Two White Queens and the One-Eyed Jack

by Heidi von Palleske

  “I bought this one myself from the money I made at the cinema. See how big and old-fashioned it is? But it takes great photographs.”

  Jack looked through the eyepiece. Turned the camera as he tried to find a good shot.

  “And you know, the benefit for guys like us is that we never have to close one eye.”

  Jack took the camera from his face. He turned it around to look at the front of it.

  “The camera is a bit like us, isn’t it?”

  “How so?” asked Tristan.

  “Well, the camera is also a Cyclops. It has only one eye and with it, it tries to hold an image forever.”

  Tristan thought about the idea of the Cyclops. Of course, the Cyclops had always seemed to be something to be feared. A monster with one eye, something that could be disarmed with one well-placed poke of a stick or a flaming torch as Odysseus had done. But maybe, just maybe, that was a myth written by the two-eyed folk who thought a little less of monocular beings. Maybe it was the Cyclopses of the world who would capture the most memorable images.

  “You want to start a photography club? We could make a darkroom in the basement. Or at your house. Then I could spend some time trying to cheer up your distressed mother,” he joked. “Older women are so hot.”

  “Thought you were interested in movies?”

  “I am, but you cannot frame a movie if you cannot frame a still. Every other Tuesday? Deal?”

  “Deal!”

  FIVE

  DECREE NISI. Hilda wasn’t even sure what that meant but, because it said something about a decree absolute following in three months’ time, she could only assume that it was an unnecessary step between being married and divorced. A three-month purgatory where one is neither free nor in partnership. How ironic that their engagement had also been three months long all those years ago.

  Why now? Why, after all the years of knowing someone. Why change at this time of life? But there were signs that John was discontent before; Hilda just didn’t want to admit it. She thought they could weather the storm, that things would be better as the kids became more independent.

  “I don’t want to drag this out and make it any messier than it needs to be. We can mediate this. You stay in the house, keep everything,” he had told her, his voice filled with a concerned tone.

  Of course, John let on that he was being generous, but all Hilda could think was that he wanted out so badly that he was willing to leave with next to nothing. Wanted out so badly that he could not run from her fast enough. If there were any ties, any lingering affections, why wasn’t there a fight? Deep down, she wanted the court case, the messiness and the chance to stand up and say that he had betrayed her. To have an ear for her hurt. An outside ear. Someone who was supposed to be neutral but couldn’t help but side with her. But, instead, she agreed to the mediation and the quick process because she knew that messiness would only hurt the kids and divide their loyalty. And so the brave front. The businesslike efficiency of just getting on with it. The stiff upper lip.

  “But then I would have to agree on the grounds of incompatibility, when we both know it is because of adultery, John.”

  “Yes, but then you would have had to have filed and not me. If you want it on grounds of adultery, are you willing to do the paperwork?”

  “No.”

  “Then incompatibility it is. You just need to sign that it’s uncontested.”

  “But we are not incompatible.”

  “We are incompatible.” He smiled tightly.

  “I don’t agree,” she argued. But then she couldn’t help herself. “You are just trying to make yourself look less dishonourable than you are. Fucking arschloch!”

  That had been six months ago. Then the process. A few meetings with a mediator. And then the many signatures. And now here it was. An opened official envelope, with a seal and everything, declaring that she was divorced, in principle. Three months’ wiggle room.

  Hilda wanted to cry but didn’t have it in her. Every step had seemed a drama that would end at any moment. The greasepaint could come off, the costumes could be put away, and everything would be normal again. In three months, though, the drama would be complete. The curtains closed, the players offstage, and the audience all back at home.

  Hilda put the envelope in her bureau drawer. She decided that it would stay there, alone, until the decree absolute joined it in three months.

  Three months. Didn’t Jack need a new eye fitting in three months’ time? Wasn’t he due for that? Why wait around for something that was going to be final, no absolute, anyhow?

