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Chapter 6: An Indian Virgin's Red Silk Belt
One evening we sat by the window longer than usual. The weather was beautiful as the golden sun slipped leisurely beneath the azure blue twilight horizon. We were in Paris, but the blues and greens that surrounded us made it seem as if we were in another world. Except for the noise that sometimes rose up from the street, not a sound interrupted our conversation. “It was around this time of the year at dusk one day that I met Anandi.” As the artist finished his sentence, he turned toward the window and lost himself in thought. I said nothing. Graham had once spoken to me of a trip he once took to India during his youth. We were in the Asakusa district of Tokyo. It was an autumn evening and we had just come from visiting the geisha quarters. He put his arm around my shoulder and told me how the expression in the geisha's eyes had reminded him of the eyes of an Indian woman. I asked him if he had been to India. Yes, he replied, one summer while I was in college. Somehow, the topic changed and we began talking about something else.
The painter turned toward me: “I have to tell you this story. You can turn it into a novel. People may not believe it, but I became emotionally dependent on the young Indian woman.”
He stood up suddenly and led me into the inner room of the suite. My heart began thumping. Here was the bed I had dreamed of returning to over and over again. Years ago we had known the pleasures of life here. God! I was losing control. I felt as if at any moment I might stop breathing. I told myself that one day I would rekindle those memories upon that bed with him. I thought to myself, he had managed to find this place and it seemed as if he was planning to stay for a while. Obviously, unconsciously he was still holding on to our Paris dream.
Things had changed though. The furniture was not as I remembered it. Except for an antique bed, everything else seemed to be original. The room was an absolute mess. Paintings and sculptures hung on the walls, leaned up against each other, and rested in piles. He pointed toward the head of the bed where a portrait hung upon the paneled wall. “This is Anandi.”
My eyes brightened.
The purity of her expression was difficult to describe; her eyes were jet-black. Her eyebrows were thick and lush eyelashes shaded her eyes. Her eyelids drooped and left a shadow upon her rosy cheeks. Her nose was straight and graceful; her nostrils flared just a touch, as if yearning to return to an earlier time. Her lips were full and her features distinct. A mouthful of milky white teeth shone between slightly parted lips. Her skin was pure and youthful, like the fuzz of an untouched peach. Like a wild black waterfall, her naturally wavy hair tumbled down her back. Two wonderful ears peeked out; a pair of agate earrings – the kind that young Indian girls like – dangled from her fleshy earlobes.
This young Indian woman had a marble-like stare; her purity and her restlessness were obvious in her expression. Her bearing was graceful and her clear eyes were surrounded by warm brown. Across the expanse of time, I could tell that her body emanated a milky fragrance that made her oh so desirable and made men wild. Like a bottle of Parisian perfume, top on or off, the sweetness flowed forth.
Immediately next to the portrait was an Indian carving. It was about a foot and a half tall, had been carved from oak, highly detailed and very elegant. Here was another woman with hair piled high upon her head. Her body was long and refined and her face was exquisite. The neck of her upper garment was inlaid with a series of concentric metallic circles that set off her glorious neck. Once could tell from her bearing that she was well educated. Her face was small, so small that it reminded me of the face of a crustacean. Her full bottom rose up to meet her slight waist and gave her the look of health.
Upon noticing that I had turned my attention to the sculpture, the artist quietly spoke: “She became my spiritual guide. She understood things I couldn't comprehend, things I wanted desperately to understand. It was as if she had been around for thousands of years…”
We walked back to the sofa by the window. Once I had sat down, I noticed that the artist was holding a thick album of paintings.
“May I have a look?” I said as I took the album.
I was suddenly unbelievably moved. As I took in each spectacular painting of different Indian people and scenery, I couldn't help but think of the chain of temples that stretches from the Himalayas to the peak of the Xilan Mountains. This was an unbelievable feat of architecture and the beauty of these places left one breathless. This fertile land had been torn for centuries by conflict. Each time I watched a television documentary of those temples surrounded by crowds of people, it was difficult not to be affected by those dark-skinned heroes. Over three thousand years of history, this race of people had managed to mix their fates with others.
Notice how the eyes of these thinning and weak men and women shine so brightly – they speak to us from the photographs. Each of them stands beneath the blazing sun like a statue and its accompanying shadow. Characters such as those in stone figurines and wall murals found across India keep myths and their spirits alive.
I concentrated on a portion of a stone carving for a while: Men flew forward like wild geese. A flickering searchlight bore down upon them. To one side stood a rigid jeweled tower about to crumble, the embodiment of human seminal fluid. I lost myself in the depth and the magic of the moment. I was as if I was witnessing the spiritual and physical longing of the ancients of India.
I lost myself in each pair of eyes, shiny eyes – together they were the eyes of India, the eyes of a people who had seen thousands of years of civilization and savagery.
I began to feel as if I needed to escape reality. The idea of such human suffering hit me. I was filled with nervous anticipation. Each time I raised my wine glass to my lips and took a sip of the champagne, my cheeks would flush rosy.
I thought for a moment. Perhaps it was better this way. He had opened up a part of me that had been closed off for a long time. Now that I think of it, I truly knew nothing about that period in his life. His childhood, his early teenage years, and his life on Wall Street, I knew those pasts of his life like the back of my own hand, but he always brushed over his college years. I truly knew nothing about that period in his life, nothing about his experiences in India.
2
“I first met Anandi by a desolate lake in the countryside outside Bombay. It was early on the morning of my second day there and I was staying at the home of an Indian classmate named Vasu.
I was jetlagged, so woke up extremely early, unable to get back to sleep. I rose quietly and went out to take a walk around the lake. I'll never forget the scene before me. Even now as I'm describing it to you, I can feel my heart beating wildly.” The painter spent a few moments calming himself, then continued.
“That morning, the sky and the edge of the river were filled with the cooing of a huge flock of pigeons. The sky was azure blue. I stared off at the birds for a while, then turned my gaze to the people nearby. I first saw Anandi walking by the side of the lake with a heavyset old woman. She wore a white dress; her long black hair fell in a braid down her back. She looked no more than thirteen or fourteen. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Her appearance told me that she was a white Indian of the educated class. She jumped about and danced in the early morning mist, her arms floating through the air, at once like a freshly blooming flower, then later like two wings destined for flight. Every once in a while, she would bend down by the water's edge to feed the ducks, emitting a boisterous laugh here and there. The old woman stayed by her side, watching over her. They were inseparable.
I followed her with my eyes. To be honest, her unusual beauty and the deep longing in her eyes attracted me…
A week later at dusk, I had just set up my easel by the side of the lake in preparation for painting the ancient scenery that surrounded me. As I looked out at the surface of the water, once again I was Anandi and the old woman. I busied myself looking her way. It seemed that in just a matter of days she had grown years. She seemed rather downcast. She no longer laughed as she had the last time, but instead stood solemnly by the edge of the lake as the old woman sat upon the grass.
The graceful body of a young woman with long, black hair flowing over her shoulders and the appearance of evening mist – what better subject for a painting?
Suddenly inspired, my brush rushed across the canvas outlining this young woman's features. A bit later, she approached and watched curiously as I painted.
“Are you painting me?” Her pitch-black eyes sparkled as she spoke.
I nervously answered: “Yes, yes!”
“OK, then I'll just stand here. That ought to make it easier for you to paint.” She smiled generously and as she spoke, she came closer, finally standing so close that I could almost smell her perfume.
My heart thumped and the hand holding the paintbrush shook.
Just as I was about to step back, she realized that she was standing a bit too close and stepped back several feet. “Is this better? Tell me how you need me to pose.”
“No need. You're fine as you are. You don't have to look at me. Just as you were a few minutes ago by the side of the lake…when you're tired, just sit down and rest – no problem.”
I adjusted my angle a bit, then continued painting. The mist upon the water, the gray-green sky, and a young Indian woman deep in thought – exactly what I wanted to paint. I was still young then and had no idea what it was that I was trying to express; my chosen subject was still a blur to me. Later I realized that I had come to worship both the wild and the civilized sides of that ancient Indian culture. Whether by painting nature or portraits of people, I was always attempting to perfectly represent the eyes of Indian people. Centuries of poverty and bloodshed had not dulled those eyes, nor had it dulled their religious longing for physical contact; desire kept life alive and allowed new generations to follow the old.
Oddly enough, just as I began to paint Anandi, a huge flock of pigeons and seagulls landed by her feet and surrounded her. More and more birds continued to arrive until the entire edge of the lake was covered, not an empty space remained.
I lay down my brush, unbelievably moved by a scene I had never before experienced. It felt as if all of this had been heaven-sent and my eyes brimmed with hot tears. It was so beautiful, so breathtakingly beautiful. The birds too must have been surprised by Anandi's saintly beauty…
From that day forward, every morning I would set up my easel by the side of the lake and await Anandi's return. But she never reappeared. So that I wouldn't miss her, I moved out of Vasu's house and rented an old farmhouse that looked out over the lake. Every once in a while I'd glance out of the window – afraid that I'd lose a chance to see her again.
After then or more days had passed, I realized that I could do nothing but think of Anandi. I had abandoned my original plan to travel about India. Each day was spent facing the beginning of a painting, my emotions tied in knots. Each time I sat down and closed my eyes, Anandi would appear before me. Finally, one day I decided to complete the portrait from memory.
On that very evening, Anandi appeared. Finally, she had come back; but she wasn't by the side of the lake. She was at my door, standing before me her old witty self.
I couldn't believe it. I thought I was dreaming, but she was real. She was real – she was right there before my eyes.
“Are you painting me?” She glanced over at the canvas propped upon the easel.
“You never came back, so I was left to paint you from memory.”
“My father took me to Bombay.” As she spoke I noted how pale her face had grown.”
“Did you go into the city for fun?”
“No, I went for medical treatment.” Her eyes sparkled as she continued, “May I stay here tonight? You can paint to your heart's content.”
“That wouldn't be right. Your parents will be waiting for you!”
“Today I'm all alone. There's no one here watching over me. As long as I'm home by eight tomorrow morning, I should be fine.”
“Well…OK.” My heart throbbed with terror. “How did you find this place?”
“The day I left for Bombay, I saw you moving in through the window of the car as we drove away. If it hadn't been for my father, I would've ordered the driver to stop so that I could say hello!”
“you said you went to Bombay for medical treatment. Are you feeling better?” I asked with obvious concern.
“One moment I'm fine, the next I'm not. Not to worry.” Rather timidly she said, “You can paint me now. Shall I undress?”
“No, no, you needn't do that.” I could feel the heat rising to my face.
“Why don't you sit there.” I pointed to the thing I suppose could have been called a chair.
She sat down upon the chair and looked at me with warm, inviting eyes.
To be honest, it was that pair of dark eyes that attracted me – those ancient, mysterious Eastern eyes. I was moved as well by her slightly flared nostrils, the sharp contours of her face, and her full lips.
I adjusted the light a bit and moved the easel to a better position. Then finally I began painting.
Eventually she fell asleep.
I stopped painting and stared in blank astonishment.
First, I covered her with a blanket, but after watching her sleep curled up like a tiny cat upon the chair, I finally decided to pick her up and carry her to the bed. I turned off all the lights, then sat quietly listening to the sounds of the Bombay countryside and the soft breathing of the young girl asleep upon the bed. My heart was suddenly filled with a wave of emotion. My nerves refused to let me look in her direction. Whether I sat stupidly with my eyes wide open, or closed my eyes to rest for a moment, that pair of pitch-black eyes shaded by dense eyelashes floated continually into view. She stared at me with such sacred longing, as if she had been sent by the goddess of the East to crack a secret code for me.
She stared off at the moonlight that flowed into the room like the Milky Way. I couldn't help myself and found myself walking towards her bedside. Her hair shone in the moonlight like bejeweled ripples of water. I was no longer in control. My hand began to wander…
Suddenly, as if catching a thief, she grabbed hold of the hand I had placed upon her hand, then warmly placed her hand within mine, twisting and turning as if she were trying to melt into the nighttime air.
I could no longer control my youthful urges. Her lips were like magnets; I couldn't stop kissing her. My hands began exploring the curves of her fully clothed body. I wanted terribly to reach beneath her red slip and touch the warmth of her body. Layer upon layer kept her tightly protected though, and try as I might, I couldn't manage to loosen her clothing.
She rose from the bed and we held each other tightly for a while, then she pushed me away and indicated that she wanted me to sit in the chair.
There's no way I can possibly do justice to the miracle of that moment. Beneath the light of the silvery moon, the young Indian woman before me began to dance. She approached and placed one end of her red silk chastity belt into my hand, smiled, and moved back several steps before twirling gracefully. She danced like clouds do; she floated like a pleasantly warm Bombay countryside breeze. Slowly, the clouds parted, wave after wave tumbled in my direction. It seemed as if the young girl disappeared in the whirlwind. Waves of read rose up. I was entranced. My eyes glowed. On this mysterious Eastern evening, this young girl from this mysterious ancient village led me into a world I had never known…
This red silk chastity belt was twenty meters in length!!
I held the silken fabric still warm from the heat of her body. I grabbed at its redness as if I were reaching out to catch ocean spray, but I couldn't hold on to it. The waves rose in all directions; tiny ripples made way for giant waves that surged forward with great momentum. At once I was sucked into a reddened ocean; at that very moment I was filled with wild, red desire. Blood coursed through my veins. I knew she was willing, willing to become a woman that night.
I was unbelievably happy. I felt the heat of the red silk belt within my grasp and I trembled with an excitement I had never before experienced.
Anandi, bathed in moonlight, came towards me. Her fiery black eyes bore through me; her long black hair shimmered behind her. I busily untangled myself from the red silk belt, picked up the naked Anandi and carried her to the bed. I caressed her face and kissed her lips, then my hands moved down her back, further and further down, until they came to rest upon the fullness of her buttocks. My kisses began to move downward as well, until they finally reached that darkened forest. My miraculous secret garden – plum-colored buds hid beneath the dark forest cover full of tender desire. The fragrant, delicate grass emanated a curry-like perfume found only in India…
As I followed my desire, a red wave continued to rise before me. Such redness – what did it mean? Youth, desire, virginity…no, that woman hiding in the corner, eyes reddened from crying…
Slowly those eyes swallowed each wave; the red left behind was her guilt and that guilt stopped me. I couldn't go on.
Those frightened eyes belonged to the older sister of my friend Vasu. The first day I stayed at their home, I noticed her furtively wiping tears from her eyes. Vasu had once told me that his sister had been terribly unlucky. On her wedding night, once her husband had loosened the twenty-meter red silk chastity belt, he soon discovered that she didn't bleed as she should have. That very night, he sent her home to her parents. The next day he returned all of her belongings and rid himself completely of her once and for all.
At the time, I couldn't understand such backward traditions. According to Vasu, the white Indian minority believed that the red silk chastity belt was most sacred. If a husband were to discover on his wedding night that upon loosening the belt his wife didn't bleed, such an event was a terrible personal insult…
Vasu's sister was destined to live out her life crying her eyes red…all because on that one fateful evening, she didn't bleed…
“And then? I want to hear the rest of the story,” I interrupted, “What happened with the young Indian girl? Tell me, please.”
Afterward…
3
While the artist was telling the story of Vasu's sister, a terrible feeling rose in my heart. So many years had passed. My own bloodless piece of white cloth had been buried beneath years of dust, finally buried in a deep gully somewhere and forgotten. But now, this story, so much like my own, had brought misery to women in another part of the world. Women are innocent. Even if they've tasted the forbidden fruit before marriage, they remain innocent! Sex rises from love – nothing related to love should be thought of as criminal.
