* * *
The tour group members had broken into pairs and groupings as kindred spirits formed alliances. By the time our bus ascended the mountain and deposited twenty-three weary tourists at the chalet in Wiesen, Switzerland, Ian, Margo, Don, and I had become something of a foursome. We walked the streets of each new town together exploring, sampling the pubs, sometimes accompanied by fellow tour members.
The tour leader, Ian Wright, a graduate student at Cambridge, charmed us with his English accent and erudite manner of speaking, his clear white complexion, brown tweed jacket, and red tie. In his proper and efficient way he managed the tour smoothly, joining up with local guides in each country, who were mostly young fellows like himself. Margo was taken with him and followed his lectures on local history with rapt attention.
Ian seemed to enjoy Margo’s lively chatter. Since he and Don gravitated together as the only two single males in the group, and since Margo and I were best friends, the four of us found ourselves branching off to out-of-the-way spots together. Often Don and I found ourselves sitting side by side in a booth sharing a menu. It happened so gradually that I barely noticed, until one of the girls moved over to make room for Don next to me when he came up to the dinner table. In the eyes of the others it seemed we had become something of a couple.
Don Maurier, a junior at Stanford in Oakland, California, was quiet with dark hair, keen brown eyes, and the unpretentious demeanor and assurance appropriate for one on the edge of being handsome. His good looks were marred by thin pockmarks dotting his face, which I soon became used to and decided they added a rugged aspect to his clean-cut fraternity appearance. Don was not the forward type. I believe we kissed a few times, but we were rarely alone. The four of us enjoyed each other’s company: Ian with his educated take on world history and everything else in sight, Don with his sweet smile and easy accommodation, Margo with her vivacious sense of fun, and me with my jarring curiosity.
I didn’t know why Don, who was eyed by the other girls, was spending so much time with me. I wasn’t sure what attracted the opposite sex. It seemed that a lure of some sort was necessary, some flare to draw the attention of the scanning male eye. There were many sources: striking beauty, skillful wiles, a flair for flirting, verbal enticements, a warm enveloping personality, a vivacious charm, or maybe even just a devastating smile. I possessed none of these. Or it could have been the night Don caught me flying back to my room from Mary’s room next door in a sheer yellow nightgown. I had been counting on the late hour and empty corridor for cover. Maybe the embarrassment of that incident sparked a new awareness between us. Although Don was the upright collegiate boy, not the artistic renegade I felt I could relate to, we drew together more and more.
European tour: Ian, Margo, me, and Don, 1954.
One warm evening in Switzerland, the four of us strolled down to a mountain lake that lay glistening in front of the chalet. Only a few lights remained in the scattered houses set high in the foothills. The moon was low and creature sounds crackled into the air from the across the water. Far down the beach we discovered an abandoned rowboat, and we set out with a container of beer across the lake, letting the smooth surface of the water glide under our fingertips as Ian rowed steadily over the glass surface.
We found the far shore deserted. Don and I meandered off along the waterfront listening to the pebbles crunch under our feet, then turned to follow a narrow footpath leading into the woods. After walking some time we were about to turn back when suddenly Don pressed my arm and pointed to a streak of flickering light. Through a breach in a tapestry of spruce, pine and fir trees, we spied a lone cabin with a broken shutter hanging ajar from one of its windows. A shotgun leaned against the log siding. Curious, we moved up gingerly. As we stood in front of the window, the curtains were swept aside and the shadow of a face appeared, inscrutable. We waved sheepishly and gave our best smiles. The window scratched open.
“Hi. We seem to be lost,” Don said hurriedly.
A pause. “Come around to the front,” a voice from the cabin said.
We were met by a young lad with a raft of brown hair and wearing khaki hiking pants. He looked us over with some curiosity, as if we’d landed from the sky. Then, seeing our confusion, he collected himself, smiled and motioned us inside. The cabin, a single room, was plentifully furnished with homemade bookcases, brass table lamps, beat-up club chairs, and a bulky wooden desk strewn with books and papers. Our new friend motioned for us to seat ourselves.
