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She was nearly to the gate.
The elegant grace of her movement exceeded the expectations created within Hans by the cultivated taste her voice had possessed as it slipped out of the phone; pouring into his ear like the sweet syrup of a lover’s whisper. “My friend says you know much about cuckoo clocks.’ “I suppose I do.” Hans had been proud of himself for responding so quickly with an answer that affirmed his expertise, yet humble enough not to sound egotistical “Well.” Her voice tickled Han’s ear like the tongue of a woman on the brink of a tryst. “I just obtained a five leaf, two bird, Black Forest cuckoo. I have no idea of what vintage it may be and I can’t seem to get it to work.” She was at the gate, nearly gone. The clock was nearly unwound. He should run after her. Hold her in his life. He should wind the clock. Keep it ticking. # Twice times a thousand cuckoos before, Hans stood in at the window, peering around the sheers that only allowed him the façade of being hid. He knew that she would see him, if only she would look. She was nearly to the gate, but still hadn’t looked up. Her eyes remained on the paper where he presumed she had written his address. She was nearly to the gate. The elegant grace of her movement exceeded the expectations created within Hans by the cultivated taste her voice had possessed as it slipped out of the phone; pouring into his ear like the sweet syrup of a lover’s whisper. “My friend says you know much about cuckoo clocks.’ “I suppose I do.” Hans had been proud of himself for responding so quickly with an answer that affirmed his expertise, yet humble enough not to sound egotistical “Well.” Her voice tickled Han’s ear like the tongue of a woman on the brink of a tryst. “I just obtained a five leaf, two bird, Black Forest cuckoo. I have no idea of what vintage it may be and I can’t seem to get it to work.” “Bring it over. Perhaps I can help.” Hans had tried not to allow any further expectations to creep into his mind. However, with a voice like hers, expectations had to be expected. |
Hans stood at the window, peering around the sheers that hid him, but only emotionally. Intellectually, he knew that she would see him, if only she would turn and look. She hadn’t turned once.
She was nearly to the gate. Hans listened to the clock, a five leaf, single bird cuckoo. Its German regula nearly at the bottom of their chains. The small paper m‰che bird had cuckooed twenty-three times since the last time those weights had been raised. If you like this, you might also like "Wanna Go for A Ride" (novel) Available for Kindle on Amazon
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And there she stood, at the gate, already exceeding Hans’ expectant reveries.
Hans stood in the hallway, cloaked in anticipation of the bell’s ring, or the door’s knock, whichever she chose as her beckon for entry. It had been so long since he’d worn this cloak of anticipation, since he’d first met his long dead wife. Peering into the parlor at his own five leaf, single bird, Black Forest cuckoo, he shook off the cloak, letting the anticipation pool on the floor. That clock had played such a role in separating him from his wife. It had ticked off all the years without any companion to replace her. But it had not separated him from his yearning. The cuckoo ejected itself from behind its door, calling out the hour.
Perfect.
Right on time.
That pleased Hans. The ersatz bird chimed assurance that upon first sight Ingrid would see more than a middle-aged man with knowledge of witless clocks that housed paper mâche birds.
Framed in the door, she gazed at him with a snow owl’s inspection, blue-gray wolf eyes set in skin poured of sugared cream, framed by wheat-gold lockets.
How ironic.
How right.
The magic of a cuckoo, his or hers, had brought fourth a true Gibson Girl through time since the long passed Victorian era. Her face carried the disarming, come-hither Gibson smile. Her hair perpetually flowed over her shoulders, a never-ending fountain of comeliness.
"Hi.” Honey-sweetened tea warmed Han’s ears. ‘I’m Ingrid. You must be….”
“Hans. Yes. Please come in.” Hans wished she would be wearing a cloak or coat. Taking it would have given him excuse to be close to her, to reach for her, perhaps allow a brushing touch to relish after she had gone. But, she wore no cloak. The warmth followed Ingrid through the door betraying the reality of the day and the chilled solitude trapped within his home. He gestured. “Let’s go into the parlor. Can I get you something? Tea?”
Ingrid moved to the parlor, plying Hans with eyes impressed at his astuteness to not offer her coffee. Her pupils dilated, pleasing Hans. She turned away, looking into the parlor. Hans dropped his gaze. Her child-bearing hips, gave her skirt a womanly flare. Her tapered waist was not the allusion of a corset. The fullness of bosom matched womanliness of her hips. Hans pupils dilated in simpatico with hers.
“Oh!” Ingrid’s herbal sweet voice was spiced with genuine surprise. “You live alone, don’t you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You’re place is so – so perfect. Even the overly crowded Victorian dŽcor is so -- arranged -- so fastidious, almost compulsive.”
“Hmmm. I think I prefer ‘fastidious.’”
“Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s commendable. I mean I wouldn’t expect it in a man, not most men. It’s a bit attractive. Alright, fastidious it is.
“Yes. Well, perhaps we should take a look at that clock of yours.”
As soon as Ingrid had unwrapped the clock from the baby’s blanket swathing it, and held it properly cradled in delicate fingers, Hans knew its construction came during the same era which had molded women like Ingrid, the Victorian ear. Yet, it wouldn’t do to reveal that information just yet. He needed lingering moments, moments with Ingrid.
#
Discussions of clocks led to more discussions of clocks. Like couplets that lead to stanzas that lead to verse, the connection between Hans and Ingrid, lead from phone to coffeehouses to restaurants. Polite conversation gave way to repartee, gave way to embroiled discussion, full and satisfying, seductive and lingering. Lingering one night over half-full snifters of B&B that went untouched for many minutes despite the richness of the Benedictine and the culture of the French grapes trampled into the cognac.
“Truly the death of Queen Victoria brought a sad end to an era unmatched in culture, art and beauty. Despite her parochial and dogmatic rules of proper behavior, she must be forgiven for the pain she endured. And, how could one ever be critical of any human so capable of carrying the torch of love the way she did. I am truly so glad you are a student of the Victorian era as I am.”
“Yes.” Hans could not disagree. He could only smile and absorb the beauty of Ingrid’s passion. Her description allied perfectly with his memory. He reached for the hand she’d extended across the table, ostensibly as appreciation, but in reality an invitation for seduction. Abiding by her seduction, he let his fingers linger above hers in a psychic pre-touch, the hands of his watch jumping off its face through the crystal. “Oh. I need to get home. It’s late.”
“Why?” Ingrid nabbed his fingers before his seduction could melt away. “It’s just after eight. I know you always want to be home by nine, but couldn’t you stay a little later -- this once. Just to be with me?
“I – I need to get home and wind the cuckoo. You understand. I can’t let the cuckoo stop ticking.”
“Sure. I understand.” Non-plussed, Ingrid released Hans’s hand. Her pupils constricted. Ardor regained Ingrid’s grip on her sensibilities. “Perhaps, I could come with. You took a cab and could use a ride, couldn’t you?”
Her logic lingered as did hope. She plied Hans with her snow owl inspection. Her pupils dilated opening a window to her intentions.
She watched as Hans wound the cuckoo, a simple gesture of pulling chains to raise the regula. Yet, Hans’ winding of the clock held the manner of ritual to it. He stepped to the clock, caressing the wood carved leaves with fingertips, murmuring low, secret words as if to a lover. Then, he gently strung the chain through the clock.
“Perhaps, ‘compulsive’ is a better word.”
“Huh?” Hans only partially turned. She gestured to the clock. Hans nodded.
“For a man who is so assured, who seems to possess more than a century of wisdom and knowledge, you have an odd way of seducing a woman.”
"Hmmm. Time has taught me that the concept of man seducing woman is simply a façade; not to say that seduction never takes place. Can I get you anything?”
Ingrid nodded.
“What? Tea? An aperitif?”
Ingrid shook her head.
“What, then?” Hans opened his arms in question. All the lingering moments swirled together creating a dervish that blew Ingrid into Hans’ open arms.
#
"I love the way you cook for me. I love the way you adore me. I love the way you compliment me. I love the way you bed me.”
Hans responded with fingertips tracing the creamy smooth curve from the small of Ingrid’s back into her hip. He considered that against such flesh, even his high fiber expensive sheets must feel coarse. The sweep of his hand spoke of his reciprocal feelings, defying verbal confines. Hans pulled Ingrid against him. Seductive conversation had given way to tactile expression. From his flesh through hers he imbued her with the sanctity of their intimacy.
“I wish I could reciprocate for you. I’ve been here over a dozen times. I’d like to show you my cooking talents. Lavish you with the satin sheets I’ve bought just for you. Treat you to the sunrise as it is framed in my bedroom window.”
“You could cook for me here.” Han’s pressed his lips against hers, distracting her tongue with his before it could conjure more words.
Ingrid slid her hand along his flesh, reaching for him in a way that promised verbal communication would be brief, giving away to a deeper physical commune of their love.
