The wedding ceremony is in Japanese, which under normal circumstances wouldn’t have bothered Nick so much, but since he is playing father of the bride, he feels a little bit at a disadvantage.  But the woman who seems to be in charge of what could only loosely be called a procession—Nick, the bride Miyo, and a flower girl—smiles a lot, bows frequently and keeps repeating his name with reverent tenderness, “Professor Grosso, Professor Grosso, Professor Grosso.”  He thinks of the trinity and though that doesn’t dispel any dark thoughts, it does keep him grounded in religious etiquette.

            So we watch him try not to stumble down the aisle as he accompanies Miyo to the bridegroom.  It’s then he notices the groom’s hair:  so thick and wavy.  He shudders slightly with nostalgia, remembering that he, too, once, long ago, had hair like that, and Nick resists the temptation to pat his balding head in a vain effort to relocate it.  Sensory recall, he would call it and he’d continue to explain how they do those types of exercises in the Acting I classes over in the Theatre Department he chairs.  But explaining it wouldn’t alter the fact that he is, at present, too busy grieving over that lost head of hair and musing over the fact that life was not fair.

            Instead, though, of dwelling on this, we see Miyo smiling sadly Hector’s way.  And Hector, being the good sport that he is, smiles tentatively back.  She tries hard to read hidden meanings in his smile but cannot, for the life of her, discern any.  It is an embarrassed smile, as if he is not sure exactly what he is doing here, or at least just what his role should be: friend, colleague, fellow immigrant, ex-lover, current reminder of a life almost lived.  She shudders slightly remembering the way he looked in the mornings, with the light slowly seeping into the bedroom and her eyes opening to him as his hand slid down across her breasts, along her abdomen, and finally came to rest between her legs, which also opened to him and that smile, that smile, that same sad smile lounging on her lips, that lounges there now, as if she were giving up all the secrets of her country to the barbarian horde.  And she wonders, we see, what kind of smile she will offer her husband now since he is not foreign but Japanese, too, and thus more familiar with the sighs, the words murmured, the smell of ginger in the air.  And Miyo’s smile turns rueful as she surveys the other guests from the college and finds herself speaking vows in her mother tongue which brings her back from what almost was to now.

            But meanwhile, back to Nick who surveys the guests other than Hector out of the corner of his eye, while trying hard to appear as if he is paying attention to the ceremony.  There is Sara, a young tutor who is acting, more or less, in the capacity of Hector’s date, and who can’t be more than just a few years out of high school herself.  And she is looking at Hector out of the corner of her eye and hopelessly pining away.  She can’t understand why he doesn’t look her way when she thinks she is so right for him because, as we all know, they both come from neighboring countries in South America and thus would easily understand each other.  Besides, although he thinks there’s an age difference and doesn’t consider her to be much more than a child, she is almost 21 years old and back home most girls her age would be, if not married already, at least proud mothers.  Not that she wants a baby yet, since she wants to finish college first,  but it does prove she is not too young to love and to be loved in return.  So our hearts quite naturally break for her as she tries so hard to keep hers from cracking right there in the church.

            And speaking of cracking, we must now turn to Vivian who cracks a smile at Jenny as they both begin the song “Ave Maria” requested by Miyo for her wedding.  Vivian’s hands caress the keyboards as Jenny’s voice floats over the assemblage and time stands still in this tiny congregational church.

            Nick notices Jeff, his protégé in the department, who is smiling thinking this is why he came, to witness these two perform, they are so perfect together, like a matching set, two halves of a whole, but he also can’t help but remember Jeff kidding him earlier by saying he is really there to watch Nick walk down the aisle as father of the bride even though he is light years from ever being a father of anything.  Of course, so is Jeff since neither ever became fathers.  Too absorbed in work to have kids, Doug would say, and yes, Nick would nod his head as if that were true.  Too absorbed to even look up to see a possible world outside the world they were so passionately engulfed in.

And yet, and yet as Jeff sits in his black suit and power red tie and gazes upon these two angels at work—Vivian on the keys and Jenny’s voice among the clouds—Nick continues to survey the gathering and thinks here all their worlds meet.  There is music and song and ceremony.  Dozens of languages spoken among the spectators of this, a Japanese wedding on Long Island attended by citizens of countries from both Americas, Europe, Asia, the Caribbean, and lands in between.  The foreigners outnumber the Japanese, who outnumber the native New Yorkers who view themselves as inhabitants of a third world nation within the boundaries of the United States.  And Nick smiles at what is, to him, true theatre.

            The minister then begins a sermon, part in what could be construed as faltering English but mostly in Japanese, and all the guests, including those who cannot understand him, which, in our eyes, is quite a few, listen attentively.  No one, except Jeff, who continues to gaze wistfully at Jenny, and Sara, who can’t help but furtively glance Hector’s way, lets their eyes waver as he speaks.  Nick even finds himself nodding on occasion, though he isn’t quite sure what he’s nodding about or to, and wonders if he should ask Miyo later or, better still, wait to ask Misook who, after all, did study art in Japan for a few years before coming to the U.S. and thus, even though she is Korean, knows Japanese as well as, if not better than, English.  And thinking of her then makes him wonder where she is right now and, as is often the case, he continues searching the gathering looking for her smile.

            And as he peruses the crowd for other familiar faces, he sees Ali sitting next to Doug who, he is glad to see, sits next to Misook who sits next to the theatre department office manager Gloria who sits next to a newly pregnant Rosalind who is silently debating whether to tell Nick about this new development in her life today or wait until tomorrow at school.  Her husband Stan was, quite naturally, elated but Nick is dependant on her, his senior set designer, and this soon to be new addition to her life will undoubtedly cause problems in the departmental workload.  And Rosalind, who has been working for Nick for nearly 10 years, feels a conflicted loyalty here.

