Mr. Simpson & The Wolf


I finally finished it: the second panel in a literary triptych bound together by the theme of lost love.  The first panel was the story I recently published called "Charlie & Emma".

 It has taken a long time to complete because reality has a way of insisting I focus on tasks like earning a living and tending to the overgrowth in my front door garden.  This sometimes limits me to writing on weekends, and evenings when I'm not drained from work. In any event, I am interested in your feedback. 

I am particularly interested in knowing more about these issues:

  1. Does Mr. Simpson have a clear voice of his own.  That is, is his language, considering that he is a university professor, distinctive?
  2. Is Mr. Gormand clear in the mind's eye?
  3. Does the theme clearly emerge?  Does Mr. Gormand's struggle with the nature of his friend emerge clearly?
  4. What did you like?  Didn't like?  Would have liked?
  5. Any other comments?

And so…here is "Mr. Simpson & The Wolf." 

Finally it happened.  The incessant torment of hearing Moon River played over and over, ended suddenly.  And the comforting silence of crickets in the hot August night breezed past my curtains.  Mr. Simpson was accustomed to playing it once, at exactly 10:00 p.m. every evening upon retiring.  And I would imagine his thick white hair on the pillow and he driftng into a world of memories.  

While he was alive, I often wondered about the secret sheltered within this nightly ritual.  it seemed to reach out like a tendril longing for a memory that would dissolve if the music were not played.  And in my affection that evening I indulged him by enduring this unusual replay of comfort.

I liked this vibrant, strong septuagenarian who planted beauty with a vengeance.  He had a smile as broad as a Saskatchewan prairie.  And most mornings his luxuriant moustache and broad shoulders tended a profusion of colour and life.  His lawn and garden bordered mine.  And our little horticultural conversations allowed our friendship to percolate.  Although we talked over the hedge and shared tea on his manicured lawn, I knew little of him.  He'd appeared suddenly in Osoyoos about three years ago, in '98, and I'd rarely gotten behind his brilliant wall of smiles…

…except for a couple of occasions.  The first glimpse behind that wall occurred on a warm September of his first year.  We drank red wine beneath the coolness of a vine-covered lattice in his back yard.  Plump grapes hung fresh above us.  The earth was at peace and we were aglow with the liquid that loosens tongues.  I broke a pause in our conversation by asking, "How does a Yugoslavian come to be called John Simpson?"

He mused for a moment, took a sip from his wine glass and kindly corrected me.  "I am Serbian."  Mr. Simpson spoke in a heavily accented but flawless English cleansed of slang, contractions and popular expressions.  "When I left, I wanted to start a new life."  He tipped the glass again and swallowed.  "When I arrived in Halifax I adopted the name of the immigration officer who processed me."

When I asked him his Serbian name, he simply replied that he didn't want me to think of him as anyone other than Simpson.  "You speak such excellent English," I told him.  "What was your occupation in Serbia?"

"I was professor of English Literature at the University of Belgrade."  He winked at me and pretended to whisper, "But no one knew that my favourite novel was Dr. Zhivago.  A book written by a Russian."  We both chuckled at this mischievous irony.  And when I remarked how well his daffodils had done that year, he fell into a recital of a poem by Wordsworth.  These lovely times together were precious orchids, and it is they that helped me struggle with what was to emerge.

The other glimpse beyond his brilliant wall occurred almost three years later, at the end of May.  We were drinking tea from dainty cups that spoke of the influence of an elegant woman in my friend's life.  We'd slowly become friends by that time, and liked each other's company.  When I asked if he'd ever been married, he set his cup down and folded his hands.  A cloud had momentarily obscured our sunny day.  "We liked to drink from these," he said, motioning to the cozy arrangement of teapot, cups and saucers.  "They are the only things I have left."

Mr. Simpson was a very private man who displayed the pearls of his life reticently.  And he knew that I respected his need.  But I was a writer who loved stories from the heart.  So I boldly asked him, "And what became of her?"

