Peter Midnight Says Hi

 

(c) 2002 Dominique Millette

 

 

He followed me from Battery Park, all the way to my cluttered Toronto cubbyhole on Bathurst just south of College: the place my lease identifies as an "apartment".

 

Now he won't leave. It's embarrassing.

 

It's been three months now. I slip out as often as I can, but he always finds me. I guess these things have a kind of radar. He disappears sometimes, like now. Then he comes back. He, or it. I don't know.

 

It all started at a simple granite monument.

 

There I was, a tourist, minding my own business, eating a Rocky Road ice cream, single scoop, in a sugar cone. I was browsing around Battery Park. It was a nice respite from the morning's shopping. You simply have to shop if you're in New York. It was late April. The smell of earth rose up from the flower beds planted everywhere around me.

 

There was this memorial. The inscription read:

 

PRESENTED TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK
BY THE CONSEIL PROVINCIAL DE HAINAUT
IN MEMORY OF THE WALLOON SETTLERS
WHO CAME OVER TO AMERICA IN THE
"NIEU NEDERLAND" UNDER THE
INSPIRATION OF JESSE DE FOREST OF
AVESNES THEN COUNTY OF HAINAUT...

Walloon? I thought. French-speaking? Like anyone else, I know about Dutch colonization in New York, how it used to be called New Amsterdam until the English took over sometime in the 17^th century. But Belgians? Interesting.

 

I'm French, myself. Well, not that I speak the language, but my father did. My name is Truax. The spelling always seemed a little strange to me for a French name, though I'd never bothered to look it up.

 

I must have been muttering something out loud. I heard someone answer back:

 

"That's right. We were exiles in Amsterdam, before we came here. But we originally spoke French."

 

When I heard this, just before turning around to look at the guy, I thought the "we" meant "my people". Was there a direct descendant of these people standing right behind me? A genealogy buff?

 

Then I saw him. It. The ghost.

 

At first I thought it was an actor, dressed in period clothing, doing a little historical sketch in the park. He was rugged-looking, ruddy-faced, mustachioed. A bit short, but a lot of actors are. Very convincing. Charming. Nice touch, I thought.

 

Except for one thing: when I took a closer look, he wobbled. It was just like on the X-Files, or Psi Factor, or one of those movies where creepy gooey aliens eventually burst out of your chest.

 

I felt the hair raise on the back of my neck. I looked around me. We were alone in the park. It was probably too cold for most native New Yorkers to stroll around. Was this thing a hologram? It must be, it couldn't be anything else... But there was no light source, nothing to explain it.

 

It was a ghost, alright.

 

I should have run away screaming. This is the logical thing to do, isn't it?

 

I know what you probably think: I need help; or, to put it far less kindly, I've got a few bugs on my hard drive. That was my fourth assumption, after the hologram hypothesis.

 

My third assumption was that I was dreaming. I was back in the guest room I'd occupied the previous night, taking a nap before heading out to party with the old university friends who'd invited me down here.

 

I pinched myself but didn't wake up. I shrugged it off. Eventually, the dream would end. In the meantime, I might as well see where it was headed.

 

"Hi there", I said. "Pleased to meet you. I'm George Truax. And you are....?"

 

The ghost snorted. Loudly. He gave me a once-over, frowning like I'd just called him a first-class wuss or an absolute jerk. He squared his shoulders and thundered back at me:

 

"Du Trieux! The name is Du Trieux! That is your original name, by the way. No one could get it right, even back then. They called me De Truye! Can you imagine that? It means "of a sow"! I am your ancestor: Philippe. I landed right near here, in 1624. There were 30 families on that boat, all Walloon. This is where you come from, my boy. Novum Belgium, also known as the New Netherlands! I've waited a long time to meet you."

 

Right, I thought. My dream is historically correct. Fine. I glanced around me, then answered back:

 

"Well! An ancestor. How about that? Sorry. I'm not very good in history, I suppose. Besides, I'm Canadian! We don't know much about New York up there, except for that Dutch guy who bought Manhattan for twenty-four bucks."