Ali, of course, is not paying attention really, though Nick cannot surmise this, but is composing a poem in his head to his long lost sweetheart Sevda back in Turkey.  There is something about the way Miyo is standing, the weight slightly shifting to her left side, that reminds him of Sevda and he can’t help keeping the memories flooding back, the smell of coffee in the morning, the sunlight through the curtains, the sound of Istanbul stirring in his soul.  He would like to forget all that and stay grounded in America, but these memories, that woman, keep intruding on his new life here.  So he starts composing a poem, that he recites over and over again in order to commit it to memory for scribbling down later, in his head and temporarily forgets where he is.

            Doug, though, knows exactly where he is:  he is sitting next to Misook who is the most beautiful woman in the world as far as his best friend Nick is concerned.  He is breathing in her perfume, which he knows she collects, as he tries to concentrate on the ceremony unfolding before him.  But his mind, his thoughts, his conflicted emotions, are forever going back to Misook and what she represents:  femininity.  He wonders if and when he might be graced by someone like this in his life or if he will continue to walk unsteadily toward a solitary old age.  He could, perhaps, be saddened by these thoughts, especially since he is a spectator at a wedding, but instead he inhales the perfume and lets his mind wander back to glory days when scents such as this permeated his pillow and were his first sensory stimuli in the morning. And those thoughts account for the smile that plays on his lips.

            And Misook, what thoughts are whirling inside that head of hers?  Nick wonders.  So many images bump and collide, colors run, emotions swirl.  She is in turmoil in her mind while her face tries hard to remain focused on the bride, the groom, the ceremony.  But really, all she wants to do is kick off her sandals, shed her black silk dress for the short, pink dress she paints in, mix up some tubes of paint, grasp a knife to use instead of a brush, and begin to paint.  But no one really sees this.  All they see is a glacier face, so beautiful in its serenity, or at least what everyone takes for serenity, but which we know is a mask.  Only Nick knows her and suspects the raging spirit within.

            Gloria, meanwhile, fans herself while, Nick guesses, she rearranges the ceremony in her mind.  The seats first, he thinks she would think, need to be replaced.  They are just not comfortable enough.  And the lack of air conditioning in this small, confined space is really outrageous.  Those two fans are just a joke.  But Miyo could not look more beautiful, it just takes the entire congregation’s breath, as well as ours, away.  And her husband, Yugi, is a very handsome young man, but unfortunately most of Miyo’s friends have no idea what he is truly like since the only English he seems to know is “yes, yes” and “thank you so much”.  He does have a lovely smile, though, if not just a wee bit too childlike and benign.  And lips that are perhaps as full as Miyo’s own.

            Which brings us back to Miyo who is kissing the groom while Hector’s face flushes slightly, but no one notices, least of all Miyo, since they are all watching the bride, the groom, the first legal kiss.  Besides, it’s the heat that flushes his face, is it not, so hot, so stuffy here and only Nick, who sits with the wedding party by the minister’s altar has the benefit of what is possibly cross ventilation.  But the kiss is over—so short, so polite—and the singing of a hymn begins.

            Jenny’s voice floats across the small crowd like a soothing rain.  Watch Vivian’s hands glide over the keys, hear Jenny’s soprano caress the lyrics—“Here, There, Everywhere”—a Beatles’ love song from the sixties for a Japanese couple in the 21^st Century in America.  And it is here that Nick, though he does not realize it yet, gets the idea that would haunt him, then later consume him so, right here during this ceremony and not later at the reception as he will one day tell it.  But here, now, gazing at all those ethnic faces as Jenny’s voice caresses the air, is the seed of all that will follow.

            And Gabriella, sitting next to Jeff, would later use Miyo as her inspiration for Tatiana rising in dance from the wedding night slumber with Bottom.

            But let’s not get ahead of ourselves and stay with Gabriella but go to Doug instead who watches her and finds himself wondering about her eyes.  He had never really noticed them before:  so watchful, so amused, so sad.  They seem to settle on parts of the room and take in every detail.  And then those very details seem to encumber them with a melancholy.  It is as if what they see they understand, and what they understand saddens them in her very soul.  The transient quality of life.  And this sadness he understands since life for him is one long funeral procession broken up intermittently with moments of joy like this wedding.  But here, in those eyes of Gabriella’s, he senses a kindred spirit and thinks he might have found a pair of eyes he could stare into without blinking.

            Misook, meanwhile, is wondering what Nick is thinking.  He probably would rather be wandering around his house in bathrobe and slippers, drinking his fourth cup of coffee and contemplating what tie will go with what shirt with what jacket before calling out to her to come and help him decide.  His fashion expert, he calls her, and she smiles thinking how she actually likes dressing him and takes partial responsibility for the improvement in his overall appearance since she began living in his house three years ago.  She is also proud of what he is doing:  being a stand-in for the father of the bride.  Another burden of his office—head honcho of the college’s theatre department:  father/godfather/uncle/big brother/friend as well as advisor/confessor and occasional banker/employer/teacher to the staff and students that pass through his program, who build his scenery, adjust his lights, act in his plays, charm and amuse him both on and off the stage of his life.

            But right now what passes through Nick’s consciousness is Jenny’s voice as it finishes the last notes of the hymn and Miyo and Yugi leave the room to climb the stairs and wait by the door to greet people.  He, too, is carried along, gently ushered by that matron attached to the minister who says something in Japanese to the followers and him and then waves her hands saying, “Professor Grosso, Professor Grosso.”  He nods, smiles, walks this way, that way, climbs stairs, stands dutifully next to a radiant Miyo and bows, smiles, shakes hands as guest after guest file past to the front yard outside.

