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Distant Memories
The rain was unmerciful. To Tigh, it was like the gods were dripping their tears all over him. It crashed down upon the wooden windowsills and splashed into his sparse room like something cold and threatening. At least it served some useful purpose by distracting him when he needed to be separated from the memories. The cold dampness was unpleasant, but sometimes preferable to his enigmatic memories.
“Doc,” Tigh explained for the hundredth time, “I don’t daydream. I rarely even dream in my sleep. I’m telling you I have memories—they’re not my memories, but they’re in my head.”
At 80, Tigh was not always alert, but when he was, he would not tolerate argument.
“Whose memories are they then?” Doctor Stoltzfus asked again.
“How do I know? I never done any of that stuff—I remember it though, like it happened yesterday.”
It was in Tarragona. We first saw each other by the fountain in the square. It was love before we had even spoken. The streets were cobblestone. I can see them even now. I don’t know how we all understood one another with them being Spanish, and me not knowing a word of it. But we had no difficulty communicating. There was a cave in the side of a hill. When we entered the cave, it opened into a large cavern. We sat at the bar near the entrance. Further into the cavern there were tables on the cobbled floor. Above the tables there were platforms suspended from the cavern roof. On the platforms there were other tables and chairs. These platforms resembled balconies with railings or banisters to prevent diners from falling off. We had a dinner of chicken and rice with beans. Mariah ordered the wine; it was very good to the taste, but I don’t recall what it was called. Later in the evening, the tables and chairs were moved aside for dancing.
He slowly walked alone back to his room. It was just he and the memories, but he didn’t know whose they were. Sometimes he liked to think that he actually experienced those fascinating things, but he knew better.
“After all,” he liked to say, “I ain’t crazy—I just have someone else’s memories.”
He wore the same faded jeans day after day. When they had to be washed, he wore his old frayed robe. He flatly refused to wear a shirt without a collar. So he could be seen in the same collared shirt day after day. But he was always clean. He stopped at every washroom he passed to scrub his hands.
If someone would take him seriously, he reasoned, he might be able to check some facts. Perhaps he could learn if there really was such a place, and such people. With some help, he hoped he might be able to determine whose memories plagued him. Only if someone would take him seriously, but he knew that wasn’t likely.
Maybe it was the wine, or my uniform, but she loved to rub against me. American sailors weren’t real popular in Spain immediately following WW2. Tarragona was a maritime port, however, and needed a navel presence to safely do business with North Africa. Mariah and I snuggled at a two-person table in the dimly lit rear section, behind the dance floor. We kissed a lot, and hugged and reached under each other’s clothing. We didn’t have much on, but my tropical whites were attracting some unwanted attention from the local boys. She was becoming frightened, so we slipped out separately and met down on the beach.
“Why are you taking such risks with me?” I asked.
“Maybe you will start to love me.”
“I already love you, Mariah,” I replied. “You have to know that.”
I knew what she really wanted. She wanted me to fall in love and marry her. That would give her a free ticket to the states, and coveted U.S. citizenship. They all played that game. The trouble was, it really did work sometimes. American sailors did fall in love and marry under foreign laws. That was one reason we had only Cinderella liberty, as it was called. Everyone had to be back to the ship by midnight. Unless, of course, you were the log room yeoman and had custody of the engineering department’s liberty cards. Then you could party all weekend.
Tigh had another appointment with the doctor that same afternoon. The doctor was skeptical about the whole thing. But there were certain things about his memories, as he related them, that made him wonder. For one thing, poor old Tigh was never even out of the country, nor was he in the military. The doctor wished that old Tigh would move to a halfway house and mingle with other people.
“I don’t like to read, Doc. You know that, I told you a lot of times. Why do you keep asking me?”
“Because I think you read this stuff many years ago. Your subconscious mind has made you think you lived it.”
“No it didn’t. I ain’t stupid—I know I didn’t live it. I keep tellin’ you. Where would I read the color of the mortar between the stones in the seawall? You tell me.”
“I don’t know, Tigh. Perhaps your subconscious just fills in the blanks for you as you go.”
“Blanks? What blanks? No one ever asked me about the mortar, so why do I remember it? I can see it right in front of me. And I don’t have to know it was pink mortar. Why not gray mortar, like here? Call somebody over there, will’ya. Ask them what color the mortar is, or was in 1946. I tell’ya—I’m not crazy!”
