The Melancholy Korean

"Anyong haseyo."

"I'm not Korean."

(silence)

"No, non parlo coreano io. Non lo capisco. Sono americano."

(silence)

"Siete americani?"

"Harry's half and half. English and American. Like Churchill. Although with a few Irish bastards mixed in."

"E lei?"

"American."

The old man came closer to us, looked first at me and then Melancholy, and then he tapped his fingers on Melancholy's chest. Tap, tap. It was strange, but the chill I had felt on the train when we passed Castello Miramare, returned. I didn't like this, at all.

"American?"

"Yes."

(silence)

"You gentlemen would like..."

But before he could finish, another person entered the cafe. I never learned his name, and I do not wish to sound flippant, because I had a premonition he was not to be trusted--definitely not "OK, OP" in Melancholy's book--but I've always thought of him as the Clown. So now, the Clown entered the cafe.

And our story begins in earnest.

Goodness. How did she find our address? I think I know the answer, but you must promise not to laugh. Between ourselves... well, why don't you come closer so I can whisper into your ear... between ourselves, I think she's a sorceress or high priestess or some kind of witch.

Now, before you call the doctor and have me examined, you must understand that there is no other way to explain the power that girl exercises over poor Melancholy. I thought, Prune thought so too, when Melancholy started dating Felicity that she was gone for good. And then Felicity moved in! Happy days, dear guests, sweet and happy days. How Prune and I celebrated that first night she came! We did it in secret, of course, since Melancholy can be touchy about his personal life, but I'll admit to you, yes, I brought the bottle down from my room and met Prune at midnight in the kitchen, where we raised a glass of Château d'Yquem and toasted the happy couple. It was so exciting, almost like a spy movie, all the tip-toeing around. Well, spy movie is perhaps an exaggeration.

Did I say glass? Two glasses each, more like, and then a little port and fruit, but now, oh dear, I am wandering far from my subject.

I remember the name of the cafe now: Pasticceria Pirona. And the rest of the story is coming back very strong now--I can almost see the desserts in my mind's eye. Mind's eye. I've always found that a gross expression. Mind's eye. Not very stimulating to the appetite.

But back to the story, yes, back before the tides of memory wash me away completely. I must say it's funny how memories work. I think they're called madeleines, those cakes that provoke the great remembrance of things past. (No, I haven't read it.  Before I could ever start, its length always defeated me.  That row of volumes.  Unfortuntely for M. Proust, I never had enough time to read his great work.)  I can see one of them now. The cafe had an excellent version of them. Pasticceria Pirona, it turned out, dear guests, was not a working man's bar. I had thought we would be eating at a dimly lit cafe, filled with Union Jacks and Old Men Just Back From The Sea, who played checkers in a corner and ogled the not-so-young serving women. Or perhaps I don't know James Joyce as well as my family connection to Stephen Dedalus should warrant. But  Pirona turned out to be an elegant little coffee shop that served sweets and cakes and madeleines to customers best described as very nice. Very nice, of course, is supposed to connote a certain, well, shall we say, particular background?

(Incidentally, very nice was an expression Melancholy liked to use at university. He taught me the full range of meaning those two words could have with different inflections. But his favorite was the more cryptic, "OK, OP." Whenever someone walked by Melancholy did not approve of, he would whisper to me, "not OK, OP." Had a nice ring to it. And now you are going to ask me what that expression means, and I must demure. Perhaps another time. I don't mean to hold anything back from you, but we will never get to the end of this story unless I show a little restraint.

There was no place to sit. That's the first thing I noticed. And the food was not appropriate for lunch. Breakfast that morning had been a pastry and coffee in Venice before our train ride, and so we were starving. That's when the old man came in.

"I think you should look at this, sir."

"Prune, you can just call me Bill, ok?"

(silence)

(silence)

"But if it makes you feel better..."

"Mr. Best found it in the study, sir."

(silence)

"I don't understand, Prune. Why would she invite him to the wedding? She's not that cruel."

"It's not for him, sir."

"What's this?"

"It came with the invitation, sir."

(silence)

"'Reverend Smith, I know you must be surprised... huge favor... nothing to Melancholy... officiate the wedding... I would be honored...'"

(silence)

"Officate the wedding? The Reverend?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where's the Reverend now?"

"We don't know, sir. He disappeared a few days before Melancholy returned from Japan."

"Jesus."

"Yes, sir."

"Was Harry able to talk to Dr. Coffin?"

"Yes, sir. They were spending the night in Corsica, and he was able to telephone him at the hotel."

"What did he say?"

"He recommended the drug Celexa, sir. Sixty milligrams."

"Sixty?"

"Yes, sir. Dr. Coffin said under no circumstance should we give him less. Mr. Best said he was very insistent on that point."

"Jesus."

"The doctor also said he should not be left alone, sir."

"Where's Melancholy now?"

"I think he's sleeping,sir. Mr. Best has been with him in his room."

