However Strange
(In the Mist of the Beast)
Part I
Chapter One
A Call for Aid
Life has its way of making a person dizzy, or perhaps it is the people in one’s life; nonetheless, life and its happenings is not always a logical expected, episode, be it good or evil, ill or ailing that takes place, wisdom or foolishness that surrounds him, pleasure or pain he or she endures. I do hope memory serve me well, if so, this account will be better-sweet, as life really is, on its most trotted paths.
I walked up to my library in Miraflores, Lima, Peru, turned on the light in the haunting January night heat, into the somewhat of a cool library, its fan already on, --I stood still in the quiet center of the library, it was a tinge past midnight. The purple drapes, swayed a bit with the fans rotation, resilience, I loved the library, its ceiling was like a canopy over my head, the rugs, a number of them, one Persian, another from Afghanistan, and still another from Pakistan, and the center one, Peruvian, all of high quality engulfed me. I sat in my big sofa chair, there was two in the library, and another wooden onet sat drowsily next to the other sofa chair, the whole library merging into my corner; there in my corner, the sufficing world, its whole environment all the words man has developed, created in the past, merged blissfully to my side, as I sat in solitude, as I opened up a book of Longfellow’s.
Young Dona Florencia Wilder called me on the phone, I set the book aside, the phone being to my left, answered it, her voice was dreamy, in a restless way. And with an undertone of unhappiness, she commenced to tell me how she felt estranged in her big home, it was hard to give her sympathy, she was rich, so I just gave her my ear without comment, perhaps my chivalry was in full manhood.
Minutes flew by, that became hours, and I found myself wanting to fall to sleep, the gates of my mind were closing, as was my eyes. I heard noises next door, in this neighborhood it is not unusual to hear such at 2:00 AM, but it became a ceaseless sound, and between Dona Florencia and the knocking, it became a little stressful. As I asked Dona Florencia to call back, I went to the downstairs widow in the parlor, looked out it to see who was doing the knocking. It was a young bruit of a man (broad, short in figure, perhaps five foot five inches in height) robust, shirt off, muscles glowing from the reflections produced by an arch light several feet away from him.
I opened my door, said (with inquisitiveness):
“They’re probably sleeping, why not try back in the morning, you are waking everyone up, or at lese me for the time being!” It was more a statement than a question. I then switched my outside electric light on, over my doorsteps.
The brute came to me, looked me in the eyes (not a bit of fear in his bones I told myself), and had a note in his hands, he gave it to me, almost as if it didn’t matter what house he was really at, or whom got the note, only that he gave it to a living and breathing, and reasoning creature, I took it and started to read it (as he walked away):
“Whomever you are, I need your help, please attempt to help me after you read this note, and if you do not, give it to someone that will, my mother has just been murdered, you can call me at 4550882? The person whom gave you this letter is a little slow, his name is Carlos, and was instructed to leave as soon as he a person accepted the note.”
Chapter Two
The Investigation
Doña Florencia Wilder, opened the door quietly for Denis Medina; Sergeant Ricardo Leoncio and and his boss, the Inspector Silvestre were already sorting out the affairs of the murder, trying anyhow to understand it. Dr. Gomez was present, and the maid, Maria.
“I came at once, miss, the moment I got your note, but it seems you got everything under control, where you lack confidence, you have wisdom, and coordination abilities I see.” Then without hesitation, or a word said, she grabbed my hand, pulled me completely into the hallway, the Sergeant threw some swift glances her way, as he was paced from one room, through the hallway to the next room, where the deceased, widow, Mrs. Wilder, Florencia’s mother lay dead on a sofa coach. Here, the Detective started a conversation with a person, unseen; it was Inspector Silvestre, whom he was explaining the situation to:
“Senseless,” was his word.
Here, Doña Florencia whispered, “Under you, I hope to find out the truth sir. Right now the doctor is writing out a full report, he will give it to the Sergeant, whom is in charge, and the inspector, he said he will leave all the matters of this case in his hands. You and I can work together.”
“Alas!” I said, wondering what I had gotten myself into. “Ma’am,” I said, “You must be content with the officials, and their examination, I am not needed here.”
“Oh, but indeed you are sir, you see the door was locked, and the murderer could not have gotten in another way, except for him or her being here when I got here, so he must be here now. I cannot stay here tonight by myself; I will pay you well, if we can get to the bottom of this matter. The officials are simply going to investigate this half interrogatively, then leave and throw the case into the bust basket.
“True,” I said, adding passively, “I am only a writer of short fiction and poetry, what can I do?”
