Virgil Ross Ferrel by J.D. Fratto
Virgil Ross Ferrel by J.D. Fratto
Although baptized as John Peter Ferrel, he changed his name to Virgil Ross Ferrel as a sympathetic gesture to his two brothers, Virgil and Ross, who were killed in an amusement park accident a few years earlier. His parents, Peter and Linda, though initially uneasy, approved of his decision, being moved by his noble intentions. At the time, he was only fifteen and so it caused some confusion with teachers and friends at Ravens Prep, where he was a sophomore.
With that behind him, as a fully-grown young man, Virgil completes his Doctorate in Political Theory and owing to stellar recommendations from his mentors, he is offered an Assistant Professorship at a prestigious Liberal Arts College in a northeastern city suburb. As Winter approaches, the heavy demands of his teaching-load snuggle him comfortably indoors, planning his classes instead of coping with the vicissitudes of the frigid outdoors. Close friendships at the college are not easy to come-by since deep relations, reinforced by departmental alliances are proudly ingrained over time. But colleagues, if somewhat distant, are cautiously cordial by nature if not by system. And, they are an interesting lot, conversationally prone towards ideas and supportive of his novice’s efforts at effective teaching. Although still single, he is not active in the dating scene. Free time for the most part is spent listening to classical music and opera with occasional visits to those venues as budget permits. All in all, his is a customary beginning into the professional life he has chosen – indeed, an enviable one for many.
One cold and snowy Friday afternoon, a student of his, Anna Maria Whitt, walked into his office as he was preparing to leave for the day while anticipating a restful weekend. She was among the few adult students at the college, being of age 24 – one year younger than Virgil. Anna Maria was born in northwest Belgium, in the bustling port city of Ostend on the North Sea. Her family moved to the States when she was eleven as a result of her father transferring to the Stateside office of a mid-sized American shipping company that moved goods between Philadelphia and Northern Europe. Her parents, Rolf and Magdalena, were financially comfortable owing to Rolf’s income and a substantial inheritance on Magdalena’s side. Anna Maria entered college late, claiming it was her preference to work out in the world until she felt ready to take learning on its own terms, not solely as a means toward some vocational end. Prior to entering college, she kept herself busy with a host of low-to-mid-level jobs while familiarizing herself with the peculiarities of American life. On that day in Virgil’s office, she told him of her somewhat inverted “development plan” and he was immediately impressed that she chose the unusual but laudable formula of work preceding education, rather than its opposite, preferred or even necessitated by most young people. By turning the normal process on its head, she felt more maturely prepared to focus on learning, taking it on its own merits and selecting courses with a keenly developed sense of their relevance to her intellectual interests and life values. That she had always been an avid reader afforded her a good start.
As she entered the classroom, Virgil rose from behind his desk and, while walking around it, invited her to join him in the less formal arrangement of sitting in the student zone. Discussion began in the normal manner appropriate to professor and student: her intellectual likes and dislikes, her likely choice of an academic major, her sense of her mental strengths and weaknesses. From there, it shifted to his course. She said she was taken with the depth of the subject matter. That she initially assumed the course was about contemporary political life; something in which she had little interest but thought she should learn about as a good citizen. Little did she know that “theory” incorporated universal political and social truths as well as logic and the ideas from ancient Greece and Rome, through the Middle Ages and into modern times. That it was not so much a history of those epical periods but an exploration of the development of deep thought regarding the creation and sustenance of a good society. As such, it incorporated some of the iconic names of higher learning: Plato, Machiavelli, Locke, Marx, Hobbes, Rousseau even Madison, among others. It also exposed today’s political gyrations as a pallid offspring of a larger and much deeper tradition of thought regarding human cohabitation. As a result, she was immediately hooked.