"Please hold that thought for a moment, dear. Dawdle on it if you will. There’s something I need to do first.” Hans slid from under the covers.
Standing before the five-leaf, Black Forest cuckoo, Hans murmured the words spoken every night.
“On to you I give my time that I might remain ageless.”
“There you are. I knew I’d find you down here.”
Hans turned, finding an angel not even Rafael could render so ravishingly. Framed in the door, the light of the hallway spilling over her shoulders, through her hair, Ingrid shamed Venus with a beauty that held Cleopatra in contempt. She had become more beautiful as the eyes of his soul had seen her with the close scrutiny of love.
“I knew,” Ingrid stepped into the room, “when you grabbed your robe and didn’t go into the bathroom, that you would be here, with that clock.
“You’re naked.” Hans drank in Ingrid like some warm cider.
“Yes I am, Hans.”
“And so beautiful. Beautiful beyond expression.”
“But, you are so expressive, Hans. I know.”
“It’s beyond what I can express.”
"Thank you. What is it about that clock, Hans? Tell me?”
Hans peered past Ingrid to the mirror above the mantle, seeing himself as much, much older man, a decrepitly old man. A man so decrepit only years together could foster a love. For Ingrid and him, it had only been weeks.
“Time is my enemy. It can strike me so that I cannot match your beauty with my own.”
“So, in your mind, you’ve elicited the cuckoo as your comrade in youth? Oh, Hans you are such a romantic, but you needn’t worry. I have never found an attraction for a man like I have for you.”
Ingrid plied Hans with her snow owl inspection, but still didn’t see his if-only-you-knew sadness. He cloaked it with a carnal smile.
“Come with me.” He took her hand
“Where? Not back to the kitchen?”
“No! I believe we’ve already made love in the kitchen, maybe more than once. However, the gazebo has not yet been blessed by our unfettered expression of admiration, adoration, and amore. Come. It’s a warm night.”
#
Hans stood before the cuckoo. He was not with Ingrid that night. Instead he’d conjured a night of many years earlier. With him, brought in the carriage of his reflective introspection, stood his earthly departed wife.
“You are leaving me behind,” his wife had pleaded. Already she was nearly decade older than he, though when they had married they were the same in age.
Hans had pulled his hand from the texture of the carved leaves. He hadn’t look at his wife. “We could get you a clock. Then you could come with me, be with me always.”
“I don’t want to be with you always. I don’t want to be with anyone always. I want to grow old with you.”
Hans put his hand on the chain.
“Don’t Hans. It’s a pact with the devil.’
“I may never meet him.”
“Surely, you can’t expect that clock to tick forever. What will do when it’s works can no keep it going?”
Hans tugged the chain, lifting the weights. His wife was no longer with him. She hadn’t been for years, decades. Hans turned from the clock, knowing he’d be just as young tomorrow as had been today, or the day before, or before that, orÉ.
#
"Could you love me if I was old, decrepit.” Hans brought the melon to his nose, drinking in its ripeness as he likewise drank in the ripe figure of Ingrid sorting through cherries.
“Of course I could.” Ingrid lifted a cherry to her lips, shifting her eyes mischievously toward the clerk. “It would only be fair. I’d be just as decrepit and you’d still love me. I know you would. You’re that kind of man.”
Hans knew he could. He’d love his wife until she suffered through decrepit old age and cancer. Ingrid took the cherry in her mouth, then spit the seed into an empty plastic produce bag. She tossed it away without ever looking at the offensively appearing germ of life that had created the cherry.
“I mean what if you were still beautiful as you are and I became decrepit.
“Stop that. That’s nonsense. I couldn’t imagine that. How could that happen? Sometimes, for someone whose wisdom is that of a hundred year old man, you talk like a child.”
Holding another cherry with lips that appeared Valentine pink in contrast to the red of the fruit, Ingrid threw her arms around Hans’ neck. She pressed the tart cum sweet orb into his mouth with her tongue.
“That’s what I like about you. There is still youth in you. There’s still that child’s wonder of exploration.”
Hans bared a smile, displaying the cherry pit clenched between his teeth. Ingrid turned away.
“Oh please; not that kind of childishness. You’re a man of class. Come! Let’s take the groceries back to my place. I’ll cook. I know you don’t have a computer, but I want to see how you do with mine. I know you will pick it up fast. You’re such a fast learner. Like a child.”
Ingrid giggled. Hans cringed.
“I’ll let you cook, but let’s go back to my place.”
“But mine is closer.”
“If we start dinner at your place, I won’t be able to get home in time toÉ.
“Éwind the clock! I know. Hans, I’m trying to understand, but you are taxing my patience. You need to come to my place some time. This thing we have is getting pretty serious. Besides, I purchased some nightwear for tormenting you during your computer lesson.”
“Let’s pick it up and you can torment me while you cook at my place.”
“Hans!”
“I’m sorry dear. Call me quirky. I just need to be back at my place before nine. If you love me for this, I promise I will love you for whatever odd quirks are yours.
“It’s more than a quirk.”
“Admittedly.”
“It’s obsessive!”
“If you say.”
“It’s compulsive!”
The psycho-diagnostic tenor of the declaration hurt. Still, it was a faade Hans could live with. Had to live with. Perhaps Ingrid could come to resolve with parts of the truth, perhaps not. Certainly not the realization that she might be left behind. For all her wonders, Ingrid was not as strong as his late wife.
“Okay. It’s compulsive.”
#
"Where are we going?”
Hans looked at the turn not taken, down the road always traveled with comfort. He wished he’d taken Ingrid up on her offer to teach him to drive a couple months earlier.
“We’re going to my place.”
“I thought we were going to change at my place, then go to Ristorante Del Monico.”
“I need to get something to wear from my closet.”
“But you have nice things to wear at my place.”
“Relax, Hans. It’s early. You have several hours before you have to wind your clock.”
Hans considered the birthday packages in the back seat, all beautifully wrapped with Ingrid’s generosity for him, despite his reluctance to give her his age. He considered the two weeks since grocery shopping together and how much less he’d seen of Ingrid in that two weeks.
“Alright. I’ll just stay in the car. You just grab what you need and change at my place.”
“Oh, Hans! At least come inside and see my place. Several months of dating, you’ve never once seen it.”
“Okay. Perhaps I should. As long as we can get back to my place quick enough for me to shower and ready.”
Ingrid’s place was a surprise. Literally!
“SURPRISE!”
Crowded in Ingrid’s living room were all the friends she’d acquired from knowing him and friend’s he’d acquired from knowing her.
She’d surprised him.
She’d tricked him.
It was wonderful.
It was terrifying.
It was 5:30PM.
“Isn’t this tremendous. Ingrid really loves you. You’re so lucky. Look at all the people she pulled together for your birthday, Hans?”
It was amazing. Tears pooled in the bottom of Hans’ eyes.
It was 6:30pm
“Come, Hans time to cut the cake. Everybody’s waiting!”
“It was 7:30 PM.”
“Open your presents, Hans! Start with this one.”
It was 8:30PM!”
“Where’s Hans? Has anyone seen Hans?”
#
Hans stood before the five-leaf, single bird, Black Forest Cuckoo. The German regula were nearly at the bottom of their chain. Walking, it had taken much longer to reach his house than expected. The clock was nearly unwound.
“There you are!” Ingrid had driven. “Everyone at the party is wondering where you are! Where is the birthday boy? But, I knew. Here you are, once again standing in front of that clock.”
Hans turned and dropped his eyes. Framed in the doorway with the hall light spilling over her shoulders, through her hair, she was now the archangel of reckoning, his reckoning.
“Tell me something, Hans. I’ve always wondered why the ultimate expert in Black Forest Cuckoos only has one cuckoo. Where are all your other clocks?”
“I only need the one, Ingrid. This one!”
“Obviously! What is it about that one cuckoo clock?”
Hans looked at his single five-leaf, Black Forest Cuckoo clock. Could he explain. Would he have time? He looked at Ingrid, words piling up in his throat, words Ingrid deserved to hear. He opened his mouth. Opened it again. He started, then started again, then again.
“IngridÉ. Ingrid, IÉ. I’m over 130 yearsÉ.
“Oh for Christ, Hans! Not only are you obsessive-compulsive, but you’re deluded! Well, at least your delusion made it entertaining, but I can’t be second to a stupid paper m‰che bird.”
The sonorous ghost of a door slamming stood where Ingrid had a moment before.
Hans stood at the window, peering around the sheers that hid him, but only emotionally. Intellectually, he knew that she would see him, if only she would turn and look. She hadn’t turned once.
She was nearly to the gate.
Hans turned to the clock. Its German regula were nearly at the end of their chains. The small bird had cuckooed twenty-three times since the last time the regula had been raised. It would not cuckoo a twenty-fourth time unless, the weights were raised again. Hans turned his gaze back through the window.
She was at the gate, nearly gone.
