Short Fiction
Dreams of Leila Come at Dusk
a series of words, inspired by a walk and a woman
first written on a napkin in Germany, 1992... while remembering
by David Ortmann
It is early evening, almost night. I wander over serpentine streets of cobblestone through a dark city on the water. Perhaps it is Stockholm, or Paris, or Prague. I don't know. The city is as ancient as I am, and perhaps more so. On evenings like these, if one listens carefully, a city may whisper her secrets. There is water in the air around me. I hear it against the coastline, blocks away. The water strokes my face as a lover once did, one whose name I have long forgotten. Music pours onto the street from the cafes and bars that line them. From one a pianola sings her lonely song. From another, it is the heady celebration of jazz. Somewhere among these drift waves of Dvorak. Symphony No. 9, I think.
People flock to the town square, squawking like hungry crows. I feel truly a part of this evening-though somehow separate from these birds with their pecking and picking. I am in black: a hat, a cape, and puff upon a cigarette as I tread these worn stones. The heels of my boots make the most glorious sounds as they echo against these ancient streets. This is my contribution to the music around me. There is room for me here.
I close my eyes and think of Leila. Dreams of Leila always come at dusk. She should be at my side, as she has been so many nights before, resplendent in her black gown, enjoying a cigarette through a holder. Tossing back her long inky hair, laughing, and suggesting we stop for some wine, a coffee, or a scotch. Sometimes we hold hands as lovers do. Other times we giggle, two school children again. At other times we simply are - strolling, arms intertwined, with the sobriety and elegance that has become our style.
Birds stop in mid-peck to stare at these exquisite urbane apparitions, fleetingly and painfully visible, making the most of the time warp in which the find themselves entangled.