by David Bergen
After only a year of university, Judith had convinced her father that she would be getting a fuller education if she travelled in Europe. “I’d learn seven languages, be surrounded by real art rather than just looking at pictures of the Mona Lisa, meet Italians and Spaniards and French, eat fresh olives.” The list went on and on and Hope marvelled at Judith’s loquacity and Roy’s gullibility. He agreed to one year of travel. She would be required to write a letter once a week, and to live for a time in one city and take a language course, preferably German, though French would be fine as well. The whole family drove her to the airport in Winnipeg. Judith was embarrassed by all the to-do, but she dutifully hugged everyone, and when it was Hope’s turn to hold her eldest daughter, Judith whispered in her ear, “I’m so happy.” She flew from Winnipeg to Toronto and then over to Amsterdam. They did not hear from her for three weeks and then a letter arrived, scratched-out words on thin blue paper that offered little solace to Hope, who read it twice while sitting at the dining room table.
On my first day, my first night actually, I couldn’t sleep because of jet lag and I wandered the streets. There’s a red light district where women sit in the windows, some on pillows, some on swings, and you can just hire them. It’s all legal. Very bizarre. The bars and coffee shops are open very late and everyone is so friendly and most people speak perfect English, better than me. I met Rolf, a Dutch boy, who’s very sweet. We hitchhiked to Paris together and then went to Salonika and we ‘re planning to go to Crete next week. Or maybe to Venice. Don’t worry Mom, everyone hitchhikes here. It’s like the poor person’s train, and very safe. I’m having so much fun. Tell Dad that I plan to go back to Paris to study at the Alliance Française. Though Rolf says I could live with his family and study Dutch, which is very close to German and I already know a few words. We met Marika, who’s Swedish, and she’s travelling with us for a while. That’s how it works. Everything’s cool, people come and go. I feel so stupid because everyone speaks at least three languages brilliantly. Though both Marika and Rolf like the way I think. Isn’t that funny? The way I think? I’m not even sure what that means. You can send a letter to the American Express office in Athens. I’ll be there next week for a few days. Or the Express office in Paris, where I’ll be next month. I think, anyway. I’m so happy and love you all so much. Hugs and kisses to Penny and Conner and Melanie. Mom, you would love the small cobblestone streets of Amsterdam, and the bicycles everywhere. It’s so gorgeous and romantic. I’m taking lots of photos and everyone says I have an eye for it.
All my love, Judith
Hope was pleased. Judith, the daughter who had so grudgingly offered love, was now dispensing all of it to her mother. She thought that she would indeed like the cobblestone streets and the bicycles. She had always had a hankering to see Anne Frank’s house as well. Judith had made no mention of whether she had seen it. But then there was so much left out of this letter. What was she eating? Was she warm enough? Where did she sleep? With whom did she sleep? Rolf? Hope thought that this was entirely possible. Not because Judith was loose, but because this was the nature of the world in 1972. Hope, at the age of nineteen, had been studying nursing and had kissed only one boy, Jimmy Kaas, and the extent of her travelling had been the forty miles from Eden to Winnipeg. What wisdom did she have to offer to anyone?
When Emily heard that Judith was heading off to Europe, she had said that Hope should read The Drifters, a story about boys and girls Judith’s age who travel through Europe in the late sixties. Hope ordered it through Book of the Month Club. It was eight hundred pages and she did immediately what she did with all big books. She cut it into three sections so as to make it more manageable and to save her wrists. A heavy book was hard on the joints, and in bed the weight lay on her chest. The problem with cutting the book up was that sometimes she misplaced the second or third section and so had to hunt through the house, trying to remember where the rest of the novel was stored. When she began to read The Drifters she immediately wondered if Emily was trying to poison her with dark and dangerous and desperate thoughts. Perhaps Emily knew something that she didn’t. And then Judith’s letter arrived and all she could think was that Judith had become one of the characters in The Drifters.
That night, Roy read the letter in bed. Hope kept glancing at him, anticipating his response. But he surprised her. He folded the letter, put it on the bedside table, removed his glasses, and said, “Well, she seems to be having a good time.”
“You think so? Aren’t you worried about the aimlessness and the drugs and the sex?” she asked.
“Did we read the same letter, Hope?”
“Well, the general picture of her activities, what she talks about. Prostitution, hitchhiking with a Dutch boy, maybe I’ll go to Salonika, or perhaps Crete. All of that sounds aimless to me. She moved so fast through all those countries.” She picked up the section of the book she had been reading. It was the middle section. The front few pages hung loose, and she tore those off and discarded them. “Listen, look, I’m in the middle of this novel and this is Judith’s life as she’s living it now.” She flipped to a page and read a section where the young people are in Torremolinos, in the house of a rich man who organizes orgies. When she finished reading, she laid the book down, sighed, and looked over at Roy, who was sound asleep.
She wrote Judith regularly, sending the letters to American Express offices in various cities throughout Europe, often uncertain if she received them or not, though there would arrive the occasional letter in which Judith made reference to something Hope had written in one of her letters from Canada, and this was a relief—at least some of the mail was being picked up.
