Ariadne’s Thread

Alan’s friends could not believe him. They wanted more. They wanted proof.

“You met him?”

“Merlo exists?”

“You spoke?”

“What did he say?”

“What’s he like?”

“He signed it?”

“He stole your book?”

“His book?”

“Why take his own book?”

“It’s my copy of his latest, ‘Ariadne’s Thread’.”

Everyone envied Alan’s good fortune. Few could claim the great Merlo had stolen one of their books. Fewer, that the thief also wrote it.

Many claimed to know Merlo, the celebrated author, eccentric and recluse. He lived in this city where Alan attended university.

Alan thought himself Merlo’s ‘biggest’ fan. He’d read it all, almost. Many promised to introduce him. But those promises remained open ended and unfulfilled.

He spent many nights with friends, jousting over a favorite ‘Merlo’ quote or a difficult passage.

Alan brought his friends to hear Merlo read his work. The late cancelation surprised no one but Alan. Merlo’s unpredictable behavior was well known. You could always expect the unexpected from him.

He had a reputation for borrowing books and never returning them. People proudly declared some book of theirs was on permanent loan, absorbed into Merlo’s vast library and never seen again. Their claim confirmed having actually met him. A brush with his genius exceeded the price of a book. It afforded an elevated social status few could claim and fewer, in fact, shared.

Cynics would scoff at the adulation laid at his feet. “So buy another copy.” But ten copies could not replace the cache of having met with greatness in the flesh.

Of course, Merlo was no mean thief. His books were studied and celebrated throughout the world. Students quoted cherished poems. An accomplished poet, novelist, and scholar, his interests were boundless. Fan groups competed on social media.

Naysayers jeered that those calling Merlo ‘prolific’ had merely mispronounced ‘promiscuous’.

His scholarly work incorporated an ironic humor that enriched the debate. Some felt humor cheapened his work. Or that he hid behind ambiguity. True believers saw a deeper commentary inaccessible to the superficial.

Even those who never opened his books felt blessed to be close to such talent.

Some remarked at Merlo’s reclusive nature. Having no appetite for self-promotion, his work spoke for itself. He would not be consumed by voracious fans.

A private man, no one knew his address. Some doubted his existence.

One long night, Alan listened to his friends debate Merlo’s latest work, “Ariadne’s Thread”. Some felt spoofed. Others bought into his thesis whole heartedly.

In the book, Merlo asked if the Minotaur deserved his monstrous reputation. Or was he misunderstood? Rather, a scapegoat? He argued the Minotaur’s death served Ariadne’s insidious purposes. Theseus’ abandonment of her underscored her high-maintenance temperament.

As Bill put it, “’Princess’ was the nicest thing Theseus could call her.” Everyone at the table laughed. Bill signaled the waitress. “Who’s in? My round.”

The discussion went off the rails over the distinction between maze and labyrinth.

After much light-hearted banter they agreed a maze is a difficult puzzle. It contains many dead ends, culs-de-sac and false turns. The persistent explorer eventually finds the exit, or returns to the entrance.

Sophia said, “The harvest festival ‘Maize Maze’ clarifies how the chicken must feel, after crossing the damned road. All that, for what?

Bill said, “If you keep your hand to the wall as you walk, it will lead you through.”

“Unless designed as a maze within a maze with disconnected walls…” Alan interjected. Several shook their heads in confusion.

“Too many beers to grasp that…” someone mumbled.

The group also agreed a labyrinth consists of a single path folding back on itself.

Bill explained it had been “used throughout history as a spiritual pilgrimage.”  

Sophia added, “Like life, it veers by the familiar only to turn away again into the unknown. The meandering path leads to a contemplative center. The pilgrim then retraces his route out the way he came.”

Bill said, “I always thought it looks like a brain from above.”

Alan offered, “It could be a metaphor for memory itself.”

Sophia nodded, “But the route is no puzzle and the result is sure. There’s but one way in, and out.”

“Of course, some think it’s pointless and walk away, or cheat…” Several laughed and raised their hands. “…thus missing the spiritual implications,” Bill concluded.

Alan steered them back to the Minotaur’s fate. “So Icarus designed the prison for the Minotaur, a maze impossible to escape.”

“Icarus was a putz.” Everyone laughed.

“Right, a putz who invented solo flight.”

“And ended up killing himself, stupid hubris…”

“Icarus designed the maze imprisoning the Minotaur. But too clever by half, he called it a labyrinth.”

“Maybe that’s why no one could escape. Thinking it was a labyrinth, they…” The conversation dissolved into laughter and confusion.

One day, Alan happened upon Merlo drinking a demitasse in a small cafe. Four empty cups remained on the table. Or was it cognac?

Alan took long walks and found himself in unfamiliar territory. Seeing the café and, thinking to warm himself, he went in for a cup. In a dim corner sat Merlo, the author, the genius, the recluse. Alone.

Recognizing him immediately, Alan said nothing. He ordered an espresso and sat nearby. Only after a few sips did he test the conversational waters.

After some small talk, Alan sensed Merlo’s restlessness.

Before he could stand, Alan said, “Please forgive my question, but aren’t you Merlo, the author?”

He looked trapped, sensing this was no coincidence. He shyly admitted his identity and moved to leave.

“Would it be too much to ask, would you sign this?” Alan pulled his copy of ‘Ariadne’s Thread’ from his pack and offered it to Merlo. “I love it. Everyone talks about it.”

Alan sat in suspense as his idol stared at his work. The cover painting depicted Theseus holding the Minotaur’s head aloft with Ariadne crouching at his feet.

