Mar 31, 2013 Awake in Dream Time - Journal Entries about the almost real, the surreal and the unreal, Character Vignettes for Possible Novels, Original Short Stories

Beloved Conman–A Vignette

©By Vijaya Sundaram

Past midnight, March 31st / early April 1st, 2013

He was a conman.

He lived to convince.  He exuded confidence.  He was absolutely and utterly right, all of the time.

He didn’t know it.  They never do, those conmen.  How else would they convince anyone else of their sincerity, unless they had already bought their own story?   They buy their own stories so fully that they would be hurt, surprised, outraged that their story could be anything but true.

He had the smile of an angel.  He loved others, so it seemed.  They loved him back, fully, devotedly, forgivingly.

Sometime early in his youth, he had been betrayed by life.  And although he wasn’t the type to nurse long-standing grudges against people, he had held a grudge against life.  Life owed him, you see.  It owed him, and all it had ever done was take from him.

So he took revenge, and took from life.

Unfortunately, others, real people, living beings, were often hurt by his decisions.  He rode, rough-shod, over people’s advice, proferring his own, convinced he was right.  And when he was wrong, as he often turned out to be, in his business dealings, which resulted in huge losses for others, and lost fortune for his family, he found many, many convincing, frighteningly plausible excuses.

Everyone, but everyone bought his story.  They were moved by his angelic smile, his baby-faced sweetness.  Often, however, when he wasn’t aware, his son caught a glimpse of deep sadness, a regret that was so monumental that she was sure his spirit was struggling, dying under the punishing weight of so many errors of judgement, so many tragedies wrought by his confidence in what he was doing, and his still-convincing story of why things had not worked out.

Admitting that one is wrong is painful.  Admitting that one has been wrong one’s whole life can be devastating.

What can one take with one at the end, before the final curtain?

A story?  The truth?  The unsaid things?  The heart-break?

For you see, when he tried, sometimes, to venture to suggest that he had been wrong, everyone rushed to reassure him that it had not been his fault.  No one could bear to cause him more heartbreak than he had already endured.

He was saved from being totally disingenuous.  He had a sense of humor.  He could make everyone laugh, make people happy, make people glow with pleasure when he praised them.

He had helped many.  He had a kind heart.  He forgave easily.  He saw the best in others.  He had an elephantine memory, a gigantic intellect.  He was all of these things, and more.  He was both orthodox and free-thinking, bound by tradition regarding his life and wife, but eager to have his children break free of them.  He was quick to anger, but equally quick to apologize for his anger.  He was affectionate and gave hugs easily, and was cuddly with his children.

His beaming face attracted everyone.  Wherever he went, he drew the attention of people, who saw in him a saint, or a sage, and if they thought about it, they would have said that he was Santa Claus personified.

He had been a good son and brother.  He had helped his parents out and had them stay with him and his family in the twilight of their years; he had helped his four brothers get high-paying jobs, he had arranged for his three sisters to have good marriages, and had created a beautiful working atmosphere for his underlings at work.

He knew he had been good.  He had done all that he was supposed to do.  Now, in his middle years, he felt like taking his risks.  What was life for?

So, he leaped into calamity, eyes closed, and all of his ventures ended in disaster.  He had to flee abroad to make money.  No one knew where he had gone, until a letter arrived.  His family had to make do, selling away their gold or silver, books or furniture, whittling their life down to essentials.

Then, he returned.  And he tried to do the right thing.  Except that he failed again and again.  A demon seemed forever hunched over his back, digging its talons into his fate.

He sorrowed secretly.  Perhaps, he told his wife about his sorrows.  No one knew, and his wife certainly wasn’t about to share anything.  Secrecy was her middle name.  Outwardly, he maintained his bonhomie and confidence.  He continued to weave the myth of his life, with tales rewritten for easy digestion by his listeners.  Everyone suspected that he was conning them, but there was enough honesty and humor that they revised their opinion.

If one looked carefully, there was regret being etched into the leathery skin around his eyes, his liquid eyes that were wide and innocent, but in unguarded moments, shrouded in secrecy, removed and disconnected from whoever was looking at him.  He looked inward, and what he saw he did not like.

And if one continued to watch him undercover, one would notice that his face would lighten, and the lines would fade away, and his smile would come from the depths of his soul — for he saw something else there that he did like.

Through all the loss of fortune, the calamities he had heaped upon his family, his wife, his siblings, his friends, he knew he had done something else.

He had, just by being his beaming self, spread happiness.

So what if he had conned everyone around him about his mistakes?  So what if he had deliberately taken risks with his family’s savings, and risked his children’s future?  So what that he had sold his family’s gold and diamonds, copper and silver?  So what if he had taken out massive loans that his children had to pay back?

So what that some others, faceless and unknown to his family, had their fortunes squandered by his partners whom the conman had trusted with their fortunes?   There is no one more gullible than a conman, and one would laugh at that, if it weren’t so tragic.

No doubt that the faceless unfortunates had cursed him in several languages.  No doubt that they wished ill upon him and his family, so that his sons would suffer, and his sons’ sons would suffer.  No doubt that they had been destroyed by his and his partner’s risk-taking and their deliberate playing with their money.  The conman never benefited from any of this.  His family spiralled down into penury, and stayed poor.  The conman must have been racked by guilt, but he sent cheerful letters home, describing the places where he’d been, and the people he’d met.

Then he came home, and several tragedies occurred.  Losses, deaths, more losses, ill-health.  That’s a different story for a different time.  The tragedies, however, brought him back and kept him closer to his wife and children.  The conman’s face had become marked by suffering, which simply vanished when he smiled.  It was as if a boulder  had been removed, and the light streamed into a cave that had been shut.

But still, the conman’s children grieved in their own way when the conman suffered, and the conman grieved when he saw his children grow older and take on their own mantles of suffering, unique in their way.

There is no balm for the soul of a parent who watches her or his child struggle and fail, struggle and be hurt, over and over again.

But his children forgave him long ago, though.  They had loved him.  Each had nursed some anger, but dealt with it separately, privately.   Anger is heavy.  Some deal with the burden of it.  Some shift it from side to side.  Some put it down, and walk away, leaving it to disintegrate into atoms.

It was easy for his children and his wife to put it down and walk away.  They had bought the conman’s mythology.  Each played a role in the Greek tragedy of his life, some willing, and some unwilling, participants.

He made it easy for them.  He had always been loving and lovable, and scattered his lightness of spirit in different ways.  Each child received some part of his genius, the only wealth he could give.

And his wife?  She was glad that she had him, finally, in the twilight of his years.  He was bed-ridden now, but he was finally hers, not anyone else’s.

For although she saw through his tricks, she had always loved him.  He was the heart of her heart, the joy of her life, the one to whom she had given her eternal, unshakeable love.

And he knew it, and wanted her to go with him when he went.

But that was where she drew the line.  She refused.  The children needed her.

And so he went, fighting death the whole way.  Life had cheated him out of many things, too many to enumerate.  Disease claimed him, as it seems to claim everyone in this world.

And perhaps, he saw the truth, shining and clear, like a fixed star, before he went.   He stared, mesmerized into space, seeming to commune with certain Ones.

And then he went, transparent and peaceful, and everyone stood at his bedside, held his hands, gave him their love, and sent him on his way.

And he was received lovingly into the spirit world, by those of his siblings who had gone on, whom he loved and continued to love, where he and his parents, and his brothers and his sisters were one family again — which is perhaps what he’d always wanted.

And his wife and children carried on, perpetuating the myth of the man he had been.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags: #Family, character sketch, conman portrait