            Miyo, of course, is beautiful.  That almost perfect smile, marred only by a crooked row of bottom teeth so characteristic of Japanese dental care, but which Hector found so endearing because it made her, for him, so more real than she could have ever been otherwise.  But, of course, it is that ethereal quality of hers, as if she were not quite of this world—so tranquil, so charmingly hypnotic that we gaze at her as we gaze at a Michelangelo sculpture—her physical form is that pure.  A slender figure but perfectly proportioned, skin like alabaster, black hair that softly cascades to her shoulders framing her face.  She is so beautiful as to be almost unreal except that she breathes and she smiles gently our way as the guests kiss her cheek and wish her well.

            But back to Nick who stands numbly staring past the line of well-wishers approaching, looking in vain for Misook who should be next to Doug but is not because Doug is there, kissing Miyo on the cheek and shaking Yugi’s hand and looking ever so bemusedly at Nick as he says, “Well Poppa, how does it feel to be giving away what you’ve never had?”

“It could be worse,” he says, smirking.  “I could be paying for all this.”

Doug laughs and is soon replaced by Jeff who, though he is shaking his hand, is not looking at him but back over his right shoulder past Gabriella and back toward Jenny who is making her way slowly toward the door.  But before that quite registers with Nick, Jeff turns to say, “Aren’t you the grand old man?” and they both smile at each other, Nick nodding, someone chuckling, it must be Jeff because Nick knows it is not him.

            But Gabriella caught sight of Doug’s eyes and knows instinctively that this man is somewhere else even if he is standing next to Jeff.  And she wonders about that but decides to not dwell on it here, but to log this insight in the back of her mind and resolves to find out more about this man as the day, the week, the semester continues.  Now, though, she moves from Miyo to Nick, grasps his hand and says, “Well boss, this time you are an actor, not the director of the show.”

            “Ah yes,” and he smiles.  “And was I convincing?”

            “Very,” she says.  “Now everyone, not just Misook, will be calling you poppa.”

            Nick rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically.  “God forbid.”

            And Gabriella laughs as she moves off to the front yard with Jeff as the line continues.

            And now we can see Hector approach Miyo in the line.  Though he shakes Yugi’s hand, he only has eyes for Miyo, only sees her teeth reflecting light, blinding him to all else.  And as he takes her hand in his to wish her happiness, he leans over to kiss the bride, wanting those full lips on his, that tongue exploding in his mouth, but only grazes the proffered left cheek.  And as he straightens, their eyes meet and much history flows between them.  It could be us, he says with his eyes and she answers yes, but it isn’t, and both are unsure just who’s at fault here.  Her, him, timing, language.  Surely not the sex, and his mind flashes on her arching back, her slightly parted lips, the heavy breathing, and something he hoped would lie dormant stiffens there between his pants pockets.  Lord, he thinks, let it lie still.

            But God is not on his side this afternoon and it pains him to move away, hoping no one will notice his bulging eyes, pants, the lump in his throat.  Not his boss, not Doug, or her boss Nick who watches Misook coming down the line and tries hard not to smile.  And as we watch Hector limp slightly off to the side, we see the others blocking Nick’s view, Gloria and Sara and Rosalind.  Gloria and Rosalind fawning over Miyo’s gown, her veiled hair, the beauty of her smile even though it has tinges of regret darkening like shadows under her eyes as she loses sight of Hector who passes from our view.  But Gloria and Rosalind both are full of compliments while Sara glides gracefully by in pursuit of the disappearing Hector.

            But oh, Gloria says, “You look stunning,” to Miyo who doesn’t quite hear her and Rosalind nods in agreement.  “Absolutely divine.”

            And Miyo is, of course, beautiful, perhaps even more so now that there is a touch of sadness about her eyes, which both Gloria and Rosalind attribute to her maturing, though we can, can’t we, speculate on other causes.  Gloria meanwhile comments to Rosalind on how much Miyo has grown since she first came five years ago to study in the newly created English Language Institute and began working in the theatre department as a student aide.  “She was so shy,” Gloria says.  “You couldn’t get a word out of her.”

            “Yes,” Rosalind agrees.  “She would just smile and nod as she helped Jackie in the costume shop.”

            “And now she has replaced Jackie as our costume designer.”

            “Well Nick can always either spot talent or inspire it,” Rosalind says.

            “It certainly was true with Miyo,” Gloria says and her gaze returns to the beatific bride as our gaze does, too.  And here, on her wedding day, on a day that should be the marking of a new beginning, Miyo can’t help but feel a tug on the sleeve of her memory that keeps turning her head back toward the past.  Could this, would this day have been different?  Might this, may this day not change her life forever?  Has this, had this day another possible beginning?  And could this, should this day have another possible ending?  Ahhhh, Miyo.  Those melancholy eyes that haunt that beautiful face are filling with tears of happiness, of sorrow, of fear, of regret, of resignation, of foreboding, of love, of lust, of the joy and pain of life.  Ahhhh, Miyo.  It breaks our hearts to see the conflict raging within you today.

            “Are you crying because you are sad, Miyo, or because your heart is bursting with ecstasy?”  Misook, who speaks fluent Japanese since she studied art and calligraphy in Japan for three years before coming to the U.S., asks her in Japanese as she holds her friend’s hand.  “Or are those tears for us who do not know the emotion in your heart?”

            “For you, Misook dear,” Miyo says and hugs her best friend tightly.  “And for me.  For all of us here and all of us absent.”

            “Oh Miyo,” and Misook is surprised at the ferocity in her grasp.  “Oh.”  And they hold each other for a long moment before letting go.  Misook looks at her carefully and then says tentatively, “Should I be worried about you?”

            “Not today,” Miyo says.  “Not as long as friends like you surround me.”  And she hugs her again and smiles as radiantly as she can.  “Am I not the happiest woman you know today?”

