“Peace,” chanted George in a stage voice. Despite his ebullient personality and amusing loudness, he was sensitive to people’s feelings. “Three days at the convent and I swear by all that is holy that you already sound like an abbess waiting to be canonized. No hard feelings, please, it was just a joke. Let us just drop the subject, shall we? This is heavy talk on an empty stomach after two well-made gin and tonics. Don’t mind her, Lena. She was too long under my bad influence and does no longer believe in platonic love. By the way, that is my great triumph.”
Sarah offered cheese sticks and after she settled herself again she spoke, but her tone carried a hint of sadness.
“I disagree on what you just said, George. I believe that platonic love does exist—and not just in those marriages in which the partners learned to hate each other while their life moved between vicious warfare and lethal boredom, ending up in hate-inspired chastity.”
“Sarah, Pearl of all Wives, I thought we agreed a minute ago to drop the subject, and here you go at it again,” protested George.
“Just give me one more second and then I will drop it permanently. But there is a hair in the soup, and it messes up the noble concept of love, carnal or platonic, and I need to talk about it. You see, an unbidden passion victimizes most of us. It is really a constructional error that slipped into the otherwise admirable design of the human psyche. It is our bad luck that the Maker failed to recall the faulty model for belated repairs.”
“What error? You are not going to turn blasphemous, are you?”
“No I won’t. Nevertheless, the unfortunate error manifests itself in the childish desire of wanting to be somebody’s most important person. The one and only. Nothing less would do. Actually, it has little, or nothing, to do with sex. Widows, already quite old, tell me that one of the most painful aspect of their loss is that they no longer are the singular, extraordinary person they used to be, because the only one, who saw them as such is gone. At the moment when they stopped being the heartbeat of another person they lost their hold on life. Childish or not, it is not possible to reason it out of existence.”
“And? How does it fit into all this?”
“The saints, who cultivated their special brand of friendships, were not burdened by this malfunction, because their absolute love belonged only to God,” she continued unperturbed. “Their saintly friendship with another human being, or many human beings, was secondary and not the end; it merely served as means to help them reach God and the afterlife. This successfully eliminated complications. Their passion burned high and bright— but always included the Lord, and possibly the entire world—never, never just one person. That is one of the great differences between the saints and us. They share their love generously, may I venture to say that they do it even discriminately, and know no jealousy. We on the other end insist on the ‘only you’ clause in love in our friendship. Nothing less would do for us. Am I clear on that?”
“Frightfully so.”
After this her audience remained silent, even Sarah was quiet for a short spell. She said what had to be said, but she was sad about the effect her words must have on Lena.
“Consider that Paul has about five thousand souls in his several parishes, who are all equally important to him. But Lena could never be satisfied to be just one in several thousand, one among all his friends, a sister among hundreds of sisters. She would never be singular and special. And this is the rock on which this platonic, selfless and saintly friendship shatters. This is the pitiless reason that makes a close friendship with a Catholic priest impossible. It could never fulfill this very basic need and desire we common garden variety mortals have. I don’t need a crystal ball or tealeaves to predict that Lena would soon feel lonesome and cheated.”
“And so you are dismissing platonic love.” It was not a question.
“No, and you are still not getting my point, George. It is not sexless love that I question. It is existing and is doing well. I am merely stating that common mortals want the sort of love, be it platonic or carnal, that excludes others. Every other kind of love is unsatisfactory for us bungling humans. For example, I cannot imagine that I could feel close to a girlfriend, who also has dozens of other best friends, whom I don’t even know.”
“Am I getting this right? Are you indicating my love, that I may not have about three thousand girlfriends?”
“Not even one girlfriend, George! You better remember this, if you want to live to see your next birthday.”
“See Lena, what I meant when I compared her to Xanthippé? She is a born tyrant. No wonder poor Socrates drank the hemlock so meekly.”
