The Reluctant Trophy Wife

by Judith Petres Balogh

  “Thank you and I appreciate the offer. I am doing quite well so far, although I don’t pretend to carry on conversations with Juli néni on the level we had today at lunch.” She paused for a moment, then encouraged by his offer added, “Actually, I would like to learn some basic Hungarian. Could you recommend a book of the kind that advertises the grand promise ’learn a foreign language in ten easy lessons’? I am not aiming high, but would like to know enough to ask directions when I am lost, and understand the answer, and also tell Juli néni what I want for breakfast, or what to say when I wish to compliment her.”

  “I happen to have just the right material for you. Perhaps next time when you walk to the village you could stop at the parish house for the material, otherwise I’ll bring it along next Sunday,”

  “ I truly appreciate it. This has been such a pleasant day and I feel so fortunate. When I came here I did not expect to be able to talk to anyone, and then suddenly I met two people, with whom I can have conversations beyond discussing the weather. How lucky can one get? And by the way, I can live without the formalities, my name is Helena.”

  “Thank you Helena; it is kind of you to offer the informality.” He looked at her with surprise and was visibly touched. For a moment he lost his line of thought and appeared somewhat confused, which was very much out of character, but in a moment he regained his usual serenity and they returned to the topic they were discussing.

  “You and also Sarah seem so deeply content, so happy that I keep wondering about your secret.”

  “No secret, really. Happiness is all around us. When we recognize the worth of life and when we worry less about the past or the future but enjoy the blessings that every moment gives us, we find happiness. Bil Keane said it better than I could ever express: ‘Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, today is a gift of God, that is why we call it present’.”

  “I recall a similar sentiment; I guess from St. Augustine.”

  “Indeed. Both were trying to explain the same enigma of time and within it the human experience and the essence of happiness. There are hundreds of years between the two. One was the son of a pagan, born in Thagaste, now Algeria. He was a philosopher, doctor of the Church, archbishop and a saint. Bil Keane was an American, born in Philadelphia, son of Catholic parents, was a twentieth century cartoonist and was married. These differences did not count. In the end, surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, they arrived at similar conclusions. It proves that humanity has a remarkable common denominator, which we tend to forget. Isn’t that wonderful? I mean the shared thoughts, not the forgetting. Have a pleasant evening.”

  He turned then and taking a short cut disappeared between the rows of grapevines. She looked after him broodingly and tried to organize her muddled thoughts. She attempted to categorize, to understand him, but was at a loss. Who was he and what made him tick? She gave up guessing and directed her thoughts to what he was saying. It was an exciting idea that people living at such great distances in time, space and growing up in such diverse backgrounds as St Augustine and Keane, could have the same or similar thoughts. Our race has the habit of mercilessly killing each other, often in the name of God, yet even during the most devastating hate campaigns there are ideas and thoughts that are noble and also similar across all of humanity. These common thoughts and ideas unite us and enfold us into the often dysfunctional family of the human race. When our minds meet, our fellow travelers on this planet are truly our brothers whether we like them or not, whether we realize it or not. There is a great commonality, a shared spirit that shows up again and again.

  It is a pity that we only remember this after a good meal and a pleasant afternoon with congenial friends, she concluded her line of thoughts, and then almost laughed out loud as she recalled that he, the Hungarian priest, quoted a contemporary American and she, the marginal Catholic from the other shore of the Atlantic, at the same time quoted a saint, living seventeen centuries ago in Northwest Africa. This was inconsistent enough to appear to her as highly amusing. This enforced vacation is about to promise some unexpected delights, she thought again with satisfaction.

  TWELVE

  Morning came and the weather was still calm and pleasant, but slowly moving heavy clouds were crowding the eastern sky. The promise of a storm hung in the air. Apparently Sarah’s prediction about the weather change was accurate, but it arrived somewhat delayed. Lena started her daily walk earlier than on most mornings in order to beat the rain. She walked at a brisk pace and soon left the village behind. At the makeshift sign pointing to the lake she turned into the poplar-lined road. Left and right there were summer houses with red tiled roofs tucked into the greenery. The backrests of benches on the roadside displayed carved messages left behind by long ago lovers; the sand on the unpaved road felt soft under the thin soles of her sandals and it muffled the sound of her footsteps.

