The Other Adonis

by Frank Deford

  “Oh come on, Nina, I was there. You know that.”

  And well, yes, she did know this: if Bucky responded in Flemish to her Flemish questions, then what other explanation could there possibly be? “How’s Constance?” Nina asked idly, stepping around the desk.

  That brushed some of his nervousness away. “Oh, great, thanks. Just about ready to leave Jackson Hole.” Nina darkened the lights, then sat in the chair opposite him. “Constance’ll be here next month,” he went on, “and she wants you to hypnotize her again. In fact, that’s all she talks about. Well, that and us going to Antwerp.”

  “Okay, we’ll see if we can take you back to Antwerp now,” Nina said—and quickly then, just as before, she put Bucky into a trance, escorting him on that same simple journey back to his childhood. She flicked on the tape recorder, as he carried on as a child, spoke as a child.

  But now came the tricky part, and as he chatted on in his little-boy voice, Nina studied the questions in Flemish and prepared herself to try and make that leap in time with him. In the session before, Nina had been stopped cold by Bucky’s scream—his death? Now, her task was to see if she couldn’t reach around that block and bring Margareta back to life at some earlier point in her life.

  The exercise would be complicated by the fact that if Bucky—if Margareta—did respond to Nina’s questions in Flemish, Nina wouldn’t understand the answers. She wouldn’t be able to follow up naturally, but could only go through the list of questions, one by one. Nina had considered bringing Paulette into the session to conduct the interrogation, but she’d rejected that. This was all too strange and too private to involve some outsider. At least the first time, Nina wanted to try it this way.

  So back into time now, Nina herself took Bucky back to “Antwerpen,” she said, using the native pronunciation. And then, “Hallo, Margareta.” Nina tensed, unsure, brimming with curiosity.

  But wait—yes, she saw Bucky shift, saw him drop his hands into his lap, the left upon the right. Yes, as a woman would. And when he raised his face to her, Nina had no doubt that it was, somehow, a softer, sweeter countenance, with the eyes searching about in surprise, as if Bucky had walked into a new room. Nina said it again, “Hallo, Margareta.”

  Bucky replied, tentatively, “Hallo.” But Nina thrilled. Just with that one word, she knew it was another voice, a more velvety tone to go with that gentler face that shyly eyed her now. And there was no doubt, either: the hallo was hallo, not hello.

  Quickly then, Nina looked down at what was next on Paulette’s sheet. “Ik ben ’n vriendin van Ollie,” she said. “I’m a friend of Ollie’s.”

  Bucky’s head tilted. Was it because he was so surprised? Because he didn’t follow what Nina was saying with such an unfamiliar pronunciation? Whatever, Nina had anticipated such a possibility, and she rushed to read him this: “Verontschuldig mij, maar ik spreek slecht Vlaamasch. I don’t speak Flemish very well, so please excuse me.”

  Bucky nodded. And Nina thought, surely he must understand Flemish, because I can see that he’s straining to understand my poor pronunciation. If he didn’t speak the language, he’d just sit in confusion. Surely, she thought, surely. And then, Bucky spoke again. Only this time it was more than just hallo. It was unmistakably foreign, and it certainly sounded like Flemish. What he said was: “Fijn U to ontmoeten.”

  Of course, Nina hadn’t the foggiest idea what he’d said, and she wouldn’t know until Paulette translated the tape for her. But, in fact, what Bucky had uttered in perfectly inflected Flemish was: “It’s nice to meet you.” And it was all completely different from the way Mr. Floyd Buckingham of Darien, Connecticut spoke. Why, Nina thought: even his mouth moves differently. And, just as Constance had taken on male mannerisms when she went back and became Ollie, now Bucky not only held his hands in a feminine fashion, but he crossed his legs to the side, at the ankles.

  Nina tried to control her breathing. She couldn’t lose her concentration. Ollie had been an easy subject, even if he did make a pass at her. But she had been able to fence with him, deal with him in English. But now, with Bucky—with Margareta—there could be no freelancing, no back-and-forth. Nina had to focus on speaking clearly—phonetically, in Flemish—and moreover, since she wouldn’t be able to understand Bucky’s answers, she had to study his expression, so that she could at least gauge whether his reply indicated agreement or dispute, or perhaps just some simple narrative. “Ik heb Ollie in Engeland leren kennen,” Nina said. “I knew Ollie in England.”