I suddenly realized how small the world was and how short the distance truly was between life and death. A genius is just one step away from madness; happiness all too quickly turns to sadness, and love to hate. Often the most physically unrestrained people are also the most barbaric. This was a truth I hadn't anticipated.
The culture of sexuality in India has wavered constantly between the sacred and the vulgar. Even before the birth of Buddhism, there were statues that attested to the sexual prowess of Indian women, their voluptuous bodies and Venus-like beauty. Such creative works became part of a continuous artistic tradition. The images captured in the 11th-century temples at Khajuraho, for example, are said to represent every possible position and form of embrace that men and women can enjoy. There are couples locked in a kiss, women with their waists around men's shoulders, men tightly grasping women's legs, women with full, rounded breasts pressing down upon men. Each couple has made the ultimate connection. Taken together, these images represent the religious and philosophical attitudes of India long, long ago, when sensuality was at the very center of beauty and the seductive beauty of women could express the wonders of the flesh. In the myriad of images found at Khajuraho, not one is obscene or indecent. Instead each carving bears witness to the fact that sexual culture in India matured long before it did elsewhere.
Yet, this nation steeped in sexual culture that worshipped sexual prowess had nonetheless broken the hearts of countless young women – all for a beautiful red silk belt…
“So, did you eventually do anything?” I asked with my hand to my brow. I wanted desperately to know what finally happened between the Indian girl and him.
“No, nothing.” His voice trembled a bit. “The thought of Vasu's sister's misfortune forced me to control myself. How could I think of hurting such a pure, young girl? Because of this though, to this day I'm still filled with bitter regret…”
The painter's eyes had reddened by now and he looked out the window into the distance.
“Oh, how I regret that decision.” He pulled at his already disheveled hair and closed his eyes, his face torn with pain.
“Early the next morning, I awoke to discover that Anandi had gone. Except for the red silk belt strewn about the floor and the wrinkled sheets that still held her fragrance, there was no other trace of her. I fantasized that she would come again as she had before, landing on my doorstep like a small, helpless bird.
But she never came again.
My vacation was coming to an end and I was desperate to find her. Every morning, I searched far and wide, all to no avail. Every day at dusk, I made sure I was by the side of the lake – the place where we had first met. I would search left and right, mistaking each girl that I saw for Anandi. My heart would fill with anticipation, only to give way to a deep depression. I despised my own carelessness. Why hadn't I asked her where she lived?
On my last day in Bombay, early in the morning, I took my easel one final time to the edge of the lake in hopes of finally completing the portrait of Anandi. Once everything was set up and I was about to begin, the skies filled with seagulls, pigeons, and other waterfowl. They all made their way in my direction and surrounded the portrait of Anandi. My paintbrush fell to the ground as I stood in shock. The scene before my eyes touched me deeply. Those birds that filled the waters and covered the land around me sat so solemnly, with such deep respect, as if they were paying their respects to the dead. Every few moments, a sad wail would rise up. I stood amongst all of this completely and utterly lost…
Then I caught a glimpse of an old woman in the distance coming my way – the same old woman who was with Anandi before. I waved excitedly in her direction. She nodded back in desolation. Only then did I notice how withered, thin and pallid she had grown.
I showered the old woman with questions and she revealed all in time. With tears in her eyes, she told me that Anandi had gone to heaven. She was gone. She had been born into a wealthy White Indian family. Her father was a businessman involved in the cotton trade in Bombay and the family was highly cultured. When Anandi was five, however, her mother died of tuberculosis. Anandi, the cherished daughter of this businessman, was diagnosed with leukemia during her second year at middle school. So that she might recover, she was allowed to leave school and move to the countryside in hopes that the fresh air and rural peace would help her get better. The old woman had been sent to take care of her…
I stood still as a statue and I'm unsure when the old woman finally left; nor do I remember how I managed to stagger away with the portrait of Anandi still in my possession. I can only recall holding the twenty meter-long red silk chastity belt as tears streamed down my cheeks…
Why had I let her leave this world with regrets? I had left her fly off to heaven on the wings of angels. Why couldn't I have given her a full set of wings?
From that moment onward, the portrait of the young Indian girl and the treasured red silk chastity belt have provided me with constant spiritual sustenance.”
“Could I see it? The young girl's red silk belt?” I asked curiously.
“Of course.” His eyes wandered once again out the window and towards the darkened sky as he spoke.
I stood up and stepped out on to the balcony for a breath of fresh air.
In the distance, a falling star streaked across the cloud-covered Paris evening sky. Its light was fleeting, but for a brief moment in time, the star filled the skies with a spectacular, snowy brightness. Every sight, every color shone beneath its glow – the buildings with their ancient bell towers, the steps and railings, the grass poking its way up through the sidewalks, the black soil of recently overturned gardens – everything came into view. Everything looked different – just for a moment. During that moment, everything took on a new and distinct meaning.
There stood the artist with the terribly deformed face and me bathed in angelic, sacred light. It seemed as if that solemnly strange brightness was meant to finally reveal all that had once been hidden and to join kindred spirits, finally.
Chapter 7: Shadows of the unreal
Every night while staying at Villa Bella, I would meet Graham in my dreams. The dreams were so real, more real than reality itself.
That night it was raining in Paris. We had an early dinner in the hotel restaurant, then the artist and I went out for a walk through the spacious gardens behind the hotel.
“I truly wish I could see that twenty meter-long red silk belt. I feel an affinity with Anandi. What a pitiful young girl,” I said as we walked.
“You’re right. I don’t remember anything that happened after I returned from Bombay. Thank God I can still remember everything that happened while I was still in India. Even now, I often see Anandi’s huge black eyes glowing before me and that same long red silk belt; I can see myself sitting in the last row of that battered old long-distance bus. The road from the Bombay countryside was full of bumps. The bus jolted us one way, then tossed us the other. Like a sickly cat, I curled up on the seat; later a wild rainstorm blew up. I stuck my head out of the window and turned my face upward to let the bean-size raindrops splatter my face. It was only then that I let myself cry. The tears came in torrents and were just as quickly washed away by the rain…until finally the rain passed and the sun came out again to dry my body, my face, and any record of my tears.”
“It all happened so long ago, but now that you think of it, doesn’t it seem just like yesterday?”
“Yes, just like yesterday.”
I looked off into the distance to where the grass met the sky. There, by the horizon, one could almost touch the clouds. How far can I see? I look forward, then a little further, then I can’t see at all. What is it that’s blocking my view?
“If it’s possible…I want to be with you forever…”
“Don’t speak of forever, that’s too far away. I want something that’s close, like right now. Don’t leave me.” My lips trembled and tears filled my eyes.
He reached out his hand and caressed my satiny long hair.
“Forever…” His smiling face was at once willful and enchanting.
I looked at him intensely. The artist had suddenly disappeared, and in his place were a pair of blue eyes that couldn’t mask the sadness behind them and a stubbly face reddened from running. He looked right back at me…
“Graham! Can it be you? Where did you come from?” I was thrilled, but had a hard time believing my eyes.
Just like that, a tall shadow showed up beside me in the twilight, hair blowing in the wind, with a determined stare. Suddenly I detected a familiar fragrance…
When I reached out my hand to touch him, he disappeared, transformed into a mysterious, deep, sapphire blue pool of water. At that very moment, I felt a sharp pain in my heart. Darkness surrounded me. In the mist, I seemed to hear Graham’s voice floating in the wind: “Forgive me, my love.”
My love, you, you’ve gone again? You’ve left me again?”
Tears spilled upon soft, beautiful cheeks.
I promised you, whether you went to heaven or hell, I’d go with you…
Forever…
Oh, why do our definitions of forever have to be so different?
I still remember one early morning on Wall Street, I waved goodbye to you as you disappeared into the distance, my thin lips furled and the soles of my feet frozen like the ground beneath them. I knew then that you would always be a part of me.
Oh, how I wish that I were an angel perched in a secret garden, that I could spread my wings and soar, fly towards heaven, fly towards you. Though there are those that say that heaven is nothing but a beautiful cage, I’m still willing to fly there!
I looked up at the sky and whirled around in a circle, looking for that perfect cloud that I could ride to heaven. But the sky was flawlessly blue and clear. Then a stream of red danced across the horizon. I ran towards it with my arms outstretched; I caught it and held one end of the beautiful red ribbon tightly in my hands. My eyes followed the ribbon into the distance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other end. Where was it?
I opened my eyes wide and looked straight through the window of the hotel at a hideous sight, the artist who had just a moment ago disappeared from view. He was screaming hysterically, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I could only see him screaming and thrashing about wildly like a caveman. Oddly enough, the face that had been destroyed now emitted a saintly glow. From a distance, he looked giant and powerful, and shone with a sagely light. He finally loosened his hold, letting go of the red ribbon; then he spread his arms wide as if to hug me warmly just once, to hold a civilized woman, to hold a woman stuck between heaven and earth. I began to tremble; my body shook and it felt as if the blood was rushing upward from my feet until my entire body seemed to have become a red silk belt……
I finally understood, if only I could grab onto that twenty meter-long red chastity belt left behind by that young Indian woman, I could find Graham in heaven.
The tears began to fall. I had so much love left to give, but I couldn’t think about life here on earth anymore. Farewell, artist. Farewell, mother. Goodbye to all whom I love and who have loved me. We will meet again some day in heaven.
I raised my arms high above me and holding tightly to the red ribbon made my way upward. At that moment, I could feel Graham crashing through the atmosphere, making his way out of heaven toward me, his body bathed in a golden glow……
Finally entangled in that red ribbon, we touched each other’s inner spirit. Neither of us spoke – we could only look longingly at each other.
After what seemed like an immeasurable moment in time, I managed a sentence: “I, I promise. I promise that we’ll be together forever. Even if…..”
He looked at me in silence, taking in every inch of me. I saw myself in his eyes – I saw the naked body of a young woman.
I had lost all sense of pride. “I want to be with you…I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth…” My voice rose as I spoke.
He put his finger to his lips as if to silence me, then like a conductor he began waving his baton in the air as if before an orchestra, closed his eyes and began twirling in space, wrapping me in a cocoon of red silk. I could feel myself being turned around and around, until I finally landed completely out of breath in his embrace.
“Listen to the music, love. Listen!” Graham ordered.
That god-like sound seemed to be wafting down from heaven, so airy, so dignified. Wasn’t that Wagner’s “Wedding March”?
As I bathed in the solemnity and joy of the moment, a stream of light shone suddenly down from the heavens and what seemed like a cloud of sorts descended upon us. This blue-gray cloud with a red center slowly dissipated as a church appeared in our midst. As Wagner’s “Wedding March” played in the background, the doors of this church opened invitingly.
“It’s our wedding! I can finally be your bride.” I almost jumped with excitement – I simply couldn’t believe what I was seeing. We held each other in ecstasy, a kiss, a hug, another kiss…
“We’ll never be apart again,” Graham with his lake-blue eyes gave me a solemn promise.
Those eyes and that promise brought me back to the morning of September 11, 2001 – there I was, right where it had all begun. In a white Strauss wedding chariot, we made our way towards Wall Street’s Trinity Church…
Dressed in a white wedding gown, I followed the lilt of Wagner’s solemn march toward the love of my life. I couldn’t bear to rest my eyes upon him. There he stood, upon the red carpet, his white bow tie issuing an almost holy light, a light whose brightness pierced my very being…
“Graham, do you take Bella as your wife? To love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, all the days of your life?” the priest asked.
“I do.”
“Bella, do you take Graham as your husband? To love and cherish, in sickness and in health, all the days of your life?”
“Yes, I do.” Tears covered my face.
I closed my eyes and lost myself in the happiness of the moment – Graham’s lips met mine in a burning, rapturous kiss. I could hear birds singing happily in the sky, then came a roar of applause from our guests. Flower blossoms burst forth from their buds in a flurry of red, yellow, blue, and green. Fish in the sea rode the rapturous waves. The entire world seemed to be dancing a joyous waltz.
In that moment, everyone disappeared – the priest, the guests……all that was left was that wave of sound. Heaven and earth seemed to have created an orchestra complete with strong, wind, and percussion instruments just to celebrate our happiness……
We held each other closely and twirled about, around and around. A read whirlpool pulled me in, pulling me faster and faster, burying me beneath the waters. I seemed to become the young Indian girl Anandi, wrapped in her twenty meter-long read chastity belt – and my Graham was holding one end of the belt in his right hand, almost taunting me with his spectacular eyes.
I entered a world of wild abandon, my fingers were transformed into the petals of a flower as they floated with the wind. Lie a ballet dancer upon a stage, I stood tiptoe and twirled again and again. I could hear the wind singing; I could see the clouds dancing. The heavens seemed to be spinning. Until finally, finally, I fell forward……
When the wind woke me, I noticed the red silk belt that had been loosened from my body floating in mid air. It floated far off into the distance like a ball of flames. Suddenly I remembered Graham. Where was Graham? Where had he gone? I called out in alarm: “Graham, Graham…”
But there was no answer.
I looked all around me – there wasn’t a person in view. What’s happened? Graham was here a minute ago. How could he have just disappeared?
I watched as the read silk belt disappeared into the distance. In a second’s time, it seemed to collide with a shower of sparks, catch on fire, and dissolve in a thick cloud of blue-gray smoke. Only then did I realize that my beloved Graham had once again been whisked away in a blaze of red flames……
I sat paralyzed upon the ground, tears came in a torrent. “Graham, you’ve left on your own again. How could you just leave me here? Why couldn’t you have taken me with you? I don’t want to live without you. I can’t. I want nothing if I can’t have you. I don’t care if you’re a ghost or a spirit, I want YOU, only you. Please, I’m begging you, don’t go…”
You came down from heaven and loosened my red chastity belt. We consummated the marriage. I became yours – your spiritual wife. I will follow you to the ends of the earth and further. In the greater scheme of things, what are we but a few tiny grains of sand. I want to blend mine with yours, to fly off as one into eternity.
As my hands came together in prayer, I could feel the warmth of a familiar cosmos enter my body and fill my spirit, only to disappear……
I felt as if I had been stabbed in the heart – all around me, flowers filled the sky, their petals torn by the wind, only to fall like rain. Snowflakes like diamonds blended magically with the flower petals, their beauty was heartbreaking. Flower petals fell silently, snow fell silently like stars from the sky.
I closed my eyes and exhaled; my heart was broken. There was nothing left for me in this world; I no longer wanted any part of it. If I could never see that sunny being again – then where was the meaning of it all?
The edge of my eyes burned; my throat seemed clogged by some unmentionable thing. From deep within, an immeasurable sense of loss rose within me. A torrent of feverish tears burned my chilled face. My heart tightened.
Were these tears?
Hadn’t I cried all the tears I had?
I took a necklace of crystal-clear gems from my neck and held it in the palm of my hand. Graham had given it to me – I could see his beautiful face reflected on the surface of each gem – that strong, warm American face……
I looked upward toward the gray sky. Maybe this was it – it was finally over. A falling star broke through the nighttime sky, like a beautiful butterfly it seemed to come to rest alone at the side of God……
My hands trembled, the pain of loneliness coursed through me. Graham, how I’ve loved you. I will be your eternal wife. I’ll watch over you. Close your eyes and go now.