  Gradually she left the red-roofed houses behind, the road narrowed and even before she reached the beach she could smell the undefined but unmistakable fragrance of the lake. She remembered past summers spent at the beach with her family and the memory made her feel lonesome. The painful longing for a place was surely what is called homesickness, that strange longing felt by people, who had to leave their home and had little or no hope of returning there ever again. She recalled John Ciardi’s lines,

  …”Were my trees

  Still standing would I really care?

  What’s the right name for this disease

  Of wishing they still might be there…”

  Now she realized that this aching emotion holds true not just for a place,

  but for time lost as well; indeed, it is usually possible to return to a geographical location, unless it has been covered by the vast parking lot of a shopping center, or a complicated system of highways. However, time cannot be revisited, recaptured. She could not account where all those wonderful summers had gone, but at unexpected moments, such as this, she yearned to revisit what was no more. Memory, the most unreliable of phantoms, could not bring back the exact pictures of the past; she was usually left with disconnected images only, nothing of substance. But now the silence of the shady road and the fragrance of the unseen water transported her magically back over the years, and once again she felt the wonder of the endlessly long summers and the heady joy of sailing across windswept waters.

  She stopped for a moment to listen to the sounds of this hidden waterworld that stretched on one side of the road; it was the sound she left behind with childhood and almost forgot. The water was invisible, well hidden by the thick wall of water plants. A slight, playful wind rustled the reeds and the papery whispering mingled with the incessant low-key buzzing of thousands of insects. At intervals, a noisy splash punctuated the drowsy murmuring. Perhaps an enthusiastic fish jumped up to express its exuberant joie de vivre, or a frog jumped into the water to avoid an imminent danger to its life. A bird called to its mate, and the feathered wife answered cheerfully, repeating the same message over and over again. Apparently wives all across the animal kingdom developed this habit of reinforcing an idea or a command by endless repetition. Yes, now she remembered it all. Hugging her returning memories, she continued to walk.

  The beach was almost deserted. This morning the summer guests must have looked at the clouds in the sky, listened to their radio’s weather report, and prudently decided to spend the day at home, doing whatever vacationing people do when the weather forces them to stay indoors.

  Sio, the restless spirit of the lake, was obviously already at work. First, she changed the color of the water. Near the shores, she exchanged the clear blue for a dull, faded brown. She had no trouble with this task; all she had to do was churn up the sand from the bottom. After a second look, the drab color no longer pleased her, and she experimented with stripes of vivid green, milky white and gray. Far out in the middle, she kept the usual, everyday blue. Then she sent her servant the wind to whip white caps over all the color stripes. The effect of this randomly streaked surface wa
s unusual and interesting, but not nearly as pleasing as the former uniform blueness.

  Lena sat down on a bench near the water and watched the telltale signs of the awakening storm. Not far from her a couple happily disregarded the gathering clouds. They paid no attention to the yellow warning lights on the opposite shore urging sailboats to head for the closest harbor, but were joyfully playing with their baby, obviously the very center of their world. Safely hidden behind her large sunglasses Lena observed them without seeming to do so. They were young and very much in love; the baby was pretty and in a happy mood. She stretched her fat little arms and shrieked with excitement, even though she could not catch the ball thrown to her from a distance of two feet They were fully absorbed in each other and seemed to be living in a bubble of special happiness.

  Lena turned away from the threesome and looked at the churning water. Her eyes misted, although usually she was not prone to crying. This was exactly what she missed in her life, and it was not just the baby. She also missed that magical harmony, half fun and half caring that so obviously tied these three together. She wanted that pure joy of shared wonder, the expectations and promises a child brings into the family. She had wealth, position, and a life of ease, but she never had that youthful happiness, the easy laugh, the teasing, the feeling that life could be conquered when facing it as an invincible team. She missed that short, golden time of life when fear and emptiness is not yet part of the equation.

