Inspector Pascal Mysteries 1000 #14 Persist

Precisely 1000-word Fiction Mystery-Adventures of Inspector Pascal

INSPECTOR PASCAL MYSTERIES 1000
#14, Persist by T.K. Naliaka ©2016-2023

 Her head tipped back and her brown eyes were full of tears as she looked at the white disk of the full moon. “I have nothing.”

He sat down as close as he could. “I don’t understand.  Can you tell me?”

She shook her head sharply. “No one understands. I give up.”

“Ah… I don’t speak English all that well.  It is my second language. Can you explain to me, in a simple way?  What they didn’t understand?”

She frowned slightly, then she turned her head to consider him. “That’s crazy! If everyone who speaks my language doesn’t get it, how can you?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes you must... you know, rephrase it. Then sometimes there’s a better word or someone assumed you used a word a certain way, but you didn’t; you had the other meaning in mind.  If you have to explain to someone like me - to help me understand, then sometimes it becomes very clear.”

Her mouth curved ruefully, then she asked. “Can you say something to me in another language? I never met anyone like that.”

He nodded, “Of course.  What would delight you… a poem?”

She laughed bitterly, “Delight me! What a thing to say! Nothing does anymore! Everything has been spoiled!”

“Well, let’s try anyway.”  He thought for a long moment then he recited:
"Ils m’ont traque et pris au piège.
Chez moi, ils m'ont fais prisonnier.
La meute hargneuse m’assiège.
Pourtant, je sais la liberté."
 
The breeze tousled her long blonde hair as she gazed over the dark river.  She looked at him at last. “That’s so pretty. What does it mean?”

He told her. “It means this:
"They hunted and trapped me.
In my home they made me a prisoner.
The ferocious pack besieged me.
Still, I know liberty.”
 
She gasped. “Is there more?”

He nodded, “Of course. When a person cries out like that, they have much to testify.
"À droit, la forêt très noire
 À gauche un pin couché, un lac ;
 Il ne me reste aucun espoir.
Tant pis! Advienne que pourra !"
 
She was listening intently.  He explained.
“To the right, a very dark forest,
To the left a fallen pine, a lake;
For me, there’s no hope left.
So what!  Come what may!”
 
“My God!”  She cried out, “How!  How?”  She reached out and gripped his hand. “More!”
"Jusqu’au bout, je persiste à croire
Que les envieux et les larbins
Devront admettre la victoire
 À venir de l‘esprit du bien."
 
He whispered:
“To the end, I persist to believe
That the envious and the minions
Must admit the victory
To come of the spirit of goodness.”
 
He stretched his arms out and drew her close as she clung to him and wept. “It’s all right now.  It’s time to take back your life from all that’s wrong and build it better and stronger.  There’s no mistake you made that can’t be forgiven.  Don’t carry that with you from now on.  This time, you surround yourself with people who care about you.”

They sat together as the night cooled and the moon set.  His arms were warm against the chill, strong and protective.  He murmured. “The moon departs to make way for dawn, a new day.  See how beautiful it is?”

She lifted her head from his shoulder wearily and looked at the river; the rippling liquid shifted from black to bronze as the golden light strengthened in the east.  She rested her head against him again wistfully. “I’ve never seen that before.”

“How much you didn’t notice was here, waiting for you?”

She sighed. “Is it a dream, a magic fantasy that will vanish?”

He replied. “Magic always vanishes, but what you have now is real. I will stay with you this new day, to show you what a true friend does, and you tell me who is good and who is bad, so you never go back again to what you fled.  You were right to leave; just not on this path.”

“They made me feel so worthless.”

He shook his head. “If God thought you worthless, why did He send so many people to help you?  Who in this city knew you were here?”

She shook her head, “No one.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You made sure, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She finally admitted. “I suppose… it is a bit unexplainable, when you put it that way.”

“Will you come with me?”

She sighed watching the dazzling golden rays of dawn illuminate the green of stirring city trees, light the glass of the buildings like copper mirrors.  She nodded.

“Here.” He reached between the steel bars and held on to her, then they stood up together and he guided her carefully as she stepped on the steel girders and then eased around the frame of the metal barrier.

She hesitated when she saw the size of the waiting crowd, so he sat down.  She sat next to him. Finally she asked. “Are you a preacher?”

He shook his head. “I’m a homicide investigator.”

She shrank away from him, so he explained. “I’m on holiday.  I heard your city was beautiful so I came to see it.”

She exclaimed. “You’ve never been here before!”

“Never.”

She considered him. “Disappointed?”

He looked at her. “No! I work for justice for the dead.  But that can’t ever bring them back. Sometimes, I need to help the living; to encourage me.” He shrugged wryly. “But, you know - we’re not quite all the way there, yet.”

She took a deep breath, then she clasped his hand.  “Ok.  I’m scared, but I want to come back, now.”

Together they stepped carefully along the beam. Many hands reached out and pulled them onto the tower platform.

She turned to him. “I have a question, how did you know?”

He slipped his hand inside his jacket, then held out a slightly crushed flower. “It’s not every day that a rose just drops out of the sky onto my head.  So, I looked up.”
 
by T.K. Naliaka ©2016-2023 All rights reserved
 
The poem, Le Prix Nobel, 1959 by Boris Pasternak, author of Doctor Zhivago,  from Fleurs d’encre, Français 3e, Bertagna and Carrier, Hachette