“I had Carlos knock on your neighbor’s door, thinking it was you, I have read a lot about you, a man of details, a great gift, to see things others do not. Most folks need a magnifying-glass to see the simplest of things, avoiding, if not overlooking the real things. I shall ask my maid, Maria to show you my mother’s blood stained coach, her skin had been pierced by what looks like deep scratches from teeth or long nails.”
I was about to look at Mrs. Wilder, now in the room with the Sergeant and Inspector, along with the maid, and Florencia, I was about to interpret what I saw, but suspended it for a moment, when Florencia shook her head ‘no’, and cleverly whispered, “Wait a moment, the inspector will leave with the sergeant,” and she had the maid offer them coffee and doughnuts, in the kitchen as they talked over the case, along with the doctor.
“Now, Mr. Medina, you were about to say?”
“She was attacked, and frightened to death, so it would seem.”
“Attacked by whom, and frightened to death you say…”
I then looked over the sofa coach again, carefully, and asked, “Who has touched her since you discovered her, besides the doctor?”
“No one to my knowledge,” said Miss Wilder, “at least not by me, or the maid, I only had Carlos, our gardener run to find you, after he discovered her, and told me, and I told the maid, and the maid called the police, and I sent for you.”
I had gotten down on my knees to see her wrists; they were cut, bleeding drops of blood into an already made pool on the floor. With a motion of my hands I had Miss Florencia walk around the sofa as to not leave a shadow in my way, so I could see closer, and clearer. Inch by inch I went over her body, legs, arms, neck, scratch marks here and there, it went for a radius of her whole body, I did it in a casual way as not to alarm anyone, the doctor had suggested the culprit, the murderer had simply scratched her to death, and left it at that, and with a sharp instrument. Myself, I suggested the victim was somehow under hypnotic influence, she did not struggle through her ordeal, or so it seemed, and there were blood-marks over blood-marks, as if they were specifically gone over willingly, and not in a besieged manner.. The doors I suggested were opened by her, for her assailant, again there really as nothing out of place. Next, I suggested she had used her fingernail file, after finding blood on it, in her jewelrykbox; she had even put it back into its place, after she had her panic attack—or whatever, it all made more sense than the argument the doctor and two detectives conjured up, so I thought, as well as for Miss Florencia.
Chapter Three
However Strange
I found a letter under Florencia’s mothers’ elbow, it must had fallen as she was attacked, odd though—I thought—it had fallen in such a place, almost as if it was tucked and kept hidden until someone like me came along and found it, would have found it no matter what, found it sooner or later. I couldn’t find the red ink pen though. The paper was thin rice paper, the letter read:
“If I am taken ill or even look dead, a simple judgement calls that in either case, or if I cannot speak for myself, you must speak for me, Florencia, for I am simply unconscious, even if the doctor says otherwise. Guard me well, night and day until I come to my senses again. Denis Medina, Ph.D., is a sensible man, seeks him out for advice. Do not in any way, try to bury me, god for bid, I should wake up in a grave, I don’t like the dark all that well. Now go and be a good girl and do as I have told you.” (Signed) Sophia Maria Wielder
At that moment, Carlos came back into the house, and brought a nurse, in all white clothing, Nurse Sara Palma into the living room. Florencia looked dumbfounded that Carlos seemed to know something she didn’t, simply by bringing the nurse was enough information to convince her of that. Her eyes seemed suffused with some kind of haunting hope that her mother might rejoin the living now. An afterthought perhaps, she then commented:
“You must allow me hope Mr. Medina, especially now after reading the letter, and Carlos bringing in the nurse.”
“Indeed I expect some hope is rushing right now into her bloodstream, hoping she does not wake up in a grave, I do wish to follow this case to its bitter-sweet end, in truth, Miss Florencia, I’d not trade places with the president at this curious moment.”
Dona Florencia Wielder, a young woman, fine featured, of good looks, good Peruvian stock, velvet dark hair, eyes a mysterious deep brown, slanted somewhat, as if she had mixed blood, Asian and Peruvian, not wide at all. As I found myself, time and again staring into those deep eyes, they almost put me into a trance, above those were lavishing eyebrows, and behind, long black wavy hair down to her shoulders as it overlapped. Her architecture was curvy, right where it belonged, balanced as if on top of a pin. Her white teeth gleamed when she smiled, you couldn’t miss them, somehow her hands moved without her wrist, her fingers without her hands—unless I was under an illusion, and her charm was mixed with her beauty, and movements.
The nurse was more on the wide side of the scale. A tall German looking gal, youthful and strong with broad shoulders and a ski type nose.
