The Ringleader

The very pretty village of Lourmarin in Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur is about an hour south-east of Avignon. It has a sumptuous Renaissance castle which is booked for the glamorous and extravagant annual grand-fête of the Anonymous Association of Ornament Removal (AAOOR). That weekend, the number of Rolls-Royces, Bentleys and Maybachs parked locally rivals Monaco, Qatar or Knightsbridge in London. Originally, the local council was against hosting the world's most famous jewel thieves, but seeing how much money came in, they quickly changed their mind and welcomed them warmly. 

Extravagantly dressed people make their way to the castle's the ball room. A clever observer would notice that nobody wore jewelry, zero, not even wedding rings! How strangely bare the Balenciaga gowns of the ladies looked without their rings, bracelets and necklaces as did the gentlemen's Brioni,  Dormeuil and William Westmancott suits sans their usual Audemars-Piguet, Vacheron Constantin or Rolex President Edition watches. 

Jewel theft is an extremely lucrative business and these were its crème de la crème. The event was to award prizes for last year's individual haul with the dollar figures aggregated  by Meyer & Herzberger LLC from Universal Insurance Agents yearly reports and could not be contested.

After the opulent dinner, the chairman went to the front with the envelopes for the three categories: Most Necklaces (Necklaceleader), Most Rings (Ringleader), Most Overall (Mostleader). Drumroll ... Ayelle B, won for Necklaces, then, unexpectedly, the Mostleader was announced which went to Virginia X. The audience was stirring and whispering when the chairman announced that this year the Ringleader diploma will not be awarded. Rumors were that whoever won broke the AAOOR conduct code by returning loot.

Earlier there was a disturbance at the gate when an veteran member was not all. He was shouting that he was the legitimate Ringleader and he gave back one ring by mistake. When he was later asked by reporters how he felt about being disqualified, he said that he can only compare it with having an arm and a leg chopped off.     

How it really was and how it really happened

This happened long time ago when there were no people, there was no Dharma, there were only birds in the sky, animals on land and fish in the sea. It was decided that the world needed heart, soul and mind and a triumvirate was formed: the unicorns had the soul, the fish had the heart and the cats had the mind. Everybody was happy (it seemed). The cats, of course, weren't happy (they are above silly notions like happy/unhappy) but they had a plan (cats always have a plan). They figured out that the unicorns have a master unit, the holder of all unicorn knowledge and skills. All the others just mimic, imitate and copy what the master does. The cats tracked down the master, killed it and the unicorns quickly died out. Without their chief, they didn't know how to feed and reproduce. 

There was an inquest (there's always one when a species becomes extinct). Everybody figured that the cats must've done it but there was no proof and the decision was to move on. They just implanted the unicorn concept into the general consciousness, gave it a symbolic meaning and associated it with French Vanilla flavour. 

The fish thought they were safe. They were 6'4", weighed 250 lbs and were strong, built like props (a reference to a rugby player position). Cat hydrophobia was well known and it was thought that it was enough to keep them away from the fish environment.

At about that time people started showing up in greater numbers and in various places. When the cats noticed a handsome redhead walking on the beach, they killed her and cut her into two. The head of the fish patrol came to see what it was all about and the cats killed it too and cut it into two. The cats were under caution for things they had allegedly done, so they didn't want to press their luck and they glued two halves together and threw the new creature, half girl half fish, back into the sea. They sprayed the special dust that made anybody who saw this thing and talked about it  not to be believed. To animate it they used the S1 App release E version N. It was awkward to pronounce so everybody called them siren. The new fish, made from the pieces left, was also brought to life with the Sa App version D, release N and was rebooted as S1aRDn (awkward to pronounce so they dubbed sardine). It turned out to be a rather small, silvery fish, oily, delicious with no intention to be the keeper of the heart. 

After a while there were more and more people and the world started to look, sound and feel much like what you now see, hear and feel: a lot of mind, very little heart and even less soul. Meanwhile, the cats wait and watch ... the cats may have another plan.

M. De Kuyper

De Kuyper appeared, as he always did shiny and translucent at the same tine, sitting in the corner of my room. When he saw the look on my face, he quickly said, "Don't start again."

