“What makes you think I’m a tourist?” The man smiled politely. His demeanor was cool but his eyes were warm as he watched her lift the receiver from the phone. Goldie stared back at him, trying to craft a coherent response. He was just too dazzling. She couldn’t think clearly.
He didn’t actually strike her as a tourist. It had just been something to say. An easy assumption. But he was nothing like the typical tourists who visited. There was something different about him. Something unusual and unfathomable.
This must be why she was so attracted to him. She’d always adored puzzles and he was a fresh one—a mystery that seemed to have washed ashore just when her existential ennui was growing unbearable again.
After a moment, the steady tone coming out from the corded handset changed to a staccato warning. She set the handset back down to silence the noise.
“Well, you’ve come to the island at an awkward time of the year,” she noted. “And I don’t see any luggage. But I also don’t see a briefcase or any other sign that you’re here on business. You’re not dressed in workers’ clothing, and you seem to be traveling alone.” She paused here, aware that she sounded like a plucky detective from one of those British cozy mystery shows she loved to watch. “You are alone, no? Is someone waiting for you outside?”
Goldie felt an odd rush of misplaced jealousy as she imagined his wife, or girlfriend, pacing outside and wondering what was taking him so long. She hated that woman. She didn’t want to share him with her. Perhaps the woman was annoyed at him for rushing into the building. She was probably eager to resume their walk. Maybe she never even wanted to come to the island. She would have preferred going somewhere warmer. Goldie began to cobble an entire backstory together for this strange man, and her imagination would have continued on with this invented narrative had he not interrupted it.
“I’m not traveling with anyone else,” he said. A shadow of something crossed his face as he replied. “It’s only me.”
“I see,” Goldie said, though she didn’t. In fact, she was at a bit of a loss. She was usually better at reading people. She’d been around long enough. Once more, she lifted the receiver, placing it to her ear as she dialed the local police from memory. Had there been a buffalo in the lobby, she’d have dialed another number. And if an oarfish washed ashore? She’d know who to call about that as well. Years of memorizing scripts still served her well. She’d memorized all the numbers she might need to call. Not that it was a difficult task. It was a small island and there were only so many year-round inhabitants.
“They’ll be round in a few minutes.” Goldie set the phone down. “They asked us to wait, just so we can answer a few questions. And after that you can continue your business, or sightseeing, or whatever it is you’ve come for.” It was none of her business, anyway. Best to put it out of her head. “You can wait down here in the lobby. I’m going to go check on my projectors.”
“Yourprojectors?” the man asked.
“It’s a long story.” Goldie dragged a toe across the line on the patterned carpet. “Some people collect old cars. I collect historical projectors.”
“I love long stories. You can tell me more over breakfast.”
“I don’t know.” Goldie hesitated. She smoothed the pile on the rug back down with another pass of her foot. “I really have a lot on my plate right now.”
“Surely there’s a little room for some eggs. A muffin, at least? Don’t make me dine alone.” He smiled hopefully and there was something so devastatingly lonely about his smile that it took her breath away. It made her wonder if her smile looked as desolate as his.
“Fine,” she relented. “I’ll have breakfast with you. But I’m more interested in hearing your story than telling mine. And one other condition,” she added. “It’s my treat. I’m Goldie, by the way.”
She extended a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Goldie.” He took her hand between his two gloved ones and squeezed it gently.
She was glad she’d used her actual first name here on the island. She liked hearing it again. It had been at least seventy years since anyone had called her by the name her adoptive parents had chosen for her. High time to put it back in the rotation. It was a sweet way to remember the good times she’d had with them. She felt more like herself when people called her Goldie. Even if the beach here was so far from where she’d started.
“Thanks for agreeing to have breakfast with me.” The man released her hand and reached into his pocket for a small, neat business card. He tipped his hat after he handed it to her. Something in her stomach fluttered again.
Goldie turned the card over in her hands. It was made of thick cream cardstock with his name engraved at the center in an elegant burgundy font. It reminded her of the calling cards of long ago.
Cosimo R. Gieri
“Are you sure we haven’t already met, Cosimo?” There was something. She could have sworn. Not recently. Something long, long ago. But of course she must be imagining it. If you lived long enough, you got used to seeing doppelgangers. People look alike more often than you’d think.
Goldie shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m an old woman. Of course you don’t know me. My memory must be going.”
His eyes flickered again as he blinked. Loneliness, sadness, and a flash of hunger. Each blink framed a different emotion for a microsecond. Like the stills from one of her old silent film reels. But when he turned his face back toward hers, all was calm and his emotions seemed more shuttered.
“I’m flattered,” he said placidly. “But I’m frequently mistaken for other people.”
A thrilling chill danced down her spine at his word choice. This was a line she’d used at least a hundred times herself.
“You don’t say?” she asked amusedly. “Who do people think you are, then?”
“It’s hard to say.” Cosimo waved his hand dismissively. “A long-lost relative, a film star, or a teacher they once had. That’s the funny part. They’re never quite sure. Which makes me the same nonentity every time. People look at me and see a figment of their imagination.”
Goldie caught her breath. It wasn’t something she’d ever said out loud, but it summed up her feelings about her former fame and her unusually long life precisely.
“It’s a terrible thing to be both seen and forgotten.” She swallowed. “The absolute opposite of being known.”
