Solitude

            by Kristina Chan

 

            Paul walked into the dimly lit room; the squeaking of the wooden floor planks was the loudest sound to be heard in the shop all day.  As he looked at the rows of unsold shoes, he let out a sigh.  It wasn’t that nobody bought his shoes; they were well made and came in a shade of caramel brown that pleased the eye.  But during the summer months the villagers were occupied with other activities than buying a new pair of shoes.      

            In spite of the muggy evening, Paul shut the windows, walked into his apartment attached to the shop, and made himself dinner.  He ate alone, as usual, occasionally glancing at the sink or the chairs, taking a sip from his glass.  The solitary sound of silverware on plate might be too much for anyone else to bear, but for Paul, it was one of his few companions.  He took a bath and got into bed as the neighboring sounds of conversation and laughter penetrated the walls.  Like every other night, he didn’t expect to get much sleep.

            If you asked any one of the villagers about Paul, they would pause with a blank look on their face, then after a moment would say, “Oh.  The shoe cobbler?  He…seems like a nice sort of fellow.”  The truth was, no one really knew anything about him, and he was the type of man that didn’t encourage jaunty discourse.  The villagers didn’t even know when he had come to the town; his arrival hadn’t stirred up much excitement or commotion.  The general consensus regarding Paul was just that he “seemed like a nice sort of fellow.”  Everything in Paul’s manner suggested restraint, forbearance, and an undercurrent of sadness that was barely detectable to the everyday person.  

            The next morning, Paul pushed aside his thin covers and got dressed.  He peeled and ate an orange for breakfast, then walked into his shop.  It was dark and cool there, and was the only place in the village untouched by the sweltering summer heat.   

            He sat behind the counter trying to work on a new pair of shoes.  He couldn’t concentrate; every once in a while a group of villagers passed his shop chatting or laughing.    After a bit of futile work, Paul walked outside to the stream that ran through his yard.  He dipped his hands in its searingly cold water and watched the current play through his fingers as the heat of the sun pulsated on his back.  Suddenly, he heard the giggle of a young girl from a grove of fruit trees on the other side of the yard.  He quickly jumped up, shaking the water from his hands, and ran across the stream searching for the sound.  He tore through the leaves looking every which way, before he shook his head and straightened as if just realizing what he was doing. 

“What am I thinking,” he said to himself.  “I must finally be going crazy.  They’re gone, and they’re never coming back.”

            Going back to work wasn’t an option for Paul then; he was shaken up, and the shadows of memory were too recent in his mind.  He walked through the village, looking for some distraction, something to soothe his distressed mind.  Because of the hot weather, none of the shops was open; everyone was probably by the sea.  Paul could hear the far away lapping of the shore and the squeals of the children playing.  The lines of sadness etched on his face deepened at the sound, and he found himself involuntarily walking in that direction.  

            When he reached the beach, the crowds of villagers talking and splashing around momentarily overwhelmed him, unused to so many people as he was.  As he was about to turn back, a man approached him.   

            “Paul, right?” the man asked.  He had a puff of curly black hair and the kind of brown twinkling eyes you couldn’t help but trust.

            “That’s right,” Paul said warily.  The man appeared harmless, but the villagers had never sought out his company before.

            “I’m Henry, by the way.  I bought some of your shoes a while back.  Good quality stuff.”

            “Thank you.”

            “You know, there’s been a woman asking about you around town.  Wants to know how long you’ve been here, if you live with anyone.”

            Paul jerked his eyes up from Henry’s shoes, which were aggressively ugly and coming apart at the seams.

            “A woman?  What did she look like?”  Every nerve in Paul’s body was on edge.  “Could it be her?” he wondered.  “No.  That’s impossible….”

            “Well, she had thick brown hair, and a nice pair of eyes, the color of sapphires and caramel.”  Henry suddenly leaned in closer and squinted at Paul’s face.  “Come to think of it, they looked a lot like yours.”

            Paul released his breath, but a new suspicion planted itself in his mind.

            “Do you know where she’s staying?”

            “At The Mariner, I believe. But in this weather, I wouldn’t be surprised if she were already here.”

            Startled, Paul scanned the faces of the crowd.  No one looked familiar to him.  When he turned back, Henry was gone. 

            Feeling unsettled, Paul turned to leave the beach.  So much noise was starting to give him a headache.  Should he go to the inn?  Maybe he should wait for her to come to him.  More than anything, Paul wanted to sit in the cool of his shop and think.

            As he reached the shop, he could just make out the figure of a woman sitting behind the counter.  He tentatively opened the door and stepped inside, the tinkling of the shop bell quietly made itself known.  Across the room, two pairs of caramel and sapphire eyes met. 

            The woman stood up and looked at Paul, her eyes tearing up as she searched his face.

            “You know, after all these years you haven’t aged a day, but I wouldn’t have recognized you in a crowd.”

            Paul smiled, crossed the room, and put his arms tightly around his sister.

            “I’m so sorry, Diane.  You don’t know how terrible I felt leaving everything.  It was just too much for me to handle.  After what happened to Carmen, I….” Paul’s throat went dry and he couldn’t go on.  Diane looked at him with a sympathetic gaze.

            “Losing Carmen was hard on all of us—I can’t imagine how it’s been for you—but the reality is that you still have a daughter, and she needs you.  You can’t just leave and expect everything to go away.”

            Paul held her eyes for a moment, then sighed and looked down.  He studied the floorboards, as if they would somehow give him the answers to everything.

            “I just don’t know how to start over again, it’s been so long,” he said softly.

            At that moment the door to the apartment creaked open; there was the sound of small footsteps, and then a girl appeared.  She was wearing a light summer dress and her feet were bare.  The eyes that stared up at him were large and questioning, and were more caramel than sapphire.  They contained all the sadness and searching that Paul had kept with him through the years.  What could he, or anyone for that matter, say in a moment like this?  He slowly walked the distance to his daughter, gathered her slight frame into his arms and walked into the apartment.

            That night, Paul made a dinner for three.  During the meal, no one needed to say much, and the sound of silverware clattering warmed the heart that had been lying dormant for so long.