Travels Through Love and Time

by Christine Hall Volkoff

  There it was again … the old scenario from my past. Tell me … tell me what it's like … I had been on the questioning side for just a little while in my youth. Now, as before in Paris, it was my role to answer.

  Off we went, into territories where acquaintances seldom go. She asked me all kinds of questions and the wisdom which is supposed to come with maturity did not stop me. I opened up to her with deeply personal stories which might have been safer to keep to myself.

  “How does being with a man compare to being with a woman?”

  “Quite different. Being with men is more labor intensive – as you know - and in a relationship with a man, one can remain guarded while possibly enjoying the sheer physicality of it. On the other hand, being with a woman is dangerous, as it can expose the deepest recesses of our emotional selves, and women are not always very careful with that.”

  I went on to say that even though I have developed very deep and erotic friendships with men, I had never experienced the same level of emotional intensity as with women.

  I told her about this perfect affair I had in Paris once with a woman I had met at a café. I described to her how we had made love almost non-stop for 48 hours in a garret apartment near the river. I recounted how we had made solemn promises to each other and how we had kept them through the years, even though she had been married for ten years and had given birth to two children.

  “Was that your first time?”

  “No. Actually, my first time was right here in Los Angeles.”

  I recalled for her the story of my first female lover, how being with her transformed everything around me … Los Angeles, East Los Angeles, San Francisco … How it was magical and terrifying at the same time.

  I don’t think Bethany was much aware that at the time homosexual affairs were still considered abnormal, illicit and were deeply hidden. Still, my lover and I would have romantic dinners in Topanga Canyon, in Redondo Beach, in San Francisco’s North Beach. Each moment was intensified, whether I was with her or away from her.

  All of Los Angeles and surrounding suburbs, even the industrial oil pumping ones, the ones with the little houses and the little lawns, and the ones with the big houses and huge palm tree lined yards, had put on an air of overpowering sensuality and erotic possibility. Any time we found ourselves alone on a beach, or a secluded trail, was an excuse to make love, and our lovemaking gave special meaning to all kinds of different places.

  Bethany was staring at me quite intensely, and I suddenly stopped talking. I could hear the ocean as loud as if the house was right next to the surf. I became conscious of my breathing, and of an overwhelming desire to kiss her.

  Gustav von Aschenbach emerged from the ashes of Thomas Mann, and was shamelessly taunting me.

  To protect myself from dangerous pseudo literary impulses, I got up from the table and started gathering the dishes. Bethany got up as well. We cleared the table and started busying ourselves in the kitchen, filling up the dishwasher, wiping counters, putting away unused silverware.

  I broke the spell by making small talk, asking how school was going for her so far. She replied that it was going quite well, though she was still nervous about whether or not she would be able to go all the way to PhD. Once the kitchen was absolutely sparkling clean and we had removed every single little speck of dirt, we went upstairs to turn in for the night.

  “Good night, Bethany. This was good! Take care of yourself now.”

  “Yes, I will thank you … Goodnight! See you at breakfast.”

  * * *

  I am back in my room. My head is spinning a little from the wine. I can still hear the ocean out there. I open my window wide so I can see the moon and its reflection on the water. The salt in the air is exhilarating, more intoxicating than the alcohol.

  Tonight has been so good. I am so proud of myself for keeping my distance with Bethany. I am entranced by her and, it is strange to say, in love with her as I repeat her name to myself, just like old Gustav liked to repeat Tadzio’s name. Am I by any chance going down the same slippery slope of shame and obsession? No, no … I just want to enjoy the feeling and all that comes with it right now.

  I recommend to myself a long hot shower to help me get in the mood to go to sleep, as I really feel like running back and forth on the beach for miles all night long. Maybe even swimming … swimming in the moonlight! However, this is not quite the Mediterranean, so I would think the water will be freezing and probably dangerous with undertow and rip tide. Dying is not an option, so a shower will be a good substitute.

