Luciano's Garden of Delights



  LUCIANO’S GARDEN OF DELIGHTS

  A short story

  By Christina McCarthy

  Copyright © Christina McCarthy

  Luciano’s Garden of Delights.

  Maggie didn’t know what to do. A stone had taken the place where her heart had once been. Her head was sore, her neck stiff and tense. And it wasn’t PMS. She knew that. She was just fed up that was all!

  She was sick! Sick of being blamed for everything! Surely, some of it was his fault? Surely! Nothing could be just one person’s fault.

  She had her weaknesses, she knew. But he was never happy. No matter how she tried, there was always something wrong. Never a day went by without him blaming her for something, whether it was sloppiness in housework, being too fat or too old or too boring in the bedroom. She had put up with his accusations and condemnation now for…how many years? She couldn’t remember. And maybe she couldn’t remember, because she just wanted to forget. Oh to forget! There was so much she would love to forget.

  Maggie would walk. She didn’t know where. It didn’t seem to matter.

  Stepping outside, she looked up at the sky, overcast and foreboding, and wondered how she had ever allowed herself to get into this state. Did she hate herself? Perhaps she did. She didn’t know. There was only numbing confusion; a kind of slow whirling fuzz in her head where her brain had once been.

  Was she truly to blame? She glanced back. Would she be missed? Perhaps...perhaps not.

  Maggie kept walking, for how long she had no idea, but she was suddenly aware that darkness had fallen and that, far into the distance, she was surrounded by hills, their wonderfully undulating forms lit up by a full moon that had begun to rise steadily above them. If only they were closer for it seemed they were calling her; calling her to enter into their deep woodlands, to be enveloped by magical mists and the sweet smelling fragrance of the forest.

  She laughed quietly to herself. What foolish thoughts. Yet, everything seemed enticing but her own life. And then she heard what sounded like an elephant trumpeting. That was strange enough, but it was quickly followed by a lion’s roar. How very odd. She was sure there were no zoos anywhere near and the circus only came to town during summer months. Perhaps she was over tired; so tired that she was beginning to imagine things.

  Maggie gazed at the moon. It looked bigger tonight and it was good that darkness had fallen because she had forgotten her make-up and she felt naked without it. God forbid anyone should see her without her lipstick and mascara. But perhaps it was as well she had forgotten it for she had also become aware that it was softly raining. Her mascara would have run in black streams down her tear stained face, along with the rain that drizzled steadily from the now leaden skies.

  She stopped to listen to the water running joyfully along roadside gutters, tinkling melodically into drains that led to the ocean. The ocean: deep and wide and never-ending, far away from the suburbia that threatened to swallow her up with its stifling small-mindedness. And as she breathed in the sweet dampness, she saw the road like a black river in the shimmering light of the street lamps, mirroring the brightness of the traffic lights and neon signs that flashed from the numerous continental style cafes and wine-bars lining the street, some with wonderful gardens and window boxes that, small as they were, seemed to grow the kind of flowers she had only ever seen in wildlife documentaries.

  She heard another distant roar and laughed realizing it was probably just a motorbike: a Harley, perhaps. She tried to imagine what kind of machine could have made the trumpeting of the elephant, but nothing came to mind.

  Time must have distorted somehow, or perhaps she’d just been walking ages, for there were no distant hills or wine-bars or cafes in her own part of town; only the fast food shops and the odd bottle shop; places to feed oneself with the mundane blandness of the everyday or to drown one’s emotions in an alcoholic haze of forgetfulness. Her suburb, a collection of too close together houses, concrete courtyards and gardens savagely shaped by tidy minds and organised souls who seemed to take delight pruning away the natural things in life as if neatness were the only way to enlightenment.

  A rich aroma, wafting from a small café, met her nose. ‘Luciano’s Garden of Delights’ said the flashing sign above the blood red door. She stopped to breath in the powerful scent; slowly enjoying what smelled like coffee…but more so; there were spices; ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves and one or two others she didn’t even recognise. There was no blandness here. With an odd fluttering of her heart, she walked through the open door. She had forgotten her handbag in the upset, but there was loose change jingling in her pocket. She pulled out a few dollar coins and a little silver.

