The city from my view.

A pulse on a vibrant Megalopolis.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Continue

The Contesta de Claude raised her hand to stop the estate's gardener from further talk. She wanted to finish reading the paragraph in her book. The poor gardener held still and waited to further his plea. When she was finished, she turned her attention to the hapless man. With her lips fastened into a slit for a smile, her left eyebrow raised slightly, she stared back at him until he looked at the rich carpet beneath his feet.


"The fact remains that you are incompetent. I said dark then light for color arraignment and you have planted light then dark."

"Please Contesta, I will pay for the mistake from what little I have but do not fire me. My wife will be having our first child soon."  

The Contesta chortled, "Monsieur, it is I who pay you. You want to pay me with my own money? Is that it? No, I will not have my garden path further defiled by your incompetent work."

"Please, I beg you.  We have no place to go."

The Contesta looked at the butler near the door and signaled with a snap of her finger to rid her of the gardener. The butler immediately went to the poor man and took his arm to raise him from his knees. As the gardener sobbed, he gently guided him to the door. Once there, the butler reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a hundred franc note placing it in the shaking hand of the fired man before he shut the door on the gardener.

When the butler turned to the Contesta to see if she wanted anything else she said, "Make sure they are  off the estate by sundown."

His eyes held back the glare of hate he had when he snapped his shoes together, bowed and left the room.

Deep in the estate's castle, there was shouting when the French goalie blocked the soccer ball. It was followed by a shriek of pain from a man pedaling a bike fastened to a generator. The man was thin and weary, his body covered with sweat and ugly red marks on his back. His hands were chained to the handlebars of the stationary bike and his feet fastened with straps to the pedal. Jean Claude had just delivered  another blow to domestic's back with a willow branch. Hung around the tortured man's neck was a sign, 'Girlymann's Whore'. His eyes were sunk and the top tube of the DeRosa he was fastened to dripped with the beaten man's sweat and the spit of Jean Claude and his friends.

"Pedal you Belgian bitch." Jean Claude screamed at him before he sat back down in the comfort of the sofa along with his friends. The glare from the fifty inch screen of the television showed the soccer match with the French team winning. One of Jean Claude's friends when finished with his beer, threw the empty bottle at the domestic strapped to the DeRosa. A low groan was all he got from the tortured soul.

The Belgian, again, mustered his strength to continue to pedal with little food or water to sustain him. His head drooped, unable to hold itself erect from the hours and hours he was forced to pedal fastened to Campy's DeRosa. A human dynamo  to make electricity for Jean Claude's play room. The DeRosa was smeared with dirt, the bright blue paint and the lovely rose decal barely showed through the grime heaped upon it.


To be continued....

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Continue

Above the bike shop glowed the soft light of candles and just outside the front window, where Campy and Donatello were dining, fireflies danced in the blue-black night. There was piano music softly playing a Chopin nocturne while the two men ate at a carved wood table. The table sat next to the window where the small vase of wild flowers and candles matched the dance of the fireflies outside.  A red wine was opened and  poured into sparkling glasses. They were eating roast duck.

Donatello had listened to Campy's plan to find his DeRosa. But while listening, he had ate most of his duck and had another fork of  yam gnocchi with a butter sage sauce balanced on the tongs when he put it down, took his wine glass and thoughtfully drank.  Campy had at last stopped talking and took his first taste of roast duck in a raspberry sauce. "It is a brave plan," Donatello said.

"That's it? You surprise me Donatello. So you think I have a chance?"

"I didn't say that my friend. It is a brave plan to go into the  lion's den but only a fool would do so to begin with and you are no fool."

 "Peter didn't think so, he didn't like it but he's willing to help."

"And so will I, what do you want me to do?"

"You did. The bike."

Donatello took his wine glass and emptied it in two gulps before he filled it again from the bottle, he said, "It's a beautiful bike, and in its day, it was the best. But Campy, that bike is not young, you ask a lot from the old girl."

"And like the great dame she is, she will give me that and more."

The warmth of the wine went to Donatello's head, a smile slowly came from the handsome Italian. "If you should actually pull this off, what a victory for Italy and our beautiful biciclettas."

"The only thing this Yankee wants is his DeRosa." Campy raised his glass and they toasted to success.

The two men enjoyed the wine and the meal and near the end, when wild strawberries and champagne made its way to the table, the two turned their talk from cycling to each other. After the last toast, the last strawberry hand fed to Donatello followed by a kiss from Campy did they retire to Donatello's bedroom, the down comforter, thick as a cloud, pulled back on the bed.