  But this time Bucky didn’t respond. He glanced down, brushing nervously at the hair by the ear in a manner that only women do. Yes, Nina thought. She’d anticipated something like this, that Margareta might very well be ashamed to talk about Ollie; he was, after all, an illicit lover. So, Nina had prepared for this eventuality, and, glancing down at the sheets Paulette had given her, she read: “Ik ben ook eens ontrouw geweest aan mijn echtgenoot. Once, I was unfaithful to my husband, too.”

  And Bucky looked up. But no, it wasn’t Bucky. Not any longer. Now Nina had no doubt. It was Margareta, absolutely and completely. She even smiled in some sort of conspiratorial, sisterly fashion at Nina, indicating she was pleased to have found a kindred spirit. “Oh, waarom nam U ’n minnaar?” Obviously, it was a question, and it frustrated Nina horribly that she didn’t know what Margareta had asked her. (In fact, as she would learn later, it was: “Oh, why did you take your lover?”) Quickly, then, Nina again sought out those phrases which apologized for her lack of Flemish and pleaded for Margareta’s forbearance. And Margareta nodded at the stranger, understanding.

  Hurriedly, then, afraid to lose her interest, Nina asked Margareta another question: “Waarom houdt gij van Ollie? Why do you love Ollie?”

  That was the right question. Jackpot. Margareta broke into what can only be described as an adorable smile. It burst through all her shyness. And now Nina was carried along by the persona before her and no longer saw the person. She was talking to Margareta, and she could even see the Madonna, exactly as she had been posing with St. Francis. It was uncanny. And Margareta gushed an answer: “Hijis ’n echte gentlemen, zo zacht in de omgang en zo lief. Sinds ik hem voor het eerst ontmoette, poserend voor Adonis in het Rubenshuis.”

  That made Nina tingle all the more. She had heard the word Adonis clearly, and Rubenshuis, and what sounded very much like the English “posing.” Hadn’t she? Nina had to contain herself, to keep her eyes on her sheets before her, to keep asking the questions she had there. But she seemed to have Margareta’s confidence, because she replied to Nina’s every question. Sometimes, even, she answered at length, often with animation, about her growing up, and her husband (whose name clearly was Jan; it came up again and again) and about their marital difficulties (frowns) and about their two children (smiles). And oh, did she gush on about Ollie whenever Nina asked the simplest question about him.

  God, but she loves that man, Nina thought. She didn’t need to know the words. It was very much like when Lindsay first started telling her about Ted. Nina knew Lindsay was going to marry him long before Lindsay told her—maybe even before Lindsay knew herself. Just the way she talked about him, her eyes glittering. That was the way Margareta talked of Ollie. And her smile. It was that same warm Madonna smile that Nina knew from the painting. Rubens hadn’t created it. No, his genius was that he could have so perfectly captured it.

  But then Nina began to fret: Margareta’s too much in love with him. Like all of Ollie’s women, she’s blinded by his charms. The poor thing. He’s going to kill her, too, and I can’t stop it.

  Wait! Nina grabbed her biceps with her opposing arms, and shook herself. Stop it! Stop it, you jackass! Hugh is right. You’re not being rational. This person talking to you lived three hundred and fifty years ago. This is not happening now. It has happened. Already. Past tense. It is over. Ollie has killed her. You can’t climb into a time machine and go back and stop it. N
ina shook herself back into reality.

  But the questions on the sheet were running out. Hold to the course. Ask them all. One by one. And: just as well it’s almost over. This is too intense. Too much concentration. And worse, now Margareta grows very upset. She is talking about someone. Who’s that? Elsa? Is that the name? Wasn’t that the name of the whore Ollie mentioned to her? Maybe, Nina thought, maybe Margareta has found out Ollie is sleeping with this other woman, and this is what’s troubled her. Anyway, Margareta even sniffled some.