            “I certainly hope so,” Misook says and finds herself smiling radiantly, too.  “Though I feel pretty happy myself.”

            “For me, I hope.”

            “Yes, for you and for Yugi and for everyone here and even for myself.”

            “Yes, for you, too,” Miyo laughs.  “And won’t we have fun at the reception?”

            “I hope so,” Misook says.  “It should be a party, shouldn’t it?”

            “If it isn’t,” Miyo winks, “we’ll go somewhere else and find one.”

            And they laugh and kiss and Misook moves down to see Nick watching her with a bemused glint in his eye.  “And now I find you,” Misook says, “being a poppa to someone else besides me.”

            “I’m the father to everyone,” he says, “but a poppa to only one.”

            “And who is that one?”  she asks.

            “The one that holds the key to my heart.”

            Misook’s eyes widen, then shift to the side as if trying to spy this mysterious personage.  “Is she here?”  she mock whispers.

            “Oh yes,” he nods.

            “And how do we know her?”

            “She’ll be the one who can make me smile.”

            “Ahhh,” and those eyes widen again.  A conspiratorial whisper.  “A clever girl?”

            Nick nods.  “She can juggle three oranges and has a painter’s eye for composition.”

            “She is special to you?”

            “Very.”

            And here a look of begrudging admiration.  “I would like to meet this girl.”

            “If you’re very good today,” he says, “I’ll arrange it.”

            “Thank you, poppa.”

            “You’re welcome, daughter.”

            Misook winks, Nick smiles, and off she goes to join the others milling about on the lawn.  And we join them, too, as Ali follows Misook around, Gloria fans herself with a borrowed hymnal and Sara watches Hector watch Miyo descend the stairs.  There are photo opportunities galore and much oohhhing and aahhhing in several different accents until everyone piles into various cars to make the 20 minute drive to the Japanese restaurant Yugi works in as a sushi chef for the wedding reception.

            If we go to the restaurant before the guests, we will see that the owner, Hiroshi Sugi, has closed the restaurant for the entire afternoon so that his cousin Yugi can have a proper wedding banquet/party.  This is, though, not purely an act of kindness since Yugi came to this country to work for him two years ago and is his second full-time sushi chef (Hiroshi being the head chef) so it has its practical, somewhat self-serving, side as well.  Besides, Tuesdays are normally a slow lunch crowd day and the restaurant will reopen for dinner.  And Yugi will not be taking any time off for a honeymoon.  Even this day, Tuesday, is his usual day off, so Hiroshi, though appearing magnanimous, is really not losing very much.  An afternoon’s lunch hour, food for the dinner (but not the complete dinner since ethnic dishes are being provided by other friends of the couple), and a few dozen liter bottles of cheap wine and New York State champagne.  The goodwill he receives, Hiroshi thinks, will more than compensate him in return.

            Besides, his wife MinKyung insisted he do something and this is better than giving Yugi time off for a honeymoon.  Where would he go anyway?  And how could he afford it?  This is the obvious solution to the dilemma caused by young love.  And even his wife came to see that.  So Hiroshi presided over getting the kitchen ready while his wife organized everything else.

            MinKyung, for her part, is happy for the couple, though she has forebodings of trouble for Miyo.  The wife of a sushi chef is not easy if she herself is not part of this world and Miyo has never even worked as a waitress before.  The hours for Yugi are long:  6 work days from 11AM to 1AM with only Tuesdays off and one week vacation in July, the slowest month.  It took her a long time to adjust to that and she has been working as a waitress in restaurants ever since she married Hiroshi.  It is not an easy life and she wonders how a woman with a masters degree in fashion can adjust to it.  And though she has been thinking of taking college courses this fall herself, it is only to get a certificate in bookkeeping so that she can help with that part of the business.  But Miyo, she understands, has no such interests.

            The restaurant is not very big but big enough when full to capacity to seat 36 people at 12 tables, plus 6 more at the sushi bar.  Of course it isn’t filled to capacity every day but the weekends are busy enough to keep MinKyung and the other waitress Emiko busy, plus there is, being America, a very busy take-out business most nights, as well as a respectable lunch trade.  Today, though, it’s strictly a private party for one of their own.  It’s a small staff-—two sushi chefs, Toshiro the kitchen chef, and the two waitresses who also double as cashiers—so there is excitement in their lives to see Yugi finally getting married.  There had been some speculation when he first came that he might end up with Emiko, but she is perhaps too lively for him and did not share his enthusiasm for Christianity.  Like many young Japanese, she has no religion but Yugi clings to the church even more tightly now that he is in a foreign country surrounded by people who speak a language he barely understands.  The church is familiar and he takes comfort in it.  And it was there that he met Miyo who had started attending looking for some meaning after all the agony Hector with all his secrecy had caused her.  She felt she was living in some bad spy novel—subterfuge, surreptitious meetings, no open acknowledgments about how they felt about each other to anyone.  Only Misook knew of her torment and though Miyo took some comfort there, she still ached inside.  So one day when a classmate she casually knew invited her to a church outing, she accepted and found herself among friendly Japanese young people with such simple dreams and aspirations that she became seduced into a kind of tranquility that was opposite to how she felt with Hector.  Gradually she started to attend more outings, even church services, and soon found herself gently pursued by Yugi, and the rest, as they say in this country, is history.  Her history, their history, the outcome of which brings us to this restaurant on this Tuesday afternoon with these people to witness this event.

