The broken bamboo blinds are down
even though the sun is not shining
directly on this part of the house in Bali
where a fan palm leans against the balcony
and a purple orchid paints the scene
with color.
I try to imagine the beige blinds as a map,
whether modern, ancient or imaginary
is as yet unclear. Hanging down is a broken
cord, twisted, unraveling, but upon closer
examination could be Sri Lanka or
perhaps even South Africa.
The picture then switches to Latin America
and I’m elsewhere, this time in a fancy hotel
in Panama with a lawyer friend of Nixon’s,
there to rescue his client, a strange old lady
who befriended me years before she broke
down in the Canal Zone.
Loud knocking on the door surprises
both of us. “Why are you in our country?
When do you leave?” asked one of the five,
heavily armed men blocking the doorway.
I focus on a small chameleon moving above
military helmets.
“Noriega’s men,” whispers my companion
as we try to act nonplused at the bandoliers,
the drawn machine guns. “Thank you for
assuring our safety in your scenic country,”
says the attorney, his ingratiating smile
obsequious, obvious.
We escape to another hotel where he gulps
whiskey straight from the bottle. Words
slurring, he tries to seduce me, and if he
weren’t so serious, almost comical. The
next day the old lady is released and we
cart her home.
I’d forgotten this time, this nightmare, until
the blinds jogged thoughts of this countess
whose sanity was destroyed by neurosyphilis.
She left her fortune to the attorney, her art
collection to a museum, and for me, yet
another adventure to share.