  Nina kept asking questions, but it was getting more difficult. When finally she asked when Margareta was going to see Ollie again, and she shied at that—only responding reluctantly after a long pause—Nina knew it was time to end the session. Still, she could not help but add one more thing she had asked Paulette to write down. “Wees voorsichtig, Margareta,” she said. “Be careful.”

  “Voorsichtig?” Margareta replied, unknowing, more confused than disturbed.

  “Ja, ja, Margareta. Wees voorsichtig.”

  Margareta only looked up, puzzled, and so Nina knew: enough. She told her to look deeply into her eyes and they locked gazes, at first in friendship and trust, and then in a trance, until right before her, Nina saw Margareta’s body shift—the hands, the legs, the posture—until suddenly Bucky emerged again, fresh and buoyant.

  “Hey,” he piped up in his old familiar voice, “how’d I do?”

  Nina didn’t answer right away. Instead, she only rose from her chair; she had to control her shaking. Then, instead of responding, she just picked up the tape recorder, pushed the rewind button, stopping it at random. Margareta was speaking. Bucky listened, baffled. “That’s not…?” he began.

  “Oh yeah, that’s you.”

  “But it sounds just like a woman, speaking—”

  “Flemish. It’s Margareta speaking. But it’s you…speaking.”

  “Oh my God. What am I saying?”

  “I don’t know. I’d catch a word now and then. But it’s Flemish. I mean, I’m sure it’s Flemish. I’ll find out exactly when this woman from the Belgian Tourist office comes back from vacation Monday. She’ll translate, so let’s you and me make an appointment the next evening.”

  Bucky glanced at his little appointment book. “No, I’ll be away that day. Boston. Big Reebok presentation. Wednesday,” he said. “I’ll come around. Four o’clock?”

  Nina nodded. She wrote it down in her own calendar: August 14th. She tried to be matter-of-fact. But all of a sudden, she was overwhelmed with the thoughts of what had just happened, and she fell into Bucky’s arms as once in Central Park he had fallen into hers. Nina didn’t cry, but she asked him to hold her—“No, hold me, Bucky, really hold me!”—so that he could pull her back together, restore her senses, make her whole, so she would stop worrying about trying to stop a murder that happened many centuries ago.

  29

  As amazed as Nina was with herself, she reached for the phone book and started dialing. She was bouncing off the walls, and so ethical or not, she had to discuss Ollie and Margareta with someone. And who else? But, of course, Jocelyn had already left for Europe, leaving Nina to chuckle at the Bluebeard message as surely as Constance had turned up her nose at it.

  You know, Nina thought, I could really like Jocelyn—even if she did scare the hell out of me in various ugly ways. But any woman who could seduce the two men I like most in America must have a great deal in common with me. So, she chirped, “It’s Nina Winston, Jocelyn. Call me as soon as you get back from Antwerp. I’m dying to hear.”

  Back to bouncing off the walls. So, no other choice. Got a cab, went to Hugh’s. This’ll be a twofer: she’ll convince him about Bucky and Constance, and then they’ll make up. So, she let herself in and made a Scotch. Tried to read the newspaper. Couldn’t. Too distracted. Same with Talk magazine. Ditto The New York Observer. Finally, mercifully, the key turned. The door opened. “Fix you one?” asked Nina, cheerily raising her glass.

  “I’ll get it,” Hugh replied, without any particular acknowledgment of her presence—let alone any warmth.

  Oh well. Nina followed him over to his little makeshift bar in the corner. “I have to tell you what’s going on so you’ll understand better.”

  “What’s going on about you?”

  “No, it’s really what happened today with Bucky.”

  Hugh just said, “That’s none of my affair,” over his shoulder, as he went into the kitchen for an ice tray.

  Nina called after him. “Yes, it is your affair because it affects me, and it’s still my understanding that we’re engaged to be married.”

  Hugh didn’t respond, only dropped some ice cubes into his glass.

  Gamely, Nina went on. “Besides, it isn’t exactly like I’m giving away confidences, because all this happened three hundred and fifty years ago.”

  “Sez you: three hundred and fifty years ago.” He sipped his drink, falling into his favorite chair. Nina went to her pocketbook, took out her tape recorder, and flicked it on. Loud. “So, okay, I give up,” Hugh said after awhile, affecting disinterest. “What the hell is that?”