His name was Marten. He was spending the summer in his uncle’s cabin and would be returning to the university in the fall. It was his habit to settle there during vacation to write.
“I’m currently working on a novel about my uncle’s experiences as an undercover agent for Swiss intelligence. In 1943, my uncle was captured by plain-clothed SS men on the train route between Switzerland and Compiègne. He managed to break away by leaping from the car and broke both his legs. Through all this he continued to guard a secret code embedded in his wrist watch.”
We were gripped by his stories and his life as a writer. How did he like living deep in the woods on his own?
“I don’t mind. I prefer to be alone. I seek it. Alone with my work, that’s a happiness. I need nothing else.”
Despite this statement, he appeared to be glad of our company and served us a hearty wine. Occasionally he tossed another log in the free-standing wood stove. The warmth from the fire and the sense of being secluded in the wilderness drew an intimacy around the small room. Time slipped away as we talked and smoked Swedish cigarettes.
It was after eleven when we returned to the lake and found Ian and Margo slouched against a tree. At the sight of us they jumped up.
“Where the devil . . . ?” Ian lashed out impatiently, sweeping sand from his trouser legs with his hand. “We have to get the boat back!”
“Wait until you hear—”
“Get in. I’ll row.” Ian was untying the lead rope and had no time to listen. We piled into the bow.
“We only borrowed the boat,” I suggested hopefully. “We’ve even cleaned the seats and tossed out the empty Rivella bottles.”
Ian harrumphed.
Don and I whispered together in the darkness, rehashing our meeting with Marten and plotting how we would enrich the story for Margo and Ian. At the end of the evening, outside my door, Don gave me a long kiss, and he seemed to mean it.
* * *
During a two-day layover in Oslo, Margo and I set out on a hitchhiking jaunt to see the countryside. Eyebrows were raised. At the last minute Ian decided to join us, either to make sure we were safe, because he wanted to be with Margo, or because he was finally loosening up. Don didn’t go along, probably concurring with the rest of the group that such a venture was foolhardy. One didn’t just start out in a strange country and beg along the road for a free ride.
The three of us walked briskly along a two-lane road that wound out into the hills. The day was sunny with a pure solid blue sky overhead. We felt bright and carefree. Margo and I sported leather shoulder bags, along with Peck and Peck skirts, polished cotton blouses, and nylons. I wore a three-strand beaded necklace around my neck. All part of the formal travel wardrobe our mothers had fashioned for us in preparation for the big trip. Ian sported his usual jacket, shirt, and tie. We had no overnight bags, no destination, and no intention except to go far enough to see the fjords and return the next day.
We hadn’t gone two miles when a car stopped and offered to take us as far as the driver’s farm, twenty miles down the road. After that rides were plentiful, but as the day progressed traffic thinned. We walked for over an hour. It was exhilarating to be on foot in southern Norway along rich green pastureland veined with swift-flowing streams and peaceful lakes. The forest-laden hills, stretched out in the distance in vast magnificence, didn’t appear to move as we crawled along at their feet.
/> Finally, a pick-up truck pulled to a stop and a hefty woman motioned us into the open back. Through an open window we caught a glimpse of a wide gruff face and blonde hair pulled back in a knot on her neck. Before we were completely seated she took off without inquiring where we were headed. As the truck moved deeper into the country we spied farm buildings lodged among the rolling hills, separated by patchworks of flowing green trees.
At last the truck pulled to a halt and the woman motioned for us to descend. Margo, Ian, and I jumped out and looked around doubtfully. The road had come to a dead end, cut off by the string of fjords looming ahead beyond a far-off wall of cliffs. We were in the middle of nowhere. No houses, stations, or road signs. Nothing in the vicinity but the endless countryside. The sun was already starting to sink behind the distant hills.
Ian ventured up to the cab window.
“End of road,” clipped the stout woman from the truck.
“Excuse me,” said Ian, looking up at her and adjusting his glasses, “We’re new around here. Could you direct us to the nearest hotel?”
