The Memory Painter

“A priest named Origenes watched his dearest friend and most loyal follower be executed. Her name was Juliana.”


“How do you know that?” Her eyes widened with shock. “How do you know her name? I never told you that. Why didn’t you say this before?”

He could see her working herself up, and he hadn’t even gotten started. “You know, I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.”

She touched his arm in apology. “Wait. I’m not accusing you. I just find this a little hard to believe. People don’t share the same dream.”

Her hand sent a quiver down his body. He moved his arm away, severing the connection. “Maybe people share the same dreams all the time and just don’t know it. If you hadn’t gone to my opening, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Linz sat back and chewed on her lip. “In my dream the priest said something to her when she died. What about yours?”

Bryan nodded with surprise and his chest constricted again. Origenes had never known if Juliana had heard him call out to her before she died—but she had.

Linz took a napkin and wrote on it, folded it up, and handed him the pen. “Write it down.”

Bryan did, and they exchanged napkins like contraband. He didn’t bother opening hers. He knew the same three words were written on each of them and that they were the words Origenes had called out right before the flames had devoured Juliana’s body.

Bryan searched her face, eager to see how she would react. “He said, ‘Go to God.’”

Linz stared at the napkin in her hands. “This is unbelievable.”

Bryan took an even bigger gamble and asked a question—in Greek. “Do you speak Greek?”

“No, I don’t speak Greek.” Then she froze.

I knew it. Bryan sat back, amazed. “You do speak Greek.”

“Trust me, I think I’d know if I…” She trailed off. The waitress hovered with their drinks, listening to Bryan reproach Linz in Greek.

“You understand me.”

Linz couldn’t answer. She was dumbstruck.

Bryan insisted, “You do. I can’t believe it.”

The waitress plopped their drinks down. “One wine, one Stoli.”

Utterly perplexed, Linz looked up at the woman. “Did you understand anything he just said?”

“Not a clue, honey.” The waitress popped her bubble at them and left.

Linz nodded and took a big drink from her glass. Bryan remained quiet, giving her a moment to process everything.

He switched to English. “See?” he said gently. “You understand me. You understand what I’m saying.”

“But that isn’t possible. I don’t speak Greek.” She reached for her drink again.

“I didn’t either. Until I had our dream. They spoke in Greek.”

Linz shook her head. “But they were two separate dreams by two separate people. And mine was in English.”

Bryan placed their two cocktail napkins side by side to make his point. “Maybe you just remembered it in English.”

“It was in English.”

“Was it?” he asked again in Greek.

“Would you stop? A person just can’t become fluent in another language at a bar!” She put her head in her hands.

“I think you’ve been fluent for a long time and didn’t know it.” Bryan reached out and held her other hand to comfort her. “The same thing happened to me.”

Linz’s eyes grew bright, emotions churning inside her. She gently tugged her hand away and stood up, finishing her wine in one gulp. “Let’s go. I need to see something in Greek.”

*

They took a cab to the Central Library in Copley Square. Linz stood at a bookshelf labeled “Languages–Greek,” and read Zorba the Greek by Nikos Kazantzakis. Bryan pretended to read it over her shoulder, but in reality he was distracted by her scent. Strange, how memories could have their own fragrance.

Linz turned to him and pointed at the page, shouting like an excited kid, “Would you look at this?”

Bryan startled with a laugh and leaned close to whisper in her ear. “You’re yelling.”

“I’m not yell—” She looked around, realizing people had begun to stare, and dropped her voice. “How can you be so calm?”