 

The ghost scowled:

 

"Canada? New France? Is that where you ended up? Hmph! The irony of history... Those papist dogs! Catholics, you know. That's why we left the Old World! But the wars continued  here, even after we rescued that Jesuit fellow, Isaac Jogues, with our very own money! Did we get any thanks? Ha! Just fifty years later, the people of New France came and attacked us. All because of the fur trade. The lives we lost! To think that today, most Belgians are papists... And "that Dutch guy", as you call him, was a Walloon, just like me and you. He bought the island right here in this park! Pierre Minuit: Peter Midnight, if you like, since you don't speak French anymore."

 

I cleared my throat, resentment rising up in me:

 

"No, I don't speak French. Or Dutch! I live in Toronto. I lived with my mother after my parent's divorce. She only speaks English. I haven't seen my dad in about 12 years and I don't really want to! My grandparents died before I was born. And by the way, I find that comment about papists offensive. My family was Catholic too, even if I don't go to Church these days."

 

This time, the ghost didn't scowl, frown or sputter in indignation. He just looked tired.

 

"Well. Time changes all things. The papists aren't what they used to be, so I hear. In my day, they had a way with bonfires, you know. We didn't sail across the seas for nothing."

 

I studied his haggard features and felt suddenly stupid for trying to be politically correct with a 376-year old apparition. I pictured the terror of the Spanish Inquisition and winced.

 

A breeze started up, chill enough to make me wish I was someplace warm and cozy.

 

"Why don't we go have a coffee and talk?" I suggested. "You're right. We have a lot to catch up on, Phil. Ah – do you mind if I call you Phil?"

 

He stiffened. Then his shoulders sagged into a shrug and he waved his arm:

 

"Why not? I've been called much worse. After all, it's been over 300 years. I've had time to learn English and see all sorts of things. Call me whatever you like."

 

So we headed for a coffee shop I'd spotted earlier, not too far from the edge of the park, a nondescript with formica table-tops and vinyl backed chairs. It was serviceable and almost empty, except for one old man hunched over his copy of the New York Times.

 

I ordered two cups of coffee before I remembered Phil was probably invisible to other people and, as a ghost, wouldn't drink anything. But this was a dream, wasn't it? Why worry? I sat down and peppered him with questions about his life here in New Amsterdam, about my distant ancestors.

 

The waitress peered at me, shaking her head a few times. She looked frightened. She stared at me with her eyes wide while she picked up the phone and then put it down again. She probably couldn't see Phil, thought I was crazy and wanted to call a hospital. I didn't care. I knew I'd wake up again and she would be gone, right along with Phil. I only hoped I could remember all the details, since my dreams usually dissipate just a few hours after my awakening, like so many tendrils of fog.

 

Phil was reminiscing like any old-timer, with or without wobbling like a bad television screen in 3-D:

 

"... We had so many disputes over so many things! I was called a liar and a villain, amongst other names. I couldn't take it lying down, could I? I suppose we were no angels, though, as a general rule. Those were rough days, I tell you. Once, we started a war with the natives over nothing more than a peach stolen from a tree. But life was not so bad. There were many different people in New Amsterdam, a lot of variety. Some say up to 15, even 18 languages were spoken here. I would believe it! Quakers, Jews, running from the same persecution we faced ourselves: all were welcome in New Netherland. And Peter Midnight – now there was a character for you, alive or afterwards! He knew a good bargain, non? He's still around, you know. What keeps him bound to Earth is the shock of inflation. He never got over the price hikes in his own day, never mind now! He keeps moaning over and over again about how you just can't get anything for 60 guilders anymore. It gets tiresome, I tell you. But he's an entertaining fellow, nonetheless. He and I keep each other company, sometimes. His tongue and wit have sharpened nicely over 350 years..."

 

Aha. Now was the time to ask THE question. I cleared my throat and hoped I sounded tactful:

 

"Say, Phil. That's something I'm curious about. What kept you down here, anyway?"