  An elderly Italian man stood behind the counter, polishing glasses. He smiled at her, a fleck of gold in a front tooth catching the soft candlelight that glowed on every table.

  And there was music. Music that seemed to be coming from somewhere else: but from where? She couldn’t recognize the instrument that was playing so prettily and that was quite bizarre.

  “Can I help you Signora?”

  “A coffee, please. It smells so good.”

  “Cappuccino? Long Black? Latte? Mocha?” He pointed to the blackboard menu. There was a clock hanging beside it and as Maggie suddenly noticed the red second hand ticking backwards she thought how much more reliable the old-fashioned clockwork timepieces were compared to the modern battery operated ones.

  The old man smiled again, “Take your time.”

  Maggie gazed at the list of beverages advertised on the blackboard overhanging the counter, each outlined in colored pastels. Myriad blends of coffee, herbal teas, fruit shakes and smoothies.

  Her eyes lit up.

  “I won’t have coffee,” she smiled herself now, “I’ll have hot chocolate…dark chocolate!”

  “The beverage of the Amazonian gods,” said the old man, his eyes twinkling. “How very fitting.”

  Maggie looked surprised.

  “Forgive an old man such foolishness, Signora. But you have lovely eyes.”

  Maggie felt her face burning and wondered for a moment whether she had remembered her hormone replacement tablets. But no! This was a genuine blush and not a hot flush. The heat she felt now was accompanied by a feeling almost of…of innocence mixed with … was it expectation? Like a child, the week before Christmas, Maggie thought.

  Her hand went to her cheek as if to cool it and she suddenly remembered, horrified, that her face was naked. And feeling very plain, she lowered her eyes.

  “You have the eyes of an Amazonian serpent,” he continued, seemingly unaware of her awkwardness. “Green – like sacred jade.”

  Maggie’s head was suddenly full of South American jungles, tropical birds exotically clothed in bright plumage, the great Amazon River, full and rushing through steamy forests and teaming with life. She felt the blush deepen.

  “Can I tempt you?” he went on.

  She glanced up, meeting his eyes. Was it her imagination? He looked a little younger.

  She was speechless, she had not considered temptation for so long.

  “…with marshmallows?” he went on, a little smile playing about his lips.

  He looked younger still — still old, but definitely younger. His moustache was now considerably darker. Why, he must have shed ten years in the last couple of minutes.

  “That would be nice,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes, in bewilderment.

  “Sit down then signora,” he motioned to a table by a large painted mirror. “You look tired.”

  Maggie gave a wan smile, �
€œThank you,” she said as he pulled out a chair for her.

  There were only a few tables in the little café and only one other customer. A beautiful girl sat by the window picking at a slice of something. She turned and smiled as Maggie sat down.

  Maggie returned the smile. The girl stood and walked over to Maggie’s table, carrying the half eaten plate of cake with her.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?”

  “Of course not,” said Maggie. “I’d like the company.”

  “Me too!” The beautiful girl’s eyes lit up, green like her own, like sacred jade Maggie thought. The younger woman’s dark hair tumbled wildly over her shoulders and Maggie remembered being young.

  “So… you have been tempted.” said the girl.

  Maggie smiled, “By chocolate.”

  “You look sad,” said the other, placing her plate in the middle of the table. “Perhaps you actually need the chocolate.”

  Maggie nodded.

  “You know, they do say that chocolate can lift the spirits,” the girl smiled. “Something to do with endorphins and the brain.”

  “Brain?” said Maggie, thinking about the slow whirling fuzz that had been living inside her head for, she knew not, how long.

  “Would you like to share the apple slice? It has cinnamon and honey and cinnamon has special qualities too; something to do with lightening the spirit,’ she gave a mischievous