I huddled in the warmth of his jacket, feeling genuinely comforted, until something shocked me upright. For in that moment, I remembered hugging Genny just a little while earlier, and in her place I imagined Gangle. In my mind, our two unclothed bodies were warm and wonderful, embracing, and...
I sat up abruptly.
"Signorina!" Gangle said. "You okay? Your cheeks are all red."
Thoughts were rushing into my mind, like a film without sound, or even images. Just feelings. Like a collage of emotions. The peace of a starry night. The tenderness of a hug. Fear. Confusion. Love.
"I don't..." My voice could barely be heard. "Know what...I..."
"Come." Gangle gently grabbed my shoulders and stood me up, but his voice was gentle. "Come, Signorina. Let me make you some food. You look sick. Come with me."
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The kitchen of the Roman Colosseum Restaurant (or Ristorante, to quote Gangle) was the sort of place that would fill any food lover's heart with joy: the stone walls were covered in copper pots and pans, all manner of spoons, glass jars of herbs, and pasta was always boiling, steaming, in industrial-size cooking pots, tended to by a whole troop of young chefs (or "incompeetent sons o' beetches", to also quote Gangle).
I got a hearty welcome from the fellows when I entered, but when Gangle appeared behind me, it died off abruptly. Few people inspired such terror among the chefs. In he strolled like a big Mafia boss, inducing the lot of them to nervously fiddle with knobs and mince perfectly-minced parsley into paste.
"Cosa abbiamo fatto ora?" said one sullenly.
"Niente," replied Gangle, cocking an eyebrow. "Io vado a friggere alcune zeppole per Ariel."
My limited Italian skills, combined with the fact that we were in a kitchen, enabled me to understand that Gangle wanted to fry something called "zeppole" for me. At an abandoned stove, he plunked down a pot, filled it with oil, and turned on the gas.
"You will like this, Signorina," he told me pleasantly. "We will fry some zeppole. Go get some flour and sugar for me."
I did, and by then Gangle had amassed the rest of the necessary ingredients, which he whisked together with an expert hand, honed by years of working in his parents' restaurant. I stood up on a stool to watch him. Cooking, even if it was something as simple as frying zeppole, made him very happy. You could tell by the peaceful light in his eyes.
"See this, Signorina?" he said, lifting the whisk and showing me how the batter oozed down in ribbons. "That is the right consistency. Too thick, and it tastes terrible, like sponge of oil. Too thin, it won't hold. And now..." He dashed a little allspice into the batter with a gleeful, sneaky grin. "That is not traditional, but Mama did that all the time! No telling! Now, clap!"
I didn't understand. "Clap?"
"Over the batter. Clap your hands hard, warn the batter that it better do what you say!"
Clap! said my hands as I struck them over the flour-speckled bowl of zeppole dough, and it was all so ridiculous that I laughed. Gangle nodded as though I had done something as typical as grease a pan.
"Very good, Signorina. Now, to the oil!"
By now, the chefs were giving us amused little glances as they went about their kitchen business. Once or twice I saw one whisper to another and point at Gangle.
The oil was bubbling. A small bit of dough thrown inside sizzled, browned, and floated to the top, which made Gangle pleased.
"Perfetto!" he said. "That is the right temperature. Now, help me put big tablespoonfuls in!"
In went sticky blobs of dough that eventually came bobbing to the top, golden-brown and tantalizing. I dug them out with a slotted spoon and onto a brown paper bag while Gangle put more dough in, and we continued in this way until all the dough was gone, and all that remained was the powdered sugar. I pretended that the zeppoles were little mountains and the sugar was snow, and sent a healthy little blizzard that bleached them white. Then the perfect, sugary little zeppoles went onto a pretty blue plate with a napkin.
"They are just right," said Gangle with the big grin he only reserved for properly-cooked food. "Now we eat them with coffee. I will put this oil away. You take the zeppole to a table."
He stopped his sentence just in time to hear a chef murmur, a little insolently, "Signor De Rossi ha un sacco di donne."
I knew it had something to do with Gangle and women, and it wiped the happiness right off his face. As if it were an afterthought, he strode over to the offending chef, who was making sauce, and took a taste.
"Too salty!" he grouched in a thick accent, waving the ladle threateningly. "More tomatoes! You fix!"
The chef threw his hands in the air and grouched back, "Che richiede troppo tempo!"
At that, Gangle's eyes narrowed into two mean little slits. "You fix."
I chuckled as I took the plate of zeppole out to a table.
