Flowers In Her Hair

by Padraig Hanratty

- Part Two -

Though an intensely private person, Dylan wasn’t afraid to act out his domestic dramas in front of a slightly bemused audience of thousands.

Silvio never had an audience for his pain. He seemed to suffer in silence, pretending the silence was by choice.

Onstage, they all wore bandanas and hats to protect themselves from the rain. Or to make some obscure fashion statement.

That night on Fifth Avenue, nothing protected Silvio from the wild cathedral rain. It pounded him with relentless fury, screaming at him for what he’d done. And he knew he’d deserved that fury. Judgement had been passed and this was his punishment.

Silvio had never worn flowers in his hair. But, looking back beyond those dark days, he could remember times of peace and love, times with Clara when love was all there was. Such times could never last forever, but his memory could try to keep them alive. Memories at the way she’d laugh at his stupid jokes.

This horse walks into a bar. The barman asks, “Why the long face?” Clara had loved that one.

Memories of the concern that clouded her eyes whenever he was ill or anxious. Memories of her belief in him when everyone else, including himself, had given up on him. Memories that he couldn’t remember now, but he knew were looking somewhere inside the untidy storeroom of his brain.

The Hard Rain credits began flash onscreen as Dylan pounded on heaven’s door.

I know this dream, it might be crazy,
But it’s the only one I got.
                              "Emotionally Yours" Bob Dylan

The Maestro Bistro was too crowded for Silvio’s liking. As he sat waiting for Lucy, he tried to busy himself reading the menu. He avoided making eye contact with anyone, feeling out of place amongst the brash office suits on their lunch break.

Lucy had said that she’d be spending the day with friends in town, but that she could meet Silvio for lunch. Silvio had suggested the Maestro Bistro.

Silvio had wanted to ask Lucy exactly who her friends were. He and Lucy still seemed so unsure of themselves. Silvio had revealed more and more about New York to her over the past four weeks. Lucy had revealed a few scraps about her own past, such as the problems her marriage went through in its later years and her difficult relationship with her mother. But they each revealed each layer slowly, carefully, each uncertain how the other would react.

Nothing on the lunch menu appealed to Silvio. With some annoyance, he realised that he would have to limit himself to soup and a roll. He’d cook something when he got home.

However, even the soup was not a certain option, because the menu didn’t say what exactly the soup of the day was. After waving and loudly clearing his throat a few times, Silvio finally got a harassed, ginger-haired waiter’s attention.

“What?” The waiter glanced impatiently around the restaurant. “Come on.”

“I was wondering,” Silvio asked, “if you could possibly please tell me what the soup of the day is?”

“In what way?” The waiter glared at some customers who had just entered the restaurant. “It’s soup!”

“No,” Silvio smiled, trying to hide his exasperation. “I was wondering what flavour it is.”

“I don’t know!” The waiter heaved a loud, shuddering sigh that creased his white shirt. “I have enough things to worry about. I have to try and keep track of what all these... people are ordering.”

“Well, could you find out, please?” The patience began to fade in Silvio’s voice. “You see, I’d like to know what it is before I order it. I’m funny that way.”

“Right!” The waiter stormed off. “I’ll find out, then!”

Silvio placed the menu back on the table, vowing never to come to the Maestro Bistro again.

Honest to God, you’d think I asked him to translate the menu into Sanskrit. Surely it’s not too much to ask. I didn’t realise it was a state secret. Maybe I should...

“It’s red!”

“What?” Silvio looked up, startled, and saw that the harassed waiter had returned. “What has been read?”

“The soup. It’s... red!”

“Oh!” Silvio still wasn’t sure. “You wouldn’t happened to have discovered the flavour, as well as the colour?”

“I don’t know.” The waiter was already twitching to move away and ran agitated fingers through his hair. “I just looked over that... woman’s shoulder and I could see clearly that it was red. With bits of... something floating in it. It must be nice. She was guzzling into it like a... with great gusto, from what I could see. Mustn’t have eaten all week. Now, can I go, please? It’s my first day here and I don’t want to... mess things up by making a bad impression.”

“Thank you.” Silvio reminded himself to make sure he found a different waiter when ordering. “My guess would be that it’s probably minestrone...”

“Do you want it or not?”

“Actually, I’d like to wait until my friend arrives, if that...” Silvio noticed that the waiter had already walked away, ginger hair sticking out at awkward angles. “Glad I didn’t ask you to describe the dessert.”

If Lucy doesn’t arrive soon, one of these customers will eat me up. Some of them look like they were injecting raw caffeine into their veins. Each one of them is trembling with stress. I don’t think it’s safe for any of them to be out in public. That thin rake with the blonde hair looks like his head is about to explode. God, I thought things were bad in Madison Avenue!

Silvio was relieved to see Lucy entering the Bistro. He waved to her, managing to finally catch her eye.

“Silvio, I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, sitting down. “I completely lost track of the time. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

“Not too long,” Silvio smiled. “The charming young waiter has been keeping me company. That harassed ginger guy who has just splashed a glass of water all over that woman over there.”

“Poor soul,” Lucy muttered, glancing over at the waiter. “Make sure we don’t get him. Is there anything nice on the menu?”

