1. AN INVITATION
1. AN INVITATION
The name is Anselm. And I answer to a call. One invitation lay under a kitchen pile of papers; the other was sitting in full view. You too would find the girl inviting. At least you should. Although the picture is not always pretty.
Her eyes are blue. The maiden had mounted the redwood railing. Her figure was framed by cloudless sky and sea, her glass of wine golden in the sun. A slight smile polished the portrait, light brown locks fell over narrow shoulders and a loose bronze skirt afforded a revelation, when billowed by her knees. Bon vivants mingled across the spacious patio, where rainbowed umbrellas shaded a ring of tables and colorful cocktails glistened like precious stones. A Cadillac packs a punch, the loaded laughter lent more warmth and a further festival added to the fun: bees dotting a swath of pinkish-white petals, their tranquil hum arriving on the breeze. A bluebird flitted from the fence, a flock of goldfinches livened the bushes and a burst of green broke across the blaze, a carmine-throated humming-bird darting past the jasmine to hover by a rarer nectar—a flower girl has her attraction. She looked over the garden and saw that it was good. The free bird commended my cowboy cool, I have every confidence. She could also observe some opulence: a tall man in tuxedo, his wife in strapless gown. The couple were delighting in a slow dance of love, to the timely encouragement of Mozart. Our angel swayed in sympathy and the host received her blessing to more distant music, the comforting beat of the surf.
We spoke too soon. The eyes are gray. A scowl drained the canvas, a scorn denied any invitation. The wind had picked up, bending boats out at sea and smothering the sun in a shroud of fog. But the gales of laughter had died down, the dropping temperature driving merrymakers inside, a remnant shivering in a silent vigil. A sullen sentinel now stood in a corner, alone on her feet. Her lighthouse beam swept past my mooring, interrogating my witness, exposing my guilt. I could not avert my gaze, pulled to her rocks over an abandoned table where a sorry starling was stabbing a plate of pastry shards. The stony edifice rebuffed my stillborn greeting, as attainable as an Olympic medal to a bedridden invalid. A wisp of smoke rose over the railing, conspiring with the fog. But no warm bonfire beckoned, the changeling waved a cigarette. Her inconsideration imposed before a wind dispersal, though her lips saw little of the vice. I presumed a provocation; my fellow sufferers pretended not to care. Our nemesis took one drag, dropped her litter, stepped on the glow, and we could pretend no more. A foot commanded the attention. A foot twisted in a taunt. A foot ground the burn. The foot was bare. I caught the eye of a neighbor, his cocktail in suspension, an arm around his date. The well-heeled executive had ignored my shabby insurrection, now we had a bond. What is a man to do?
Pete beats a retreat? Possibly, but I take things calmly in stride. The party pulsated, though the crowd was milling on best behavior—a palace demands respect. Provisions were plentiful, fine wine was flowing and the beef prime. Our queen was circulating, her black hair, golden dress, glowing skin complementing the cut of her court. Forced laughter carried over the strings of a fiercely competent ensemble, whose formal attire and practiced indifference betrayed a foreign import. Her highness livened the gala like a gust of summer wind through a cottonwood, introducing strangers, receiving tribute, dispensing charity. A monarch flutters with abandon; courtiers welcomed her interruption, however fleeting the favor. I took up a station by the bar to follow the performance and wait my turn. She glanced in my direction, but royalty pretends no common acquaintance. I knew no insult, trust me, the invisible man hewn of hardened timber. The gathering offered another feast, men foregoing West Coast indiffer-ence to wardrobe in favor of expensive sports coats, their partners a buffet of elegant dress, painstaking coiffure and pampered flesh. A kid in a candy store would unwrap any chocolate. All right, this grown man’s hands were empty, but he was quite content, have no fear. I have enjoyed my provisions, tasted my share of the sweets. My own outfit might not conform, but an outlaw quickens the maiden pulse. The rebel read the room and women reciprocated the review, as you would only expect. But the browser was not buying, costly confectionery seldom worth the price. And I speak from experience, trust me.