  The ocularist prepared, as he did every day. The face-washing, the brushing of the teeth. The shave, the aftershave, and then the daily contemplation of the hair remaining on his head. It wasn’t so much balding as it was a revealing of the forehead. Wasn’t a high forehead a sign of intelligence? And his was getting higher every year! The widow’s peak was becoming more pronounced, with a deepened V, the upward spikes reaching almost to the top of his head now. If the point wasn’t there, the entire top would be thin, almost bald, and he would have that around-the-back-of-the-head scruff that so many men walk around with, sans apology. Why, he wondered, is God always portrayed as a man? Surely one male would not be so cruel to one of his own sex! Unless, of course, he had mounds of long, flowing hair and an ample beard, all in curls. Yes, that is what made them all cruel gods, whether they were the one and only God or one of the many patriarchs on Mount Olympus. They all had the locks, the curls, the ample hair, everywhere but on their bodies. How contrasting that is to the middle-aged German man, he thought. Siegfried had developed a few tufts of hair growing out of his ears, something he quickly remedied the very moment they sprouted. His chest hair was certainly present with a few new grey individual ones emerging amongst the darker ones. Then the hair became more sparse as it travelled over his belly and downward.

  Did women prefer the smooth skin of the gods, those maniacal beings with their damned perfect hair? Did any woman want a man with less body hair than her? A man with smoother, silkier legs? With better, fuller hair on his head? No, of course not! The woman was the creature to be admired and adored, not the man. But if that was truly the case, then why did he feel so insecure, so undesirable?

  Today Hilda would return, with her teenaged boy who now wanted to be called Jack. Well, why not? Jack was a perfect name for him. After all, didn’t Jack climb the beanstalk just as Johnny had the apple tree? Didn’t Jack face down the giant, as Johnny would one day? Didn’t Jack have a mother who loved him? A mother who raised him on her own? Just as Hilda had with her Jack.

  Hilda. He had only seen her a few more times since that first eye fitting. He had told her to come back every year to two years because of the changes in the growing eye. But that wasn’t necessary, really. The human eye grows very little over time, the greatest growth happening by three years of age. The eyeball grows rapidly, increasing from about sixteen to seventeen millimetres at birth to between twenty-two and a half and twenty-three millimetres by three years of age. By age thirteen, the eye attains its full size. Siegfried knew this. He knew that replacing Jack’s eye on a regular basis was no longer needed. His eye could take him through many years and into adulthood. Oh, the sclera would need to be darkened perhaps because a child’s whites were whiter than an adult’s. And perhaps a few lines of subtle veining could be added through the years. But the fit would not change much. And Hilda’s visits would be fewer and fewer. Well, they would be, anyhow, as the boy eased into manhood.

  Why was she always so present in his mind? What had transpired between them, really? Some talks about the past. An arm around her waist as they walked along. A bit of flirtation. Four visits was all there had been. And always with the boy present. No, there was no intimacy of the physical kind. But there were letters and, over time, they had become more and more frequent. Some were no more than a few lines. Others were pages, written on flimsy blue airmail paper, talking about a walk along the lake, or a sunset that w
as particularly beautiful or a detailed description of a cake she had made. Those were the letters he held dearest. Not the newsy ones, but the ones that described her every day. A meal made, a walk, a laugh with a neighbour. These were insights into how she travelled through her life. These were a taste of her day-to-day.

  Siegfried had tried to respond in kind, but his days were so similar that he found he was repeating himself. The same breakfast, the same walk to his studio, the same ritual of blowing glass and creating eyes. Of course, it was fascinating to him. Of course, he was obsessed with each and every eye, but how could he write that to her? How could he say that Mr. Weiss had developed a yellowing in his sclera so he needed an eye that reflected the change? Remember, he was the one whose eye was somewhere between grey and green, but had a ring of brown around the outside of the iris and was shot through with gold specks? Why would she care, this woman who walked barefoot in the cool May sand while icy waters chased her feet, this woman who decided to add a little coffee to her chocolate icing and it was marvellous, this woman who told off a teacher for being mean to her son, this woman who could dispatch and dress and cook a rabbit all in one day! This was a marvellous woman! And it was only through her letters that he learned who she grew to become because when he did see her those few times she came to Germany, he always just remembered who she once was, as a girl.