Chapter Four
Hypnotic Sleep and the Cat
Physically she was inured badly—or so it looked with all its bleeding, yet all her vital organs seemed unimpaired, deep, and internally that is, as Nurse Sara Palma carefully searched her body for bruises, deep puncture marks and so forth, which there were none to speak of.
Then suddenly, just like nothing, her breathing started back up again, it was almost shocking, as the nurse fell backwards, turning pale, dry throat, her daughter put her hand over her mouth as if to scream, and I, I just stood in amazement. This made Florencia double-think, ‘Was Denis right, and was she in some hypnotic sleep…?’
As to her wounds, Sara Palma had placed some bandages on them, hoping to stop some of the bleeding, and that was to some degree successful.
I scanned my mind, looking about, something had caught my eye—during this dramatic happening, at this point I asked the host, “Did your mother, or does she have any pets?” I had not seen any, so I refrained from digging into this question, and Florencia simply shook her head ‘no,’ as she continued to watch her mother’s chest go up and down again (slowly she crept up to the side of her mother, as if to hug her, but she stood stone still, short of that, and just watched her intake of air.
Now I looked about again, wondering what provoked the question in the first place, whereupon I noticed a mummy cat, wildcat that is on the wall, it was killed by her late grandfather, Anton, so I found out. It was a large and seemingly wild and ugly looking thing. The longer I looked at this beast on the wall, a trophy of sorts, the haughtier the creature became, almost submerging its dead personification into me.
“Oivlis,” was its name, said Florencia with a half smile, looking out of the side of her eye, watching me looking at the cat.
I felt the cat purring inside my head; almost instinctively I wanted to talk to the cat, its eyes like razors cutting into mine.
“Eh!” said Florencia, “are you ok?”
I could hear the cat’s heart beating, “Pardon me!” I said to Florencia, adding, “I think I’m daydreaming.”
“My grandfather mounted that cat on the wall, fifty-years ago. Mother liked it, her and I never did share the same feelings on that cat, and she left it in the same spot grandfather put it in—all these years.” ((The nurse was now caring for Mrs. Sophia Maria Wilder.)(You could see the red blood lines through the bandages; the wounds were healing fast, and the bandages were now like blotting paper.)
((Part II/Chapter Five)(conclusion))
Nowhere in Particular
—recovering from my day-dreaming, I heard my name, “Dr. Denis Medina Gomez” my nerves were not quite as they should have been, the door behind me closed automatically, and a white object (thick mist) revealed itself, emanating from the stuffed, wildcat on the wall—it was indescribably streaked murkiness of an unknown sort, and it emerged around me, starting from my face downward. I looked at it closely, tentatively unrecognizable, but it reeked with a death secretion, and muck (sewage). I tried to get the pocket knife out of my hip pocket, a three inch knife, I was at this point in disbelief, and almost frozen in my stance, trying to pull that knife out, as if it was going to be my savior, it dawned on me, in all this effort, what was a knife going to do for me, and here I was losing all my energy in its process.
Florenca was watching, and the old lady (Mrs. Sophia Maria Wilder) lay where we found her, on the sofa, her father (Anton Wilder) had mounted Oivlis, over fifty-years ago on the wall. Cain Wilder, the husband to Sophia Maria wanted to take it done, but Sophia Maria, never would allow it.
As Dr. Denis Medina stood where he was he noticed behind some curtains, several times during his stay in this large room, that looked more like a library, or sportsman’s room, combined, a head peering out from behind the curtain, then vanishing, with its dark-rimmed eyes. It was quick and sudden, and Dr. Gomez thought who could it be, the face even looked familiar. He thought, then visualized the inspector’s face, Silvestre, but no it was a female’s face, maybe Miss Maria Tapi (the maid), but no, it was a more broad face. He looked down at Florencia, then at Sophia Maria Wilder, her mother, it looked familiar, they all looked proverbial, but how could that be, perhaps it was a sister of Florenica’s hiding behind the curtains.
Manual now became numb, slowly becoming more paralyzed as the mist trailed and fell below his shoulders; he even started to choke from its fumes now.
The door opened. The inspector looked through the crack of the door, perhaps a foot wide (he was aware of peculiar things happening in this house, from tales of other officers, and moved with caution), his hair-line stood out, his cheekbones turned white, his eyes bulged from its sockets, highlighting his face, what was he witnessing, his subconscious whispered to his mind’s eye—something dreadfully ominous. His eyelids didn’t even blink, the Medina looked like a fished-out towel ready to drop on the floor, and Florencia stood next to him, calm, yet a tinge bewildered, or perhaps it was a bit intrigued (it was hard for the doctor to make out).
Denis , was aware of what was going on, to a certain degree, trying to hold onto his balance, trying to look behind him and ask for help from the police officer, but the officer quietly shut the door, after saying “I just looked in to say good night!”