The clock was nearly unwound.
He should run after her. Hold her in his life.
He should wind the clock. Keep it ticking.
What would happen if the cuckoo didn’t call out the 24th hour? Would all the years rush up on him, leaving him instantly dead? Would he begin aging at that moment, able to age naturally with Ingrid? Would his aging be accelerated? If he ran out the door, into the night, after the one woman he loved since his wife, what would she see? Hans the quirky cuckoo expert, or Hans a man decrepit beyond the years she’d expected? Could Ingrid live with whatever she saw?
The sonorous ghost of a door slamming stood before the window, where Hans had stood moments earlier. For the first time in over eighty-five years Hans had left his house after 9:00 PM. He ran. Not bad for a man who could remember the rule of Queen Victoria. Ingrid was nearly to her car, nearly in it. Nearly gone! Hans cried out to her.
“Ingrid! Wait! I love you! INGRID! LOOK AT ME!”
Hans stood at the window, peering around the sheers that hid him, but only emotionally. Intellectually, he knew that she would see him, if only she would turn and look. She hadn’t turned once.
She was nearly to the gate.
Hans listened to the clock, a five leaf, single bird cuckoo. Its German regula nearly at the bottom of their chains. The small paper m‰che bird had cuckooed twenty-three times since the last time those weights had been raised. Without being raised again, it would not cuckoo a twenty-fourth time.
She was at the gate, nearly gone.
The clock was nearly unwound.
He should run after her. Hold her in his life.
He should wind the clock. Keep it ticking.
#
Twice times a thousand cuckoos before, Hans stood in at the window, peering around the sheers that only allowed him the façade of being hid. He knew that she would see him, if only she would look. She was nearly to the gate, but still hadn’t looked up. Her eyes remained on the paper where he presumed she had written his address.
She was nearly to the gate.
The elegant grace of her movement exceeded the expectations created within Hans by the cultivated taste her voice had possessed as it slipped out of the phone; pouring into his ear like the sweet syrup of a lover’s whisper.
“My friend says you know much about cuckoo clocks.’
“I suppose I do.” Hans had been proud of himself for responding so quickly with an answer that affirmed his expertise, yet humble enough not to sound egotistical
“Well.” Her voice tickled Han’s ear like the tongue of a woman on the brink of a tryst. “I just obtained a five leaf, two bird, Black Forest cuckoo. I have no idea of what vintage it may be and I can’t seem to get it to work.”
“Bring it over. Perhaps I can help.” Hans had tried not to allow any further expectations to creep into his mind. However, with a voice like hers, expectations had to be expected.
And there she stood, at the gate, already exceeding Hans’ expectant reveries.
Hans stood in the hallway, cloaked in anticipation of the bell’s ring, or the door’s knock, whichever she chose as her beckon for entry. It had been so long since he’d worn this cloak of anticipation, since he’d first met his long dead wife. Peering into the parlor at his own five leaf, single bird, Black Forest cuckoo, he shook off the cloak, letting the anticipation pool on the floor. That clock had played such a role in separating him from his wife. It had ticked off all the years without any companion to replace her. But it had not separated him from his yearning. The cuckoo ejected itself from behind its door, calling out the hour.
Perfect.
Right on time.
That pleased Hans. The ersatz bird chimed assurance that upon first sight Ingrid would see more than a middle-aged man with knowledge of witless clocks that housed paper mâche birds.
Framed in the door, she gazed at him with a snow owl’s inspection, blue-gray wolf eyes set in skin poured of sugared cream, framed by wheat-gold lockets.
How ironic.
How right.
The magic of a cuckoo, his or hers, had brought fourth a true Gibson Girl through time since the long passed Victorian era. Her face carried the disarming, come-hither Gibson smile. Her hair perpetually flowed over her shoulders, a never-ending fountain of comeliness.
"Hi.” Honey-sweetened tea warmed Han’s ears. ‘I’m Ingrid. You must be….”
“Hans. Yes. Please come in.” Hans wished she would be wearing a cloak or coat. Taking it would have given him excuse to be close to her, to reach for her, perhaps allow a brushing touch to relish after she had gone. But, she wore no cloak. The warmth followed Ingrid through the door betraying the reality of the day and the chilled solitude trapped within his home. He gestured. “Let’s go into the parlor. Can I get you something? Tea?”
Ingrid moved to the parlor, plying Hans with eyes impressed at his astuteness to not offer her coffee. Her pupils dilated, pleasing Hans. She turned away, looking into the parlor. Hans dropped his gaze. Her child-bearing hips, gave her skirt a womanly flare. Her tapered waist was not the allusion of a corset. The fullness of bosom matched womanliness of her hips. Hans pupils dilated in simpatico with hers.
“Oh!” Ingrid’s herbal sweet voice was spiced with genuine surprise. “You live alone, don’t you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You’re place is so – so perfect. Even the overly crowded Victorian dŽcor is so -- arranged -- so fastidious, almost compulsive.”
“Hmmm. I think I prefer ‘fastidious.’”
“Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s commendable. I mean I wouldn’t expect it in a man, not most men. It’s a bit attractive. Alright, fastidious it is.
“Yes. Well, perhaps we should take a look at that clock of yours.”
As soon as Ingrid had unwrapped the clock from the baby’s blanket swathing it, and held it properly cradled in delicate fingers, Hans knew its construction came during the same era which had molded women like Ingrid, the Victorian ear. Yet, it wouldn’t do to reveal that information just yet. He needed lingering moments, moments with Ingrid.
#
Discussions of clocks led to more discussions of clocks. Like couplets that lead to stanzas that lead to verse, the connection between Hans and Ingrid, lead from phone to coffeehouses to restaurants. Polite conversation gave way to repartee, gave way to embroiled discussion, full and satisfying, seductive and lingering. Lingering one night over half-full snifters of B&B that went untouched for many minutes despite the richness of the Benedictine and the culture of the French grapes trampled into the cognac.
“Truly the death of Queen Victoria brought a sad end to an era unmatched in culture, art and beauty. Despite her parochial and dogmatic rules of proper behavior, she must be forgiven for the pain she endured. And, how could one ever be critical of any human so capable of carrying the torch of love the way she did. I am truly so glad you are a student of the Victorian era as I am.”
“Yes.” Hans could not disagree. He could only smile and absorb the beauty of Ingrid’s passion. Her description allied perfectly with his memory. He reached for the hand she’d extended across the table, ostensibly as appreciation, but in reality an invitation for seduction. Abiding by her seduction, he let his fingers linger above hers in a psychic pre-touch, the hands of his watch jumping off its face through the crystal. “Oh. I need to get home. It’s late.”
“Why?” Ingrid nabbed his fingers before his seduction could melt away. “It’s just after eight. I know you always want to be home by nine, but couldn’t you stay a little later -- this once. Just to be with me?
“I – I need to get home and wind the cuckoo. You understand. I can’t let the cuckoo stop ticking.”
“Sure. I understand.” Non-plussed, Ingrid released Hans’s hand. Her pupils constricted. Ardor regained Ingrid’s grip on her sensibilities. “Perhaps, I could come with. You took a cab and could use a ride, couldn’t you?”
Her logic lingered as did hope. She plied Hans with her snow owl inspection. Her pupils dilated opening a window to her intentions.
She watched as Hans wound the cuckoo, a simple gesture of pulling chains to raise the regula. Yet, Hans’ winding of the clock held the manner of ritual to it. He stepped to the clock, caressing the wood carved leaves with fingertips, murmuring low, secret words as if to a lover. Then, he gently strung the chain through the clock.
“Perhaps, ‘compulsive’ is a better word.”
“Huh?” Hans only partially turned. She gestured to the clock. Hans nodded.
“For a man who is so assured, who seems to possess more than a century of wisdom and knowledge, you have an odd way of seducing a woman.”
"Hmmm. Time has taught me that the concept of man seducing woman is simply a façade; not to say that seduction never takes place. Can I get you anything?”
Ingrid nodded.
“What? Tea? An aperitif?”
Ingrid shook her head.
“What, then?” Hans opened his arms in question. All the lingering moments swirled together creating a dervish that blew Ingrid into Hans’ open arms.
#
"I love the way you cook for me. I love the way you adore me. I love the way you compliment me. I love the way you bed me.”
Hans responded with fingertips tracing the creamy smooth curve from the small of Ingrid’s back into her hip. He considered that against such flesh, even his high fiber expensive sheets must feel coarse. The sweep of his hand spoke of his reciprocal feelings, defying verbal confines. Hans pulled Ingrid against him. Seductive conversation had given way to tactile expression. From his flesh through hers he imbued her with the sanctity of their intimacy.
“I wish I could reciprocate for you. I’ve been here over a dozen times. I’d like to show you my cooking talents. Lavish you with the satin sheets I’ve bought just for you. Treat you to the sunrise as it is framed in my bedroom window.”