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Boy, were they good. Crunchy and sugary on the outside, tender and fluffy on the inside. As I used my sticky, sugar-encrusted fingers to pop yet another in my mouth like a slob, it occurred to me that Gangle was probably the greatest cook of all time.
Speaking of Gangle, he had stopped at a mere two zeppole and spent the rest of the time watching me engorge myself, smiling with deep, Italian satisfaction.
"Sooo, Signorina," he crooned, a triumphant gleam in his eye. "What do you like more? American jelly doughnuts, or zeppole?"
"I wike 'thepp-ah-lee!" answered the Fabulously Fat Miss Fleck, her mouth full.
Outside the tent where we were sitting, it was a beautiful summer day. The park was full, the sun was shining, the music was playing, and my beloved Gangle and I were sitting together, eating the food we had made, the aroma of coffee and worn grass wafting in the breeze.
I had very nearly forgotten about my troubles. "Mmm," I mumbled in contentment, "Fank you, G'ngle. Dis ith delish-ush."
"You're welcome. You feel better now?"
In that moment, I did. But would I still feel better later? "A widdle," I said, hoping it would last.
"I wish you would tell me what is wrong. You are making me nervous," said Gangle. He was clearly not satisfied with my air of mystery. "Is somebody hurting you?"
He had sworn to believe me on the whole "Mr. Y" thing, but it was clear that he still had his doubts. I had to change the subject.
"No one is hurting me," I said, and then I gestured to the uneaten zeppole. "You saving these?"
The sudden shift in topic obviously bothered him, but he followed along. "Ah, yes, if you don't mind. I am seeing Maria tonight, and I'd like to give her some."
Maria! That hot, boiling rage flared up in my bosom again, along with a terrible pain. I wished she didn't exist. I hated the thought of my Gangle going about with her. With anyone...
"What's the matter, Signorina?" Gangle must've sensed my unhappiness. "Something wrong?"
I crumpled the napkin in my hand, put it aside, and took a deep breath. I knew that the feelings in my heart would sound really stupid aloud, but I still felt as though I simply must voice them.
"Please, tell me what's..."
"I don't like that woman." The words flew out of my mouth, grouchy and bitter. "Not one bit."
Gangle blinked, clearly taken off guard. "Eh? Who? Maria?"
"Yes. I don't like her," I confirmed grimly. "Some time ago I promised you to tell you if she seemed like the woman for you, and my assessment is no. By no means. It's unreasonable!"
"Un...reasonable?" Gangle looked totally mystified. "Why?"
My anger intensified. Why couldn't he see this for himself? Were all men this dense?
"Because, Gangle dear, she's absolutely nothing like you. You are..." I blushed as I tried to find the word, and blurted, "Intense!"
His eyes darted around a bit, and then stared confusedly at me. "I'm intense?"
"Well, perhaps intense is the wrong word," I was quick to amend. "You are...you're a great many things! You like to think, and...you appreciate things, and... you see the beauty in things!"
He was still confused, but he smiled, apparently pleased, which made him look cute.
My heart was fluttering in my throat as I went on, "Er, yes, and in light of that, I think you can see why she's not for you. Think about it. Would she ever...look at stars with you?"
He hesitated for a bit, but then he shook his head. "No."
"That's right. She'd want to go dance, or sing, and not look at things. And, and...furthermore, the woman misquoted Poe!"
I inserted a dramatic pause there to really let that sink in, for that was, as you will readily admit, a very good point.
Gangle nodded slowly. "I see."
"I hate to be so negative, but, well, you did ask me, and I..."
"It's okay, Signorina, don't worry. You're right."
Out of all the things he could've said, that caught me off guard. "Er, I'm...right?"
He rose, took the leftover zeppole, and kissed my forehead. "You're right. Maria is nothing like you, Signorina. I must go now. See you later!"
A swish of cloth, a steady stride, one last waft of cologne, and Gangle was gone. What was it about the man's kisses that robbed me of my speech and reasoning? I sat there, completely breathless for a few minutes. Maria was nothing like me. A little smile tugged at my mouth. Thank God for that. But what did he...?
My thoughts were interrupted by a throaty chuckle, and when I turned around I found myself face to face with Genny.
"Oh, Ariel," she laughed around her lollipop. "That was rich."
Her sudden intrusion was jarring, but I took in stride. "Oh...was it?"
Genny sat beside me. "You'd better believe it. I wondered when you'd finally tell him off."
"Tell him off?"