A dazzling sun fell upon my eyes and pierced my heart. My eyes had dried by now – above in the sky the stars formed a transparent rainbow-colored wings of a butterfly. Before I realized what it was, it had flown away. I opened my eyes to a still-blinding light that seemed to coat the entire world in a golden aura.
A woman’s world should be more than blackened swamps, scarlet blood, and graying memories. I don’t want you to worry about me anymore. I once wanted to win all of the sunny colors of the world for you. I want to see those gorgeous, multicolored butterfly wings once again take flight in the sunlight. But now, I’ve suddenly realized that all meaning is gone. In all my struggles with men, I had finally been given the world – then I lost you, the Graham that I will love always.
In my imagination, all the blues and gold formed a desert between me and the heavens. I let go suddenly and fell upon that desert. I struggled wildly to get up, then to run, walls of green rose up around me, and before long I was in a forest, raindrops crashed down around me. I wasn’t afraid – I raised my face towards the sky. In the coldness and the pain, a tiny smile still managed to make its way to my lips.
Farewell, my beautiful blue eyes.
Farewell, my heart.
I saw you sitting beside me in a garden in Heaven.
I was the sadness in your eyes when you left.
When I had fallen to the depths of despair, you appeared before me.
I remember every moment we shared…
Laughing through my tears, I called out to you as I ran to your side. But my heart ached more than even I had expected. I had to leave just one tiny memory of our love.
The blueness of your eyes comforts me.
Your promise will be with me always, in life and in death.
We shared but a brief moment,
But to me if felt like forever……
Where are you now?
If you’re like me, still floating in darkness,
If you can still feel sadness and joy,
Can you hear my heart calling to you?
I don’t know where to begin; I’ve lost any ability to go on, but my heart still beats, in the darkness, it still beats clearly for you. If only I could stay with you always in our moment, in those memories.
I’m sorry, Graham. I couldn’t give you this world. My heart is sinking, through blue-gray memories and black torment, along the river of hell, towards a distant and secret garden buried deep within……
What a warm and familiar feeling – as a spirit is about to return to earth, all seems right with the world.
The warmth that comes when sadness meets great joy. Do you want to keep me here now?
At the border between heaven and hell, I look back once more, longing only for those blue eyes.
My spirit cries again – so much must be left unsaid. I can only reach my trembling arms in your direction.
Is it you? My only true love.
Is it you? This world, everything, ought to have been…how I wish I could go back, how I wish I could be next to you – but it’s too late. Life has scattered like stardust.
Luckily, finally, I’ve felt you here with me once more. My spirit will be one with yours always. We will be here in this illusion forever. Never again will we part – for eternity, you and me.
Chapter 8: In Search of Paris
With each step I take along the Champs-Elysees, I’m transported to a moment in my past.
I’m not sure why, but lately I haven’t been able to sleep. The other day, just before daybreak, I had a taxi take me to that avenue I had once been so familiar with.
The street was empty. I heard only the sound of my heels upon the pavement. The magnificent city still slumbered in the warm wind. In just a few hours, Paris would bustle as always.
At that very moment, I felt especially close to my graham. It felt almost as if I could reach out my hand and touch his spirit. It was all so real, so wonderfully painful.
As dawn danced upon the Champs Elysees, puffy clouds drifted overhead and the sky seemed a chamber full of beautiful woman with alabaster skin and blue, blue eyes. Green, green trees framed the avenue moist and bright with morning dew. From the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower, each patch of road flowed with the rhythm of a cadenza in a Chopin piano concerto.
The River Seine flowed as it had for centuries, upon the surface of its dark waters the astute eye could see the wrinkles of the ages. As the sun reflected off each sparkling ripple, I was reminded of the author Georges Sand.
I couldn’t quite understand why it was that those dark waters brought forth such turbid emotions – all at once I was filled with wild happiness and a haunting pain. The Seine had always been a river for lovers. It had belonged to Chopin and Georges Sand, just as it had once belonged to Graham and me – it flows endlessly, as my attachment to this place springs eternal.
I walked with no particular purpose, taken back to another place in time by memories……
A horse cart that seemed from the suburbs made its way across the bridge. Sunlight streamed through soap bubble clouds and glazed the rooftops in cool red light.
I watched as the driver looked out over the river – his look was one of sheer, simple delight. It was as if he were saying, “Spring is almost here!” Everyone knows that when spring arrives in Paris, even the lowest forms of life feels as if they’re living in heaven.
I looked upon this particular scene with nostalgia. Whom did Paris truly belong to? To lovers? Or to the ancestors? And whose spring was this? Did she arrive for Paris or Parisians?
Paris has always been a haven for the poor – there are plenty of homeless wandering her streets. But even the homeless have a history to be proud of. Many times, I had generously thrown one hundred francs in their collection baskets, but they could have cared less. They simply glanced at me with an ageless deserving look.
It was this particular manner that set Parisians off from the rest of the world.
When would my spring arrive?
Paris greeted me in my loneliness. Even if it took me a lifetime to familiarize myself with every nook and cranny of that gigantic city; it would be worth it.
I possessed the key to Paris and to all her vicissitudes. Paris meant Graham – like a malignant tumor, she grew within me, filling every corner until I thought she might swallow me.
Do you realize, my love – I’m willing to dwell in these memories forever. I long to meet you in death, to marry you there again and again. I’ve become one with this chaos. I am no longer a part of the real world. Only when the music has stopped, the banquet is over, and I stand alone……
That afternoon after leaving Villa Bella, I went to the library where in the vast stacks of masterpieces, I found Dante’s, Rabelais’s, and Van Gogh’s descriptions of Paris.
Paris was no longer a mystery to me. I understood why Paris attracted true romantics. I understood why it was that the strangest most unrealistic theories all seemed to make sense in Paris. It was in Paris that I re-read the works of Georges Sand that I had read as a girl. Only now, the riddles impressed me with new meaning. There was a story behind each gray hair upon the heads of these historical figures.
That afternoon, I arrived at an art museum in Saint-Germain-des-Pres. Face to face with a Matisse painting, I returned to the realities of human existence. I could feel my heart bleeding. At the entrance to a large gallery, four walls reflecting the midday light, I stood. The urge to cry came, then left me almost instantly.
The ability of music, paintings, and poetry to portray life’s spectacles is often terribly shocking. I seemed to be surrounded by perfection. At that very moment, face to face with such beauty, I felt as if I had touched the very essence of existence.
Regardless of my point of departure – was it Asia? Or where I might finally rest – by the side of Lake Andrew, I had finally realized the true meaning of the silent art works in that room on that day. Their value lay in their ability to help me see the world around me.
Standing at the gate to Matisse’s world, I marveled at his power to create immortality, to turn the everyday, the mundane, into an artscape full of meaning. Only those capable of bringing light and shading to simple words understand the true workings of the heart. Only those who have loved and lost know the true meaning of tragedy.
Sometimes it seems as if Paris to me has become a photograph faded by the sunlight and cast off. My only escape is to draw the blinds and sleep; for me, reality has become a series of dreams, the only place I am sure to see Graham again.
On certain days, when the sun is warm, I might head outdoors to walk along the well-traveled paths around the villa, hungry for any memory of him.
While life seemed a giant puzzle, I was willing to embrace the confusion; I was even willing to imagine that the artist to my side was actually Graham. I could not help but believe that perhaps one day, he would remember everything – it would all suddenly make sense. But what if I couldn’t make it to that day? What if the notes to the musical score suddenly disappeared mid-line?
One bright afternoon, I got into a rental car and drove without destination. I looked ahead as I drove hoping there would be a sign of some sort, a landmark that would tell me where I was going.
Just as dusk descended, I noticed the meandering coastline of a small village. I stopped the car by the water’s edge and noticed an exquisite five-storied gold house. A half-moon shaped white rod-iron fence guarded the house. Past the gate a green lawn smooth as swans’ down spread. A small forest hid behind the house. The pathways had been overgrown by motherwort and duckweed and the stairway of the empty house was covered with a blanket of flowers that reached to the second floor.
The longer I looked at this home, the more I felt as if it belonged to me. It was just as I had imagined my dream house might be!
In that house, I saw Graham and me, just the two of us. During the day, we would loll about together beneath the hot sun in that grove of trees. In the evening, a boat would take us out to a deserted island. We would lie upon the grass, away from the rest of the world, surrounded only by our own private thoughts. We would stare off into the heavens and imagine our future.
I thought to myself, if it had really been like this, we would have been the two luckiest people in the world.
The Paris of lovers is a place of breathtaking beauty, the air seems crusted with pearl-like dew, and the trees bend and sway together like a well-ironed coiffure.
At the very edge of each dream shines the smile of my Wall Street lover.
2
What kind of dreamland was this? How can I describe the love that seemed to transcend both love and death?
I will only say that that moment is worth a lifetime of waiting. The man of my dreams now sits before me. He is looking at me: It’s the Graham of my dreams. It’s all so clear, so real. His eyes are blue like the Danube River; the scruffy stubble on his chin is like a secret forest from long ago. There I left the imprint of a kiss. I’m resting upon a lush carpet before a raging fire; his naked body presses down upon me and just as the soft hair of his chest touch my body, I sigh softly. I have found the heaven I have longed for.
When woman is with the man she loves, her body is like a darkened forest – thousands of buds begin to open, insects chirp wildly, grass breaks through the surface of the earth, and a thousand leaves speak in muted tones…
The bird of desire slumbered in my body, only to awaken again and again. I loved him more than I had ever loved any other man – more than I loved myself. I saw the emptiness in my eyes, my silent agony. I wanted so to spread my legs and give birth to his child. Amidst anguished cries, our child would be born and the stars would fill the skies in celebration.
This was how it would be with Graham and me. We’d sleep upon that magic carpet in my dreams, awakened every once and again by our desires. Over and over I would open myself to him, climaxing wave upon wave like a string of firecrackers. It felt almost as if we would light the world with the wildness of our desire and color every living thing with our love.
Graham and I shared our nakedness, our deepest desires. With him, I could be a lone spirit. Heat surged through my body like an electric current – each time we were together, I was reborn. Ours was a spectacular kind of sexy – our spirits burned for each other. Each time that feeling overcame me, crashing through my entire body, I felt as if I were literally on fire.
It’s been said that when Abelard and Heloise were in love, they loved in every way possible. A thousand years ago, even ten thousand years ago, men and women were loving each other. Our emotional needs, our sexual desires, they all must be entertained and enjoyed. Only the purity of the flesh can cast off shame and melt our cares away.
My name is Chunjie, or “Purity.” This you have always known. Our love was so pure – and in loving each other, we seemed to sow the seeds of death. Beneath the Paris moonlight our love took us to another place, the spirit of death breathed in the fire of life, and with that fire built a golden temple to our love, a temple made of our flesh and blood, a temple that would reside forever in our souls.
We were joined by the god of love. Even the spirit of death could not separate us. We died in love.
After we seemed to have had enough of each other, he would place his hand upon my secret forest. Quietly, like a living Buddha, he would sit upon the bed statue-like, as if in another world…
Moments later, he would wrap his arms around me and press his legs upon mine to warm me. Once again, his strength would warm me like a burning fire.
“Are you cold?” He would whisper sweetly.
“No. You don’t have to leave again, do you?” I asked anxiously.
He sighed and pulled me closer, then he let go and breathed easily.
He didn’t notice that I had already begun to cry.
“I have to go,” he said.
He knelt by my side for a few minutes, then kissed me with wild abandon. Finally, in the darkness of night, he donned his clothes, and without looking back, made his way miserably out the door…
A wave of sadness rushed over me. I jumped from the bed in pursuit of his shadow.
A faint gray light like that of spirit seemed to make its way across the garden. I called out his name. “Graham, don’t go. Come back. I love you.” Tears streamed from my eyes. Suddenly I heard the tsa-tsa sound of a person making his way through the brush. A great force pulled me forth. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel his hand reach for my secret garden. His cold, wet hand met the warmth of my body.
“Having you is worth dieing for!” He spoke in a scratchy whisper. “If only I could stay here next to you forever…”
When we touched once again, I knew the power of his desire for me. He knew his desire for me as well, but he could curb it.
“Goodbye, my love – until we meet again!”
“When, Graham? When will we meet again? Tell me!”
”There’s no way of telling, but we WILL meet again. Wait, my love!”
“No, Graham, don’t go! Don’t leave me! Hold me! Kiss me! I moaned wildly, unaware of what I was saying.
I closed my eyes and felt Graham wrap me with a mysterious power. Slowly, I calmed in his embrace. He pulsed with desire. We had just made love but he seemed to want more and more. It was as if the sacred blood that flowed through his veins flowed for me, for our love.
Flowers of desire floated in mid-air. His powerful hands, so full of desire, caressed me into the helpless ecstasy, lower and lower…
I couldn’t stop myself. He brought such power with him, lifting me again and again with his lightning rod of desire, until I surrendered in breathless wonder.
I would give him everything – if only at the very moment all the world’s flowers would bloom for my love of him.
He was, after all, heaven-sent. His was a primeval power, a tenderness like that which God first used in creating the world. This was cause for rejoicing!
I felt like a great wave upon the sea, pushing forward, then receding, forward again, then back, until the power within pushed me forth like a giant wave, undulating wildly against the rocks of a lonely abandoned bay. In that ocean, in the depths of my soul, that wave rose and fell, carefree and content. Wave after wave thrust its way into my womanly whirlpool – gently probing, probing, further and further into my ocean world…
How far would the waves of love take us?
Tell me, my love. Tell me! The further in you come, the closer you feel. Yet, with each wave, I seem to flow further and further away. It’s as if something is leaving me, abandoning me, pulling away until suddenly I convulse in ecstasy. You’ve touched the most spectacular part of my existence. Then it’s over, all over. I died with him. I am gone forever.
I’ve been reborn! A new woman has been born.
In that wave of ecstasy, I was transported. My body became one with his, one as the final wave receded. When he finally retreated from my secret garden, unconsciously I cried out, don’t go…
Don’t go! I’m lost…truly lost.
Each time I wake from such a painfully realistic dream, I curl up beneath the covers and cry bitterly like a child whose dream of a fairyland upon wakening has disappeared into the harshness of reality.
Each time I come to, as soon as I’m awake, I realize that my world is dead. I am utterly alone. The familiar streets of Paris are my only friends. They too speak the language of bitter sadness. We speak to each other in hushed voices of miseries and desires, regrets, failures, and the futility of our efforts.
One evening, just as I descended the stairs of a baroque overpass, I suddenly remembered that it was here that Graham had once reached for me and in a trembling voice, begged me never to leave him, regardless of what might happen. He must have had a vision of the future that day.
A few days later, there we were once again at DeGaulle Airport by the departure gate. He would soon board a flight that would take him far from me. Three hours later, I would make my way back to Japan. I recall that he was the last passenger to board that day. He turned back as he passed through the gate and our eyes locked until we could no longer see each other.
Every time we said goodbye it was like this. His face overcome by sadness, he would hold me as if he never wanted to let go.
Now, we’re separated by heaven and earth. He has found eternity. I am left to wander these streets.
3
The River Seine flows quietly. Perhaps for Parisians she is a given, an unimportant element of their everyday lives. Only an outsider like me would follow her flow as I have.
As I look out over her expanse, I am in awe of her greatness. For thousands of years, this has been her home. All of life’s vicissitudes are reflected in her waters; like an artery in the lives of her people, she flows. In wonder, I ascend to the top of a small hill. Once again, I look out over the purview and take in the significance of all that I see.
