Page 50 of Theo of Golden

“All the time. I don’t finish many. If I had a reason to, concerts or something, I think I would. But mostly I start them and quit before I’m finished. I hope someday I can record a few of them, a good recording, just to see how they’d sound with a bit of polish. In fact, have you seen the guy who carries the cello around? Simone? I barely know him, but I told him I was gonna write a song for him and his cello. That’d be kind of interestin’, wouldn’t it? So, Mr. Theo, that’s me. What about you? Your letter said you just recently moved to town.”

Another shout across the median, the same voice as previously, called out to Basil. He waved it off as he’d done minutes earlier.

“It looks like you need to get to work,” Theo said. “Your fans are getting restless.”

Basil chuckled. “If I depended on them for my next meal, I’d be in trouble. But maybe I do need to go. Let’s talk again sometime, OK?”

“Basil, before you go, may I tell you something?” Theo pulled the paper off the portrait and held it on his knees so that it was plainly visible to the both of them. “I want to tell you what I saw when I looked at your portrait.”

Basil said nothing, but, emboldened by the old man’s focus on the drawing, looked at it himself as Theo’s finger touched the glass.

“I saw a boy in the smile. It’s a face that hasn’t forgotten playfulness. I think children would be drawn to this face. But I also see a man. There is wisdom here, I believe. In the eyes. A young, tender heart; a wise, old soul. That’s a good combination. Wisdom and playfulness. There is the possibility of a saint in this face. This could well be a portrait of St. Basil.”

Basil shook his head at such a ludicrous suggestion. St. Basil? “No time soon, I’m afraid. I’ve already told you enough to permanently disqualify me from that club. I hate my brother-in-law. I wimped out on teaching kids in poverty. I’m living hand to mouth. My mom says I’m living in sin with my girlfriend. I’m hardly making the world a better place. They’d have to change the requirements of sainthood a lot for me to ever be one.”

Theo smiled and patted Basil’s knee.

“Basil, my good fellow, there is a term for ones like us. ‘Raw material.’ Read your Augustine. And remember, heaven can draw a straight line with a crooked stick.”

Though still doubtful, Basil grinned. “I suppose so, but sainthood? Don’t think so. Maybe I’ll just try to be the guy you see in the picture. Wisdom and playfulness?”

Theo patted Basil’s knee again and nodded his old head. “That’s a start. Tender heart, wise soul. That’s a good start. Go sing like that fellow tonight.”

They rose to leave. What started as a handshake became the comfortable and confident hug of two old friends. Basil picked up his guitar case and backpack with his left hand and gripped the portrait, loosely covered with the wrapping paper, in his right.

“Well, Theo, wish me a good night.”

“Yes, yes. May all your tips be tens and twenties.”

“Now don’t get carried away.”

“Then may all your tips tonight fall from heaven. Coins of gold.”

“I like it. Hey, Theo, you didn’t ask me about my name. People always ask about my name.”

“Ha. They ask me about mine too. Let’s leave it at this: You are Basil, and I am Theo.”

A gold leaf fell between them. Another late departure.

The lanky figure took his place on the sidewalk, strummed loudly, lifted his voice, and sang. Theo remained at the fountain, listening to the sounds of street noise before heading west to watch sunset over the river and then returning to Ponder House.

CHAPTER 30

As part of its downtown renaissance, Golden had constructed a twelve-mile walkway beside the Oxbow River, in faith that “if we build it, they will come.” The desired gravitational pull began, in very short order, to draw young families, children, lovestruck couples, elderly strollers, artists, photographers, tourists, troubled souls in search of calm, dog owners, and runners to the waterside thoroughfare. But even when busy, the Riverwalk, as it was known, rarely felt crowded. Anyone hoping for a place to sit quietly had no shortage of options available to them.

On his bench beneath the chestnut oak, Theo had an open view, upstream and down, from which to watch, hear, and cast his thoughts into the flow of the Oxbow. Where the current might take those thoughts on any given day was a mystery.

They often returned to the river, four thousand miles away, near his childhood home in Portugal. That river, the Douro (“river of gold”), traversed the wine country and was much like this one: tree-lined, navigable, and musical. It ran through villages, through the countryside, over stone, and beneath bridges, in areas lightly populated or entirely secluded. And like every river everywhere, it hosted sunrises and sunsets of unspeakable and often unnoticed beauty; it welcomed the adventurous and the amorous, fisherfolk and philosophers, the playful and the plaintive.

Decades ago, it had welcomed a little boy with a keen sense of wonder and an eye for the sublime. On the blissful days of spring and summer, when the scent of ripening grapes was in the air, a scent that would somehow be bottled and sent around the world to be enjoyed at future times and distant tables, he would answer the call of that river, blessedly free, to spend hours by himself or with other young friends.

Imagine a boy on a bicycle:

Past the pastel-tinted storefronts and dwellings (the stuff of postcards and travel brochures), beneath the thunderous bells of the church building, through streets filled with aromas of sardines and coffee, surrounded by a shadow of antiquity that coated ancient structures with shades of teal and ochre, and accompanied by the romantic language of the Portuguese. By that route, the boy would arrive at the footpath to the banks of the Douro.

Once there, the serious work of play and exploration took over.

There were local fishermen, at the riverside or in their boats, to be studied. There were birds to be watched — lapwings, kites, swamp hens, eagles — nests to be discovered, stones to be upended, and any number of extravagances beneath them to be scrutinized — shells, crustaceans, slugs, smaller pebbles. If he were with other boys, as was often the case, there were stories to be invented, castles to be built, battles to be fought, and feats of courage to be dared and performed. And, of course, there was wading and swimming.