Dr. Stoltzfus knew when enough was enough. He was tired from a long day. He wished Tigh would listen to reason, but it didn’t look like he would anytime soon. He pulled his tie off and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Okay, Tigh, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Wait…I didn’t always have this memory…why now…? Why don’t I remember another name? I recall it as if I lived it.”
The doctor hustled out. He didn’t have the answers, no one did. He toyed with the idea of asking someone for help. But who would care? His colleagues would think him a fool. If there was something to it, however, he might be published.
Nah—humor him….
It was warm on the Mediterranean coast, even at night. Mariah was only 18 years old, but she was not a child at that age. I soon found that out. We sat by a clump of grass, and we were not alone. There were other couples nearby, but no one seemed to notice each other. I was the only one looking around.
“What are you looking for?” she asked, holding my hands to her breasts.
“Oh, nothing, I’m just concerned for your safety.”
“Do not worry,” she said, looking straight into my eyes.
I looked at her very closely in the moonlight. It hadn’t occurred to me to look at her before…she was just a cute bar girl. But in the moonlight…she attracted my total attention. It glistened off of her jet-black hair, which came down to the middle of her back. She was dark complexioned, and even her eyelashes were jet-black. Her nose was slightly pointed, as was her chin. I don’t know what made me do it, but I recall thinking that if I had a ruler I would measure precisely the same distance from each pupil to the center of her luscious lips. Funny, how I remember those things.
Her breasts were not overly large, but lovely and warm to the touch. And they were perfectly shaped. In those days they were comparable to sealed beam headlamps—that sounds silly now, but in 1946 it was how we described the nicer ones. The most remarkable part to me was her ass cheeks. I was always a cheek man, and she had the best I had ever seen.
She was not shy. Before I knew it she had her shirt off, and asked me to unhook her bra…brazier, it was called then. Her nipples were almost as black as her hair. I had never seen any like them, but I loved it. We kissed as she took my shirt off. Then she pressed herself against my chest—it was a wonderful feeling. She started kissing my chest and my nipples. A cool breeze came off of the ocean and rustled her long hair. I held it in place as if it might break. Soon she was kissing my belly and opening my navy buckle. It was too easy for her, like she had done it before. I was gone, though; I could not resist. She slid my white trousers down and took a firm hold on me.
She stopped for a moment to ask, “Do you mind?” as if I could want her to stop.
All I could do was lie back and gaze at the moon. The waves charged up onto the beach with a crash, and then flowed back down to where they began. She made me think I was in heaven. Glancing down, I saw that she had quietly slid her own slacks off. I felt some guilt for not helping, but she was too quick. She held me with both hands and kissed me all over. It was ecstasy.
After what seemed like hours, she climbed up on top of me. While we kissed, she slipped herself down onto me and breathed a low moan into my mouth that I can still hear. It was too much for me, just as she dug her knees into the sand, I overpowered her and rolled her over onto her back. She did not object. We made love for what seemed like the whole night. Before we knew it, the Sun again appeared over the Mediterranean.
Tigh reported to the dining hall at the prescribed time just as he had for the last fifty years. He ate the same meat and potatoes diet that had kept him reasonably healthy all that time. There was a problem now, one that he would not survive. It was a cancer. The nature of the cancer didn’t concern him; he knew he was finished. He was desperate to return the Distant Memories to their rightful owner, whoever he was. It was becoming an obsession, but the doctor wouldn’t help. He had sent for a priest, but was still waiting. And the cancer continued to grow in his brain. He had to eat now, it was important to him to stay healthy until he died, to preserve the memories for their owner.
“Doc where’s that priest? I need to talk to him. I remember more things now. They’re Italian and French, too.”
“You know that can’t be, Tigh. You never even left the country. You are dreaming. Why not just enjoy it—don’t fret over it?”
“Because they’re not mine. Somebody may be looking for them—they’re important.”
“Okay, Tigh, one more question: You mentioned this Mariah…”
“Yeah, my lover…”
“While you’re talking to this Mariah, what does she call you?” The doctor seemed to think he had crossed some sort of threshold.
“Tigh! Of course, that’s what everyone calls me…never had any other name.”