The sun is slowly slipping beneath the horizon. It feels as if this river flows through my recently moistened body. How many secrets does she possess? Surrounded by warm motherly hills, she is protected by the heavens. Her path has been predetermined.
High above the bustle, sit rows of burial mounds. The setting sun reflects off each stone. The river flows slowly, like time she stops for no one. Each time I pass by the river Seine, something calls to me: from now on whenever I pass along this bridge, I will be alone. The Seine will be my eternal lover.
All alone, I can only think, if life is truly paramount, then I’ll live. But this sort of life has to end. I can’t take it any more. My back is to the wall; I cannot go back. My spirit has dies; only my body remains, dancing lightly in mid-air with fate.
Amidst the pain and recovery, surrounded by endless suffering, in which direction can I wonder?
I dread reality. I avoid reality. Each time I think of Graham, my world trembles – I fall into an endless dreamscape. At dream’s edge reside sadness, delirium, delight, and wild chaos. I stand at the river’s edge and lose myself in the mirage before me.
I push back my hair and bathe my face in the moonlight. I look out across the city and rest my eyes upon each differently shaped building.
I think to myself, I have my own house. I could even buy any house I wanted in Paris. But I’ve never had a home, never.
My home is not of this world – it’s in the next.
Chapter 9: A Magic Egyptian Carpet
One afternoon, I sat upon the artist’s sofa thumbing through an album of paintings. Before long, I drifted off to sleep. I remember dreaming of Graham. We made love again and again, dancing like spirits, fluttering about like angels, moaning like restless ghosts – we dwelled in a wild place somewhere between reality and dreamland.
When I awoke, I was alone in the room. My entire body had gone numb and I was exhausted from the excitement of my dream.
Silence surrounded me – the artist must have gone out for a walk alone.
I stood up and noticed something fall to the floor.
I bent down to pick it up – it was a carpet. The artist must have covered me with it before he went out to keep me warm.
I wasn’t sure why, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the carpet. My hand brushed across the soft pile; it was so smooth and soft as silk. I was reminded of my dream – then suddenly it came to me – no wonder this carpet seemed so familiar!
Could this be the magic Egyptian carpet of my dreams?
Five years earlier, Graham and I had visited Egypt. We bought all sorts of mementos in a shop near the pyramids.
Just as we exited the store, we noticed a group of Japanese tourists crowded into a tiny rug shop next door. I stuck my head in and was astonished to find all four walls covered in white rugs.
I asked a Japanese man what made these carpets so special that he would be willing to carry such a large thing back to Japan. He gave me a hazy smile, then told me that not only do they keep you cozy, but they have special powers.
At that, I grabbed Graham by the arm and walked away. Japanese claimed everything had special powers. I remember a few years back there was a Qigong massage bed on the market in Japan that sold for 300,000 yen, or three thousand dollars. Everybody wanted one. Supposedly, the bed could cure illnesses, strengthen your skeleton, make women more beautiful, and, of course, make your “better in bed.” A few years later, the fad had waned, no one seemed any better off, and no one had been cured of what ailed him. Hospitals were still full of sick patients.
Egyptian cotton may have been famous, but carrying a carpet such a distance was inconvenient, so we didn’t bother battling the Japanese tourists.
Soon though, both Graham and I regretted our decision. I still remember his sitting in the business class cabin of Egypt Air – he made a fist and grumbled that had he known Egyptian carpets were so valuable, even if they were heavy as a mountain, he would have carried one home.
On the plane, we read a story about how Egyptian carpets became so famous.
The story goes that long ago, the second daughter of the King of Egypt, Princess Yaqu', had a face that could launch a thousand ships. The King had promised her hand in marriage to a wealthy neighboring King. Yaqu', however, was already in love with an Egyptian knight.
On the day she departed with her wedding entourage, Yaqu' sat high upon her horse crying bitterly beneath her cloak. She was surrounded by dozens of guards on horseback. Her knight rode hidden among the entourage, full of bitterness himself. His hand formed a fist and his eyes were circled in angry red, but he was no match for the King. There was nothing he could do.
Hoof prints dotted the sand as the entourage made its way across the desert.
They stopped to rest, came down from their horses, and ate and drank. Only Princess Yaqu' remained on her horse, fast asleep. A woman made her way over to Yaqu' and covered her lightly with a carpet to ward off the chill – then she walked away.
The entourage continued on its journey. Yaqu' was awakened by a sudden feeling of warmth. She turned to look behind her and found her handsome knight riding with her, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Yaqu' couldn’t believe her eyes. They held each other tightly and kissed……
The carpet that had covered Yaqu' was a magic carpet. It had been created over thousands of years by an immortal using threads of desire from all over the world. Anyone who was lucky enough to be covered with the carpet would be rewarded a lifetime with the one she loved most in the world. To the unwary eye however, it looked like a regular run-of-the-mill white carpet.
Graham promised me that day that he would return to Egypt and buy one of those carpets. He was always so busy though – he worked as crazily as they lovers beneath the carpet had loved each other, without end. Slowly, I forgot about the carpet and left the folk tale behind in the sands of Egypt.
How could the carpet be covering me now?
Could it be that Graham up in heaven never forgot his promise to me here on earth? Could it be that this terribly disfigured artist is my Graham after all? I’m growing more and more confused. It’s as if I’m locked in a darkened room, unable to find the exit.
I sat absently on the sofa with my hand upon the carpet. I’m not sure how much time passed. Time no longer meant anything to me. By the time the artist returned, dusk was descending.
“Bella, why haven’t you turned on a light?” That was his first question upon entering the room.
I sat still as a statue in the darkness, as if I hadn’t heard his question.
It was only when he stopped in front of me and handed me a warm package that I came to.
“I know you haven’t eaten, so I bought you a hamburger. It’s still hot – eat up. I’ll go get you a drink.” He walked toward the refrigerator as he spoke.
I couldn’t move.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”
“I’m fine,” I finally replied.
“I want you to answer a question for me. Where did you get this carpet?” I looked directly at him.
“What carpet?” he asked curiously.
“The one you covered me with.” I lifted the carpet a bit from my legs.
“Oh, just as I was about to leave, I realized that you had fallen asleep. I was afraid that you’d catch cold, so I covered you with the carpet.”
“I know that. What I want to know is where you got the carpet.”
“I don’t know. I just found it on the bed. I didn’t notice it before. I thought it was yours. Isn’t it?”
“You have to tell me the truth. Today…Now.”
“Bella, what are you talking about? The truth about what? I’m sorry. I can only remember Anandi, the young Indian girl who gave me her virgin’s scarf. I can’t remember anything else.”
“No, no, you have to remember. Look closely at this carpet. Haven’t you see it before? Let me jog your memory. Five years ago, in a shop by the pyramids in Egypt, didn’t you and your fiancée see a carpet like this? The owner of the shop was a woman with a flowered headdress. There was a crowd of Japanese tourists bargaining in hopes of purchasing a carpet.”
“What are you talking about? Egyptian pyramids? I think I’ve been there before.” He wrinkled his brow as he tried to remember. “What? You remember? Really? You remember?” I jumped up from the sofa and tried again to jog his memory: “Right, we visited the Egyptian pyramids. First, we went to Jerusalem and walked hand-in-hand along the River Jordan. We even stood before the stable where Jesus was born……I was baptized in those waters. Then we swam in the Dead Sea. Do you remember? I can’t swim, but because the water was so salty, I floated upon the surface. We tossed and turned beneath the light of the stars and the moon. Remember?” My heart filled with joy. If he could recall everything, then he really is my Graham. I’ll be the luckiest woman on earth. I’ll show the world my miracle. My love has moved the heavens. God couldn’t take him from me. He’s returned him to my side.
“Bella, other than my blurry recollection of the pyramids, I can’t recall anything else.”
The happiness stood still in midair, unwilling to move, unwilling to dissipate.
“Bella, I think I should introduce you to a friend of mine. He’s a well-known Parisian psychologist, Robert is his name. I see him twice a week. He’s been helping me get my memory back. You seem to have some issues that he might be able to help you with,” he said.
As I listened, I was filled with anger. I threw the carpet in his direction, then screamed, “I don’t have issues. I don’t need a psychologist. I realize that I may seem as if I’ve lost my mind, but did you ever think about why I’ve become like this? Isn’t it all because of you? I dream of you constantly. Now I’ve found you, but you can’t remember anything. You’ve forgotten a love so profound and instead you use your memories of India and Anandi to tease me. You’re the cause of my issues. I won’t lie to you – there’s another man who’s in love with me. He’s an American named John. At this very moment, he’s sitting in our home in Toronto waiting for me! I’ve hurt him again and again, all for you. On Christmas Eve, he flew back just to be with me, but what did I do? I let him down. Like a ghost I flew to Paris and left him home alone listening to the sad song “Casablanca.” Today you had better tell me the truth – are you or are you not Graham?! If you say you’re not, then I’ll pack my bags and leave. I just need to hear you say it, or show me something to prove that you’re not him. What is your name? Tell me. Tell me!
I was out of control. I was screaming and crying at the same time. I just wanted to hear him say it. I was on the verge of a breakdown and I needed to know who he was. Without a word from him, I couldn’t, simply couldn’t abandon this dream.
“Bella, I hate myself. Really. I just don’t know. I can’t remember anything. I don’t even know my own name. Dr. Robert told me that my name is Fontainebleau. God! What an awkward-sounding name. When people here in the hotel call my by name, half the time I don’t answer. What is wrong with me? How could I have become such a creature? Look at me. Am I not frightening to behold? Come here. Come with me over here to the mirror. Let me tell you who I am.” The artist led me by the shoulders to the mirror.
“Bella, who do you see? Who is this monstrosity of a person? Who is it? I’m even uglier than Quasimodo once was as he rang the bells of Notre Dame!” He shook me wildly, then sent his fist through the mirror. The class cracked. He could no longer control himself and punched the wall again and again. Shards of glass fell around us.
His hand began to bleed……
I dared not make a sound. I was already scared to death. The minute I thought he wasn’t paying attention, I ran out the door.
I entered my own room and locked the door behind me. I leaned against the door, my face drained of all color. It felt as if I were still holding something in my hands. I looked down and saw that I was still holding on to the carpet.
I lie down upon the bed, still holding the carpet.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Graham came to me. He held me just as the Egyptian knight once held his princess……
In an instant, I was surrounded by beauty. With a blue moon above us and a vast desert before us, we traveled in love’s direction. We abandoned the material world for a better place. On the beach at dusk, on the boundless desert, in the forest beneath the moon, on our own private yacht, and upon the waters of the Dead Sea, I rode upon Graham’s back mile after mile after mile.
We couldn’t get enough of each other……
“I finally managed to place that carpet upon you that you’ve wanted for so long. I worried that I hadn’t fulfilled that promise, but with the power of the gods, I’m finally able to give you the carpet.”
“Is it really from you?” I gasped.
“Yes. Each time you hold it in your arms, we’ll be together in spirit.”
“That’s not enough. I want more than to be with you in spirit. I want you to stay – or take me with you.”
“We’ve always been together, my love. We’ve never been apart. We have our own celestial pavilion somewhere between heaven and earth. The carpet is our sky and our earth – when it covers you and when you lie upon it……when you feel the bud of your desire blossoming, turn towards the sky and let the light of heaven shine down upon your face. Let God rest his hand on your shoulder, then we will be one. You’ll see angels and spirits, like firecrackers light the sky, joining all the powers of heaven and earth……”
Graham’s voice echoed in my ear, then like smoke or fog, it faded away……
2
I hammered a nail into the wall in my room and hung the mysterious carpet upon it.
If instead I kept it near me, on top of me or beneath me, Graham would come again and once again, we’d……well, you know……
Graham seemed to be everywhere. “We’re always together. We’ve never been apart. We live in our celestial pavilion, somewhere between heaven and earth.”
Yet, when I’m thinking clearly and misery is my closest friend, I know then that Graham is gone – and that heaven is beyond my grasp.
Originally, I had just about given up on the artist. I couldn’t stay here any longer. This would mean the end of my life. The possibility that he was actually Graham had decreased substantially. I had discovered a clue – whenever the artist was around French people, he spoke perfect French. Graham’s French, however, was extremely limited.
I had heard that amnesia can cause loss of language, but I had never heard that a person suffering from amnesia might suddenly be able to speak a foreign language.
My theory was quickly upended.
I saw a news report about a construction worker in Brussels who fell from the third floor of a building. He was in a coma for some time. When he came to, he had no memory of his past, but oddly enough, he could speak another language fluently. It was his grandmother’s native tongue, Polish. According to his wife, he lived for two years during his childhood with his grandmother in Warsaw. He later came to Brussels with his parents and never spoke Polish again. He surely must have forgotten it.
Of course, none of this really matters. The story I ought to tell you has to do with the artist himself. I was shocked – it threw my mind into absolute chaos, then brought me back to reality. My hallucinations were growing more and more serious. I was losing my mind.
This is what happened.
I was in the library one day, flipping through an American Business magazine, when my eyes came to rest on just one page.
Suddenly I couldn’t focus. My eyes filled with stars, then the tears began to fall……
The magazine article was about the members of Cantor Fitzgerald Securities Investments who had perished on September 11.
My eyes rested upon the scruffy beard and the bright blue eyes……
I brought the magazine back to the hotel with me. That afternoon, I donned a pair of earphones to listen to music. I heard a knock at the door, so I went to open it.
The artist stood at the door holding a beverage can. “Bella, I just had a can of this tea. It’s excellent. I bought a can for you as well. Try it!” He handed me the can, then entered my room.
The Chinese characters on the brown can were all too familiar – Oolong tea. I was shocked – this was Graham’s favorite tea. The first time we went to Tokyo he noticed all the advertisements that claimed that Oolong tea could help you lose weight – he was thrilled. He was always complaining that he was gaining weight around the middle, but he couldn’t curb his addiction to steak. He drank Oolong like there was no tomorrow.
Now this artist likes Oolong tea too.
The artist sat down upon the sofa, picked up the magazine I had borrowed from the library, and began rather nonchalantly thumbing through. I reclined on the bed, drinking Oolong and listening to music. Both of us had psychological problems, but in each other’s presence, we were quite comfortable. We didn’t bother with decorum. It was as if we knew each other intimately.
I was listening to an album entitled “Brothers in Arms” by one of my favorite British bands, The Cure. Robert Smith could create a spectacular image with his voice: “A lonely child walking along the seaside.” I closed my eyes and lost myself in the heartbreaking melody.
It seemed that the faster Smith sang, the better his singing became. Like a heavenly steed soaring across the skies, his voice rose and fell with power. At certain moments, he seemed almost to be poking fun at the melody – his voice seemed to traverse between singing and chanting, as if on wings.
To professional singers, chanting isn’t considered singing. But every once in a while, the chanting captures some spiritual subtlety and expresses desires that singing cannot. When it plucks at that painful string, I can’t help but be pulled in……
I’m falling, more and more deeply, if heaven is just a miserable dream, then let me fall. Maybe the further I fall, the less painful life will be.
Lost in the beauty of Smith’s voice, I stole a glance at the artist. Something didn’t seem right – the magazine was open and he was staring in shock at the page.
I forgot the music for a moment and walked over to him.
“What’s the matter?” I asked with concern.
“Bella, look! I think that’s me. I was handsome once, just like that. I had several mirrors in my home and I remember humming a tune and shaving before the mirror. A lot of girls liked me. But now look at me……” He pointed toward one of the pictures of the September 11 casualties and screamed that Graham was him.