“You could cook for me here.” Han’s pressed his lips against hers, distracting her tongue with his before it could conjure more words.
Ingrid slid her hand along his flesh, reaching for him in a way that promised verbal communication would be brief, giving away to a deeper physical commune of their love.
"Please hold that thought for a moment, dear. Dawdle on it if you will. There’s something I need to do first.” Hans slid from under the covers.
Standing before the five-leaf, Black Forest cuckoo, Hans murmured the words spoken every night.
“On to you I give my time that I might remain ageless.”
“There you are. I knew I’d find you down here.”
Hans turned, finding an angel not even Rafael could render so ravishingly. Framed in the door, the light of the hallway spilling over her shoulders, through her hair, Ingrid shamed Venus with a beauty that held Cleopatra in contempt. She had become more beautiful as the eyes of his soul had seen her with the close scrutiny of love.
“I knew,” Ingrid stepped into the room, “when you grabbed your robe and didn’t go into the bathroom, that you would be here, with that clock.
“You’re naked.” Hans drank in Ingrid like some warm cider.
“Yes I am, Hans.”
“And so beautiful. Beautiful beyond expression.”
“But, you are so expressive, Hans. I know.”
“It’s beyond what I can express.”
"Thank you. What is it about that clock, Hans? Tell me?”
Hans peered past Ingrid to the mirror above the mantle, seeing himself as much, much older man, a decrepitly old man. A man so decrepit only years together could foster a love. For Ingrid and him, it had only been weeks.
“Time is my enemy. It can strike me so that I cannot match your beauty with my own.”
“So, in your mind, you’ve elicited the cuckoo as your comrade in youth? Oh, Hans you are such a romantic, but you needn’t worry. I have never found an attraction for a man like I have for you.”
Ingrid plied Hans with her snow owl inspection, but still didn’t see his if-only-you-knew sadness. He cloaked it with a carnal smile.
“Come with me.” He took her hand
“Where? Not back to the kitchen?”
“No! I believe we’ve already made love in the kitchen, maybe more than once. However, the gazebo has not yet been blessed by our unfettered expression of admiration, adoration, and amore. Come. It’s a warm night.”
#
Hans stood before the cuckoo. He was not with Ingrid that night. Instead he’d conjured a night of many years earlier. With him, brought in the carriage of his reflective introspection, stood his earthly departed wife.
“You are leaving me behind,” his wife had pleaded. Already she was nearly decade older than he, though when they had married they were the same in age.
Hans had pulled his hand from the texture of the carved leaves. He hadn’t look at his wife. “We could get you a clock. Then you could come with me, be with me always.”
“I don’t want to be with you always. I don’t want to be with anyone always. I want to grow old with you.”
Hans put his hand on the chain.
“Don’t Hans. It’s a pact with the devil.’
“I may never meet him.”
“Surely, you can’t expect that clock to tick forever. What will do when it’s works can no keep it going?”
Hans tugged the chain, lifting the weights. His wife was no longer with him. She hadn’t been for years, decades. Hans turned from the clock, knowing he’d be just as young tomorrow as had been today, or the day before, or before that, orÉ.
#
"Could you love me if I was old, decrepit.” Hans brought the melon to his nose, drinking in its ripeness as he likewise drank in the ripe figure of Ingrid sorting through cherries.
“Of course I could.” Ingrid lifted a cherry to her lips, shifting her eyes mischievously toward the clerk. “It would only be fair. I’d be just as decrepit and you’d still love me. I know you would. You’re that kind of man.”
Hans knew he could. He’d love his wife until she suffered through decrepit old age and cancer. Ingrid took the cherry in her mouth, then spit the seed into an empty plastic produce bag. She tossed it away without ever looking at the offensively appearing germ of life that had created the cherry.
“I mean what if you were still beautiful as you are and I became decrepit.
“Stop that. That’s nonsense. I couldn’t imagine that. How could that happen? Sometimes, for someone whose wisdom is that of a hundred year old man, you talk like a child.”
Holding another cherry with lips that appeared Valentine pink in contrast to the red of the fruit, Ingrid threw her arms around Hans’ neck. She pressed the tart cum sweet orb into his mouth with her tongue.
“That’s what I like about you. There is still youth in you. There’s still that child’s wonder of exploration.”
Hans bared a smile, displaying the cherry pit clenched between his teeth. Ingrid turned away.
“Oh please; not that kind of childishness. You’re a man of class. Come! Let’s take the groceries back to my place. I’ll cook. I know you don’t have a computer, but I want to see how you do with mine. I know you will pick it up fast. You’re such a fast learner. Like a child.”
Ingrid giggled. Hans cringed.
“I’ll let you cook, but let’s go back to my place.”
“But mine is closer.”
“If we start dinner at your place, I won’t be able to get home in time toÉ.
“Éwind the clock! I know. Hans, I’m trying to understand, but you are taxing my patience. You need to come to my place some time. This thing we have is getting pretty serious. Besides, I purchased some nightwear for tormenting you during your computer lesson.”
“Let’s pick it up and you can torment me while you cook at my place.”
“Hans!”
“I’m sorry dear. Call me quirky. I just need to be back at my place before nine. If you love me for this, I promise I will love you for whatever odd quirks are yours.
“It’s more than a quirk.”
“Admittedly.”
“It’s obsessive!”
“If you say.”
“It’s compulsive!”
The psycho-diagnostic tenor of the declaration hurt. Still, it was a faade Hans could live with. Had to live with. Perhaps Ingrid could come to resolve with parts of the truth, perhaps not. Certainly not the realization that she might be left behind. For all her wonders, Ingrid was not as strong as his late wife.
“Okay. It’s compulsive.”
#
"Where are we going?”
Hans looked at the turn not taken, down the road always traveled with comfort. He wished he’d taken Ingrid up on her offer to teach him to drive a couple months earlier.
“We’re going to my place.”
“I thought we were going to change at my place, then go to Ristorante Del Monico.”
“I need to get something to wear from my closet.”
“But you have nice things to wear at my place.”
“Relax, Hans. It’s early. You have several hours before you have to wind your clock.”
Hans considered the birthday packages in the back seat, all beautifully wrapped with Ingrid’s generosity for him, despite his reluctance to give her his age. He considered the two weeks since grocery shopping together and how much less he’d seen of Ingrid in that two weeks.
“Alright. I’ll just stay in the car. You just grab what you need and change at my place.”
“Oh, Hans! At least come inside and see my place. Several months of dating, you’ve never once seen it.”
“Okay. Perhaps I should. As long as we can get back to my place quick enough for me to shower and ready.”
Ingrid’s place was a surprise. Literally!
“SURPRISE!”
Crowded in Ingrid’s living room were all the friends she’d acquired from knowing him and friend’s he’d acquired from knowing her.
She’d surprised him.
She’d tricked him.
It was wonderful.
It was terrifying.
It was 5:30PM.
“Isn’t this tremendous. Ingrid really loves you. You’re so lucky. Look at all the people she pulled together for your birthday, Hans?”
It was amazing. Tears pooled in the bottom of Hans’ eyes.
It was 6:30pm
“Come, Hans time to cut the cake. Everybody’s waiting!”
“It was 7:30 PM.”
“Open your presents, Hans! Start with this one.”
It was 8:30PM!”
“Where’s Hans? Has anyone seen Hans?”
#
Hans stood before the five-leaf, single bird, Black Forest Cuckoo. The German regula were nearly at the bottom of their chain. Walking, it had taken much longer to reach his house than expected. The clock was nearly unwound.
“There you are!” Ingrid had driven. “Everyone at the party is wondering where you are! Where is the birthday boy? But, I knew. Here you are, once again standing in front of that clock.”
Hans turned and dropped his eyes. Framed in the doorway with the hall light spilling over her shoulders, through her hair, she was now the archangel of reckoning, his reckoning.
“Tell me something, Hans. I’ve always wondered why the ultimate expert in Black Forest Cuckoos only has one cuckoo. Where are all your other clocks?”
“I only need the one, Ingrid. This one!”
“Obviously! What is it about that one cuckoo clock?”
Hans looked at his single five-leaf, Black Forest Cuckoo clock. Could he explain. Would he have time? He looked at Ingrid, words piling up in his throat, words Ingrid deserved to hear. He opened his mouth. Opened it again. He started, then started again, then again.
“IngridÉ. Ingrid, IÉ. I’m over 130 yearsÉ.
“Oh for Christ, Hans! Not only are you obsessive-compulsive, but you’re deluded! Well, at least your delusion made it entertaining, but I can’t be second to a stupid paper m‰che bird.”
The sonorous ghost of a door slamming stood where Ingrid had a moment before.
Hans stood at the window, peering around the sheers that hid him, but only emotionally. Intellectually, he knew that she would see him, if only she would turn and look. She hadn’t turned once.
She was nearly to the gate.
