She laughed at that and the dog lifted her head to have a good look at this laughing human, so very different from the comfortable and quiet man she was used to. Sajo scratched herself and then placed her head once again on his knees, but kept poking at his hands demanding some caressing. Father Paul understood and was obliging, and Sajo in turn closed her eyes in bliss and was content to feel the silent friendship and the man’s touch. Lena again contemplated the hieroglyphs he scratched in the sand and thought how fully he lived and loved, and how he appreciated the world around him. She remembered the often quoted phrase attributed to St. Francis, but which the good saint probably never said: “Preach the Gospel at all times and when necessary, use words.” This was the spirit of Father Paul; he too preached mostly by his deeds and by his example.
“George took us on a sunset cruise on the lake. It was wonderful and we had a very good time,” she said later. “During the first part of the trip the ship kept close to the shore and we could see the countryside from a different point of view. I love this pastel, benign landscape; it goes so well with the blue of the lake and it makes the people peaceful and sunny. Even your cemetery is decorated as for a garden party and there is a certain wise mirth lurking among the tombstones.”
“You are a writer and are obviously blessed with a poetic flair, but I see it differently. Hard work, a difficult life and inevitable tragedies made these people stoic. They accept what cannot be changed and keep their troubles locked away. This gives the impression of gentle happiness. The Asiatic serenity we see in their weathered faces is not the full truth. If we scratch a bit and look behind the bulwark of resigned acceptance, we find tragedies and disappointments.”
“If you say so. Perhaps I am like one of those migratory birds traveling south or north as the seasons change. From the altitude of my flight everything is beautiful and idealized. But I like it this way.”
“On the other hand, this is a wine-producing country and supposedly wine drinking people tend to be happier than the rest.”
“I could drink to that,” she said, “but I still say that this is the most beautiful spot on earth. There are mountains and waters on the planet that overpower with their grandeur, but this here has poesy and gentle stillness…”
“Wasn’t so poetic or gently still the other day, was it?” he teased.
“Indeed it was not. However, I do believe that sometimes we need to see the dark side of a thing to appreciate the good side.”
“Amen to that. Did you know that it is customary in several lakeside villages and towns to salute and to celebrate the lake every spring around Pentecost? Dignitaries get into boats and carry large wreaths made up of spring flowers and vines. Live music is played on the shore ,good wishes, prayers and special blessings are said and of course an amazing amount of wine is consumed, naturally all in honor of the lake. They then toss the wreaths into the water to make the lake happy, and in return hope that it would be gentle to bathers and generous to fishermen. They call this ritual the crowning of her highness, the lake.”
“I am impressed. What a touchingly lyrical gesture in this coldly logical and stressed world!” Throwing wreaths of flowers to appease a lake was no more strange than their way of pampering the wine, or jumping over the fire to forestall the end of the world. She wondered whether people living in crowded, busy cities would understand the message it tries to convey. Would they understand the reverence people feel about their lake, about Nature, or would they merely smile and call it primitive, childish?
He continued to draw circles in the sand and waited for her to speak, but she was amusing herself with picturing the mayor of New York, accompanied by industrial moguls and celebrities, as he tossed flower wreaths into the busy city harbor. Alternatively, she tried to imagine a select assembly in Cleveland gathered to say a pious blessing to crown Lake Erie at the point where polluted Cuyahoga River flows into it.
Father Paul probably could not appreciate this imaginary scene, but Adrienne would, and talking about it would greatly amuse her. Not being able to share the hilarity with him distressed her. Not seriously, but she wished there would not be this invisible wall that hides from him her familiar landmarks and past experiences. They had different backgrounds, different cultural denominators, and he probably could not appreciate why such a scene appeared to her so extraordinarily funny. It was as if they did not share the same language. Is this what Sarah was talking about when she attacked globalization claiming that it won’t work as people do not have the same experiences and knowledge?
“The sunset, as we saw from the ship, was spectacular. The water again reflected that bridge of light Sarah was talking about, only this time it was golden,” she finally said.
“Indeed, brother Moon paints the water silver and sister Sun uses her glorious gold.” When she recognized that he was referring to the Canticle of St. Francis, she caught her breath and did not speak for a while. A strange warmth spread over her as she realized how their thoughts crossed and considered it extraordinary. For no apparent reason, in a very short time, they both thought or spoke of St. Francis, although in different contexts. What a strange sensation it is, when thoughts and emotions meet in such unexpected ways! It is almost like a secret bond, she thought while a rush of euphoria lifted her. The fleeting sadness of not being able to share with him the New York Harbor scene disappeared and she felt richly compensated. And once again she could not resist comparisons. She could almost hear Clyde in his aloof superiority disparaging the miracle of spontaneous shared thoughts. He would call it puerile and worse, and would add with a reassuring smile that she could not be serious about such foolishness. But she was, and at the same time understood that it was a bond and that such a bond would never have a chance with Clyde.