As their initial conversation came to an end, feeling somewhat intimidated by the loftiness of the subject matter, she asked Virgil if he wouldn’t mind meeting with her periodically to discuss some of the finer points of theory, promising she wouldn’t make a nuisance of herself. He assured her that that’s what professor’s do and that he, personally, revels at the sight of a student who wants MORE; so, she should feel free to call on him at any time. He then added that there was a book she might want to read that served well as an introduction to Political Thought, beginning with the ancient Greeks and moving up to the present, albeit in a somewhat whimsical fashion in that it skimmed the surface of the contents and was not deficient in neither irony nor humor but was a worthy piece for introducing her to the range of ideas that such theory entailed. At that point, he borrowed her pen – a classic Montblanc and wrote down the title: “Who Would Have Thought?” by Gayle Swarmsley on a slip of paper. She thanked him; tucked the paper into her bag and departed as he called out, “See you in class Monday”. After she left, he realized that he neglected to return her pen. “No matter,” he thought. “Monday is soon enough;” as he put it into his sport jacket’s inside pocket.
Left to himself, Virgil pleasantly thought that this, in fact, was the high point of teaching; to help the inquiring student dig into the deeper meaning that underlies the visible facts of daily life. He felt especially fortunate to encounter a student who was truly taken with the subject matter. However, there was something else about the meeting that he repressed, preferring not to go there. Try as he might, it stuck and would remain with him as he closed the office door, walked out into the street and a half-hour later entered his meager but adequate apartment.
As for Anna Maria, she too experienced a new awakening from the meeting with the brightly articulate Professor Ferrel, but it had little to do with him – at least so it appeared. Rather, it was the iconic names of great minds of the past that set hers aflame. “Imagine”, she thought to herself “If I could master this. These, the greatest minds of history, guiding us to form societies that would enhance life here on this wrinkled cushion we call earth. There must have been many moments in the past when innocence encountered such greatness and prospered as a result. Perhaps this is such a moment for innocent me”. Yet, there was still another wrinkle to the meeting. What Anna Maria told Virgil about her reversed learning system cast a modest rationality to her decision but what was not presented was the fact that for some years, she felt intimated by the fact of undergraduate learning and that her choice to work first was as much her slight discomfort to enter the challenges of higher learning and to enlist in the more mundain life of day to day employment.
For Virgil, the next day welcomed the weekend, which was weatherly pleasant as the temperature rose 20 degrees; sufficient to melt the frost and ease his perambulation about town. He spent part of the morning cleaning his apartment as is his habit on Saturdays, brought laundry to the cleaners, enjoyed lunch at a favorite diner that abutted the semi-frozen lake. Then, on Sunday, he happily tuned-in to the FM classical station’s live broadcast of the Metropolitan Opera’s powerfully seductive Manon Lescaut, topped off afterwards with an amateurish attempt at a self-made beef stew accompanied by an underage Cotes Du Rhone. Later that night, he quietly, prepared for Monday’s class, contriving questions from the readings to pose to his students.
Class began at nine-thirty, but Virgil was “unalarmingly” awakened at 5 AM after a restless night of tossing. He suspected the reason for it but would have none of it; rationalizing instead that it was just one of those nights that we all experience from time to time. Breakfast was a light fare, comprised of a day-old croissant- cum-espresso and apple juice. The morning carried a slight chill, but the sunny forecast promised a warming by mid-day, which translated into his classic tweed sport jacket and turtle-neck attire.
He entered the classroom on the correct minute followed closely by two scurrying students who quickly landed in their respective seats. All seemed to be waiting for his cue to begin and it came in the form of a question: “This semester we are studying the works of modern theorists, but we all know from prior courses that contemporary thought is influenced by that which precedes it. So, in ancient Greece, two theoretical giants were Plato and his student, Aristotle. Who, among the modern thinkers, would you say might have been mostly influence by Plato and who by Aristotle? Take a minute to think about it. Take two minutes.” The session didn’t go well as students bravely speculated but with little analytic depth. So, Virgil tried to impress on them the need to think more deeply – more critically, about the ideas that they were encountering in their readings. He then gave them the following assignment: “In one week from today, I want you to hand me a single page paper in which you select either Hobbes, Locke or Rousseau and make a case for whether the one you choose seems more like Plato or Aristotle; Is that clear? Remember, you’re limited to a single page so don’t waste words.”
