Chapter 20

“I don’t need a lecture from an art director right now, Eddie.  You’ve got your problems, I’ve got mine,” said Ari as he sat on his deck staring at a many layered image on his laptop.  He balanced the cell phone under his chin as he manipulated the color blend of the images.

“Unfortunately, your problems are my problems,” Eddie retorted.  He sat on the edge of a drafting table looking out the window at the city that thrived on problems… and the solving of them.  “Keep it simple.  The last pic you uplinked us was out in the stratosphere with… how many colors was that one?

Ari leaned in and carefully, like a surgeon with a scalpel, smeared the blacks of the image through gray and into a white, almost translucent wash.  Beneath, rose the face of Samantha looking over her shoulder, eyes lowered as if turning from some kind of horror, some kind of demon within that relentlessly pursued the enigmatic innocence she so carefully projected as Samantha.  That was how Ari saw the image.  The unanswered question for the Profile, however, was would the public appreciate the impressions and buy the magazine?  “Yeah.  A lot of colors.  This one will top the last one.”

“As in more colors?”

“Uh huh.”

“Jesus, Ari, you’ve got three pics already driving my assistants crazy looking up Pantone color according to your explicit demand for color matching.  And once they’re finished, I’ll probably be dealing with printing press temperments.  Your shading frenzy is gonna make for… shit, Ari, what about the rest of the magazine?” Eddie groaned into the phone.

Ari leaned back and thoughtfully tilted his head at the screen.  “I’ll keep it in mind, Eddie, I really will.  I’m not out to make it more difficult for you.  I know Harrison’s all over you with this one, just like he is with me.”

“You have no idea.”

“Oh, I’ve got more than an idea.  I don’t get this Samantha spread right, it’s back to party shooting at Pasolini’s, remember?”

Eddie sighed.  “At least with the party, he wouldn’t be calling me every ten minutes.  He wants it done, Ari.  He wants to make a decision and get on with the rest of the pages.  Get the Goddamn cover done.  Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“That wasn’t very convincing, kid.  We’re a week into that three-week deadline and we’re not past the cover yet.  He’s gonna use one of those wall hangings you sold him or demand you do a quickie collage of the party if you don’t send something he’s just as excited over.”

“He’s just not seeing like he used to.  He’s just not seeing.”

“You can call it what you want, but when are you going to send me something Harrison can approve?

Ari paused a moment, staring at the image before him.  He reached over, closed the deprogram and continued his fixed gaze on what was now an empty black screen.  “Soon, I hope.”

“Harrison wants five pages inside as well.  Where am I going to steal the time for all that Pantone number matching?  Christ, Ari, there’s over 10,000,000 potential colors, and you’re using…

“Way fewer.  C’mon, Eddie, you’re owned by a computer company, remember?  Give Hurito a call.  Bet he’s got a program that could help you.” 

“Jesus, Ari.  Knowing you, ‘way fewer’ probably means only 5,000,000 colors to match.”

“Close, Eddie.”  Ari hung up and reached for a cigarette.  He tried to light it, but his lighter was dry.  It too had lost its fuel. 

He starred at the screen.  The man who until this moment was confident of his instincts, sure of his focus, convinced of his perception, now was at a loss.  What was missing?  What was the elusive component that could convey the revelation of Samantha Turner?  Why instead of getting closer to completion was the woman of many faces becoming more distant. Suddenly he was gripped with doubt.  Doubt that what he was doing was any nobler than snapping pictures of celebrated people in private moments, sometimes embarrassing moments, sometimes painful moments and selling them to the prurient media merchants of the world.  Who was he, he thought, to think that the purchaser of an Inquirer, Star or yes, even the prestigious Profile could become anything more than the hopelessly vicarious voyeur that they were just because one Aristotle, a self-proclaimed artist for the twenty first century, thought different?  Was his art any less a titillation, a stimulant?  And if so, so what?

He strode over to the edge of the balcony and peered out to sea.  “So, what?”  Had he just let that thought take over?  Was Harrison the only one that gave a damn?  Was creating a multi-layered impression of anyone of any value?   Was it not like trying to grab all the stars in the universe?  Was the understanding of any complex human less infinite?

