Remembering and dreaming are fragile and fleeting.
The one bathed in sepia-stain, the other blurred by the brain.
Amber - March, 1930
When people come back from past lifetimes, they're changed but essentially the same. I know it sounds contradictory, but think of it this way—you get a new flesh suit, but keep the same old soul.
Cindy gave me a photo of her when she was Amber Winslow back in the Thirties, Everything's changed except the gaze—I'm not surprised since they say eyes are the windows of the soul.
Well, I've been beguiled by the dark surprise of that stare—if I linger too long, I always fall under her sway.
It's a wet Monday morning and I'm walking to Hart House under an umbrella.
It's November now and there's still plenty of fall colour, but a nip in the air tells me the leaves won't last much longer. It's sad in a way, the change of seasons, a metaphor for time and its endless repetitions—an image of Cindy and me and our various incarnations.
It seems my fate to have a weakness for beautiful Sirens.
I enter the Grill and spot the usual gaggle of female gawkers—my grad students gathering for their pre-lecture coffee. Do they come for a quick breakfast or are their gabfests more a school for scandal?
It's a painful reminder of my fling with my grad student, Fay Collins, back in the Thirties when I was mourning Marilyn—and even now the memory is bitter-sweet.
The bickering of the girls reminds me of squabbling rooks and I cynically recall a line from a Louis MacNeice poem;
Let me bury myself beyond creaks and cawings
In a below world, a bottom world of amber.
The poem's last word incants Cindy who like Medussa is my protectress, exorcising past ghosts and banishing beautiful students who magically now stand up and exit the cafeteria.
I'm left to sit alone in peace enjoying my morning coffee when I happen to glance up and see Abe approaching.
He's a ray of sunshine on a rainy day. "Hey Pal, I thought I'd drop by for a quick visit. How are you doing?"
Same crinkly-eyes smile as always—same charming warmth that never fails to cheer me.
"Hey Abe! I'm happy to see you. You just made my morning a little brighter."
"That's me, Pal—a real cheerleader. So I hear you saw Cindy yesterday. I guess she filled you in on everything."
"Yeah, she gave me the run-down on Fay Collins."
"So that's what you guys talked about—she didn't tell you about Marilyn?"
I shook my head. "No, she didn't mention Marilyn."
"Well, you're going to like this story, Prof. Buy me a coffee and I'll tell you everything."
"You're on," I laughed, "Oh, and I'll add on a bacon and egg english muffin."
I returned with Abe's order and he devoured the sandwich in three bites. I guess he spent the night on a stake-out and was famished.
He took his time with his coffee though, taking occasional sips as he recounted his story.
"I figured Cindy would tell you and I'd miss my chance to bask in the glory, but I'm glad she didn't so I can see your reaction. Here's what you don't know—after Scott and I solved that Thirties' cold case, I solved Marilyn's murder."
My jaw dropped in surprise. "That's incredible, Abe! How did you track down the perp?"
"I just put together a few details Marilyn remembered and then checked records of known criminals at the time and got a hit on a gangster from England. It seems he was using the Palais Royale as a cover for his escort business—high-priced prostitutes. Marilyn overheard a conversation and this Jake Lambert decided she knew too much and had her killed."
I was puzzled. "How do you know all this?"
"Lambert was killed in the Forties in a gangland slaying, but some of the petty criminals he employed lived to ripe old age. One of them, a Harry Beeton, told me the whole story. I couldn't arrest anyone but at least I solved the mystery."
It was weird sitting listening to Abe finally filling in the missing gaps in Marilyn's history.
I suppose it doesn't matter much since the perpetrators have been long since dead, but it does provide closure, for me at least, and I'm happy it was Abe who solved it.