As Donatello removed his clothes, the candle light next to the bed showed  a strong and sturdy body, still tight and lean but with jagged scars that ran across his legs and chest, like a Greek statue that was broken and then pieced together. And when Campy undressed and sat down next to his lover on the bed, who had laid so as to hide the scars from sight, pulled Donatello to view him fully, scars and all.  He ran his hand slowly over the old wounds, tracing them with the tips of his fingers. "Don't hide your bravery, they are badges of courage."

Donatello took Campy's hand that traced the lines of his scars and held it looking into Campy's eyes, "Please be careful with what you plan," he said before he kissed the fingers that had traced his wounds from a tragic accident in the Giro.

Campy smiled and kissed Donatello long and soft on the lips, then blew the candle out next to the bed.

To be continued....

Friday, June 17, 2011

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Continue

Donatello's bike shop, like many shops on the main street of the village, was wood framed with a steep slanting roof.  The mechanic lived above his shop where a window was open and red geraniums bloomed at the windowsill.  Hanging near the door was the bicycle shop sign made from carved wood of a bicycle painted in bright colors and, if a breeze blew, the wheels turned. An aria could be heard from a radio near the the green front door.

Girlymann walked in and saw Donateelo putting bar tape on a bike, " Is that the beast?"

Donatello smiled and watched Campy walk toward him to the middle of his shop, " Don't call her a beast, she is a most beautiful bicicletta--but strong willed."

Campy looked at the detail of the fork, and joints. He admired the craftsmanship in the chrome filigree where the metal tubes joined. He ran his hand over the cherry red paint applied to the metal. His hand spun the rear wheel to hear the delicate clatter of the  rear hub spinning the cogs.

"You're right, she is most beautiful. A Pogliaghi that I heard you lovingly restored, Donatello. " 

"She rides well, Campy." The mechanic finished masking the tape, loosened the grip on the stand and lifted the bike down to the floor, "Here, take her out for a spin, tell me what you think."

Campy took hold of the bike and admired the vintage Campagnolo components. Down-tube friction shifting and brakes designed more for slowing the bike than coming to a quick stop. The bike glimmered in the noon day sun when he brought it out of the little shop and on to the street.  As soon as Campy mounted the bike he knew that Donatello  had adjusted the seat and bars to Campy's style. Girlymann reached down and pulled the strapped to tighten his shoe to the pedal and felt how easy the bike stayed true with his right hand off the bars.

Soon he left the little village to follow a country road he knew where the trees whispered and a brook glimmered patches of wet light along its path that followed the road. Campy felt the bike's easy handling, its swift flight over the asphalt. It wasn't his beloved De Rosa but the bike did handle as if it knew ahead of time of where Campy wanted to go and that's what Girlymann needed if he was to succeed in finding his De Rosa.

To be continued....

Sunday, June 12, 2011

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Continue

Campy woke to  familiar sounds of the village he lived in. It was a small cottage on the edge of town where the pines nestled up to the back of the property. Song birds sang of a beautiful day ahead with plenty of sunshine. He stretched at the open window of his bedroom and gazed out, thinking, at first, of a bike ride but then remembering his bike was in another country.  He dressed instead to  breakfast at a local bakery in the town.

"Signore Campy,  how are you today?" Bruno asked at the counter of his bakery, Poco Regalo.

"I'm feeling better my friend," Campy said before he sat down at a table near the window.

Bruno came over with an espresso and pastry, placing them in front of Girlymann. "I saw Signore Donatello  earlier, he will have a bike ready for you before noon."

"Thanks for telling me, I'll go over to his shop after breakfast."

The news made Campy feel even better. Donatello was one of the best bike mechanics in all of Italy. He still wore his Campagnolo shop coat that he proudly displayed when he worked on Italy's race team in the Giro. Donatello shared Girlymann's love for Campagnolo's bike components. So much so that while Girlymann took the company's shortened name used by many for Campagnolo, Donatello had a Record Campy derailleur  tattooed on his left calf.

Two cyclists pulled up and waved at Campy through the front window. After they leaned their bikes against the building they walked in, greeted Bruno, ordered and sat down on each side of Girlymann.

Girlymann smiled and shook their hands. "Where are you two off today?"

The cyclist on Campy's right said, "Adamo wants to go to Milan."

"Does he ever want to go anywhere else?"

"No, it's always Milan. It drives me crazy. I ask him, 'Where else?' but no, Milan comes out."

Adamo smiled and said, "Then why does he ask me? He wants to go up mountains. ask Beppie where he wants to go. It's the mountains."

Campy put his espresso down. Brutus had just placed cups and pastry in front of Campy's two friends, "Well, when you go to Milan, you get to climb back up, that gives you both what you want.