"That's good, Prune. But Harry shouldn't have to spend the whole night with him. Let's each take turns doing a shift. If you wish, Prune, you can go next. I'll take over in about six hours, and I can spend the night with him."

"If you please, sir, I'd like to stay the night as well."

(silence)

(silence)

"I understand, Prune. We can watch him together, then."

 

 

"How do you know Trieste so well, Melancholy?"

He didn't respond.  No, he was still huffing and puffing away, focused on climbing the main hill that overlooks Trieste. Smokers, you know, don't have particularly wonderful lung capacity, and Melancholy was concentrating on the walk and didn't hear me. It didn't matter, though. By then, I knew why Melancholy had a photographic image of Trieste imprinted on his mind.  We were walking close to the the church dedicated to San Giusto (Melancholy told me later this meant "Saint Just") when it hit me. I felt like a fool for not realizing the truth sooner.

James Joyce had lived in Trieste. Of course! Dear, sweet guests. Can you understand my excitement? I nearly shouted out loud, when the lightening bolt of comprehension finally stuck me. It was so obvious. And, now, I knew exactly where we going to lunch--some horrid working man's cafe that the crazy Irishman probably liked to frequent. Melancholy, you will not be surprised to learn, preferred very nice restaurants, unless... how do I put this. Unless they fit a particular aesthetic sensibility, if that's not too precious a way of saying it. And Melancholy adored James Joyce.  Still does, of course.

Did I say frequent? Well, perhaps, more accurately, Mr. Joyce liked to get drunk in. The Irish, you know. 

I should explain before you think me a terrible snob. I'm part Irish myself, and of course I know not all Irish people are drunkards. I don't really like alcohol so much myself. And I don't like to announce this to just anyone, but since you are our guests, and such well-mannered ones--really, I should think your children must be angels, but where was I? Oh yes, I know you will not think I am boasting if I tell you that my family has a rather famous connection to Stephen Dedalus.

One of those great, great uncles, or something. (I can never understand family trees beyond the first couple generations.) Richard Best. Richard Irvine Best. Lovely name, yes? He was the director of the National Library in Dublin in the years before the war, and one of our family's great heroes.

You don't know him, do you?

He was friends with Stephen MacKenna in Paris, and they used to read Mallarmé together. Well, I'm not surprised you haven't heard of either of them. If he weren't a relation, I certainly wouldn't have known who the director of the National Library was, either, or his friends in Paris. Stephen MacKenna was a great translator of Plotinus. Actually, this is how I first met Melancholy at university. He had a friend from Chivers (that's the high school Melancholy went to, the one he attended with Dr. Coffin) who was my roommate, and while visiting him, this is during those first few heady days we were being feted as the incoming class--goodness, there were so many parties in New Haven that week, "happy, golden bygone years," and all that--but, yes, back to the story, Melancholy was visiting our room and he noticed the copy of Plotinus I had, the one signed by Stephen MacKenna, and, well, he wouldn't let me go until he heard the whole story.

That's why he became friends with me. I don't tell him that, of course, and I'm not offended. I was pleased, actually, that he knew who my great, great half cousin or whatever he is, was. It's funny how friendships form, isn't it?

Melancholy was insistent we have lunch in the Città Vecchia, which I assumed meant the old part of the city. It's always a good bet with these European cities, isn't it? What I mean is... oh, never mind. It's a banal observation. I must remember to check myself in front of company. What would my grandmother say? I fear I may have already tried your patience with my circumlocutious manner of telling this story. I can only ask for your forbearance, dear guests, sweet and patient and loving guests. My mind has a tendency to wander.

Yes, alas, back to the story. Melancholy's knowledge of Trieste astonished me. He even had the exact name of the cafe, Pirona something, and he must have known exactly where it was. I could barely keep up with him, he was walking so forcefully through the streets. He didn't pause to double-check street names or even to consult a map. The cat had silenced Melancholy, so he wasn't saying much now, just taking long strides that cut across the pavement.

About the cat. You must know, in case you ever see him, that Melancholy hates cats. He absolutely detests them. If he ever had the power of God, he told me once, he would exterminate all the cats in the world, cleanse the Earth of them. (This was a time when Melancholy was drinking heavily, and he was prone to... well, I shouldn't really say. Strong outbursts, if you understand what I mean. He was never violent, exactly, except... well, now I really shouldn't say. I don't wish to hold anything back from you, of course, you are our guests and that would be rude of me, but you must understand my position. Discretion is the better part of valor and all that. Let me just say it was a difficult period for all of us, a period I know  Melancholy deeply regrets. I can't say I blame Sybil, of course. What that poor girl had to put up with. I mean, Melancholy had become totally outrageous. But now you see what is happening? My mind is wandering again. These are stories for another time, yes?)

