Chapter 6 in R.M. Dolin’s book, “The Dangling Conversation,” February 22, 2024 – Part 1 of 2, see conclusion in The Ghosts Within
ISABELLE: “As a matter of fact, I do, usually just before dawn when night’s causally quiet and I’m awake with this unsettled feeling I might not be alone; not a scared kind of alone, like a benevolent ghost’s visiting with things she has to say, things I need to hear. It’s weird, my ghost either can’t speak or I can’t listen because nothing ever gets said. I’m sure it’s my great grandma who’s come to explain her life, and from what I’ve pieced together, her decisions and the aftermath of consequences significantly impacted every generation to follow, including mine. I’ve asked Dad if there’s some sort of scandal around her time fighting Franco, but all he’ll say is no one here, or back in Spain, talks about such things since talk does nothing to change what happened. It’s and odd answer given he loves telling stories about our family’s proud Spanish history.
“His silence only escalates the matter to my imagination where I’m left to determine what secrets keep her from heaven; why God’s made her passing conditional on my knowing whatever it is she’s come to tell me. I don’t know why, who can question God’s what’s and why’s? I’m certain she had a lover, that would be a scandal to keep secret, especially in 1936, in the midst of a revolution. There’s a photograph of her from back then that my Abuela keeps hidden and only shows me if I ask. In the photo, my Great-Grandma’s young and incredibly beautiful, and intense; so much so it would absolutely make Franco quiver. The picture is a group of freedom fighters standing in a forest dressed like commandos, holding guns and grenades, staring menacingly into the camera; everyone that is except this handsome man who’s smiling warmly at her and her baby. Did I mention she’s holding my Abuela? She can’t be more than a few days old and if you crop out the other freedom fighters, this unidentified man, my Great-Grandma, and my Abuela look like a young family posing for a portrait.
“It’s romantic, in a Shakespearean forbidden love kind of way; imagine, in the middle of an intense conflict two people somehow manage to fall in love to the crazy extreme of having a baby. You’ll never see something like that in a Humphrey Bogart or John Wayne movie; but she did, and that makes her even more of a heroine, at least to me. It is a mystery though; I mean about the guy beside her; who is he and why does she need to tell me about him to get into heaven? I don’t know because she’s not talking, probably ashamed; confessing is never easy. Her visits didn’t start until after my divorce, so whatever I need to hear has something to do with navigating the complexities of life-, and love-, in a world that really doesn’t grasp the subtleties of such terrain.”
KYLE: “We all have ghosts, mine’s still with me even after saying what needed to be said. We talk now and then now, but the first time he came out-, it almost killed me. After my first divorce from the Irish mathematician I told you about, I was a bit of a wreak, I hadn’t met Nadia yet and in the three years that passed I convince myself I’d never love again; I’m not even sure if you asked me, if I could say love was even possible. For months though, there was this feeling, something building inside; a restlessness that no matter what I did couldn’t be satiated. As this restlessness grew, so did my daily bike rides; first by a mile, then a mile more, until I was riding well over a hundred miles a week. The more I rode, the more I needed to be on my bike, it’s as if the road’s driving me to some sort of undisclosed rendezvous. Sounds weird, right, but I really don’t have a better way of explaining things.
“Then, all of a sudden, one day I’m alone on the road with my thoughts and this escalating restlessness pursuing me with a pace I simply can’t outrun; that’s when I decide the only remedy is to wear it down in a long-protracted bike ride in Europe. I’d never been out of the country before so that’s a pretty bold determination. I don’t know what prompted such an absurd idea, perhaps the logo on the side of a passing truck or something I subconsciously picked up in my periphery while passing a billboard, who can say; all I know is once the idea takes hold, it gives me a sense of peace. That’s how fate works ya know, your head gets filled with nonsense from some sort of ill-defined notion that seems so damn-ass crazy you can’t share it with anyone, but not so crazy you don’t allow it to seduce you; in reality you know it’s something you have to do, even though you don’t know why or what will come of it.