Everyone can see De Kuyper if they know how and where to look. He is the keeper of memories and everything remembered. Very few know that people don't have memories and that they don't remember anything. What they get is just what De Kuyper gives, according to his unknowable rules and his impenetrable algorithm.

From my many long talks with him, I still have only a vague idea. I know that when you die, all your memories die with you—and then, in that moment only, you get to see everything (ALL).

I always argued that it was too late, and useless, and cruel—bitter, brutal, and callous, but De Kuyper just smiled crookedly and shrugged.

De Kuyper doesn't admit it, but he clearly favors the young over the old. The young get a lot of stuff fast. The old get more stuff from childhood and youth, but not "what they had for breakfast the other day" or "why am I in this room?" When he is too busy and he doesn't get around to everybody in time, he gives a lapsus that some people physically perceive as on the tip of their tongue.

I always thought he liked me, until one day he said he liked no one and hated no one. "You're all the same to me," he said, but he enjoys interacting with the few who could see him and talk to him.

One day I said something (I don't remember what) that upset him and made him sad. He clearly wanted to make up and offered, "C'mon, what do you want to see? August 1961?" When I said, "I don't care," he continued, "How about that goal you scored that put your team in the final?" "We lost the final. Don't remind me. I want to see ALL."

De Kuyper shook his head and told me that I will see it the day I die. 

"But ALL is a lot of stuff. How long do I have to look at it?"

De Kuyper said, "You have an eternity."

I got angry, "And how long is an eternity?"

He looked straight at me, as if I should have known: "Eternity is sometimes as long as one second."

And that's how I got the Painting

See the overprint "5 NOUVEAU FRANCS" on the original 500 Francs bill

I was last in Paris in June 1962, and everybody remembers that horrible summer: cold, windy, and raining almost every day, I rented rooms on a small street off Rue des Écoles, with cobblestones glistening wet—so much so that one day I slipped and hurt my ankle, most painfully but a kind neighbor called an ambulance, and we drove to Salpêtrière on Boulevard de l’Hôpital, assuring me it was the best hospital in Paris—probably in all of France, upon entering the emergency room, I saw Geneviève, the chief nurse, a tall, handsome woman in her mid-forties with dark hair and light-blue eyes who examined me and said that nothing was broken, likely a sprain, and that Monsieur le Docteur would come soon—Dr. Planchette, as we continued a very pleasant conversation, alas often interrupted when she had to do head-nurse stuff, always smiling, saying all would be fine, she told me her family history: her husband, Jean-Jacques, a painter, was born in a house on Rue Malebranche in le cinquième, where they still lived with la grand-mère (82), maman (68), and their son Claude-Pierre (9), who studied violin and the house was big, pleasant with a beautiful wrought-iron gate and a large backyard with three old black walnut trees and where Jean-Jacques kept his studio in the shed and every year in late May, they picked green walnuts for the excellent jam that la grand-mère and maman made using only three ingredients: walnuts, calcium chloride, and sugar (a lot of sugar) and they boiled it down until it was thick and dark  but the fruit still crunchy, they made 40–50 jars, carefully labeled with the year which they took, usually, in early July, to a stand they rented at Les Halles (still there then, until 1973) and the jam sold for 300 francs, upon seeing my face, Geneviève quickly added anciens francs—de Gaulle had stabilized the currency, introducing the franc nouveau, worth 100 old francs but people still spoke in anciens, so a jar went for three francs (about $1.35), just then, a tall, thin gentleman nearing sixty came to my gurney and introduced himself as Docteur Planchette and confirmed the sprain—entorse de la cheville, pas grave—then turned to the orderly holding a bucket with a chalky liquid from which he took soaked bandages to wrap my ankle, and sent the orderly for crutches, telling me to return in two weeks when he would remove the bandages.