We both wanted to take a closer look at the Adriatic Sea, no, no, not the Adriatic, the Gulf of Trieste, I mean, and we were walking near the ferry terminal on the main pier, when suddenly, from behind one of the garbage cans, a cat jumped out in front of us. I nearly died. I'm not ashamed to admit that. I've never understood why people are so embarrassed to admit fear. I was shaking in my boots, as they say. But this cat. I'd never seen anything like it. It immediately began hissing at Melancholy! Absolutely an absurd sight. But true.  I swear on the memory of my grandmother. It was a horrid screeching sound. And Melancholy? Well, he hated cats, remember, he wasn't afraid of them. I could see his hand tighten around the Herald Tribune he had just bought, and I swear, I thought I heard him hissing back.

That's ridiculous, of course. But sometimes, I wonder.

It was only the cat that finally stopped him.

It was still early when we arrived, perhaps just past noon, too early to check in. We decided to leave our bags at the hotel, the aptly named Grand Hotel Duchi d'Aosta. I guess Melancholy's concerns about money were short-lived, or perhaps just trumped by his desire "not to have to worry about it." I never learned what "it" was.

"It's so typical, isn't it?"

We were standing outside the hotel.

"This piazza is horrid, Harry. It's so typical of the Italians."

"I don't know, Melancholy. I rather like it."

He wiped a teardrop of sweat that had formed on his neck using a purple handkerchief. The color was a boyish touch on someone so serious, and Melancholy refused to go anywhere without at least three of them, all brightly colored and never ironed, stuffed into the pockets of his pants and jacket. This one was gingham check. That's an odd word. Gingham.

"Come on, Harry. I'll bet you like that horrid monument to Victor Emmanuel in Rome, too."

I do like it. Well, did like it. I'm not ashamed to admit I have terrible taste. I do. It's only by absorbing everything Melancholy tells me that I have been saved from even more embarrassing errors.

But while I was young and foolish in those days, and knew very little, I did know the most important lesson: under no circumstance was I supposed to answer Melancholy's question. I had to keep silent. He had that tone in his voice I've learned to recognize as a warning to stop speaking, like a driver who instinctively taps the brakes when he sees a red light. I hear the tone and immediately go silent. If I agreed with him, he might leave the subject alone, but one misspoken judgment, and I would never hear the end of it.

"Christ, Harry. Altare della Patria. Can you think of anything more pompous? Altar of the Fatherland? Are you fucking kidding me?"

It was coming now. The big blow-up.

"These Northern Italians want so badly to be taken seriously. It's undignified how desperate they are for respectability. We get it. You're not all lazy mafiosi. But what do they do?"

Another rhetorical question.

"They all pretend to be German."

I took a step away from him. His hands started making strong, jerky movements.

"I'll bet this fucking piazza was designed by a German."

We both looked out over the marble buildings in the piazza. Each one looked like a palace. Very imposing.

"Albert Speer could have designed this. I mean, it's right up a Nazi's alley. Just like that eyesore in the middle of Rome."

"Don't you think..."

"A fucking brilliant momument to pretension, hypocrisy, pomposity, and hideous taste."

We took the morning train from Venice, and there is a moment, near Trieste, when the train makes a corner and, suddenly, as if from a dream, out of the green hills and trees, in the window of the train appears a white castle, a 19th century folly built by an Austrian archduke, and I will never forget this, his reaction was so strong, how the sight of Castello Miramare affected Melancholy.

"You are ok, Melancholy?"

He had been writing in his journal for most of the two hour trip, but now, he was just staring out the window, in silence, his pen pressed into the pages of the notebook. He did not respond.

"Melancholy?"

When he looked back at me, I was shocked. His face - it was like, and I'm terribly sorry to speak in clichés, but I can do no better - it was like he had seen a ghost. His skin was pale, and his eyes had that faraway look, perhaps you have seen it yourself, even in the few days you have known him, it was like he had been transported to another place and time. He was looking at me, but he was not looking at me, if that paradox can ever hope to make any sense. His hands were trembling.

"Carlotta."

I knew better than to respond.

"Carlotta," he whispered again.

Melancholy closed his eyes and started squeezing his left hand with his right. Carlotta, again and again. I had no idea who she was.

On balance, Melancholy's presence, I am speaking now of his corporeal, not spiritual, presence, is reassuring and strong. Whenever I am feeling anxious, dinner or a drink with Melancholy, or even a few words, flecked with his inimitable indignation (rather nice alliteration, don't you think?), is enough to help me feel calm again. All is right with the world, as long as Melancholy can rail against some injustice or tomfoolery or pretension. Woe to the one who would take up airs in front of him! He is unfailingly polite in public, of course, but in conversation, well, like my grandmother, he can be wickedly funny.

But the chanting and rubbing hands like that, it must have hurt terribly, he was squeezing his hand so tightly, I don't know what happened, but as suddenly as that castle appeared in the window of the train, a dark cloud came over my heart. I can't describe it. I was scared. Frightened. It's odd to me how these words for fear seem so attenuated compared to the emotion that they are asked to describe. Terrified. Well, all of the above.

I leaned forward and grabbed his hands.

"What happened? Who is Carlotta?" I asked. My voice betrayed my concern.

He held up his hand and pressed his finger against the window. Miramare was behind us now, and all I could see was the endless blue water of the Gulf of Trieste.