The first thing I hear is the strident cry of a peacock. It is 9:55. In five minutes coffee is served. I haven't mentioned the peacock to anyone yet. I want it to be, for a little while anyway, my own little secret. After the coffee break I'm going to see if I can find it again. It is hard to get moving again. I feel as though I woke into a viscous fog. I would really prefer to stay in bed, but according to Brother Carl, we are all strongly encouraged to fellowship together, even if we don't feel like it. Or, the way he said it, especially when we don't feel like seeing other people. Because we don't have our usual tech toys to distract, amuse and entertain us, they are taking special measures to see that we don't get too isolated, too absorbed in our own private little miseries. That is what Carl said anyway. He is not the most tactful person I have met, by the way. I think he might be German.
Coffee is served in a small side room. It is cozy, with a couple of sofas and three comfy chairs, all vintage and overstuffed and incredibly comfy. Aaron is on one of the couches with Jesús and they are chatting in Spanish, a language with which Aaron appears to have considerable facility. Carol is in one comfy chair and there is Brother Carl in the other and they are engaged, of course, in English.
To my surprise, Brother Carl is dressed only in a tight white muscle shirt and bluejeans. He is startlingly handsome. Of course our hosts don't appear to wear a habit or uniform, nor do they seem to have a dress code. Carl would be nearing forty, muscular and lean, and Nordic god gorgeous. His very short blond hair barely frames a deftly proportioned high cheekboned face. His eyes are light blue, full of light, and often his eyes appear to be laughing.
"Good morning,Cosme", he announces cheerily, "Do help yourself to coffee. There are also cinnamon rolls and cookies, if you're still hungry this soon after breakfast."
At the sideboard I help myself to coffee, poured from a shining metal pot. The cinnamon rolls are seductively fragrant, dripping sensuously with cream cheese icing. I am not hungry, but I still dump one onto a plate anyway. I don't want to be very near anyone, so I occupy the very centre of one of the two empty sofas...
It turns out that Carol is a concert pianist. I have been eavesdropping on her conversation with Brother Carl. They have a baby grand in the reception room and he has just invited her to perform for us sometime this week. I recall her now. I saw her in concert once, ten years ago, when I was staying in London. She performed at the Royal Albert. She was fantastic, especially her interpretation of some of the works of Brahms and Rachmaninov. I only remember the long black cocktail dress she wore and her flawless performance. Yes, she is actually very famous. And here she is now, sharing this retreat in this remote palatial mansion, with us, with me.
Aaron and Jesús are still chatting in Spanish. I am feeling quite alone, and I am not okay about it. This has always been the case with me. I will find myself yearning to get away from others, to go off to the woods or the beach all by myself where I don't have to be bothered about anyone else's noise or troubles, but only to feel suddenly and incurably lonely. Aaron and Jesús appear to have taken a real shine for each other. It turns out that Jesús does struggle a bit with his English so it is going to be a relief for him to have someone to speak Spanish with. But Aaron seems like a particularly warm and caring sort of person. I am feeling of course left out.
As Brother Carl gets up off his chair, Carol turns her attention to the two other guests and they begin to engage with her in English. Brother Carl approaches me and plants himself right next to me on the sofa, leaving only a few inches between us. This feels strangely but not unwelcomely close for me, and even if he is extremely handsome, I find him strangely comfortable to sit with.
"How are you enjoying your room, Cosme?" he asks with the wellbred courtesy of a Prussian high bourgeois.
"I like it very much, thanks. I love the view."
"That used to be my bedroom. When I was a kid"
"You mean to say you grew up in this house?"
"Partly. During the winters we lived with our mother in Holland. The summers we spent here."
So, he isn't German after all, but Dutch.
"We?"
"Melissa and I. Oh, I don't suppose she mentioned we are siblings. It was Melissa who drove me here from the village. She hasn't been around since."
"So this is your family home?"
"It is in a sense. Our father operated the place as a retreat centre, and we promised to help carry it on for him."
"Your father is..."
"He died some time ago."
"I am so sorry to hear that."
"Thank you." He is quiet as he cradles his cup of black coffee in both hands.
"You also take your coffee black, Brother Carl."
"Oh, please, just call me Carl. We don't really stand on formality in this place."
"Well, you are not exactly attired like a monk." I am trying to deadpan this as carefully as possible. I don't want him to think I'm trying to flirt with him.
"Yes", he says, half spreading his muscular arms. I do apologize for my informal attire. You see, I was just about to go work in the garden. Would you care to join me, just after we clean up the dishes here?" I reluctantly agree, my hopes dashed of having solitary time in the garden while flushing out the peacock.
Together, Carl and I start clearing away the dishes and left over snacks. I can feel the soft brown eyes of Jesús following me very carefully as I follow the guest master into the kitchen. I have to muster all my forces to avoid looking back at the young Colombian....
Together, Carl and I start clearing away the dishes and leftover snacks. I can feel the soft brown eyes of Jesús following me very carefully as I follow the guest master into the kitchen. I have to muster all my forces to avoid looking back at the young Colombian....
Carl and I are cutting a new trail through the bush. He says he wants visitors to have freer run of the place and this extra trail should help. There isn't much left to do. In fact, we expect to be finished today. There are only a couple of metres left. Carl cuts and slashes slowly, carefully, methodically. a gentle sweat makes his muscled arms gleam in the sunlight. I try to emulate his movements, with not a lot of success. He clearly is used to this kind of work. I´m not reaIly, and have always lived in apartments in or near the urban core. I'm already afraid I might just be getting underfoot. But I want to help if I can, and helping out is really my own idea. He almost tried to discourage me when I offered, but I insisted. And now my sore arms, thighs and aching flabby stomach muscles are already reminding me. Besides, I really want to have something constructive to do while I'm here. For some reason, while I'm here, I really want to work with my hands, with my whole body. I want to ache and sweat like any working guy. I want to feel completely and fully alive while I am in this place, on this retreat among these compelling and eccentric strangers.