Margo and I exchanged glances. The last thing we wanted to do was stay in another hotel.
“Hey, we’re hitchhiking!” I cried.
The truck driver started to laugh, throwing back her head and letting the full force of her baritone voice blast out through the window. “You see a hotel hidden behind those trees? Ha, ha, ha! These foreigners! You’re in the country, now, my boy. No hotels, no room service, no taxis. We live in that farm house down yonder. Can’t even see our nearest neighbor from here. There’s just us. Ha, ha, ha.”
I saw what she meant. There were no visible buildings from there to the mountains. The woman was still laughing loudly as she motioned us back into the truck and drove us to her farm which was a mile off the main road up a dirt drive. We would be allowed to sleep in the barn. When we reached the house the woman jumped down from the cab and led us into a barn. In one corner was a wooden trough filled with straw and a few straggly blankets, wide enough to hold the three of us easily.
“Here your bed,” she said in broken English before departing.
Ian removed his gold-rimmed glasses and wiped them thoughtfully, looking as if he weren’t sure what he’d gotten himself into. As we sat leaning against the side of the trough our hostess called us in for bowls of hot barley soup and thick bread slices punctured with olives.
The farmhouse was plain but warm, and after our meal we moved to the next room where a long couch covered with two striped blankets and several wooden chairs faced an open-hearth fireplace that crackled with dry wood. Energized by the food, the comfort of the four walls, and the ruddy faces of the farm woman and her husband, even Ian loosened up and we conversed until evening deepened into night. The couple firmly refused, as we were leaving for the barn, to accept any money for their hospitality.
The barn was dark except for a few strips of moonlight along the wooden floor. The musty odor of manure, fresh straw, and fermenting oats hovered between the walls. After some maneuvering we arranged our three bodies in the straw bed. Ian suggested that to conserve space we stagger heads and feet, lying down alternately in opposite directions, but no one wanted someone’s feet by their face. Being the only male Margo and I thought it would be more balanced if Ian was in the middle, but he claimed he needed more space than that would allow.
Finally Margo fell into the middle and pulled up a blanket. “I don’t care where you guys sleep,” she said. “I’m hitting the hay, ha, ha.”
“Ha, ha,” Ian and I replied, giving up.
“There’s a remote possibility we can get some sleep in this hog bin,” I said from my slip of a spot next to Margo. “Just don’t make any noise. No snoring or snorting, and no flinging arms. Make sure nobody hogs the blankets. Try not to wiggle. And most of all—no going to the bathroom within hearing distance!”
“Shut up!” the two of them snarled as Ian turned out the lantern.
Summoning our by now well-developed capacity to accommodate awkward sleep positions, we fell into a fitful, restless slumber, shrugging off the sharp pricks of straw and movements of tiny bugs until the cow bells ushered in the first rays of the morning sun.
Our arrival back at Oslo was greeted by the other tour members with great curiosity. Ian had slivers of straw stuck in his hair, Margo’s Peck and Peck skirt was torn, and we all displayed scratches and bites along both arms. They heard our accounting with skeptical interest and had to admit that it was a good story and must be all right if Ian liked it. Several days later two of the girls decided to try a one-day hitchhiking trip themselves, which they thoroughly enjoyed, although I saw some disapproving frowns hovering in the background.
* * *
Our European trek was drawing to a close. After two months our group was getting weary of climbing on and off buses and tromping past church naves. Everyone claimed they never wanted to set eyes on another cathedral. We had whipped through hotels, inns, pensions, hostels, and dorms and spent nights in train cars stretched out on bench seats or slung in an overhead luggage hammock. Often we bumped along country roads, heads tilted against black bus windows. We put up with continual inconveniences and mishaps: the communal bathroom was down the hall; we had to drop coins in a slot to obtain hot water; the bus didn’t show up; our suitcases grew bulkier and heavier by the week. There were compensations, however: the unexpected adventures we met around every corner and the open-arm receptions that greeted us due to the immense popularity of Americans in Europe in the post-war fifties.