            It also brings Gia and Eduardo here to help prepare non-Japanese dishes like baked ziti and chicken marsala, also with Leila who has made her Brazilian style lasagna and baked a ham with potatoes.  Tall and willowy Gia, who is from Italy, wearing a Versace dress that dazzles the eye with its brilliant colors, is, of course, somewhat skeptical of Leila’s lasagna but Eduardo, always the peacemaker, has persuaded her to be kind.  Gia is kind but also very opinionated, which she insists is the birthright of every Italian, and harshly critical, of herself more than others which is why she thinks of herself as essentially kind.  Eduardo, though, who loves her wholeheartedly, suffers so from her criticisms that he often complains to Doug of her inability to be, for lack of a better word, charitable towards others, and, most especially, towards him.  Doug tries to console him but also defend her because he understands her clear-eyed judgment of the world and its inhabitants.  Doug tries to get her to temper that in her dealings with others while also encouraging her to exploit it in her writing.  She respects Doug and though she looks to him as a surrogate father figure, he is also her literary mentor so she tries to appease him.  And Eduardo, even though she loves him, she feels he has poor judgment when it comes to people, so she doesn’t listen to him at all.   That creates moments, no hours, of melancholy for him, but because he’s Latin, she thinks it’s just the way he is and so feels no guilt whatsoever.

            Leila, meanwhile, is sensitive to criticism and would be hurt if she knew how Gia felt about her attempts at Italian cuisine but thankfully she doesn’t suspect a thing.  Which means, of course, she is her usual buoyant self—smiling and swaying as only Brazilians can to a beat only they hear.  She’s young, she’s alive, and there’s a celebration today among people she has studied with, works with, cares about.  She has spent all morning cooking in her tiny apartment and now she can’t wait for the party to begin.  She would have liked to be at the ceremony but someone was needed to help set-up and so, as always, she volunteered.  But her feet, if we watch her feet, they are beginning to move to a samba beat, and soon, very soon she will toss back her long wavy hair and let those feet, those hips take control.  It’s a good thing people are beginning to arrive because if they weren’t, she would have to begin this party without them.

            And arrive they do.  In twos, in threes, in groups of five and more.  They carry gifts, or envelopes with cards and checks, big, warm smiles and open hearts.  There are many from the church—mostly young Japanese in their twenties and early thirties—some with kids but all filled with Christian love.  The other guests are, of course, multiethnic and filled with various forms of love from Christian to Muslim to Buddhist to Jewish to Roman Catholic to Greek Orthodox to some, like Nick, who lack religious affiliation with their love but have love in their hearts nonetheless.  So the restaurant is packed with people overflowing with love and this is always a good way to celebrate a wedding.  The guests crowd the restaurant and extra chairs and folding tables are set up to accommodate them.  The people who were at the ceremony are there, as well as some late arrivals.

And there is Doug who wanders in looking somewhat rested from his big day yesterday puttering around his garden.  Even though he is Welsh, he still likes to think he keeps an English garden and spends as much time as possible, especially since fall is steadily approaching since summer is almost officially over now that Labor Day is only a week away.  Soon there will be a new semester beginning and he will be hiring new adjunct instructors, scheduling tutors in the Writing Center and soliciting poems, articles, stories for the literary quarterly he edits while trying to instill in students who think literature is best viewed on a celluloid screen rather than on pages between a cover of a book an appreciation of the written word; as well as make sure they grasp the fundamentals of English grammar and syntax so that they can pass out of ESL and into the college’s required basic composition class of English 101.  But this afternoon is before all that and he is not yet cantankerous but in, what he likes to call, “a jolly mood.”

            “Why did I know,” Doug says as he takes a seat opposite Nick, “that I would find you two in typical pose.  You,” and he indicates Nick, “with a glass of wine in your hand and him,” and he indicates Jeff, “surrounded by young, beautiful women.”

            “I hate to think what that implies about each of us,” Nick says.

            “There’s nothing to hate about what it implies about Jeff, just much to envy.  But you, on the other hand,” and Doug shrugs, “are supposed to be the father of the bride.”

            “And?”  Nick asks.

            “That means you should be setting an example for us all.”  And here Doug indicates all the college people.  “Needless to say, for all these young, impressionable people as well.”

            Nick sighs and takes a sip of his wine.  “It’s a good thing I have thick skin to match my thick head.”

            “Hmmmm,” Doug goes.  “No comment needed there.”

            Jeff can’t help but smile.  These two have been bickering on and off for over 20 years and it’s always given him pleasure to watch them.  If he could, he would stage it but somehow real life always seems more artificial than theatre. 

            “What better example could I be than I already am by just being here, I’m always here, for them,” Nick says.  “I don’t come strolling in after the hard part is over just for the food.  I’m here the whole way.”

            “Ahhh, but you should be,” Doug says.  “That’s part of your responsibility as the director of the theatre program.  But it’s not a question of your putting in the time, the hours, but how you get others to perform that counts.”

            “And you’re implying that I perform that job badly?”

            “No, you’re great at your job,” Doug says and helps himself to the wine.  “But this,” and he lifts the glass high, “is about a certain moral standard and,” he shrugs again, “might I say, it’s possibly questionable.”

            Gabriella turns to Jeff and asks, “These two are always like this?”

            “It’s a little dance that they do,” Jeff replies.  “Like a vaudeville act.”

            Nick then drains his glass and pours himself another.  “To err is human, to forgive divine.  And I’m giving everyone who knows me a chance to be divine.”

            “I’ll drink to that,” Doug says and clinks Nick’s glass.  Then he looks over at Vivian and Jenny and says, “And you two were superb.”

            “Thank you,” they nod their heads in unison.  “We used your arrangement on the Beatles’ song.”

            Doug gives a satisfied smile and another element to Nick’s scheme flashes through his mind for digestion later.

            “You arrange music?” Gabriella asks.

            “If I could have,” he says with a sigh, “I would have been a rock star, but…” and a helpless gesture to indicate life’s poor planning.