“Fate decides I’ll ride from Barcelona, Spain to Milan, Italy along the French Riviera; fifteen-hundred kilometers of open road I’ll traverse in ten days, with three rest days built in, so we’re talking a very intense journey. It is by far the craziest, most irrational thing I’ve ever done. And it’s not just the riding, there’s overwhelming logistics that must be worked out, like mapping the course, getting a passport, booking airlines, and pulling together the lightweight gear necessary to camp along way. The entire time I’m prepping, the thing pushing me is this sense that on some metaphysical level something profound is gonna happen on the road. Of course, it’s gonna be a grand adventure, but I’m talking about something that’s far more off key and way beyond a boy on his bike.”
ISABELLE: “That’s how my Abuela talks about her Mom’s decision to fight Franco. She never met her Mom, I mean of course she did, every child does; there’s even the photo to prove it, but they never met in a way that allowed for memories or any kind of relationship. They were captured shortly after that photo was taken and Franco had my Great-Grandma executed. He knew if one courageous peasant women is allowed to rail against his tyranny, others will be inspired, which quickly leads to a war that can’t be won. History is rich with stories of men and their petty little quests for power and greed that don’t amount to anything, but one thing’s crystal clear, once women join the fray, things become existential. So, he shot her, had no choice really, at least not from his perspective; they lined her up along some faceless wall in a small village beside other freedom fighters and that was that.
“At least the bastards had the decency to find my Great-Grandpa, which is another heroing story. He came from a wealthy family that owned lots of land for both farming and livestock; they also had an elegant restaurant specializing in farm-to-table cuisine. He had just taken over restaurant operations when the revolution started and wanted to join the resistance with his beautiful wife, but his father said no, that is obligation was to his family and their business. He found ways anyway, when Franco’s army took over his village the officers decided to use his restaurant for meals and meetings. Before long he’s eavesdropping on conversations and passing information to the resistance.
“It was dangerous for sure, not only for him but for his entire family, but he didn’t care, men of selfless integrity never do. Franco’s generals took a liking to him but when they learned his estranged wife was a freedom fighter, they held him responsible. They tried once to use him as bait to lure her comrades into a trap, but he exposed their plot. That led to his torture, they beat him for days, threatened him with death; they even threatened to kill his entire extended family. When that didn’t work, they ordered his execution and still he refused to betray his beloved wife. They tie him to a post in the town plaza because he’s too weak to stand. Then they line up a firing squad and make all the villagers come to witness, even his parents. The officer in charge blindfolds Great-Grandfather while offering one last chance to be spared, but again he refuses. His Mom begs for mercy while his Dad tries in vain to bribe the officer in charge to no avail.
“So, the count-down begins: “Ready-“ the officer in charge shouts as the soldiers assumed their pose. “Aim-” he continues as each executioner shoulders his weapon. Then, just as he’s about to issue the fatal order, a courier roars into the plaza on his motorcycle imploring everyone to stop. The officer reads his dispatch, tosses it to the ground in disgust, and storms off the plaza. As my Great-Grandpa’s parents rush to release their son, his brother picks up the dispatch and cries out in anguish; the general in charge of Franco’s northern army has rescinded the execution order because the accused traitor’s wife has been shot, leaving a small infant. The order, signed by Franco himself, goes on to say that all properties and assets owned my Great-Grandpa’s family are to be seized and that my Great-Grandpa must immediately leave Spain with his child.
“That is how he ends up here. In the exact same instant, he finds out he has a daughter, his beloved wife is dead, and that he’s poor and exiled. But he doesn’t leave, at least not when ordered. He didn’t join the freedom fighters either, how could he with an infant to care for. He did find ways to resist though; only he wasn’t doing it for the cause of freedom, he needed to honor his beloved wife, to avenge his precious daughter who was ripped from her mother’s arms, and to make amends for the pain and suffering he caused his family. But in the end, all that loss, all that suffering was for nothing because Franco remained in power and his corruption continued to rob Spaniards of freedom, dignity, and wealth.