Margo and I had drifted apart since my relationship with Sylvia blossomed, but now that we were continually thrown together our old camaraderie had revived. Hanging out with Ian and Don, we became almost as tight as before.
I liked being paired up with Don. His preference for me raised my status in the group, although in my mind we were hardly an item. As I gazed out the train window at the jagged mountains in the distance, it struck me that I no longer needed approval from my companions. I felt grounded and self-sufficient. Since connecting with Sylvia I carried a sense of her presence and the binding power of our relationship. I now had an ally, a collaborator, a soulmate. Our mutual quest filled me and I needed nothing and no one else. It felt great to be alive. I was soaring.
But—it was time to conceive a plan.
* * *
An urge had been lurking in the shadows, dodging my steps. Before long I would be back in the United States. During the summer in Europe I’d encountered cultures that opened new avenues, unique approaches, broader understandings, and more experiences than I ever dreamed of. Everything except the experience I wanted most of all—I was not yet a real woman. Don was sweet. I liked him. In fact, he was adorable. He would come to my rescue.
The plan was simple. At first I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. The event would take place on the last evening after our farewell dinner.
The dinner was an elaborate affair, served at a long table covered with a lace-trimmed linen cloth and lavishly spread with yellow-red and blue wooden vases in the center and blue-bordered china serving dishes. Several rose-colored kerosene lamps flashed ruby beams above the miniature dance floor. The eminent return to the States enlivened everyone’s spirits. We sat around the table and listened to a lively trio of yodelers, followed by a local dansband. People constantly jumped up to dance or threw their arms around someone’s shoulders for last-night photos. We rehashed trip stories, laughed and drank wine to what was conceded to be the trip of a lifetime that none of us could stand one more minute of. Hooray for the Golden Bears!
I could hardly wait for the festivities to end. After dinner I took Don aside. Could he meet me in an hour by the boathouse? It was important.
When we met at the appointed time, the only shapes visible in the moonless night were the pointed tree tops etched like patterned Christmas stars against a charcoal sky. T
his part of the grounds extended beyond the reach of the hotel lights, and the lawn and bordering woods were hidden under a canopy of darkness. A delicious sense of daring that had been with me all evening had been replaced by a fluttery excitement. I hardly knew what to expect.
I would soon find out.
Don and I started down a narrow path listening to the pat-pat of our feet against the soft dirt and the low rustling as we moved out over the grass. Neither of us had as yet said anything. I could tell Don was waiting.
We stopped near an arch of trees and I asked him to kiss me, which he did, grasping me slowly and firmly. There, in the dark curve of his shoulder, I told him what I wanted and asked if he would he be willing. Taking me by the hand, he led me into the Alpine forest, the darkness closing in on us as we penetrated deeper into the woods. We lay down on a blanket of jackets and leaves and he took me in his arms. I breathed in the spicy odor of his skin and the nutty smell of earth under us. His touch felt warm. Our kisses were soft at first, then we let ourselves go and I felt his hands on my bare body and pressed him closer. The rest was lost in darkness and the novelty of our two bodies finding each other.
Don held my hand as we walked silently back to the chalet, both of us lost in a haze of bewilderment at what had just happened. He didn’t appear to know what to make of this new development, coming on the eve of our permanent separation, while I was flooded with a tingling sense of relief and accomplishment.
At the door to my room Don took me in his arms for a last kiss and I searched his face, but his eyes were shadowed in darkness and I couldn’t read him. I slipped into my room and sat on the bed as Margo dozed, puzzled at the sense of satisfaction I felt and the delicious warmth that was coursing through my body like waves seeking new ground. The experience was riveted in my mind, not the sensuality of it, which was lost in expectation, but the fact of it. I wanted to immediately wire Sylvia in Los Angeles and bowl her over with this latest exploit and the fact that I was no longer a child. Now I had the assurance of one who knows. I had arrived!
A Penny a Kiss Page 21
