People At Port Trakl Part Two

One of Us The aging Englishman lived alone, and even a steady flow of whores could not dent his 'essential solitude, ' as he put it, bragging into his gin and tonic. He lived in a furnished room in the luxurious Hyperion Hotel, perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean and the port. Were they not the Antipodes of his life? Once he had captained ships, now he could not master his daily life. Often he would be absent for days and nights, presumably indulging in a fierce binge in his lonely furnished room. When he resurfaced finally at one of our Port Trakl dives, he looked as if he had stared at Death, face to face, never having flinched even once. Soon his appearance improved, his wit returned, he was funny, a delight to be with, a shallow drinker, with some of the sea captain restored. But no friendship ensued. He could not be trusted. His wit turned venomous, his speech, although perfect Spanish, became boorish. We looked away, we walked away, tense days followed, a week or more, before we relocated our rapport. So we were surprised, stunned really, when an English woman arrived alone at Port Trakl a month after his death, claiming to be his widow. Her papers were all in proper order. She left in two days with the body. Only then, after we had lost him a second time, only then, in subsequent months, when life settled stolidly into routines and habits, only then, when empty chairs and boredom reminded us of the light he had shed did we grasp, He was One of Us. Portraits of Two Young Poets I The young poet combs his hair gently but firmly. He will not tolerate even a single hair out of place. His only suit, a tropical off-white affair, is frayed, worn through, and impeccably pressed. He faces the world with pride every day, whether it is a crowd, or a single friend. When you engage him in conversation, he fixes his gaze on you, and you can feel the ancient rhythms of verse coursing through his being. II The young poet combs her hair gently but firmly. The dark brown tresses fall gracefully past her shoulders. She trusts they will behave themselves. Meanwhile, she writes poems for herself alone, sometimes even addressed to herself. She is too shy to share them, but she carries them everywhere. She longs to be recognized by a kindred spirit, or a soul mate. Gardening displays her tenderness, her care for living things. Because of her nurturing, flowers bloom in Port Trakl's only garden. III They met through music: it was an affair of the mind. They became familiar through poetry: it was an affair of the heart. Neither the boy or the girl believed in luck, or even good fortune. They were early resigned to a life of suffering. But that first night they always recalled as magical, when she stepped in for his drunken teacher, playing piano to his violin playing, and the hearing of three hundred citizens was blessed by Beethoven's Spring Sonata. Later that week they exchanged poems, and each embraced the soul of the other.