Sadness arose in him, like the melancholy I sensed behind the nightly replay of Moon River.  Looking away from me, to the relics on the table he answered, "Her name was Fatima.  I was much older.  She was a student at the Unviersity and loved flowers.  When we married she created a magnificent walled garden where we spent hours reading to one another and drinking tea.  I liked to call her Lara, after Zhivago's lover.  And like him, I lost her."

He seemed to struggle as if with something locked in an attic.  But I sensed him holding it back.  I shared that I too had lost my wife, to cancer six years past, hoping that this would help him release what he'd caged inside.

"I was a Serbian Christian and she a Bosnian Moslem," he said.  "And her family forbade our relationship.  Because her father was dead, her uncle and her older brother ruled the family.  When I went to plead for her and declared my intentions, the brother set his dogs on me.  I was repeatedly bitten before he called them off."

Sorrow was entwined with something that I couldn't clearly discern.  It hid in the background like luminescent eyes in a dark forest.  "They imprisoned her," he continued, "…in her bedroom.  And her clothes were taken from her.  I found her barefoot and terrified, in her pyjamas at my door.  In the eyes of her family she was now a whore."  And he spat that word – whore.  "But we married. She became pregnant.  And we were happy."

I didn't want to ask him again how he'd lost her, so I waited.  "She died giving birth to our son."  Reaching for the golden teapot he added, "And that is enough for today, my friend."  As he filled our cups, the eyes in the forest receded and his smile recovered like a freshly watered bloom. He redirected our conversation to his lupines. 

"They are tenacious and grow like weeds.  One has to be careful with lupines."  And indeed he was right.  By the time his home and possessons had been auctioned, this plant with the wolfish name was rank among the columbines and bellflowers.

In 2001 June burst forth in a riot of floral glory.  I heard him in his back yard listeneing to songs from the movies and spraying the elegant beds of iris, and the honeysuckle that ran unhindered along his walled Eden.  I needed to borrow a garden trowel and traced the green path along his house to the backyard.  The lawn muffled my footsteps.  And it was then that I saw it – tattooed on his bicep: a large picture of a snarling wolf.  He wheeled round in his undershirt and stared from behind a scarlet face.  Forcing a smile he reached for a long-sleeved shirt he'd lain on a lawn chair.

"You statrtled me, Mr. Gormand…please, sit down."  He was auspicious and filled with grace.  "I see that you have discovered my little secret."  Which he dismissed as a dare between drunken buddies.  He invited me to tea on the lawn and apologized that he was out of honey.  But through the wallpaper of hospitality, awkwardness bulged.  Something had emerged that was unintended.  Although my affection conspired to protect his secrets, he sensed my curiousity, set his teacup down and explained: "In 1945 I was seventeen.  My friends and I loved the mother country.  We joined the White Wolves to protect her from Communism.  But it also meant siding with the Nazis.  I was too young and too stupid to understand what I had done.  The war ended quickly, and the White Wolf remains."

I believed him, but I felt uneasy.  In this man of mystery I sensed more.  That night I dreamed: Moonlight shines on a river of purple lupines.  Mr. Simpson swims desperately.  Struggling aginst the current, he calls, "Lara!  Lara!"  And as he sinks beneath the turbulent flow, I see blazing, luminescent eyes.

August burned mercilessly.  And the hunger of plants was evident.  Mr. Simpson and I were talking over the hedgerow when I saw him look to the street below and watched the colour bleed from his face.  Another man was looking back intently: a black-headed man, needing a shave.  Mr. Simpson excused himself claiming he had left the water running in the back yard.  And I wondered what could have made this powerful man blanch as he did.

On what seemed the hottest night that month, my air conditioner broke down.  And through the open windows Moon River entered for what must have been the twentieth time.  But it was not the demented loop of lyrics that brought me to his door; it was the sudden, arching scratch of stylus on vinyl that had brought me there.  It was unusual and alerted me.  I climbed the three steps to his verandah; the lights were on and the door was slightly ajar.  When he didn't answer I walked in and was shocked by the red blotches that seeped from his belly and chest.

He had called me by crawling to the cabinet and overturning the record player.  His lips moved and I bent to hear him: "Lara…please…forgive me."  By the time the ambulance and police arrived, my friend was dead.