I thought I would lose it.
“What did you just say? You’re him? I felt as if my heart would jump from my throat.
“I think so. I’m pretty sure it’s me!”
“So you can remember what you looked like?” I thought to myself, a while back, I showed him a photo of Graham, but he had no reaction at all. Now he’s remembering – I’m helping him remember!
“I sort of remember, but nothing’s very clear. It’s just like when I saw my reflection in the mirror, when I was that terrible image in the mirror. When I saw the rough beard I thought maybe it could be me – I remember shaving in the mirror – that memory keeps coming back.”
Graham’s smiling face flashed before my eyes.
I knelt before him, like a young Japanese wife might kneel in obeisance before her new husband.
“Look at me – I’m going to help you remember. Listen to me, you’re Graham.”
“No, I’m not Graham. Dr. Robert says I’m Fontainebleau,” the artist said with determination.
“Look, look at this photo. He’s you, right? But he’s also Graham!”
“No, I’m Fontainebleau. I have idea if I was once him. I’ll ask Dr. Robert. He knows all about my past.” He stopped short, then suddenly added, “No, Bella, I must be wrong. He’s not me. He’s definitely not me. He died on September 11. Look – it says it right here – list of the victims.”
“You’re right. It’s a list of the victims – but I think he escaped the flames at the last moment.”
“Really?”
“Could be.”
“So his face could have been burned like mine?” the artist asked with his eyes.
“Of course, of course!” I was growing agitated.
“God! Could he have amnesia? You mean it could be me? No, no, Bella, don’t think like this. You’re scaring me……I’m telling you, I’m not Graham. My name is Fontainebleau. We have different names. If this Graham is still alive, you have to find him. Don’t waste your precious time on me.”
“I……I……” I didn’t know what to say.
We both fell silent……
At dusk from my window, I could see an elliptical fortress in the distance.
The artist said to himself, “That’s an insane asylum.” He smiled strangely……
The dream returned – for a moment I thought I was standing with Graham in a long corridor. On the wall hung a magic carpet.
There really isn’t much of a difference between dreams and reality – between sleeping and waking, a heavenly lover takes possession of my body.
Chapter 10 Nude
I undressed and slowly moved into the ray of light coming through the window. My arms crossed naturally across my chest. I looked around me, expecting to catch his eye. When our eyes met, it was as if a piece of glass was smashed by a heavy hammer.
Perhaps once those terribly disfigured eyes laid eyes upon my gorgeous body, even more beautiful memories would come rushing back.
I knew that sitting upon the sofa like this, I was like a vision in an oil painting – there’s no need to add any detail here. My full, black hair cascaded across my shoulders; my jade-like skin sang warmly. He followed the rise and fall of my collarbone. A nerve pulsed in the hollow of my throat.
On the canvas in the artist’s eyes, red was the only color, an excited red. I was excited – my inner spirit had already flown from the window. In my dream, I could see Graham. At this very moment, he was looking at the same jade-like body that had once made him burn with desire……
The artistry of my naked beauty brought him closer to me. Was he remembering something? The part of my naked body that drew the eye was of course my two erect breasts, like two heavenly female peaks looking down over the valley. My narrow waist and rounded buttocks were just as the artist had imagined. My perfect head, sat proudly upon two perfect shoulders.
He wrinkled his brow – a habit of his. Whenever he was thinking about something, this is what he did. Come to think of it, most artists do this – the characters portrayed in their paintings could be found in different poses with all sorts of expressions, but artists all looked the same. Their foreheads seemed forever furrowed.
Two weeks later, the painting was complete.
The life-sized portrait was especially vivid and life-like. It was an absolute masterpiece, full of warm, womanly colors and jade-like tones. The artist had managed to capture every enchanting element of his Eastern model. I was most shocked by the melancholy face in the picture. A few simple lines created a nose and a mouth full of desire.
I stared at the painting for what seemed like forever – my eyes filled with tears. Doesn’t this familiar figure jog your memory at all? I turned my tear-filled eyes toward him, walked in his direction, then on sudden impulse I planted a tender kiss on the tidy black mole by his ear – that little mole that I had kissed so many times. He stepped back in shock – I could no longer control myself. I fell into his arms and held him tightly.
“Graham, Graham, is it true that you can’t remember me? I’m your fiancée, the one you called your Wall Street bride. We were to be married in Trinity Church on September 11, but then……Don’t you remember? We stayed here the time we visited Paris. It was right here on this bed that we spent all those unforgettable nights. You know, you have to know – otherwise, how did you end up here, in this faraway place and this exact room? I know you’ve been through a disaster. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I only want you, I only love you……” Tears fell as I spoke, until I broke down sobbing.
He tried to comfort me by rubbing my trembling shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, Bella, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He calmly tried to push me away.
At that moment, I threw open my robe, pulled up his sweatshirt, and lay down upon him, skin-to-skin. God, he was so hot – I could feel the fireworks at the center of his body. Soon that heat spread to his legs……
But with all his strength, he turned his head, pulled away, and left.
When he turned back, I was crouched in anguish upon the carpet. “I’m sorry. Maybe if you just tell me that story again, if I just have some time to think about it…” He knelt down before me.
I said nothing. I could only stare blankly, then I reached my two hands out and wrapped them behind his waist. I could feel the desire burning within him, even stronger than before.
He stared at me with a look of utter fear. I turned away and cried in a fit of misery. At that, his heart suddenly melted. He reached out and laid his hand upon my knee. I placed my hand at the very center of his desire – the artist trembled wildly beneath my touch.
I looked into his eyes, hoping for some hint of recognition. There was nothing, nothing, even now, at such a passionate moment, he doesn’t recognize me.
Who was I once?
Where have I come from? Where am I headed?
I couldn’t take it any more. I stood up with a start and headed for the door, then returned to my room. I slammed the door behind me, slipped out of my nightgown, and stared at my body in the mirror. I’m not sure what I was looking for. I pulled open the curtains and allowed the natural light to flow in and cover my body.
Through teary eyes, I looked upon this naked body that Graham had forgotten – and I no longer recognized it. I gazed at her. How weak she was, so easily hurt!
I followed the curve of her body downward – such snow-white, silky skin and such a splendid body.
As women’s bodies go, this one was sheer perfection. Two erect breasts – two little mountains standing tall in a wild wind, mature and slightly sweet. Her tiny stomach was rounded and smooth, and full of hope. A little further down, was that rose-colored bud with the texture of newly hewn porcelain.
My Wall Street lover had once adored every inch of this body. But he no longer recognizes me, he no longer recognizes the body that he once burned for. Perhaps he is truly dead. He’s been gone for almost a year and a half.
Time has flown by so quickly! He’s been gone for almost a year and a half! He once loved it so when I would begin at the base of his back and work my way up…the fullness of my buttocks opening and closing upon him. The Arabs call them sand dunes, soft, they descend upon that favored place…that wild, fresh desire – such true and unbridled love!
I wrapped myself in my bathrobe, fell upon the bed, and cried for what seemed like forever.
2
I was lost in my own silent dream world. Tomorrow seemed so far away. I knew that I was close to a complete breakdown. Each time I ventured out into the sunlight, I was reminded that Graham had most definitely perished. He couldn’t possibly be the deformed artist in the Villa. Yet, each time I entered my darkened hotel room, I would imagine that the artist across the hall was indeed Graham. I so hoped that he would remember…in my dreams, I could feel Graham beside me, inside me; I could smell the scent of him……
I thought about leaving Paris and returning to John, to that sad song, “Casablanca.” But those thoughts were always quickly buried by my greater desire to find Graham. I couldn’t find a way out – and reality had become my enemy. I had turned my cell phone off, refusing any contact with the outside world. The morning I arrived in Paris, I had called John, but since then, we hadn’t spoken.
I placed the artist’s life-like portrait of my five-foot seven-inch nude body across from my bed. I often sat upon the bed facing her, in silent conversation with her.
“Bella, do you think that terribly ugly artist is really Graham?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing. Is he?”
“Sometimes I think he definitely is; but at other times, I’m sure he’s not.”
“Well, when do you think he is?”
“When I’m confused,” I answered. To be honest, this was most of the time.
“Bella, here’s what you should do – all you have to do is make love to him once and you’ll know for sure. Women know these things,” Bella in the painting told me.
“But Bella, we never seem to get to that moment. I mean, making love is one of the most basic elements of life. Beautiful women have been known to fall in love with wild beasts, right? So why are we waiting for that special ‘moment’…but when I’m with him, I don’t feel like a woman facing a man. I’ve almost deified him. I’ve tried – on that very bed that Graham and I once shared. More than once, I’ve spread my body before him, legs open, with nothing but a mini skirt keeping him from heaven. He could have easily entered that secret garden. Any other man would have taken advantage of the opportunity long ago. Each time though, I feel terribly wronged and before long, the tears begin to flow. I’ve always been the object of men’s affections, from my young Japanese lover, to the love of my life, Graham. All of them would have died for me. None of them could let go of me; on after the other, they lost themselves in me, falling deeper and deeper, falling even to their deaths……
But now, this man who may very well be one of the most ugly men on earth, feels nothing for me. My self-confidence has been terribly wounded. I almost want to scream, You monster. Who do you think you are? Do you really think you’re Graham? Go to hell. Do you want me to show you Graham’s photo? He was the most handsome man in the entire world. Have you seen the Oscar-winning actor Russell Crowe? Well, he looks just like him – a scruffy beard, spectacular eyes…I sometimes even fantasize that I’m a warrior like the woman in Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon and I show him what a Chinese martial artist is truly capable of……
But I controlled myself, again and again. It was as if I almost worshipped him. I imagined that by lying upon his bed, I could titillate him enough to make him remember. Then he would climb upon me wildly as Graham had once done. Those desires came and went in a split second though; more often, I seemed to love him as I might love God. Over and over, I was hurt, then something would happen to heal my wound and that same old love would flow again in my heart. Everything I laid my eyes on appeared beautiful to me. He was no longer deformed, but had been transformed into an adorable spirit for whom I would have given the world……
”But Bella, you have to figure out whether he is or isn’t Graham! You need to go on living. If he is Graham, then stand by him, but if he isn’t, then you must change direction. Have you forgotten that John, who loves you very much, is waiting for you in Toronto? Didn’t you promise to give him a son or a daughter? Didn’t you once plan to spend the next twenty years of your life loving him?”
“You’re right. I can’t go on like this forever. Perhaps when I finally come to, it will all be over. But you must realize that all of this is out of my control – it’s as if there’s something pulling me along – and I can’t let go. You’re right. I have to find a way out of this. Bella, you’ve got to help me solve this. I’m begging you.” I stared hopelessly into the eyes of the lady in the painting. I was completely alone – she was my only hope.
She no longer spoke. I could tell she was deep in thought. Melancholy lined her face – she had obviously suffered a great deal.
One evening after a few glasses of red wine, I fell off to sleep. At around midnight, I could hear someone crying somewhere in my room – her voice was seared by misery – I was scared awake by her moaning. I turned on the light, but there was no one else in the room. I thought that perhaps I had been dreaming, so I turned off the light and went back to sleep. But as soon as I lie back down, the same sobbing filled the room once again – and the louder the crying grew, the more miserable it seemed until the person seemed choked with misery. I turned the light on once again and looked in every corner of the room, but still nothing. What could be happening? Was I hallucinating? I went to the bathroom, then returned to bed. In the darkness, the crying began again. One moment it sounded as if it were coming from right next to me, the next moment it seemed to come from the opposite wall. I didn’t bother turning the light on again – I got out of bed and searched the room by the light of the moon. Again, nothing but the hopeless miserable sound of crying. As I walked past the painting, the Bella in the painting seemed to be crying. Tears the color of blood flowed from her eyes. I searched for the light switch, hoping to get a better look, but with the light on, the Bella in the painting was as always, looking off into the distance……
I quickly turned the light off, then asked, “Bella, Bella, tell me, what’s the matter?”
With a troubled voice she replied, “I’m so sad for you, so very sad for you. That deformed artist is not Graham.”
“How do you know?”
“The spirit has told me, and asked me to tell you. Leave him. Graham is at God’s side. Without doubt, he died on September 11 and ascended to heaven.”
Tears poured from my eyes and a sharp pain pierced my soul. My dream world came crashing down around me in a matter of seconds. My body went limp and I collapsed upon the floor.
I’m not sure how much later, but eventually I was woken by a knock at the door. I opened my groggy eyes, gave them a rub, then made my way to the door.
There were two people – the hotel manager, we had met before, and another tall, powerful-looking man in a suit with a very calm manner about him.
“Bella, I’m sorry to disturb you. Would that be all right? He’s the guest across the hall’s psychologist.”
After thanking the manager, the doctor entered my room. I ran to the bathroom to fix myself up a bit.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Robert. And you would be Bella?” He smiled as he greeted me.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you, especially during the past few days. My patient has mentioned you often. He’s asked that I help him remember how you came to be a part of his life. He’s pushed himself very close to the edge trying to remember. I’m afraid he’s come close to a breakdown. Bella, are you sure that he was once a part of your life?”
I was at a complete loss and knew not what to say to him.
“Dr. Robert, I think I should become your patient as well.”
“No, no, no. We’re friends.” He didn’t seem to look at me as a patient, but instead he looked at me in a way that brought him very close to my heart.
“Bella, how about this – let’s not talk about the artist. Tell me everything – ask whatever you wish, tell me what’s bothering you. Send all of your troubles in my direction, how about that? Come, my child, talk to me.”
I nodded and like a child, did as I was told.
“Well, this is how it is. I’m Chinese from Shanghai, but I was living in New York. I didn’t work, nor was I a student. I was content to be a housewife for my American fiancé – he worked on Wall Street. Oh, and his name was Graham. You must have heard about what happened on September 11. That was the worst day of my life. I was to be married that day at 10am. Do you know why we chose that day to get married? Because it was on that same day twelve years ago that we had met. Chinese live their lives in cycles of twelve years. The twelfth year of each cycle means new beginnings. Graham was off that day, so under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have had to go to his office in the north tower of the World Trade Center. He could have avoided the disaster, but it just wasn’t meant to be. On our way to the church, we held each other and kissed – a bit of my lipstick stained his white bow tie. At that very moment, the car just happened to be passing by his office building. He remembered that he had another white tie in his office so he ran into change. According to American tradition, even couples that were already living together like us should have gone separately to the church on our wedding day. The bride should be brought to the church by her parents and her father is the one to escort her down the aisle, then give her away to her groom……but I had not relatives in New York. My groom couldn’t bear to think of me making my way to the church alone, so he forgot about American custom, and instead as Chinese do, he joined his bride on the ride to the wedding. Once he left for the office though, he never returned. He disappeared in the World Trade Center inferno……
For quite a long time, I was in a terrible state. I blamed myself. It felt as if my love for Graham had been a crime. Four months after the disaster I returned home to Shanghai. I had decided to end my misery-filled existence in the same place where my life had once begun.
“In a room of the Peace Hotel in Shanghai, I slit my wrists, but I was rescued by an American named John. Oh that’s right, I haven’t mentioned him yet. I met John on the flight from New York to Shanghai. Both his son and his daughter had perished on September 11. Perhaps it was part of God’s plan for him to be with me on that fateful day. John and I fell in love and with his care, I began to live again. I decided to write my story in a book. On the one-year anniversary of September 11, Celestial Wedding was published. I dedicated the book to Graham and the other victims of September 11.
