“Living in a little town means not being alone. Even when you’re not there, it waits for you.” Pavese

“Dying is an art…I do it exceptionally well…till it feels like hell… you could say I’ve a calling.” S Plath

Don’t know where I’m goin,’ don’t know where I’ve been, there’s no exit, ah hell, I’m goin’ in… Desperation Samba, Jimmy Buffet

Delacroix Diary Entry: Finishing a painting is an act of devotion and demands a heart of steel. I find difficulties where I least expect, and in despair, realize my own weaknesses.

Pavese Diary Excerpt: “It’s over…the hills, Turin, Rome, women for which I burned…I’ve never woken up with a woman of my own besides me. I despair I ever will.”

Chaz Diary Excerpt: How cruel your mouth, a blade, bitter breath that teases—changing passion to pain/let me bleed /don’t bury me—yet. Oh Lydia, slayer of love. Your lips a weapon, a slayer’s glove.

Nora McGreer’s Baffling Bulb: One thing Pavase, Chaz, and Nietzsche had in common was they all visited or lived in Turin. For Nietzsche, Turin was where he went mad after witnessing a cabbie abuse a horse. For Pavese, Turin was where he was educated, hid out during part of WWII, and where he died. He referred to Turin as both his ‘favorite subject’ and his prison. Chaz wrote Turin was a magical place, lying northwest of perpetually snow peaked Alps. In his journals, he imagined how the Taurisia lived before Hannibal invaded. He took photos of its crumbling walls and Palatine towers and gates, visited its university (where Pavese had taught), and filled his belly with plates of Agnolotti al plin, Piemontese wines, and Torta di nocciole (Hazelnut cake). He drank bitter Campari and espresso at Café Elena and likely courted visiting American star Constance Dowling there.

But flames that ignited passions for Pavese and Chaz were forever extinguished for Nietzsche in Turin. In the fiery heat of a still summer day, did any of the men look up from musing/writing and wish to be transported to where squares of snow lingered in July? Was Chaz comfortable with a fire that burned within and eventually consumed him?

Situated along the 45th parallel, the city allegedly forms a black magic triangle with London and San Francisco. A walk along its streets after dark tends to confirm the assertion. There are cellar windows called infernetti (little hells), which cast ominous barred window shadows, and massive doors carved with esoteric symbols. Alleys give way to piazzas, which lead to an open air necropolis and winged statues that guard the enigmatic shroud of Turin. In earlier times, this was the site of the city’s gallows. On a night free of mountain mist, you might follow cobblestone paths leading to ancient alchemical labs behind Palazzo Reale. At Palazzo Trucchi di Levaldigi, few dare to approach the portone del diavolo and use the devilish shaped door knocker to request admittance, or examine an array of locally made Tarot cards.

This was home to the Fiat factory and Fiat was something Chaz and I had in common. We’d both owned Fiat sports cars, and we both knew of their tempermentalness and reputation to accelerate from 0 to 60 in a few seconds. I wonder if Chaz knew the same people Pavase had: writer/Holocaust survivor Primo Levi; Natalia Ginzburg, mother of Turin born writer/historian Carl Ginzburg; a group of painters who called themselves the Turin 6; and Mollino, an architect obsessed with magic and sex? In journals from the late 70’s and early 80s, Chaz wrote of a feeling of being spied on. He rationalized it as paparazzi paranoia. He’d won an Oscar for composing music and lyrics for an Academy Award winning movie. Or perhaps he was spooked by the book he’d just finished, 20 Days of Turin, a 1977 book by Giorgio de Maria. It described violent, nightly massacres that occurred in Turin a decade earlier. This book of fiction was inspired by the mindless fascist campaigns conducted before and during WWII.