Then, as if struck by something startling, Virgil looked over the room, noticing that several normally student-bearing desks were empty; among them, that of Anna Maria Whitt. Feigning a relaxed response to the situation, he casually said “well I see we are absent a few colleagues today. I hope they re-appear Wednesday lest they miss something life enhancing while abetting the loneliness of their desks.” The class chuckled lightly as they exited.
Wednesday witnessed a lively class session as a key number of students appeared well prepared to think critically about the assigned reading, and only one student was missing: Anna Maria. Virgil made a mental note of this and at class-end he walked to the Dean’s office in an attempt to check on Ms. Whitt, convincing himself that his concern was strictly academic.
Unfortunately, no one in the office had any knowledge of Ms. Whitt’s whereabouts but assured Virgil that if she did not appear in class Friday, they would contact her dormitory resident assistant and even her home if the former doesn’t reveal anything substantial. Virgil was satisfied.
Friday came; however, witnessing no change in the matter of Ms. Whitt. Once again, he was off to the Dean’s office to report her absence. They assured him they would get on the case and have an answer for him by Monday. As he left the office, he placed his hand over the upper pocket of his sport jacket, feeling the slight bulge of Anna Maria’s fountain pen from the inside pocket. He felt silly for having carried it around for a full week in the hope of returning it to her in class.
Ah, once again the joys of the weekend; time for solitary rest and refinements. The weather cooperated and the monthly paycheck was in attendance, allowing for a mental splurge of modest but engaging activity. A brief ride into the adjacent city accompanied by forays into its venues of high culture. While there, Virgil visited an office supply shop and purchased a bottle of black ink, suitable for the Montblanc. He assumed there would be no harm in his adopting the pen until such time that Anna Maria might appear and request its return; at which time, he would present her also with the ink as a gifted reimbursement for the “loan”. Besides, there was the added pleasure of his conjuring the metaphorical appropriateness of the outdated liquid-driven pen onto his periodic markings of historical political thought. Accordingly, he would treat it with similar care. Then, it was off to an afternoon at the local Athenaeum for a restful read in search of the country’s 18th Century attempts to import and impart classical notions of governance into the earth-shaking project of drafting a National Constitution. Virgil always had a predilection for the mental and moral nobility of Age of Enlightenment thought. Here, in this town, it produced not just powerfully effective laws; it created an entirely new independent country based on those laws. For him, it signified the biggest moment since old Athens allegedly devised the world’s first large scale democracy.
After nearly three hours in the Athenaeum, Virgil headed a few blocks north to a small restaurant that he looked forward to on these trips. That Saturday was no exception. There, he was elevated to the status of a regular patron and accorded respect and service as such, notwithstanding the relative simplicity of the place. He was led to a corner table where the light was bright enough for him to continue reading as he enjoyed his favorite meal of stewed veal with peppers, accompanied with a young Tuscan red, followed by an espresso cum Amaretto. Life is good. However, suddenly, there was an unexpected intrusion in the form of an image of Anna Maria Whitt on his now moistened brain cells that served up a distinct mixing of two pleasures: one liquid; the other – whatever.
Things then moved-on rather smoothly, though not a word from Maria. A month later, as the winter term was coming to an end, Virgil received an invitation to present a paper he had recently completed on Rousseau at the regional group of scholars’ June meeting in Boston. He was half expecting it but nevertheless was pleased and felt privileged to be asked.
Spring term came and went uneventfully, which included neither sign of, nor word from Anna Maria. And by term’s end his paper was ready to meet the public. On the second day of the meeting he joined two other colleagues on the podium. It was a session that focused on three different aspects of Rousseau’s thought. Virgil’s took on the matter of Rousseauian Romanticism, contrasting it with Plato’s call for public Reason. All in all, it went well, in that it led to a lively discussion among those present, which totaled a mere half dozen.
However, after similar academic successes, the following two years did not go smoothly for Virgil. Two of his colleagues: one in International Politics and the other in American Politics became increasingly interested in Theory, which resulted in their beginning to offer courses that incorporated several aspects of Virgil’s specialty. As a junior member of the faculty there was little he could do about it. Moreover, it clearly had ramifications for his tenure in the department. Consequently, Virgil started exploring teaching possibilities elsewhere.