And then one day Roy came home late, sat down at the dinner table, unfolded his napkin over his lap, and announced that the dealership had won a trip to Barbados. “We’ll be taking a little holiday,” he said, looking at Hope. Melanie was overjoyed until she learned that only her parents would be going. “It’s an adult trip,” Roy said. “Sorry, sweetie.”
Hope disliked leaving the children and worried that something might happen to Judith while they were gone. How would they be contacted? On the other hand, winter had been long that year, drawn out and cold, and as she shopped for a new bathing suit in Winnipeg, and a few lighter tops, and some shorts and several pairs of sandals, she found herself stirred by some sort of excitement, the anticipation of the exotic. Why should her children have all the fun?
Barbados turned out to be very poor, and during the drive from the airport to the resort, she observed the shanties and the barely clothed children playing in the streets and she wondered why the children weren’t in school. She was depressed by the poverty, and became even more despairing upon arriving at the resort, where numerous swimming pools glistened like jewels and palm trees lined the twisting walking paths that led to their private villa. She saw herself eating up an overly large portion of the world. What gave her the right to this luxury and the wonderful food she would be eating, when that boy in torn shorts sitting by the shantytown got only gruel? Whose self was bigger? Who was more important? She sat on the edge of the king-size bed and told Roy that she felt sick.
“Did you see all those poor people? And look at us.”
“We provide an income for those people. The economy is based on tourism, Hope. They need our money.”
“That’s just pure rationalization, Roy. A simplistic argument.”
“Well, here then.” Roy took out his wallet and removed the cash and laid it on the bed beside her. “Start with the chambermaids, and then head over to the restaurant and the waiters, and don’t forget the bellhop, and when you’re done here, head out into the streets and make sure everyone gets an equal share. Go on then.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” She looked down at the cash as if it were poisonous. “You know that won’t help. It’s just that I feel so helpless.”
“Well, get over it, Hope. Let’s go for a swim.”
She put on her black one-piece and tied he
r hair back with a pink scarf and she carried a wicker basket that held her books and suntan lotion and hat and sunglasses. She was aware of being noticed and took pleasure in the fact that she was still beautiful. She found a spot under an umbrella and ordered a margarita. Then another. Roy was beside her, laid out on his chair. He was wearing red trunks and black socks with brown shoes. She rarely saw him so naked in public and for a brief moment she suffered shame. His legs were alabaster. And those socks. The heat, even though she was under an umbrella, was astoundingly oppressive, and after her second drink was done, she rose and stepped carefully down into the pool, where she submerged herself up to her neck. She had had her hair done that morning, and she didn’t want to ruin it for the evening dinner, at which the other couples from across North America who had also been invited on this trip would be meeting for the first time. The warm water of the pool and the alcohol had a soothing effect on her, and by the time she had recovered her spot beside Roy, she had come to accept her place in the world. To complain, something Roy thought she did too much of, was to be ungrateful, and she had made a decision to make the best of things, to be obliging.
There were nine other couples, owners of various dealerships throughout the States and Canada, who met for dinner that night and Hope sat beside Anita Stark, from Arizona, whose husband, Will, owned four dealerships in Phoenix. Anita was very gregarious. She kept touching Hope’s right arm throughout the meal and she made Hope feel quite at ease. Anita was fit and she wore a tight top and a short skirt. She was a mother of three children very close in age to Hope’s, and so they talked of children. Her eldest daughter was a classical pianist who was aiming for Juilliard. Anita said this so matter-of-factly that Hope became slightly despondent and replied that her eldest daughter was running with the bulls in Pamplona and hanging out with a Dutch teenaged smoking hashish. “So you see,” she said, and she let her sentence dangle, and Anita tilted her head, as if waiting for a profundity, but it never came. That was all Hope had to say. Her children would be failures.
Across the table from Hope that night sat a couple from Dallas. Flip and Denise. Denise was certainly Flip’s mistress. She reminded Hope of Judith. Hope felt sorry for her because she saw immediately that five days with this older crowd might do this young girl in. Flip kept putting his arm around her in a possessive manner, as if Denise might suddenly try to run, or one of the other men might try to snatch her. Denise had little to say. She appeared bored and smoked Camels, tilting her head upwards in a disdainful way as she exhaled. The other couples hailed from Montreal, Vancouver, New York, California, and of all places, Fargo. Because Fargo was geographically close to Eden, Hope thought that she might have something in common with Cindy, the wife, but Cindy was incredibly shy and it was all Hope could do to tear several words from her small mouth. Her husband, Alistair, on the other hand, was a vociferous bore. He liked numbers, and he used those numbers when referring to his golf game or units sold at his dealership, or when assessing the bodies of women poolside. Cindy hovered and smiled bleakly, sipping a gin and tonic.
Five days with this group. She could not imagine what they would do. What they would talk about. It turned out that the men played golf and the women sat by the pool, or had pedicures, or went into town to shop for cheap clothes. Hope read. Interestingly, she found herself stuck by the pool with Denise, who said that she had no interest in snorkelling, or fishing, or having a massage, or shopping for trinkets in the market. She told Hope that if she had wanted to hang out with housewives, she would have stayed at home and phoned up Flip’s wife. She lit a Camel. Called the waiter over and asked for a glass of white wine.