The room was turning colder, the longer they remained in it. It occurred to Manual, Florencia was standing idly by, witnessing all this, as he lost the ability for constructive thought, he was feeling like a python was squeezing his head, his body, but it was that haze, vapor. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘she was in the same situation as he,’ but she didn’t look it; then appeared that face again, behind the curtains, caught with a blink of an eye.
In essence, Denis was losing his vital signs for life, dying slowly: his life’s essence being squeezed out of him, inch by inch—as the haze descended.
A voice said, “If you’re not pleased with me tonight, you ought to be.”
Manual wanted to cry for help, but could only mumble, “Florencia, you’ve no idea how it is to try and get out of these hands.”
Manual put out his hands, they extended through the mist, which now was a configuration of the wildcat on the wall: “Pull me out,” he cried to Florencia, “please…” he added.
Under the sketchiest pretense, she said, “I was going to try,” (then she hesitated with a casualness), “but the cat has what it wants, why irritate it, and to be honest, I want to be able to breath, this is nothing I had really expected, it is my first observation of death in the making.”
He drew his last swift breath, that priceless, impetuous speech he tried to get out at the last second, never came. Florencia remained silent. For her this was too good to be true; for he now was dead, and she did not want to ponder on the subject any longer, and said, “That’s a relief.”
((Part III/Chapter Six) (conclusion))
Who is watching?
Florencia’s mind felt heavy and dull. She could see, visually see, Dr. Denis Medina, standing in the back of the glass window, looking in from outside it. (This was of course two weeks after his death.) It was dusk, and she quickly went to her mother’s bedroom, sat down on a chair, and they exchanged a few words, they both rattled on, until Florencia said abruptly,
“I kind of was fond of him mother.”
“No,” said Sophia Maria Wilder, “he just kind of messed up your program, he was handsome, and the evening got long, and you got a bit love sick, it happens to us all.”
“Oh, yes—I suppose it’s just bad luck I liked him?” said Florencia.
She was acting a bit treasonous, in her manner of speech, thought her mother, indeed she was trying to avoid her comments, and said with hopes she’d drop the subject, “A silly vision,” then the nurse Sara came in and rolled down her bed.
I suppose Inspector Silvestre will want to know what we did with the body.” commented, the mother, “I shall ring him tomorrow, if his corpse has not been eaten up by the scavengers of the area, I heard some hungry dogs and wild birds out there the past few days, and we only buried him a few feet down in the garden, not much work to dig or brush the soil off him. But the dead don’t really care how they get buried, do they?”
“I’ve never been dead, I don’t know,” answered Florencia, her mind preoccupied with her prior vision of Denis Medina.
As Florencia walked down the steps to the main dinning area, near the library, she noticed Mr. Tipi cleaning up, and ready to go home. The candles lit in the library left a dazzling stretch of light out into the hallway, the moon could be seen through the window. It turned a bit chilly as she walked slowly by the open library door. Her eyes moved into the library, one particular corner, near where the trophy cat was mounted on the wall. She stopped abruptly, wiped her eyes, two thin arms shown. She looked at the cat on the wall again, still and silent, she told herself, ‘it is still and silent.’ Then a voice said, “Pull your…self together (slowly, the words slurred).” She looked back at the cat, behind her, she knew the voice, and it was her grandfather’s.
“Because of you, I now have a voice,” it was her grandfather’s voice talking to her, for sure, she reconfirmed her intuition.
“No, no. Grandpa, grandpa, is it definitely you?” She whispered, knowing it was.
“Well, yes, who else.” He responded. “I can use a dead man’s corpse for a while, his vocal cords, if you know how to manipulate them, and I know his voice pattern by now I heard him grunt enough, do get on with what you were going to say?”
She said nervously, “I’m a bit fretted,” and she ran from the room faster than a cat.
Index of Names
Denis Medina, Ph.D.
Sergeant Ricardo Leoncio (Detective)
Inspector Silvestre
Dr. Manual Gomez
Carlos (the brute)
Miss Maria Tapi (maid)
Dona Florencia Wilder
Sophia Maria Wilder (mother)
Grandpa Anton Wilder
Cain Wielder (father)
Nurse Sara Palma
The Cat: Oivlis
Chapters one and two, written 1-9-2008, at home; Chapters three and four, written at the café, EP, 1-10-2008; written in Lima, Peru. Chapter five was written at Starbucks, in the afternoon, of March 1, 2008, in Circle, Lima, Peru. Part Three, “Who is Watching,” written on the roof under my umbrella, on a hot afternoon in March, 2008, in Lima, Peru.
