"It was not at all like his father," Suzy smiled against her will. "This was no peek-a-boo. Not by a long shot".

She was desperately trying to make sense, some rational explanation, for Sacha's behavior before alerting her husband. She'd have to tell him, sooner or later. Or... or she could wait for Alec to find out for himself. It was bound to happen again.

Suzy recalled that she'd once referred to Alec's odd behavior as peek-a-boo. This was way back in Montreal, when she had no idea what game her husband-to-be had been playing. At least then, she'd suspected it might have been some kind of a game. What else could have it been? She did not believe in miracles ­ then or now. At least not the sort the religious people talk about. The whole world was a miracle. Every rose, every common or garden flower, every sunset or sunrise was a miracle, although the latter was a rare occasion of late. In Los Angeles the mornings tend to be foggy. The sun comes out a little later, shyly creeping out of the morning mists which drift landward from the mighty Pacific. Or do they slide down the mountains? She forgot.

Anyway, her mind was elsewhere.

At the time of Alec's peculiar behavior, Suzy and Alec had just become officially engaged. Unofficially they practically tied the knot at least a dozen times. But it was only after they had 'permanently' moved in together that she'd first noticed his habit of shifting position. That's what she'd called his peek-a-boo syndrome. A number of symptoms, an array of inexplicable tidbits, but always connected with Alec's strange if innocuous idiosyncrasies. One moment he was there, or here, the next, virtually in the same instant, she'd see him a few feet away, acting as though nothing had happened. Since then they had both reached their conclusions of what it was all about but, whatever the truth, it was nothing like Sacha's performance. Actually, over time, Sacha did emulate his father's odd behavior, once or twice. Well, say a dozen times, but that was different. Quite different. And much, much stranger.

Suzy recalled that long before his peek-a-boo antics, Alec had displayed quite unprecedented imagination. Even as a lad. Long before they'd shared countless experiences for which there were no rational explanations. Only their shared experiences belonged to the inner world, a realm as subjective as ones own subconscious; whereas with Sacha...

Her mind drifted back to the day when she and Alec had first met. When they first saw each other. She smiled at the unexplainable, at the time seemingly forbidden yet so attractive guiles of the opposite sex. They'd both been around fourteen then. She, a lithe, long haired girl brimming with youthful confidence, he an awkward lad who had little to show for himself other than a magnificent mop of hair. It crowned his head as the branches crown a deciduous tree. She'd half expected robins to take flight from it. And then he dove into the water and the mop was gone. When he'd come up for air, his crowning glory drifted behind him like a wake following a boat. Luckily, his hair seemed to spring back into life minutes after he climbed aboard his father's yacht. And it turned out that he had a great deal more to show than his mane. Later. Much later.

But even then... She smiled at the thoughts she'd never shared with anyone.

Her mind flashed back to the tango they'd danced at the school prom. She recalled the gaping mouths of other youths as she and Alec swept the floor with contrived arrogance. The others had been capable of little more than twitching roughly in time with the beat. She and Alec, well, they'd been dancing. Really dancing. She admitted later, if only to herself, that the relative rigidity of her movements had not been intentional. It had nothing to do with the Latin rhythms. She'd been scared stiff. Literally. In seconds they'd remained the only couple on the dance floor. The others drifted to adorn the walls. She shrugged at her memories. She recalled that she'd responded to Alec's apparent confidence with stiff, jerky movements, worthy of the best professional ballroom dancers she'd seen later on TV. At the time she'd had no idea just how good she'd been. Way back when... when Sacha was not even a spark in his father's eye.

She smiled again. All her memories invoked smiles. It was hard to believe that when they'd met, Alec was still 'two'. In a matter of speaking. He was still Alec and Sandra. It was before he became Alexander. Until he became one...

continue reading in the book...

From the time Sacha turned six, twice a week Alicia began taking him with her to her Summer Art School. Not exactly a school but she organized a place where local children, mostly from the Latino families could express them-selves without the use of more persuasive means which all too often landed them in the local jail.