The RCMP captured the black-headed man at the tollbooth of the Coquihalla Highway.  And the trial exposed the secrets of the tattooed wolf: My friend was Bojan Vladic, of the White Wolves, a paramilitary group in the wars that had recently fractured Yugoslavia.  His assassin, a Bosnian refugee, described how they had cut his uncle with razor blades and pulled off his skin with pliers.  How they had murdered his aunt and sent the family to concentration camps.  Settled in British Columbia, the Bosnian was astounded when he saw Vladic casually walking in a Kelowna mall.  He followed him to his car, obtained the license number and discovered where he lived.

The refugee was convicted and sentenced.  But his testimony profoundly distrubed me.  He had fingered Vladic with other atrocities, but I couldn't reconcile them with the memories of a broad smile, of aromatic tea and legions of vibrant flowers.  I was dismayed, then angry.  This Vladic must have lied to me!  I challenged the warmth that had grown between us and debated whether anything he'd told me was true.  Who was this man!? 

About a month later I received a letter written in an elegant hand.  Mr. Simpson had dated it August 5, 2001, a week before his murder.

Dear Mr. Gormand,

I have instructed my solicitor to mail this letter to you in the

event of my death.  For you are my only friend.  And I have

things to confess so that you may know the man who called you friend.

 

But first, I apologize for playing Moon River so often.  You see…Lara and I

played it frequently.  It became what you Canadians call, Our Song.

 

One night in June while walking back from a movie, we passed by a

pub out of which her uncle and three of his associates spilled.

They were drunk and hurled insults as we hurried onward.  A

bottle passed over her shoulder and shattered in front of us.

We ran across a field where we turned to face them beneath

a large Oak tree.  I was beaten into insensibility.  And the

beasts raped and brutalized her.

 

While I was unconscious she awakened.  We had lost our child,

and she, in the depths of her despair,

flung herself from the hospital balcony.

 

Like the wolf on my arm, I howled and snarled my grief – I wanted to kill

them all.  I planned.  I searched.  I was careful.  And although

it took a few years, I found the associates and slaughtered them. 

When I was ready for the uncle,

he had dissolved into the chaos of the Balkan War.

 

So I made a deal with the devil.  Because I'd been a White Wolf

I used my war record to gain influence with the paramilitaries,

who also called themselves White Wolves.

They found him, secluded in a farmhouse by a river.

 

It was a night in April, the snow had melted and the rivers were swollen. 

Nine of us moved on the farmhouse.

I was told to cover the back.  The front was kicked open

and the squeals of children haunt me still as I write.

 

Someone from the barn ran quickly to the river.

I heard two shots from within followed by shouts

and the wail of someone in agony.

 

Inside, a young man lay dead and two children wept, "Pappa! Pappa!"

A paramilitary clenched an older woman by the hair

and held up a photograph torn from the wall.  His mouth

cursed her and demanded to know where her husband was.

When she would not say, he simply shot her in the head

and pointed the pistol at one of the children.

 

A mother covered the child and desperately pointed to a

closet.  "He is behind there!  Behind there!"  She pleaded.

They smashed a walled hiding place

and dragged out the terrified uncle.

 

The paramilitary known as Ratko calmly asked me, "Is this the man?" 

I simply nodded.  They bound him firmly in a chair,

stripped his clothes, slashed him with razor blades, and with

pliers tore strips of skin from his quivering body.

 

The family was all tears, wailing and agony.  I was stunned:

the price I had paid for this man had been too great.

I had gone too far into the heart of darkness.

As though in a dream I raised my weapon to his head

and it was finished: for both him, and me.

 

I was a walking dead-man when I moved next door to you.

And I could not reconcile what I had done

with the memory of the woman I loved.

 

One night the radio played Moon River, and the flood of my

grief burst forth.  I remembered a moment in our garden.

Lara was smelling lilacs while gently chiding me for something

I had said: "Bojan," she said gently, "It is better to plant a flower

than to curse the soil."  And so I did.

 

I understand, Mr. Gormand, that planting beauty, alone

cannot absolve me.  But it is something…is it not?

Otherwise, how can any man be redeemed?