“I sometimes think of death and it scares me. But in this flowery surrounding it does not appear menacing at all,” she finally said, but could not tell what mental or emotional process caused her to speak about death, right after mentioning the happy boat trip.
“What made you think of death? It could not be an association with your delightful dinner cruise!” Once again he read her thoughts. “Perhaps all these graves around here disturb you. However be assured, death is not menacing, or should not be. It is just a step into another dimension.”
“It was menacing enough out on the lake,” she argued.
“I suppose it was, because the process of dying and the pain that goes with it, is frightening, but death itself is not. When the soul leaves the body ever so gently that its parting is not even noticed, pain and terror cease. I have seen this mystery over and over again as I prayed at the bedside of my dying parishioners. Strange as it is, babies are born screaming in terror, but people die in peace.” He drew some more lines in the sand. She watched his hands and listened to the soft sounds around them. The profound serenity was an unexpected gift and she did not care to find out whence it came or why. “Sometimes I liken the approach of death to the way a pencil draws a line on a paper strip, glued together to form a circle, but with a half twist. Watching the progress of the pencil you are not aware when the pencil traverses to the other side, to the back side of this Moebius strip. The curved surface of the strip, as you know, has really no inside, or outside. To die is like that.”
“I have never heard anyone explain death through non-Euclidian geometry!”
“It is not an explanation, just a demonstration to show that as we watch the progress of pencil on paper, we do not sense the moment when the pencil moves to the other side, so too we shall pass gently to the other side without even noticing it. There is no need to fear it. There is no horror involved. Death is gentle and much more than just mathematics. Its mystery equals that of birth. In both events the soul traverses into another dimension, another level of consciousness without actually realizing the exact moment when it happens.”
“You truly believe this?”
“Lena, I don’t just believe it. I know it.”
There was again a
long silence, and she finally remarked, “Longfellow said something about the duality of body and soul when he wrote,
“And the grave is not the goal;
--Dust thou art, to dust returnest—
Was not spoken of the soul…”
“Well said,” he agreed. “The author Gárdonyi’s headstone expresses it even
more sparingly. Translated it would be: ‘Only my body’.”
“Very concise. Gravestones can tell a lot. Or not enough. Here the dates of
birth and death are carefully recorded, but really, it means nothing. The
remarkable stories of the people are between those two events.” The dog moved
and he stood to leave.
“Everybody has a story, but it is seldom told. I am here Helena, if you ever
want to tell me your story.”
“Thank you, and perhaps the time will come when I will take your offer. A
bientot.”
“And God be with you until then.”
He left her then, the dog followed him dutifully, or perhaps hopefully for
he needed that meal.
Her gaze followed him until he and the dog disappeared behind the door of
the parish house at the far end of the cemetery. While he sat next to her,
universal love and understanding seemed possible and the cosmic problems with
their ominous threats stopped scaring her. He believed that loving kindness, love
of life and of people was quite possible and peace on earth not just a worn
phrase. Sitting next to him she was quite ready to believe it. After he removed his
presence, she was no longer all that convinced about the world’s benign nature.
The dreadfulness of Armageddon was a physical, harsh reality and in a horrible
way, imminent. She closed her eyes as if this simple act could exclude the image
of the fatal struggle between good and bad, between life and death. The shadows
of uncertainty crawled out of the hidden corners.
But she recalled his teachings and his unshakable faith, and tried to fight the
demons with the newly found but still feeble confidence .The recurring counsel that the only way to live is to care for others, to place their wants before our personal desires echoes through Man’s history. It was a good and noble life philosophy, but philosophy and life choices are not always in harmony. If they were, she would not find it so incredibly difficult, or almost impossible, to continue putting Clyde’s wants before her own needs. Martin Buber wrote somewhere that the world is not comprehensible, but it is embraceable, and the embracing of the world is done by embracing one of its inhabitants. That is all it takes. She has not been embraced for a long time, and suddenly felt hollow,
needy and bitter.
An old woman passed by carrying a hoe and a watering can, and greeted
Lena in the traditional way, “Wish you a good day, wine, wheat and peace.” She
was solidly built, somewhat bent by age and by hard work, the lines on her sunbrowned face marked the troubles in her life, but her eyes twinkled as if she had
not a care in the world. The woman walked with a purposeful stride in the
cemetery, doing her small beautifying contribution to the resting place of people
long dead and she seemed content; to her the world was uncomplicated.
Involuntarily Lena smiled back wishing her the same blessing. Soon the woman
disappeared among the graves, but left a smile and a shining beam of hope and
she recalled the words of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, “Someday, after mastering the
winds, the waves, the tides and gravity we shall harness for God the energies of love, and then,
for a second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire.” She could live
with that. Pierre and Paul were right.
She lingered at the graveside for a short while, and wondered why lovers are
so often preoccupied with death. What is the emotional connection between
loving and passing, she wondered. The thought however upset her and she could
no longer sit still and meditate. In a somewhat agitated state of mind, she left the
cemetery. I am not in love and I have no business with death, she told herself
angrily. I am just a first class fool, a ridiculous woman, who should know better.
