There
are ghosts. When someone you love dies, they continue
to haunt you. Yet I am an Atheist, I do not believe
there is a God and I do not believe there is an
afterlife, so I am satisfied that the haunting is an
illusion.
When news reached me that Mimi had died, I began to
see her walking ahead of me in the street, sitting at
a table half hidden by a menu, departing from the far
end of the museum gallery just as I was entering. In
crowds I heard her calling my name. In dreams I was
stunned and delighted to find her alive. Astonished,
I would admit to her how I thought she was dead and
would beg to know what happened, why hadn't I been
told she was yet alive? She would say with disturbing
nonchalance that it had been a mistake, a simple
misunderstanding.
The early visitations were upsetting, but years have
passed and the haunting has become more restrained
and appreciated, a ghost that haunts with my
approval. I don't want to forget her. I see her, a
little woman, I doubt she reached five feet. She had
an unusually long philtrum. Always wore her hair
short, manageable.
The woman had a passion for life and for New York
City. After retiring from a career at the Japanese
embassy, she didn't want to return home to the much
safer Tokyo. She loved New York, the museums, the
concert halls, the restaurants, and the city's
diversity of people. Even though she had been mugged
three times, maybe four, on New York's streets, still
she did not want to return to Japan.
Okay, her name wasn't Mimi. That was my nickname for
her. She had a proper Japanese name, but one day over
lunch we were talking about that thing which we've
always wanted to do yet never would. She wanted to
sing the role of Mimi from Puccini's La Bohème.
I was introduced to Mimi by my first wife,
Matsui-san, who called Mimi her aunt. They were
related by marriage. We were a threesome to many
events and fine dinners, but after Matsui-san and I
separated, my ex-wife returning to Japan, Mimi and I
continued to celebrate the city.
We were great walkers and thought nothing of leaving
a meal at one fine restaurant to seek a dessert at
another forty blocks away. At meals and during walks
we'd tell the stories about our lives. We might walk
Manhattan until the dawn. I remember one summer night
we were passing the Flat Iron Building, heading south
on Fifth Avenue with the notion we would take the
ferry to Staten Island for breakfast and to attend
church. We began singing every Christmas carol we
knew. We both loved Christmas carols. We got as far
as Battery Park when it began to rain and we gave it
up.
Mimi took me to Japan, thinking it would be a good
experience for this poet to visit a foreign country.
While I was in Japan, my ex-wife, still a dear
friend, hosted my stay. We were a threesome again.
In Nara, Japan the temple compounds are crowded with
deer. They are sacred, having delivered some
religious personage to the city long, long time ago.
When my back was turned, one of these ruminants stole
the map from my hand. I swiveled around and faced
this beast that was calmly staring at me and chewing
the map. I grabbed it to yank it back, but the deer
grit his teeth and tried to pull away. I pulled. He
butted me. I butted him. He slammed his head into me
and I put him in a half nelson. I kept him from
swallowing and was forcing him to the ground when I
realized a crowd of shocked Japanese had formed a
circle about the pair of us, bewildered by my
behavior. Mimi and Matsui-san advised me to let the
creature have our map. I let go. The deer made no
move to escape, but continued to chew and stare at
me. If his face had had the appropriate muscles, I'm
sure I would have seen him smirking.
Mimi confessed that she felt New York City was too
difficult and dangerous for the elderly and that one
day she would return to Japan. I am glad Ms Keogh, my
present wife, entered into my life in time to meet
Mimi. The two of them became great friends and our
adventures continued for more years. In time, Mimi
had moved out of her Astoria apartment and was living
with a friend far out on Long Island, too far to make
regular trips into Manhattan. She had grown tired.
She began to have trouble with her memory and this
frightened her. And then the final blow, her friend
died suddenly and unexpectedly. She discovered the
body.
Ms Keogh, Mimi, and I had one last dinner together at
The Terrace, a restaurant on the roof of a building
on the Upper West Side (400 West 119th Street). It
was where the three of us had our first dinner
together, but at this last meal we also had the
company of her brother-in-law. He had come to the
United States to facilitate her return home. It would
be the last time we would see Mimi. That was years
ago, however, whenever Ms Keogh and I sit down to a
particularly fine meal in a restaurant of unusual
quality, we are reminded of Mimi and toast her. There
are those among the dead whom we wish to invite to
haunt us.
There is a famous painting by van Gogh, "The
Cafe Terrace on the Place du Forum, Arles, at
Night". I tell Ms Keogh that we will go there
and sit at one of the sidewalk tables drinking an
anonymous red Rhone wine poured from a black bottle
with a handwritten label. If we wait long enough,
eventually the dead will leisurely stroll by. Perhaps
on the first night, but maybe not until the third or
fourth, our dead friend will be found among them,
casually walking pass on the stones, yet it will be
possible to call out to her and have her stop, join
us at table, share in the wine, and we will be able
to talk again, at least for the remainder of the
night.
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