Ghosts

     The voice, coming as it did from behind, startled me.

     "You shouldn't hate your hands," he said. 

     Because he spoke the truth--the way I hated my hands was irrational--it wasn't until much later that the oddity of his comment struck me. Twisting round, I gazed at the stranger. He stood tall and straight, his head tipped forward, his hands locked behind his back. His manner of dress was odd and out of place, as though he'd just come from rehearsing a play. Perhaps his youth, his beauty--long golden locks, intelligent blue eyes, full lips perpetually smiling--made him bold. Who was he to judge me? 

     I had been holding my hands out and ticking off the flaws. If they could capture my attention, my hands never lost an opportunity to taunt me. One moment, my swollen knuckles heckling; the next minute, age spots revealing their distain. My hands spoke to me in flashes of pain when I wrapped my fingers around a cup of coffee. They quickly turned numb if I left them too long in one position. We were neither of us fond of the other, and growing less so; but like a root connected to a tree, we couldn't manage alone. We tolerated our mutual dislike as best we could. 

     Not even the afternoon sun filtering through the softly swaying trees, or the birds chirping in the branches that arched over the café terrace, could distract me from my pessimistic opinions. I have often tried reasoning with myself, as I understand how useful hands can be. As much as any other, I take for granted how easily I lace my shoes, how efficiently I lift a glass, how thoughtlessly I groom myself with these hands I hate so deeply. 

     Without asking my permission, my self-appointed counselor hooked a chair with the tip of his boot and pushed it back, inviting himself to sit at my table. "May I join you?" he said and sat down. He latched his arms around the back of the chair as if to secure himself against a pending storm.  

     "There are other seats," I said, my voice as cold as my hands. "Why don't you bother someone else?" 

     His smile never wavered; perhaps it grew fuller. For the first time I noticed his dimples and wondered why the gods had lavished him with such beauty and left others, if not to wallow in deformity, so plain and unremarkable.  

     "I've come to see you," he said. "You, not someone else." 

     "Do I know you?" I asked, looking round the café terrace as though some mutual acquaintance might step up and introduce us. When no one appeared, I turned my attention back to my visitor. "I'm sure I don't know you. What do you want?"  

     I shrank back into my chair, putting as much distance between us as I could without actually getting up and leaving. Later, I recognized that I simply wanted to sit and stare at his lovely face, his broad shoulders, his wide chest that rose and fell in rhythm with his breathing. However unfair, there was something irresistible about his beauty; and it drew me to him like a siren calling a ship to her destruction. 

     "Can't you go?" I said, understanding even as I spoke that we could no more easily part company than my hands could detach themselves from my wrists and scamper away. "Do you want something to drink?" I waved to the waiter. "Coffee? A glass of wine?" 

     For the first time he sounded awkward and uncertain.

     "Nothing, no." He tightened his inverted hold on his chair. 

     I gave in and let him stay, but felt no obligation to uphold the usual standard of polite behavior, given the way he had intruded on my solitude. "Tell me your name," I demanded. I wasn't willing to keep on calling him 'young man.' 

     "Pieter," he said, and for the first time I noticed his accent. France, I thought, or Belgium. I have visited both, and love them. 

     "Where are you from?" I pushed on, intruding without shame. He was a good teacher; I learned quickly. 

     "Bruges," he replied, undaunted by my probing. "Do you know it?" 

     "I do," I said, more softly, suddenly craving red wine and mussels, drained of questions, unable to pursue my interrogation. 

     He leaned forward in his chair. "Are you all right?" 

     I nodded, but couldn't catch my breath enough to speak. 

     "Would you like some water?" Lifting himself up a little, though still attached to the chair as if some patron stranded without a seat might snatch it out from under him, Pieter whistled, just loud enough to catch the waiter's eye and draw him to our table. "Bring the lady a glass of water," he ordered, a little more haughtily than I might have done myself. 

     Never having learned to let someone else take charge of any aspect of my life, I shook my head. "Not water," I said, my voice as dry as brown leaves on winter grass. "Wine, please." 