 

Do you remember that man with dark black hair, looking

at us from the street?  he was Fatima's brother.  I'm sure it was he

who fled from the barn.  I don't know how he found me,

but now all that remains is for me to wait.

 

I have enjoyed our times together.

 

Your friend,

Mr. Simpson

 

P.S. Please, tend the lupines.  They do not respect boundaries.

 

It is night.  And at any moment I expect to hear Moon River floating through my bedroom window.  I've re-read his letter a dozen times.  It is as beautiful and as brutal as roses.  And I feel bewildered, like someone lost in a maze.  Who was this man who nurtured flowers, recited Wordsworth and loved music?  Could such a man have lived in the same body as the one who murdered for love?

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11 thoughts on “Mr. Simpson & The Wolf

  1. Giovanni,
    This is my third attempt to leave you a comment about this story. Each time my computer crashes, I say less and less, but here goes.

    It is really well done. I hope you will enter it in contests or submit it for publication. Mr. Simpson is very well drawn and complete–completely human, as beautiful and as brutal as that can be. Mr. Gormand is less clear, but he doesn’t need to be since his job is to tell the story and he does that very well.

    In the spirit of making a suggestion, I wonder if the end is actually the sentence about the roses. It is more like a conclusion than the questions that follow. There are a couple of typos, too. Really good work. Very moving.

    Virginia

  2. There must be something wrong with the WordPress servers because this is my third time in trying to respond to your comment. When I was trying to post my story I had to type it out three times before it would “stick”. I decided to not try to fix typos because I was afraid I’d lose the story again. It was quite frustrating, to say the least.

    Thank you very much for your feedback. I thought the same about Mr. Gormand (although I had some uncertainty), and your feedback verifies it – thanks.

    I like your last thought about where the story ends. I’ll give it some more thought. Thank you for reading the story and for perservering in your comment.

    If you need me to read any of your material in future, don’t hesitate to ask.

    Giovanni

  3. Giovanni – I really felt for “Mr. Simpson”. The pain he had suffered! You kept me very interested. You write well, with some lovely descriptive language and creative use of wording.

    To answer your specific questions, I think Mr Simpson is very well developed. His language is correct, consistent, and befitting a professor of English. I almost thought “we happily embraced our future” was too much, but then remembered that English is his second language, and that, as a scholar he might well say stuff like that.

    I agree with first 50 about Gormand – he’s as clear as need be.

    As far as the theme. To me the theme is of a man with a past hiding and then revealing himself gradually to a new friend. Gormond’s struggle doesn’t come until the end, until after Simpson’s death. If you want that to be more of the story, it needs more attention.

    The end is a little fuzzy. I want more of the struggle, more questions and/or answers, more about Gormand’s reaction. Or less, as first 50 suggested. Leave it at the roses, and let the readers ask themselves the questions.

    One more thing. The beginning confused me. I get the impression that Gormand can’t stand the Moon River thing,”over and over” “every evening” (I know it was usually just once, but I had to read it twice to get it clear) but then he says it seems to “reach out like a tendril…” which sounds affectionate. After I read the story, I got that the first two paragraphs were the end, after which you went back for the background. Somehow, it didn’t work for me. I mean, it’s a good idea, but I got confused. Maybe its just me.Those two paragraphs didn’t hint that the ending of the music would be an alarm – quite the opposite. I think a little re-wording and rearranging would make it really powerful.

    Thanks for sharing this sad and moving story!

    Peg

  4. I very much enjoyed reading the story. I am sorry that I do not presently have enough time to give you a more in depth answers. I will try to re-read it and do that soon for you. My daughter came home ill from school today, and we have been at the doctor, so it has been a somewhat stressful day. You do have quite a talent for description, and all your characters did seem well thought out and developed. Are you doing NaNoWriMo this year?

    Aurora
    http://nanowrimo.org

  5. Hi Peg,

    Thanks for your feedback. I’m glad you zeroed in on “we happily embraced our future”. At first I had written “and we blossomed”; my wife said she felt it was over the top. I agree with both of you about your respective comments. I’m going to rethink that phrase. I may just have him say, “And we were happy.”

