Old Black Joe

[tabs52]

They oughtn'ta conjured up Old Black Joe....cause now he's on the loose. Old Black Joe's been conjured up and he's on his way. Old Black Joes been conjured up and now theres gona be he!! to pay... Old Black Joes soul is black as coal........

Thats just a little ditty I found in a dusty ole book on my Daddys shelf......thought it might be of some interest to some people...

[Milu]

OK, I'll bite.

I don't recognise it. A song by the Charlie Daniels band?

If we're talking about trite and obscure, how about......

"They said that he had killed a man in his own country and that was why he came to live in the Remegian Mountains. Some of the men who had fought with the partisans in the war said they remembered him. They told no tales but spoke of him with respect. He usually dressed in the scuffed leather jacket, heavy boots and khaki trousers that made him look like the airforce officer in combat he had once been. He had gray blonde hair that he cut himself, his eyes were blue and laughed.

He taught me to drive in his old jeep and to shoot a pistol, first a 22 target pistol and then his 45 auto. The 45 was like him and much that he owned; scarred, well used, well maintained and still in perfect mechanical condition, though its black finish now had a lot of high spots from holsters and handling. It was one of the most frightening weapons I have ever seen, it seemed to say that it had fought in peace time and in war and like its master it was always ready to kill again. It was the handgun of a man who used it, not of a man who kept it in a desk or in his bedside table. I think that any man he pointed it at would understand without words that the choice was to do as he wanted or die. He taught me weapons and honour, he taught me to laugh; he taught me that only a very strong man could be truly gentle and kind."

[tabs52]

I liked your piece it was nice. Had a good tone to it. But like mine it is hard to know the source.

[Milu]

Very hard I would say, in case you'd like to make an educated guess here's another snippet. I've left out the name at the end as that would make it obvious.

"The American lived in an old rambling farm house. When he bought it he added some modern features for comfort, electricity came from a generator he installed himself. The house was high in the mountains in a clearing beyond some woods. It was typical of a house in the mountains, where a house is judged by its ability to stand for at least 50 years without attention and fresh paint is considered eccentric, for less informed students of architecture It was big, old, damp and draughty. The woman who shared his house had once been beautiful. She did not go into town much and kept to herself. When she went into town she took the American's car. In a place where cars were so rare a woman driving was enough to cause talk, her height, modish clothes and scarred face only added to the gossip. She did not do much in the house, Nella would cycle up and help with cooking, cleaning and laundry. The gossips said she sat about thinking of what part of herself to paint next, Nella gave no fuel for their gossip. She would never hear a word against them.

The American's car was a little grey coupe, he would use it to drive to the city, in the mountains he would use one of the motorcycles he traded or an old military jeep left over from the war. Just after the war jeeps were cheap and plentiful but they had been hard used, not everyone could afford to keep them running, The American's always seemed to work without problems, despite the places it was made to travel the American never seemed to get stuck in mud or go off the road like other drivers.

The American had a lot of farmland which he leased to his neighbours. He obviously had some money but not enough to be a gentleman of leisure as he would work at repairing anything mechanical, when asked for his account he would simply say, just give me half what the mechanic in the city would ask. The American traded bicycles and motorcycles with the locals . He spent a lot of time tramping in the mountains, with a shotgun, fishing rod or mushroom basket according to the season and sometimes just to be with his own thoughts. He would play chess when he could find a worthy opponent and cards at Colomba's osteria. The American was fascinated with the local folklore and history, he would often seek out the old folks and make them tell their tales, sometimes at Colomba's he would tell ghost stories, on these nights everything stopped in the osteria because everyone wanted to listen. The American was never too busy to stop and talk, he always had the time to help a neighbour or to tell a fanciful tale to a child. He always had a smile but the sparkle in his eye seemed to mask a hidden hurt, perhaps nostalgia for the man he used to be or for a world he used to know.

Despite being very different he blended into the community. This was XXXXX XXXXX, called the American in the Remegian Mountains."

