I kept telling her that Carsten Dahl
is not Carson Dyle for the obvious reason
the former doodles Danish bebop
on the piano with a sort of Gouldian passion
for counterpoint, whereas the latter is a character
played by Walter Matthau, whose fervor
is fuelled by revenge, avarice and triangle-cut
sandwiches, in that wild caper of a movie
called Charade. Iâm not sure she cared, though.
(âWho the fuck is Walter Matthau?â)
Neither did she show much interest when
I pointed out the similar confusion
that might occur when listening to Dahl’s
Will You Make My Soup Hot and Silver,
which, sure enough, rolls with the same
lighthearted groove as the soundtrack
to that zany film. (âHot and what? Go
make your own fuckin dinner!â) I lost
her completely (to her iPhone) when
I brought up the discombobulation presented
by Das Kapital and That’s Capital: the first,
as everyone knows, a lurid page-turner
penned by that frazzle-bearded German dude,
and the second, a typical gung-ho
expression at times used sarcastically,
like now, but also sincerely by even older farts
than Walter Matthau, e.g. the incomparable
Margaret Dumont just as Groucho agrees
to become leader of Freedonia in that Marx
Brothers’ classic Duck Soup. (âOMG,
you know Iâm vegan! Besides, why should
I watch that communist crap?!â) I didnât
have much chance to give her my take
on why the obvious becomes so muddled:
that it might have something to do
with the fact we are all fallible creatures
who can’t help embracing a soothing delusion
when it most suits. (For instance, my mistaking
intent for fancy when she said she was leaving.)
I can see now it’s not so much a question
of ignorance as it is a lack of vigilance,
a clouded mind, the inability to focus
when faced with the ineffable. It was clear
from the outset she hated the films and music
(and other loves) closest to my heart. Yes,
I might have failed in my capitalist duty to
grab that lucrative job, invest properly, twist
the truth, drive the right car, that sort
of thing. Once, after amassing properties
(thanks to loan-shark largess) and raising
a couple classy hotels, she did ask me
to marry her, but it turned out she meant it
in jest seeing as we were just playing
Monopoly. The point is, I simply brushed
aside the signs for too long. While the insults
Worm and Swine leave Groucho unfazed
(as youâll recall), it’s only that seven-letter
word Upstart that launches the glove
across the face and leads to full-scale war.
Walter Matthau is more subtle: he actually
pretends to be a CIA director for most of
Charade, while Carey Grantâs four identities
leave Audrey Hepburn an absolute
flummoxed wreck â she who works
as a simultaneous interpreter at the UN
and so ought to know better, but doesnât,
or canât, masked as she is by those funky
yet truth-veiling sunglasses. Like I said,
we might get fooled by what we thought
was different, but only because we cling
so tightly to an idea of that âdifferentâ
as though that would make things more real.
My great undoing. I just didnât listen. Like
everyone in Charade, I didnât look.
Anyway, with all this time on my hands now,
I may as well go put on some Danish jazz,
make my favourite finger sandwiches,
and dig out the old stamp collection
from the basement. Who knows, I might
even track down that one gem of hidden value
â the chef dâoeuvre of the collection (if you know
what I mean). Itâs sad, but humbling
in a way, to know there used to be genuine,
hand-written letters and honest sentiment,
tucked on the other side of those stamps â
those minutely crafted perforation-lined
tokens of Mercurial dispatch.
***
Francis Fernandes grew up and studied in Montréal, Canada. Since spring 2020, his writing has appeared in over thirty literary journals, including Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Saint Katherine Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and Third Wednesday. He lives in Frankfurt, Germany, where he writes and teaches.
***
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