“Okay, tomorrow,” the doctor said, clearly frustrated.
Tigh had been a resident of the state institution for almost all of his adult life. He didn’t even remember what his real name was. By all standards he was harmless. When the harmless residents were given a choice to stay or go out to halfway houses, he chose to stay. That was a long time ago, before he acquired someone else’s memory. The administration paid little attention to him. Dr. Stoltzfus came by because of his cancer, but he was hardly qualified to deal with his new memory.
The following day the local parish priest, Father Olchefski, came in with Dr. Stoltzfus. The doctor was taking a chance with his professional reputation. He hoped he could just fall back on Tigh’s cancer if anyone found out. After all, didn’t the dying deserve spiritual council?
“You’re Polish,” Tigh said. “I don’t have any Polish memories. I have Spanish, Italian, French, Greek, and some oriental times. Do you know anything about Spain?”
“Tigh,” Father Olchefski said, “I thought you needed spiritual solace…”
“No, I need to find out whose memories I have. Do you know a Spanish priest?”
“No, I don’t. There is a seminarian in the diocese with a Spanish surname. I don’t know if he’s from Spain. But what about your soul?”
“Later…I need the Spanish priest. Can I talk to him?” he asked.
“I see what you’re doing, Tigh,” Dr. Stoltzfus said. You want someone to call Tarragona and ask about this Mariah. Do you realize how old she would be by now, if she’s alive?”
“Yeah, 72, I can add. How about the pink mortar? Get someone to go down to the sea and look for a seawall with pink mortar. Hell, how about the dance hall in a cave? Help me with this, will’ya? What if I die with someone else’s life in my head? What happens to that poor sap’s soul, Father?”
Wham! Suddenly the militia guys had me by the collar and were dragging me to their Jeep. They took Mariah to another car, but it wasn’t no cop car. They took me back to my ship, The Holder. As far as everyone was concerned, I had gotten away with a great night of fun on a Spanish beach with a beautiful senorita. Next port of call—Tangier.
“I’ll get the seminarian…actually he’s a deacon now too. It would be proper to call him ‘Deacon’. I’ll see if he can help, Tigh,” Fr. Olchefski said. “Maybe he can address your spiritual needs as well.”
We anchored out in the bay again. I saw her on the pier before I even got into the motor-whaleboat. It had been six weeks since we were there. I didn’t expect to see her again, but there she was, and I can now admit to some elation. She didn’t know it was Holder returning, it could have been any ship.
“Wanna fool around?” I asked in my clumsy way when she rushed over.
She was visibly hurt.
The following day, Deacon Diez came to the center to see Tigh.
“Call me Joe, Tigh. My name is Jovino. They told me about your situation. How can I help?”
“Are you from Tarragona, Joe?”
“No, I’m from Bayonne. But I have relatives in Spain. It’s a big country, Tigh, I don’t know if I can help you or not. But judging by what I’ve been told; do you think we should record what you remember?”
“Yeah! Absolutely right! Why didn’t I think of that? But I don’t have a machine; can I borrow one, Joe?”
Tigh was finally beginning to see a purpose to it all. He could record it in case he died before finding the owner.
The deacon knew he could incorporate this into his studies. They could serve each other.
“I have one with me—always carry one. You may have it. Please take the time to recite the memories into it; the ones you don’t think are yours. I will come by everyday to talk and collect the tapes. And I can also call my uncle in Spain.”
“Good, Deacon,” Tigh said, excitedly. “I’ll start today—how can I thank you…?”
“Allow me to tend to your soul as well, that will be thanks enough.”
She got us into a cab and we drove a couple miles down the coast to a barren stretch of sand she called Blanc Beach. There were trees almost to the high-tide marks. The breeze was warm and soft, not like beaches here in the States. The pale blue ocean rolled in, instead of the usual crashing of waves. She took my hand and walked me to the shade of a tall tree; the species of tree I do not know. It had limbs, but they didn’t start until halfway up. They were light, so light that they seemed to float on the breeze. We sat in the shade of this tree and talked of love, and faraway places. We hugged and kissed. There was no hurrying; we just slowly became naked, both of us. We had no concern about interruptions.
“Will you come back again?” she asked me.