(In the Mist of the Beast)
Part I
Chapter One
A Call for Aid
Life has its way of making a person dizzy, or perhaps it is the people in one’s life; nonetheless, life and its happenings is not always a logical expected, episode, be it good or evil, ill or ailing that takes place, wisdom or foolishness that surrounds him, pleasure or pain he or she endures. I do hope memory serve me well, if so, this account will be better-sweet, as life really is, on its most trotted paths.
I walked up to my library in Miraflores, Lima, Peru, turned on the light in the haunting January night heat, into the somewhat of a cool library, its fan already on, --I stood still in the quiet center of the library, it was a tinge past midnight. The purple drapes, swayed a bit with the fans rotation, resilience, I loved the library, its ceiling was like a canopy over my head, the rugs, a number of them, one Persian, another from Afghanistan, and still another from Pakistan, and the center one, Peruvian, all of high quality engulfed me. I sat in my big sofa chair, there was two in the library, and another wooden onet sat drowsily next to the other sofa chair, the whole library merging into my corner; there in my corner, the sufficing world, its whole environment all the words man has developed, created in the past, merged blissfully to my side, as I sat in solitude, as I opened up a book of Longfellow’s.
Young Dona Florencia Wilder called me on the phone, I set the book aside, the phone being to my left, answered it, her voice was dreamy, in a restless way. And with an undertone of unhappiness, she commenced to tell me how she felt estranged in her big home, it was hard to give her sympathy, she was rich, so I just gave her my ear without comment, perhaps my chivalry was in full manhood.
Minutes flew by, that became hours, and I found myself wanting to fall to sleep, the gates of my mind were closing, as was my eyes. I heard noises next door, in this neighborhood it is not unusual to hear such at 2:00 AM, but it became a ceaseless sound, and between Dona Florencia and the knocking, it became a little stressful. As I asked Dona Florencia to call back, I went to the downstairs widow in the parlor, looked out it to see who was doing the knocking. It was a young bruit of a man (broad, short in figure, perhaps five foot five inches in height) robust, shirt off, muscles glowing from the reflections produced by an arch light several feet away from him.
I opened my door, said (with inquisitiveness):
“They’re probably sleeping, why not try back in the morning, you are waking everyone up, or at lese me for the time being!” It was more a statement than a question. I then switched my outside electric light on, over my doorsteps.
The brute came to me, looked me in the eyes (not a bit of fear in his bones I told myself), and had a note in his hands, he gave it to me, almost as if it didn’t matter what house he was really at, or whom got the note, only that he gave it to a living and breathing, and reasoning creature, I took it and started to read it (as he walked away):
“Whomever you are, I need your help, please attempt to help me after you read this note, and if you do not, give it to someone that will, my mother has just been murdered, you can call me at 4550882? The person whom gave you this letter is a little slow, his name is Carlos, and was instructed to leave as soon as he a person accepted the note.”
Chapter Two
The Investigation
Doña Florencia Wilder, opened the door quietly for Denis Medina; Sergeant Ricardo Leoncio and and his boss, the Inspector Silvestre were already sorting out the affairs of the murder, trying anyhow to understand it. Dr. Gomez was present, and the maid, Maria.
“I came at once, miss, the moment I got your note, but it seems you got everything under control, where you lack confidence, you have wisdom, and coordination abilities I see.” Then without hesitation, or a word said, she grabbed my hand, pulled me completely into the hallway, the Sergeant threw some swift glances her way, as he was paced from one room, through the hallway to the next room, where the deceased, widow, Mrs. Wilder, Florencia’s mother lay dead on a sofa coach. Here, the Detective started a conversation with a person, unseen; it was Inspector Silvestre, whom he was explaining the situation to:
“Senseless,” was his word.
Here, Doña Florencia whispered, “Under you, I hope to find out the truth sir. Right now the doctor is writing out a full report, he will give it to the Sergeant, whom is in charge, and the inspector, he said he will leave all the matters of this case in his hands. You and I can work together.”
“Alas!” I said, wondering what I had gotten myself into. “Ma’am,” I said, “You must be content with the officials, and their examination, I am not needed here.”
“Oh, but indeed you are sir, you see the door was locked, and the murderer could not have gotten in another way, except for him or her being here when I got here, so he must be here now. I cannot stay here tonight by myself; I will pay you well, if we can get to the bottom of this matter. The officials are simply going to investigate this half interrogatively, then leave and throw the case into the bust basket.
“True,” I said, adding passively, “I am only a writer of short fiction and poetry, what can I do?”