  Minna’s guest bathroom has one of those clear glass and tile sparkling clean stalls with a huge shower head that dispenses a waterfall of warmth … There are also about 15 different kinds of shower gels and whatever else.

  Here’s one of them “Relish the luxuriant fragrance of French Lavender”. So, I luxuriate. Finally, I force myself to come out and wrap myself in a huge bath towel of an elegant, oh so very now nondescript color, tending toward green.

  Wrapped in the towel, I finally exit the steamy bathroom, to find Bethany in my room, wearing a Japanese silk robe with stylized cranes on it. It is a little too big for her. It is a man’s robe, as noted by my inner Sherlock Holmes.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  “Of course not … ”

  “That book you mentioned, could you please write it down for me? It sounds really cool. I’d like to get it.”

  “Sure…Let me find my pen…”

  I look around on the table and in my bag on the bed, and find a ball point pen, along with an old business card from something somewhere, I don’t really care. I want to give Bethany what she wants. I start writing and stop dead in my tracks.

  Bethany’s hands circle my waist from behind me as she whispers “Thank you so much for talking to me tonight … ” And then, to my utter surprise, she kisses softly, oh so softly, the back of my neck and along the top of my shoulder. Caught between complete disbelief and heart failure, I turn around. First, I start to say something old, wise and reasonable. Here is my chance to stop everything right now.

  The opportunity for reason goes by unnoticed. In one of these moments which are written somewhere in some all-knowing piece of ether, we end up kissing instead.

  What follows is hard to describe in the sense that sexual encounters are the ultimate “you had to be there” experience.

  All I can say is that after a few tentative and trembling moments, we make it through the barriers and the hesitation. From that point on, Bethany easily accompanies me to that strange yet familiar place, where the right moves come without thinking, naturally, and where all shame and self-consciousness disappear, forgotten, sent back to their dark alleys. Taking flight, we go into some effortless journey where the travelers know all, and feel all, and are equally launched into some unearthly plane. The return is made of gentleness, tenderness, absolute physical abandon and an eerie feeling of belonging.

  So far, so good.

  I watch Bethany in the amber light of my reading lamp. She looks flushed and smiles, looking at me with an endearing air of self-satisfaction. Her eyelids are half way closed and a tiny teardrop escapes from the corner of her left eye, down her cheek. I kiss it away.

  “Oh Bethany, if only what’s his name could see you right now.”

  She laughs and buries her face in the hollow of my neck. I can feel her kiss like the wings of a captive butterfly.

  But then she looks up, suddenly worried. She props her head up on her hand and elbow, and lowers her eyes.

  “You know … I need to say this, but … I don’t think … I’m not … I mean this is not … ”

  OK, enough already.

  “Don’t worry, Bethany … I am not free anyway, and things don’t always have to go there. I am not expecting anything from you, only that you forever look upon this kindly and with respect. Just consider this … part of required life training for law students.”

  I smile.

  She smiles back and, by now,
she knows how to celebrate her relief in the best way possible. I follow her, I guide her. We talk softly. We jump off in tandem.

  Now, dear reader, don’t imagine that I know something secretly efficient about sexual matters, or that I consider myself a 'teacher of love' or something of a sort that would probably please Von Aschenbach to no end. I am in a way teaching, I grant you that. But in reality, I know the discovery and humility are all on my side. I am in awe of my student, and aware that the lesson only works because the teacher is eager to trade places at some point and open up to all there is to learn.

  How easy it is to lose track of time. I hear the front door opening, and snap back to the world, realizing Minna is coming home.

  “Here comes your mom,” I say, trying to disengage in a calm and measured manner. “I’m not sure she would appreciate this. You better get out of here.”

  “Whoa…”

  She rises and fumbles for the kimono on the floor. She turns back to me and kisses me for such a long time that I have to push her off. She looks at me. The gentleness in her face brings it such beauty that I am overwhelmed. “…Angel…” I say.

