(The Fateful Tale of a Writer Who’s Reality Was More Dangerous Than His Novels)
One depressingly average Tuesday morning of screwdrivers and cigarettes on a chipped grey balcony in the cold Massachusetts’s air finally led Micky to God. He was having an in depth conversation with himself about the common preference for creams over classic white, as if there was something original about a more murky version of a color, when he suddenly stopped breathing. Micky fell to the frost-covered floor, his dressing gown falling open and revealing the un-sightly results of years of smoking weed and drinking beer with the boys. As he clutched at his throat in a desperate attempt to allow air into his tired lungs, he waited for his life to flash before his eyes, but nothing came. Fucking hell he thought to himself, what a way to go. Surely his life had not been so uneventful as to warrant this kind of mistreatment. Thanks, God, he thought bitterly as his body slowly lost control. He could feel everything slipping away. And then, ever so dramatically, she appeared. God. And gave him one last breath of life. You want it? She taunted him. Of course I bloody want it, he wheezed. God smiled and Micky jolted back to reality, gasping for air that had never tasted sweeter. Breath fervently rejuvenated his body and eventually Micky was able to pick himself up from the ground, re-tie his dressing gown and head back inside. Figures God is a temperamental woman, he thought to himself as he nursed his near death experience with a swift swig of vodka.
In the most cliché of manners, Micky became a changed man. Or at least a fearful man, which he found meant nearly the same thing. He decided that now was the time to make some positive changes and take control of his destiny. He had simply been lacking inspiration; it was surely not his talent that had led to the countless rejections he had received from the publishers. He just needed a break, a change of scene, maybe a little sunshine. And that is how Micky Downright, the un-published, overweight mystery writer ended up on a small, sun-kissed Greek island he never learned how to spell correctly. It would be the most tumultuous of love affairs.
After finding there were no hotels in the area, Micky was directed by a few locals to an old woman they called Mrs. Theodore. Though she spoke little English, she hugged him tight and kissed him on each cheek after he tried to act out the fact that he would like to stay, indefinitely, in her spare room. He took this to mean she would be a friendly housemate, though it may simply have been a plea for him to stop his painful acting sequence. The room was beautiful. He noted joyfully that there was not a smidgeon of cream anywhere, but deep blues, oranges, and pure whites that vaguely covered the old, rough walls. The room had its own balcony, which unlike the frost covered one he longed to forget, was bathed in sunlight. An old rocking chair stood still on one side, rooted in place by vines that had grown through the wood and taken it hostage. Micky sat down and surveyed his new kingdom. The beach was nearly directly below him and was only sparsely dotted with young couples and friends. Old men sat at near-by cafes; chatting and working rosary beads round and round their fingers. Micky took a deep breath of island air and sat quietly for what felt like the first time in years.
Micky’s mother had once warned him about Greek women. The most beautiful and passionate in the world, she had told him, avoid them at all costs. Perhaps that was why he was here now. He was in desperate need of a muse and that cocktail sounded just right to him. Of course he could never have predicted in what form she would come.
He found her perhaps a week into his indefinite stay. He had already stumbled into something of a routine in his new home: he woke early to the sounds of Mrs. Theodore singing, something he learned she liked to do while cooking breakfast. He was then free to leisurely roll out of his low, white bed into the dressing gown that had followed him across the world, and head downstairs to the dining room where a substantial breakfast would be waiting for him. Mrs. Theodore would be sitting there and would talk to him the entire time he ate, though surely she knew he did not understand a word of Greek. He came to enjoy the smooth melody of her voice, often choosing to create his own internal dialogue that rode along her sound waves. After breakfast, he helped her clean up and then the rest of the day was his. He spent the first few days wandering around the island, but after he felt a little more comfortable, often just found a quiet nook somewhere in town or on the beach and tried to write. He had been having more trouble than he liked to admit, beyond the precursory quips about the outstanding natural beauty he found around him. But when he first laid eyes on Mrs. Theodore’s granddaughter, he knew he had found his muse.
She was beautiful, and carried herself knowingly, without arrogance or guilt, but awareness. He first saw her at the beach. He was lying in the sand and meditating on a murderer that would arrive by boat and imprison the whole island through a complex system of ropes. The idea had hit a standstill at about that point and when he looked out to the ocean, there she was. She wore a hot red bikini that was tied tight against her tanned olive skin. A fine white shawl was draped casually around her waist and her long dark hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders. She caught him staring at her and matched his gaze for just a moment. Her eyes were a surprisingly light grey and spoke of mysteries beyond Mickey’s imagination. She was dangerous; she was perfect.