I traveled to Norway to recover and there I found that temple in my soul – my secret garden. John and I were deeply in love, but that calm didn’t last long. Just as we were planning to begin a family, one dream after another began disrupting my life. Each dream seemed more true to life than the life itself. In my dreams, Graham told me that he hadn’t died, but that he had amnesia and his face has been terribly disfigured by the flames. I asked him where he was. He murmured that he was in the Villa Bella in Paris, where we had once stayed. At first, I didn’t believe it. I thought I was just imagining things. But each time I remembered the things Graham had told me in previous dreams, I had to wonder. In one dream, he told me he had sent me one final message before dieing. I opened my laptop and sure enough, there was his final e-mail. The second time, he told me to visit Norway to recover – and that’s where I found my secret garden (That’s when I finished my second novel, Bella’s Secret Garden).”
“So I came here, thinking that even if I came for nothing it would have been worth it. My intuition told me that the awfully deformed artist, your patient, had to be Graham. When I was thinking clearly, I knew he couldn’t be. I sometimes wondered if although Graham’s body had died, perhaps his spirit had entered the artist’s body. Then as the artist slept, Graham would leave his body to visit me in my dreams, to be with me always. Could this be possible? I embarked upon a period of utter confusion. This illness began to destroy me. I had abandoned all reality and had next to no contact with the outside world. No one knew where I was or what I was doing. I wanted the artist to provide me with proof, but he couldn’t remember anything. He couldn’t even remember which country he was from. (He even called himself “Fontainebleau” – you told him that was his name.) He could only recall traveling to India when he was in college. What was I supposed to do? There were so many things about him that reminded me of Graham: his height and his body, the tiny mole by his ear, his voice, even the blueness of those eyes that had been so deformed……
My voice was calm. My eyes rested upon the opposite wall – I saw nothing but images of the artist and Graham floating in and out of my consciousness. Their black-and-white spirits traveled in and out of my purview at will.
Dr. Robert listened closely, then spoke warmly: “Bella, I’m so very sorry for your loss. I’m even more moved by the love that you and Graham shared. What I want to say is, you’ve got to go back home, return to the life you knew. You might consider having a baby. Many of my female patients seem to find normalcy once they’re mothers. You might consider taking up writing again. You might discover that your writing will help you discern between reality and the world of your imagination. I realize that quite often writers need confusion to feed their creativity, but in order to live you have to leave that imaginary world sometimes.”
“But Dr. Robert, you haven’t solved my problem – with all you know about the artist, do you think he could be my Graham?”
“Bella, my dear child, Graham is in heaven. His spirit should have been able to rest peacefully, but because you couldn’t let go here on earth, his spirit has been left in limbo, constantly searching for you……he’s like a kite that should have floated lightly up to heaven, but because you’re still here on earth holding tightly to the string, he can only float in midair. He can’t bet to heaven and he can’t return to the human world. Listen to me, please, you have to dig yourself out of the past. Life is short. You’ll meet again some day in a bigger place. Then with the blessings of God, you’ll spend eternity together……right now though, you need to live your life. Have children and raise them well. Be a good wife and mother – and live a good, happy life. You need to let Graham’s spirit find peace. The only way to do this is to let yourself be happy. If you can be content here on earth, he’ll be content in heaven. Loosen your fist, my child, let go of that string you’ve been holding so tightly. Yes, just like that. Let that kite fly freely……” Dr. Robert held my right hand and gestured.
“Dr. Robert, you’re sure that the artist isn’t Graham?”
“Perhaps there is no need for me to answer that question. Except for you, there’s not another person in this world who believes he is.”
“Why not?”
“You know what an American accent sounds like. Was Graham such a highly skilled artist? Haven’t you heard him speak in his native French?”
“Then how do you explain all the similarities to Graham? His height, the tiny mole by his ear, his voice, even those ocean-blue eyes that still shine through his disfigured face……”
“Those characteristics aren’t uncommon. And in your current state of confusion, eyes, noses, even your feelings are confused and murky. Why is it that in the light of a Paris day, you can be sure that Graham is dead? Believe in that moment and you’ll be fine.”
“But he always reappears in my dreams.”
“It’s not Graham who returns; it’s you who can’t let go. Like I just said, his body is gone, but his spirit remains. That spirit does as you ask. If you don’t let him go, he won’t leave you. It’s that simple. But he’s already in heaven. You’ve robbed him of peace, forced him to float in limbo……”
I didn’t say anything else. I had reached a moment of utter hopelessness. My eyes were dark and empty, but I didn’t cry, no tears appeared. I simply sat facing Dr. Robert, his broad face and kind eyes, his strong nose and thin lips, his perfectly straight teeth…slowly Dr. Robert disappeared from my view. In his place, I saw a cloud of sparks disperse, then join to form fiery flames that shot out in all directions. I didn’t want to move. I let the flames reflect in my eyes, singe my hair, swallow me whole. I entered a state of utter happiness. I opened myself fully and danced like a phoenix reborn from the flames……
The real me collapsed into a pile of ashes; my spirit was finally able to leave my body and follow Graham to heaven.
That night, it rained wildly in Paris. That was my final night in Paris. I stayed awake all night. I walked to the window, opened it wide, and let the aroma of rain flow in. I stuck my head out the window and let the rain wash over me. Then all the tears that I had held in during the day poured from my eyes. I looked towards the heavens and wailed. Goodbye, my heaven; Goodbye, my Graham……
Just as the sun was about to rise in Paris, I could hear the words of Emily Dickinson in my ears:
If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching
Or cool one Pain
Or help one fainting Robin
Unto his Nest again
I shall not live in Vain.
Finally, I had let go of the misery, calmed my sadness, and helped my little bird once again find her nest.
From early times, stories have always had a certain inherent power. They help us understand, they help us make changes. What a sagely process! They connect the past, the present, and the future. Understanding this process and celebrating one’s recovery is most important. The anthropologist Jean Halifax researched tribal societies and discovered that myths and folktales are connectors. They connect culture with nature, the self with the other, and the living and the dead – and in the process they make the world one.”
Just as the fearful soldier in Marco Polo could enter the body of the tiny sage and see the entire world, I could finally see the world in my own story.
Chapter 11: The Disappearing Forest
I had finally returned to sunny Toronto and our apartment by the lake.
In my arms, I carried a bouquet of orchids, John’s favorite. I had bought them in the airport flower store. I couldn’t stop thinking while in the taxi – how would I explain my sudden disappearance on Christmas Eve?
He knew of course that I had gone to Paris.
I remember calling him on Christmas, once I had arrived in Paris. I dialed him up from a pay phone in the empty arrival hall at DeGaulle Airport. All I could manage to say was “John, I’m so sorry, so very sorry to have left you alone at Christmas. I’ve just arrived in Paris. There’s something very important that I must take care of. Don’t worry – as soon as I’m done, I’ll return home. Wait for me…” I couldn’t go on. Misery forced tears to my eyes. Without waiting for an answer, I hung up the phone.
I hadn’t been thinking subjectively when I left for Paris. I had lost all will. I felt as if I were being blown about like a leaf in the wind.
I opened the door, but there was no trace of John. The entire living room was full of fresh flowers. Bouquets of roses graced every surface. They seemed lifeless though, wilting this way and that, their petals just about to fall.
Suddenly, it came to me that each wilted blossom was a reminder of John waiting night after night for my return. I could imagine him, late at night, unable to sleep, sitting pensively upon the balcony with his hands to his temples, finally falling off to sleep in that same position as the wind blew……
I walked across the living room and sat upon the sofa. Almost immediately, my heart was struck with pangs of sadness and regret. What day is today? February 11? Oh no, what am I going to do? I suddenly realized how deeply I must have hurt John. All of the beautiful roses – John must have prepared them to celebrate our anniversary on February 8. He must have been sure that I would return that day. If I didn’t return that day, he probably thought I would never return.
The wilting roses seemed to portend the end of our relationship. I began to think that perhaps I had already lost John.
“No, no, I have to get him back!”
I looked around the room. It didn’t seem as if John had gone to New York. His briefcase was still in the closet and there was laundry in the washing machine. As tired as I was, instead of resting, I opened the windows, put all of the roses in a garbage bag, then gave the house a good cleaning. I placed the bunch of fragrant orchids in a white vase, then set the vase upon the grand piano.
I wanted to celebrate with an extra special dinner, but except for fruit, bread, and yogurt, the refrigerator was empty. I rushed out to a nearby supermarket to buy everything needed.
On my way back from the supermarket, I passed a rather appealing sex shop. In a rare burst of excitement, I decided to go in. I hadn’t been in a shop like this for a very long time. I hadn’t seen John in so long and I wanted to make him happy, so I picked up several pairs of edible strawberry-flavored panties. Not only are they tastily sweet, but they’re very sexy. The bottom is in the shape of a heart. The bras are quite cute as well, like two newly bloomed flowers. When Graham and I were together, I often bought such things. One day I’d wear white, milk-flavored panties; the next day, I’d wear a chocolate-flavored bra, and the next a pair of cherry-colored strawberry-flavored transparent undies. Night after night, he was beyond happy. He looked like a greedy cat with just a trace of candy marking the corner of his month.
I also bought a new Latin CD made especially for making love and a string of lanterns like you might find in Madrid. Finally, I picked out a box of incense from India called “Upon the Clouds.” I thought about tonight, alone in Graham’s arms, and my body softened, drunk on the moment……
Upon returning home, I took everything out of the packaging and looked it over. I opened the box of Indian incense – it smelled so good. I put everything in a plastic bag and placed it in a bureau drawer so I’d be ready for tonight.
Once I had finished in the kitchen and the table was covered with an array of delicious dishes, only then did I call John on his cell phone.
“Where are you, love?” I asked.
“Honey, are you still in Paris? I miss you so much. How have you been? Are you coming home soon?” he asked sweetly.
“I’ll be there soon, “ I fibbed on purpose – I wanted to surprise John and make up for what I had done.
I continued, “Tell me where you are. I called home but you’re not there!”
“No, I’m in Oakville.”
“What? Why are you in Oakville?” I was puzzled.
“I’ll explain once you’re back.” His voice was guarded.
It suddenly dawned on me – could something have happened to Graham’s father Ricky and his wife Anna? Couldn’t be – but I was still worried: “I’m already in Toronto – please tell me what’s happened.”
“I’m on my way home – I’ll be there in forty minutes. Wait there for me.” With those final words, John hung up the phone.
I sat there dazed. John’s silence worried me. I had a very bad feeling. My hand was still on the telephone – I thought about calling Ricky and Anna – I had memorized their number long ago…but I just couldn’t. I was so afraid of what I might discover.
John finally arrived home and like a great wind pulled me into his arms.
“You’re finally home. How was it? Let me look at you.” His eyes poured over my face, “You’ve lost weight. You must have been working too hard. The price of being an author seems awfully high.”
At that very moment, I was so thankful – John was smart enough to know when to play dumb. He had made what could have been a very awkward moment completely natural. I hadn’t told him my reason for going to Paris had anything to do with my writing. He would’ve known better – but he had offered me a way out. He was right – I very well could have gone to Paris to collect material for my writing. I certainly had experienced things worth writing about – a woman lost in her imaginary world. I could write a fictional piece about this and call it Sentimental Casablanca.
“You have to tell me what’s happened.”
John pulled me into his embrace once again.
“It’s unfortunate – and so sudden – it’s Ricky……he’s gone……”
“What? What did you say?” I pushed him away. I simply couldn’t believe it. The thin I had wished most would not happen has happened.
“How is that possible? How? I spoke with him just a month or two ago and he was fine.”
“It’s true, honey. You’re going to have to accept it.” John detailed what had happened.
“About ten days ago, the phone rang early in the morning. I answered – it was Anna. She said Ricky wanted to see you – he wanted you to go to Oakville immediately. I told her you were in Paris and probably wouldn’t be back for a while. She sounded very disappointed. Two days later, she called again and asked me to tell you that Ricky had passed away. Before he died, he kept calling for you and Graham. Right after she called, I went to the funeral on your behalf. Today was the memorial service. You called just after it had concluded. I was sitting by the side of Lake Andrew lost in thought.”
It felt as if someone were squeezing my heart. My face went white and my hands trembled. “John, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call and tell me to come back?” I screamed, my voice full of blame.
“I did call you, many times, but your cell phone was always off. I wrote you several e-mails too, but you never replied.” His voice was oddly calm and warm – he was trying not to betray the feeling that he had been wronged.
I could do nothing but act like a guilty child – he was right – I had closed myself off to the world……I don’t want to think about that. I quickly dressed, put my shoes on, and prepared to head out alone. At the door, I suddenly thought of something – I took the flowers from the vase on the piano, rewrapped them, and took them with me.
John grabbed me by the shoulders and entreated: “Honey, let me drive you.”
“No, no. I’d rather go alone. I can take the GO train (a green, double-decker bus that covers short distances). It’s very convenient. I’ll spend the evening with Anna, so don’t expect me back. I’ve prepared dinner for you. Quick – go and eat.” I couldn’t stop the tears – but I didn’t want John to see them, so I bent down to tie my shoes, then made my way quickly out the door.
Only when I was alone on the GO train, sitting by the window, did I allow myself to cry……
“Dad, dear, dear Ricky. How can life and death be so close? The last time I bid you farewell in the snow at the door to your house, could that have really been our final farewell? I cried silently. A terrible feeling of guilt filled my heart.
That was October of last year – while much of the world was still enjoying golden autumn, here the first snow of winter had already fallen, covering Oakville in a blanket of white. Ricky had stood in the snow at his door and bid me farewell with that kindly face of his, that pained spirit.
His hands shook, his lips trembled – I could see him as if it were yesterday. Winter is still with us and snow is still falling – how could he have gone……
After returning to Toronto, I had called Ricky many times and thought about visiting him, but I had never made it there.
To be honest, if I took the QEW expressway, it only took about thirty-five minutes to drive from my home by the lake in Toronto to Oakville. By bus, it only took thirty-seven minutes. I was one of the few people in Toronto with plenty of time on my hands – but I hadn’t gone to see him. I just couldn’t bear to see his sad face. My heart bled at the thought. I also knew that if he were to see me he would quickly grow agitated. He cared too much for me.
I remembered when he and Anna had accompanied us home to New York right before the wedding. We were so happy then! But the September 11 wedding quickly became a September 11 tragedy. I collapsed in tears and in one night, Ricky’s hair turned to white. He fell into a deep depression.
Anna had told me quietly one the phone that the doctor had diagnosed Ricky with depression. He suffered from insomnia – so he wouldn’t bother Anna, he would often slip downstairs in the middle of the night and sit upon the sofa in the living room, flipping through pages of photos of Graham and mumbling incoherently……
They had been so lucky to have each other – as busy as Graham was working on Wall Street, he always made time to visit his father. Ricky said little when they met, but his love for Graham showed in his eyes. Graham told me more than once that his father adored me – his feelings for me were much stronger than those he might have had for Graham’s first wife, the American lawyer.
That was easy to understand – it meant that Ricky had never forgotten his first love from the East. And I had come from the geisha’s island and brought with me that mysterious Asian something that so entranced some American men.
The train soon arrived in Oakville and I just managed to catch the number 14 bus that would take me along the lake.
