The Other Side

So, my first submission of literary work was rejected yesterday. I had such high hopes. Many miles to go. I'll try again. Here's the story. Tell me what you think. .................

How much time had passed? And how was I going to find my way back to that room? Several waves of panic had come and gone and now I was in a calmer state of mind. The glass of wine had helped. Back out on the cobblestone street I wondered along, looking for a familiar door.

A calendar back in that antique wine shop had said 1888. No, I was sure of it. I had to get somewhere and sit down to get my bearings. A narrow street lead to an opening ahead. A pleasant town square. French writing on the shops and walls told me I was in a French town, or so it appeared. The town folk were cordial enough, though they regarded me with some interest in passing. I tried not to stare at the strange complexions they all had. Interesting flesh tones, almost blended.

I was feeling another wave of panic. I retreated to the town square to a group of benches in the welcoming shade. I rested and tried to retrace my steps. My vision was playing tricks on me again. In every direction I looked vivid colors of sky and grass filled my eyes and washed the scenes. I had a feeling of being immersed into my newly found environment. Not that I was actually in the courtyard but more like having an idea that I was in a courtyard. My hands were the same. My jeans were the same ones I had put on this morning. Or was it yesterday I had dressed. Or the day before. Of course! My watch. I checked the time and it was half past two. I had just finished lunch somewhere but could not remember where. That was the problem wasn’t it? I could not remember.

Until now I had been an observer here. An old man in unusually raggy clothing approached me in my oasis under the courtyard’s gnarled trees. “Have you seen him?” The old man asked, in a voice not matching his raiment. His coat seemed to change colors and my fascination held my tongue. “You are English?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m an American actually.”

“Ahhh, oui. I thought you may have seen him, since you were in his building here, in ze bar.”

“Have I seen who? I’m sorry, I don’t follow…..”

The old man sat gingerly on the edge of the bench respectfully distant from me. “I don’t know his name, but - a very kind man - strange man. He paid me with two glasses of very nize port to sit for him while he drew a picture of moi. He was interested in my story zo I told him of my decline from tenure at ze university to a life here in Arles, and ze pain I now have.”

I knew I too had seen this man somewhere recently but could not place him. “I’m sorry but no, I haven’t seen him.” I looked into his watery but clear azure eyes and saw a sadness that moved me. He shook his head and walked away. As he did his coat changed hue again ever so faintly.

“Wait! Do you know where he lives?” I called out. He turned and pointed to the building down the street I had just walked. “Above ze bar…” He said and went on his way.

That had to be it! Somehow I had been turned around and missed it. I hurried towards the building. Turning the corner I spotted the familiar door. It had to be the one I took to the street. I tried the door and it opened into a darkened stairway. As I ascended my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. The stairs were at an odd angle and uncomfortable. Their brown hues changed much the same as the old man’s coat as I moved through the space. At last I came to the third floor and went to the door at the end of the hall.

Racing towards it I grabbed the yellow ochre knob and burst through it. It was the room. The oddly sloping wood floor, out of perspective, the narrow bed - that yellow chair! I went to the opposite wall and stood breathing heavily, anticipating, hoping. I put out my hand and it disappeared through the wall. I moved forward and finally stepped a final step. I was back in the museum!