  Clyde was not the partner for these sentiments. He could no longer participate in youthful ambitions, in giddy, carefree happiness. Those times were over for him. Those, who loved her, warned her of this, of course. They prophesized that the age difference would be a problem, but she did not listen. She thought she knew what she wanted, and at that time giddiness or playfulness were certainly not her priorities. Now she played a role and played it extremely well, but during the course of continuous deception, even if it was done with the best of intentions, part of her spirit was destroyed. Hope atrophied and the magic of youth was all but gone and she found herself with empty hands at the dead end of a frightening maze. She understood fully that those exuberant emotions, which are the sole privilege of the young, could never be hers any more. Sitting on the bench at the windswept lake, she knew that she would gladly trade all she had for the carefree joy this unknown couple had. A tear of sorrow fell for the youth that slipped from her in exchange for glamour and temporary celebrity status.

  The young mother and Lena noticed simultaneously when the coast guard sent up the first red balloons as a warning about the deteriorating weather. She picked up her baby, her husband gathered blankets and all the paraphernalia needed for an infant, and they hurried toward their parked car. Lena followed them and watched as they strapped the baby into the car seat and took off, still laughing and disregarding the increasing wind. She too started home at a rapid pace. As she passed the little church, on a sudden impulse, which perhaps was not all that sudden, she rang the doorbell of the parish house next to the cemetery. Father Paul opened the door and his face lit up with joy.

  “So nice to see you again, Helena! I have the books and the tape prepared for you, because I hoped you would pass by soon. Come in please, and visit for a while. What can I offer you, tea, coffee, or a glass of excellent local wine?”

  Lena shook her head and pointed to the clouds hanging low with the promise of the heaviest rainfall of the season.

  “Thanks, but I need to hurry home in order to avoid getting soaked. I just wanted to pick up the teaching tools. The incoming weather might put me on house arrest, and I might as well tart learning the language, as there is little else to do. However, if you are ever my way, do stop in. Juli néni always has cookies handy, and she makes a poisonous espresso. You might need medical intervention after you drink it.” She stopped and lectured herself silently. Don’t talk so much, don’t get out of breath like a fool, stay calm, shut up and stay grounded.

  Father Paul accepted her excuse for not staying, thanked for the open invitation and then handed her the books, already packed in a plastic bag. Lena lingered for a moment longer at the door as someone, who is not sure what the next step ought to be. She yearned to stay with him. She wanted to have a cup of tea with him in his library, watch the rain come down, have a good talk and feel at home. The desire was unacceptable, and finally reason triumphed. She said a hasty farewell.

  Once again she was disturbed after meeting him, because she did not understand that strange magnetic pull he had on her. She tried to organize her thoughts in a reasonable manner by analyzing him and the situation. He was sincere; she already knew that much about him. He looked at life soberly, and sorted out what was important and what was not. He was not seduced by the common thrills of this world, was not afraid of difficulties and disappointments, and knew where he was heading and also, how he wished to arrive there. He was not about to change his direction. Somewhere deep in him was a fire, and its flame burned away the trivialities, the common baseness, the preoccupation with the self, which are so often part of the human baggage. He was reassuring, comforting, and she wanted to crowd next to him, so he could warm and illuminate her, as if he were the sun.

  The path to her house was mostly uphill and she was half running to beat the storm. Out of breath, she stopped a moment to rest, but the disturbing unease she felt would not leave her. It was a nameless, formless apprehension, an unknown sense of foreboding that frightened her. Here we are, the three of us, she thought. Clyde is only interested in the affairs of this world, while Father Paul is interested in what comes after these affairs are settled. They both know what they want and are going to get it, while I am cast in a role that does not fit me and have an exterior that does not match the interior. I keep running physically and symbolically all my life, she continued. I am just a stupid peoplepleaser, a well-trained yes-person, whose spiritual needs are of little concern to others. Now I met someone, who discovered that I also have a mind and a soul. Small wonder that I like to be with him. I do want his friendship badly.