“Have I ever given you anything else but tea, coffee or gin and tonic? And let us not ignore the facts; it was not she who offered that goblet of poison to him. Quit complaining, George while you are ahead. I rest my case. Anyhow, I was not prepared to discuss Lena’s emotional life. I have a better idea that I want to share with you.”
“How much will it cost me?” he inquired in mock horror and placed his hand protectively where he kept his money.
“Half of my inheritance, should I survive you. Stop being miserly. My plan is to celebrate the day of St. John the Baptist with a midnight picnic and a bon fire.”
“Did I hear you right? And why on earth?”
“Because you’ll love it as you did once before. Don’t you remember it anymore?” The memory brought a smile to Sarah’s face as she went on to explain that it is the day of the year with the shortest night and the longest day. It is actually the celebration of the summer solstice, with pre-Christian roots; a festival of fire and water, an unruly time, wild with enchantment, witchcraft and an alternate state of mind.
“Midsummer Night’s Dream, as in Shakespeare?”
“Sort of. The revolution of the earth does not synchronize with the lunar year and that baffled the ancient astronomers and messed up their calculations. The ancestors feared that the unpredictability they observed in the stellar movements was heralding the very end of the world. Magic and witches were needed to avert the ultimate disaster. Hence the yearly celebration, inherited from long ago ancestors.”
“But how does St. John enter into it?”
“Simply. The day of the solstice is changeable because of the aforementioned irresponsibility of the moon, or the sun, or the earth—I keep forgetting which-- but the day of St. John always falls on the same date and moreover is very close to the day of the solstice. Problem neatly solved: the celebration in Catholic regions was unceremoniously moved from the unreliable date of the solstice to the 24th, which happens to be St. John’s day, thus it was more or less Christianized, the inconvenience of shifting dates eliminated, and everybody is happy. It is a good reason to have a great celebration, because the end of the world is delayed another year.”
“How do you know so much about this? I never heard of such celebrations,” Lena said.
“You are still frightfully young and have not seen enough of this world. George and I, in the freshness of our youth, were traveling in Europe and stayed for a few days in southern Bavaria at the foot of the Kaiser Mountains. We were two innocents, who were surprised at the excited party mood in the village. After our ignorance was noted it was patiently explained to us that it was the eve of midsummer night with its own rituals and customs. We were lucky enough to witness their Johannistag. On the evening preceding the 24th several groups of men started to climb the mountains at different points,” she continued her tale. “By midnight each group reached a high plateau and each of the groups lit colossal bon fires up there. It was spectacular! More than a dozen huge fires (Johannisfeuer) were burning high up as if the stars had descended from heaven and took up residence on the mountain sides. And then atone of the fires a man started to blow the alpenhorns, producing that unique, deeply emotional sound no other instrument can make. The rich sonorous sound was picked up by the other groups, it echoed off the rocks and filled the night. It was sheer magic. And the people sang, danced, laughed in the st
reets, and consumed untold kegs of beer and mountains of grilled sausages. Ever since that time I wished to have a celebration like that. It seems that finally I found the right group that would willingly partake in such a heathen ritual without feeling ridiculous about it. What do you say?”
“I am all for it.” said Lena. Lighting bon fires to chase away the disastrous end of the world, spilling wine on the soil to assure a good harvest—what magic, what ancient beliefs do these strange customs bring into a computerized world, disappointed by its own shallowness! An ocean away people were going after their well-ordered daily work, while here well-established adults, pillars of their society, were jumping over fires and blowing into their alpenhorns on mountain tops to scare away indisposed witches and looming disasters.
George, the practical one and also the model host, was already listing what he would like to serve at the midnight picnic.
“Then this is settled. Go easy on the amount of beer you order, George. Remember not all of us are Germans, devoted to barley and hops. Be sure to secure plenty of sparkling wine. Scientists of impeccable reputation have proof that it is a foolproof disaster chaser. I shall work out the details and send out the invitations. Here, George, finish your drink, before Lena throws us out.”
