August 9, 2021
“1992” (Part II)– a Short Story
As you might remember from last week, “1992” is a short story I wrote recently, part of a literary project I’m working on.
Note: You might also be interested in knowing how this story was born. I’ve written a “behind the scenes” post about writing a short story, using “1992” as an example. Check it out!
“1992” – a Short Story; Part II
(continued from Part I)
He wasn’t quite sure why he knew, but that is rarely important. He just knew. And so, a few hours later, as the soothing sun of the Athenian afternoon blanketed the apartment buildings and shimmered on the leaves of the cypresses, the mariner entered the park.
He walked along the gravel path, a few old men strolling leisurely here and there, reminding themselves that time hadn’t run out just yet. Under an elm tree, a few of them were gathered together to watch an ongoing chess game. The mariner continued.
His boots produced short, rhythmical thuds as he passed by the stall of an old woman selling grilled corn, lollipops, and cotton candy. Her black clothes created an imposing contrast with her blindingly white hair. She asked the mariner – addressing him as “kind sir” – whether he liked to buy anything.
The mariner stopped and looked at the woman for a brief moment. He read something in her eyes, then retrieved his wallet – dark like her clothes, scarred like her face – and asked to buy a lollipop. The old woman’s thin lips formed a tired smile that contained complex feelings, but she followed through the game she had set in motion. The mariner continued.
Approaching the west side of the park, he saw a large circular fountain ejecting columns of water through colorful spotlights. He knew – not sure why, but that is rarely important – that the young woman sat near there somewhere. There were plenty of young people around the marble edge of the fountain, some of them couples lost in each other’s eyes, others sitting alone with their thoughts, as the wind carried them away fleeting breath by fleeting breath. The mariner stopped for a moment to survey the scene.
He saw her sitting on a green bench, alone, on the opposite side of the small plaza.
A smile secretly formed behind his thick beard, as he began walking toward her. On the way, he couldn’t help but notice a young boy holding a white balloon, his mother hurriedly pulling the boy away, as if she’d needed to get home as quickly as possible. The mariner pondered on the reason and sighed.
Don’t pay attention, darling; he’s a bit stressed, that’s all.
“Hopefully it’s alright to sit here,” he said politely as he sat next to the young woman. She turned and looked at him for a moment. The mariner knew his appearance sometimes intimidated people, but the woman didn’t seem to mind.
“It’s a public park,” she said shrugging her shoulders, then her eyes returned to the world ahead of her and beyond.
The mariner knew he could’ve helped the woman express the words that begged to be released, but such experiences are usually more cathartic if one has to bear all of the responsibility. And so, he remained silent, his elbows resting on the backrest of the bench, his legs stretched, the boots one on top of the other.
“You were there this morning,” the woman finally said, not turning to look at him. They were both staring ahead, at the attractive sight of the water columns. “I remember you now.”
“You were there too,” the mariner said with a smile. They both chuckled. The woman then briefly retreated to her silence. The mariner saw – without having to look at her – her eyes becoming wet, her lips struggling to contain the knowledge.
“We were 16 when it happened,” she finally said softly. “That was in 1992, eight years ago. God, does time fly…”
A kid playing nearby, running around the bushes, stepped on some dried branches, breaking them.
“He wasn’t normal,” the woman continued, “not in any commonly agreed sense of the word. And that’s what made him so wonderful. He was smart but considerate; fearless but polite. I can’t understand how a boy who’s only 16 can be so philosophical, yet able to fit in and casually chat with everyone. I suppose it’s not hard to understand why I fell head over heels. It was the most surreal dream becoming true when I realized the feelings were mutual. Well… not quite, perhaps. God knows what truly went through his head.”
The tints on the treetops began turning cerise, indicating that the sun would soon set. The mariner looked up in the clear blue sky and saw a white balloon rapidly carried away.
“The irony is that he never lied to me,” her voice continued, riding waves of melancholy. “He was peculiar even in that. As a first thing after he held my hand and we kissed – right there, by the fountain – he told me that it wouldn’t last. I told him I’d never leave him, and he said we were too young, too naïve.”
Here the woman stopped and wiped her eyes. The mariner also noticed her fingers – small, very thin – and how they seemed to tremble just a little. Their tips were decorated with mauve nail polish – it reminded him of someone, from another place and yet not, from a different life and yet still the same.
The young woman opened her handbag and retrieved a little object; a small piece of paper, reverently folded. She handed it over to the mariner.
“He gave me this on the last day of school, before telling me he’d go away,” she said as the mariner carefully unfolded the paper. It was a pencil-drawn heart, with the number 1992 inside. “True to his word, he left and I never saw him again.”
“And yet he’s still here,” the mariner replied with a caring smile.
“And yet he’s not,” she responded, her own smile more rueful.
The mariner was about to tell her something, but thankfully she didn’t let him – sometimes words are a poor way to express a thought. Unexpectedly, she leaned forward and, taking both his hands in hers, placed her head on his shoulder and received his consolation. They remained like that for many long minutes, until the sky was dark blue.
Then the mariner continued.
4 Comments
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“What does the story mean on a personal level? Who is the mariner and who the young woman? Why? What? How?”
I don’t have all the answers but, for me, it’s a “what-if” story about a girl I was in love with when I was 16. She was mysterious, brilliant, talented poet, musician and a little crazy. This story is about nostalgy, the wish we could go back and find out what we always wanted to know and always wondered. The mariner is me in my dreams, remembering and wondering, hoping she is all right, she made it, she did not kill herself finally after two failed attempts. It would be such a horrible waste. People like her should survive, grow defenses against the insanity and find happiness in creativity.
I’m very glad that you took my story and discovered a meaning that is personal to you. This should be the goal of art: to inspire diverse interpretations. Thanks for sharing your memories!
Vera’s take on the story:
“I think the mariner may be the chameleon man from Perfect Shade of Gray (The Ancient Mariner? Odysseus?) It doesn’t matter that he’s old now: he lives outside time, like the flying Dutchman: he witnesses events, but can’t always tell past from future – hence not knowing “why he knows” what will happen. He doesn’t wonder how he knows and it doesn’t matter why he knows; what matters is being present when something significant happens. The fountain and plaza are the same as in the anonymous city of Gray, only this time it’s in Athens. Even the lovers and the old woman selling corn are the same. The young woman was summoned to this meeting place to be reconciled with the loss of her youthful lover… who might have been a god on vacation (as long as we’re referencing old Greek lore) or the same Flying Dutchman at another age. In either case, his stay in any real place would be limited by forces beyond his control, but he (even if only through an envoy) tries to make amends for the harm he’s done to a mortal. “
Many thanks for these wonderful insights and observations!