What makes a place magical? Is it the luminous light that opalescence’s a patch of sky? Or is it eerie shadows cast by a grove of trees or undulating hills, fragrant heat rising from the street, or a syncopating ra tat tat when it rains, or the sheer silence when it snows? Key West had enchanted me as a child, but if I was honest, tourism and commerce had striped the island of much of its charm. Its once overt tropical allure was being overshadowed by neon; its quaint boutiques replaced by chain stores and eateries. Soon I feared the island will be overdeveloped. There was already talk of allowing skyscrapers to be built. Its fragile ecosystem and limited water supply would be negatively impacted. And perhaps most tellingly, crime was rising. The only seemingly good news was that my modest cottage had nearly tripled in value.

I was loath to admit it just may be time to find a new watering hole, a temperate, less crowded place, where crime was low and natural beauty was both valued and protected. I still hadn’t uncovered how Chaz came to pick this Key. Of those traits I shared with Chaz, the most significant might be the need—the compulsion to blather about my life, its highs and lows, in a journal—a tell all tapestry of tall tales to make the mad and mundane aspects of living more tolerable. The last entry in my own diary that night was: Did an obsessed fan stalk Chaz to Key West—and kill him? That was my new theory.

Dmetri was spending what little remained of his time in the states speed reading through the remaining journals, underlining and translating phrases in French and Italian he thought were significant. Between sheets from a printed songbook of 70’s rock hits (several of which were written by Chaz), we found more torn pages of what we dubed Chaz’ ‘missing memoir.’ Weeks of research had taken me a long way from the first story Chaz had jotted down and crafted lyrics for. That song was about Eurynome, a universal creatoress being who danced alone atop a primordial ocean until the water birthed a great serpent and let it impregnate her.

I smiled when Dmetri told me a few statues survived of her likeness in the form of mermaids.It was the only song where Chaz attempted to write lyrics about a woman with a tail, rather than a woman with a tale. I was afraid I had something else in common with these men—they had all proposed marriage to a woman and all of them had been turned down. Not that I was keeping score, but I’d turned down two awkward marriage proposals, and a bid by York to marry me if I’d put him on the deed to the cottage.

*** ### *** ### ***

My internal clock struck 1 minute to doomsday when Dmetri announced he’d bought a return ticket to London. He said it was best to rip the bandage off quickly. He’d booked a crack of dawn flight to Miami, followed by a direct flight to London. I was desperate to make every minute count and bought tickets to a mini rock concert at the Strand, a benefit, some hinted, which was to raise money for Captain Tony Tarracino’s mayoral campaign.

“I will miss this minuscola citta, though I don’t know why mio padre chose to live here. It’s a chopino of things—il popolo of Navy and military, rustigo fishermen, the amedeo, aging hippies, and all these tourists.”

He handed me a red solo cup containing a triple lime daiquiri, mixed by bartender buddy/drag queen extraordinaire Bell Bellamy; we took a seat towards the back. “Did you think Dorian might keep circling the world, as the Italian version of the Flying Dutchman or Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner?”

“Mai no, but perhaps I did see him once as a Captain Nemo composite, or a Sinbad seduced by the sea.”

“I think your dad would be glad to know you didn’t see him as Popeye, although he did like spinach, or as Tintin’s hilarious Captain Haddock, or Captain Blood, or Greybeard. I could see myself as a pirate, Grace O’Malley or Calico Jack’s Anne Bonny, or…”

“Or a sea nymph? What was the name of the creature in the story you were telling your deputy friend? It may be a good idea to spend more time there, at the station, let your friend know what you’re doing once I’m gone.” Dmetri pulled me towards him, snaking his arm across my shoulders.

The music started. It was loud, vibrant, and ironic. The band was playing Ozzy Osbourne’s most recent hit, Bloodbath in Paradise, about the Manson family. It wasn’t a murder ballad in the traditional sense. It almost sounded like a tribute, or an accounting, like Queen’s recent classic Bohemian Rhapsody or the 1972 Southern Gothic Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia. Before anyone could write a song about Chaz’ murder, I had to find out who killed this troubled, talented man.