Beppie placed a hand on Campy's shoulder, "Any news on your De Rosa?"

"Nothing yet, but I have a plan. Donatello has a bike about ready for me."

"You're going back to France?" They asked.

"Not yet, but I need a bike and there's some people I want to talk to."

Beppie said, "That French pig, Jean Claude is behind this. His family is very rich and what he can't buy, he takes. He made up the time and won the tour."

"Good for him," Campy said. "I shouldn't have interfered in the first place."

Adamo spoke up then, "Campy? You think he didn't buy his yellow jersey? He is not that good and the talk is that he paid off people to get the win."

"I'd hate to think someone could do that in the greatest bicycle race of all time."

Beppe punched Campy in the arm. "He did not race in the Giro, that is the greatest."

Campy smiled, "You're right, no pro road race is as hard as the Giro, but the Tour de France takes the world press."

The three of them finished their espressos and pastries and then said goodbye. Campy had another espresso and watched his friends head toward the road that would take them to Milan. Girlymann paid his bill and then walked to the bike shop down the street.

To be continued....

Thursday, June 9, 2011

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Continue

It was late in the night, an hour or two before dawn and the streets were barren except for a vintage Italian roadster that made its way slowly through the mist. the car stopped in front of the Le Noir Chat Cafe. Girlymann quickly said goodbye to Pierre and walked to the passenger door to get in. As soon as the door was shut, the good doctor drove toward the border of France and Italy . Girlymann had to leave France for his safety and leave his beloved De Rosa to an unknown fate. It was a quiet ride out of town and well into the countryside. Only when the roadster began to climb to the border of the two nations that the men felt safe enough to relax.

Campy watched two early-morning cyclists as the roadster passed them on the road that led up the alps. It pained him to leave the De Rosa behind and he turned to the doctor. "I'm coming back for my bike."

"Campy, wait. Let Pierre and myself find out what we can. It might be a dear price for your beloved De Rosa but better to pay a ransom than lose your life."

"Anton, I'm not paying to get back my own bike. I'm sorry for what I did, I screwed up but you don't take a man's bike because he messed up. If whoever is behind this, thinks that makes us even, they stepped over the line, not me."

"Careful, Campy, you don't know Jean Claude is behind this."

"You're right, I don't, but it's the only hunch I've got to go on. Who else would take it? I have left it in front of the cafe many times without worry. Now, though it was taken right in front of me."

The climb was long on the winding road up past small villages that Campy, not all that long ago, would have waved a friendly hello to from his bike. Now though, he kept his golden curly hair tucked in his hat and no wave to the onlookers. And all Campy could think of, mile after mile, was his beloved, De Rosa.  The bike was part of him and he part of the bike. When he mounted, the bike sprung to life, his mind and body molded to the frame, they were one, inseparable, married and at times, Campy didn't know if it was him or the bike that made them soar along so many roads and countries.

No, he could not leave part of him behind.  When the roadster came up to the border, Campy showed his passport as did Dr. Anton and once they were waved through, Campy's first thought on Italian soil was how to get his bike back.

To be continued...

Monday, June 6, 2011

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Continue

Girlymann's eyes fluttered. He felt light from a window that made his eyes hurt. It made the headache throb and he covered his eyes with the blanket to sleep off the wine. But as the fog began to lift, and he felt his head throb where there was now a bandage, feeling the gauze, he began to wake.

"Monsieur Campy, it is me, Pierre." 

Campy squinted a bit before he could focus on the face of his friend Pierre. "What the fuck happened?"

"A man hit you, I was saying goodbye to someone at the cafe when I heard a crash down the street. I saw someone dragging a body. It was you he was dragging and I yelled. He dropped you and ran."

Campy tried to lift himself but the pain crushed him back down. "Which way did he go?" 

"That was three days ago, Campy. I told the gendarme what I saw. You rest, we'll talk later."

Girlymann looked around the small, comfortable room. The smell of fresh linen, the song of a bird outside in the garden, lulled him back to sleep and back to his dreams. The next time he woke it was late afternoon and he was hungry. With wobbly legs he got up from bed and went in search of something to eat. Someone had dressed him in a night shirt, his head still bandaged, but the throbbing pain was gone. He opened the door and looked out to a hall that led to a sitting room where he found a comfortable chair. Girlymann could hear laughter and smell Pierre's cooking that came from the kitchen of the cafe. He decided to wait in the comfort of the reading chair until Pierre might look in on him.

Girlymann must have nodded off. He felt someone nudge him and looked up to see Pierre and another man.

"Monsieur  Campy, I'm so glad to see you get up."