            “Yes,” she says.  “I would have had my own dance company.”

            “Perhaps we would have played Radio City on the same bill.”

            “Do you think we would have had the same audience?”

            “We would have been so unique that the world would have been our audience.  We would have united people, regardless of race, creed, or language, under one tent, in front of a common stage, swaying to music and dance that spoke to their collective soul.”

            “What a lovely image,” Gabriella says.

            “That’s one thing about me,” Doug says.  “I’m full of lovely images.”

            And Nick is struck by that image, too.  Not now, though, but later, much later, we will see how it will dominate his nights, his dreams.  And the image will become his vision of the project that will consume him.

            But here, at this table, talk centers on more immediate concerns.  And Nick, in his role of father or overlord, rises to give a toast to the couple before the feasting, the dancing, the merriment begins.

            “We are all gathered here today to honor this couple—Miyo and Yugi,” Nick begins and pauses periodically while Misook, standing beside him, translates his words into Japanese for half the population who smile without understanding a single word he is saying.  “I don’t know Yugi very well since his English is as poor as my Japanese,” and Misook grins broadly as she translates that, “but since he is marrying Miyo I have to think he’s not only smart and lucky but very special, too.”  And he looks over at Miyo as he says, “Because Miyo is a very special person.”

            Misook again translates and Nick can’t help but notice how much more animated her translations are than his speech.  He wonders if he is indeed livelier in Japanese than English.  And as he continues his speech by relaying anecdotes about Miyo, he also notices the difference in length:  sometimes much longer (to which he asks Misook, “I said all that?” and she winks and nods reassuringly) or much shorter (to which he asks, “You sure you got it all?” to which she solemnly says, “Every last word”).  He doesn’t know if he’s being translated properly and occasionally looks over at Miyo who smiles adoringly and then just gives up.  When he is finally finished relaying stories and waxing poetic, he turns to Yugi and says, “Welcome to our college family.”

            Misook says something in turn and Yugi smiles and bows in his seat and says, “Thank you so much,” so Nick forgives Misook for any and all transgressions and shakes her hand.  “Thanks, partner,” he says.

            “All in a day’s work,” she replies.  “I am still on payroll, right?”

            “You are enterprising.”

            “That is good, right?”

            “For you anyway.”

            “One must be resourceful in America.”

            “I noticed, though, that sometimes you didn’t seem to be saying as much as I did.”

            “I got the gist,” she says and wrinkles her nose and asks, “That is the right word, no?”  He nods.  “I like that word, gist.”

            “You also seemed to be saying more than I did at times.”

            “Ah yes, perhaps I did.”

            “You were embellishing?”

            Misook looks puzzled.  “Embellishing?”

            “Adding to,” Nick explains, “to make it better, fancier.”

            “Ah, well, maybe,” she says, and then gives a big smile and nods.  “Yes.”

            Nick nods, too.  “Well, I seem to be funnier in Japanese anyway.”

            Misook’s face scrunches up a bit.  “Well, it’s not that you were funnier,” she says.  “It’s just that I am.” 

            “Ahhh,” Nick goes.  “In Japanese anyway.”
            “If it makes you feel better,” she says, “I’ll agree.”

            He sighs.  “It makes me feel better.”

            “Then,” she smiles, “I agree.”

            The feasting begins now and people are getting dishes filled at the sushi bar which is acting as the buffet table and then sitting down and trying not to talk with their mouths full.  Other guests keep arriving, some from the church who seem to be congregating on the right side of the restaurant while the college crowd seem to spread out over on the left side.  Ramiro comes in, late as usual but appropriately apologetic, his car, it seems, or what he tentatively refers to as his car though the ownership of said vehicle is somewhat in question, has given him heartache again. But his smile is so warm, his hair dyed a bright blue for the occasion, and his hands are full carrying a big platter of El Salvadoran papooses that everyone forgives him.  Susan, Zia, and Shima come in, too, straight from the ESL office having volunteered to man it for the morning before shutting down to join the party.  So many come to pay tribute to Miyo because she is, after all, a favorite among them, having started out in ESL before going to Theatre to work and thus, like Misook, joining both worlds.

            Nick, watching it all, keeps feeling a tug at his theatrical sensibilities.  He turns to Gabriella who is listening to Doug discuss the merits of using cilantro in guacamole as opposed to not using it at all, which he, priding himself on his vast knowledge of Mexico and things Mexican, considers sacrilegious, and asks, “Don’t you think the energy here is fantastic?”

            “Yes,” she says.  “It’s the closest I’ve felt to being comfortable in this country in a long time.”  And she waves a hand through the air, “All these languages at once.  And all this English in accent.  It’s wonderful.”

            Nick thinks yes, yes, it is, and how to harness all this nags at him.  He looks over at Misook pulling up her dress slightly above her knees, tossing back her hair, and dancing with Ali who joins her with abandon, to Eduardo trying to keep up with Leila whose footwork mystifies him, to Zia twirling Shima around the floor in what must be a Bangali version of the salsa, to Ramiro instructing Susan in the proper hip movement to Spanish dance.  And out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vivian whispering in Jenny’s ear while MinKyung tries to teach Gloria the proper way to hold chopsticks to Sara serving Hector who seems to be only partially aware of the food on his plate.  The accents, the languages, Gaby is right, he thinks.  A multicultural musical, that’s what this is.  And then we can see a light bulb flash above his head and a smile spread over his face.  For now he knows, we know, he will use this somehow in a theatrical production because this is theatre, living theatre, right here before him.

            But to Miyo, as we know, it is more than that.  It is the beginning of another chapter of her life here in America.  It is the start of something new and an ending to something familiar.  And as that realization begins to sink in, she sees Hector’s mournful face and a shudder runs through her spine.