“He raised my Abuela alone; never remarried, not even after coming here. I never met him, but my Abuela says he was a kind decent man who loved her dearly and only talked in tender echoes of love and longing about his beloved wife. I do wonder though, if knew his wife had a lover and that maybe his beloved daughter wasn’t really his daughter? It wouldn’t matter, not to a man like him; such rare men of honor and character go all in for love and never waver. I wish I’d met him, just to know that once in my life I knew a man who loved on such a high level, with such profound depth that it could never be questioned, let alone diminish. Just imagine, he so loved his wife he was willing to die rather than betray her, even though she’d betrayed him.”
KYLE: “I can’t say I could say anything about profound love when I started my journey, I thought I knew, we all do when we marry, but over time life has a way of chipping away at our souls until we realize we’ve become the gravediggers of our life, burying things we can’t face; hopefully so deep they never surface, until they do-, and they always do. I left on my trip believing the journey was about burying whatever it was I was running from, but boy was I ever wrong. I got through Spain straight away and France pretty much on schedule; Italy though-, that’s where things busted wide open.
“My last day in France began like the others, me mumbling displeasure while waiting for the campground office to open so I can collect my passport and hit the road. I was walking past the still sleeping RV’s with my croissant and coffee to that flat patch in back of every European campground where cycler’s are permitted to pitch tents. There’s a building bank of clouds hovering over my Mediterranean morning that looked lost, like their searching for something; like love tearfully being told it’s over. But is it? Is anything ever over, or is the far-off horizon casting the sky in daylight darkness to confirm the previous eight days were nothing more than a prelude for what’s to come? We know the answer as soon as we pose the question, just as certainly as we know the last time we see someone isn’t really the last time we see them, not when ghosts find ways to haunt us.
“This is why I muscle through breakfast while breaking camp, the last thing I need while tackling the mountains to Milan is being caught up in a storm; the climbs will be challenging enough, and mountain storms can be a bit terrorizing; especially on the descents. If it were up to me, I’d have been on the road at dawn to get ahead of this pending mess. But rather than stew over French inefficiencies, I opt for another coffee and croissant, today’s ride’s gonna be hard, with the mountains to Milan as intense as that storm steadily rolling in from Africa.
“I repack my panniers optimistically hoping to keep things dry, particularly my journal, the only thing of real value that remains after thirteen-hundred hard fought kilometers. Something on the whispers of last night’s wind foretold today would be more than a hard wet ride; I can’t explain how I know; I just do. But that’s not new, the ride through Arles, through Van Gogh’s flat sunflower fields, took me beyond the boundaries of sanity; hot driving headwinds that Pushed-, and PUSHED-, and pushed, to the point it had to be personal. Today’ll be different, the mountains to Milan are hard for sure, especially the three ten percent climbs waiting like snipers in the lurch, but nothing is more unfair than the hot hard winds of Arles, or way they exposed me to the madness of memories.”
ISABELLE: “My Abuela grew up on memories, her Dad did the best he could to tell stories of what it was like in Spain and what caused her Mom to fight Franco. “Sometimes, mi hija,” he would say, “one has a higher calling, you can no more ask a Priest why he gave up worldly desires such as family and love, than you can ask a freedom fighter if their sacrifice is worth the suffering. “Your Mom,” he would say, “was an amazing woman who believed deep in her soul that her country, and the future of her family depended on her.” When I asked my Abuela why her Dad didn’t fight, all she’ll say is each person is called in their own way, with different consequences.
“That’s how it is for all of us, we look at a man like my Great-Grandpa and wonder where his photograph in commando clothes is, then you step back and remind yourself you don’t have the right to judge; especially over things you have no knowledge of, and no hope of knowing. My Abuela loved and admired him, and that’s good enough for me. You look at me and you don’t see a freedom fighter, not really a fighter at all. I certainly didn’t fight for my marriage-, at least not enough to save it; but I do imagine what my Great-Grandpa must have suffered through and the amazing way he stayed in love with his wife into eternity. Such courage in the face of tremendous disappointment is something I can’t even fathom; and if I could it would scare the hell out of me.”