We left the concert early and snagged a small Hawaiian Pizza and a Stomboli to go. As we were about to round the corner, someone grabbed me from behind and said heard you were looking for me. I nearly dropped the bag containing the hot turnover, and barely caught the pizza Dmetri shoved towards me as he readied his fists.

*** ### *** ### ***

It was one of the men alleged to have insulted Dorian and Chaz at Captain Tony’s. It was evident this man was retired Navy. He wore pressed chino’s, and had a buzz haircut and a red, white, and blue anchor tattoo. His name was LINC, which he spelled out for us (Lima, India, November, Charlie),

“You got it all wrong. Sure we had our fun with that pair, but when we learned the Frenchie wrote Abandon the World and Dorian was part of the San Marco Marine Amphibious Corps, we apologized. I knew you were close with el Capitan missy. Real sorry to hear about his death.”

I balanced the boxes on a narrow concrete block ledge and reached out for Dmetri’s clenched fists. “Correction, his murder; Dorian was murdered, and no one’s doing anything about it. This is Dorian’s son Dmetri. We’re investigating both their murders.” And I added, “right now, everyone’s a suspect.”

While our food congealed and cooled, we sat at a nearby picnic table and talked with Linc for the next 20 minutes. I jotted down a few new clues. Two weeks before Chaz’ death, he shared with fellow bar rats that he’d found a dirty doll with a smashed, charred face dangling from his screen porch door. He asked around if anyone else had received a battered doll and what it might mean. An old, weathered codger told him that while it could be a warning from one of the voodoo priestesses in Old Town because of some bad juju, it was more likely put there because Chaz had offended a descendent of the old Calusa tribe.

Chaz assured them he had no enemies any more. Only a hand full of people knew he was living here. Chaz bought the old coot several rum drinks and he entertained the bar with a crazy story about La Isla de las Muncasa (Isle of Dolls) on Lake Teshuila, due south of Mexico City. Here, a man lives like a hermit, surrounded by dolls and toys hanging from trees and bushes he fished out of the trash. The dolls pay homage to a young girl that drowned in the lake. It’s rumored that on one of the uninhabited keys extending from the mainland, there’s a similar Isla, however, on its greenery hang stuff right out of a horror tale—rusty knives and guns, animal skeletons, twig pentagrams, and odd things splashed with red paint. Linc wondered if Chaz and Dorian had stumbled upon this isla uninvited and got a warning in the form of a battered doll.

I’d heard about this uninhabited junkyard of an island, and added if Dorian and Chaz had gone anywhere in his boat, he’d surely have mentioned it to me. We thanked Linc and exchanged numbers. He said he would ask his friend if he recalled anything else that might help. Then he pressed his hand on my shoulder and added we really should let Sheriff Hayes do the investigating. Back home we devoured the cold food and washed it down with lemonade and fizzy water.

“What is this song Leave the World? Le anthem suicidio?”

“Ah, Abandon the World was another hit for Chaz and the rock group that used to dress like pirates and throw gold foiled chocolate doubloons to their fans. Sometimes, the foil doubloons hid tabs of LSD, or so the rumor goes. I don’t think I have their album, and I’m surprised Navy guy Linc would like the song. It’s rather depressing. I won’t try to sing it. The intro melody was quite charming, then you hear something like the oboe from Peter and the Wolf.  I’ll just mouth a few of the lyrics: I’m learning how to abandon the world. Rovers and raiders await in the after life. No others, no lovers. I bring treasured things and melodies held within. But not my heart, a tattered flag…no hope or reprieve. I’m abandoning the world that abandoned me—stopping like an unwound clock.”

“Maledire, dannare, the man was cursed.”

“Perhaps, but leaving a scruffy doll on a door tells me Chaz did have enemies—an obsessed, manically devoted fan, or a jilted lover like Lydia.”

“Or a child. Didn’t you say Kirky was infatuated with the Robert Doll?