He was fortunate in that his earlier strong references, as well as those self -servingly offered by his department colleagues, paved the way for employment at a State College in upstate New York. Here, Virgil found a home and was to remain comfortable for several years.
After five years, he was tenured and granted a full year’s sabbatical to study Theory in some of the finest academic and research institutions in Europe. During this period, while in a prestigious institute in The Hague, he was frequently invited to faculty seminars, lectures and social evenings. One of the latter proved transformative. At an evening reception, honoring a retiring dean, Virgil was chatting with two colleagues while students circled the room, filling glasses. Suddenly, he was gently tapped on his right shoulder from behind. She whispered, “Where’s my Montblanc?” Needless to say, Virgil was shocked; so how does he respond? By nature, Virgil is a mild and shy person who is most comfortable when buried in his books or his thoughts. He is friendly in a hesitatingly pleasant kind of way and soft-spoken, almost to a fault. So, in the instant of what had just occurred, one would have thought that the sudden appearance of Anna Maria would have pivoted him into social elation. He might not have collapsed on the spot, but after all these years of harboring that pointed relic of her seeming prior existence in that same professorial tweed jacket, she returns to claim it! However, he did not turn in surprise. In fact, he did not turn at all. Instead, he calmly finished stating a fine point to his colleagues while slowly reaching into his inner jacket, withdrawing the pen and arching it over his right shoulder as she raised her hand in shocked acceptance. It was as if an hour or so earlier she had left it in his college office.
Virgil then calmly excused himself from his colleagues, turned to Anna Maria and while looking sharply into her eyes said slyly, “You missed class.” She responded with equal coolness, “But I’ve read the assignments.” He then uttered, “and?” She again responded, “They changed my life.” “How? What do you do?” “I take pictures.” “You’re a photographer?” “Yes. I just published my second volume. It’s about people living in cities. Their lives are set in either moral or amoral situations and their behavior adjusts accordingly.” He said, “I’d like to see one. Give me a title; lend me your pen I’ll write it down.” Laughing, she replied, “let’s sit and talk over a drink; then you decide.”
They adjourned to the bar and after choosing two copious leather chairs they ordered their drinks and began speaking – her first. “OK where do I start?”
“You can start by telling me why you disappeared.”
“My Dad had been called back to a job in Ostend. While there, the day that you and I met, probably while we were meeting, he got into an auto accident and suffered a broken leg. That, you might recall, was a Friday. By Sunday, Mom and I were on a plane. I considered writing you about it but after all we had only met once briefly so I didn’t feel it was really necessary. I’m sorry about that. I can’t believe that you held onto my pen. I hope you got some use out of it.”
He wittingly replied: “I did. In fact, my fair lady, I’ve grown accustomed to it.”
Laughing lightly at his response, she said ““Well, you certainly had a weird, though slightly funny manner of returning it. It was as if I had just given it to you.”
“I’m like that. As a theorist, I comport myself outside the confines of a given social situation. It’s a little Platonic. Would you like another drink?”
“No thanks; one’s my limit. But I would like to see you again so we can talk some substance of what we’re both doing these days. I’d never forgotten our meeting. It, and what followed really pointed me in a new direction although it was an intimidating one that gave me shivers. But that’s another story, perhaps for another time. that I’d love to share with you.”
“I’d like that. Do you live in Belgium? That’s pretty close to The Hague.”
“Rotterdam actually – even closer – so we can meet here in Den Haag.”
“How about the faculty club – dinner on me?”
“I’m free most of next week; let me check my calendar. (she pulls out her cell phone and looks.} Wednesday or Thursday are best.”
“Wednesday it is. At seven?”
“I can do it.”
“The Faculty Club is upstairs on the second – rather, the first floor here in Europe.”
“I’m sure I can find it. So, let’s recess for now. I have a little work to do before bedtime and I’ll look forward to our meeting next week.”
“Good night Anna Maria. Is it still Ms. Whitt?”
“Would that surprise you? I prefer Anna Maria.”
“Me too; I’m Virgil. Here’s my card in case you suddenly have to leave the country.”