I evaded the question. We lay there fondling each other as sand clung to our perspiring skin. She liked to hold my penis in her hand…I mean, she really seemed to enjoy it. But I knew what she was doing; she wanted a ticket. I touched her also. I kissed her warm breasts and her belly, and my tongue found her navel. She liked me to press against her pubic bone as she pushed back. I held her cheeks in my hands while she slid me inside of her. Then we pressed and worked and toyed with each other for hours. Men don’t have multiple orgasms, as I recall the shipboard scuttlebutt, but I did. It was Mariah…she knew how to make it happen. When she climaxed, which she did repeatedly, she moaned and breathed heavily into my mouth, as we were constantly kissing each other. When the sun went down, we slept on the beach.
Joe returned the next day with startling news. He had called family members in Spain. They didn’t live in Tarragona, but knew someone who did.
“Tigh, listen,” he said, “My uncle called a business acquaintance near Tarragona. It seems there is a quarry there, one that’s been there for many generations. It is contaminated with a type of sulphur that makes the limestone pink. Do you know that that means?”
“No—what?” Tigh replied.
His head was throbbing more lately, like something was in it trying to burst through. He stayed up all night speaking softly into the little microphone Joe had given him. Someone’s life was going on the tapes, he was sure.
“The limestone is used in the local mortar—it makes it pink. It’s not considered a proper color for mortar, so it’s little used elsewhere. The seawall that existed following WW2 had pink mortar.”
“I know it did, Joe, I remember it.”
My head….
“Now find the owner of my memory—and get me more tapes—a lot more.”
That night, Tigh sat at his rickety little table speaking into the machine for hours. It was cold and damp, as usual. His headaches were growing worse, but his memories more vivid. His obsession grew. It didn’t matter to him whose memory he had, just that it wasn’t his, and that it might be important to someone on his deathbed. It never occurred to him that it had become important to him in any personal way. Tigh didn’t think in those terms. He didn’t have to. He had been institutionalized most of his adult life precisely because he couldn’t think in those terms. But he knew there was something important in his head, and he had to get it all on the tapes Joe had given him.
The Sun arose over the beach and turned the sand snow white. They got up and dressed, and began the walk back to Tarragona and the Holder. He knew that he couldn’t marry a Spanish girl and take her to the States. It would be crazy.
Walking up the dusty road hand in hand, two old cars came speeding up to them. Mariah squeezed his hand in fear, and told him to run, but he would not.
“My brothers!” she cried. “No don’t…!”
They beat him in front of her. Then they beat her too, but not as badly. They stuffed him into the back of one of the cars and sped off. The last thing he saw of her was her brothers striking her with sticks. They dropped him at the pier to await the boat back to the Holder. Local militia stood by but did not interfere.
“Joe,” Tigh shouted, excitedly, “I have finished the Spanish memories—a whole box of tapes for you…”
“Wait Tigh!” Joe exclaimed. “I have a big surprise for you…”
“More tapes I hope.”
“Better than that, my friend…”
Behind Joe, an elderly dark complexioned lady entered the room. She was still beautiful, Tigh thought. She stood straight and proud.
“Hello, Mariah,” Tigh said. “How are you?”
“I am fine…it is you who concern me. The deacon says you know me…how can that be?” she asked with compassion in her voice.
“Oh, I know you well.” He put his hand to his head.
The pain was worse.
“Oh, Tigh,” she replied, “I know you do. I listened to your tapes…but how?”
“May I ask you a question please? What happened after your brothers beat you?”
>{?“You know that much, do you? Then you should know the rest. Donald Quinn, better known to his friends as Tigh Quinn, did indeed come back for me. We married in Tarragona, and moved to his hometown in New Jersey. Here we raised three fine children. Tigh died six months ago, the same time you began remembering us, I believe. You do indeed have his memories of that time. I am told you have been a good custodian of them. May I have them now?”Tigh was holding his head. “Yes, oh yes,” he said. “So they called him Tigh too?” It was like a great weight lifted from him. “Deacon Joe, give Mariah all the tapes. May I stop taping now…you know the rest, don’t you, Mariah?”
“Thank-you, Tigh, thank-you very much…our grandchildren will love them; after I’ve cut some parts out,” she said with a naughty smile.
Tigh died two weeks later at the age of 80, happy that he finally had a great memory of his own.
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