  Siegfried took off his shirt, looked at his torso, and assessed it. The chest was broad enough. The shoulders were square. There was perhaps a bit of flab over what was once a tight, lean body, but it wasn’t bad, you could see the muscles there still. Underneath. A little bit of a paunch. Damn that evening beer, he should have given that up as soon as he knew she was coming. But if he stood taller, breathed in, then it wasn’t so bad.

  Who was he fooling? His shirt wasn’t going to come off. There had never been anything more than a kiss and that was lovely while it lasted, but then it quickly broke off when Johnny, no, Jack, was heard returning from the wash-closet. And then there was nothing but awkwardness between them. And nowhere in any letter was there ever a mention of it. Nor had there been a mention of that first flower he had included. Was he just a foolish romantic, projecting an imagined intimacy simply because he had failed so badly at romance in his actual life? Then again, her letters always ended with “Be Heartily Embraced. As ever, Hilda.” Was there greater meaning in those words?

  No, they inhabited different worlds and the infatuation had been silliness on his part. Something they both enjoyed to break the monotony of their lives. But he needed more, much more, and he knew it. He has known this for some time and that is why he joined a dance club and went every Friday night. There he met newly divorced women, all eager to dance. And always there were three women to every man and so he was always danced off his feet. Never had a moment to sit down. He took an array of women into his arms, women of all sizes, women who all smelled of different perfumes, women who dressed for the night wearing everything from evening gowns to simple little slips of a dress. Strappy shoes and high heels. Scarves and dangling earrings and necklaces. And on all of them, a bare fourth finger, some with a lighter circle where the ring was recently removed. There were a few he preferred. A few he met outside of the dance club for a coffee or a drink. A few he even bedded, making the dance club a hornet’s nest of gossip and jealousy. And those women seemed to like him, too, although he never showed them his drawers of glass eyes. That could have been a deal breaker for romance. No, he just pretended that he was an optometrist and that was good enough for them. They had no complaints; he was a professional, after all. A good catch! But they weren’t Hilda. None knew him in his youth. No one else could look into his eyes and see him now, where he stood, but also as he once was. Hilda was the only one left who knew the boy he had been. And, because of that, there was a shorthand, an understanding and a shared loss that no one else could ever understand. But why should that be important? Why shouldn’t a look to the future be the only thing that really mattered? How you choose and what you choose on this day and how you write your ending was the key to all happiness, right? That was what all the books said about relationships and soulmates. A look to the future should be the only direction, not the grasp the past has on your present. And on your heart.

  Yes, it was now time to move on, he understood that in his mind. He looked at his image, the image of a middle-aged man and not a youth. He was no longer what Hilda remembered; time had passed. He decided that he would see her this one last time. He would tell her how he had always loved her. And then, he would tell her goodbye. No more letters. No more visits. He just couldn’t do it anymore.

  Once she returned back to the life she’d created in her new world, then he would go, sheepishly, back to the dance club. He would look for Gisela with her dark brown eyes, her short but shapely strong legs, her hearty laugh, and her earthy sexuality. And if she had moved on then there was always Antje with her blond hair, her light-blue eyes, and her small breasts. He could ask either of those women out again, maybe buy a nice meal and drink some wine! Why not? Yes, it was time to put the past behind him in order to lose himself in the possibility of a future.

  But only after Hilda leaves, he thought. Only after this visit is done.

  “The greatest gift is not vision, did you know that, Jack?”

  “What do you think it is?” Jack asked the ocularist as he polished the iris of a newly finished eye.

