Bello Baque got lots of comments on his name. Often people asked him jokingly if he was some sort of spy thirty years ago for the French resistance. He would laugh tiredly and quickly scuttle along, inside cursing the name his mother had given him. The truth was, he had no French backround in his genes. He was Scots-Irish and German for Christs sake. Nonetheless, he drew attention no matter where with his mysterious name.
Bello would often go to the park to watch birds, squinting in the summer's bright rays of light. The Southern french smell of grapes and sandy white beaches filled the air. The smell of freshly cooked pastries and expensive cigarettes filled the untainted air. Couples with dogs would run along, dressed in track pants and soccer jerseys, sporting Zidane and Henry.
Bello in truth hated his fellow citizens for the most part. His father had moved to Southern France in the sixties from America, and changed the last name from Mullen to Baque, supporting their new french heritage. Bello would always ask why, oh why, did they have to move from their beautiful three bedroom house in washington to this overconfident country. His father would always tell him that it was a matter of political refuse, that's all. He would sharply retort afterwords that Bello was needed in the park with a soccer ball, and to quit asking questions. Bello didn't even like soccer, he was an avid baseball fan.
Nobody in france played baseball.
It was a saturday morning in the park, sunny as any other day in the beautiful french spring. A young crowd of teenagers were loudly running about playing footie, while the now young adult bello baque watched on. He thought of his recently departed father, the possibility of moving back to his home country, and his writing career which had yet to catch a break. Bello was on vacation from Marseilles where he attended university, studying vigoursly while others overindulged in wine and women. Bello was the quiet type, and preferred the quiet life, until one day someone in this little french park came along.
Bello sat on the bench, more dreaming than thinking. Worrying about exams already, seeing the statue of liberty as he crossed the harbor in to his home land. Playing baseball again, watching the orioles play. Eating hot dogs and celebrating the fourth of July and Saint Patricks day with his long lost family.
Suddenly behind him, a voice in french spoke in his ears.
"Meet me at the stone bridge that overlooks the creek, hurry monsiuer, if you know whats good for you."
He looked up, behind him. The man had dissapeared already. Had he heard right? Nobody in this part of the country knew him. And the way the man said it, gave Bello a frightened feeling of secrecy. The stone bridge, to his right down the trail.
He looked that way, and saw a man in a traditional hat wearing a trench coat hurrying on. He had leather expensive looking boots that shone in the light. He had intention in his walking.
Bello shook his head, he must have nodded out.
He sat there for several minutes, his curiousity building up by the minute. Who was the man, and why had he talked to him of all people. Bello was quite anonymous in the country, having no true friends, or even business partners. Bello was a lone wolf, bothering nobody.
Bello sighed, and thought of his father and the last thing he said to him.
"Bello, i know you didn't want to come to this place. But i came for you, to create a better life for you. Some things happened in America i never told you, and i still won't. But bella, you need to create a better life for yourself. I see you read all day, watch people mill about, and bella, that is no way to live. If you remember anything i say, live your life Bella, do not be so shut in all the time."
Thirty minutes later, the cancer finally won.
Bello then hopped up and started walking to his right....
to be continued