“I’m not sure. It seems to be a bit of a state secret. The soup may be minestrone, but that awaits confirmation from the committee. The rest of the food would appear to be a riddle inside an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, rolled in breadcrumbs and served with apple sauce. Chef’s secret recipe.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Lucy laughed, eyes flitting down the menu. “I think I’ll just have the salad.”

Silvio saw that Lucy was in good humour. Her eyes had a darting, eager sparkle, at peace with what they saw. None of the clouds they sometimes hid under.

“How are your friends keeping?” Silvio wondered if any tiny secrets were going to be revealed today.

“In good form, thanks for asking.” Lucy was still peering at the menu. “I’m wondering if I should have any dessert. I had their apple tart here one day and it was absolutely fantastic. Well, as fantastic as warm apple tart and cream can be, I suppose. How was your morning?”

“Okay,” Silvio shrugged, slightly disappointed. “I suppose we’d better order before they throw us out.”

Silvio signalled to one of the older waiters.

The waiter took their order and confirmed that the soup of the day was indeed minestrone.

“It was strange talking to Valerie today,” Lucy said, glancing around the room. “It brought back a lot of memories.”

“Who’s Valerie?”

“The friend I was visiting this morning. We were at school together, way back before the dawn of time. We’ve kept in touch now and then over the centuries. Her husband died a few months ago. I’ve been promising to call round to her for a while. It was interesting to take a wander down memory lane.”

They drifted into silence for some minutes.

Just beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable, Silvio was glad to see the waiter arriving with their lunch.

“I’m sure I’ll enjoy this,” Lucy said. “I’m absolutely starving.”

“Well,” Silvio laughed, “hopefully my company won’t put you off your food.”

“No, but if the incomparable Mr. Dylan comes on the radio, that will. I saw him on some documentary last night. It was about rock stars and Christian fundamentalism. Dylan was singing some song about sheiks and trains. He sounded like a donkey that had been at the helium bottle. I hadn’t realised that he’d found Jesus.”

“He claimed that Jesus actually found him.”

“He was probably looking for someone else,” Lucy smiled. “Maybe someone who could sing.”

They ate and talked about the latest political scandal, the discovery of a prostitute in a government minister’s limousine. They talked about the previous evening’s edition of Mischievous Monks. They talked about a lot of things that didn’t really matter.

Silvio began to unwind, watching the sparkle in Lucy’s eyes. However, he couldn’t help wishing that he had been a fly on the wall when Lucy was talking to Valerie. He wanted to know about Lucy’s past, to walk down memory lane with her, rather than try to construct it from the odd pebble she left behind.

“I was talking to Charlie earlier today,” Lucy said. “Work seems to be getting him down, but he said that you were helping him try to keep things in perspective. You’re quite fond of Charlie, aren’t you, Silvio?”

“Yeah, he’s a good kid. He has his... problems, but he tries to get on with life as best he can.”

“He always seems to have this crucified look in his eyes,” Lucy nodded. “If he’s not going though some pointless crisis, he’s trying to find one. When he gets to our age, he’ll probably never get out of bed.”

“Even if he lied in bed all day, he’d still find some crisis to agonise about!” Silvio laughed. “Of course, the mad thing is that if the world did come crashing down, he’d probably be off some place else, moaning about something trivial. He’d miss the whole thing. He’s lucky that way.”

“Oh, we’re all lucky in our own ways, Silvio. We all just have different definitions of what it is.”

“I guess you’re right.”

They listened to the music for some minutes.

“It’s a uniquely Irish philosophy, that,” said Lucy, frowning slightly. “We seem to have to always count ourselves lucky, no matter how bad our situation is. When do you have the right to stop feeling lucky, stop being thankful? We always seem to have to thank God that things aren’t worse... Oh dear, would you just listen to me! I sound like a bitter old hag. We’re here to have a nice lunch, not philosophise on how hard life is.”

Over the previous weeks, Silvio had told Lucy a lot about himself. He wanted to. He knew that Lucy was beginning to understand him, to create a sharper picture of him in her mind.

Silvio’s picture of Lucy remained blurred. He silently gazed at her as she ate her salad, the conversational clatter of the bistro swirling around him. He took in all the details. The light blue blouse. The small white necklace. The lightly spread pink lipstick. The green eyes focused on the piece of lettuce that trembled on the end of the fork. The gleam of her white teeth as she opened her mouth.

He always seemed to be looking at Lucy through a veil. He was afraid to tear aside that veil. He knew the veil would disintegrate in its own good time. She’d become clearer the more he got to know her.

So many details. All correct. Why can’t I see you clearly? The edges are blurred, the background too faded. It’s as if... Oh shit! I’m gaping.

“Is there something stuck between my teeth?” Lucy sounded slightly amused. “Or slithering down my face?”

“Em... er... sorry.”

“You were looking at me strangely...”

“No.” Silvio could feel his face get red. The bistro seemed to have suddenly gone quiet. He thought he could feel every face staring at him, every stressed office suit awaiting his explanation. “I was just observing that piece of lettuce on the fork. It... um... seemed to be trying to escape.”