     The waiter knows my tastes and didn't ask if I preferred red or white, cabernet or zinfandel. "Anything else?" he inquired, no pen in hand, his memory a perfect notepad.  

     "Mussels?" I said, "Do you have any?" 

     "Of course, Ms. Elisa," he replied. "For two?" 

     My guest stiffened when the waiter spoke my name, shook his head in response to the offer of a light meal.

     The waiter bowed and backed away. 

     We sat in silence until the food and wine arrived. Pieter watched me eat. Pushing himself back with his heels, he balanced precariously on two legs of the chair. 

     "You're going to fall," I said between bites. "You shouldn't sit like that." 

     "My mother would have said I'd break the chair," Pieter replied, laughing. "How kind of you to care about my welfare." 

     Again at a loss for words, I met his sunny smile with a storm. His words, his laughter, were music; but they settled on my ear with false cadence, a bold and elaborate composition without resolution. Exaggerating my chewing, I pretended only manners prevented me from speaking. 

     He took advantage of my ploy. "Don't you want to know why I'm here?"   

     I should have said, not particularly. I should have stood my ground. I let my chance pass me by, unaware of what I had lost. A tightness in my stomach tried to alert me, but I ignored the warning. Pieter took my silence as permission to proceed. He wasn't one to linger overlong on a decision. He plunged ahead. 

     "I'm here to tell you my story," he said and settled more deeply into his chair, still tipping backward and rocking on his heels.  

     "Why me?" I sipped my wine. "I'm not a writer. I'm not a storyteller." Officially, I'm retired. Before that I taught elementary school. 

     "Why not you?" he replied. "No one could understand better than you. Will you listen?" He asked the question as though he knew me, knew that I was a poor listener prone to premature decisions and endless interruption. What can I say? As a teacher I stood in front of classes all day, controlling conversations. 

     And still he wanted to go on, so I let him. Why not? Why not me? What pressing engagements demanded the attention of a retired schoolteacher with swollen, spotted hands? A ray of sunshine slipped through the trees and illuminated my wrinkled, discolored skin. I cringed. My hand shook, and the mussel perched on the end of my fork slipped free.  

     His smile faltered, but Pieter made no move to catch the sliver of meat before it dropped into my lap. He looked away as though embarrassed. I picked the mussel out of the folds of my skirt and patted the stain with my napkin. The benefit of flowered prints, I thought. The stain was hardly noticeable.  

     The same rays of light that had exposed my flaws danced on his pale, perfect skin. With his head still turned, his eyes drifted beyond the horizon until it seemed he saw neither the café nor me. Even the mountains rising in the distance seemed to disappear in a ghostly mist as he traveled back in time. 

     "My father called me 'Monkey'," he said, "because I loved to climb along the rafters and swing between the props while he built his towers." This last word must have tasted bitter on his tongue because Pieter lost his smile. "He used to say I could be an acrobat, if I didn't want to be an architect." He paused, and his shoulders sagged. "But an architect's life was better, no? More money, and a home. 

     "Performers wander from town to town; they have no roots. Architects build beautiful towers that reach into the sky, that try to touch the face of God. You know Bruges," he said. "Do you know Our Lady's church?" 

     I knew the church, but didn't answer. I closed my eyes and pushed away the sense of dread that swept through me. I shivered. Was the wind coming up? I felt Pieter's eyes pass over me like a shadow and held my breath. I didn't want to hear his story; I was sure. But like a child drawn to the Pied Piper's music, I listened.   

     "The tower wasn't always where it is now," he said. "They've built and rebuilt and added on to the original structure."  

     I've visited church towers all over Europe. Our Lady's was unique. Most towers merge into the outside wall of a cathedral or, occasionally, stand entirely separate from the main building. The architects of Our Lady's church had torn down walls to enlarge the interior, but left the tower where she stood; the base of the spire stranded in a side aisle. Though I never understood why, the patrons of Our Lady's kept the tower locked and closely guarded.  They shooed away tourists who approached too near or hung about too long.   