Alicia started gathering local children some ten years ago, just after she'd married Desmond. She only did it at, often on, Solana Beach. During the school year the children were in school, but no one had the time, perhaps not even the inclination, to look after them during the summer holidays. At that time the children had no playground, literally no place to play, let alone get exited by the very idea of fine arts. Alicia couldn't do anything about the majority, but she could help some.

She was not an art teacher, but she had painted for a number of years. And she loved children. Soon she'd provided them with an environment in which those who wanted could find the means and opportunity to develop their talents. Originally the classes were held on the beach, or, if raining, on the terrace of her house. But within a couple of years, the number of children had increased so as to risk her terrace collapsing under their weight. Maria, the dear, dear Maria, originally a maid, became a reliable housekeeper, and then her most trusted companion. Without her, Alicia's early years in Solana Beach would have been difficult. It was Maria who had arranged for Alicia to have access to the local school, twice a week, to conduct her classes. Initially no one imagined that children would want to go to school during holidays. That's not what holidays were for, they said. No one will come, they said. Da lady from LA don't know what she'a doing.

Those who doubted the plan hadn't met Alicia.

First of all, all children were welcome. But only those who really showed interest in art could stay. The nucleus of students has already created a cadre, who acted as the spear-head to spread the gospel of St. Alicia.

"Art," she said, "is only for the few. It is a gift. A privilege."

In no time those who had no social privileges at all, began to hunger for the privilege of participating in the creative process. Alicia believed that everyone could paint. Perhaps badly, at first, but everyone had some sort of ability to create. And some of the children were brilliant. The scourge of copying had not spoiled them. They produced from their heart. They poured onto the paper or canvas their desires, their dreams, their innermost secrets.

They were true artists.

Twice a week Sacha came with her. For some strange reason he didn't want to paint himself. But he was there, he looked, he absorbed. What interested him were not the paintings, but the painters. Having been taken from school, he was learning how to relate to other children. In time he became the 'child confessor' to most of them. He had a great affinity for making everyone feel important. It wasn't a put-on front. He hated what some called 'people skills'. He really liked those kids. And it showed.

And then Sacha met Benita.

She was a peculiar girl. As shy and reticent as she was pretty. She regarded Sacha with enormous dark-brown eyes, in which wonder seemed suspended in some peculiar time-warp. For the last few weeks, she drew with pencil and charcoal at a level well above her age. She exhibited a wonderful sense of proportion, a great sensitivity of line and a mature understanding of light and shade. But for the life of her, Alicia couldn't teach her how to use colors. Once Benita touched a brush, with a few strokes she was apt to destroy the base sketch, which she'd created with such facility.
And then Sacha spoke to her. Or Alicia assumed he had. They sat opposite each other, mostly just looking into each other's eyes. The girl's expression hardly changed, though her irises seemed to dart here and there, as if she was in some daydream, looking at things invisible to others. It made Alicia think of the REM sleep, during which the irises move under the lids in rapid succession. This stage of sleep, Alicia knew, is referred to as the phase of Rapid Eye Movement. Only Benita's eyes were wide open.

Nothing happened that day, but next week the girl produced the most wonderful painting which, Alicia was sure, would win a prize at the end-of-the-course exhibition. Some time later she'd asked Sacha what was it that they've been taking about.

"We weren't taking, grandma," he replied defensively.

That was true. They weren't taking. Not as such. But in some way or another they were communicating. Alicia said as much. She'd also told him how, since Benita 'didn't speak to him', she couldn't use color.

"Oh, that?" Sacha smiled in total innocence. "It's just the way she was looking before, grandma," he told her.

Alicia half expected Sacha to assure her that there was nothing organically wrong with the girl's eyesight. But Sacha said something quite different.

"I showed her how the birds look at things. And the bees. Then the fish. And then she understood."

Which was more than grandma 'Licia did. A lot more.

continue reading in the book...