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The Englishman
Copyright 2010 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
Yes.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
It took me a while to figure out this story.
I wasn't sure why I or the main character would be in Vladivostok,
standing on a hill at night, looking at the harbor.
In the dream mentioned in Vladivostok
I understood that the house on the hill was definitely not a permanent home,
which left me a bit confused about the characters and the little plot.
After about a year or so, the following story finally revealed itself.
ABOUT THE THIRD DRAFT
There aren't any notes for the first two drafts
because I did not save those drafts.
Archer's hair and eyes have changed from dark to auburn/blue back to dark.
When I first wrote the story I saw a tall (just over six feet), slim, yet big-boned man with long black hair
and dark brown eyes, pale skin because he is suffering from a bad cold, and a patient, kind
tenor voice. He has an angular face and sharp wide cheekbones.
He emerged from my imagination when I was trying to figure out
this troublesome story.
One of the titles I considered for this story was "Shades of Grey," which is a phrase
from a sentence after Archer and Leslie meet on the hill.
In America it's 'gray' not 'grey.' I use the 'e' because it's one of the few words
I have trouble spelling. Yes, it's a simple word and I should be able to remember four little letters.
Fortunately the 'e' alternative is acceptable.
“Zdrasvootye.”
I looked around. At first I did not see anyone because it was dark on the hill in Vladivostok: dark and bitterly cold. The electricity had gone out earlier. Light barely reflected from the harbor.
Then I saw her. Above me and to my left, leaning out of a second-story window, was a curly-haired woman who was probably in her mid-forties, like me.
“Zdrasvootye,” I replied.
“You visited town?” She asked in Russian.
“Yes.”
“You have news about electricity?”
“Yes. A policeman said service will return in about three hours.”
“Da? Extra time to stay warm in bed with boyfriend or husband, yes? To your health.” She raised a bottle of vodka to me.
I laughed and said, “Za vashe zdrovye.”
I continued walking up the hill, shifting a small bag of candles to my right hand. Up ahead and to my left, about five blocks away, were the offices and temporary apartments of the cast and crew of “Garnet Dreams,” an independent movie I was filming with nine other people, not including the Russian government’s mandatory crew members.
As I reflected on my co-workers and moved toward the house, I felt a little thrill that rose up, flickered and faded away.
I frowned. I enjoyed my work and was pleased at the progression of the production and found Vladivostok intriguing but why did I feel this little thrill? It was an emotion appropriate for something more personal, like a good book or a home-cooked meal or a loved one.
I looked toward the house, as if the answer might be printed upon it in big neon letters, but then became distracted by a series of increasingly noisy breezes. I turned to my right so I could face the chilly breezes and the harbor.
Halfway down the hill, a light flickered in a window -- probably a candle. Around me and below me the city was a series of dark grey buildings with darker streets and alleys. In the distance, generator-powered lights lit up only a few spots. The harbor water was a dark silvery-grey and provided only the faintest illumination. Around me voices occasionally called to each other and people walked by, greeting me or each other and moving on.
The breezes grew stronger, rustling leaves in the trees and messing up my hair. Yet I stood still, savoring the moment, treasuring the darkness and the little thrill I felt when I thought about or looked toward the house.
I tilted my head, as if trying to hear something. What was making me feel so good?
My cell phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. And as I checked the phone’s outside display, I understood.
Archer Smythe-Fellows, the screen informed me, including his phone number. The sight of the name sent that thrill through me again. I felt the sensation in my middle and in my left hand, which held the phone. The thrill radiated outward until I felt consumed. I tried to be reasonable, tried to be logical, tried to be objective, but I was under the influence of dopamine, one of the most addictive chemicals on earth. In layman's terms ... I was suddenly aware that I had a crush on him.
Archer, I thought. I felt quite giddy, and as if a ray of sunshine had politely invaded my soul and body.
Memories raced through my mind from the last few years: Interviewing Archer with my business partner Pascal ... at first thinking Archer might be too quiet, but then becoming impressed with his manners and knowledge of film ... hiring him as a director for our last three movies ... a decision I hadn’t regretted: he was firm but fair, creative, kind, extremely well-mannered ... working and living with him and the others in the cheapest apartments available in Paris, then in Rome, now in Vladivostok ... he was professional and reliable as a co-worker; kind and generous as a roommate ... if he had something unpleasant to say he said it in the kindest way possible, most recently to the production’s PR and marketing employee (“Lynn, the music of Metallica is intriguing and quite rhythmic but it is not enjoyable at all at three in the morning”) ... he was working harder than anyone on the team despite having been widowed at the young age of forty-three, two years ago ... he had invited me to tea several times, and I had feared that, hoping he wouldn’t get too personal, but he was polite and funny ... within the last few months he had mentioned his loss, frankly and in a composed manner typical of most English men and women I knew ....