He turned on his heels and exhaustively leaned back on the balcony railing.  His eyes searched the clouds for an answer to this sudden panic. Nothing came, save for the rumbling croak of a bird somewhere behind him… somewhere out to sea, perhaps… he didn’t want to think it, but it was possible... probably only in his imagination.  His eyes dropped and fixed on the concrete where he stood.  He knew imagination had driven many an artist mad.  Perspiration trickled into his eye.  He blinked.

The shadow of a forty-five-inch wing span moved in to hover overhead.  It was cooling to the perspiring man below… the man whose eyes were now fearful of moving from the darkened cement... the man whose imagination cried to look up… the man who slid down the railing to the floor and rested.  Yes, rest was good.  Rest was very good.

***

The man with the gnarled cedar stick turned from his boulder perch and listened.  The sound of horses’ hoofs was not foreign to his aged ears.  He had heard hundreds of such sounds during the many years he had occupied the rock, mud and seaweed walled lookout station overlooking the Pacific.  Sailor, as the Resort Island affectionately knew him, had used the sparse and barren enclosure as his home ever since an untimely explosion aboard one of Umberto’s salvaging boats had taken his sight.  During the intervening 40 years, he had often used his keenly developed ears to help Umberto decipher the many elusive sounds of the deep, some of which had led to treasures.  Now he listened for what might prove to be his first visitors of the day.

Samantha’s horse drew to a stop where a hollowed-out log trough held water. 

Max approached, still wearing a smile of pride.  “You still ride like a champion.”

“Like a klutz, you mean,” Samantha laughed back.

As the horse drunk, Samantha looked up to see Sailor waving from fifty yards ahead.   “Friend of yours,” Samantha quipped.

Max dismounted and walked his horse toward Sailor.  “That’s your surprise.”

“My surprise,” Samantha repeated.  She squinted at the silhouette standing at the edge of the rise, waving his stick above his head and almost singing his greeting, “Welcome.  Welcome.  Please join me for tea.”

Were it not for the real sky and ocean dropping off behind him, thought Samantha, I’d swear I was hallucinating.  Tea?  It must be a hundred out here.

Inside the Sailor’s Castle, as the spindly old man chose to call it, the temperature was ten degrees cooler, beckoning a longer visit than anticipated.  The surroundings were stark and bare of any superfluous comforts.  In the corner stood an old potbelly stove.  Standing in the center of the stone and dirt floor was an old galleon bunk bed and three small barrels that served as chairs.  The hand carved side panels of the bunk carried the inscription, “One hundred days of storm and no end in sight – June 2, 1784.”  The lower bunk had planks spread across it providing a table level for things such as eating, chatting and now… tea. As they exchanged niceties and sipped their tea, Samantha found his strong angular face with its weathered skin fascinating as it framed very clear and beautiful eyes, eyes she had just realized were blind. The revelation made the décor of the 18^th century lookout shelter all the more intriguing.  Both her and Max’s attention was pulled to the books, hundreds of books stacked against the walls.  OKAY, she thought, he’s blind and likes books.  My kind of imagination.  Max was the first to pose the question. 

“You certainly have a fine collection of books.”

Sailor smiled and lifted the old teakettle from the stove, quickly finding his way back to their barrel seats.  “Oh, those.  Can I freshen your tea?”

“Thank you,” said Samantha.

“No more for me,” replied Max.

Sailor gestured toward the walls, “Those, my friends, are such rich memories.  Occasionally, a traveler will visit and read to me.  Such pleasure, books.  Don’t you agree?  Many years ago, I served as the ship’s librarian… a rather unique position on a salvage boat.  But, Mr. Pasolini is a unique man.  Have you met him?”

“No… no, we’re just your everyday tourists,” smiled Samantha.

“Oh, but I can tell by your rich voice that you are anything but ‘everyday’, yes?”

Max spoke up proudly.  “Well, you’re right, Sailor.  My wife is unique in her own right.”

“Of course.  It was apparent,” said Sailor.  He turned to Samantha and gripped her hand gently. “Tell me more, please.”

Taken aback by the deft aim of his old, but strong hand in finding her own, she patted him back.  “Well, perhaps to some, it’s true.  I’m an actor.”

“Of course.  That voice is a storyteller’s dream.  What is your name, if I might ask.”

“Samantha Turner,” she replied.

“Very nice name.  It fits you.  By birth or a stage name?” Sailor asked.

Samantha turned to Max and smiled.  “Well, it’s by birth… made to mean something by Max, my teacher, my husband”

“Oh,” laughed Sailor, “We are romantic.  That is so nice to hear occasionally.  You’re married.”