In the distance, I could see Ricky’s pale gray house nestled between two hundred year-old trees. I slowed my step, but my thoughts flew ahead……so many times before, two lovers had passed this way, hand-in-hand. This place had once been so full of warmth. How many times have I looked out at the boats on Lake Andrew and cried.
Snow banks rose before the door as before. The trees stood straight as always – bared of their leaves by the wild winds of winter, like two respectful soldiers guarding the aged couple. It was almost as if I could see a pair of eyes, bright as the moon, peering from between the branches, each branch a wrinkle around the eyes.
I walked toward those kind, kind eyes.
This pair of eyes had watched half a century pass by. They had seen great happiness; they had watched a beautiful Eastern lover dressed in a spectacular kimono. They had also known terrible sadness and brimmed with tears. Later those same eyes had filled with a father’s pride. He had given all he could to a tiny child abandoned by his mother. That boy grew up to be a handsome Wall Street banker. The eyes grew old – the charming lights of New York faded in his mind. He turned his sights on the blue waters of Lake Andrew and her benevolent loneliness.
Those eyes began to disappear from sight. I could not see them any longer. I could only see the ripples upon the surface of the lake. I felt them wash over me, cover me, drown me.
Ann and I hugged each other before a portrait of Ricky. I could not believe he was gone – just a few months ago, he was fine.
“Don’t be sad, my child. Ricky has gone to be with Graham and God. This is what Ricky always hoped for.” Anna led me over to a giant easy chair, then brought me a cup of tea, sat across from me, and continued speaking.
“For over a year, he was just so miserable, lost in his own world. Each time he looked at Graham’s picture, he would say, “This poor, poor boy.” I know it hadn’t been easy for Ricky to raise Graham alone. And Graham had left us so suddenly during the happiest time of this life. This is what hurt Ricky so. And it hurt him to know that a wonderful girl like you had been touched by this nightmare as well…” Anna stopped here and began to cry.
I looked at Ricky’s portrait and sighed at the unpredictability of life and death. Ricky, once so full of life, had been overcome by the September 11 disease. When Graham died, Ricky dies. I suppose I’m next. Actually, I had already died, over and over again. Thousands had died on that terrible day, but who knows how many spirits followed them? Wives and husbands lost their partners. Unborn children lost their fathers. Mothers and fathers lost their children……
Such terrible loss and the wound that grows from it are not easily healed. There have been so many like Ricky and I who picked themselves up after September 11 and went on. The life that was left often felt like a candle in the wind – at any moment it might be extinguished.
Ricky’s shadow filled the living room. His smile filled every corner.
“Anna, was Ricky cremated?” I asked.
“Yes, earlier today. The urn is at the funeral home for now. Ricky had asked that his ashes be scattered at Graham’s gravesite. I wanted to talk with you about that – would you go with me to New York? This would fulfill my greatest wish.
“I can go any time,” I answered.
“Why don’t we go on September 11 – we can sweep Graham’s grave then. I’m just taking it one day at a time. Who knows, perhaps soon I’ll be gone as well…” Anna said nothing more.
Her eyes reddened. Life couldn’t be predicted. Death could come at any moment. I grabbed a tissue and wiped Anna’s tears. I assured her that I would go to New York with her – we could sweep Graham’s grave and leave Ricky in his final resting place.
Anna slowly recovered. She took my hand and began to speak, “John’s a wonderful man. The dead can’t come back to us. You’re no longer young – marry him, have a baby – live a happy life. I’m sure Graham would wish this for you as well.”
As soon as Anna mentioned John’s name, I suddenly realized that I just couldn’t spend the night here. I had run away on Christmas Eve – and stayed away for a month and a half. I felt terribly guilty.
“I really should be going.” I took Anna’s hand and continued, “Anna, I’ll come see you often. I’m not going anywhere for now. I’ll stay by Lake Andrew. Ricky’s spirit travels across these waters – I’ll say a prayer for him every day.” I just couldn’t stay. In the garden and front yard, upstairs and downstairs, painful memories were everywhere. I couldn’t relax in this place. I needed to go.
“I know. It’s late. I won’t keep you. I’m sure John is waiting for you. Oh wait, just one minute – before Ricky went, he asked me to give you something. I’ll run upstairs and get it.”
A few minutes later, Anna came down holding a long box – she handed it to me: “I don’t know what it is – it’s well-wrapped, but it’s light as a feather. It must be made of silk.”
As light as it may have been, it left me with a terrible weight. I carefully took the package. It’s usually American custom to open a gift when it’s given, but I felt this particular posthumous gift should be opened at a different time.
I bid Anna farewell – she wanted to call a taxi for me.
“No, I’ll be fine, Anna. I’d rather walk a bit by the lake. The buses run quite frequently.”
“You must be careful. Thank John for me. Come together when you have time!”
“We will.” We said a final goodbye.
I walked alone along the riverside. The bus station was close by. The lake was calm beneath the silver moon. In Toronto, beside the same lake, the view all around me was simply dazzling. Boats drifted beneath the stars, lights sparkled and reflected off the water. But here, all was darkness. There were few people and so much snow – it was like a scene from a rural painting.
I sat down on a bench in the waiting room of the bus station and stared at the long, perfect box in my hands. I wondered what it could be. I couldn’t wait any longer, so began unwrapping it layer by layer.
My God, it was a spectacular red silk kimono.
The lining was so soft and the outer layer was intricately embroidered with the slender bodies of several classical Tokyo beauties dressed in kimonos. This was no typical kimono – it was a work of art.
My hand brushed over a note that had been hidden inside the kimono. It was handwritten – I began to read:
My dear child,
By the time you read this, I will be gone. Don’t be sad though – I’ve gone to be with Graham.
This kimono is the only thing Graham’s mother left behind. It’s been with me for half a century. I haven’t taken it out since she abandoned us all those years ago. I’ve never had the strength to take it out – the fiery red of the fabric runs like blood through my wound. Of course, with time and after speaking with you about her difficult life as a geisha, I slowly learned to forgive her. With Anna’s care, the pain of that old wound dissipated.
I’m sure Graham has found her in heaven by now – and I’m on my way to join them as well. After half a century apart, the three of us will finally meet again in heaven.
I know how you’ve suffered. Your love for Graham made my son the luckiest man on earth. The love you shared was not an every day love. I was so proud of my son – and so proud of you, my Chinese daughter.
I never saw Graham’s mother wear this kimono. She kept it well hidden. I’m sure you noticed me looking at you once or twice in the past, lost in thought – I was wondering what you would look like in that kimono. I’m sure you’ll be even more beautiful than those figures in Japanese films.
I hope you’ll wear it. Take a picture and place it by my grave.
Father must go now – but you need to go on and live a happy life. We don’t come to this world to find misery, but to enjoy happiness. Let me place one final kiss upon your cheek. I wish you happiness and health always.
Ricky
Tears poured from my eyes – I held the soft silk tightly and uttered not a sound. Ricky, I’ll try my best to live a good life. Wait for me. Save me a space between you and Graham at the table in Heaven. I was a part of your family and although I couldn’t be your daughter-in-law in life, I will serve your family in death. Tell Graham that I will love him always – I love him more than life itself……
I lifted the kimono in my hands and whispered to myself: “I’ll be sure to prepare a grave for you at Graham’s side – and I’ll wear this kimono each time I visit.”
Just as I let go, a cold wind blew past – blowing the fine silk into mid-air. At that very moment, a ball of fire lit the lake’s edge. In the flames, I saw the young Indian woman – what was her name……Anandi. Her twenty meter-long red silk chastity belt floated across time. At the other end, Graham’s mother, with her geisha’s charm, began to dance……
I couldn’t take my eyes from that gorgeous image. Before a background of white winter snow, I raised my arms toward the sky, hoping against hope to join them. I stood on tiptoes and began to dance. We seemed to be dancing across the same stage, somewhere between heaven and earth, surrounded by the tinkle of laughter, only to disappear into a golden skyscape.
By the time I made it back to Toronto, it was already 1 am.
It wasn’t until I had taken the elevator to the thirty-ninth floor that I realized that I had forgotten my key. It was so late and I was sure John was asleep. I had told him I wouldn’t be back that night.
I stood by the door for a few minutes wondering what to do. First, I thought I might go back downstairs and have the doorman call John. I didn’t want to disturb him though. He was a very light sleeper.
I was so tired – and Ricky’s death and this red kimono had drawn me back into that sad, sad story that spanned half a century. I just wasn’t up to a night with John.
I decided to walk across the street and take a room at the Royal York Hotel.
All night the fiery red kimono seemed to dance before my eyes. I could see it whether my eyes were open or closed. In the peaceful recesses of might it danced – both desire and death. I saw the green of that Norwegian forest receding as my world was slowly covered in red…
The words of a song from my childhood came hazily to me:
Why is the flower so red
Why so red
Red as if
Red as if it’s on fire
She stands for the purity of friendship
And love……
Chapter 12: Sentimental Casablanca
It was noon on February 12.
I awoke in a hotel room – only moments later did I recall that I had forgotten my key the night before, so couldn’t go home.
I quickly rose and dressed, then made my way to the front desk to check out.
When I got home, the door was unlocked. I went in carrying a bunch of freshly cut flowers.
“You’re back! Everything OK?”
John was in the living room watching TV and when he saw me, he quickly rose to greet me.
I smiled coolly, “I’m alright. Have you had lunch?” I asked.
“Not yet. Let’s go downstairs to the restaurant for lunch.”
“OK,” I replied.
During lunch, John looked at me lovingly as always, but he was more quiet than usual. There was so much I wanted to say, but I didn’t know where to begin.
After lunch, we returned home.
I went into the study. Before I could do anything else, I had to go through the pile of mail that had been collecting on the desk for over a month. I turned the computer on and began clearing my e-mail box. Then I checked my website (beila.net) for messages from my readers. It was time that life return to normal.
By the time I finished, John was no longer in the living room.
Quietly, I opened the bedroom door. John was kneeling on the carpet with his back to me. To one side was an open suitcase – he was packing his clothes. I couldn’t see his face, but he seemed upset; his hands moved back and forth and in the sunlight, he seemed especially pale.
A terrible sadness suddenly rose inside and I quietly closed the door and walked away.
I ran to the bathroom, tears streaming from my eyes. Was he leaving? Was he really leaving? God! How could this be happening? Have I done something wrong? I had no answer – tears of gratitude and regret clouded my vision. I leaned upon the marble counter and cried inconsolably in silence……
At dusk, as we had so many times before, we stood arm in arm upon the balcony gazing out over the lake as the winter sun set. Toronto in February is frigid and snowy. We braved the winter wind in our heavy coats. John put his arm around me – I could feel him shivering.
“Your little face is read with cold. Let me give you a kiss,” he said.
I raised my face in his direction like a marble statue of a woman goddess – and I let him kiss my cheek. He looked so full of sadness. My heart felt as if it were about to break. As he kissed me, I felt an ache rise within me and tears filled my eyes. I didn’t want him to see me crying, so I quickly turned away to look out over the lake, the many small islands and the trees upon them. I pretended that his kiss hadn’t meant anything, but in truth, I was quickly sinking into the depths of sadness.
It seemed as if we were still at the beginning. Our love had just taken wing and still had so far to fly. Was it already time to land? We had said goodbye so many times, but this time was the real thing. I hid my tearful heart behind a smile. We were parting because of love, because we were deeply in love.
Is that what was happening?
Let me pull back the curtain for you – listen to my ballad, and watch me as I dance my final dance!
What a wild, wild night!
Such a sentimental “Casablanca.”
We were like Siamese twins being separated for the first time. We cried deep within the recesses of our being.
We were so full of desire and wrapped in warmth; could this be our final ballad?
Suddenly I felt as if I might cry – my nose began to twitch.
I remember that first night with John. We were in my hometown in a rented black Mercedes. We began making love and we could end making love. But the love would never end. The first time I bravely told a man that I loved him, I knew that this was how I could love the world. I was so full of love – I had to have a way to let it out. Men became the river into which my love would flow. I’ve always adored saying “I love you,” “Je t’aime,” “Aishiteru,” the same words in different languages to the men in my life.
“John, I love you!” Over and over, I repeated the same sentence. I held him tightly as tears flowed from the corners of my eyes.
“Oh honey, how much I love you.” He seemed to be crying out in pain. His kisses covered my body like raindrops, as if they were meant to douse the fire that burned within me.
As the flames of desire encompassed me, I flew upward like a tiny bird, higher and higher. I could feel him swelling within me. When he began thrusting in and out, I was filled with rapturous desire. Something happened inside of me, something awoke inside of me and began to move, back and forth, around and around. It felt as if I were melting; wave after wave, I floated toward higher ground……
The room was filled with our wild rhythmic moaning. Our bodies opened to each other in search of that something special. I lost myself in the fiery moment. I could feel him creating a sensation within me. With a wave-life rhythm, he thrust wildly, until he had filled the emptiness within. Further and further he took me, both my desire and my inner spirit grew with each turn, until the tip of the wave exploded and gushed forth……
I lay in a daze, moaning. The sounds of life filled the nighttime air. What ecstasy! Here was a real lover – it was no longer all in my imagination.
This night before we were to part, sleepless and joyful – like looking back from death. We knew this meant the end. I absorbed each kiss. Man or woman, anyone who spends a night as we did would be left a mere shell of her former self.
We loved until the sun rose, until our bodies were too tired to go on. In the dawn’s light, John’s face seemed to have lost all color. He said not a word; tears flowed down his cheeks and sparkled like diamonds in the early morning sun.
“Remember that I love you more than anything else in the world…” His voice was full of love and sincerity.
I began to cry. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. My entire body convulsed with sadness. He held me closely and kissed away my tears. I wanted so much to tell him that he was mistaken, to beg him to stay. Stay, John. Stay with me! I love you, no one else. I didn’t have an affair in Paris. I left you on Christmas Eve to be with Graham, but Graham’s gone. In my heart of hearts, I felt that he was still here. I thought that he had just been disfigured, that he was just suffering from amnesia. Do you understand, John? Do you know what this ghost has done to my mental being over the past few months? I convinced myself that Graham was still alive. I daydreamed of him. I dreamed of him late into the night. I believed that the terribly disfigured artist living in the Paris hotel as Graham. I completely lost it. Remember that meal we never paid for? I hadn’t burned myself. We got that meal for free. At that very moment I had imagined that you were Graham – that’s why I opened my mouth in shock……do you have any idea what I was going through then? Any idea?
Last night I did come back. I didn’t abandon you to spend the night at Anna’s. But I forgot my key and didn’t want to wake you, so I spent the night in a hotel. I love you, John. I truly love you! Those things that you found in the bedside table, don’t misunderstand – they aren’t the remnants of a torrid Paris affair. It’s embarrassing to talk about now, but I bought them to share with you. I bought them the day before yesterday, just after I returned to Toronto! The receipt is right here. I opened each one and placed them in the draw in preparation for our evening together! I lost my chance – I didn’t have a key. And now I see that once again, I don’t have the key – the key to your heart. What is happening to me? When did we begin growing apart? Why can’t I be romantic when I’m with you? Why can’t I light some of that Indian incense, hang those Spanish lanterns, and play that Latin CD? Why is it that I can’t bring myself to wear those adorable, tasty undies?
Where did that young mother of the Norway forest go? Where had she gone?