  “I think it is sight. You can have vision but not really see anything at all. You have no vision in one eye but you have better sight than most with two eyes.”

  “I thought vision and sight were the same thing.”

  “Entirely different.”

  Jack wandered over to the cabinet with the drawers filled with eyes.

  “Why do you make so many extras?”

  “Ah, good question. There was a time when Germany supplied all the glass eyes of the world, but, of course, people could not come all the way here all the time to be fitted. Now the best are custom-made eyes. They are always preferable. But we also exported eyes of many shapes, sizes, and colours so that in America and England, even in Canada, eye doctors could simply look for a close match and fit. Not optimal, perhaps, but I think it is still better than the acrylic eyes because so many people have allergic reactions to the plastic. You did. That was your problem.”

  “But if they don’t do that anymore why do you still make the extra eyes? I mean, if all eyes are custom-fitted now, why do you have so many extra eyes?”

  Siegfried knew Hilda was listening in. She always did and then pretended to be surprised if he repeated himself, acting as though she had heard it for the first time.

  “Why do I still make the extras? I guess it is because I have a hard time letting go of the past.”

  Siegfried reached over and pulled a chocolate out of thin air, from behind Jack’s ear. Jack was wise enough, old enough, to know that it wasn’t magic, after all. That it was sleight of hand, and yet it brought back the memory of that first visit, of how he had once been delighted, and in the memory, there was still magic. He laughed and grabbed at the chocolate but the ocularist threw it into the air and it disappeared.

  “Open your hand, Jack!”

  And there it was, in the palm of his hand. Maybe it was magic, after all.

  “You know you always act like you are so wise and all-seeing, but you really are short-sighted when it comes to what is right in front of your face.”

  Siegfried stared at the boy. He could see the cleverness of early manhood creeping into the way he held his mouth when he spoke. But there was also the impishness of boyhood in his eyes. There was some peach fuzz signalling a proper beard yet to come. But between the struggle of boyhood into adulthood, there was a look that said, I know something you don’t know.

  “You know my mom is listening in at the door.”

  “Yes, I know. She always does that.”

  “And so I can’t tell you.”

  “You shouldn’t tell secrets,
anyhow, my friend, or how will you be trusted?”

  “Oh, but you must trust me. I have an honest eye!”

  Jack leaned in, motioned for Siegfried to lean in closer, and then he whispered in his ear so that Hilda could not hear the information being conveyed. It didn’t matter, though, because Hilda knew what secret her son would delight in telling him. The very thing she had told him not to say. But Jack was at an age when he could no longer be told what, and what not, to do or say. Hilda was losing the last bit of control she had over her youngest child. He was at the age of rebellion. The age of knowing his own mind and rejecting the input, and, sometimes, the feelings, of others. That was how it always was and would always be. The breaking away, the tearing apart, the differentiating. A painful process. A process that would only allow for healing once the separation was complete.

  “I see,” Siegfried said. “But that is not why you are here. You are here to be fitted for your grown-up eye. I understand you are now Jack, no longer little Johnny, so now you must have an eye that reflects this.”

  Siegfried set to measuring his pupil, writing down the smallest fractions of measurement. An occasional clearing of the throat, as though he had found an interesting change, something of note.

  “Your eye has not really changed so much and it probably reached its full size two years ago. But when I look into your eye there seems to be something different.”

  “I think my old eye is still good. I like it. If I could, I would like to have an eye that looks completely different than the real eye. You know, like David Bowie?”

  “David Bowie does not have a prosthetic eye, though.”

  Jack didn’t care. He wanted eyes that were two different colours, like a husky dog, or a lone wolf. David Bowie had that and he was ultracool. He could spike his hair, wear long duster coats, and walk along, without apology, with two mismatched eyes. The difference would appear to be a choice instead of a random accident. His glass eye could be a trademark instead of an apology.