Sleeping in Flame by Jonathan Carroll Page A
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy fiction, Fantasy, Contemporary, Love Stories, Occult fiction, Body; Mind & Spirit, Reincarnation, Shamans, Women artists, Screenwriters, Vienna (Austria)
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his buildings."
"That's true! I'm always looking for something to do with my arms when I'm sitting there."
She put Orlando down and worked her way out of the chair. "Sure. And they cost a small fortune, too. Do you have any pictures of your family?"
Page 23
Nodding, I went to my desk and took out a large envelope filled with photographs. I felt a little exposed handing it over, though, because of the pictures of Victoria in there, the pictures of Victoria and me clowning for the camera, the pictures of me in costume for movies and ads I'd done. Besides the wrinkles on my face and personality, those shots were really the only concrete remnant, proof, to Maris York of my last few years. There was a pullover in the closet bought on a trip to Paris with my former wife, spoons in a kitchen drawer we'd chosen together at the Vienna flea market. But Maris didn't know that. Besides these photographs, she would only know Victoria, or my past, through my stories, but those were so shadowed and colored by my biases, secrets, and hurts . . .
"Is this Victoria?"
"Yes."
"She looks a lot like I thought. Your description was good."
She saw my parents, their house in Atlanta, my stepsister, Kitty, in the kitchen making brownies.
"Did you ever read anything about handwriting analysis?" She was holding a snapshot of me at the age of ten in a Little League uniform. I shook my head.
"The most interesting thing about it is that experts say you can never tell people's personality via handwriting until you've read five pages of their script. There are certain big companies that give a test when you apply for a job where you're required to write longhand for five pages. Then they give only the fifth page to a graphologist or psychologist and get their opinion. I think it's the same with a person's picture album. You've got to look at the whole bunch before coming to any conclusions. Right now I'm thinking 'How come he doesn't talk much about his family? Why does he only have a couple of pictures of his stepsister?' Things like that. But I know I have to go through all of them and see what they're of before I can get any clear idea of you."
"Would you like a drink?"
I must have said it in a strange voice, because she looked up quickly.
"Are you angry, Walker?"
Looking at the floor, I shook my head. "It's funny how you can be thirty years old and still embarrassed about things that happened when you were young. Things you didn't have anything to do with, but they still have their hooks in you.
"I was adopted, Maris. I was found in a garbage can outside a restaurant in Atlanta. A bum discovered me while looking for dinner one night. He's the closest I ever got to who my real parents were. But by the time I found out his name and where he lived, he'd been dead for years."
An expression of pain and great wonder spread across her face. "Is that true?"
"That is true. I have a great family. I love all of them very much, but I have no idea who the real ones were. And you want to know something?
Victoria always believed that's why I became an actor: so one day my real parents would see me up there on the screen and know their son. I don't know how they'd recognize me after thirty years, but she was sure that was one of the reasons why I worked so hard at succeeding in the business."
She came over and took my hand. "And that embarrasses you? It's like a German _Märchen_!"
"If it were a fairy tale it'd be all right, but it's a real life, Maris.
_My_ life!"
"It is not. It's the beginning of a life. What you've done since then is what matters. Look at all those people who were born with everything, but then muck it up completely. They're the ones who should feel guilty. From what little I've seen and you've told me, you're a decent man with a good supply of perception and sensitivity."
"And my divorce?"
Page 24
"Don't be silly. Something like 50 percent of adult Americans have been divorced at least once.
How did it happen?"
"We
"That's true! I'm always looking for something to do with my arms when I'm sitting there."
She put Orlando down and worked her way out of the chair. "Sure. And they cost a small fortune, too. Do you have any pictures of your family?"
Page 23
Nodding, I went to my desk and took out a large envelope filled with photographs. I felt a little exposed handing it over, though, because of the pictures of Victoria in there, the pictures of Victoria and me clowning for the camera, the pictures of me in costume for movies and ads I'd done. Besides the wrinkles on my face and personality, those shots were really the only concrete remnant, proof, to Maris York of my last few years. There was a pullover in the closet bought on a trip to Paris with my former wife, spoons in a kitchen drawer we'd chosen together at the Vienna flea market. But Maris didn't know that. Besides these photographs, she would only know Victoria, or my past, through my stories, but those were so shadowed and colored by my biases, secrets, and hurts . . .
"Is this Victoria?"
"Yes."
"She looks a lot like I thought. Your description was good."
She saw my parents, their house in Atlanta, my stepsister, Kitty, in the kitchen making brownies.
"Did you ever read anything about handwriting analysis?" She was holding a snapshot of me at the age of ten in a Little League uniform. I shook my head.
"The most interesting thing about it is that experts say you can never tell people's personality via handwriting until you've read five pages of their script. There are certain big companies that give a test when you apply for a job where you're required to write longhand for five pages. Then they give only the fifth page to a graphologist or psychologist and get their opinion. I think it's the same with a person's picture album. You've got to look at the whole bunch before coming to any conclusions. Right now I'm thinking 'How come he doesn't talk much about his family? Why does he only have a couple of pictures of his stepsister?' Things like that. But I know I have to go through all of them and see what they're of before I can get any clear idea of you."
"Would you like a drink?"
I must have said it in a strange voice, because she looked up quickly.
"Are you angry, Walker?"
Looking at the floor, I shook my head. "It's funny how you can be thirty years old and still embarrassed about things that happened when you were young. Things you didn't have anything to do with, but they still have their hooks in you.
"I was adopted, Maris. I was found in a garbage can outside a restaurant in Atlanta. A bum discovered me while looking for dinner one night. He's the closest I ever got to who my real parents were. But by the time I found out his name and where he lived, he'd been dead for years."
An expression of pain and great wonder spread across her face. "Is that true?"
"That is true. I have a great family. I love all of them very much, but I have no idea who the real ones were. And you want to know something?
Victoria always believed that's why I became an actor: so one day my real parents would see me up there on the screen and know their son. I don't know how they'd recognize me after thirty years, but she was sure that was one of the reasons why I worked so hard at succeeding in the business."
She came over and took my hand. "And that embarrasses you? It's like a German _Märchen_!"
"If it were a fairy tale it'd be all right, but it's a real life, Maris.
_My_ life!"
"It is not. It's the beginning of a life. What you've done since then is what matters. Look at all those people who were born with everything, but then muck it up completely. They're the ones who should feel guilty. From what little I've seen and you've told me, you're a decent man with a good supply of perception and sensitivity."
"And my divorce?"
Page 24
"Don't be silly. Something like 50 percent of adult Americans have been divorced at least once.
How did it happen?"
"We
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