With a slight laugh, she says; “Thank you; here’s mine.”
With that, Anna Maria excused herself and left the reception as Virgil, after taking a deep breath, returned to his colleagues.
The remainder of the week represented a research highpoint for Virgil as he had a special invitation to the iconic library in St. Gallen, Switzerland. The Director had prepared several 16th century volumes of philosophy as well as related materials from the Protestant Reformation for him to review, along with providing translating help from a graduate assistant named Hannah Vogel. He was there two very long days and left with some fresh insights into minor scholars and clerics of hermeneutics who worked beyond the mainstream of Western theoretical literature. Moreover, Ms. Vogel would remain on the case of translating key segments of their works and for a small fee would relay them to Professor Ferrel.
So, Virgil could return to Holland with a firm sense of accomplishment and he looked forward to meeting Anna Maria in a few days.
Wednesday:
Virgil’s e-mail: “Can’t make it at seven. Is eight too late?”
He responds: “No; that’s fine. See you when you get here.”
That evening: He’s waiting at the bar. She enters in a rush at 8:15.
“I’m so sorry. I thought I would have been here sooner. I would have called you on the way, but I forgot my phone.
“It’s OK. REEELAX. Have a drink.”
She turned to the bartender. “A Lillet please. It should be very cold otherwise I’ll have it on ice.”
The bartender claimed it was already cold and served it straight up. They took their drinks over to the table that Virgil had reserved for them. Since only a few tables were occupied, holding one for them was no problem.
As they sat down Virgil says,”You look nervous. Like you’re meeting with your professor. You’re not. Tell me about yourself since that fateful Friday.” Anna Maria responded rather meekly. “First, I have something to confess concerning that. It’s true that my father had an accident and was taken to the hospital but while my mother returned to Ostend that Sunday, I didn’t go with her. She insisted I remain here in school.”
“But you didn’t remain in school.” “No; I ran off with a friend, Lyn Baylor, to the Poconos. I simply needed relief. Partly, it had to do with my worrying about dad but there was something else. I’ll be honest. The meeting with you was not only enlightening; it was also intimidating. I know that must seem strange; we only met briefly, and it was strictly academic, but it made me realize that success would require an enormous amount of energy and work – and pressure. That while I might have been up to the project intellectually was I ready to tackle the level of work it would entail, what with my being a workaholic and all? It made me uneasy. So, I walked away. I’ve done it before; once, as a teenager when confronted with a mental challenge but not since – until that day. Remember, I told you that I had an inverted plan of development that involved working first before continuing my education? Well, that’s true but the real reason is that I was insecure about going to college. I wasn’t sure I could handle all the hard work– that is, given my propensity for giving all out to the academics not to college sports or late-night parties. That meeting with you convinced me that I would now have to commit myself to unending hours of study along with the fear that even so, I might fail. So now, I find relief in my career as a professional photographer: actually, an historian of photography. Analyzing photographs in the context of their historical, cultural and psychological moment. Why? Because the camera is a safe distance from the reality of its subject. It is my best friend.
“So, what did you do when you left? How did you deal with the problem?” “I started taking pictures; it was unthreatening: one walks, looks, stops, thinks and snaps. There’s no dialogue; no commitment. The subjects were mostly in cities and towns on the east coast and in Europe: Belgium, France and Germany for the most part. In the course of all that I researched the works of others: Cartier Bresson, Ansel Adams, Dorothea Lange, Brassai, Steiflitz, Kertesch; nearly the entire pantheon. They are MY theorists!”
Virgil added: “I really don’t know the works of most of them beyond their names: Steiglitz and Dorothea Lange.”
“That was just my response when you started barking-out Rousseau, Locke Hobbes, and all the others that sent me into a spin. It is interesting how they are mental and mine are pictorial. Maybe there’s an article there. (then, humorously) Shall you write it, or shall I?”
“Hah; I’m sure it’s been done, but then again?”
Virgil was struck by all this but didn’t show it. It’s not that he was hiding something but that he didn’t know what to say. He had only a novice’s knowledge of photography. In museum trips he would never think of visiting photo exhibits. Moreover, the subject never came up in discussions with colleagues – and more to the point, he never read anything about it.