[tabs52]

An uneducated guess Hemingway? It's about expat Americans and he is the only author that comes to mind.

[Milu]

Hemingway?

No, but an excellent guess. Similar theme and quite similar writing style.

Master and apprentice perhaps?

Have another scanned snippet in case you want another go.....

"Simona drove into town, she parked outside the doctor's house, sat in the car for a few moments and then walked across the piazza to the bar. She drank a coffee corrected with grappa; this unladylike beverage earned her some looks from the old cardplayers and layabouts. Simona was wearing a pale grey coat with a fur collar, her hair pinned up and a soft, wide brimmed hat, tilted to keep part of her face in shadow, not fashionable but she felt better hidden behind its shadow.

She finished her coffee, took a deep breath, left money with her empty cup and walked back across the square. No one in the bar commented. Usually when a woman came from outside the town, the town men would make comments to embarrass her or speak about her behind her back, with Simona they did not. She was not the typical peasant girl they could embarrass; with her smart city clothes and manner she reminded them of a world they didn't know but fantasised about. Despite her scarred face most of the men would have found space for her in their beds, but she was also the American's companion and if it came to his ears that she had been embarrassed there was the real risk of a lesson in manners, or perhaps worse. It did not take much imagination to visualise the American waiting for one on a dark night, or even worse waiting with Ernesto. No one spoke about the partisans or what was done during the war, the American was respected, but no one who had been there forgot what Ernesto was capable of, and, that the American could always call on him. In the Remegian Mountains the unspoken warnings and veiled hints from ex-partisans were more than enough to make local men wary of Ernesto.

The doctor's house was an imposing villa standing in a small garden off a corner in the main square. He shared it with his second wife and his daughter and son-in-law, the Maresciallo. His daughter and son-in-law lived in a small apartment on their own. His daughter had never forgiven her stepmother for stepping into her mother's shoes. There was often a lot of tension in his household between the two women. The doctor thought his daughter was married to a good man who loved her, he often wished she had married younger and set up her own establishment so he could have some peace in his home. He heartily cursed the fates that didn't allow the Maresciallo enough money to build his own house. Preferably close enough that the doctor could visit often and without his wife, but far enough away that they didn't visit him. Women!

The doctor's consulting rooms were in the front part of the house, usually his wife or his daughter acted as receptionist and secretary and in an emergency as a nurse, giving basic first aid if he was away on a case. Today however, he was alone.

Simona was the only patient and the Doctor saw her immediately. The doctor was shocked at the extent of her scarring but was much too experienced in his bedside manner to show it and too discreet to ask about it. It was obvious to him that it was not the result of any kind of accident. The doctor noticed her gold toothed smile for the first time, most of the teeth on one side of her mouth were gold but those still hers were perfect, her dental work was almost certainly a consequence of the same incident as her scarring. The doctor finished his examination, allowed Simona to dress and then spoke to her,

- "You have a weak chest, smoke much less or even better, give up altogether. Take care how you dress, try not to get yourself wet. I'll give you something to take for the cough. Come back in a week or so and we'll see how you get on"

The doctor saw her out and sighed. Poor little thing, first they butcher her and then she comes to hide from the world in these godforsaken mountains where the climate would make her sicken and die. He lit a cigarette and thought about what it was like for a beautiful woman like her to suddenly find herself a figure of horror. The doctor thought of how he would react if it had been his wife or his daughter, he'd seen much worse wounding and scarring times without number, this however had been done intentionally. The doctor took off the white coat he affected in his surgery, shrugged himself into his jacket, found his hat and waited a moment for Simona to get away. He felt the need for a drink and the company of his cynical and disillusioned son-in-law."

[tabs52]

Yourself.....

[Milu]

Well done!

I thought it would take at least another excerpt for you to crack it!

[tabs52]

The first time it was 50/50 yourself or someone else. So the thought had crossed my mind. I don't know if I could carry on that long of narrative.