Of Phantasm and Fury

Mi Ancla, or the Anchor of Antonio

13 Mi Ancla, or the Anchor of Antonio

"...To fleeting seconds as they pass..." -E.H. Hanson

Day 3, continued

Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal

Yawning, arms outstretched cat-like, she blinked once or twice, surveying her bucolic faux Dresden surroundings. What day was it? Every minute—every hour—seemed to blend together in a melted amalgamation of the most eccentric, otherworldly sort.

Then she remembered. The Chianti hours earlier as she confessed her lovelorn woes to the patient friend that was young Antonio, the very same man who was situated some meters away in a twin-sized bed of his own in their shared dormitory accommodations, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

Wake the dead, indeed. Wake the dormant memories of true love lost—if not permanently, then for a time. What's to say the Whitelighter's apparition and apology were genuine, his actions sustainable in the long term? She tucked a stray mahogany curl behind her earlobe. Was he only saying sorry to lure her back, because it was her sisters that missed her? Would he continue kissing Abigael if given a chance? Was he truly sorry, or sorry he was caught in the act, a tamer 'in flagrante delicto'?

Drawing her knees to her chin, the crisp, cool linen bedsheet creating a mountainous Alpine shape, she wondered. Pondered, for the next minutes, which turned into several, then ten, to fifteen minutes more until Antonio began stirring.

She smelled crisp, baked fette biscottate bread and what she knew to be freshly brewed cappuccino: hazelnut espresso, coconut milk foam, and a faint whiff of cacao powder, sighing contentedly for the briefest of moments.

Breakfast.

Prima colazione.

Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy

They had begun with scales and vocal warm-ups; it was now Antonio's turn to choose a song—a piece that spoke to him somehow, which resonated with his current emotional state of being (no pressure, he thought). He was, according to Macy, to sightread for an hour, practice, then perform the piece to a vast array of empty seats within the ornate, cavernous theater.

Time flew by, and perform he did, his rich baritone-tenor echoing in the surrounding eaves, Macy's scalp prickling on end upon hearing the euphony of his voice.

...I am nearly world renowned/As the restless soul who always skips town/But I look for you to come around/And anchor me back down...

She recognized the haunting melody from an early aughts-era TV show; the song "Anchor" by Mindy Gledhill had been featured in "Bones," season 7, episode 2, "The Hot Dog in the Competition," about a woman, newly pregnant, accidentally killed by her 300-pound training instructor after being denied her dream of retiring from the competitive eating industry in favor of a quieter, decidedly more harmonious lifestyle. At the time, Macy was a college student waffling between one major and yet another—biology one week, music the next—unable to absorb more than the typical conjecturing of who the perpetrator could possibly be, between stray crumbs of salted popcorn, slurps of caffeinated diet soda, and the ubiquitous all-nighter (or several, if she were truly honest with herself and her study habits—or lack thereof).

But now—now...she realized the nuances, the pain of a fractured life, of stolen love, a dream—denied—as the ethereal song continued, giving sway to her innermost emotions buried deep within, Antonio closing the first two stanzas, commencing now with the third.

...When people pin me as a clown/You behave as though I'm wearing a crown...

...Soy famosa en el lugar/Por inquieta y no puedo parar/Pero yo te busco sin cesar/Mi ancla tú serás...

She gasped in surprise for two reasons. First, that he sung so wonderfully in both Spanish and English—she understood him to be of Latin descent but never made linguistic assumptions. And second, that he held himself in such little regard.

Oh Antonio...you're anything but a clown. And what was that of a crown? Perhaps this was a clever allegory to Macy teaching him the ropes and disentangling his past, seeing beyond what others thought of him. He did mention, after all, how others had perceived him. But after these hours, these days, Macy understood him to be a thoughtful person, a kind person, one who loved but one woman and paid so dearly a price. To have been so young, and to have suffered so much. Maybe that was their defining link, how they had both ended up at the Palazzo fountain, in the most desolate of destinations?

...There are those who think that I'm strange/They would box me up, and tell me to change/But...you anchor me back down...

Extraña es la imagen que doy/Me queren cambiar a la moda dehoy...

She could certainly identify with the strangeness aspect, recalling her childhood, filled with bullying, people making assumptions of her and about her, thinking her a rarity and oddity for her varied musical, scientific, and literary interests. Typecasting her. Stereotyping her. Why aren't you...she imagined them asking as they always had...more talkative? More bubbly?

Why so serious? But that was her natural temperament—her ambivert tendencies—a curious mixture, she realized now, of Marisol's spritely extroversion coupled with Dexter's equanimity and introverted nature. All she really was, at the end of the day, was—Macy. Herself. Herself, and no one else.

As his bilingual stanzas drew to a close, she stepped closer. Surely such melodic talent ran in his family, right? "How are you not famous yet?" she spoke her thoughts aloud.

He laughed, some feet away, having concluded his center stage solo performance. "I've got a ways to go. And I'm definitely not perfect. More, a work of progress than anything else."

Antonio definitely didn't need tutoring—he was as fine a singer as they came, Macy posited to herself. Though it was entirely possible, on the other hand, that matters of psychology were at play, which required Maggie's expert input—as yet another crisp envelope bearing a navy waxen seal soared through the air, landing, once more, at her feet.

Shemade as though to carefully loosen the envelope's finely-hewn edges—before rippingaway at its perimeter, impatience having grabbed hold. Either way, the message was brief:

Same time, same place.