  “That is Mr. Buckingham talking, hypnotized, in my office about two hours ago. He is speaking seventeenth-century Flemish in a woman’s voice, which is especially interesting, inasmuch as he is not a woman and never even knew Flanders existed.”

  “Whatdya want, Nina? An argument? Is that the purpose of this little show-and-tell? I just don’t know. Okay?”

  “So, okay, I’ll tell you. Her name—Bucky, speaking—is Margareta, and she’s in love with a sailor named Ollie, who she doesn’t know is a murderer.”

  “Blinded by love for the cad?” he said, facetiously.

  “Yes, yes. We silly female vessels are sometimes blinded by love. Personally, fragile li’l thing though I may be, I still wouldn’t know the feeling. But Margareta is so taken in, she doesn’t realize he’s going to kill her.”

  “Let’s see now,” Hugh said, holding up his glass, pretending to peer into it. “This is the twenty-first century, but he is going to kill her in the seventeenth century. Damn it, Nina, you’re getting as goofy as Jocelyn.”

  “Maybe only goofy women deign to screw you, Hugh.” She sat in the chair across from him, plopping down hard to punctuate her remark.

  It was a long time before he said anything, and then he spoke wearily, “You know, Nina, I’m really tired of this. I forgot something in our past in order to give us a future. Now, tit-for-tat: you’ve gotta forget this…for us.”

  “Okay, if it was just the past. But somehow I have the feeling that what happens then connects to now—maybe even us.”

  “Damn it, the only people in the seventeenth century who have any effect on us today are Shakespeare and Galileo and maybe—”

  “Oh, Bucky, you’re not listening to me.” She stopped. It took a delayed reaction for her to realize that she’d called Hugh by Bucky’s name. “I’m sorry, I—”

  He sipped his Scotch. Then: “All right, it’s out. So tell me the truth. This has nothing to do with reincarnation or Rubens or any of that who-shot-John. You’re just sweet on the guy, aren’t you?”

  “Oh Hugh stop, a slip of the tongue.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. I wouldn’t be the first old fool who got passed over for a better, younger, reasonable facsimile.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “‘Oh, come on doesn’t constitute a denial, does it?”

  “All right, a declaration: I’m in love with you, and you know it. And I’m not in love with Bucky.”

  “Were you? Did you two have an affair?”

  “No and no. But yes, I am terribly fond of him, and yes, I feel obligated to help him and Constance to sort out this mystery in their lives.”

  Hugh shook his head. “I wish you had had an affair.”

 
“What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that is something I could understand. That makes sense. But this insane determination of yours, to buy into a fairy tale.”

  “Will you just listen to me, Hugh?”

  “Well, thank you. You got your fiancé’s name right that time.”

  Nina let the steam escape through her ears, and then patiently stood up and approached him. “Now, for the last time—”

  “Hey, that’s the best news I’ve heard.”

  “Will you please?” He nodded. “First, Jocelyn played you that awful scream. Unforgettable.” He nodded again. “And now you’ve heard Bucky talking in another language, and like a woman. And Constance tells me she was a murderer. She’s a man, Hugh! A total womanizer. Even made a pass at me.”

  That got his attention. “You’re kidding.”

  Nina pawed at her chest. “Oh yeah, like this. Reached out to give me a feel. And know what? Stopped because she didn’t know what a bra is. Because they didn’t have bras then.” She was rolling now. “Know what a boyer is, Hugh?”

  “A what?”

  “A boyer. B-o-y-e-r. I had to look everywhere before I finally found out. It’s an old English word that means a sailing ship that stays close to the coastline. And Constance—Ollie—used that word. Just tossed it off. She can speak a few words of Flemish, too, and when she’s speaking English, she sounds just like Shakespeare.”

  “Well, maybe that’s it. Maybe she was in a Shakespeare play in high school or something like that.”

  “Yeah, I know. I know all about Bridey Murphy. I know all about all those people who seem to have lived in the past, but were exposed. They learned a language as a child and forgot they had, or something they read in a book stuck in their head long after they forgot about reading it. I know all that stuff. But nothing explains this.”