Buying time, Merlo passed the book hand to hand as if judging, not by its cover but its heft. He acted as if the words inside were of no consequence. But rather, as if by a peculiar alchemy, the paper, binding, and ink’s density determined a book’s value. Feigning disinterest, he flipped a few pages and set it down.

Alan offered a pen. Merlo pretended wanting to write something personal.

“To whom should I address it?”

Before Alan could answer, the waiter approached and asked him if he would like another espresso.

A slight peripheral movement distracted, and when he looked, Merlo had gone. Disappeared. Escaped.

Alan moved to pursue him.

The waiter blocked him, “He’s been called away.”

That night, Alan recounted his experience. “He left with his bill unpaid. I could barely afford the espresso and I had to cover him too.” His friends commiserated. “And he kept my book.”

Bill clapped Alan’s back. “You did it, man. You’re in the club!”

He nodded. “I kept the bill as a souvenir.”

“That’ll be worth something…”

But Alan couldn’t let it go. Signed or not, he wanted his book.

Sophia said, “Relax, Alan. That’s Merlo. I’ll buy you another.”

But Alan returned to the scene of the crime. He arrived early, after gauging the time necessary to drink four demitasse. He hoped this cafe might be Merlo’s place of habit. Half a block distant, he watched from behind a light pole. The sun shone off the buildings, cars, and pedestrians. A delivery truck briefly blocked his view. Alan smiled, thinking he should have worn a trench coat and fedora.

Merlo emerged and walked toward the sun with purpose. Alan shadowed him taking care to stay out of sight.

They entered a commercial district unfamiliar to Alan. Racks, heavy with fashions, narrowed the congested walkways. People could hardly pass. Increased foot traffic helped conceal Alan but also slowed his progress. He had to hop above shopper’s heads to find Merlo in the crowd. It felt like he’d crashed an enormous street party.

The author entered a store. Alan pulled his jacket close against the breeze.

A swift movement caught his eye. A short young man, obviously not working for the vendor, came down the walk. Without breaking stride, he grabbed a wheeled fashion rack from in front of a store. Hidden by the clothes, he kept the rack moving as if they were one. Someone might almost think the rack traveled by itself.

As he came abreast of Alan, the thief stepped around the rack and challenged him. “You watchin’ me?”

The guy’s threatening stance forced Alan back. “No. I’m not.”

Teeth bared but not smiling, the guy leaned in. “You didn’t see?”

Alan saw the grotesque scar running like a cartoonish grin from ear to ear, across his throat.

“I’m just standing... Don’t see a thing.”

“Good.” The guy continued on his way.

Alan remembered to breathe. ‘What am I doing?’

Merlo re-entered the throng and walked up the street. Alan kept his distance. ‘Are we going in circles? Didn’t we already pass that yarn shop?’

They entered a shady residential district. The properties hid behind high stucco walls. With little cover, Alan held back. Merlo stopped at one and entered the gate. The wall had a large diagonal crack with many sloppy patches.

Now that he found Merlo’s home, he wondered if he could find the university. ‘Did Merlo know I followed him? Did he lure me here? Why? Is this his eccentric humor?’ Alan quelled his paranoia and rang the bell. He wanted his book.

After a long wait the valet opened the door. The only light inside appeared to be through the open doorway. Alan asked to see Merlo, which the valet declined.

“The Master is not taking visitors.”

“When may I see him? I promise I won’t take much time. It’s urgent.”

After a few brief exchanges, the valet stepped back. Alan entered the foyer. The door closed. Merlo stood where Alan had expected to see the valet.

He looked amused. “You tracked me down.”

Too shocked to speak, Alan stared.

“You’ve come for your book. I promise, all in good time. Will you join me in my study?”

Merlo led the way down a gloomy, book-lined corridor. Several turns led through numerous passages, each filled floor-to-ceiling with books. Alan began to wonder if this were a maze or a labyrinth he’d got himself into.

Merlo spoke as they walked. He reveled at being a tour guide, pointing out priceless collections as they passed. If Alan dared slow for a look, Merlo would scowl until Alan caught up.

He soon realized Merlo’s non-stop narrative had become nonsense, mere babble. Did Merlo expect him to respond to inquiries about ‘the disappearance of a pear, an apple’s application, or the peach’s speeches’?

They entered a room lit by a lively blaze in the fireplace. Alan welcomed its warmth. Light shimmered off the gold lettering on the spines of books. Merlo offered Alan a leather easy chair and they sat facing the fire.

The valet, Charles, brought refreshments. They talked for hours.

~~~

He said I need attend to that damaged wall before it collapses.

A visitor is a rare pleasure. I surprise myself. Most days, except for my passage, the air is so still a dust mote might hang in place for hours, indifferent to gravity’s relentless pull. I sometimes think the whole place will collapse in a cloud of dust and mold. Charles must open the windows when weather permits. It’s been so damp.

My study was lit, or I should say, not lit by two wall sconces beside the mantle. Those weak bulbs cowered from their task. Rather than diminish the consuming darkness, their combined luminance only emphasized it. Shelves packed to the ceiling loomed. Someday I will read them all.

A painting above the mantle depicted Diogenes holding his lantern aloft. His cold flame offered more illumination than the bulbs shining to left and right.  

The hissing fire provided little heat. More ash than ember and no draft, my pipe smoke lingered. Our brandies stood long empty.

My visitor, Alan, dozed. Weary myself, I instructed Charles to show him out when he awakened.

I placed his copy of ‘Ariadne’ beside his snifter. Above my signature I wrote, “Does the Minotaur conquered, sate or spark your craving?”