Hans turned to the clock. Its German regula were nearly at the end of their chains. The small bird had cuckooed twenty-three times since the last time the regula had been raised. It would not cuckoo a twenty-fourth time unless, the weights were raised again. Hans turned his gaze back through the window.
She was at the gate, nearly gone.
The clock was nearly unwound.
He should run after her. Hold her in his life.
He should wind the clock. Keep it ticking.
What would happen if the cuckoo didn’t call out the 24th hour? Would all the years rush up on him, leaving him instantly dead? Would he begin aging at that moment, able to age naturally with Ingrid? Would his aging be accelerated? If he ran out the door, into the night, after the one woman he loved since his wife, what would she see? Hans the quirky cuckoo expert, or Hans a man decrepit beyond the years she’d expected? Could Ingrid live with whatever she saw?
The sonorous ghost of a door slamming stood before the window, where Hans had stood moments earlier. For the first time in over eighty-five years Hans had left his house after 9:00 PM. He ran. Not bad for a man who could remember the rule of Queen Victoria. Ingrid was nearly to her car, nearly in it. Nearly gone! Hans cried out to her.
“Ingrid! Wait! I love you! INGRID! LOOK AT ME!”
Hans stood in the hallway, cloaked in anticipation of the bell’s ring, or the door’s knock, whichever she chose as her beckon for entry. It had been so long since he’d worn this cloak of anticipation, since he’d first met his long dead wife. Peering into the parlor at his own five leaf, single bird, Black Forest cuckoo, he shook off the cloak, letting the anticipation pool on the floor. That clock had played such a role in separating him from his wife. It had ticked off all the years without any companion to replace her. But it had not separated him from his yearning. The cuckoo ejected itself from behind its door, calling out the hour.
Perfect.
Right on time.
That pleased Hans. The ersatz bird chimed assurance that upon first sight Ingrid would see more than a middle-aged man with knowledge of witless clocks that housed paper mâche birds.
Framed in the door, she gazed at him with a snow owl’s inspection, blue-gray wolf eyes set in skin poured of sugared cream, framed by wheat-gold lockets.
How ironic.
How right.
The magic of a cuckoo, his or hers, had brought fourth a true Gibson Girl through time since the long passed Victorian era. Her face carried the disarming, come-hither Gibson smile. Her hair perpetually flowed over her shoulders, a never-ending fountain of comeliness.
"Hi.” Honey-sweetened tea warmed Han’s ears. ‘I’m Ingrid. You must be….”
“Hans. Yes. Please come in.” Hans wished she would be wearing a cloak or coat. Taking it would have given him excuse to be close to her, to reach for her, perhaps allow a brushing touch to relish after she had gone. But, she wore no cloak. The warmth followed Ingrid through the door betraying the reality of the day and the chilled solitude trapped within his home. He gestured. “Let’s go into the parlor. Can I get you something? Tea?”
Ingrid moved to the parlor, plying Hans with eyes impressed at his astuteness to not offer her coffee. Her pupils dilated, pleasing Hans. She turned away, looking into the parlor. Hans dropped his gaze. Her child-bearing hips, gave her skirt a womanly flare. Her tapered waist was not the allusion of a corset. The fullness of bosom matched womanliness of her hips. Hans pupils dilated in simpatico with hers.
“Oh!” Ingrid’s herbal sweet voice was spiced with genuine surprise. “You live alone, don’t you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You’re place is so – so perfect. Even the overly crowded Victorian dŽcor is so -- arranged -- so fastidious, almost compulsive.”
“Hmmm. I think I prefer ‘fastidious.’”
“Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s commendable. I mean I wouldn’t expect it in a man, not most men. It’s a bit attractive. Alright, fastidious it is.
“Yes. Well, perhaps we should take a look at that clock of yours.”
As soon as Ingrid had unwrapped the clock from the baby’s blanket swathing it, and held it properly cradled in delicate fingers, Hans knew its construction came during the same era which had molded women like Ingrid, the Victorian ear. Yet, it wouldn’t do to reveal that information just yet. He needed lingering moments, moments with Ingrid.
#
Discussions of clocks led to more discussions of clocks. Like couplets that lead to stanzas that lead to verse, the connection between Hans and Ingrid, lead from phone to coffeehouses to restaurants. Polite conversation gave way to repartee, gave way to embroiled discussion, full and satisfying, seductive and lingering. Lingering one night over half-full snifters of B&B that went untouched for many minutes despite the richness of the Benedictine and the culture of the French grapes trampled into the cognac.
“Truly the death of Queen Victoria brought a sad end to an era unmatched in culture, art and beauty. Despite her parochial and dogmatic rules of proper behavior, she must be forgiven for the pain she endured. And, how could one ever be critical of any human so capable of carrying the torch of love the way she did. I am truly so glad you are a student of the Victorian era as I am.”
“Yes.” Hans could not disagree. He could only smile and absorb the beauty of Ingrid’s passion. Her description allied perfectly with his memory. He reached for the hand she’d extended across the table, ostensibly as appreciation, but in reality an invitation for seduction. Abiding by her seduction, he let his fingers linger above hers in a psychic pre-touch, the hands of his watch jumping off its face through the crystal. “Oh. I need to get home. It’s late.”
“Why?” Ingrid nabbed his fingers before his seduction could melt away. “It’s just after eight. I know you always want to be home by nine, but couldn’t you stay a little later -- this once. Just to be with me?
“I – I need to get home and wind the cuckoo. You understand. I can’t let the cuckoo stop ticking.”
“Sure. I understand.” Non-plussed, Ingrid released Hans’s hand. Her pupils constricted. Ardor regained Ingrid’s grip on her sensibilities. “Perhaps, I could come with. You took a cab and could use a ride, couldn’t you?”
Her logic lingered as did hope. She plied Hans with her snow owl inspection. Her pupils dilated opening a window to her intentions.
She watched as Hans wound the cuckoo, a simple gesture of pulling chains to raise the regula. Yet, Hans’ winding of the clock held the manner of ritual to it. He stepped to the clock, caressing the wood carved leaves with fingertips, murmuring low, secret words as if to a lover. Then, he gently strung the chain through the clock.
“Perhaps, ‘compulsive’ is a better word.”
“Huh?” Hans only partially turned. She gestured to the clock. Hans nodded.
“For a man who is so assured, who seems to possess more than a century of wisdom and knowledge, you have an odd way of seducing a woman.”
"Hmmm. Time has taught me that the concept of man seducing woman is simply a façade; not to say that seduction never takes place. Can I get you anything?”
Ingrid nodded.
“What? Tea? An aperitif?”
Ingrid shook her head.
“What, then?” Hans opened his arms in question. All the lingering moments swirled together creating a dervish that blew Ingrid into Hans’ open arms.
#
"I love the way you cook for me. I love the way you adore me. I love the way you compliment me. I love the way you bed me.”
Hans responded with fingertips tracing the creamy smooth curve from the small of Ingrid’s back into her hip. He considered that against such flesh, even his high fiber expensive sheets must feel coarse. The sweep of his hand spoke of his reciprocal feelings, defying verbal confines. Hans pulled Ingrid against him. Seductive conversation had given way to tactile expression. From his flesh through hers he imbued her with the sanctity of their intimacy.
“I wish I could reciprocate for you. I’ve been here over a dozen times. I’d like to show you my cooking talents. Lavish you with the satin sheets I’ve bought just for you. Treat you to the sunrise as it is framed in my bedroom window.”
“You could cook for me here.” Han’s pressed his lips against hers, distracting her tongue with his before it could conjure more words.
Ingrid slid her hand along his flesh, reaching for him in a way that promised verbal communication would be brief, giving away to a deeper physical commune of their love.
"Please hold that thought for a moment, dear. Dawdle on it if you will. There’s something I need to do first.” Hans slid from under the covers.
Standing before the five-leaf, Black Forest cuckoo, Hans murmured the words spoken every night.
“On to you I give my time that I might remain ageless.”
“There you are. I knew I’d find you down here.”
Hans turned, finding an angel not even Rafael could render so ravishingly. Framed in the door, the light of the hallway spilling over her shoulders, through her hair, Ingrid shamed Venus with a beauty that held Cleopatra in contempt. She had become more beautiful as the eyes of his soul had seen her with the close scrutiny of love.
“I knew,” Ingrid stepped into the room, “when you grabbed your robe and didn’t go into the bathroom, that you would be here, with that clock.
“You’re naked.” Hans drank in Ingrid like some warm cider.
“Yes I am, Hans.”
“And so beautiful. Beautiful beyond expression.”
“But, you are so expressive, Hans. I know.”
“It’s beyond what I can express.”
"Thank you. What is it about that clock, Hans? Tell me?”
Hans peered past Ingrid to the mirror above the mantle, seeing himself as much, much older man, a decrepitly old man. A man so decrepit only years together could foster a love. For Ingrid and him, it had only been weeks.