*** ### *** ### ***

The morning’s mail brought a bombshell in the form of a hand penned letter from Chaz’ manager/ producer Hugo Vitas. He thanked me for returning the check, but answered few of the questions my letter had posed. Questions about Chaz’ missing years, romances, and avid fans went unanswered. The big news was Hugo was coming to Key West—as soon as he could clear his calendar. He appreciated that I had collected several of Chaz’ personal items, and insisted on compensating me for their safe keeping. He would take care of shipping the items back to France, and mentioned the possibility of turning one of the houses where Chaz’ had lived into a sort of shrine where fans could pay homage.

Hugo had included with the letter several press releases that told a carefully contrived version of the songwriter/composer’s life. There was also a typed contract, which required my  signature and a notary seal. It stipulated I agreed to turn over any and all personal property belonging to Hillare Charles Delecroix to either Hugo Vitas or to his duly appointed agent. In gratitude for my devotion as a fan to the memory of H C Delecroix, I would receive a generous check of roughly $3,500.

I plopped down in a kitchen chair so hard the chair teetered and skid. What had I done? What authority did this man have over Chaz’ estate, the bulk of which had already been dispersed to locals and tourists via flea markets and charity stores? Surely he’d heard about Chaz’ death. Why didn’t he come here immediately after to see to his affairs? What also struck me as odd was nowhere in Hugo’s letter did he ask about what was being done to solve Chaz’ murder. Nor did he explain why he thought it necessary to send me a contract that in effect demanded I turn over all of Chaz’ stuff to him.

There were further surprises in store that morning. Delores rang and requested I visit her—later today or tomorrow. She had something to tell me she couldn’t say over the phone. Deputy Rob had left a message on the answering machine last night. The sheriff wanted to see me–pronto. And over coffee, Dmetri casually suggested I come with him to London, to see what I thought of a city he’d grown fond of, and asked to borrow my car to pick up his tickets. All I could manage to say was London wasn’t a favorite city for those with Irish names. I had to think. I needed to take a dip in the briny ocean, a meditative swim.

It would have to be a quick swim. The skies were overcast by the time I’d hoofed it to my favorite beach. An afternoon thunderstorm was expected. Ignoring the impending weather, I swam out to one of my favorite buoy marker’s and rested there a few minutes before swimming back. Most of the pleasure crafts had gotten off the water and were docked, so I was startled when a bright red Zodiac zipped by, creating wakes and undue noise via music blaring from the boat. The boat made a u-turn and circled back, slowing down as it approached the buoy. Someone wearing a yellow raincoat was emptying stuff from a bucket into the water. I recognized the song, actually it was a song parody. It was called Mr. Shark, and poked fun at the movie Jaws. I could hear the singer/cum reporter speaking about a shark eating a girl…

Idiots, I thought as I dove under the waves and headed back to shore. When I surfaced for air, the boat had puttered off and it was raining in earnest. That’s when I saw the fins, shark fins, and I realized what the person in the boat had probably thrown in the water was chum, enough to attract a few hungry sharks. Perhaps I was the idiot. Dmetri had gone to the other side of the island to pick up his airline tickets. That’s why he’d wanted a quick answer from me—one ticket or two. But I couldn’t give him an immediate answer. I hadn’t told him I was going for a dip in the ocean. I’d brought no weapon. Even if I had a spear gun handy, it would at best take out just one of the three or four fins swimming towards me.

The first crack of distant thunder sounded. Not what I had in mind today—to be literally swimming with the sharks. If I was lucky enough to not become shark bait, I would still have to dodge lightning bolts. I dove again and swam horizontal to the shoreline to try to distance myself from the spreading chum. But the sharks still followed me. I wished for a mermaid’s tail; slightly webbed toes and fingers weren’t enough to outswim a group of hungry sharks. My heart was thumping in my chest. I sucked in what air I could and dove under again. What I saw next made me think I was perhaps oxygen deprived. It was a greenish iridescent tail.

