On the way out we asked the desk clerk (same one as this morning. Working a double, apparently) where a decent place to get a bite to eat was. She directed us to a local steakhouse and on my way out something my uncle wrote popped into my head about other people's comments or thoughts. Just to test a theory I asked her, "So, you really like Die Hard, huh?"
The clerk stared at me quizzically, smiled the customer service smile and gave a little shrug. I pressed. "Die Hard, remember? I'm the guy who gave you ten bucks because you knew who Alan Rickman was?"
The woman squinted at me, cocked her head like a dog being punished with a whistle and asked, "Who?"
Mary and I exchanged looks, and I muttered, "I heart getting the hell out of here."
We ate heartily (at left) or at least I did. I was going to go with the steak and shrimp but then the shrimp's legs reminded me of centipedes and I changed my order. After dinner Mary and I just sat back, digested and talked about her ex-husband; or rather I asked questions and she smiled and daintily rearranged her napkin.It wasn't until we got back to the hotel that my uncle's suicide really hit me. I was taking a shower (my third today. Between the centipedes crawling and the bites and the heebie-jeebies I was pretty much taking them every hour on the hour) and I remembered the first time I met him when I was nineteen. He smiled at me with such total affection and warmth, and he reminded me of my Dad: so quick to smile, laugh and dream. I didn't ask where he had been up until then. He lived in Belgium so it wasn't like he could have been expected to just pop in, and besides from the moment he came through the door until the time he finally left he would just lavish us with nonstop gifts and devotion to such a degree that I think we would have felt ungrateful and shallow asking too many questions.
That said, there always was a moodiness about him. I remember more than once during his visits that I would wake up in the middle of the night to find him stalking around in the dark talking to himself and swilling wine at an astounding rate. Whenever he would notice me peering over at him his entire demeanor would change and he'd light up, assure me that everything was fine and usher me back to bed, but once back in my room I'd hear his footsteps continue to march restlessly up and down the carpet until I fell asleep.
I've been trying to remember back from the first I met him to the last time I saw him back in January, attempting to determine if he had truly appeared to age in that span. The memory plays tricks. To me was always just old- elderly but spry and never at a loss for energy.
Was he insane? Was he somehow actually King Leopold the First of Belgium? Was he both? If he actually was who he thought he was, that would have made him well over two hundred years old, something that would be absolutely impossible, just like the two or three other impossible things I've experienced over the last week or so.Whatever happened between him and my father, I have to forgive him, even if he couldn't forgive himself. He may have placed my Dad in danger, but I have to believe he did it out of utter desperation and probably madness, not out of any maliciousness. Whether he was my uncle or he really was my great, great, great, great grandfather doesn't matter in the end. I loved him and love him still, not because of who he was or what he did but because while the rest of his life may have been a lie I know that he truly loved me unconditionally. That's enough, I suppose.
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