Paul Kindlon, author of “A Man of His Words”, is a professor of Humanities and a regular contributor to Mystery Tribune. He lives somewhere in New York State.
I’m sipping in a local café re-reading a good one by Chandler. It’s my second Irish Coffee in less than an hour.
My last hurrah before the end of Winter break. Voices from not far away intrude upon a lovely daydream situated between chapters. Raymond does that.
Two characters – from life, not the novel – are purchasing some dessert items from Molly the proprietor. I imagine these young’uns are recent grads climbing the corporate ladder rung by wooden rung, trying not to slip and fall.
I’m not much of a ladder guy myself. I prefer beanstalks. Less chance of splinters. The one who’s buying surprises me when he says, “if you don’t mind, I’ll pay in cold hard cash”.
I’m not much of a ladder guy myself. I prefer beanstalks. Less chance of splinters.
I picture myself at the age of nine, standing by the candy counter with a handful of nickels and dimes I found in a snowbank. Then I drift back to the present…
After having finished one state of matter I decide to experience a second, so I peruse the chalked-up menu on the wall.
As I get up from the table, I see Molly’s been replaced by a much younger version. Daughter?
“I’m in the mood for some German food”, I tell her.
“German? Ummm. I’m afraid we don’t serve that type of cuisine.
I gesture to the menu and say, “You have quiche.”
“Yes, but that’s French. Today’s special is Swiss. Would that be okay?”
“Perfect!”
As she walks away to prepare my order, I can’t resist running my mouth. Getting an early start, I suppose.
“You must be careful!”
“Sorry?”
“With language. It often lies to hide the truth.”
And the truth is…quiche was invented by the Germans. In a place called Lothringen. You see the French army felt compelled to invade. They took over and changed the name from Lothringen to Lorraine.
Meanwhile they discovered a local delicacy and changed the name of it from kuchen to quiche. Kuchen means “cake”. But the sound was too hard, too harsh for something so soft and light.
It wasn’t the first time the French borrowed words from another culture. Take the word tie, for example.
Where does that come from? Well, I’m certainly glad I asked. At one time the Army of Croatia was outfitted in a very stylish uniform. It had a strip of colored cloth that hung down from around the neck area to the belt. The French took a liking to it. But the thing is…in Eastern Europe Croats are called Horvats.
So they squeezed the two words together, split the difference, and – voila!” – the cravat was born.
Hell, the name of the French capital isn’t even French.
“It’s not?”
Not at all. A long time ago France was overtaken by the Celts. One of the Celtic tribes was called the “Parisi” who straddled the Seine. The name of Paris came about after a proper manicure.
I retreated to my table and waited for the young lady to bring my quiche. I liked her because she was not loud or artificial like most Americans. Except for the brothers and sisters. They tend to be pretty real.
As she put my plate down I asked her name.
“It’s Amanda. Here’s your… German cake.”
“Worthy of love. Your name I mean”
“Oh yes, that’s actually true. How do you know so much?
My God, you’re amazing.”
“Call me Donovan, please”
“What? Oh…you’re funny.”
I made quick work of the quiche, paid the check, said goodbye to Molly and went home to prepare my new class.
At seven the next morning I woke up from an unsound sleep. I had a strong dream that disturbed me. But it was not a nightmare.
I did the three S’s and ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, home fries and a toasted English muffin.
My Irish grandfather would be appalled. He was that hardcore. The only son of a big man who died in the Easter rebellion.
Tragic family history. It was bad enough we now spoke the oppressor’s language, but as I told him right before he died…
“We beat them at their own game, deideo. Almost all the best English language writers are Irish. He coughed and laughed then coughed again before he closed his smiling eyes forever.
But enough of the bloody past.
My present reality is a classroom on the third floor of the Humanities building. I take my place behind the lectern and say hello to thirty students. My hand writes “Professor O’Keefe” on the white board. I do a quick sweep of the face before me. One looks familiar. Too familiar. It’s Amanda.
She was wearing a red blouse and a white skirt. When she smiled at me, I’m pretty sure I blushed. That concerned me. Not because she or anyone may have noticed, but because of what it probably meant. To me. There was a twenty-year difference after all. Could be trouble. Double trouble if she felt the same way.
As the weeks went by, I became quite enamored. Amanda was smart, funny, and very attractive. Not unlike my college sweetheart Katie, the one I completely abandoned – when she got pregnant – by leaving the country for ten full years.
Yes, I know. Young Donovan was a cad. Or worse. Or maybe just too immature.
On the day of the final exam, Amanda stayed behind after all the others had left. She was waiting.
I erased my name from the white board. The class was over, but she and I were just getting started.
It was during our celebration of being together one year that Amanda and I decided to take a trip to Europe. We chose
Ireland, France, and Germany. Naturally.
I told her she would need proof of identification in order to obtain a passport and visa. She became quite still for a moment and then quickly jumped up and ran out of the room.
Her behavior was very uncharacteristic. I was soon to discover just why.
As I was washing up in the kitchen, she came creeping in with documents that she placed on the table.
“Take a look detective”.
I smiled at the reference and bent down to look them over. There was a photo, a social security card and birth certificate.
I picked up the latter. As it came into focus, I could see the names of Donovan O’Keefe and Katherine McCall listed.
I screamed something that was quite incomprehensible, but it was a sound filled with meaning that no words could equal.
Amanda came close and whispered…” Let’s talk”
Which we did. For hours. I mostly listened. She had it all worked out. Family relations were just biological accidents. She was living proof. What matters is the here and now. The social construct of our relationship is the one true reality we can count on.
Our reason for living. Our reason for loving. It is a totally valid experience of our own choosing. One that we alone can control. One that we define. Not a result of the blind forces of nature.
Besides, she argued, there would be no marriage – there couldn’t be. And there would be no children of our own. That would please us both because of our shared views on these matters.
I found it impossible to deny that she was right. And why would I want to?
“Amanda!. Your birth certificate brings back a flood of memories.”
“I know, right? “
“I think I’m going to drown.”
This is not working. I am not a professor. Never read Chandler and I hate Irish coffee. But there is an Amanda. She’s my baby girl. Always has been.
*****
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