"For flirting with you all the time." She looked in the direction Gangle had departed. "I had a half-mind to do it myself, but I guessed I'd leave it you. Italians. Horn-dogs all! And you even said 'unreasonable', just like your Dad. Same facial expression, too! I almost died!"
I was not following this at all. "Flirting? What do you mean, flirting with me all the time?"
Genny stared at me in disbelief for a moment, and then she slumped forward, cackling in amusement, slapping her knee. "Oh, Ariel, you are oblivious! Surely you must have noticed, even a little?"
"I don't understand."
"Alright, alright," she said, wiping her nose. "I'll clue you in. Heavens, you're cute. Well, Miss Ariel, others may not notice, but everytime you and Little Italy are in the same vicinity, he's always looking at you."
"Well, I should think..."
"No, no, not like that. I mean, really looking at you, all dreamy and smiley. You're sitting there, all pretty, reading a book or something, and he just stares at you."
Something like amazement rushed over me. "Does he really?"
"Sure as I'm sitting here," assured Genny. "And if that ain't convincing enough, consider this: how many folks here at Phantasma does he ever talk to, act friendly-like to?"
"He..." I thought about it, and stunned myself with my own anwer. "Me. Sometimes he talks to Daddy too, but he...mostly talks to me."
"Furthermore, have you ever seen him stroll around and look at stars and cook Italian delicacies for anyone but you?"
"Why...no."
There was a sage gleam in Genny's eyes as she sat back in her chair and grinned. "And you should have seen him at the Fourth of July party, when you two got hit by that wave. Man looked like he'd just won the lottery. I think I can say, beyond the shadow of doubt, that the man's in love with you."
It was incredible. It was as though Genny had found the final piece to a puzzle that I never knew existed, and now I was face-to-face with this romantic picture. Gangle, in love with me. I pictured us together in my mind. Little me, taking one of his dark hands and looking up into his gentle face, reclining against his chest. My heart went wild. But wait! What about Maria?
And then I was almost beside myself with anger.
"Don't get upset, Ariel," soothed Genny. "If you like, I'll tell him where to get off."
"No, no, there's no need. Never mind. I can handle it." I looked out into the bustling Phantasma crowd. "Truly, I can. Don't worry."
Her lips brushed against my forehead, but unlike Gangle's kiss, I felt no thrill. I didn't know what to feel. It was all so much, all at once.
"Alright, then. I'll see you later, cutie."
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I didn't run into Gangle for the rest of day, and if I did, I wouldn't have remembered. I took pictures, chattered with birds, sat with King Charles, and did my general "act-freaky-and-eccentric" routine, all the while feeling as though my head had been misplaced and buried in some fluff. My world felt completely changed. I had considered the notion of Gangle being in love with me, and found it a reasonably agreeable one. Did I love him too? The way I did Mr. Y? For I loved both men, but differently.
When I was with Genny, I filled my mind with thoughts of the Master, lavishing love upon me. That was one of the reasons I had difficulty saying no to her. It's terrible to think about now, letting Genny think I was in love with her for the sole purpose of fufilling my fantasies, but that's what I was doing. I had sexual feelings for Mr. Y, and I was addicted to having them half-satisfied with Genny.
But Gangle? Or, rather, Mr. De Rossi? I'd only given sex with him a fleeting, wondering, what-the-hell sort of thought. It had spontaneously come upon me. There was also the subject of Maria-everytime she came into my mind, I wanted to annihilate her miserable existence. I hated the thought of her and Gangle. Hated it! I hated it almost as much as the thought of Mr. Y and Ms. Daae. It was a bitter blend of anger and jealousy.
That couldn't be love, could it? After all, "Love is patient, is kind: love envieth not, dealeth not perversely; is not puffed up; Is not ambitious, seeketh not her own, is not provoked to anger, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth with the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things." Because, you know, I'm such a shining example of what a Catholic woman ought to be. Step aside, Saint Teresa.
"Somethin' wrong, Air-yull?"
I looked up from where I was sitting, dejectedly, on a bench, and realized that Aggie-Ann was watching me, both faces filled with concern. They must have just finished a show, for their banjo was slung across their shared back, and upon their heads of upturned brown braids sat little carnation blossoms. I hesitated before answering, "Yes, a little."
Religious though Aggie-Ann was, she (they?) was not unpleasant, gave good advice, and could be counted on to find the moral high-ground in any given crisis, which was probably why I felt free to confess my situation, evasively.
"How do you know that your love for someone is the right kind?" I asked, determined not to give much away. "I mean, there's attraction, and jealousy, and being friends, but what's the right way to love someone? The right way, the moral way?"
