Three Monkeys
In the spring of 1985, I sat at an outdoor café in Nurnberg with my boyfriend. Our romance was fresh, deeply passionate and full of promise. We were beautiful, eager and sincere. We’d spent so many nights walking along the city’s deep black water canals sharing our histories, our hopes, our desires. We were fearless in exposing our secrets and our shame. Our confessions were made as we passed under the incandescent streetlamps. We tested each other’s willingness to stay. Will you still love me if you know?
We were sat at that sidewalk table in the warm sunshine on an April day. Did it get better than this, I thought? Working and living in Europe, and being in love with someone who loved me? There were a few others from the American radio station where we worked who joined us at the table. My love left the table and didn’t say where he was going. I assumed he needed a pack of cigarettes.
He returned with his pack of cigarettes and wordlessly put a tiny metal sculpture at my place. It was probably made in Taiwan.
Three monkeys sitting side by side. One with his hands covering his ears. One with his hands covering his mouth. One with his hands covering his eyes. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. See no evil. My love offered no explanation. He said he simply bought it on impulse. He had no deep thoughts to share. He said there was no hidden message. That all may have been true. But I needed an explanation. I was puzzled. I was annoyed. And finally, I dismissed it. An empty cliche.
But I always remembered it, Dear Reader. The three monkeys. I’ve thought of it more than a few times over the years. We married. We raised his three children. We moved many times from place to place in Europe and around the states because of his military career. His children married, went to college, his sons joined the army and retired, his daughter became a teacher. They are raising their families. My husband retired from the army. We settled in Texas. We invested. We started a business. I opened my law practice. The busyness and business of life. Trials and tribulations. Sorrows and joy.
I wondered, Dear Reader, did I throw it out? The tiny sculpture. I wondered if he remembered giving it to me.
Finally, nearly 40 years later, we built a house on our ranch in Texas and began the tedious chore of clearing out closets, drawers, cabinets in the old house. He pulled down an oversized hat box from our bedroom closet shelf. He’d kept his father’s army uniform service cap in the box with his dad’s military awards and ribbons. The hat was probably 60 years old, probably more. We opened the box to check its contents.
There they lay, Dear Reader. Our three monkeys. I was thrilled to see them. I welcomed them as old friends. He remembered that spring day at the Nurnberg sidewalk café as clearly as I did. He did not say why he kept them or why he bought them. I did not press him for answers.
But they sit on the little ledge over the kitchen sink in my new house. I smile when I see them, Dear Reader. I breathe. I remember. We’re home.