They left holding on to each other. So many years they lived together, so many joys, sorrows, laughter and tears they shared, and those two still loved each other, they were still each other’s best friends, still the most important person to each other. They cooked together, teased each other, laughed and cried together and were holding hands gently, ever so gently. Lena looked after them as they walked toward their cozy cottage and felt that she landed on the floor between two perfectly serviceable chairs, as the saying goes. She missed the young, giddy love, but would never grow into this golden, comfortable love at the end. She found this unutterably sad.
Later she recalled the conversation relating to Father Paul and rejected the groundless, although innocent insinuations and wished that the conversation would never have taken place. She liked him. His friendship was the most precious thing she had, but found nothing objectionable in that. It was comfortable, safe, enriching and she felt privileged and blessed. Truthfully, because of his mostly worldly appearance it was difficult to think of him as a Catholic priest. The collarino, he often wore, did not seem to her as an obviously religious garment, and she had never seen him in a cassock. Indeed, she had to remind herself at times who he was, because only during church services, when he was wearing a chasuble, did he fit her concept of a reverend father. Undeniably it was easier to have a wonderful friendship with an imaginary and worldly sibling than it was with a priest. She did not waste time thinking about such thoughts that seemed to disturb Sarah; however, once it was brought out into the open it disturbed her to the deepest corner of her soul.
She tried to analyze this friendship and the traits in him that so appealed to her, in order to understand her feelings better. Who was this man? There was a deep stillness in him; his tranquility had something ancient, uncomplicated and quietly reassuring; she appreciated and needed that. He was deeply content, and his contentment was infectious; she too felt more and more at peace .Despite his clear and realistic vision of the world, he managed to be an idealist and was happily fulfilled. She was wishing for and talking about self-actualization, but he lived it every day of his life. He found something good and noble in everybody and lived according to the creed, “hate the sin, not the sinner.” He was approachable, yet walked on a different path to his very own beat, sang his own song. Or perhaps not. Perhaps someone else composed his song and choreographed his steps. He inhabited a different world and was convinced that all is as it should be, because Someone cares and loves those who trust Him. “Thy will be done” was not just a worn phrase for him. He was a simple yet complex man and his faith was unshakable.
Somehow the innocent words of Browning fit him perfectly:
“God’s in His heaven—All’s right with the world.”
He was very special and the guidance he offered was unique and wonderful. He gave her the very thing she missed in her marriage: friendship and spirituality and felt honored and elected. Nobody had the right to destroy this special gift.
As the weeks passed, she noticed the gradual changes she experienced, the forming of new convictions and a sense of assurance, and it filled her with serenity. She found beauty and peace in this sexless love, void of emotional roller coasters, sleepless nights and ecstasies, of yearnings and doubts, promises and jealousies. This strange new feeling was uncomplicated, free of shattering storms and unreasonable expectations. It was chaste and undemanding.
So much for a sophisticated mature woman, who early in life found her comfortable place in the world and was a star in what is considered elite society. Now there she was, like a medieval maiden, having chaste thoughts in a village tucked away in the hills. How outdated can one get, and who would believe this? Not even Adrienne, certainly not Sarah, although she too enjoyed the friendship of Father Paul. Of course, Sarah was conveniently safe from any sort of untoward assumptions, partly because of the secure bulwark of her age, partly because she was protected by a solid and respectable marriage. Both of these conditions excluded inappropriate conclusions. Lena did not possess these securities.
She sighed and pushed these thoughts with the rest of unresolved issues under the rug. One day she would have to deal with it, but not just yet. Meanwhile that rug started to bulge suspiciously. Soon the things hidden under it would be noticed. One cannot hide an elephant in an urban apartment under a rug, no matter how big or how expensive it is.
She tidied up the living room, and was happily anticipating the promised cruise. It was early evening. The sun was still ruling the summer sky, but the house was pleasantly cool. There was plenty of time left to work an hour or two on her novel and she was joyfully settling down to write when the phone rang.