Max smiled back at Samantha, “Yes… just a few days.  We’re on our honeymoon.”

Sailor rose, lifting his teacup.  “Congratulations.  To Mr. and Mrs. Turner, no…”

“Quinlan, Mr. and Mrs. Quinlan,” said Max.

“To Mr. and Mrs. Quinlan.  May you realize many little Quinlans, yes?”

“Perhaps a little later,” answered Samantha.

They all touched their cups together.

With a hint of sadness, Sailor smiled back, “Better earlier than later, Mrs. Quinlan.  Life has a way of interrupting your plans.”  He suddenly paused and picked up his walking stick.  “Please, let me share something with you.  Come.  It’s outside.”

Sailor led Max and Samantha along a rocky path of fixed-ropes that had obviously been man-made.  It wound down the mild hillside, passing rusted relics of Pasolini’s décor of an era past, including rowboats, anchors, propellers, capstans and bollards.

“That old whale boat back up on the approach to your home looks to be a lure.  Do you have many visitors?” asked Max.

“Oh, that.  Yes… Umberto decided I needed to have it close to me, as he claims it still carries the sounds of the harpooning event back, God knows when.  You know, all that sound he claims I would enjoy.  Not really.  My ears choose to listen to life, not… that.  Actually, I never appreciated his salvaging that boat, but he’s been good to me, and, well… his putting it there has brought me some interesting visitors… like you two.”

  The maritime walk ended in a small cove, protected on three sides by volcanic rock.

Sailor paused and raised his arm, whispering.  “Shhh.  We must be careful not to frighten them away.” 

Max and Samantha stopped and waited to hear more.   Below, the waters were undisturbed, save for the gentle lapping of waves brushing against the cold cragy rock with its blanket of mussels and other mollusks. 

Sailor turned his head from side to side, listening.  He cupped his hands and softly squealed a sound like that of dolphins.  Again, he turned his head from side to side.  He smiled and whispered, “They are further out than usual.  Might take them a few minutes to come in, but…” he gestured for Max and Samantha to sit down, “… we can sit on the rock here and enjoy the cool salt air.  I come here often… Isn’t it beautiful?”

Samantha had been holding Max’s hand on the short walk to the cove, but now she gripped it tightly, as if in fear of something.

“Yes… very,” answered Max as he turned to Samantha and quietly asked, “What’s wrong, Sam?”

Continuing to grip Max’s hand, Samantha fixed her eyes on Sailor, “How do you do it?” she asked.

“Do it?  What?” replied Sailor softly.

“Stay so happy… here… this desolate place.  No one to relate to.  No one to be with.”

Sailor turned his head from side to side once again and smiled.  He took her hand and placed it on his chest.  “Feel it?”

“Feel it… what?”

“Happiness, my dear.  That wonderful sound within where the real thing resides.  Where no matter the interruptions in life, no matter the place or time when the unknown, the unseen, the unexpected, can surprise you, the happiness of life comes from little else but honesty with oneself… and perhaps a small amount of intelligence to help one understand the quiet voice inside that keeps you company… keeps you from thinking you’re alone or without someone to relate to.”  He patted her hand once again.  “And of course, it’s always a special treat to have visitors like yourself to add to the sounds.”  He pressed her hand tighter to his chest.  “Now, do you hear it?”

She drank in his kind expression, his wrinkled eyes that sparkled even brighter with the water’s reflection.  “Of course, I hear it.”

“Good.  That is good.  From me to you.  From you to your husband and the unborn I hope you will realize someday.  An honest heart deserves other honest hearts.”  He turned back to the ocean.  He slowly rose and turned his head again.  “Yes… they have heard the happiness as well.”  He cupped his hand once again, using the soft squeals of his voice to bring the dolphins to the surface.  One, two… seven in all.  They came and displayed their willingness to play with the three of them with the same love and calm as had beckoned them… the same peace and tranquility that now ushered in a tear to both Samantha and Max’s eyes.  To Sam, it was as if a new dimension, a higher self had been introduced, an appreciation that would challenge forever her stubborn resistance to the honesty Sailor had asked her to believe in.  To Max, a fortuitous experience that he knew would help keep the fragile and vulnerable woman he loved from succumbing to a world that would use her up without any thought of its cost.  To Sailor, it was just another sharing… a simple everyday experience with two strangers in need of just being.