At this, both heads gave the other a significant look, and Aggie-Ann was compelled to sit down beside me. It wasn't every day that someone asked them what the moral thing to do was, and they seemed to feel their Christian responsibility keenly.
"Er, well," began Ann. "We know from the Bah-bull that love's got to stem from patience n' selflessness, an' never from jealousy or unrah-chiss-ness. That's first o' all."
"Yeah," piped in Aggie. "Love ain't all about fun times, on account o' it ain't always gon' be fun. Life'll get bad sometimes, an' sad. That's where love gets tested. People fer-get that, an' when the storms come, it all falls to bits, 'cause they never had a foundation."
That made sense to me. I kept Mr. Y and Gangle in my mind as they talked.
"An' you gotta feel safe with the person." Ann clearly didn't know much about men -at all- but she said this with deep conviction. "Ya can't be walkin' on eggshells 'round 'em."
"This makin' sense to ya, Air-yull?" inquired Aggie anxiously.
It was.
"Ah think we can sum this up with one thought. If ya ever got yerself in a jam, who'd ya go runnin' to fer help? You could ya trust?"
I see," I replied, but I was not wholly satisifed. "And to what degree would attraction factor in?"
It was clearly a bit of an awkward question to ask the pious virgin Aggie-Ann, but after a moment of deliberation, they had an answer.
"It'd matter some," said Aggie. "That's part o' love, too, after all."
"But it ain't the ultimate thing," added Ann, somehow magically in sync with Aggie, as always. "It ain't a good thng to base everything on. I think you'll find that when you grow t' love someone's heart an' spirit, you find that they look beau'ful to ya, even if they ain't."
There was still zeppole sugar on my palm. I rubbed it off, taking all this new information in.
"Erm, Air-yull?" ventured Aggie, hesitantly. "May ah ask why yer askin' us this?"
"Curiosity," I lied, and divulged no more than that, even when Aggie-Ann gave a skeptical silence. "Thank you very much, you've been very helpful."
)
(
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Twilight descended upon Fleck Manor, casting shadows over the faded faces of my ancestors and over me as I sat at the table, knitting white curtains for Gangle, my heart filled with emotions too deep for words. At that moment, Gangle was eating zeppole with Maria. But he supposedly loved me. I mentally went through our shared history, looking for signs as I worked a handsome lace border into the curtain. Just a small one. Men get flustered if there's too much lace, but a little is fine, and after all, they're curtains.
I unwound some more wool and pushed my stitches forward. Well, Gangle always hung around, even when I was little. He couldn't love me then, so it would have had to have started recently. Perhaps when we started the Mr. Y investigation? Maybe some time after I told him how I loved Mr. Y?
And then something suddenly made perfect sense. If Gangle were in love with me, that would explain his hostility towards Mr. Y, his insistence that the man was no good, his fury over my perceived affair with the man. It was all coming together. Oh, what sort of detective was I? I was a real disgrace to the name of Sherlock if I hadn't seen these developments coming a mile off.
As for Maria, she was a girl he'd known once, back in Italy. Perhaps he was giving up on me. And perhaps this -my heart leapt- was why he was having trouble deciding to marry her or not.
Why, Gangle dear! (I cried within myself) You love me. I don't know how long, but you do, and I daresay I don't know what to feel. Dear, dear Gangle...
"Why, Ariel," came Daddy's pleasantly growly voice, and I saw that he was looking at me over his journal. "Are you knitting a wedding dress?"
A wedding dress? It took me some time to deduce that he was referring to the lacy whiteness of the knitting. "Oh no," I replied, dazed at my abrupt return to reality. "These are curtains for Gangle."
"Hasn't he got any?"
"No."
"Well then, that's very reasonable of you." Daddy returned to his journal. "But be conservative with the lace. Men get flustered if there's too much lace."
But by then I was no longer listening, for a interesting fact had suddenly become apparent to me. Out of all the wool I had at my disposal, out of all the browns and greens and much more masculine colors for curtains, I had chosen white wool and a small lace pattern. It was an epiphany. I looked out the window and into the night, stunned at the power of the human subconscious.
(Miss Flecks ends the story here for now.)
NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:
1. If you're wondering when Christine and her family will make their debut (and thus begin the "Love Never Dies" storyline), that will occur in Chapter Nineteen. In all, this story has 25 chapters, but it'll look like 26 because of the way the "Thanksgiving Ramble" acts like a chapter. So we've entered the "beginning of the end".
2. Thank you for reading "City of Wonders".