  She kisses me again lightly and tiptoes toward the door. My last glimpse of her as my lover is of the hummingbird tattoo on the small of her back as she throws on the robe and shuts the door behind her.

  As I turn off the light, I am left alone in a mist of mystical proportions.

  * * *

  I don’t know when I ever got to sleep that night. I must have, though, because I remember waking up to the sound of voices downstairs. Minna and Bethany were up and about. I got up, and started my morning ritual absent-mindedly. I had no idea how reality was going to impact everything now that the dreaded morning after had come. I tried to absorb myself in mundane thoughts and finally walked down the stairs. My space shuttle had just broken out of Earth's orbit into the uncharted void.

  “Good morning!” said Minna. “How did you sleep?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Bethany, up, dressed, energetic, mixing stuff in the blender.

  “Oh, I slept very well, thank you! How was the awards banquet?”

  Thankfully, we got absorbed in the anecdotes from the banquet, how Minna had prepared notes and gave a totally different speech, and the conversation stayed away from my evening and how it went. Bethany eventually sat down with us at the table.

  “Good morning!”

  She was smiling, radiant, but, on the other hand, she was always radiant, even when she was sad. I couldn’t help but try to detect something beyond gracious hospitality, but honestly, I couldn’t. At least I was relieved that she didn’t seem upset or ill at ease.

  “So I hear you and Bethany lived it up last night?”

  Only after I had choked on my coffee and Bethany burst out laughing, did I realize that Minna only meant finishing the bottle of perfect Bordeaux. I finally started relaxing.

  “Yep,” I said, “Bethany came back just to keep me company, and she was a perfect hostess.”

  By the time I was packing up to go, I was feeling quite happy with myself, easy and detached, knowing that this was a once in a lifetime episode. It was about to be over, and so be it. My inner Gustav was somewhere else, chasing young things around Venice. I was feeling strong and gliding through life on a path of lightness and freedom.

  I said goodbye to Minna and thanked her for her kindness and hospitality. She asked a couple of questions about my meeting with the attorney. I answered that it went fine, and it was well worth the trip.

  Out in the driveway, I started loading the rental car. After what seemed to be a very long time, I saw Bethany finally walking out of the house. For a few minutes, I had lived in fear that I was not going to see her again. I went over to her, taking her in, trying to make sure that I would remember every detail: the gold in her hair, her steel blue eyes, the line of her jaw, her whole being superimposed to the memories of the night.

  Turning toward the house, I saw Minna wave from the terrace. I waved back, not wanting to be distracted from the moment.

  “Thank you, Bethany, for being so … so graceful with me last night!”

  Most likely I meant to say “gracious”. Maybe the way it came out was what I really meant. She came closer to me and smiled.

  “What can I say? My pleasure!”

  We both started laughing, and hugged. Relieved, I walked back to the car, waved again at Minna, but she didn’t see me.

  From the shadow of the house, Bethany closed her eyes and blew me a kiss. I am not very good at blowing kisses, so I got in the car and drove away. By the time I looked in the rear view mirror, Bethany was gone.

  It was a strange feeling to return to everyday life, back home near San Francisco.

  I did not believe I had cheated on anyone. The episode with Bethany seemed to have happened on a parallel branch of reality.

  For about a week after I returned, my mind was still with her. We had crossed a threshold beyond which there might not be room for our former relationship. No more could I be the older friend who knows how to understand young people, and to whom one can talk about everything. I had said I did not expect anything and for her; the value of the experience was all in the fact that it was not to be repeated. Still, somewhere in my dark little heart, I was hoping I would hear from her … she would call and say “I miss you” or something like that. So there was a certain amount of nostalgia and longing, but it was not too painful, and it dissipated after a while.

  I sent Minna an email to thank her for her hospitality, and fully expected a reply. I was looking forward to hearing from her, knowing how Bethany was doing, and enjoying a connection that would last the rest of my life. To my surprise, no response ever came. For some reason, this cut to the quick.