  Reaching this point in her evaluation of the situation she immediately felt guilty and disloyal, because Adrienne, of course, has been a good friend for many years and she loved Lena for what she was. The stated neediness for an understanding friend was not quite truthful. She shook her head impatiently at this uncomfortable recognition and resumed the race against the storm.

  She made it just minutes before the first heavy raindrops fell and went straight to the kitchen to sniff at the pots cooking on the stove. Assured that lunch would be good for the body and for the soul; she planted herself at the window to watch the rain come down. She loved the rain. She loved it when it was wild and splashed against the window as if it wanted to break into the house. She also loved it, when tired of its fury it settled into a gentle, monotonous prattle that always put her into a sleepy, meditative mood. At times she imagined that the cells in her body were craving the rain as much as desiccated plants yearn for water. Rain and fire, she thought, the two miracles of life.

  . Juli néni came in to set the table and she pointed to the rain, then to the calendar on the desk. She put her bony fingers on the squares marking Monday and Tuesday. Lena understood that it would rain for the rest of the day and would continue the next day, Tuesday. She gave the old woman a thank-you smile, and nodding graciously she declared “OK”, to which Juli néni answered with the inevitable “OK.”

  She spent the afternoon reading, looking through the material Father Paul had given her. Later the steady drumming of the rain put her into a long and restful afternoon nap. When she woke Juli néni was already gone and the rain still kept coming down. The weather was more typical of autumn than of summer. She pulled up a chair next to the window to look into the garden. Raindrops collected on the fretwork like so many ornamental glass beads, leaves and grass washed clean by the rain glistened in the pale light. The rainspouts could no longer handle the water and the overflow rushed out and gurgled over the grass. Darkness came e
arly and after a light snack for supper, she went to bed with a book. After all, it was another good day, she thought, and turned off the lamp for the night.

  Just like Juli néni predicted, the rain continued to soak the land the following morning, just as it did the previous day. The sky was ominous with dark, turbulent clouds and the wind was relentlessly blowing from the east, shaking trees and windows and whistling ferociously around the tower to give credibility to the reputation that witches resided within its walls. The temperature dropped, and the friendly landscape turned into wet malevolence. Breakfast was already on the table when she came down from the bedroom, and a cheerful fire was burning. During the time they have spent together Lena learned that the old woman was always ahead of her in planning. It was a wordless relationship, but harmonious. They liked each other, so much so, that Juli néni did not mind when Lena went to the kitchen and made herself her own cup of instant coffee before she sat down to breakfast.

  It was warm and cozy in the living room, the air already filled with wonderful fragrances from the kitchen, but the prospect of a shut-in day was not to Lena’s liking. Not used to inactivity she knew that before midday she would be as restless as a racehorse shut up too long without exercise .Aimlessly she moved around trying to find something to do, when she remembered the planned novel. She knew that Clyde expected her to have it started long before this. A rainy day was custom-made to start a book.

  She brought down the laptop and the outline from the study and settled comfortably near the fire ready for creative work. The laptop purred, clicked, sighed, and she waited patiently until the machine loaded her files. When finally the blank page of the word processing program appeared she typed: “CHAPTER ONE”

  And that was it. She stared at the capital letters and the expanse of blank screen below it and could not think of a first sentence to put down. She tried to recall some of her successful approaches for a beginning, but none seemed right for this novel. She considered an intriguing remark as a starter, but rejected it. She reflected upon an exciting, suspenseful scene, which would make the reader want to turn the page. It did not seem right, and a detailed description of the main character and the location where the story would take place seemed boring. Nothing worked. She closed her eyes waiting for the inspiration, but it refused to come. Thoughts were flitting in and out of her consciousness, much like bees entering and leaving the hive intent on their tasks, but unlike the diligent bugs, she could not produce any work and stared at the screen with absolute anguish, fearing that she could no longer write, that the slender rivulet of talent for writing dried up from neglect. Years passed since she wrote anything for publication and knew that the craft of writing thrives only when it is practiced. She convinced herself that writing the book was the only way in which the glamorous non-entity she has become since her marriage could be rescued from spiritual death. The realization that she might not be able to do it ever again frightened her.