TWENTY-ONE
The leaves of trees and bushes were losing the vibrant green and the leaves of horse-chestnuts, the first to react to the seasonal change, were curling up at the edges and had tell-tale rust colored lines. The shelves of the village store displayed school supplies and the fire in the tile stove felt good in the evenings. It was still undeniably summer, but its approaching end was evident all over the countryside. Sarah with the appropriate sadness one displays at the departure of a good friend announced that the storks have moved south. Overnight they were gone without ever saying good-bye, or even a hello. The selection of the most auspicious date for starting the grape harvest was the single topic of conversations in the cemetery, the post office and in the store. Autumn was approaching.
Several days passed since their argument, but Clyde, despite his promise, so far did not call back. That made her extremely uneasy; she longed to know his plans. Was he already in touch with the driver and some agencies to move her, or was he backing down and was reconsidering their position? She needed to set up a battle plan, but had no idea what his next move would be. His silence was unusual and frightening. She planned to do some errands in town and to attend a concert in the evening, but was actually waiting for his call ever since lunchtime. She did odd little jobs around the house to make time pass and tried to imagine what he was doing on the other side of the globe .By this time he would have finished breakfast and would have neatly folded his paper. Just before leaving the house for the day was the time when he used to call her. It was past three o’clock in the afternoon in Hungary and she gave up waiting. He would not call from his office. Another day would pass in deep uncertainty.
The good weather she took for granted was changing. Ragged, fast moving clouds were hurrying much too low and the sky was turning from bright blue to slate gray with black overtones. Fitful winds swept across the garden and drove leaves and twigs to the front door.
Juli néni was sweeping the unwelcome debris with grim determination, but it was a futile task. Intermittently she stopped, leaned against her broom and regarded the sky with majestic disdain. Apparently, she found the signs of the changing weather a personal insult. She sniffed the air with the haughty contempt of a wronged queen, and then shaking her head in disapproval attacked what the wind dared to deliver to her immaculately kept domain.
After spending a season in this small country, Lena’s view about distances changed. While back home a thirty or fifty mile drive to a favorite restaurant, concert or marketplace seemed no distance at all; here the eighteen miles to town seemed surprisingly long, just as Father Paul foretold many weeks ago. On the rare occasions when she drove to town, she planned to do many errands, to make the “long” trip worthwhile. Today walking in the wind and rain from shop to shop was not a delightful prospect, but she was not willing to miss the concert advertised for that evening. Beside listening to good music, she longed to temporarily forget her difficulties with Clyde. Finally she made the decision for the trip and left the house with a list of what she wished to accomplish.
The shop she entered last on her shopping route specialized in selling folklore items. After some happy rummaging, she selected an embroidered case for Adrienne’s mobile phone. She handed the clerk a twenty thousand forint bill. Because Lena shopped so seldom the large denominations of the monetary units still confused her and to avoid embarrassment she developed the habit of paying with a big bill, and then left it to the clerk to figure out the change. As a result, after each purchase her bag was getting heavier with the weight
of coins. This time her clever little subterfuge did not work. The clerk looked unhappily at the proffered big bill and through some spectacular pantomime worthy of Marcel Marceau, she explained that she had no change. To solve the problem Lena reached into her bag and brought out a fistful of coins. The clerk smiled and picked out the correct amount and thanked profusely for Madame’s kindness and understanding. Lena left the shop with a lighter purse and a blissful smile. The naturalness of the unusual transaction and her own willingness to trust this unknown clerk were confirmations of a better and a less complicated world. Its obvious existence in this small town made her happy.
The beauty shop was next on her agenda. On first sight its primitive furniture and its pre-civilization implements shocked her sensibilities. She was used to state-of-the-art temples of beauty, furnished in soothing tones and softly spoken politeness. Valet service, relaxing music, Arabica served in paper-thin cups were some of the niceties offered to make the pleasant time pass even pleasanter.
The place she now entered was not a temple, perhaps not even particularly sanitary. The crowded little room was furnished haphazardly and in disturbing primary colors; it was noisy with the groaning and wheezing of ancient hairdriers. The ugly linoleum on the floor was cracked and the discolored basin used for washing the hair looked offensive. The not too gentle voices of women discussing their diseases and the rising price of meat rose above the machine noise and was unnerving. The air was heavy and irritating to the nose and the eyes with the smell of hydrogen peroxide, cheap shampoo and even cheaper hairsprays. If smells could kill, the air in the shop could have qualified as a powerful weapon against invading hordes of enemies.
She was greeted most cordially, was accepted even without an appointment and while waiting her turn the smiling owner of this beautifying temple offered some outdated and well-worn magazines that reported about the love life of celebrities. Fortunately, the print was in Hungarian or in German and she was not tempted to read any of that trash.
The Reluctant Trophy Wife Page 32