“I had Carlos knock on your neighbor’s door, thinking it was you, I have read a lot about you, a man of details, a great gift, to see things others do not. Most folks need a magnifying-glass to see the simplest of things, avoiding, if not overlooking the real things. I shall ask my maid, Maria to show you my mother’s blood stained coach, her skin had been pierced by what looks like deep scratches from teeth or long nails.”
I was about to look at Mrs. Wilder, now in the room with the Sergeant and Inspector, along with the maid, and Florencia, I was about to interpret what I saw, but suspended it for a moment, when Florencia shook her head ‘no’, and cleverly whispered, “Wait a moment, the inspector will leave with the sergeant,” and she had the maid offer them coffee and doughnuts, in the kitchen as they talked over the case, along with the doctor.
“Now, Mr. Medina, you were about to say?”
“She was attacked, and frightened to death, so it would seem.”
“Attacked by whom, and frightened to death you say…”
I then looked over the sofa coach again, carefully, and asked, “Who has touched her since you discovered her, besides the doctor?”
“No one to my knowledge,” said Miss Wilder, “at least not by me, or the maid, I only had Carlos, our gardener run to find you, after he discovered her, and told me, and I told the maid, and the maid called the police, and I sent for you.”
I had gotten down on my knees to see her wrists; they were cut, bleeding drops of blood into an already made pool on the floor. With a motion of my hands I had Miss Florencia walk around the sofa as to not leave a shadow in my way, so I could see closer, and clearer. Inch by inch I went over her body, legs, arms, neck, scratch marks here and there, it went for a radius of her whole body, I did it in a casual way as not to alarm anyone, the doctor had suggested the culprit, the murderer had simply scratched her to death, and left it at that, and with a sharp instrument. Myself, I suggested the victim was somehow under hypnotic influence, she did not struggle through her ordeal, or so it seemed, and there were blood-marks over blood-marks, as if they were specifically gone over willingly, and not in a besieged manner.. The doors I suggested were opened by her, for her assailant, again there really as nothing out of place. Next, I suggested she had used her fingernail file, after finding blood on it, in her jewelrykbox; she had even put it back into its place, after she had her panic attack—or whatever, it all made more sense than the argument the doctor and two detectives conjured up, so I thought, as well as for Miss Florencia.
Chapter Three
However Strange
I found a letter under Florencia’s mothers’ elbow, it must had fallen as she was attacked, odd though—I thought—it had fallen in such a place, almost as if it was tucked and kept hidden until someone like me came along and found it, would have found it no matter what, found it sooner or later. I couldn’t find the red ink pen though. The paper was thin rice paper, the letter read:
“If I am taken ill or even look dead, a simple judgement calls that in either case, or if I cannot speak for myself, you must speak for me, Florencia, for I am simply unconscious, even if the doctor says otherwise. Guard me well, night and day until I come to my senses again. Denis Medina, Ph.D., is a sensible man, seeks him out for advice. Do not in any way, try to bury me, god for bid, I should wake up in a grave, I don’t like the dark all that well. Now go and be a good girl and do as I have told you.” (Signed) Sophia Maria Wielder
At that moment, Carlos came back into the house, and brought a nurse, in all white clothing, Nurse Sara Palma into the living room. Florencia looked dumbfounded that Carlos seemed to know something she didn’t, simply by bringing the nurse was enough information to convince her of that. Her eyes seemed suffused with some kind of haunting hope that her mother might rejoin the living now. An afterthought perhaps, she then commented:
“You must allow me hope Mr. Medina, especially now after reading the letter, and Carlos bringing in the nurse.”
“Indeed I expect some hope is rushing right now into her bloodstream, hoping she does not wake up in a grave, I do wish to follow this case to its bitter-sweet end, in truth, Miss Florencia, I’d not trade places with the president at this curious moment.”
Dona Florencia Wielder, a young woman, fine featured, of good looks, good Peruvian stock, velvet dark hair, eyes a mysterious deep brown, slanted somewhat, as if she had mixed blood, Asian and Peruvian, not wide at all. As I found myself, time and again staring into those deep eyes, they almost put me into a trance, above those were lavishing eyebrows, and behind, long black wavy hair down to her shoulders as it overlapped. Her architecture was curvy, right where it belonged, balanced as if on top of a pin. Her white teeth gleamed when she smiled, you couldn’t miss them, somehow her hands moved without her wrist, her fingers without her hands—unless I was under an illusion, and her charm was mixed with her beauty, and movements.
The nurse was more on the wide side of the scale. A tall German looking gal, youthful and strong with broad shoulders and a ski type nose.