Micky spent the rest of the afternoon comprising a plan to get closer to her, but his musings were rendered useless when she walked right into his life that very evening. He was having dinner with Mrs. Theodore, listening obediently to what he imagined was an account of her day, though could have been a confession of her darkest secrets for all he knew, when she walked in. She breezed through the room, dropping her few belongings with little regard, rushed over to Mrs. Theodore, and kissed her on each cheek before setting herself right across from Micky. He had been staring at her since she walked in, though she only noticed him once she was fully seated and had a helping of food in front of her. She smiled slowly at him and asked something in Greek. Mrs. Theodore said something back to her and she laughed then asked him,
“You are an American?”
“Yes.”
“You are the one who was watching me today, no?”
“Yes… I saw you at the beach. You looked… familiar. Are you a relative of Mrs. Theodore’s?”
She paused for a moment, “I am her granddaughter, I am called Adara, and you?”
“Micky.”
“Mouse?” she smiled.
“Just Micky,” he tried to smile back.
“Well, nice to meet you, Micky.”
“The pleasure is all mine. It’s wonderful to be able to talk to someone in English; you speak it wonderfully. Have you ever been to America?
“Oh no, never. My English is terrible really; I hope we can spend much time together so that I can improve.”
“I would like that very much.”
Mrs. Theodore interrupted them there and began an animated conversation with Adara that lasted the rest of dinner. Micky was glad to be left alone; he was having trouble breathing and felt suddenly very aware of the distance between his and Adara’s hands on the table. She was slowly circling her finger around and around her glass and he became mesmerized by the steady movement.
He hoped to talk to her in more length that evening, but shortly after dinner, she rushed back out the door wearing a soft turquoise dress and heels, and had not returned by the time he was ready to call it a night. A few hours later, Micky was woken by the sounds of laughter and loud voices outside. They grew louder and he realized they had come inside the house. He recognized the sound of Adara’s laugh and of her heels clicking on the wooden floor. Micky grew strangely hot at the sound of a brusque, low, man’s voice beside Adara’s. They disappeared into her room and all was quiet momentarily before the sounds of them making love permeated through walls that had seemed like too thick of a barrier only hours before.
The next morning, the man was gone and Adara acted as though nothing had happened, so Micky did too, deciding not to remark on his lack of sleep. The two of them spent the sunny day together. Adara showed him her favorite places around town and asked him many questions about his life back in Massachusetts. She said very little about her own life, but Micky was so happy to be walking through town with such a beautiful girl, he barely noticed. That night Adara came home with a different man, of a higher, more punctuated voice. Micky hoped she didn’t do this regularly; the lack of sleep was beginning to affect his new novel, which he had finally begun to write with some ease. But she did. Nearly every night she came home with a different man. After a while, Micky almost became used to the noises throughout the night. He even managed to convince himself that he wasn’t jealous of all the men and that his budding relationship with Adara was much more meaningful. Their conversations had grown increasingly intense and beautiful, ranging from life and love, to murder.
During a particularly heady conversation between Mrs. Theodore and Adara at dinner one night, there was a heavy knock on the door, three loud knocks that quieted the two women and humbled the old wooden door. After a brief moment of silence as everyone sat in shock (there were never any visitors, at least while the sun was still up), Mrs. Theodore went to the door and slowly opened it. An old policeman barged his way into the room and began talking forcefully. Moments later, two more cops came, letting themselves into the house. One came straight for Micky who was still sitting in his chair, eyes wide with shock and fear.
“You the American one, then?”
“Yes, Sir, that’s me.”
“It seems there’s been a little trouble around here recently, huh?”
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sir.”
“No? The name, Sebastian, ring any bells?”
“No Sir, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Was there anyone here last night? Anyone else besides the three of you?”
Micky thought back to the screams of passion that had kept him up, despite his newfound tolerance, much of the night before. Then he saw Adara looking at him with something of desperation in her eyes.
“No, just the three of us.”
“Good to hear. A young man by the name of Sebastian Wolf was killed last night. A couple people said they saw him near this area last night. We have to talk to everyone, you understand.”
“Yes, Sir, absolutely. Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with.”
“Will do, Micky, is it?”
“Yea, Micky.”
“Like the mouse. I’ll remember that. See you around, Micky.”
“I hope not,” Micky muttered under his breath as the three cops left the house and continued on their way. He rushed to Adara’s side. One tear had pushed its way past her long black eyelashes and was traveling slowly down her cheek.