Virgil then asked, “What are you doing now? Why were you at this conference in political theory?”
“Because, along with a colleague, Sue Maitlan, we are working on a project of using street photography as an expression of social class and differences; which is what we presented on Tuesday.”
“How exciting! So, it’s pictures of people walking the streets, shopping at food stands, etc.”
“Well, that’s part of it but it’s not that leisurely. It’s about life on the street or other public venues that reflect many things: joy, loneliness, cultural and societal differences. Its aim is to get us thinking about what the images signify about the society – and about people’s daily lives. Then, when smart people like you see it, you come up with your thoughts on how to fix things – until the politicians get in your way. So, the images fortify the written and spoken thought of the theorist. Look, you know better than anyone: people spend their days living in conditions that they, themselves, didn’t create. Their actions and life choices are influenced – even determined somewhat – by the decisions of others. Maybe they’re the shop keepers or the street cleaners, or just the guy or girl who’s outside selling hot dogs. So, it’s the photojournalism of daily life whose purpose is to make you think about that particular state of life that’s in the picture. Maybe it will tell you something not just about those in the photo but about the larger world they inhabit and introspectively maybe something about yourself. That’s it in a nutshell. End of lecture.”
“I get it. It’s using photo images as words – like they do in the movies.”
“Not really; movies use words – and even music and other sounds; as well as images; photography ONLY uses images, so it has a bigger load to carry.”
At this point, Virgil began to think about two things: first, what else has he been missing all his life besides photography? This is picture taking after all and always has been pretty accessible. And next: what is it about Maria that is attracting him – and what are its implications going forward?
The conversation ends on an exciting high note with both of them wondering what’s next…and that there had to be a NEXT.
Virgil uncomfortably asked if they could meet again, as unlikely as it might be since he’d be leaving The Netherlands soon. Anna Maria responded with a positive “I hope so” but added nothing more that might have been promising. And with that she walked away, leaving Virgil to ponder the ineffable.
Back Home
Despite all the brain-satisfying experiences he encountered in Europe, Virgil could not get Anna Maria off his mind. He even questioned it himself; “with all of this new, invaluable research material from St. Gallen’s, why is it that I think mostly about her? I sit in my office waiting for her to call – why would she?” Virgil continues in this mindset for fully three weeks, hardly even glancing at his notes and skimping on class prep-time.
Suddenly there is an e-mail from Anna Maria, stating she will be in New York City, attending a photo-journalism meeting at Columbia University the first weekend in December and wanting to know if it might be convenient for him to trek down to the city so they can meet. She’ll be busy presenting and meeting with colleagues that Friday but virtually free on the weekend. Instantly Virgil answers that he will arrive Friday evening and they can meet for breakfast Saturday and plan the rest.
As It Happens…
That Saturday, Virgil is sitting in the hotel lobby trying to focus on a read while awaiting Maria’s arrival. In a short while, she steps out from an elevator and they prelude waives to each other followed by cheeky kissing and light hugs. She asks when he has to return to his college. He tells her Tuesday’s class, so Monday evening at the latest. She nodes approvingly as they walk over to the off-lobby restaurant for a pricey breakfast. As they settle-in she looks at him pointedly and says: “I know this will sound strange, perhaps even crazy and if it doesn’t work, I’ll be okay with it” He looks puzzled and replies, “I can’t wait; let’s hear it.”
“Would you consider going to Philadelphia?” “What! Come to New York to go to Philadelphia?” “Strange, yes but there’s a reason: an extensive historical photography show with a modern slant is at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It’s not just about the photos, individually or chronologically but the way the curators have displayed them in relation to each other. So, it’s about the thought behind the overall presentation – THE THEORY OF IT – not just a bunch of pictures – (teasingly) You might learn something. It’s only 90 minutes by train and we can be back in time for a late dinner for which I’ll treat.”
“OK you’re on. Let’s do it.”
(10AM: They arrive at 30th Street Station, Philadelphia, and take a taxi to the museum. It’s Virgil’s first visit.)