Just as I was about to ask, just as I was about to call her back, another voice traversed the mist and rang out by my ear. It was my own voice: John, leave me. I can bring nothing but anxiety your way. I’m crazy; I’m sick, depressed. I’m more miserable when I’m happy than when I’m sad. There’s nothing that can be done for me. Leave. If you want to help me, then leave me. Go far, far away – and never come back. Let me know true pain, real laughter, ultimate loneliness. Let me be a normal woman again! Take all my desire with you, take these heartsick feelings. Every inch of my wounds has something to do with American men. I want to bid a final farewell to them. I want to be a Chinese daughter again.
I’ve had enough of love. I’ve loved so much that it hurts. I can’t love any longer. I want to go home, back to my homeland, back to my mother’s side.
“Another day has arrived.” John held me close to his chest: “We’ve known each other for over a year now. These few months that I’ve spent with you mean more to me than life itself. I have no regrets. I’ve known you – and that’s enough. True beauty is momentary; only the heart remembers. It’s like all those sunsets we’ve watched from the balcony – so beautiful that they were almost dreamlike, that very moment where the past meets the future.”
Is it already February 13? Last year on February 8, we met on a plane bound for Shanghai. From then on……it’s been like a dream.
“John, I will never forget that Norwegian forest. It will always be a precious part of my life. I found love there. When I’m old, I’ll travel there once more. Perhaps the wooden house we stayed in will still be there? The awning that you built, I wonder if it will still be there. Will the faces of all the customers in the Forest Bar have aged like the trees in the forest? Will that beauty Sophie reappear? John, some day, we’ll both be old. Soon……” I whispered to myself.
As my voice trailed off, John loosened his hold on me and lay still. Slowly I let go and moved away.
We lie there, forgetting everything for just a moment, almost as if we had forgotten each other. Emptiness set in. His pale hand rested gently upon mine.
2
I’ll never forget all the times I listened to that heartbreaking song “Casablanca” when we were in the Norwegian forest.
It’s a love song, a song that will always remind me of John, a song full of sentimental memories.
I still remember the first time I heard that song. It was early autumn in the Norwegian forest:
It was dusk. I had opened the back door of the wood cabin and was watching the rain pour in buckets from the sky. Suddenly, something made me want to run across the empty backyard naked in the rain. I stood up and took off all my clothes. John watched. My two erect little mountains rose and fell as I ran. In the boundless light, my body seemed white like ivory. I put on my rubber boots, laughed foolishly, and ran. I raised my breasts towards the falling rain and shook my hips, dancing a dance I had one learned while traveling in the Caribbean. What a strange image I created, twisting about in the rain. Rain sparkled upon my body. I danced again, my stomach leading the way, then I bent over and offered up my buttocks to John as if I were acknowledging my allegiance to a leader. It was a wild gesture, the purest form of desire.
Raindrops glimmered upon my full buttocks. What the beauty of my nakedness must have meant to my lover.
Because women are mothers, because only they can give life, then all must return finally to them. Man belongs to woman. It was she who like Mary, the mother of God, gave him life.
Just as I was about to run deeper into the garden, John came after me. Wearing only a pair of jeans, he pulled me into his embrace, then pressed his hands upon my warm middle. Wildly he massaged my womanly body. The closer we came, the hotter he grew.
The rain brushed against our bodies; steam seemed to rise from the surface of our skin. He held my adorable tiny mountains in his hands, then pressed them closely to his body.
By the time we returned to the living room of the wood cabin, one of John’s favorite songs, “Casablanca,” was playing. John grabbed a towel and began wiping the rain from my body. I knelt and dried my hair by the fire.
I fell in love with you
Watching Casablanca
……
Making love on a long hot summer’s night
I thought you fell in love
With me watching Casablanca
……
Oh, a kiss is still a kiss in Casablanca
A kiss is not a kiss without your sigh
Please come back to me in Casablanca
I love you more and more each day
As time goes by
I guess there are many broken hearts in Casablanca
……
Tears filled my eyes as that melancholy melody played. It was as if I could see those two broken hearts that had been left in Casablanca – a dispirited man stands on an empty road holding his lover, Ingrid Bergman, in his arms. Both of them have tears in their eyes.
At this very moment, a man who looks just like that dispirited male actor is now kneeling behind me, gazing at my curvaceous figure……
Such classic lines, such womanly fullness – and hidden between the roundness of her buttocks, was that secret garden!
He traced the curve of my back with his hands. “Look at how beautiful you are!” With that slight Scottish accent he murmured in a deep voice: “The most beautiful bottom in the world! Every inch of you is woman, pure woman! You have the one thing that men want more than anything else, that spectacular bottom.”
He massaged my bottom as he spoke, until the heat from within me passed into his hands.
“You’re absolutely magical! Truly magical.”
“Don’t many white and black women have fuller bottoms than mine?”
“I’m not sure why, but only your bottom makes me feel this way. To me, it’s like looking down upon earth, the left hemisphere, then the right. It’s as if you’re full of all the love the world has to give. Every corner of you, every corner if full of love.” He grabbed a pen and began writing something.
“What are you doing?” I squealed.
“I’m in the eastern hemisphere, closing in on China…”
“You’re crazy!”
“No, I’m not crazy. Here it is. The United States is here; your China is here. Exactly – right here.” He marked it off lightly. “Oh, and I’ve found your Shanghai – right…here.” He mumbled to himself as he drew.
I recalled my childhood friend Sheng Yanzi once telling me that a French artist had painted upon her breasts with Chinese ink and upon her vagina with lipstick. I thought to myself: why is it that men find such artistic stimulation in women’s bodies? But then I reminded myself, John isn’t an artist. He’s just a man in love. When he said ‘your China’ and ‘your Shanghai’ my heart skipped a beat! He’s right – my homeland is first, then my mother, myself and my lover. What could be more accurate than to paint an Eastern woman’s bottom as the eastern and western hemispheres? My China – the spectacular giant. Isn’t the color of earth closest to the color of Chinese skin?
“The US is in the Western hemisphere.” He continued to mumble. I could feel the pen upon my left buttock.
I encouraged his childishness. When a man returns to his childishness, he is his most natural and artistic.
“And finally, the equator.” He caressed the crack of my buttocks from top to bottom.
“Is it hot?” he teased.
“Hotter than fire!”
“The equator traverses Africa, where life began. Naturally, desire resides here as well.”
“Come, my love. I want to return to the beginning of time.” I turned and climbed upon him.
“Kiss me!” I closed my eyes and whispered.
It was obvious – both of us had been wounded by September 11. Everything we did afterward was an attempt to avoid that reality, to heal our wounds, to lose ourselves in the labyrinth of desire. How depressing it all was. How miserable life has truly become.
I sat upon his thighs, my hair brushing across his chest, and felt the romance of “Casablanca.” My ivory legs moved lazily; the light of the fireplace shone upon our faces. Our eyes filled with tears…
3
John left between eight and nine on the morning of February 13. As he had always done before, on his way out the door, he left a light kiss on my cheek. Half asleep with my eyes still closed, I would always reach up and hug him tightly. I hugged him this time as before, but a sudden unspeakable pain filled my chest. I tried desperately not to show my sadness, to keep the tears from falling and keep up the calm façade. “Take care and come back early!”
“Sure, love.” His voice was like wind wafting through the leaves of an ancient rubber tree. I listened to the sound of his footsteps, then to the sound of the door opening……one last chance, one final chance…
Once those hands that had caressed me so many times before had carefully closed the door, I let myself feel the sadness. I cried bitterly beneath the covers. Is this how it was meant to be? How could two people who had so loved each other end up like this? John, you’re mistaken. You think I’ve been with someone else – another man in Paris!
God knows that I haven’t. I haven’t! John, you can be jealous about other men, but you can’t be jealous of Graham. He’s gone. I now know that he’s gone. John, we’re still in love. I want to tell you everything. I want you to stay; I want you here with me!
As tears streamed down my cheeks, I dashed from the bed and, paying no attention to my tussled hair, pulled on a pair of jeans, threw on a coat, and rushed out the door. I pressed the elevator “down” button – the monitor told me that all elevators were somewhere below the tenth floor. I couldn’t wait. I ran for the stairs. This was a thirty-nine-floor building! Oh, who cares! I began making my way downward like a wild wind sweeping eastward from Siberia, floor by floor, further and further downward I flew. I had truly lost my mind. My hair was like wild grass blowing in the wind; my coat rose up and pushed me along like the wings of an angry angel. With the power of a machine, I pushed further. Nothing would stop me. I felt like an airplane making its descent.
By the time I made it to the lobby, I was so tired and out of breath that I thought I might pass out. My heart was beating a mile a minute – at any moment, it might come to a sudden stop. I looked in every direction, but there was no sign of John’s taxi.
Go after him! I said to myself.
I ran to the parking garage and retrieved my car. I sped along the QEW highway at speeds upward of 130 km/hr. This was the only route from the center of town to Pearson Airport. My entire being seemed to be chanting – go after him. You must catch up to him…
Then, within minutes, a familiar scene appeared before my eyes. I could see John’s silhouette. There he was sitting in the back seat, leaning just a tiny bit forward with his hand to his forehead. I could sense his despair.
Where am I? Where am I?
This must be the Norwegian forest……
In that hot forest of love, in the land of the evening sun, I had experienced this so many times…when I had stood at the entrance to the forest and waved to John, each time he had stepped into a taxi, each time the car disappeared in a cloud of dust. I now saw the same scene right before my eyes…
Back then, our love was like a newly formed bud sprouting in the forest. Whenever he left, he would always look back and blow a kiss in my direction. This time though, this time he looked straight ahead.
I kept my car a safe distance behind the taxi, but my heart continued onward, closer and closer – John, come back. Let’s share this life. Didn’t you once wish I could be a mother to your child? I’m ready and waiting. Let’s make love once more; let’s plow that magical land once more, sow my secret garden with your seeds. I want to be a mother. I want to nurse you and your child. John, come back!
His car came to a stop just outside the departure hall. There weren’t more than seven or eight meters between my car and his. My hands remained on the steering wheel.
My eyes never left John. I watched as he exited the taxi, luggage in hand. All the warmth within me seemed to have disappeared. I turned off the engine, took the key from the ignition, and was about to open the door when suddenly my feet grew heavy. It felt as if I were no longer on earth, as if I had to jump across a torrid river. I rested my hand on the door handle. My hands trembled. I wasn’t opening a door – I was pushing a mountain. With all my strength, I could not move it.
I moved toward the passenger seat and both of my hands came to rest on the dashboard. I couldn’t see clearly. As raindrops fell outside, tears fell from my eyes. John was disappearing into the distance. My heart was trying desperately to call out to him, but no sound came from my throat. Let’s say goodbye here, my love. I don’t want to explain. We met while flying and now we’re saying goodbye at yet another departure hall. I loved you John, really, believe me. You’re the perfect lover. I’ve loved everything about you, but I just couldn’t love you enough. Graham was always there. Now I know that no one will ever replace him. It’s not just his love, but his death that has captured me – he comes to me again and again in death. Death is beauty; death is love. In death, he overcame life; in his death, I’ve been reborn.
John, you will always be with me as well. Those sentimental words of “Casablanca” will forever be a part of me, even though in years to come we will each look out over separate oceans. In my later years, in the coolness of night, on the empty beach, I’ll remember you warmly. Perhaps one day, I’ll travel to Casablanca – there’s nothing more sexy than the sound of a man singing “Casablanca.” There’s no need to remember his name; it’s buried beneath that dreamy Norwegian forest – and lives on in the mysterious garden of our love. This is enough. For as long as I live, you’ll be with me. You took a part of me with you – never again will I look at that Norwegian forest in quite the same way. Just as Paris belonged to Graham and me, so too will the Norwegian forest be ours and ours alone. “Casablanca” will forever play in the background.
Farewell John! Like two birds flying in opposite directions, how will we face tomorrow? Tomorrow…Valentines Day. What will it mean?
I’ve said it before – all men who have loved are in fact one man – he is love itself. As a woman, I worship men as their spiritual equal. I thank God for creating men! I value their strength, their power. Without them, there would be no love in this world. With each man that enters my life, I am reborn.
Farewell, my love. Your tears will soon dry and time will soothe our Casablanca wound.
[song]
4
John’s been gone for over a month now. It’s late at night on March 19, 2003. I’m in the bathtub when the phone rings. I reach for the receiver…
“Hello.”
No response.
Once again, I say hello and once again, I’m greeted with silence. In the background, I hear the fain sound of music…Casablanca…
At that very moment, could I possibly not know who was on the other end of the line?
I couldn’t speak – it felt as if something were lodged in my throat. I held the receiver to my ear, lay back in the bath, and closed my eyes……
That sentimental melody filled the air. I listened intently for the longest time – until the steamy bath water had cooled and the only sound coming from the receiver was the “beep, beep…” of a lost connection.
That phone call threw my otherwise calm heart into disarray. I wrapped myself in a bath towel and made my way to the bed. I slipped beneath the warm covers and leaned back against the cushioned headboard. “A kiss is just a kiss…in Casablanca,” I hummed. What did all of this mean? The song, the coffee shop – so many lovers had come together because of them.
Most unforgettable was the movie by the same name. Forbidden love, the upheaval of the times – this classic had come to represent it all. When the world is in chaos, relationships grow even more valuable. For love, that saddened man had to bid farewell to the one he loved more than anything; he sacrificed himself. From that first black-and-white scene, the screen emanated melancholy, all the way until the utterly hopeless conclusion. That final farewell on the tarmac is seared in my memory.
What a beauty Ingrid Bergman was!
I suddenly remembered buying a DVD version of Casablanca. Why not find it and watch it once again?
I turned the television on, but before I could switch the channel, a frightening scene appeared on the screen. America was at war with Iraq……
I know next to nothing about politics, but war means only three tings to me: disaster, fear, and death. My heart grew heavy at the sight of the fear in the eyes of young Iraqi children. American middle-school children in Washington DC were afraid to open soda cans for fear that they would explode. For what? I turned off the TV and mumbled to myself: “Let the warmongers go to hell. What we need I peace – we need to protect the sanctity of life!”
I turned the stereo on and listened over and over to “Casablanca.” Something rose inside me and made me want to share the melody with John.
I heard his voice on the phone, but I remained silent. I held the phone tightly and let him listen to the music……
At that moment, I missed his embrace – so powerful, so full of warmth. He gave me shelter and protected me from the elements. Slowly though, I felt him opening his arms to envelop all of humanity. He no longer held just my body, but my spirit as well.
I could see his fiery eyes before me, so determined, caring, and strong. He had always looked at me with such love. We had shared more than just desire. When we stood facing each other, we shared an understanding of and a sadness for the miseries of human existence. In his eyes, I witnessed the true meaning of life……
I heard his voice – his greeting – then a final sentence: “Why can’t love conquer this crazy period in history?!”
I couldn’t speak. Tears poured from my eyes. Once we had been so close. Casablanca was our love, our unbounded desire. The music brought us together again – and I knew that our love was no longer simply a love between a man and a woman. It had become much, much more – we had learned to transcend both physical and spiritual love. We had found something greater, a love borne of sadness and suffering.
Time passes slowly – and my wings are heavy.
Today is March 19, 2003
I’ve still to recover from that lost love
And so, I lose myself in the music
Remembering that sentimental movie
A dashing man stands upon the tarmac,
Holding his lover tightly
Tears fill their eyes,
The sad melody seeps into my heart
I close my eyes
And see heaven
I reach out my hand to touch the spirit of love
That floats above us all
Will I ever find peace?
Casablanca
War destroyed men’s bodies and women’s hopes
Why can’t love conquer this crazy period in history?
To Be Continued...
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