KYLE: “That’s how my day’s shaping up, like whatever it is I’m trying to outrun is finally closing in and I’ll admit, it’s more than unnerving. Finally, though I get started; I put Nice behind me and managed to cross Monaco without changing gears. My legs are fresh, the saddle’s soft, and winds mostly calm; mid-morning vacationers have yet to cram the roads and the glass-half-full part of me’s beginning to believe I’ll skirt this storm. Once past Monaco though, the smooth terrain abruptly ends. “So,” I mumble between breaths all the way up the day’s first major climb, “this is Italy.” To stay optimistic, I focus on the vastness of the Mediterranean and the way it marries with the dark looming clouds so it’s impossible to tell where salt waves end, and freshwater rain begins. It’s around then I get this disquieting realization that I’m the only traveler on my coastal highway, and it’s a tad unnerving. I mean, what the hell do the Italians know about what’s coming they’re not sharing with the rest of the class?
“I steadily traverse the winding road to Genoa hugging the rocky Rivera like danger clings to risk; my narrow shoulder giving way to crisp cut cliffs that rise then fall into wind carved ridges rolling down to smooth sand beaches where wild waves pound the shore in an erratically increasing crescendo. Most days this would all be beautiful, today though, headwinds displace the calm in a way that pierces remnants of my soul with a sobering unsettledness that would cause any reasonable rider to abandon the road. I would too, only I must make Milan tomorrow, two days of hard mountain climbing means I must press on irrespective of consequence. During the premeditated planning of this adventure, I padded my journey with three buffer days, but broken spokes in the Pyrenees cost me a day, then a night at Cassis turned into two because I lacked the stamina for the steep climb out. And of course, there was the lost day in Arles where I had to get my head screwed back on before continuing; but I don’t want to think about that, no point revisiting what happens when the mind loses its footing.
“Atop a barren ridge overlooking the sea, I lean my touring bike against a rock guardrail and stare down at powerful waves pounding against isolated rocks, shooting geysers so high I get sprayed. I’m a desert dweller and readily admit I don’t understand the sea, so much anger and emotion, the embodiment of everything I strive to avoid. Rain that’s traveled all the way from Algiers suddenly and unabashedly arrives; the chaos I’m rushing to outrun is here, reminding me of a novel I read about Barbary Coast Pirates from a region called Kabyle. I would like to be a pirate; “Kyle the Pirate from Kabyle,” I shout to the sea. “Rebel for adventure, rescuing peasants from a wretched life at the hands of maniacal monarchs and oppressive rulers. Living high on the sea where yesterday goes unasked, tomorrow unwritten, and today filled with possibilities and adventure.
“Pirates would weather, weather like this,” I convince myself while settling back in the saddle and pushing into the menacing storm. “Even they can’t outrun their past, they can’t save the world cause they’re barely able to save themselves, and that’s on a good day.” There, I said it. I promised I wouldn’t, but I did; the reason wretched from me by the emotional interrogation of the pirate’s code. The real reason for this journey, this bike ride from Barcelona to Milan, to prove life is constant motion; that I can move forward while not being frozen in the past, that we’re allowed to think about a future as meaningless as pretending to be Kyle from Kabyle?”
ISABELLE: “My Great-Grandpa was a pretender, how else could he keep a photograph of his wife with her lover, holding a child that’s likely not his. I guess he knew it’d be important for Abuela cause it’s the only picture of her with her Mom. I’d have burned it, I’d of destroyed any memory of someone I so loved who betrayed me so badly; and at least nine out of ten rational people would agree. Then though, maybe that’s because most of us don’t know what real love is. We judge men like him as weak and pathetic, we scoff at him for being so blind, so stupid, and yet, on some level we wish so badly to be like him, to know for even just a moment how it is to be so in love; a love that lingers long after the tragedy and loss has faded.”
KYLE: “There is another version to this story ya know, another angle on the photograph. Different people watching the same tragedy almost always have different takeaways. What if what he saw was his beloved wife holding their only child, not because he’s a fool, but because you got the entire story wrong? What if she loved her husband as deeply and profoundly as he loved her? What if she never betrayed him, that the man in the photograph wasn’t her lover but someone named Diego; your Great-Grandpa’s closest and most trusted friend; a man tasked with protecting her. You’re probably already thinking Diego’s don’t exist, but I knew one once, he had so much honor and integrity I would trust him without question to protect and keep safe the woman I loved. Your Great-Grandpa couldn’t be there with her for all the reasons you laid out, so he entrusted Diego to be his stand-in.