“Did you know him well?” he asked her tenderly.
“Not very good, just a friend of a friend. It’s very sad.” She looked straight into Micky’s eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he stared back into hers, searching for a flicker of something more, but if there was, she managed to conceal it. He gave her a hug and let her cry into his shoulder.
Days passed and nothing more was said. Life went on more or less as usual, though Micky felt a new sense of uneasiness within the house. He ignored it. All this cop action had given him great story ideas. When the police report eventually came out, the cause of death was listed as a suicide. Suicide was apparently a common cause of death on this small Greek island. Tensions slowly disappeared all together and the house went back to normal, with Micky and Adara spending most days together, at the beach or around town. She was curious about what he was always writing about, but he refused to show her. One day you’ll know, he told her whenever it came up. Meanwhile, he had slowly been able to find out more about her. He could never ask her directly, she was much too good for that. But occasionally, at the right prompt, she would let something small slip, and Micky was always there, waiting. He had been carefully gluing together all the scraps he could and was beginning to get a sense of the bigger picture.
She never knew her father. She had not grown up with money, and seemed to have never held down a steady job in her life, but wore only expensive clothes and seemed to have money whenever the need arose. She was feisty. She was distrustful of all men. She loved sex. She laughed loud and didn’t care who heard her. Everywhere she went, people watched her. She loved attention, but hated confrontation. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Micky found her mesmerizing; the more he learned, the more he felt there was to learn, and the more he wanted to know it all.
She never let him come to the clubs with her. She claimed they weren’t his scene and half-jokingly told him he would only slow her down. But one day they were out later than usual, and Micky thought that a good drink sounded just right. Eventually she agreed and they settled in at one of the beachfront bars. A few cocktails and many bad ‘80’s songs later, they were dancing close at the back of the bar. Her tanned skin was warm against his and he knew he wanted more.
“Let’s go home”
“That’s a bad idea, Micky.”
“It’s a perfect idea, Adara.” He tried not to slur his words. He cupped his hand around the small of her back and led her out of the bar. She didn’t fight it. The cool night air felt amazing on their hot bodies, and with their arms wrapped around each other, they walked slowly back to the house.
Micky awoke many hours later feeling rejuvenated and happy despite the morning-after headache he could feel creeping up on him. The house was surprisingly quiet. He rolled over on Adara’s bed and reached out his arm to wrap it around her lovely back, but found only rumpled sheets beside him.
“Adara?” There was no answer.
“Adara?” he called out, louder this time. Still, there was no answer. Mickey got up, found his boxers somewhere within the sheets, and put them on. He walked through the house.
“Adara? Mrs. Theodore?” Nothing. No singing, no breakfast, nothing. A chill ran down Micky’s spine. And then there were three loud knocks on the door. Micky opened it and found the same policeman who had questioned him before.
“Mouse, good to see you again.”
“What’s the problem, Sir?”
“The old lady, Mrs. Theodore, is dead. Her body was found washed up on the beach early this morning.”
Micky stopped breathing; he felt the color slowly drain from his face.
“She...she’s dead?” he whispered.
“That’s what I said. So you see, Mouse, naturally I’m a little concerned. She filed a report yesterday. Said there’s a thief in the town, said someone’s been stealing her fine jewelry and dresses. I was already planning on coming by today, but it seems now I’ve got a little more to investigate than a thief, doesn’t it, Mouse?”
“Well yes, Sir, it does. My God, I just can’t believe it. Who would do something like this to such a kind old woman?”
“Who, indeed. Seems to me a stranger from out of town who needs money might have a few reasons.”
“Sir, are you insinuating that I…”
“Mouse,” the officer cut him off, “I already know you did it. It would be much easier for both of us if were honest. Your girlfriend already explained the situation to us.”
“My girlfriend?” Micky was incredulous, surely this was all just a joke.
“Yes, your girlfriend. Adara. Ring any bells? The girl you’ve been sleeping with for the last month?”
“What? I haven’t been… I’ve never…”
“Your little men were still inside her, Mouse, spare me the bullshit.”
“It was just once. She’s not my girlfriend, never was.”
“Then why was she living here with you?”
“She’s Mrs. Theodore’s granddaughter! She was visiting her!”
“Mrs. Theodore doesn’t have a granddaughter, Mouse. You better come with me.”
Micky sighed and followed the officer. In hindsight, he thought to himself; I probably should have listened to my mother.