 

The ghost of Philippe Du Trieux sighed heavily.

 

"I was murdered, my boy! Along with my second son, Philippe. The poor child! Now there's a trauma for you. The man took my purse. For a few miserable florins, I lost my life! Don't mistake my purpose: it's been 350 years and I've gotten over the shock of my death by now. I haunted my killer quite enough at the time. What keeps my sorrow alive is that we've been forgotten – the Walloons of the New World, I mean. I'm hardly even a footnote, after all my pains and troubles! It's humiliating, I tell you. Even the Dutch are hardly remembered anymore. Did we all come here for nothing? Was my life only lived and taken in the name of florins? I would rather think not. When I look at you, my own descendant, I would rather believe there was something more. I wish to be remembered! We hardly have any monuments, you know. There were too few of us. I need to come alive again, if only in your memory."

 

With that, he sighed again. I immediately felt sorry for him, as well as guilty about my ignorance. This is a specialty of mine: when someone wants to put me on a guilt trip, I pay for the return ticket. First class. I leaned forward:

 

"You ARE alive in my memory, Phil. I won't forget you. I promise!"

 

With that, he brightened:

 

"Will you let me come with you awhile? I'd like to visit, if you don't mind."

 

I forgot to ask "for how long", or "what exactly will you be doing". I just said:

 

"Sure."

 

So Phil came with me when I partied with Ben, Louise, John, Steve, Mike and Susan. He kept up a running commentary on Ben's way of stratching himself, Louise's hairdo, Steve's nose, Susan's high-pitched voice. I chided him in annoyance. Out loud. My friends stared at me and said things like: Too many funny mushrooms, eh George?

 

That's when I started to think I was losing it. Maybe it wasn't a dream. Maybe, at the age of 29, I'd suddenly and inexplicably sprouted an invisible friend who was feeding me information about my lost heritage.

 

I was pretty sure any psychiatrist would have a field day with that one: hmmm, child of a broken home (or did they still use that term?), no doubt in deep unconscious search of roots, being followed by distant ancestor who wobbles like a bowl of ectoplasmic jello...

 

Nevertheless, as soon as I got back home (still followed by Phil, who'd hopped into the car with me, just to see how I was living, please, he wouldn't be any trouble, not that I had a choice), I made an appointment. If this was an ongoing hallucination, there was a cure. Or at least a treatment.

 

I tried Resperidal. Nothing. The doctor doubled, tripled, then quadrupled the dosage. Phil was still there. I tried Clozapine and some other drug I couldn't pronounce. Still nothing.

 

The psychiatrist gave up on me. I was still functioning at work, with or without Phil. There was no other sign of psychosis. Perhaps I could just learn to live with it.

 

Since then, I've almost accepted my fate. So here I am, waiting for Phil to come back. I think he's a codependent ghost, although he snorted characteristically at the whole idea:

 

"What is this thing you call "codependent?" We used to call it being human! I'm your family!"

 

Phil has quite a lot to say along the same vein about "people today". I guess he's like any grandparent, except this one has over 300 years of experience. I can't really complain. He doesn't eat and doesn't need anything except a lot of attention. It could be worse.

 

It's been three hours. I wonder where he is and when he's coming back?

 

In the meantime, I suppose I could clean up instead of playing computer games. I could start with the map that fell under the table. There.

 

Oh, great... Under the map, Phil scattered some Scrabble tiles all over the floor. Wait a minute. The letters are in a pattern: "ADIEU   MERCI   PETE SAYS HI".

 

Peter... Pierre Minuit, who still has 60 guilders in his purse, trying to find a good bargain. Looks like they've hooked up again.

 

Philippe Du Trieux has moved on. I've got my life back. Finally!

 

Hmph. He certainly didn't bother giving me much notice, did he? After all he put me through...

 

I can't believe it: there's a lump in my throat.

 

Okay. I guess part of me is going to miss the guy, even if he was just a ghost.

 

Good old Phil. Adieu to you, too.

 

No. Maybe: Au revoir.

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