“I hoped to catch you at home Lena,” Clyde said in his pleasant voice. “I just wanted to know how you are getting along.”
“Splendidly,” she replied and noticed with surprise and dismay that she was vexed with him for intruding into her tranquil life.
“Everything all right? Is there anything you need or want?”
“No Clyde, I am just fine and well taken care of.” An awkward silence followed, because they had nothing more to tell each other.
“Everything is fine at home too,” he finally said. “I am quite busy even in this lackluster season, which is unusual. But I enjoy whatever work there is; you know me for that. Are you making progress on your novel?”
“I am, and I really enjoy writing.” For some reason she was reluctant to discuss the details.
“That is good. Very good. That is excellent. I put out some feelers and there is concrete interest for your book. As a matter of fact, you can consider it a done deal; all you have to do is finish it, and then pick out the best offer.”
“Wonderful,” but she did not mean it. She felt nothing that resembled joy or gratitude. On the contrary, a deep resentment was taking shape. He was once again violating that which was hers alone. Using his connections and influence he started to arrange the book’s publication, ignoring that it was her work, her book and whether it would be a success or a failure, she wanted to own that. She wrote, because it was a passion and because in a way it was a personal declaration of independence. More than anything, she wanted to stand on her own and not ride on his prominence and influence. He stepped into her territory, ignored her motives and once again trimmed down her budding independence. Other than the meaningless word “wonderful” she was not able to say anything else about his well-meant meddling. Apparently he was not interested to pursue the topic either. “No other news on the home front. The trial of the youngster is set for mid-September and it promises to be a quick and uncomplicated case. By the time summer is over it will be possible for you to return.”
“That is good news,” she said and could not recall a tim
e when she was more insincere. Her voice sounded false and hollow, at least to her, and she was sure that Clyde’s sensitive ears would easily pick up the deceit. Immediately she felt miserable. He did not deserve it.
“Well then, I am wishing you a pleasant stay and take care of yourself.”
With a sense of relief that the call was over she replaced the phone and stared through the window, not seeing the garden. Here were two people, both intelligent, educated and accomplished in the art of conversation, married for years, but now holding the phone in their hands on two continents they simply did not have anything to say to each other. And then a slow rage was growing from the innermost part of her being at the thought that he again meddled and took over her life. How dare he peddle her book, how dare he interfere with her most personal endeavor! This was unacceptable and the hopelessness of returning to more of the same seemed quite impossible, although she could not imagine an alternative solution.
Of course she knew all along that the summer and her exile would end, but until now did not spend time considering what would come after it. This futile and barren conversation made it clear enough that after the fundamental changes she experienced it would be almost impossible to pick up life where she left it. The numbing routines, Clyde’s controlling, the emptiness of the days, the hollow existence, the shallowness of her life were always painful, but now it loomed dark and all but intolerable. At the same time she realized that there were no real options, except to return to him and to her former life. Suddenly the evening felt cold and she shivered.
There was, of course an alternative, but she dismissed it immediately. It would be impossible to face him after years of marriage which was, at least on the surface, harmonious and happy, and tell him that it was a grave mistake and she wanted out. This argument would be useless and unacceptable on the legal as well on the personal level. It would have been unfair to him and would cause him pain, which she did not want to inflict. She had no plausible reasons to reject him. He had a passion for controlling her and he was frightfully one dimensional, but these are not grounds for divorce. It was not anything he did; the problem was what he did not do, what he was not. Life is seldom just black or white, and a clear ‘yes’ or ‘no’ only applies to inviolable laws. There are too many gray areas which block the visual acuity and make plans and decisions difficult. She had no idea what her next step ought to be and registered with distress that she lost the enthusiasm for writing and was suddenly very forlorn and dissatisfied. The fragile tranquility she attained during her months of exile was gone.
The Reluctant Trophy Wife Page 28