“Time is my enemy. It can strike me so that I cannot match your beauty with my own.”
“So, in your mind, you’ve elicited the cuckoo as your comrade in youth? Oh, Hans you are such a romantic, but you needn’t worry. I have never found an attraction for a man like I have for you.”
Ingrid plied Hans with her snow owl inspection, but still didn’t see his if-only-you-knew sadness. He cloaked it with a carnal smile.
“Come with me.” He took her hand
“Where? Not back to the kitchen?”
“No! I believe we’ve already made love in the kitchen, maybe more than once. However, the gazebo has not yet been blessed by our unfettered expression of admiration, adoration, and amore. Come. It’s a warm night.”
#
Hans stood before the cuckoo. He was not with Ingrid that night. Instead he’d conjured a night of many years earlier. With him, brought in the carriage of his reflective introspection, stood his earthly departed wife.
“You are leaving me behind,” his wife had pleaded. Already she was nearly decade older than he, though when they had married they were the same in age.
Hans had pulled his hand from the texture of the carved leaves. He hadn’t look at his wife. “We could get you a clock. Then you could come with me, be with me always.”
“I don’t want to be with you always. I don’t want to be with anyone always. I want to grow old with you.”
Hans put his hand on the chain.
“Don’t Hans. It’s a pact with the devil.’
“I may never meet him.”
“Surely, you can’t expect that clock to tick forever. What will do when it’s works can no keep it going?”
Hans tugged the chain, lifting the weights. His wife was no longer with him. She hadn’t been for years, decades. Hans turned from the clock, knowing he’d be just as young tomorrow as had been today, or the day before, or before that, orÉ.
#
"Could you love me if I was old, decrepit.” Hans brought the melon to his nose, drinking in its ripeness as he likewise drank in the ripe figure of Ingrid sorting through cherries.
“Of course I could.” Ingrid lifted a cherry to her lips, shifting her eyes mischievously toward the clerk. “It would only be fair. I’d be just as decrepit and you’d still love me. I know you would. You’re that kind of man.”
Hans knew he could. He’d love his wife until she suffered through decrepit old age and cancer. Ingrid took the cherry in her mouth, then spit the seed into an empty plastic produce bag. She tossed it away without ever looking at the offensively appearing germ of life that had created the cherry.
“I mean what if you were still beautiful as you are and I became decrepit.
“Stop that. That’s nonsense. I couldn’t imagine that. How could that happen? Sometimes, for someone whose wisdom is that of a hundred year old man, you talk like a child.”
Holding another cherry with lips that appeared Valentine pink in contrast to the red of the fruit, Ingrid threw her arms around Hans’ neck. She pressed the tart cum sweet orb into his mouth with her tongue.
“That’s what I like about you. There is still youth in you. There’s still that child’s wonder of exploration.”
Hans bared a smile, displaying the cherry pit clenched between his teeth. Ingrid turned away.
“Oh please; not that kind of childishness. You’re a man of class. Come! Let’s take the groceries back to my place. I’ll cook. I know you don’t have a computer, but I want to see how you do with mine. I know you will pick it up fast. You’re such a fast learner. Like a child.”
Ingrid giggled. Hans cringed.
“I’ll let you cook, but let’s go back to my place.”
“But mine is closer.”
“If we start dinner at your place, I won’t be able to get home in time toÉ.
“Éwind the clock! I know. Hans, I’m trying to understand, but you are taxing my patience. You need to come to my place some time. This thing we have is getting pretty serious. Besides, I purchased some nightwear for tormenting you during your computer lesson.”
“Let’s pick it up and you can torment me while you cook at my place.”
“Hans!”
“I’m sorry dear. Call me quirky. I just need to be back at my place before nine. If you love me for this, I promise I will love you for whatever odd quirks are yours.
“It’s more than a quirk.”
“Admittedly.”
“It’s obsessive!”
“If you say.”
“It’s compulsive!”
The psycho-diagnostic tenor of the declaration hurt. Still, it was a faade Hans could live with. Had to live with. Perhaps Ingrid could come to resolve with parts of the truth, perhaps not. Certainly not the realization that she might be left behind. For all her wonders, Ingrid was not as strong as his late wife.
“Okay. It’s compulsive.”
#
"Where are we going?”
Hans looked at the turn not taken, down the road always traveled with comfort. He wished he’d taken Ingrid up on her offer to teach him to drive a couple months earlier.
“We’re going to my place.”
“I thought we were going to change at my place, then go to Ristorante Del Monico.”
“I need to get something to wear from my closet.”
“But you have nice things to wear at my place.”
“Relax, Hans. It’s early. You have several hours before you have to wind your clock.”
Hans considered the birthday packages in the back seat, all beautifully wrapped with Ingrid’s generosity for him, despite his reluctance to give her his age. He considered the two weeks since grocery shopping together and how much less he’d seen of Ingrid in that two weeks.
“Alright. I’ll just stay in the car. You just grab what you need and change at my place.”
“Oh, Hans! At least come inside and see my place. Several months of dating, you’ve never once seen it.”
“Okay. Perhaps I should. As long as we can get back to my place quick enough for me to shower and ready.”
Ingrid’s place was a surprise. Literally!
“SURPRISE!”
Crowded in Ingrid’s living room were all the friends she’d acquired from knowing him and friend’s he’d acquired from knowing her.
She’d surprised him.
She’d tricked him.
It was wonderful.
It was terrifying.
It was 5:30PM.
“Isn’t this tremendous. Ingrid really loves you. You’re so lucky. Look at all the people she pulled together for your birthday, Hans?”
It was amazing. Tears pooled in the bottom of Hans’ eyes.
It was 6:30pm
“Come, Hans time to cut the cake. Everybody’s waiting!”
“It was 7:30 PM.”
“Open your presents, Hans! Start with this one.”
It was 8:30PM!”
“Where’s Hans? Has anyone seen Hans?”
#
Hans stood before the five-leaf, single bird, Black Forest Cuckoo. The German regula were nearly at the bottom of their chain. Walking, it had taken much longer to reach his house than expected. The clock was nearly unwound.
“There you are!” Ingrid had driven. “Everyone at the party is wondering where you are! Where is the birthday boy? But, I knew. Here you are, once again standing in front of that clock.”
Hans turned and dropped his eyes. Framed in the doorway with the hall light spilling over her shoulders, through her hair, she was now the archangel of reckoning, his reckoning.
“Tell me something, Hans. I’ve always wondered why the ultimate expert in Black Forest Cuckoos only has one cuckoo. Where are all your other clocks?”
“I only need the one, Ingrid. This one!”
“Obviously! What is it about that one cuckoo clock?”
Hans looked at his single five-leaf, Black Forest Cuckoo clock. Could he explain. Would he have time? He looked at Ingrid, words piling up in his throat, words Ingrid deserved to hear. He opened his mouth. Opened it again. He started, then started again, then again.
“IngridÉ. Ingrid, IÉ. I’m over 130 yearsÉ.
“Oh for Christ, Hans! Not only are you obsessive-compulsive, but you’re deluded! Well, at least your delusion made it entertaining, but I can’t be second to a stupid paper m‰che bird.”
The sonorous ghost of a door slamming stood where Ingrid had a moment before.
Hans stood at the window, peering around the sheers that hid him, but only emotionally. Intellectually, he knew that she would see him, if only she would turn and look. She hadn’t turned once.
She was nearly to the gate.
Hans turned to the clock. Its German regula were nearly at the end of their chains. The small bird had cuckooed twenty-three times since the last time the regula had been raised. It would not cuckoo a twenty-fourth time unless, the weights were raised again. Hans turned his gaze back through the window.
She was at the gate, nearly gone.
The clock was nearly unwound.
He should run after her. Hold her in his life.
He should wind the clock. Keep it ticking.
What would happen if the cuckoo didn’t call out the 24th hour? Would all the years rush up on him, leaving him instantly dead? Would he begin aging at that moment, able to age naturally with Ingrid? Would his aging be accelerated? If he ran out the door, into the night, after the one woman he loved since his wife, what would she see? Hans the quirky cuckoo expert, or Hans a man decrepit beyond the years she’d expected? Could Ingrid live with whatever she saw?
The sonorous ghost of a door slamming stood before the window, where Hans had stood moments earlier. For the first time in over eighty-five years Hans had left his house after 9:00 PM. He ran. Not bad for a man who could remember the rule of Queen Victoria. Ingrid was nearly to her car, nearly in it. Nearly gone! Hans cried out to her.
“Ingrid! Wait! I love you! INGRID! LOOK AT ME!”
Hans stood at the window, peering around the sheers that hid him, but only emotionally. Intellectually, he knew that she would see him, if only she would turn and look. She hadn’t turned once.
She was nearly to the gate.