“I’m a housewife.”
“Oh, no,” Denise said. “Not like them. You’re a little strange, Hope, but in a good way. You’re not shrill. The other wives hate me. They’re threatened, you see. They catch their husbands ogling me and they dissolve. Roy is so polite. I don’t think he even knows I exist.”
Hope laughed. “Oh, he knows.”
“Well, he’s very courteous.”
“He’s probably afraid of you. Anyway, his oldest daughter is your age.”
“So is Flip’s.”
“How old are you, Denise?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Judith is nineteen. She’s in Spain, chasing matadors.”
The glass of wine arrived. Hope indicated that she would like the same.
“I was the receptionist at Flip’s dealership. I had big plans. I know, I know. I’m a cliché.” She narrowed her eyes, perhaps expecting a rebuttal. Not getting any, she continued. “Flip’s getting a divorce. And then we ‘re marrying. He wants more kids.” She shrugged.
They finished their wine and ordered more and they talked through lunch, which was served poolside. Fish and chips and coleslaw. They swam and then read and slept, and at some point Denise said that she wanted to go down to the hotel’s private beach, she liked to sunbathe topless and she didn’t think the hotel guests would appreciate that. Would Hope join her?
“Oh, I don’t think so. I like to keep my body to myself.”
Denise laughed. “No, I just wondered if you wanted to sit with me. I don’t expect you to go topless.”
Hope was slightly insulted, and then amused. Denise was so much like her eldest two daughters, patronizing and self-centred. On the beach Hope found an umbrella and a chair and sat beside Denise, who lay on a mat in just her bikini bottoms, face to the sun. She did not sneak any looks at Denise’s perfect body—she felt it would be unseemly—though several times as they conversed she caught a glimpse of a breast or a nipple, and for some reason this made her want to cry out, “Leave him. Leave him.”
Late in the afternoon, as the sun descended, Hope said directly and out of the blue that children could be depressing. Did Denise understand that?
“Oh, come on. You have four.” Denise had turned over onto her stomach and this made it easier for Hope to address her directly.
“Exactly. Children will drive you insane. Literally.”
“You’re not insane.”
Hope smiled. “A number of years ago I took a seventeen-year-old girl down to the States for an abortion. You mustn’t tell my husband this. He doesn’t know.” This was a surprise, telling Denise this intimate secret. She wondered where this sudden need to confess had come from.
“One of your daughters?”
“A friend of my daughter’s.”
“That’s so sweet. And brave.”
“‘Sweet’ is a new twist. The father was an older man. He left her high and dry.”
“Flip wouldn’t leave me high and dry.”
“Of course not.”
“He wouldn’t. I keep him very happy.”
“Well.”
On the second-last day at the resort Denise told her that the girls were planning a party for that night. She had taken to calling the other wives “the girls.”
“Oh,” Hope said. “I guess that’s nice.”
“Not just any party. A key party. I thought I should give you a heads-up. Anita Stark’s idea, along with her husband. The men are gung-ho.”
“Oh my. That’s so embarrassing.”
Denise hooted. “You’re perfect, Hope. You might want to warn Roy.”
“What about you? Are you? You know?”
Denise shook her head. “No way, Jose.”
But she didn’t warn Roy. She wasn’t sure what words to use, and in any case he came back from golf quite tired and he had a nap and then they dressed for dinner, and by the time they were walking up the pathway to meet the group, she didn’t want to get him all twisted up, and so she said nothing. As usual, there was a fair amount of drinking at dinner, and later there was a steel band that had to be tolerated, and then Louis, the car dealer from Montreal, took his wife Lila’s hand and suggested they all gather at his villa. “Ça va?”
Alistair, who was sitting across from Hope, winked at her and said, “Absolutely.” He had been flirting with her all week, and she
had astutely and politely ignored him.
Anita raised her arm and cried out, “Let us go,” as a few of the women giggled nervously. The men rose.
Roy took Hope’s hand and announced that they would pass.
“Keeping that good-looking wife to yourself, eh, Roy?” Alistair said, and he hit Roy on the shoulder.
Walking back up to their villa, she realized that Roy had been many many steps ahead of her, and at first she was grateful and surprised, and then she wondered why they hadn’t discussed this whole sexual escapade. It was as if Roy had decided for her. How did he know what she wanted? Well, of course she didn’t want to have sex with Louis or Alistair, or any other Tom, Dick, or Harry—that was a given—but shouldn’t she choose for herself? She removed her hand from his and stepped sideways so that there was a space between them. He allowed this.
Roy said, “Like rabbits.”
She snorted. “Shenanigans.”
And no more was said of it. They did not have sex that night, and she wondered why this was so. Perhaps Roy was in fact disappointed and, having held a fantasy in his heart all week, was bored by his wife’s humdrum body. What pleasure could be taken from the same old pot when there were new and varied pots? Roy slept but she did not. The window was open, the smell of frangipani wafted in. The surf in the distance. The laughter over at Louis’ villa. The noise of the party rose and fell.