The memories abruptly stopped and I felt stupid. I’d have to keep my feelings to myself. The last time I had revealed a crush on a co-worker, back in an old life with an old-fashioned eight-to-five schedule, the object of my affection had actually strutted in front of me once he found out. I had learned my lesson: don’t share anything I wouldn’t mind repeated as soon and as often as possible.
I’d have to be careful not to share with one of the others, to say nothing, to focus on work. I tried to imagine Archer strutting, which made me smile. He was reserved and fairly humble and far from arrogant. I’d also have to avoid picturing us together -- he with his tall frame, black hair, dark brown eyes and fair skin, and myself, with my medium frame, long light brown hair and grey eyes ....
I shook my head, rolled my eyes, pressed “talk” on my phone and said, “Archer?”
“Is it Leslie, then?”
“Yes. How are you doing?”
“Er ... I’m a bit inconvenienced. I’m in this vast house by myself and there’s no electricity.”
“Good news. I’m two blocks away and I have candles.”
“Spectacular. Perhaps I could meet you. Maybe halfway? I’ll direct my cell’s screen toward you at regular intervals.”
“I’ll do the same.”
“Cheers.”
I continued walking; a block further I noticed a flashing white rectangle in the dark.
“Archer?” I called.
“Is that you, Leslie?”
“Yes, right here.”
He changed from a tall black shape into a figure defined by various shades of grey. He looked me over then focused on his phone.
I looked at his phone too, felt nosy and allowed the breezes to distract me again. I looked toward the harbor so the air could blow my hair away from my face.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I said.
Archer did not respond so I looked up -- way up. He was about seven inches taller than me.
He was staring at me.
Abruptly, he said “Beautiful. Oh. You mean the harbor. Yes. Indeed it is.” He examined the dark city and its surroundings and said, “Quite lovely.”
My face felt warm. Had he been checking me out?
I faced the harbor and thought about his behavior just as voices called to us from my right, “Archer? Leslie?”
“Yeah,” I said. “How was dinner?” Most of us had left the house together earlier to have dinner, but I had excused myself to watch a short movie at a downtown cinema; the movie had been interrupted by the blackout.
Pascal, our screenwriter and director of photography, emerged from the darkness and said, “It was great. Archer, you should have come with us, instead of being stuck here with her ... with Leslie."
Archer said, with an assertive firmness that surprised me, “Leslie is actually very good company.”
Pascal’s eyebrows rose. “Archer. This is a joke. You are too quiet ... too unsmiling ... you must joke more.”
Jane and Lee, behind Pascal, shook their heads. Jane said, “Not all of your jokes are funny, Pascal.”
Archer’s face relaxed at this but he did not smile.
“I am sorry,” Pascal said. “But I do enjoy teasing Leslie and Archer. They are too serious.”
He, Jane and Lee started walking away.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
“They are at one of the bookstores,” Pascal said.
Archer said, “The electricity is out,” and stood close to my right side, close enough that I felt both intrigued and slightly uncomfortable.
Pascal said, “Do we have candles? And matches?”
Archer said, “Kitchen. Top drawer next to the refrigerator.”
“Thank you.”
When the others were walking across the porch, Archer leaned toward me and said, “They won’t find any.”
“That’s mean. And is that why you were standing here?” I was still holding the bag of candles in my right hand; Archer had moved in front of my right side.
“He can be quite mean, and yes.”
Archer still hadn’t moved. I was about to step away when he said, “We haven’t had tea in a while.”
I felt warm and giddy again. Somehow I was able to say lightly, “No, we haven’t. I was wondering when you’d ask again.”
“Really.”
We looked at each other; quickly looked away.
“Let’s have tea tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll continue gossiping about our co-workers.”
“Sounds good,” I said, and started walking toward the house.
Pascal’s voice called from the front door, “There are no candles in the drawer.”
“Keep looking,” called Archer. “I know they’re in there.” He smiled at me and winked.
We stopped at the sound of a haunting voice in the darkness: “Yoooooo zheeeeeee.”
I laughed so hard that Archer reached out and let me lean against him.
“Have you ever seen that Russian cartoon?” I said between bursts of laughter.
“The one with the hedgehog? Yozhik Vi Tumane? Hedgehog In The Fog?”
“Yeah, that one.”
The voice echoed, “Yoooooo zheeeeee.”
Archer smiled and said, “Apparently the ghost voice has, as well.”
To our left came Pascal’s heavily accented voice as he leaned out of a window in the kitchen, “Archer. There are no candles.”
Archer, still holding on to me, muttered, “Bloody hell.” He took the bag from me, withdrew one candle and said, “To be continued tomorrow at tea.”
“Okay.”
He moved away. I turned to check him out.
He was checking me out.
We turned away simultaneously with embarrassed smiles, he to Pascal, who promptly started another playful argument, and I to the porch.
I looked toward the top of the hill, where I had met Archer, and savored the breezes one last time.
No matter what happened -- if tea was the continuation of a wonderful friendship, or quite possibly the beginning of something else -- I’d remember the brief moments on the hill with fondness.
* ~* END *~*
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