The Fire Burns Slowly: This is What I’ve Learned
The front door opened with a creak. It smelled like wood inside the house. I am the first one to enter and my step through the door frame is a tentative one. I turn around to read the faces of my companions. I am looking for anything in their eyes that says something like, “Maybe we should turn back.” Nothing. They look as happy as a couple of clams. I shake my head disappointed. My foot quivers as it takes another step like I were getting ready to walk the plank and dive into the Norwegian Sea.
I feasted my eyes upon an empty bar with a countertop soiled in dust and cobwebbed liquor bottles sitting high up on the top shelf. The fingerprints of the last ghost that poured himself a stiff one looked more like the markings of some kind of animal with claws than a human hand. All of the labels had been weathered by what must’ve been about fifty years of sobriety. Maybe the ghost doesn’t live here anymore, I thought. There were anchovy stuffed olives on sale at the counter and not much else. I ran my finger in the dust. It made a race track down the entire length of the bar. And I’d like to think I was doing the police a favor by leaving my fingerprint so that they would know I had been there. Why? Because I thought the man who brought us to that house was going to kill us.
The creaking of the staircase tangoed with that of the front door. I asked Will to go first. The man showed us to our room and left faster than you could say, “Something smells fishy in here.” I knew where he was going. He scurried down to the kitchen with a big ole’ smile on his face to sharpen the carving knife and start boiling the pot of water for “Caroline, Will and Bill Homemade Beef Stew” and would gayly cut up a few slices of bread to go with it. “Will, come with me,” I said. “We’re going to investigate.”
There we were, Will and I, sneaking around the kitchen. I saw a bucket of bleach on the floor and mop with fresh soap and water in the tub. Will stood outside the kitchen door to keep watch for the man. He carried a knife in his back pocket. We had a signal if he came. It was supposed to go like this: kick the door open, run inside like a chicken with its head cut off then grab me just above the elbow and make damn sure we get the hell out of dodge. So far, we were wading in the clear. I notice a pale of red paint on the prepping table next to a pair of rubber gloves. “Strange,” I thought. I open the trash can just to be sure there were no body parts. It’s only full of vegetables. The next thing I do is pick the lock on the walk-in freezer. Again, it’s full of vegetables and what I presumed to be a freshly chopped pig leg.
The investigation was over, I told Will. “It looks like we won’t know for sure until dinner time,” I said.
—
We gathered around a wooden table in front of a dying fire. The dimming flame heats the dining room. Black and white family portraits with wandering eyes watch us devour our meal. They dream of slurping leftover soup in the steaming metal pot. When it comes time for the main corse, the fading figures wince at the peregrino conducted orchestra of clattering forks and knives.
The folks sitting at the table are a mixed bunch, but the one thing we have in common in that we are cold. I mistake my breath for the ghosts who used to sit at the bar stools drinking whiskey sours in the room next door.
At the head of the dining table is a German woman with round spectacles whom I’ve only met in passing. God forgive me, I can never remember her name. Every time I meet her on the trail she begs the same question, “And your feet, are they okay?” And every time I suppose she expects me to say, “Heavens no, I am in such great pain.” But every time, I say the opposite. Bless her. The woman has kind eyes but that damn question never ceases to make my blood boil. She clutches her yellow guide book like it were the Holy Bible as she moves food around on her plate.
There are two young Spanish girls from Madrid on the other length of the table. They always ask if I want more tortilla before serving themselves another helping. I’ve never said no to more tortilla in my life.
The following conversation takes place in Spanish:
“Why are you walking the Camino?” They ask me.
“Well, I’m a student. I’m walking the Camino with my professor. He’s sitting right next to me. And this is my friend, Will.” I reply.
“You’re in school? On the Camino? What are you studying?” They are interested now.
I tell them that my classmates and myself are studying the philosophy of walking. Each of us have different goals. Our independent studies vary, but our studies before the Camino were done together.
“And what is your independent study?” They ask.
“I study art. I’m walking the Camino to take inspiration for my work. I decided to walk the Catmino while I was attending art classes in Italy.” I told them that my best work comes from nature.
“Tell them about the Spanish poems you’ve been writing,” Bill interjects.
“Okay,” I tell him.
I turn to the girls. “I’ve also written some Spanish poems.”
They asked me to read something for them. I told them, “Of course.” Though as the night carried on, we were too busy sharing stories that I never got around to it.
—
The German woman drops her guide book on the table and asks me, “Have I heard you correctly? You mean to tell me that you’re in class? Walking the Camino? What kind of school do you go?” She sounded worried. I had a feeling that she didn’t like when things got out of order.
The entire conversation was repeated in English. Bill helped me this time. And the more I spoke about my project, the more I started to believe in it. I made a decision the next morning. I decided that I wasn’t going to drop of school.
I went to sleep to that night with hardly any memory of the ghosts at the bar or the man who disappeared in the afternoon. I was safe and sound.