Geneviève came by again and said I should come to their house for dinner as her husband picks her up with the car—proudly she added that it was a Citroën 2CV, she said that every Wednesday maman made cassoulet with haricots from Tarbes, l’Occitanie and she always made more than enough and Geneviève smiled as I accepted so I spent the next hour and a half reading day-old newspapers when, at seven, a tall, nice-looking guy—clearly Jean-Jacques—walked in, greeted everyone, kissed Geneviève who said something to him, so he came over smiling, shook my hand, and asked if I needed help to the car and when I asked if we could stop for flowers and a box of candy as a gift he said “Not a problem, I know just the spot” so, about half an hour later, we pushed open the heavy but splendid wrought-iron gate, once inside I met the two ladies and young boy, all very friendly, coming to kiss me on both cheeks (as it was the custom) and we were ushered into the dining room at the back of the house, with a view of the backyard through monumental French doors, the table was set, and light red wine was poured—even for young Claude-Pierre and maman, smiling proudly brought in, from the kitchen, a huge earthenware casserole (they also called it a toupin), which she set in the middle of the table and served us with a grand silver ladle: la grand-mère first, then me (as guest), then Jean-Jacques, Geneviève, Claude-Pierre, and finally herself, the cassoulet was superb—piping hot, dark brown, with chunks of shiny smoked duck, sausages, bacon, and white beans glistening like pearls and we dunked golden crusts of baguette in the thick sauce, a feast for all senses and for a long while  the only sounds were the clinking spoons, the slurping, and satisfied chewing, when finally the meal was crowned by the celebrated green walnut confiture, served in beautiful porcelain dishes and we sat in deep contentment as the table was cleared and coffee appeared, so Claude-Pierre was sent for his violin to “entertain the guest”, he laid down a barely recognizable allegretto of a Mozart sonata, then beamed as we applauded and retired for bed—school tomorrow.

We continued conversing pleasantly while I looked at this handsomely painted landscape of a river bend with trees and houses and when Jean-Jacques saw me looking, he said it was the Seine, just outside Villeneuve-Saint-Georges and asked: “Are you interested in the piece?” and when I said that I was, he named his price, me blinking bewildered—then he laughed and said “anciens,” so I gave him the money and Geneviève brought brown packing paper and twine and made an elegant parcel upon which we moved to the complex choreography of taking leave—my praise for the meal, their appreciation, promises of future visits and they insisted I take a jar of jam—marked in blue ink, Mois de Mai 1961 and they phoned for a taxi, which arrived promptly with the meter already running—850 francs and the driver saying “anciens, tarif de nuit,” he proceeded maneuvering his Peugeot 403 through the empty past-midnight streets of Paris while smoking his pungent Gitanes Brune all the way to my place where I paid him and waved away the change—“c’est pour vous” so I huffed and puffed up the stairs on crutches to my room where I put the painting on the piano, leaning it against the wall and admired it and that's how I got the painting. Yes

LaviniaB5

Of all the girls I ever loved, Lavinia had the most beautiful eyes. She entered my life on a Wednesday slipping into the seat behind me in the auditorium. I turned to look. When Lavinia smiled, I was struck. My heart skipped a beat. The rest of the lecture became a blurr. I kept glancing back making sure she was still there. Finally class was over. I said something silly: "Did anyone tell you how most beautiful your eyes are?" Lavinia smiled again: "I was waiting for you to say it". I walked her home "Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky"‡, She said she studies French Literature, had no idea how she ended up in my Chemistry class. In front of her house we kissed and decided to see each other  every day until forever. "We sat together in the park, as the evening sky grew dark"‡‡. We both loved Dylan (Thomas) and T.S. Elliot and e. e. cummings and agreed that we knew nothing except that "children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew ..."‡‡‡. We weren't together long "Wie lange sind sie schon beisammen? Seit kurzem. Und wann werden sie sich trennen? Bald."‡‡‡‡. Two Tuesdays later I run across the street rushing to catch a bus to meet Lavinia. A car came out of nowhere. I died instantly. Here, where I am now, the rules are strict: time does not exist and I can just watch her. Lavinia lives in Tours, Centre-Val de Loire, France in a house close to Pont Wilson. She teaches Yoga. Her husband owns a factory for water-proof ceramic objects. They have a daughter Michelle (whom she calls Mikki). Mikki is a model and an actress. I visit every Wednesday night. Every Tuesday I weep (or do what crying is here "unde nu sunt lacrimi")‡‡‡‡‡. 