Chapter Four
Hypnotic Sleep and the Cat
Physically she was inured badly—or so it looked with all its bleeding, yet all her vital organs seemed unimpaired, deep, and internally that is, as Nurse Sara Palma carefully searched her body for bruises, deep puncture marks and so forth, which there were none to speak of.
Then suddenly, just like nothing, her breathing started back up again, it was almost shocking, as the nurse fell backwards, turning pale, dry throat, her daughter put her hand over her mouth as if to scream, and I, I just stood in amazement. This made Florencia double-think, ‘Was Denis right, and was she in some hypnotic sleep…?’
As to her wounds, Sara Palma had placed some bandages on them, hoping to stop some of the bleeding, and that was to some degree successful.
I scanned my mind, looking about, something had caught my eye—during this dramatic happening, at this point I asked the host, “Did your mother, or does she have any pets?” I had not seen any, so I refrained from digging into this question, and Florencia simply shook her head ‘no,’ as she continued to watch her mother’s chest go up and down again (slowly she crept up to the side of her mother, as if to hug her, but she stood stone still, short of that, and just watched her intake of air.
Now I looked about again, wondering what provoked the question in the first place, whereupon I noticed a mummy cat, wildcat that is on the wall, it was killed by her late grandfather, Anton, so I found out. It was a large and seemingly wild and ugly looking thing. The longer I looked at this beast on the wall, a trophy of sorts, the haughtier the creature became, almost submerging its dead personification into me.
“Oivlis,” was its name, said Florencia with a half smile, looking out of the side of her eye, watching me looking at the cat.
I felt the cat purring inside my head; almost instinctively I wanted to talk to the cat, its eyes like razors cutting into mine.
“Eh!” said Florencia, “are you ok?”
I could hear the cat’s heart beating, “Pardon me!” I said to Florencia, adding, “I think I’m daydreaming.”
“My grandfather mounted that cat on the wall, fifty-years ago. Mother liked it, her and I never did share the same feelings on that cat, and she left it in the same spot grandfather put it in—all these years.” ((The nurse was now caring for Mrs. Sophia Maria Wilder.)(You could see the red blood lines through the bandages; the wounds were healing fast, and the bandages were now like blotting paper.)
((Part II/Chapter Five)(conclusion))
Nowhere in Particular
—recovering from my day-dreaming, I heard my name, “Dr. Denis Medina Gomez” my nerves were not quite as they should have been, the door behind me closed automatically, and a white object (thick mist) revealed itself, emanating from the stuffed, wildcat on the wall—it was indescribably streaked murkiness of an unknown sort, and it emerged around me, starting from my face downward. I looked at it closely, tentatively unrecognizable, but it reeked with a death secretion, and muck (sewage). I tried to get the pocket knife out of my hip pocket, a three inch knife, I was at this point in disbelief, and almost frozen in my stance, trying to pull that knife out, as if it was going to be my savior, it dawned on me, in all this effort, what was a knife going to do for me, and here I was losing all my energy in its process.
Florenca was watching, and the old lady (Mrs. Sophia Maria Wilder) lay where we found her, on the sofa, her father (Anton Wilder) had mounted Oivlis, over fifty-years ago on the wall. Cain Wilder, the husband to Sophia Maria wanted to take it done, but Sophia Maria, never would allow it.
As Dr. Denis Medina stood where he was he noticed behind some curtains, several times during his stay in this large room, that looked more like a library, or sportsman’s room, combined, a head peering out from behind the curtain, then vanishing, with its dark-rimmed eyes. It was quick and sudden, and Dr. Gomez thought who could it be, the face even looked familiar. He thought, then visualized the inspector’s face, Silvestre, but no it was a female’s face, maybe Miss Maria Tapi (the maid), but no, it was a more broad face. He looked down at Florencia, then at Sophia Maria Wilder, her mother, it looked familiar, they all looked proverbial, but how could that be, perhaps it was a sister of Florenica’s hiding behind the curtains.
Manual now became numb, slowly becoming more paralyzed as the mist trailed and fell below his shoulders; he even started to choke from its fumes now.
The door opened. The inspector looked through the crack of the door, perhaps a foot wide (he was aware of peculiar things happening in this house, from tales of other officers, and moved with caution), his hair-line stood out, his cheekbones turned white, his eyes bulged from its sockets, highlighting his face, what was he witnessing, his subconscious whispered to his mind’s eye—something dreadfully ominous. His eyelids didn’t even blink, the Medina looked like a fished-out towel ready to drop on the floor, and Florencia stood next to him, calm, yet a tinge bewildered, or perhaps it was a bit intrigued (it was hard for the doctor to make out).
Denis , was aware of what was going on, to a certain degree, trying to hold onto his balance, trying to look behind him and ask for help from the police officer, but the officer quietly shut the door, after saying “I just looked in to say good night!”