  Checking the computer every day for more than 3 months, I was hoping that she would catch up with her email and finally answer me. She had always been so pleasant. It never occurred to me that she might not reciprocate. Minna and I were not old friends, merely recent acquaintances, and I did not feel free to email again and prod her into acknowledging me.

  Why was Minna not responding? Had she found out about Bethany and me? I didn’t think so … If she knew and disapproved, I think she would have been more the confronting type and would not have taken the sullen silent approach. In truth, I didn’t really know. Maybe she was upset because I teased her when she said material possessions did not matter to her happiness, and I pointed out jokingly how easy it was to say this from the purview of her current surroundings. Most likely she was one of these people who become briefly interested in travelling companions and then decide that they have too many friends already.

  Minna’s silence broke the link between me and Bethany, and plunged me into a dark vat of infatuation and yearning. Only then did it occur to me that I was cheating, not just on my partner, but on everyone around me. I was distracted most of the time, thinking about Bethany, and turning into Gustav von Aschenbach for good.

  Sitting alone at home in a daydream, I would see myself as Bethany, and imagine what it would be like to be her: young, striking, and looking forward to a life of smooth conformist bliss, full of football games, wedding parties, cute dresses, and socially acceptable sex. In dreadful fits of abject jealousy, I would forget that I had long ago rebelled against a lifestyle which so seldom achieved its expected ideals.

  At other times, I would be appalled by how silly this whole thing was, and became angry at myself. Why, oh why had I not resisted back in Venice when there was still time? If I had, would I still be pining after this person more than 30 years younger than me? The answer was … probably.

  To my surprise, the vulnerability and loneliness of my teenage years were coming back to haunt me. At my age, I found myself again at loose ends and adrift unless a specific chosen person loved me. Every now and then I would go somewhere, buy something, or engage in an activity that in my mind connected me to Bethany. Like Gustav with his pathetic youthful make-up, doing these thin
gs gave me the illusion of being closer to her, and the hope that she was thinking of me.

  And yet I knew she wasn't … so I would get angry at her.

  She was out of my reach, and I resented her complete disappearance from my life. Why couldn't she give me even the slightest acknowledgement? She could send me an email, a miniature text message, anything to soothe my broken heart and remind me that she was there.

  On good days, I could see that Bethany had no real reason to ignore me. My attitude had been cool, calm and collected in Venice. I had told her not to worry, promised there would be no entanglement, and I meant it. I knew perfectly well that pursuing her was not an option, nor really a desire with all the mayhem and heartbreak it would bring.

  However on bad days, my efforts at keeping my feet on the ground seemed completely delusional. What the hell did I know? I was nothing to her, she was nothing to me. My obsession was pathetic, and slithering shame would creep up to overcome my efforts at self-esteem. My former path to freedom strewn with generosity and forgiveness had faded away. The evidence was overwhelming: in all my years, I had not learned anything.

  I was back to square one, without the excuse and the advantage of youth. Maybe just like Tadzio, Bethany was the Angel of Death, a herald of the end of my days which was approaching as surely as disinfectant spreading over the Piazza San Marco.

  No comfort was coming from Alison who was often distant and distracted, and there were no cafés where gorgeous strangers could spark me back to life with a smile.

  About two months later, I finally gave in and searched the Internet for Bethany’s name. It is funny how technology has given us all the means to become stalkers. The first article that came up was the society page of the Venice News, the local newspaper in Venice Beach, California. The caption is what I saw first: “Bethany O’Brien and beau, smooching at this year’s Gala”.

  Whatever that gala was I couldn’t even figure out from the article. Over the caption was a photo of Bethany, at her most … well, radiant, of course, and she was looking at the young man with such an affectionate smile that I could not help but look at him affectionately as well. He was not as striking as VJ, but he was looking at her and not at the camera, and he seemed to be excited and happy to be with her.