Handsome Freaks Chapter 5: The Velvet Purse

ezravan (63)in #story • 7 years ago (edited)

Handsome Freaks Cover

... He thanked his mother for telling him their history. She patted his knee and told him, "Even a bastard has a past.”

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Ch1-P1 | Ch1-P2 | Ch2-P1 | Ch2-P2 | Ch3-P1 | Ch3-P2 | Ch3-P3 | Ch4-P1 | Ch4-P2 | Ch4-Pt3 | Ch4-Pt4

This is an original STEEM series novel. If you like odd dramas about odd things, strangely funny and sad, freaks, bearded ladies, emotional pain of invisible boys–I'm writing this on steemit based on a short story I've written... enjoy.
NOTE: I am writing this as I go right here on steemit, so I run into issues where Chapter breaks get into multiple parts so that a post is not a mile long.. this one is kinda long, when I finally release the book I'll have to fix that for a more cohesive read, so bare with me. I will try to keep posts as short as possible. @ezravan

Chapter 5

The Velvet Purse

Zola and Elmo were married on midnight of the longest day. They rode all night on a black horse to the French border where they took a train to Italy. As the train rolled through the serene French countryside Elmo told her of his hopes, his dreams and every secret he had held deep inside. He wanted many children, a vineyard and a trip to America where they would find riches. "My dearest Zola, I will cover your neck with gold and jewels of such weight that you will fall into your bed each night exhausted by your riches." He said this while tracing her neck with his warm breath.

The bullfighter was struck with such blinding desire for the young girl that he did not even notice that she seemed not to listen to one word he said.

Elmo’s father and his father before him were the most desired wood workers in Spain and much knowledge of the craft had seeped into his youth. When they found a home in Bergamo, Elmo made Zola a grand bed from woven olive branches, with solid cedar slats that he carved a black horse racing across an empty Spanish field mounted upon it a woman clutching a man. But, She would not make love in the grand bed and he soon found that love–and the making of it–was a commodity in rare supply with Zola.

Elmo tried for years to find the path that would lead him to her heart. In the end, he found all paths were closed, on rocky cliffs and too dangerous for man to traverse. The more he tried to love her the more he felt she hated him and this his bullfighter pride could not bear–to be hated by one he so desired so, he became very quiet indeed.

This is the story Zola told to Pio as they walked the streets of Pamplona on that longest of all days before the market opened; though of course, not all of the details of skin, sex and loneliness can be divulged to a thirteen-year-old boy.

In this one day of his mother's stories, Pio felt as if he had finally was given a secret key to his mother. He even felt, now, that he understood. Such as the saying, well known by the secret Bergamo cabalist says: “the key to love, is but a humble understanding of the other, as also a shard of the shattered light of God.’

How could she love when she had been so violated in such an unholy fashion he pondered. He had never asked why his father was so quiet–even transparent at times– ; he did not feel it would be respectful of him as a child to bring to the forefront something that everyone knew but never talked about–but now, he knew and he understood that Elmo had married a ghost of a soul, so he too had become a ghost so as to be with his lover.

The next day the market was open and the streets were filled with merchants but Zola and Pio sold little of the pig fat soap that early afternoon. In the quiet moments of the day, Zola filled Pio's ears with more distant stories of her youth; he took hold of them as if they were the fragile birds he once loved and set free. All the memories of his mother belittling him, and calling him double cursed, were gone like shadows under a bridge. He loved her and for the first time in his life, felt loved by her also. The future was an expansive ocean to him now. He could see a life beyond the roof where there would be no more tears sighs and bitter songs.

Sales picked up towards evening and over the few days of the market festival they worked continually morning and evening selling from tent to tent the remaining stock. It wasn't long before all the soap was gone and Zola’s little red velvet purse was full. She showed Pio the purse and let him hold it.
"Notice the weight," she said. "We could buy you a vineyard!"
“But I wouldn’t know what to do,” Pio said.
“I could show you,” she said, “my father had a vineyard you know.”
“You told me, Momma.”

As the festival wound to a close, small pockets of people shuffled their way to the train station.
Zola and Pio pushed their two small bags on the rack above the row of three seats. Pio sat in two and his mother beside him. He thanked his mother for telling him their history. She patted his knee and told him, "Even a bastard has a past.”

He told her that this trip had been the single most sublime time of his life and he knew now that he could carry the pig fat home without eating it and throwing it up. He said he would make her proud.

The train horn howled and the sound of compressed air hissed below their seats. A man in a round flat hat entered the car and held his stiff arm out to the first passengers.
"Momma we forgot the tickets," Pio said.
"So we did," said Zola in an oddly relaxed manner, "let me go and get them."

He watched her join the long line in the station. He lay back in his seats and thought of the longest day in Spain. He thought maybe he would become a bullfighter like his father and fall in love with a beautiful Spanish girl. He liked his father's unfulfilled dreams--many children, a vineyard, America--what could be better.

A train horn blasted. Pio looked at his faint reflection in the window with a comfortable smile. He was tired from the long days carrying soap from tent to tent and his eyes were heavy. The train across from theirs was rolling slowly and he wondered what wonderful part of the world it would arrive at. He couldn't wait to tell Piero of his trip—if he could find him—and how much money they had made in just three days. Pio would surely be jealous and maybe even break his silence in jealousy. Pio wanted Piero to be jealous—he wanted someone to be jealous of his time in Spain.

The people in the row of seats in front of him waved to the departing train slowly picking up speed beside them. He waved and laughed at the men hanging from the windows with wineskins—mostly young Americans.

A strange feeling came over him when he found himself waving at his mother; directly across the tracks from where he sat. She didn't wave or even see him. He thought maybe she had jumped the wrong train so he banged on the glass of the window. Her train picked up speed. He stood and ran with the train pushing through people… banging the walls and yelling ferociously.
"Tereno errato!" he cried with his grand baritone voice.
When Pio reached the last window he sang a great bellowing cry Zola turned as if she heard something. Their eyes locked for a moment and she pointed in a downward motion and mouthed something he couldn’t make out.
“Momma,” he said in a whisper as her train turned a corner and out of site. He walked back down the row of staring people, his chin nestled low in his chest. He sat down and suddenly noticed something against his leg. There was the velvet purse, filled to bursting, at his feet. He looked at his semi-transparent image in the window and became very quiet.

To Be Continued...

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