"So am I Pierre. Can't thank you enough for saving my ass."

"I want to introduce you to a friend. He is the man who doctored you, Monsieur Anton."

"You took a nasty thump on your head. I wanted you in hospital but Pierre said that was not wise right now, so, we made hospital here. How do you feel?"

"Like I fell off the bike and over a cliff."

The doctor took Campy's wrist and looked at his watch while taking Campy's pulse. "You are a tough, eh how they say, son of gun, Monsieur. Another man might not have waked up from a concussion such as yours."

Pierre peered over the side of the doctor, "Do you remember anything?"

Campy thought for a while, back to the plaza, the Germans and then the sight of cobblestones before his lights went out. "Not much, did I get hit by a car?"

"A club, monsieur Campy. A very big club." Pierre's eyes were wide opened when he said this in a profound manner.

"Fuck." Girlymann looked a bit dazed, not understanding exactly what happened to him and why.

"Pierre? Do you have my bike?"

The doctor and Pierre looked at one another for a moment before Pierre said, "We don't know who took it. It could be almost anyone in town."

"I never had trouble here before?"

"Campy, my friend, what you did, angered almost everyone but those of us who know you. You see, this is Jean Claude's home. His fiancee was on the stage waiting to award him. The whole town came to see him, not the Belgian domestic with his arms thrown in the air signaling victory.  You are in danger and that is why I felt it unsafe for you to go to the local hospital. You're safe here, for a while at least, but you must leave soon."

Campy's face knotted up. "I'm going to look for my bike. Me and that De Rosa go back a long way."

The doctor patted Campy  on the shoulder, monsieur, get another bike and save yourself the grief."

"You might as well ask me to cut my arm off doc. I'm finding the De Rosa or I'll die doing it."

The doctor looked at Pierre and then back at Campy, "Then you just very well might die doing it, monsieur.

To be continued.  

 








  

Thursday, June 2, 2011

The Adventures Of Campy Girlymann Continues

The cobblestone street that Campy walked echoed the clatter his bike shoes made. The  shadows were strong on the small street and crept up one side of the shops and apartments along the way.  With the debris that blew about from the frantic fans of the Tour, it gave the rue an emptied appearance.
Girlymann was still in a daze over the disappearance of his bike, as if he was missing his right hand when suddenly he entered the court yard of the of the town's plaza. Almost everyone had left the staging area except for the cleanup crew. Campy looked for a familiar face in what was left of the crowd but instead, once he was recognized, the stares back were of anger.

For the first time, Campy felt unwelcome, and he didn't understand why. His confusion worsened, not sure as to go back to the cafe and see what Pierre came up with, or to ask people if they saw anyone with a blue and yellow De Rosa. He walked to a group nearby who seemed ambivalent toward Campy.

"Bonjour, gentelmen, did you enjoy the race?"

A man with a German accent, dressed, as the others, conservatively with tie and coat answered, "Yes, very much, especially to see the Belgian win. And you, were in the race, yes?"

"No, I'm not with any team."

"I see. You must be Campy Girlymann. We asked, when everyone talked of the upset and how it happened."

Girlymann felt his face go red, in the excitement of the challenge, he had caused an upset in the race dear to the French.  "I guess I owe an apology,"

"Well, not to us, we were quite pleased to see the Belgian domestic win the stage. Jean Claude lost a few seconds and the Yellow Jersey. But he will get it back, I'm sure."

"I should apologize to Jean Claude then."

"Well, Herr, Girlymann, this was his home town. I'm surprised you are still here, you were not talked about in, how should I say this, a friendly way."

Campy now realized just how fucked he made things. He smiled at the German and said,  "I'd get out of Dodge but my bike is missing."

"Ah, well my friend, you are in some trouble. Good luck, in finding your bike and you might, how do the cowboy say--lay low for a while."

The Germans began to speak to each other in German and ignored Campy who was now, persona-non-grata. Girlymann turned to go back to the street that he came from and noticed that a crowd was forming near the plaza's fountain, they were looking back at him and none too pleased.

Campy walked to the cobblestone street as quick as he could and as discreet as  possible, if that could be possible when clad in bike shorts, bright jersey and flowing locks of hair. When he rounded the corner, the sun had set and clothed Campy in darkness. He quickened his pace just as the last rays of the  sun left.

The clatter of his shoes seemed louder than before, the wind had died and Campy kept an eye out for the lights of the Noir Chat Cafe when, from a doorway, a large man appeared and beamed Campy with a club. He felt at first stunned and then the cobblestones came into view next to his face before he lost consciousness.

To be continued.....