Hans listened to the clock, a five leaf, single bird cuckoo. Its German regula nearly at the bottom of their chains. The small paper m‰che bird had cuckooed twenty-three times since the last time those weights had been raised. Without being raised again, it would not cuckoo a twenty-fourth time.
She was at the gate, nearly gone.
The clock was nearly unwound.
He should run after her. Hold her in his life.
He should wind the clock. Keep it ticking.
#
Twice times a thousand cuckoos before, Hans stood in at the window, peering around the sheers that only allowed him the façade of being hid. He knew that she would see him, if only she would look. She was nearly to the gate, but still hadn’t looked up. Her eyes remained on the paper where he presumed she had written his address.
She was nearly to the gate.
The elegant grace of her movement exceeded the expectations created within Hans by the cultivated taste her voice had possessed as it slipped out of the phone; pouring into his ear like the sweet syrup of a lover’s whisper.
“My friend says you know much about cuckoo clocks.’
“I suppose I do.” Hans had been proud of himself for responding so quickly with an answer that affirmed his expertise, yet humble enough not to sound egotistical
“Well.” Her voice tickled Han’s ear like the tongue of a woman on the brink of a tryst. “I just obtained a five leaf, two bird, Black Forest cuckoo. I have no idea of what vintage it may be and I can’t seem to get it to work.”
“Bring it over. Perhaps I can help.” Hans had tried not to allow any further expectations to creep into his mind. However, with a voice like hers, expectations had to be expected.
And there she stood, at the gate, already exceeding Hans’ expectant reveries.
Hans stood in the hallway, cloaked in anticipation of the bell’s ring, or the door’s knock, whichever she chose as her beckon for entry. It had been so long since he’d worn this cloak of anticipation, since he’d first met his long dead wife. Peering into the parlor at his own five leaf, single bird, Black Forest cuckoo, he shook off the cloak, letting the anticipation pool on the floor. That clock had played such a role in separating him from his wife. It had ticked off all the years without any companion to replace her. But it had not separated him from his yearning. The cuckoo ejected itself from behind its door, calling out the hour.
Perfect.
Right on time.
That pleased Hans. The ersatz bird chimed assurance that upon first sight Ingrid would see more than a middle-aged man with knowledge of witless clocks that housed paper mâche birds.
Framed in the door, she gazed at him with a snow owl’s inspection, blue-gray wolf eyes set in skin poured of sugared cream, framed by wheat-gold lockets.
How ironic.
How right.
The magic of a cuckoo, his or hers, had brought fourth a true Gibson Girl through time since the long passed Victorian era. Her face carried the disarming, come-hither Gibson smile. Her hair perpetually flowed over her shoulders, a never-ending fountain of comeliness.
"Hi.” Honey-sweetened tea warmed Han’s ears. ‘I’m Ingrid. You must be….”
“Hans. Yes. Please come in.” Hans wished she would be wearing a cloak or coat. Taking it would have given him excuse to be close to her, to reach for her, perhaps allow a brushing touch to relish after she had gone. But, she wore no cloak. The warmth followed Ingrid through the door betraying the reality of the day and the chilled solitude trapped within his home. He gestured. “Let’s go into the parlor. Can I get you something? Tea?”
Ingrid moved to the parlor, plying Hans with eyes impressed at his astuteness to not offer her coffee. Her pupils dilated, pleasing Hans. She turned away, looking into the parlor. Hans dropped his gaze. Her child-bearing hips, gave her skirt a womanly flare. Her tapered waist was not the allusion of a corset. The fullness of bosom matched womanliness of her hips. Hans pupils dilated in simpatico with hers.
“Oh!” Ingrid’s herbal sweet voice was spiced with genuine surprise. “You live alone, don’t you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You’re place is so – so perfect. Even the overly crowded Victorian dŽcor is so -- arranged -- so fastidious, almost compulsive.”
“Hmmm. I think I prefer ‘fastidious.’”
“Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s commendable. I mean I wouldn’t expect it in a man, not most men. It’s a bit attractive. Alright, fastidious it is.
“Yes. Well, perhaps we should take a look at that clock of yours.”
As soon as Ingrid had unwrapped the clock from the baby’s blanket swathing it, and held it properly cradled in delicate fingers, Hans knew its construction came during the same era which had molded women like Ingrid, the Victorian ear. Yet, it wouldn’t do to reveal that information just yet. He needed lingering moments, moments with Ingrid.
#
Discussions of clocks led to more discussions of clocks. Like couplets that lead to stanzas that lead to verse, the connection between Hans and Ingrid, lead from phone to coffeehouses to restaurants. Polite conversation gave way to repartee, gave way to embroiled discussion, full and satisfying, seductive and lingering. Lingering one night over half-full snifters of B&B that went untouched for many minutes despite the richness of the Benedictine and the culture of the French grapes trampled into the cognac.
“Truly the death of Queen Victoria brought a sad end to an era unmatched in culture, art and beauty. Despite her parochial and dogmatic rules of proper behavior, she must be forgiven for the pain she endured. And, how could one ever be critical of any human so capable of carrying the torch of love the way she did. I am truly so glad you are a student of the Victorian era as I am.”
“Yes.” Hans could not disagree. He could only smile and absorb the beauty of Ingrid’s passion. Her description allied perfectly with his memory. He reached for the hand she’d extended across the table, ostensibly as appreciation, but in reality an invitation for seduction. Abiding by her seduction, he let his fingers linger above hers in a psychic pre-touch, the hands of his watch jumping off its face through the crystal. “Oh. I need to get home. It’s late.”
“Why?” Ingrid nabbed his fingers before his seduction could melt away. “It’s just after eight. I know you always want to be home by nine, but couldn’t you stay a little later -- this once. Just to be with me?
“I – I need to get home and wind the cuckoo. You understand. I can’t let the cuckoo stop ticking.”
“Sure. I understand.” Non-plussed, Ingrid released Hans’s hand. Her pupils constricted. Ardor regained Ingrid’s grip on her sensibilities. “Perhaps, I could come with. You took a cab and could use a ride, couldn’t you?”
Her logic lingered as did hope. She plied Hans with her snow owl inspection. Her pupils dilated opening a window to her intentions.
She watched as Hans wound the cuckoo, a simple gesture of pulling chains to raise the regula. Yet, Hans’ winding of the clock held the manner of ritual to it. He stepped to the clock, caressing the wood carved leaves with fingertips, murmuring low, secret words as if to a lover. Then, he gently strung the chain through the clock.
“Perhaps, ‘compulsive’ is a better word.”
“Huh?” Hans only partially turned. She gestured to the clock. Hans nodded.
“For a man who is so assured, who seems to possess more than a century of wisdom and knowledge, you have an odd way of seducing a woman.”
"Hmmm. Time has taught me that the concept of man seducing woman is simply a façade; not to say that seduction never takes place. Can I get you anything?”
Ingrid nodded.
“What? Tea? An aperitif?”
Ingrid shook her head.
“What, then?” Hans opened his arms in question. All the lingering moments swirled together creating a dervish that blew Ingrid into Hans’ open arms.
#
"I love the way you cook for me. I love the way you adore me. I love the way you compliment me. I love the way you bed me.”
Hans responded with fingertips tracing the creamy smooth curve from the small of Ingrid’s back into her hip. He considered that against such flesh, even his high fiber expensive sheets must feel coarse. The sweep of his hand spoke of his reciprocal feelings, defying verbal confines. Hans pulled Ingrid against him. Seductive conversation had given way to tactile expression. From his flesh through hers he imbued her with the sanctity of their intimacy.
“I wish I could reciprocate for you. I’ve been here over a dozen times. I’d like to show you my cooking talents. Lavish you with the satin sheets I’ve bought just for you. Treat you to the sunrise as it is framed in my bedroom window.”
“You could cook for me here.” Han’s pressed his lips against hers, distracting her tongue with his before it could conjure more words.
Ingrid slid her hand along his flesh, reaching for him in a way that promised verbal communication would be brief, giving away to a deeper physical commune of their love.
"Please hold that thought for a moment, dear. Dawdle on it if you will. There’s something I need to do first.” Hans slid from under the covers.
Standing before the five-leaf, Black Forest cuckoo, Hans murmured the words spoken every night.
“On to you I give my time that I might remain ageless.”
“There you are. I knew I’d find you down here.”
Hans turned, finding an angel not even Rafael could render so ravishingly. Framed in the door, the light of the hallway spilling over her shoulders, through her hair, Ingrid shamed Venus with a beauty that held Cleopatra in contempt. She had become more beautiful as the eyes of his soul had seen her with the close scrutiny of love.
“I knew,” Ingrid stepped into the room, “when you grabbed your robe and didn’t go into the bathroom, that you would be here, with that clock.
“You’re naked.” Hans drank in Ingrid like some warm cider.
“Yes I am, Hans.”
“And so beautiful. Beautiful beyond expression.”
“But, you are so expressive, Hans. I know.”