     "The bell tower sits in the middle of the aisle closest to the Duke's chapel," I said. 

     "The Duke financed my father's work, but poorly." A trace of hostility wove its way through his words. "There was plenty of money to buy workers, but not enough for good materials." 

     He had me in his grip; he wasn't letting go. I knew the times; stone and wood cost far more than wages. I had studied the history of the gothic cathedrals?immense, stunning testaments to the people's love of God, and as flawed as His worshipers. Walls crumbled, fires consumed altars, towers fell. Architects prospered rebuilding the churches, but the work was at least as dangerous as the life of any circus acrobat, perhaps more so. My throat ached, my eyes burned with the effort to contain my tears. But who can stop a tragedy with wishes? 

     This was not the setting for a story one would find in yesterday's newspaper, in some magazine, or on the nightly newscast. This was history. Pieter's story was older than my hands, older than my grandmother's hands, but younger than Our Lady's cathedral. If memory served, most of the construction had been completed between the 13th and 15th century. "When, Pieter," I said. "When did this happen?" He ignored me. 

     "They used old wood for the hurtles that reinforced the platform." His voice quivered like a tired bowstring. "Under the weight of the bricks, the props failed, the platform tore loose from the wall, my father fell three hundred feet." Agony dripped from the words as they tumbled past his lips. "I couldn't reach him. I tried. I told him to take my hand." Pieter's rage welled up around us. "He let go!" 

     To save you, I wanted to say, his monkey. To keep you from sacrificing your life along with his. Pieter didn't need to tell me that his father had died. I didn't want him to tell me about the broken bones, crushed skull, the pool of blood spreading across the stone floor. Against my will, tears rolled down my cheeks. "Please," I said, "no more." 

     Did he take that to mean no more about his father's death, but continue torturing me with his story? Did he even realize that we were still sitting on the terrace of a sidewalk café while the sun set behind us? I lifted my sweater off the back of my chair and wrapped the soft wool, Scottish cashmere, around my shoulders. I pulled the sleeves down over the backs of my hands until only the tips of my fingers were visible, and still I faded like morning mist. Could people see through me? Could Pieter see through me? Terror and grief chained me to my seat.

     The young man continued. "They killed him, and they wouldn't even pay to bury him in the church."  

     He referred to the elaborate tombs and mausoleums reserved for the richest merchants and the royals. The Duke of Burgundy?Charles the Bold?and his daughter Mary had been laid to rest in the choir of Our Lady's church. 

     Pieter stopped for a moment; I waited. He needed no urging, only time to gather his thoughts. He'd started this hellish conversation; I was sure he would finish.  

     "The first painting I stole belonged to the abbot of Our Lady's--a little portrait of the Madonna." Pieter tipped forward in his chair, a hollow thud echoing between our feet. "I do not remember the artist. Perhaps I did not even know the name. But once I started stealing, I could not stop. I learned all about art and artists, the priests and bishops who were their patrons. I took my revenge, however pathetic, against those holy men." 

     I touched a finger to his lips as though I could silence his tongue. "Why are you telling me this?"  

     "Do you not want to know where I went?" He mocked me. "How many paintings I stole? People like to know those sorts of details." 

     "I'm not one of those people!" I retorted, too loudly. "I don't want to know!" 

     The few patrons still left at the other outdoor tables turned to look at us. The waiter hurried over. "Is everything all right, Miss Elisa?" 

     Pieter flinched at the mention of my name. "Annelise," he murmured. 

     "We're fine," I said to the waiter, staring at my hands folded in my lap. How easy it is to look away and lie. With practice, it is simply easy to lie.  

     When we were alone again, Pieter scraped his chair across the cement, drawing still closer. I resisted backing away. Another untruth, pretending the nearness of his body didn't frighten me. His breath tickled my ear; I trembled. We were like two improbable lovers?old and young, proud and ashamed, eager to move forward and too tired to go on. For reasons I couldn't explain, I wanted him to wrap his arms around me, hold me, comfort me. 