Manatees had been known to swim close to shore, but generally prefer shallow, fresh water. I sputtered to the surface. What had I seen? Not likely a manatee. This tail was slimmer, longer. And I was out of time. The sharks were within biting distance. Before the next crack of thunder a shrill sound pierced both water and surface, sending ripples across the water. The fins turned towards where I’d seen the tail. The shrill noise seemed to be expanding, reverberating in my skull. The pain was terrible, and yet I felt myself being pulled under, and drawn toward the source of the pain.

I don’t remember much about what happened next. I think I saw another iridescent fin and arms reached out for me. I wanted desperately to surface, to draw breath, to swim to shore. Somehow I was breathing under water, being led towards the open sea until a voice called my name. Despite the shrieking noise issuing from the creature propelling me deeper, and the sound of crashing surf, I heard my name and it acted like a beacon and an axe, severing the connection I had with this creature with an iridescent tail.

My lungs started burning as soon as I broke free. I struggled to the surface, hoping my arms and feet, which felt like lead weights would aid me. I popped up in the water like a cork, gasping and choking on sea water. Tips of fins were now well beyond the buoy. The high pitched noise had stopped. I bobbed for a moment, and tried to get my bearings. Now I had only one enemy—mighty Thor and his lightning bolts. Someone had waded into the water, waving arms frantically, splashing, yelling at me. I swam like it was nobody’s business. I suspect I beat Mark Spitz’ best Olympic record.

Dmetri had braved fins too close for comfort, pelting rain, and lightning strikes. He had spotted me as he drove back from the travel agency, or rather he’d seen the fins, then a swimmer and assumed the only person crazy enough to be in the water during a storm was me. He pulled me from the surf, and as my rubbery legs were of questionable service, half carried me to the car. “Were those…were they les squalo? Amore mio, you were under the waves for too many minutes. I thought I’d lost you.”

“I thought I lost me too. Did you call my name?

“I screamed your name a 100 times, ragazza matta!”

“It was the most peculiar sensation, being torn between…” I buried my soggy head in his hairy chest. The storm continued to bang and hammer. “I assume by les squalo you mean sharks? Yep, and I’d sing you a verse of Mack the Knife and the pearly whiteness of shark teeth, but my throat feels too raw.” The car was pummeled with gusts of wind and a deluge of rain, but Dmetri was right. I felt safer on shore than I had in the water, and yet…I remembered the momentary feeling of joy in the embrace of the creature that had saved me.

I told Dmetri some idiot in a Zodiac had thrown chum in the water near the buoy where I was catching my breath after my long, stupid swim. Throwing chum in the water was intentional. No one fishes during a storm. Well, perhaps at a lake, but not in the sea. It was the strangest thing, that vibrating noise, right before the sharks were about to circle me. Did you hear it too?”

“Hear what besides the thunder? I saw how close the fins were and then you went under—for nearly five minutes. How is that possible? No more swimming for you mergirl.” Dmetri reached into the back seat and grabbed a beach towel, which he wrapped round me, along with his arms.

“It was a high pitched, bone piercing noise. I think the sound was intended to scare off the sharks. It worked. Unfortunately, it made me pass out. I recall floating, being drawn to the noise. This is going to sound crazy, but I think there was a mermaid in the water, perhaps two of them. I’ve no idea how I was able to stay underwater for so long. I’ve been clocked at holding my breath for nearly three minutes, but that was when I was in training, way back in college. I don’t know what happened, or who to thank, a manatee, merperson, or one of Melusine’s relatives?”

As quickly as it had arrived, the angry storm left, and we headed home. About 2000 or so yards from where Dmetri had parked, I spotted the red Zodiac bobbing in the frothy post storm water. We got out to investigate. It was empty except for a bucket, reeking of watered down chum. “I guess I’ll mention there’s an abandoned Zodiac in the shallow water near Bonney’s Beach when I visit Stingray Hayes, when I demand to know who the idiot was that chummed the water! When I ask him to find out who wants me dead.”

Next up: Act 11, Acts of Agression & Apology