“And that’s just what Diego did, he honored his oath, even in death. You have to admit, my version’s just as plausible, which begs the question, what is your Great-Grandma really trying to tell you?”
ISABELLE: “While I prefer your interpretation, there’s fundamental flaws that can’t be discounted; first off, Diego don’t exist, not then, not now, not ever, and his love is abundantly clear from the way he looks at her. You can argue all you want that his valor was so honorable he denied his love, but in reality, the world doesn’t spin on that dime. You can argue she loved her husband so much she denied Diego’s advances while sequestering her feelings for him, but if that were so, why is there so much secrecy and scandal around what happened? I mean what’s the point of her visits, to tell me not to give up on love, every couples counselor and Hollywood movie works off that script so God wouldn’t be keeping her from heaven over such nonsense.
“Go ahead and believe theirs is the greatest love story ever told, meanwhile, I’ll stay grounded in reality. I can certainly imagine how romantically profound it would it be to hvae your version be true; that flowing through my veins is the DNA of perhaps the greatest lovers of all time- that I have within me the capacity for such things. Who wouldn’t want that to be their story?
“Now you’ll say her deal’s letting me know that just because things didn’t work out with my Ex doesn’t mean it can’t or won’t in the future. Go ahead, tell me the reason she never says anything is because she doesn’t have to, that even questioning which of the two love stories is captured in that photograph is reason is enough for her to get to where she needs to be. No one can say for sure, but what I do know is that regardless of which truth is real, I want to find a man like my Great-Grandpa; if such men even exist, because his kind of love is a gift from God.”
KYLE: “God does grant such gifts I believe, but you won’t find them, they find you, and likely, they won’t seem much like a gift, at least not at first. I started my journey to Milan like you, convinced the love immortalized by poets and playwrights never existed, just the hapless imagination of desperate minds. Somewhere on the road though, with endless hours to just think, I realized I was beginning to ask the right questions. But even then, I knew those questions were only secondary to what’s been chasing me, what’s somehow tied to the storm getting closer by the minute.
“I make the outskirts of Genoa just as the storm heading north collides with the me moving south, and by the time I find the longshoreman’s bar in the unrestricted part of town, I’m cold, bone weary wet, and accept the rain’s not about to abate, which means serious decisions need to be made. Before stepping fully inside, it’s painfully clear this joint serves hard men looking for an after-work drink, or one last shot of espresso before hitting the docks. Normally I avoid dive bars, but not in this storm, I need a place to hole up and am damn ready to defend my right to be here.
“Every scorn-filled eye glares as I make my way to a small table near the rear kitchen and no sooner do I slip off my bright yellow rain suit and lean my soaked panniers against the wall, than this burly fellow with bright red hair in a floppy mess, plops down across the table. “By a bloke a drink?” he asks, “too damn cold to drink alone.” I stare at this stranger who’s more a homeless bum than hard-living longshoreman, uncertain if I should respond. “Name’s Jeffreys,” he says extending a hand, “but most these bastard blokes call me Father J.”
“You’re a priest?” I blurt out.
“We don’t all wear fancy robes ya know.”
“You’re the last person I’d expect in a place like this.”
“You and me both.” He leans in. “I started out to be Pope, we all got goals ya know. Somewhere along my journey to Rome though, God calls me over to this miserable hellhole to minister to these unrepentant sinners.” He twiddles remorsefully with the grimy saltshaker. “This is likely as close to the Vatican as I get.” He verbosely slaps both hands on the table. “But we’re not here to talk about me, a bloke like you blows into a place like this on day like today, there’s gotta be a couple stories; the one we see, and the one hiding below the surface you’re reluctant to tell.”
“No story,” I answer, “just on a bike tour and got caught in the storm.”
“Oh, there’s a story, otherwise you wouldn’t be biking alone. People aren’t built to be alone, so let’s start with your name?”
“Kyle.”
“Nice to meet you Kyle, where you from?”