     "You shouldn't hate your hands, Annelise," he whispered. His lips brushed my temple. 

     As though his touch had torn some fragile barrier between us, I leaned my head against him and let my tears spill onto his shoulder. "My name is Elisa," I said. "Annelise is a ghost." 

     "I'm the ghost," Pieter replied, as though 500 years amounted to no more than a single afternoon. He laughed; he had always laughed much more easily than I. "I'm the ghost, Annelise. You shouldn't hate your hands." 

     "Is that why you came?" I lifted my head, dared to look into his eyes, those eyes Annelise had loved and lost. 

     "Where did I go?" he said. The gentleness in his voice filled me with terror. "Tell me where I went after Bruges." He knew, of course, but wanted to show that I knew as well. How could I not know where we met or where we went? Each time the priest came too close to discovering our secret truth, we escaped to a new city. 

     I sucked in my breath and gave him his list. "Ghent, Cologne, Milan?" He waited patiently while I cried; he understood my grief. Pieter and Annelise had lost a daughter in Milan. 

     "Little Hannah," Pieter said. "She was such a tiny, beautiful girl." 

     Five hundred years ago there was no hope for premature babies. There was so much death in those days. 

     "After Milan?" he prodded when my river of tears subsided. 

     "Why are you doing this?" I said, pressing my face into his neck to muffle my sobs. 

     "Because you shouldn't hate your hands," he said, as though it were just that simple and not a chasm stretching across centuries of grief. "Where, after Milan?" 

     "Florence." I sighed and collapsed against his shoulder. Perhaps he was a 500-year-old ghost, but I was flesh and blood, wearied by this present life, haunted by the one he insisted we relive. 

     "What happened in Florence, Annelise?" 

     "That bastard priest set a trap for you." I spat the words. Hate lasts longer when your friends betray you. Hadn't Gabriel been our friend? Dined at our table? Danced with us? Played cards in front of our fire? Never trust a priest who dances and plays cards. 

     "And then?" 

     My stomach heaved, and I gagged. How I longed for Pieter to wrap his arms around me, but he did not. "Rome," I said, the memory as hard and unyielding as a piece of Michelangelo's raw, unchisled stone. Another friend, but a true one. 

     "Who was I, Annelise?" Pieter prompted, embracing me with his words, still unwilling to wrap his arms around me. "Say it." 

     I closed my eyes as though I could stop myself from seeing where he was taking me. He whispered in my ear, pressing me forward. I relented. "The Heretic Thief," I said. 

     "Finish," he demanded. "Say it all." 

     "Bastard," I said. 

     "I thought that was the priest." 

     I laughed, I couldn't help myself. "You were both bastards," I said; glad to see Pieter's smile return, letting it distract me from my pain. 

     "You've been angry too long, Annelise."  

     "It's only been 500 years," I argued. This time we both laughed. 

     Pieter released his death grip on the back of the chair, raised his arms, reached for me. "Finish," he said softly. 

     I took hold of his arms, lifted them into my lap. Tears burned a path down my cheeks and dropped off my chin, splattering my hands. I let my fingers trace the inside of his wrists. I touched the scars, caressed the rounded nubs that ended where his hands should have begun. I gazed at the stumps cradled in my hands, remembering his long fingers, the feel of them on my body, how the sunlight glinted off the gold band on his left hand.  

     "They cut off your hands." I wanted to scream, but I had lost my voice. 

     He couldn't have heard me, only my lips moved. I hadn't made any sound. But then, he didn't need my words. The story belonged to both of us. I was grateful for my tears; they blurred the mutilation. I don't know how long I sat and stared. 

     "I couldn't stop them, Pieter. I couldn't save you. I'm sorry." Had I spoken out loud? 

     He wrapped his arms around me. "You couldn't stop me, Annelise. God knows, you tried." He kissed away my tears. "You shouldn't hate your hands."