            So we pull back now and see the crowd mingling to some extent.  Ali is handing out business cards to church members, MinKyung is asking Susan how she could possibly still enroll for bookkeeping courses for the fall, Shima is explaining how to make Persian rice to Gloria who doesn’t intend to learn to cook ever.  There is much trading of information here.  So much to know, so much to store away for use some other day or to forget ten minutes after you are out the door or to make part of your life forever.  Experience spilling over into life spilling over onto this canvas we are viewing of these people intermingling in this tiny corner of Long Island.  And now let us leave them as they make their way to work, to play, to home.  We will leave them now to only follow a few for if we observe a few, we will know the many.  It’s just a law of the universe.

            First we follow Doug home who envisions a quiet evening dipping into Graham Greene’s The Heart of the Matter but instead gets a call from Gia.  “You busy?”  she asks.

            “I think that would depend on how you define the word ‘busy’.”

            “Yeah, okay, but before we get into that, are you busy now?”

            Doug sighs.  “No,” he says.  “I’m not busy now.”

            “And did you eat?”

            “I don’t think dinner is on my agenda, not after all that food this afternoon.”

            “So you’re not doing anything special now?”

            “Just reading,” he says, resigned to the possibility that that won’t happen anymore tonight.

            “Can I come over then?” she asks.  “I’m in the neighborhood.”
            “Where in the neighborhood?”

            “Actually like two blocks away.”

            “Oh,” and he nods absently to himself.  “That’s definitely in the neighborhood.”

            “So can I come over?” she persists.

            “Sure,” he says.  “I am, as we established earlier in the conversation, not busy.”

            “Great,” she says.  “I’m almost there.”

            Doug hangs up and thinks this is the curse of the cellular phone.  People can call at anytime, from anywhere, and disrupt your day.  They can be at your doorstep within minutes.  It’s like Hannibal at the gates, only worse since it is his gate or, in this case, front door.  And as he thinks this, Gia pulls up into his driveway and her long legs are carrying her across his lawn and up to his front door.  “Hello,” she says.  “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

            “Delighted,” he says and waves her in.  “Where’s Eduardo?”  And as he says this, he knows, of course, that Eduardo is not coming and that that is the reason she is here, but he must ask the question to avoid the small talk that will inevitably lead to this question anyway.

            “I threw him out,” she says.  “He’s such an asshole, I had no choice.”

            “What did he do?”  He doesn’t, naturally, add the phrase “this time” because he knows it is unnecessary.  There will always be a “this time” and whether it is now, tomorrow, next week, or next year, the time is not important, just the event.

            “Didn’t you see him at the wedding?” she asks.  “He was so stupid to do it there.”

            “Do what?”

            “You didn’t see?” she asks incredulously because to her, whatever he does is so obvious that the world can’t help but notice, too.  “You didn’t see the way he was all over that girl?”

            “What girl?”

            “Leila,” Gia says, and the name comes out like a spoken curse.

            “But they’re not interested in each other,” Doug says.

            “I know that,” Gia says.  “That’s what’s so idiotic about him.  He flirts even with people that aren’t interested in him.  That he is not interested in.  But he does it anyway.  And he does it in front of me.”  Scorn drips from her sneer.  “That’s why he’s such an asshole. And that’s why I threw him out.”

            Doug shakes his head and watches as she takes a cigarette out of her purse and steps to his front door.  “I’ll be back,” she says.  “But he makes me so mad I have to have a smoke to calm down.”

            And though Doug wishes he could join her, to taste smoke in his lungs again, he knows his damaged lungs could not take it and one cigarette would be just one more step closer to death.  So instead he pours himself a coke and waits for her to return.  There will be much to discuss:  her on again/off again romance with Eduardo, her jealousy, and, most likely, her writing.  Doug will listen, will console, will advise.  That’s his job and he’s good at it.  And Gia, with all her Southern Italian passion, is one of his favorites.  And favorites in this lifetime, as always, win out over Graham Greene.  That’s just the way it is.

 

            But instead of staying for Gia’s return, let us visit another household where a younger woman who is a favorite will distract another older man from his rereading of Cervantes’ Don Quixote.  For Nick, in sweatpants and slippers, a glass of brunello in his hand, is trying to lose himself in the words of one of his favorite author’s when the voice of Misook calls up from below asking, “You awake, poppa?”

            “Yes,” he calls back and hears her wooden clogs clump across his living room floor as she comes to the bottom of the stairs leading to the third floor of his house where he is sitting in his favorite rocker in his second favorite room, the library/den, trying to read. 

            “Can I come up, poppa?” she asks, knowing full well that he’ll never say no.  And, of course, is halfway up the stairs already by the time he has placed a bookmark between the pages and is standing at the doorway just as he finishes buttoning his flannel shirt.  “Am I bothering you?”

            “No, no,” and he smiles just looking at her.  She has slipped out of her short black dress and wears tiny denim shorts and a skin tight white t-shirt.  “Come in.”

            “I think I’m feeling sad, poppa,” she says as she comes into the room and sits cross-legged on the armchair that has become her usual perch in this room.  “I should not be sad,” and she sighs, “but I am.”

            “I think,” he says carefully watching her, “it’s understandable.  Weddings sometimes have that effect.”

            “Do they make you sad?” Misook asks.

            “A little,” he nods.  “Yes, they do.”

            “Me, too,” she says a bit forlornly.  “I was so happy at the restaurant, but now…”

            It’s moments like these, when the normally lively, spirited Misook is flirting dangerously with melancholy, that Nick feels pangs of tenderness swelling inside him.  “Would you like to join me in a glass of wine?” he asks.  “Or better yet, a brandy?”

