Richard Grahn
A Brush with Fate
a painting of a boy playingon the beach . . . the sea now swollen swallowing the man
Monsieur Beaufont, an aristocrat from Paris, is throwing a housewarming party. He’s just migrated to New Orleans with his family and has encouraged his wife to sing for the guests.
Bernard, in scuffed penny loafers and faded felt fedora, is always fashionably late but today his arrival is almost posthumous. He trundles past his host with a muttered “Thank you” and makes his way to a back corner of the parlor, his trademark slouch defying gravity only with the help of a hickory cane, and now, the wall.
I’ve known Bernard since childhood. We met during a match of marbles on the school playground and later played football together. He’s since amassed a small fortune navigating the mines in the stock market and by keeping the strings pulled tight on his purse. His lips barely move when he speaks, something he does only under duress. He rarely ventures out these days so it’s a surprise to see him here now. I consider going over to speak with him but he’s commanding the corner with a scowl.
Bernard has one magnetic attribute that we share, a passion for classical music. Symphonies, arias, concertos, and minuets arouse his spirit. I know not to disrupt him while Cassandra is singing a capella Puccini’s “Un bel dì vedremo” from Madame Butterfly. Perhaps we’ll have a brief conversation when he’s done applauding.
Cassandra, a striking soprano fills the stately room with a voice much larger than her petite self. The flaxen-haired nightingale brings tears to Bernard’s eyes. I watch him lean over his cane, straining to absorb every syllable, every note as she casts her spell on the listeners.
When the song ends, Bernard leans his cane against his belly and begins to clap. I wander over and wait for him to finish, then proclaim “That was wonderful!”
“It was not enough,” he grumbles.
“Perhaps she’ll sing another.”
“Maybe. I’ve got to pee.”
I watch him hobble to the washroom. Cassandra comes over and introduces herself. Bernard should be here. I tell her how much I enjoyed the song. She says, “Thank you” then moves on to the next guest. I’m left to wonder if there was ever a goddess so graceful, anyone as lucky as Monsieur Beaufont, or a man as untimely as Bernard.
consulting the hands of a broken watch the captain sets sail on a low tide
About the Author
Richard Grahn creates sculpture, painting, music, photography, poetry, and prose from his apartment in Evanston, Illinois. Creativity is his peace.