The room was turning colder, the longer they remained in it. It occurred to Manual, Florencia was standing idly by, witnessing all this, as he lost the ability for constructive thought, he was feeling like a python was squeezing his head, his body, but it was that haze, vapor. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘she was in the same situation as he,’ but she didn’t look it; then appeared that face again, behind the curtains, caught with a blink of an eye.
In essence, Denis was losing his vital signs for life, dying slowly: his life’s essence being squeezed out of him, inch by inch—as the haze descended.
A voice said, “If you’re not pleased with me tonight, you ought to be.”
Manual wanted to cry for help, but could only mumble, “Florencia, you’ve no idea how it is to try and get out of these hands.”
Manual put out his hands, they extended through the mist, which now was a configuration of the wildcat on the wall: “Pull me out,” he cried to Florencia, “please…” he added.
Under the sketchiest pretense, she said, “I was going to try,” (then she hesitated with a casualness), “but the cat has what it wants, why irritate it, and to be honest, I want to be able to breath, this is nothing I had really expected, it is my first observation of death in the making.”
He drew his last swift breath, that priceless, impetuous speech he tried to get out at the last second, never came. Florencia remained silent. For her this was too good to be true; for he now was dead, and she did not want to ponder on the subject any longer, and said, “That’s a relief.”
((Part III/Chapter Six) (conclusion))
Who is watching?
Florencia’s mind felt heavy and dull. She could see, visually see, Dr. Denis Medina, standing in the back of the glass window, looking in from outside it. (This was of course two weeks after his death.) It was dusk, and she quickly went to her mother’s bedroom, sat down on a chair, and they exchanged a few words, they both rattled on, until Florencia said abruptly,
“I kind of was fond of him mother.”
“No,” said Sophia Maria Wilder, “he just kind of messed up your program, he was handsome, and the evening got long, and you got a bit love sick, it happens to us all.”
“Oh, yes—I suppose it’s just bad luck I liked him?” said Florencia.
She was acting a bit treasonous, in her manner of speech, thought her mother, indeed she was trying to avoid her comments, and said with hopes she’d drop the subject, “A silly vision,” then the nurse Sara came in and rolled down her bed.
I suppose Inspector Silvestre will want to know what we did with the body.” commented, the mother, “I shall ring him tomorrow, if his corpse has not been eaten up by the scavengers of the area, I heard some hungry dogs and wild birds out there the past few days, and we only buried him a few feet down in the garden, not much work to dig or brush the soil off him. But the dead don’t really care how they get buried, do they?”
“I’ve never been dead, I don’t know,” answered Florencia, her mind preoccupied with her prior vision of Denis Medina.
As Florencia walked down the steps to the main dinning area, near the library, she noticed Mr. Tipi cleaning up, and ready to go home. The candles lit in the library left a dazzling stretch of light out into the hallway, the moon could be seen through the window. It turned a bit chilly as she walked slowly by the open library door. Her eyes moved into the library, one particular corner, near where the trophy cat was mounted on the wall. She stopped abruptly, wiped her eyes, two thin arms shown. She looked at the cat on the wall again, still and silent, she told herself, ‘it is still and silent.’ Then a voice said, “Pull your…self together (slowly, the words slurred).” She looked back at the cat, behind her, she knew the voice, and it was her grandfather’s.
“Because of you, I now have a voice,” it was her grandfather’s voice talking to her, for sure, she reconfirmed her intuition.
“No, no. Grandpa, grandpa, is it definitely you?” She whispered, knowing it was.
“Well, yes, who else.” He responded. “I can use a dead man’s corpse for a while, his vocal cords, if you know how to manipulate them, and I know his voice pattern by now I heard him grunt enough, do get on with what you were going to say?”
She said nervously, “I’m a bit fretted,” and she ran from the room faster than a cat.
Index of Names
Denis Medina, Ph.D.
Sergeant Ricardo Leoncio (Detective)
Inspector Silvestre
Dr. Manual Gomez
Carlos (the brute)
Miss Maria Tapi (maid)
Dona Florencia Wilder
Sophia Maria Wilder (mother)
Grandpa Anton Wilder
Cain Wielder (father)
Nurse Sara Palma
The Cat: Oivlis
Chapters one and two, written 1-9-2008, at home; Chapters three and four, written at the café, EP, 1-10-2008; written in Lima, Peru. Chapter five was written at Starbucks, in the afternoon, of March 1, 2008, in Circle, Lima, Peru. Part Three, “Who is Watching,” written on the roof under my umbrella, on a hot afternoon in March, 2008, in Lima, Peru.
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