            “You won’t get upset if I add Sprite?” she asks, some mischief surfacing in her eyes.

            “No,” he says.

            “Are you sure?” she asks.  “You promise not to make that face I don’t like?”

            “I promise,” he says, “but you know one can’t always control one’s face.”

            She tilts her head to the right, to the left, studying him the way you would a science project, and then says, “I’ll go get the Sprite.  It’s downstairs in my refrigerator.”
            And before he can rise to get the brandy glasses and his favorite brandy, she is off clumping down the two flights of stairs to her rooms on the first floor where she has her own bedroom, living room, bathroom, studio, and refrigerator filled with Sprite, ice cream, yogurt, cranberry juice, and lots of fruit.  And by the time he pours two snifters of brandy, she is clumping her way back upstairs to join him.  He hands her the brandy and looks away before she mixes in the Sprite. She watches him, suppressing her giggling while waiting for that look of disdain he gets every time someone ruins the taste of good liquor in his eyes.  But it doesn’t come.  He shows remarkable self-control and she has to hover over his chair, craning her neck and moving her face from side to side trying to discern the slightest trace of criticism on his part.  But he laughs instead and so does she and soon she is commandeering the CD player in the room and the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up” is blaring out and she dances all over the room trying to coax him to join her.  But he would much rather sit and watch her hop, bounce, twist, turn, jiggle, shake, rock, roll.  It gives him immense pleasure to see her sadness dissolve into mirth and by the second glass of brandy, he is dancing with her.  The two of them dancing and drinking for an hour or so, playing disc jockey with cut after cut of good old rock and roll before finally settling into the quiet of early Miles Davis playing ballads.  And by that time, Nick is in the easy chair, Misook is snuggled in his lap, drifting off to sleep and midnight has drifted by unnoticed.

            “Oh poppa,” she murmurs into his shoulder, “how come you are my best friend?”

            “Just lucky, I guess,” he replies.

            “You won’t be mad if I fall asleep?”

            “No,” he says and strokes her hair.

            “I just don’t want to be alone tonight,” she whispers, sleep settling in quickly, her eyes refusing to open.

            “I know,” he says softly, so softly no one hears but her.  “Shhh now,” he whispers.  “Shhh.”

            And she slides off to dreams of color and light and music and dance.  She slides off to heaven on earth.  And he is left holding her sleeping form on his lap, in his arms, his eyes closed, his mind awake, with a pain right in the middle of his heart.

 

            And speaking of pain in one’s heart, we find Hector sitting in his car staring up at the bedroom window of Miyo’s apartment watching as the light turns off.  Of course he cannot see Miyo or what goes on there in the dark just as Miyo cannot see him, is unaware of his presence lurking outside, for she is too busy in her new marital bed.  For her slender legs that once wrapped around his waist are now wrapping around another’s, her husband’s, Yugi’s waist now, and that breathing, her heavy breathing as he penetrates, Yugi’s own heart’s beating, filling her ears.  This is not wild, unbridled passion like she experienced with Hector, but slow, tender, reverential love, the kind a future is built upon, a life, a family is planned.  It will not drive her crazy but it will finally, hopefully, bring her the peace she has been waiting for the whole night long.

 

            And now to Doug watching Gia’s car drive off, smelling the smoke and her perfume still in the air, wishing he had something stronger than coke in his glass but refusing to allow himself that crutch.  And then he sits in his chair and picks up his Graham Greene and begins to read.  But the words blur and his eyes for some reason are wet.  And youth, he thinks, youth will give him no peace but will kill him yet.  Will kill him with its dreams, its pain, its joy, its life.

            So he sits on his deck in the back yard holding a cup of tea in his hand that grows cold as he gazes wistfully up at the moon.  He is remembering this same sky 30 years ago, filled with stars in his native Midwest, and a backyard there, a woman’s voice, the smell of perfume in the air.  He hears music, John Prine, he thinks, singing of sweet revenge, and he wonders just whom and what it was directed at, the way life has a habit of bringing things back home again that you thought were forever gone.  A man, a woman, talking of betrayal, deceit, whether real or imagined, but an inkling of the roving eye of youth and what path it will lead one down and how far from home one goes.  And he feels remorse for some of the things he’s done, and regret for others never attempted.  And he can’t help wondering, as he stares up at the moon, just where those stars are, whatever became of that sky.

 

            And now to check in on Nick who sits in the rocker in his bedroom in the dark watching Misook turning over in her sleep, that slender body twisting itself in the sheets as she fights off image after image bombarding her mind.  And Nick feels young and old at the same time and wishes he could keep his mind in the present but it keeps straying back to Misook’s warm breath on his neck as he carried her next door to the bedroom and laid her to rest in his bed, keeps drifting back to the smoothness of her skin as he lifted her legs under the covers and tucked in the sheets, the blanket, the overhead fan whirling above his head and the way her long, silken hair tinged with red highlights spreads out over the pillow just before he turned out the night light, and the sound of her voice in his ear whispering poppa, my poppa, and Cervantes writing of madmen tilting at windmills, tilting at windmills in his mind.

            And finally we find Nick with Shakespeare on his mind.  There is singing, there is dancing, there are couples falling in and out of love, there is an intermingling of races, of ethnicities, people are stumbling, fumbling in and around each other.  And the play must accommodate all that.  Must allow for that mixture, for comedy, for drama, for tolerance, and lessons learned.  And it begins to take shape in his mind.

            A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he thinks.  An updated, multicultural retelling of one crazy night in the forest with elves and fairies and lovers and kings and queens and clowns.  A sprawling, romantic romp in three acts.  Yes, he thinks.  Yes, I can do that, I will do that, I must.

            And he lets his mind run free, run wild with the images.  He falls asleep in his easy chair in his den/library and he dreams his new dream.