“It’s beyond what I can express.”
"Thank you. What is it about that clock, Hans? Tell me?”
Hans peered past Ingrid to the mirror above the mantle, seeing himself as much, much older man, a decrepitly old man. A man so decrepit only years together could foster a love. For Ingrid and him, it had only been weeks.
“Time is my enemy. It can strike me so that I cannot match your beauty with my own.”
“So, in your mind, you’ve elicited the cuckoo as your comrade in youth? Oh, Hans you are such a romantic, but you needn’t worry. I have never found an attraction for a man like I have for you.”
Ingrid plied Hans with her snow owl inspection, but still didn’t see his if-only-you-knew sadness. He cloaked it with a carnal smile.
“Come with me.” He took her hand
“Where? Not back to the kitchen?”
“No! I believe we’ve already made love in the kitchen, maybe more than once. However, the gazebo has not yet been blessed by our unfettered expression of admiration, adoration, and amore. Come. It’s a warm night.”
#
Hans stood before the cuckoo. He was not with Ingrid that night. Instead he’d conjured a night of many years earlier. With him, brought in the carriage of his reflective introspection, stood his earthly departed wife.
“You are leaving me behind,” his wife had pleaded. Already she was nearly decade older than he, though when they had married they were the same in age.
Hans had pulled his hand from the texture of the carved leaves. He hadn’t look at his wife. “We could get you a clock. Then you could come with me, be with me always.”
“I don’t want to be with you always. I don’t want to be with anyone always. I want to grow old with you.”
Hans put his hand on the chain.
“Don’t Hans. It’s a pact with the devil.’
“I may never meet him.”
“Surely, you can’t expect that clock to tick forever. What will do when it’s works can no keep it going?”
Hans tugged the chain, lifting the weights. His wife was no longer with him. She hadn’t been for years, decades. Hans turned from the clock, knowing he’d be just as young tomorrow as had been today, or the day before, or before that, orÉ.
#
"Could you love me if I was old, decrepit.” Hans brought the melon to his nose, drinking in its ripeness as he likewise drank in the ripe figure of Ingrid sorting through cherries.
“Of course I could.” Ingrid lifted a cherry to her lips, shifting her eyes mischievously toward the clerk. “It would only be fair. I’d be just as decrepit and you’d still love me. I know you would. You’re that kind of man.”
Hans knew he could. He’d love his wife until she suffered through decrepit old age and cancer. Ingrid took the cherry in her mouth, then spit the seed into an empty plastic produce bag. She tossed it away without ever looking at the offensively appearing germ of life that had created the cherry.
“I mean what if you were still beautiful as you are and I became decrepit.
“Stop that. That’s nonsense. I couldn’t imagine that. How could that happen? Sometimes, for someone whose wisdom is that of a hundred year old man, you talk like a child.”
Holding another cherry with lips that appeared Valentine pink in contrast to the red of the fruit, Ingrid threw her arms around Hans’ neck. She pressed the tart cum sweet orb into his mouth with her tongue.
“That’s what I like about you. There is still youth in you. There’s still that child’s wonder of exploration.”
Hans bared a smile, displaying the cherry pit clenched between his teeth. Ingrid turned away.
“Oh please; not that kind of childishness. You’re a man of class. Come! Let’s take the groceries back to my place. I’ll cook. I know you don’t have a computer, but I want to see how you do with mine. I know you will pick it up fast. You’re such a fast learner. Like a child.”
Ingrid giggled. Hans cringed.
“I’ll let you cook, but let’s go back to my place.”
“But mine is closer.”
“If we start dinner at your place, I won’t be able to get home in time toÉ.
“Éwind the clock! I know. Hans, I’m trying to understand, but you are taxing my patience. You need to come to my place some time. This thing we have is getting pretty serious. Besides, I purchased some nightwear for tormenting you during your computer lesson.”
“Let’s pick it up and you can torment me while you cook at my place.”
“Hans!”
“I’m sorry dear. Call me quirky. I just need to be back at my place before nine. If you love me for this, I promise I will love you for whatever odd quirks are yours.
“It’s more than a quirk.”
“Admittedly.”
“It’s obsessive!”
“If you say.”
“It’s compulsive!”
The psycho-diagnostic tenor of the declaration hurt. Still, it was a faade Hans could live with. Had to live with. Perhaps Ingrid could come to resolve with parts of the truth, perhaps not. Certainly not the realization that she might be left behind. For all her wonders, Ingrid was not as strong as his late wife.
“Okay. It’s compulsive.”
#
"Where are we going?”
Hans looked at the turn not taken, down the road always traveled with comfort. He wished he’d taken Ingrid up on her offer to teach him to drive a couple months earlier.
“We’re going to my place.”
“I thought we were going to change at my place, then go to Ristorante Del Monico.”
“I need to get something to wear from my closet.”
“But you have nice things to wear at my place.”
“Relax, Hans. It’s early. You have several hours before you have to wind your clock.”
Hans considered the birthday packages in the back seat, all beautifully wrapped with Ingrid’s generosity for him, despite his reluctance to give her his age. He considered the two weeks since grocery shopping together and how much less he’d seen of Ingrid in that two weeks.
“Alright. I’ll just stay in the car. You just grab what you need and change at my place.”
“Oh, Hans! At least come inside and see my place. Several months of dating, you’ve never once seen it.”
“Okay. Perhaps I should. As long as we can get back to my place quick enough for me to shower and ready.”
Ingrid’s place was a surprise. Literally!
“SURPRISE!”
Crowded in Ingrid’s living room were all the friends she’d acquired from knowing him and friend’s he’d acquired from knowing her.
She’d surprised him.
She’d tricked him.
It was wonderful.
It was terrifying.
It was 5:30PM.
“Isn’t this tremendous. Ingrid really loves you. You’re so lucky. Look at all the people she pulled together for your birthday, Hans?”
It was amazing. Tears pooled in the bottom of Hans’ eyes.
It was 6:30pm
“Come, Hans time to cut the cake. Everybody’s waiting!”
“It was 7:30 PM.”
“Open your presents, Hans! Start with this one.”
It was 8:30PM!”
“Where’s Hans? Has anyone seen Hans?”
#
Hans stood before the five-leaf, single bird, Black Forest Cuckoo. The German regula were nearly at the bottom of their chain. Walking, it had taken much longer to reach his house than expected. The clock was nearly unwound.
“There you are!” Ingrid had driven. “Everyone at the party is wondering where you are! Where is the birthday boy? But, I knew. Here you are, once again standing in front of that clock.”
Hans turned and dropped his eyes. Framed in the doorway with the hall light spilling over her shoulders, through her hair, she was now the archangel of reckoning, his reckoning.
“Tell me something, Hans. I’ve always wondered why the ultimate expert in Black Forest Cuckoos only has one cuckoo. Where are all your other clocks?”
“I only need the one, Ingrid. This one!”
“Obviously! What is it about that one cuckoo clock?”
Hans looked at his single five-leaf, Black Forest Cuckoo clock. Could he explain. Would he have time? He looked at Ingrid, words piling up in his throat, words Ingrid deserved to hear. He opened his mouth. Opened it again. He started, then started again, then again.
“IngridÉ. Ingrid, IÉ. I’m over 130 yearsÉ.
“Oh for Christ, Hans! Not only are you obsessive-compulsive, but you’re deluded! Well, at least your delusion made it entertaining, but I can’t be second to a stupid paper m‰che bird.”
The sonorous ghost of a door slamming stood where Ingrid had a moment before.
Hans stood at the window, peering around the sheers that hid him, but only emotionally. Intellectually, he knew that she would see him, if only she would turn and look. She hadn’t turned once.
She was nearly to the gate.
Hans turned to the clock. Its German regula were nearly at the end of their chains. The small bird had cuckooed twenty-three times since the last time the regula had been raised. It would not cuckoo a twenty-fourth time unless, the weights were raised again. Hans turned his gaze back through the window.
She was at the gate, nearly gone.
The clock was nearly unwound.
He should run after her. Hold her in his life.
He should wind the clock. Keep it ticking.
What would happen if the cuckoo didn’t call out the 24th hour? Would all the years rush up on him, leaving him instantly dead? Would he begin aging at that moment, able to age naturally with Ingrid? Would his aging be accelerated? If he ran out the door, into the night, after the one woman he loved since his wife, what would she see? Hans the quirky cuckoo expert, or Hans a man decrepit beyond the years she’d expected? Could Ingrid live with whatever she saw?
The sonorous ghost of a door slamming stood before the window, where Hans had stood moments earlier. For the first time in over eighty-five years Hans had left his house after 9:00 PM. He ran. Not bad for a man who could remember the rule of Queen Victoria. Ingrid was nearly to her car, nearly in it. Nearly gone! Hans cried out to her.
“Ingrid! Wait! I love you! INGRID! LOOK AT ME!”