Dragons Und Mopsies
I talked about Van Zyl previously (you can read it here). A reader scoffed; called VZ a figment, a fraud. Roy gently rebuked him later, but it still rankles me. A figment? So, a bit about him:
Born Congo, schooled Brussels, bored stiff in Belgian service: “Ridiculous.” While on duty, entire family asphyxiated by a fire that never touched ’em. Adieu Belgique; joined French Foreign Legion, met best friend Edward, a short, wiry, entrepreneurial Brit. After the Legion, formed a business: training, consulting, fighting from Pointe-Noire to the Philippines, then into import/export. When Edward settled in the PI, VZ wandered, then gravitated to us.
A giant physical prodigy, a shade over seven feet tall, thick-muscled and fast, none of the clumsiness often found in XXX-L men. Dragon tattoos encircle massive arms. He intimidates people; “menacing,” they call him. Great guy, but only two expressions: displeasure and calm. Never saw him smile until the day our over-mountain neighbors visited with their little twin girls. Beautiful, peach-cheeked toddler angels with heavy, tousled golden curls. The parents were “discomposed” seeing VZ, but from the instant, literally, he saw the twins and they saw him, the trio were bestest, loving pals. He knelt:
“I am VZ, and you are … Mopsy Vun, und Mopsy Two, okay?” “BEEZY!” they cried, like they’d known him forever, and climbed him like alpinists up a bluff, nestling in his arms. They accepted their new names as easy as breathing. Pretended he couldn’t tell them apart, which tickled them enormously, leading to much teasing and “fooling him.” They became “Beezy and the Mopsies,” even to some people in town. He made his dragons dance for them; never did that for us. And there was that smile. Mrs. Mopsy began visiting often, because first, the Mopsies loved and demanded their Beezy, and second, it gave the mother-of-twins a rest! A CAT-scan slice:
Wolf & Tiger On Watch
Mom and Dad Mopsy in our kitchen sippin’ iced tea. Mrs. Mopsy suddenly twitched, “Where are the girls?” Helena laid a shush-finger to her lips and beckoned “Come see.” In the shade of the big black oak, the Mopsies lay tumbled like plushy-toys in our hammock, deep in sleep. Sancho Panza sat alert atop a ruined kiln, ears up, scanning 360 for threats. VZ sat on a stump, one huge tattooed arm extended, gently, so gently rocking the hammock — and smiling at the Mopsies.
“Would you rather they were guarded by a wolf and a tiger?” Helena whispered. “Oh, I think they are,” replied Missus Mopsy.
The thought occasionally winkled that VZ slipped too naturally into playing tea party, reading the Mopsies’ moods, washing little faces, steadying drinkies so as not to spill, making up games. Couldn’t figure it; dismissed it. Then Edward arrived to visit VZ. The Mopsies were playing with Beezy. Edward was visibly shocked, then broke into a wide chimpanzee-grin. That evening I overheard scraps of a chat between them: “Ja,” VZ said, “Chust like dem, but wiss blondie-curlss, not dark.” Edward patted a big shoulder, said “Sent from God, p’raps. You’ve mourned too long, my friend.”
I soft-cornered Edward alone and asked, “His family. That fire. Little girls,” and he stopped me cold. “Zipped lips, tick-a-lock,” he muttered, making the gestures. “I’m sworn, mate. But happy for ’im. He deserves this.” I’m an idiot. But finally, I understood. My heart broke for him. And I ticked that lock, until now.
Mark Of The Mopsies
Busted bits, tumbled-down kilns and clay-pits show that long ago somebody made crockery here. One pit contains putty-colored clay. Another, seemingly unused for much, holds reddish clay. Beezy und der Mopsies loved playing there. The Mopsy Mob were noon-to-dinner guests one day. I was duty messenger, dispatched to announce chowtime. VZ and the twins sat on a cut in the putty-clay pit, surrounded by light-colored shapes like mini-loaves of bread and several red-clay fish, pretty realistic except for the big X’s for their eyes. I called out “Supper in ten.” VZ waved me closer.
“Za Mopsies told me story of loaffs und fishies, purr-fect! Zo, dey make wonderful loaffs and fishies, yes?” The Mopsies beamed up at his praise — I mean, sun-beamed at him. They’d been patting out a big red oval. “I finish platter,” he told them. “Mopsies go to momma, wash up for dinner, okay?”
They rose and in turn, each held his face between her hands, kissed him on the lips, said “I love you, Beezy,” giggled like GiggleGiggleGiggle and tootled to the house. I told VZ not to touch his face; I had to show him something. He nodded, his eyes glistening a little.
Got a mirror from the house and held it in front of him. Two perfect sets of tiny brick-red handprints, slightly overlapping each other, decorated his cheeks. He stared at his reflection. I’d thought he would laugh. But again, I’m an idiot. The intimidating giant, the “menace” shuddered and shook, rivers of tears streaming down, cutting through the Mopsy-paws, falling from his face. He turned away from me. “I finish platter,” he choked, “Und you shuddup aboud dis! — forever, yes?” I agreed.
Time passed. I nagged him. He released me from my oath. Told him some folks think he’s a myth.
“Gut!” he said, “I am myth. C’est bon!” And he smiled. Does that a lot now. Connor OUT.