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‡ T.S. Elliot, Prufrock  

‡‡ R. Zimmerman, A Simple Twist of Faith

‡‡‡ e.e. cummings,[anyone lived in a pretty how town]

‡‡‡‡ "How long have you been together? Short time. And when will you break up? Soon" Brecht, Die Liebenden

‡‡‡‡‡ "Where there are no tears", St. Serafin de Sarov

On Nature, Instincts, Aspirations and Incentives of Doings

We meet every second Tuesday of the month at El Chaveta on Olive to discuss, debate and declare on subjects of common and general interest.

The other day, our subject was "Boyfriend v. Husband"*, which dealt with females in a committed relationship having an external liaison (commonly known as cheating). Before the debate we had a show of hands to "I've cheated" and were satisfied that we have an expert panel. Most of us were familiar with the groundbreaking Sonntag, Cappellacci et al. research that found that about two thirds (sometimes as high as three quarters) of relationships have had cheating and that it is the leading cause  of breakdowns (or breakups). 

We all agreed that males cheat more and are more likely to be repeat, frequent or chronic cheaters while females are more likely to "know" (as they possess female intuition and males are less careful, women are also more likely to go through the pockets, wallets, phones of partners and less likely to accept a perfectly logical and innocent explanation of "lipstick on shirt collar" instead jumping to conclusions, even confronted with the "but I can explain" or "it's not what you think"). We also conceded that males often feel less guilty (as they easier construct justifications and rationalizations) but females are more prone to forgive (as they are naturally wiser and kinder). Everybody concurred that sneaking around and the constant fear of  being found out is stressful and, in time, becomes a burden. It was agreed that there is no such thing as a "first offence pardon", once caught it is either curtains or radical acceptance. We could not agree if cheating weakens or strengthens the relationship, couldn't say if the boyfriend is entitled to be jealous of the husband, nor were we unanimous that a "voluntary reveal" is ever a good idea.

After a spirited deliberation, argumentation and cogitation, we still were at a loss to explain why, if logistics are horrendous and consequences disastrous, so we still do it? Probably closest to an answer is what Ivan Krylov, La Fontaine (and before them Aesop) told us about "The scorpion and the frog" yeah?
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* a  previous session's topic was "Wives v. Girlfriends?"

Of How the Roads lead North (or East)

Walking briskly, she caught up to me on that lovely early morning just outside Salamanca on the road to Zamora. I looked at her and thought I saw true Thracian traits*. 

I had my backpack and she had a bag slung over one shoulder.  I asked: "What's in the bag?" she smiled and said "Binoculars and jewels" so I asked: "And your name is Johanna, right?" She smiled and replied "No, I'm Kalina", that's when I knew she knew I knew. So, as confirmed hard-core Dylan fans, we walked on and talked about subjects of general interest: Chemistry, Physics, and, inevitably, Math. Eventually, we arrived at the controversial topic of the Nabla Operator and it quickly became apparent that we were on opposite sides of the dispute. Kalina firmly believed in the Arrosto-Zwiebelburg solution whereas I trusted the Jackson Lamb interpretation. We took turns quoting arguments that favored only our side, knowing fully well that we wouldn't change each other's minds. It was a friendly debate and we savored it. By this time the sun was quite high in the sky and we started looking for a suitable place for the midday break. We just passed Santiz and there was a huge black oak just at the fork in the road: ideal. I took from my backpack bread, some Manchego, and half a bottle of Rioja. Kalina contributed two great-looking apples. We had a very pleasant lunch. We were commenting on how, these days, so very few people embrace and enjoy our way of traveling per pedes apostolorum. Kalina was just saying she was planning to take the road to the right towards Zamora, I would continue left towards Miranda do Duoro to reach Santiago in a little over a week, when I wondered aloud if we would ever meet again. She said that it depends. "What does it depend on?" She replied, "I'll ask you a question. If you answered 'Yes' we'll meet one more time, if you said 'No' we'll meet twice more". We both laughed and rested a bit longer after which we packed up our stuff, said our goodbyes and went our ways waving at each other until out of sight. 

Suddenly I remembered that Kalina never got around to asking me her question ...  so I guess I'll never know!

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* The author uses the tr-tr-tr construction to create the impression of a trepidation movement (n. ed.)