I see the magnolia tree just ahead, and of course I am looking for the peacock.
"Do you get a lot of birds here?" I ask.
"Well, all the ones you can hear singing every morning, anyway." He has right now while he's working a slightly lazy, matter of fact way of speaking, though still sounding like a well-bred private schoolboy talking in a light Dutch accent.
"Anything unusual?"
"Nothing exotic. We get a lot of jays, woodpeckers, robins, thrushes, sparrows and stuff. There's grouse, crows, quite a few ravens. Just a couple of days ago, just before everyone arrived, Melissa and I saw seven eagles soaring over the house." He swings the machete a couple more times before we come out to the clearing. The southern magnolia is almost right in front of us.
"Do you reckon that's symbolic of anything?"
"Could be. You are the first batch of guests we've had here in a couple of years."
"So it's about us?"
He stands up straight. "All bets are off. Let's go back to the house for something cold. Lunch soon."
It looks like we are going to be spending a lot of our time eating while we're here. Not that I'm complaining. The food is great here, what they've been feeding us so far, anyway. We have so far done breakfast and morning coffee. Now it is lunchtime. We are in the breakfast room, and we are all seated in our usual chairs, or what appears to be our usual places.
Two plates loaded with grilled cheese sandwiches help fill the table, along with a big bowl of salad and a plate of sliced bananas, mangos and pineapple. With a bowl of vanilla yogurt nearby. Someone, perhaps Melissa, has adorned the table with a crystal vase full of brilliant red tulips, likely picked from one of the many gardens here. Well, they are Dutch, our hosts, I suppose....
"These sandwiches are just lovely" purrs Carol as she helps herself to another one."
I agree. "They are good. What kind of cheese did they use?"
"Asiago", Aaron says.
"What class of cheese is that?" Jesús wants to know
"It's Italian." say I, "But are you sure it's Asiago?"
"That's what Melissa told me, " says Aaron. "I helped her make lunch."
"Working for your board?" quips Carol drily.
"I volunteered to help out," Aaron says with a little smile.
"Me too", say I. "I just helped Carl clear some bush way in the back"
"You mean, BROTHER Carl?" corrects Carol primly.
"We don't stand on ceremony here", announces Carl from the kitchen. He comes into the breakfast room, bearing a plate laden with chocolate cake. that he places next to the tulips. He has changed into a dark blue button down shirt, and looks somehow smaller, diminished.
"Well...Carl..." says Carol roundly, in perfect BBC English. "The food here is simply heavenly!" There is in her green eyes a bit of a mischievous light. Could she be flirting?
I cannot stop looking at the peacock feather tattooed on Jesús' neck. I don't like tattoos. But this one is extraordinary.
"Jesús", I say, "Please tell me about your tattoo, the peacock feather. It's beautiful."
He smiles shyly, and appears to be blushing a little. "Thank you. Thank you, that is very kind." He looks at me with warmth, then looks down at the half-eaten sandwich on his plate.
"Is there a story there?"
"Pardon?"
I remember that English is not his first language. "What inspired you to get it?"
"Oh. I have always loved peacocks. They are so beautiful."
Aaron interjects, "By the way, do you want to know the Spanish word for peacock?" He is smiling like a little imp. "Pavo real. Literally it means royal turkey."
"That is funny", I say, smiling but not laughing.
"Quite," agrees Carol. "Quite."
We have all converged into the kitchen to help Melissa with cleanup. She is perhaps a bit younger than her brother. She is short and slender with long, light chestnut hair and a brown ball cap that partially obscures her face. She was wearing the ball cap yesterday when she came to meet me in the village. She is dressed in skinny jeans and a light green T shirt, which I imagine to be her uniform. She doesn't talk very much, unlike her brother. She moves with a deft nimble grace and quickness as she receives from each of us our soiled dishes, rinsing them and putting them in the dishwasher. She moves and flits like a small bird searching the underbrush for its dinner. I so far haven't seen her smile.
We have been asked to convene at two, in the small reception room again, but I really want some time by myself. I did not come here with the idea of being very social, but they appear to have some kind of agenda for us here. I don't even know anything really about this place. Just that Father Griffin seemed to know them well and think very highly of them. He appeared to have known Carl some ten or fifteen years ago when he was living in Vancouver. I assume he was attending the church at that time. I only began attending St Jude's again four years ago, and soon after was working at their hospice for the dying. It isn't really their hospice, but they do play a role in its operations, and the founder of the hospice also founded the precursor of the local social services agency that also used to employ me.
I have chosen a book to begin reading. The Four Gated City, by Doris Lessing. I've never heard of her, and it is a fat book, some six hundred pages. How can I read that whole tome, much less any of the other two books here in just one month, especially when I'm expected to socialize with three other strangers as well as our hosts!
I decide to try the new path that Carl and I, mostly Carl, finished before lunch today. It has a raw, clean look to it. There are ferns everywhere and foxgloves are already beginning to bloom. A strange hush fills the air, as though all the birds are taking an afternoon siesta. Here is the clearing, flanked by salmonberry bushes. The fruit won't begin to appear for another couple of weeks, but the flowers still gleam everywhere like magenta stars. There is a small granite bench here, with a splendid view of the magnolia. There is no peacock in sight. I am still afraid to ask anyone about the peacock. The bench is cold and hard to my backside, but strangely comforting. I hear a raven croak sonorously overhead. Then a robin begins to chirp and sing. i might be a little more comfortable in a sweater, but here I can sit in the full sun. I open the book and begin to read....
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