“Kabyle.” I’m not sure why I say that, I don’t mean to, but then again, it’s no one’s business where I’m from.
“Kyle from Kabyle!” he shouts with a grin, “sort of just rolls off the tongue. We do get our share of Kabies coming through, damn good sailors.” He leans in again and lowers his voice, “Nobody messes with em, not even the Mafia, ya get crosswise with a Berber, things don’t end well for ya.”
“The waiter who’s just as unwashed and rugged as the men he serves, brings coffee and two Longshoremen Specials: eggs, chucks of sausage, crispy couscous, grilled tomatoes, and bread. Three bites in, the inquisition resumes. “You’re not really from Kabyle. I mean for starters, you’re a Yank, accent gave you up straight away. But no worries, on these docks, everyone’s hiding something.”
“That mean you’re not a Priest?”
“Oh, that I am, and can prove it.” Turning around, he faces the full room, “Guys! Who the hell am I?”
In a loud chorus, the hard-living longshoremen respond in unison, “Father J!”
“Ya see, as advertised.”
After a few more bites, I decide to come clean. “I’m from Kansas.”
“I’ll be damned, Kyle from Kansas. Phonetically appropriate, but poetically empty if ya ask me. I’ll be staying with Kyle from Kabyle, far more gravitas, which in place like this is a matter of life and death.” He mops up egg yolk with his bread. “Pirates are a hardy but foolish lot. They’re out there pursuing adventure, but what they’re really doing is running from whatever they hope chases at a slower pace. I’m betting whatever’s set you about is the same something that got your crazy ass out in this storm. But ya can’t be foolish enough to believe you’ll outrun or escape it’s freaking consequences.”
“You don’t talk much like a Priest.”
“I know,” Father J answers with contrition. “I’m a sinner for sure. But given I spend all my time around these rapscallions, I do okay. I’ll never be Pope.” He mops up the last of his couscous. “But ya know, if I was in France, I’d speak French. If I was in Germany, I’d preach in German. But I’m here on these docks, so I minister in longshoremen. At least that’s the argument I’ll be making at the gates.” He looks up with a grin, “no one wants to get to the gates of heaven and find em locked.” Just as we finish breakfast, the waiter returns with two fresh espressos. “So, Kyle from Kabyle, you’re not going to confess the deep dark reason for your journey, and that’s fine, but what’s next?”
“Figure to hunker down here till the storm passes.”
“Not much for coastal weather, are you?” Father J laughs. “This storm ain’t going nowhere, hell it ain’t even started raining, not like it’s gonna. Ya oughta find a nice hotel and hole up for a couple days.”
“Can’t, have to be in Milan tomorrow and there’s a whole lot of mountains between here and there.”
“Then take a bus, only option ya got.”
“No, this journey started on my bike, and that’s how it has to end.”
“Spoken like a true Yank. Ya set some stupid-ass goal then die trying to make it. Ya best be moving then, before this storm really kicks loose. The road to Milan goes east before turning south so who knows, maybe you outflank it. But then again,” he adds with a sardonic grin, “maybe ya don’t.” He leans in as serious as can be. “Once it gets to raining in those mountains, best to keep to high ground, water rises fast in the canyons.”
“He’s right about outflanking the storm and once you know something must be done, wasting even a second is a sin. So, I slip my still wet rain suit over still soaked clothes and am just about to leave when-
“We both know you could change your flight,” Father J looks up at me with a confessional seriousness that evaporates any doubt he’s a priest. “Something in you needs to suffer, it covers you like stink on shit. So go my misguided friend, climb your mountain in the rain, suffer to elude whatever it is you foolishly think you can outrun. I’ll be here, praying you survive the day.”
“I stare at this oddly out of place Priest. “Thanks, I think.” He semi-smiles and as I make my way to the front door; the last thing I hear before barroom noise is subsumed by the pounding anger of Mediterranean rain bouncing off cobblestones like bullets against an executioner’s wall, is Father J shouting, “Which of ya sinners is gonna buy your favorite Padre a drink while I cleanse you of your sins?”
Conclusion in Chapter 7, The Ghosts Within <<<