The sound of Lucy’s laugh blended back in with the noise of the bistro. Silvio felt himself relax again.

“So, tell me,” Silvio said, before any awkward silence could be built up, “what was it like going back down memory lane?”

“That sort of stuff,” Lucy smiled at him, “is really only interesting to the people who have been down that lane.”

The young ginger waiter was reluctantly apologising to a stern, middle-aged grey-haired man for accidentally elbowing him in the face. The man rubbed his nose and glared up at the waiter. The waiter threw his arms up in exasperation.

“Oh, I don’t know, Lucy. We all have are own tales to reveal.”

“Perhaps. But not everyone leads an exciting, or even interesting, life.” Lucy paused for some seconds. “I was saying to Valerie earlier, though, how you sometimes wonder how you got to where you are. Sometimes, it all seems to have happened by magic. One day, you’re sitting at the back of the school room, wondering why you have to learn how to speak Irish, and the next day, you’re waking up beside your husband of twenty years, wondering where on earth he came from. It’s funny when you think about it.”

The bistro was beginning to thin out. Some people hurried to get back to their desks, desperate to meet some temporarily critical deadline. Others dragged unwilling bodies back, already predicting the afternoon’s pressures. And others looked as if they thought they really didn’t have a care in the world. Watching them, Silvio could see his colleagues in Albert & Stone fleeting in the shadows.

“Do you have time for coffee, Lucy? Seeing as we don’t have to rush back to some corporate hamster wheel.”

“I think so,” Lucy said, glancing at her watch. “I have some things to do this afternoon, but, like you say, there’s no real hurry.”

Silvio signalled to a waiter and ordered two coffees.

“Oh, look,” Lucy said. “There’s Kathleen.”

Silvio looked up and saw Kathleen asking the ginger waiter if there was any particular place she should sit. The waiter informed her that he didn’t care where she sat, it was a free country, the Taliban hadn’t invaded Dublin, as far as he knew. Kathleen scowled at him, ready to respond when she noticed Lucy waving at her.

“Best to rescue her from that waiter,” Lucy said. “She looks like she’s ready to skewer him.”

Kathleen came over, dressed in a light cream suit and black, low-cut blouse. She carried a large, bulky shopping bag.

“Hello,” she smiled, “may I join you?”

“Of course,” Silvio said. “So long as Basil Fawlty in the corner has no objections.”

“I tell you,” Kathleen said, glaring back at the waiter, “he’s lucky there wasn’t a pair of pliers and a blowtorch handy.”

“How has your day been so far?” Lucy asked, glancing at the ginger waiter, who was now staring in disbelief at tray of cups he had just dropped. “You must be on a late lunch.”

“Oh, fine, I suppose,” Kathleen shrugged. “As good as can be expected when you’re working with a truckload of headless monkeys. By usual standards, though, this day has been relatively disaster-free. Only one slight problem, so far. I accidentally sent a bouquet of flowers to the convent.”

“That must have made their day,” Silvio said. “I’d imagine they don’t get too many flowers.”

Kathleen ordered a cup of strawberry tea from the older waiter. Both Silvio and Lucy said they were fine for the time being.

“However,” Kathleen continued, grimacing at the memory, “there was a message with the flowers.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Lucy said. “It’s always good to have the personal touch.

“Unfortunately,” Kathleen said, “the message appears to have caused some convulsions up in the convent. I don’t think the nuns will get over the shock for a while. They’ve got a rosary marathon going on already.”

“What on earth did the message say?” Silvio asked.

“The card said something along the lines of: ‘Thanks for a great time last night. We desperately needed that. Sorry some of the men sweated so much; they’ve been out of practice. The two new guys in the office are hardly able to walk today. Geoffrey said that it was the most exhausting ride he ever had!’ Something like that.”

“Why in the name of God,” Lucy asked, once her laugher subsided, “did you send them a card like that?”

The waiter arrived with Kathleen’s tea. She stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar, smiling slightly.

“There’s going to be hell to pay over this,” she said. “The Ravendell Gym, meanwhile, is wondering why they have received a bouquet of flowers from us, thanking them for their prayers and recent expression of sympathy over the boss’s mother. I’d say that’s the last time they’ll offer us a free evening’s supervised training in their new gym. Geoffrey nearly broke his leg on the exercise bike... Anyway, Mr Jinks has gone to reassure the nuns that their convent wasn’t secretly invaded last night while they were asleep. Apart from that, it has been a fairly mundane morning.”

Silvio smiled, watching Kathleen sip her tea. She was never going to die of corporate stress, because she could clearly see the inherent insanity of the whole enterprise. It had taken Silvio years to see the insanity of Albert & Stone. At the time, all that madness had made perfect sense, all a rational chain of events that could not be broken.

One morning, Clara was drinking coffee at the breakfast table. Some night later, Clara was throwing steaming coffee in Silvio’s face. All a rational chain.

Dylan’s “Lonesome Day Blues” began playing on the radio.

“What the hell is that?” Kathleen looked in horror at the speakers. “Give that man some cough medicine quick.”

“That’s Bob,” Silvio smiled. “He’s bawling the blues.”

“Mauling the blues would be more accurate.”