He’s quite impressed with the museum though not surprised since he’s heard much of it. As to the photography show, having little knowledge of the field, he is more taken with Anna Maria’s roving analysis as they move along the various images, beginning with camera obscura on through daguerreotype to the technical revolution of Eastman Kodak’s Brownie with lots of others in between. But clearly, Anna Maria is the star. Her knowledge-base and analytic insights place her deservedly at center stage.
After nearly a half-hour, knowing that Virgil had never been to this museum, she suggests that he might want to visit other galleries since she requires a little more time with the photos and some note taking. They can meet later in the restaurant for a late lunch. He gladly submits and heads to the extensive Medieval and Renaissance galleries.
The Restaurant
Happily, Anna Maria greets Virgil: “Thank you so much for being patient. That was one of the finest photographic shows I’ve ever encountered. It wasn’t just the photos themselves but their organization and the verbal commentaries that accompanied them. And how about you?”
“Well, they have a very strong exhibit from the Middle Ages to Modern times to include a major collection donated by a famous Philly lawyer. You’re right that there’s a lot that can be learned from pictures. Something I need more of.”
“Maybe I can help you.”
“That would be a switch; though you probably could. Listen, I like it here and need to see more, but it’s a beautiful day and I’d rather forego the rest of the museum to allow for a return visit. Let’s see some of the town while we’re here.”
“OK but I have a dinner reservation for 7 o’clock in Greenwich Village.”
“That means we have to leave around 5.”
“Let’s change the reservation to 8 or 9.”
“OK!” There are two very special smaller museums right down the parkway: The Rodin: you know the famous French sculptor. “
“Of course.”
“And the Barnes: whose holdings are among the world’s largest and finest Impressionists.”
“That’s the one that had some controversy?”
“It was about moving its location to center city from the suburbs not about the collection. It will wow you.”
“Look I’ve seen so much I can’t take anymore, especially if it’s major. I need another visit. Rodin and Barnes; sounds like a Philadelphia law firm.”
Upon leaving the museum parkway after a short tea break, followed by a stroll through a few historically distinguished side streets, they arrive in plenty of time to catch the 6:15 Regional back to New York and arrive safely at 8 PM at Romino’s restaurant in Greenwich Village where the food was predictable and the conversation deepened into the effects of art on the public psyche. These combined to lift Virgil into a swoon of intellectual discourse, preventing him from noticing that Anna Maria slowly shrank into her seat.
(At the Hotel)
“What a great day!” exclaims Virgil. “What do you have planned for tomorrow?”
“Oh, I don’t know; I’ll do a quick museum check. Let me think about it. I need some time in the morning to pull the Philly show together. Can we meet at, say, eleven? By then I’ll be more than ready to do anything YOU might suggest so you can think about that in the meantime.”
“OK. We’ll meet in the lobby at eleven. Who knows, weather-permitting, we might just take a boat ride on the East River.”
“That’s promising. Good night Professor Virgil. It was nice being with you.
“And good night to you Ms. Whitt. Thank you for a learned day. You are something else.”
Sunday Morning
After a solid night’s sleep, Virgil carefully checks his attire for the day’s adventure and upon approval he saunters down the hallway to the elevator.
11AM: Virgil excitingly punches the elevator button and travels to the lobby.
11:30: Still no sign of Anna Maria
He goes to Reception and asks for them to call her room. No Answer.
He turns and starts to walk away when the reception clerk calls after him. “Pardon me sir, are you Professor Ferrel?”
“Yes”
“I have an envelope for you from a Ms. Whitt.”
Past experience doesn’t speak well for this. He opens the envelope. There is a small photo of Anna Maria, a brief note and a small packet.
“Dear Virgil, and so, once again. All this is simply too much for me. Please try to understand – although, honestly, I can’t. The truth is that you’ve come to mean a lot to me and I can’t face the commitment that might entail – at least not now.”
He then opens the packet: the Montblanc (wrapped in a note) “Perhaps here lies the cure. My dream rests upon finding it again. Anna Maria”
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright J.D. Fratto 2023