    I appreciate your comments on ‘the struggle.’ I sensed that more needed to be said. And I think I will write more. Your feedback is confirming intuitions that I had about that part of the story. More thinking on this required.

    My wife also felt somewhat like you did about the first two paragraphs. I’ll have to review them as well. I may put the story down for a few weeks to let it simmer. Right now I think I’m too close to it.

    Thanks for your great feedback.

    Giovanni

  6. Hi Aurora

    Thanks for being willing to give me feedback on my story – it will be most appreciated. I can remember when my son was little and he’d come home from school sick. Hope your daughter feels better soon.

    I just checked the NaNoWriMo web site. It looks really interesting. I think I’ll consider it when November rolls around. Thanks for the tip.

    Look forward to hearing from you again.

    Giovanni

  7. Does Mr. Simpson have a clear voice of his own. That is, is his language, considering that he is a university professor, distinctive?

    *yes, his language is distinct in it’s directness. The succinct way he applies his words. Brief, knowing, strong. The narration is more flowered, more romantic, more descriptive, but from the watchers view it does not seem like too much. It’s truly beautiful, the phrases and descriptions you have used here, Giovanni.*

    Is Mr. Gormand clear in the mind’s eye?

    *Mr. Gormand serves the purpose most storytellers serve; that of a party watching and retelling, someone who’s attention is clearly focused on his surroundings and his sense of awe and admiration for Mr. Simpson, which then turns to confusion and a sense of betrayal. If you’re asking if i have a clear view physically, I think there is enough there for each person to conjure up there own physicalities for the man.*

    Does the theme clearly emerge? Does Mr. Gormand’s struggle with the nature of his friend emerge clearly?

    * I think there are many themes running throughout. The themes of Duality, Judging based on appearances, et cetera, and the themes of love lost and redemption, i. e. his attempt at revenge and the self-sacrifices he made that were ultimately not worth the torments and were a poor representative for his lost lover’s life. There is a tone to the piece that is flourished with Romanticism, a lust for life in all forms. Mr. Gormand’s struggle is one we all have had to suffer- that of finding out that someone was not all we assumed- albeit there’s a greater loss due to the sense of hero worship the character has for Mr. Simpson.*

    What did you like? Didn’t like? Would have liked?

    *I liked your classic sound, the eloquence you give to the voices of your characters. I like the seemingly simple story of two neighbors spending relaxing time together in a garden evolving into such a twisting, gritty story. There’s so much despair suddenly thrown into the setting, but in the end the character of Mr. Simpson redeems himself from his friend’s suspicions and mistrusts, I feel. I know that despite the atrocities he had comitted, I forgave the character because he realized it was all in vain; it’s that realization, coupled with the grief over his wife’s death, that make him redeemable in the end. I like a short story with a rollercoaster of emotions. I actually like this story more than the first in the series, and think maybe that as you write you are getting more and more involved in the characters you speak of. Maybe another look at the first story once the series is complete?

    There’s not a whole lot to say regarding what I did not like in the story. I do agree with first 50 regarding the ending. I think that ending with questions may weaken the effect of the letter and the overall story.
    I was enthralled, though. Thank you for this. It started my day off with some intelligence, which at my workplace, is rare.;)*

    Any other comments?
    *Cannot wait for the next in the series.*

    Cheers-
    ~jillAnne~

  8. Even though I’m not much of a writer or a critic, I found this story very evocative. The envionrment and characters were very clear to me as was the backstory in eastern europe. I think there’s always room to add more detail, but how could that be done without adding to the length. I found the length to be perfect but maybe there could be some more details about who the writer is and perhaps the relationship of the main characters residences. Great writing!

  9. and where is the poet who lurks and then runs….?
    *i have reappeared from a brief hiatus, myself*

    much appreciated….and much admired….just wanted you to know.

    hope the writing is easing well from the brain to your fingertips

  10. Heya Giovanni,

    I came by to visit after a long time not visiting blogs, and expected to find a zillion missed posts here. But no! Not a word from our eloquent host since June! Have the northern winds blown you away? Or are you hunkered down for the winter at your keyboard, pounding out stories day by day?

    Hope you are well. Come back sometime.

    Best,
    Peg

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