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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 sho | 
