Travels Through Love And Time

by

Christine Hall Volkoff

ISBN 1456466119

EAN 978-1456466114

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

'Travels Through Love And Time' was first published by Night Publishing, a trading name of Valley Strategies Ltd., a UK-registered private limited-liability company, registration number 5796186. Night Publishing can be contacted at:

http://www.nightpublishing.com

'Travels Through Love And Time' is the copyright of its author, Christine Hall Volkoff, 2010. All rights are reserved.

All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

NOSTROMO

One of these mornings

you’re going to rise up singing

spread your wings

and take to the sky…

(DuBose Heyward, Ira Gershwin - 'Summertime')

Day One

It had started as such a good day. I sat on the bluff amongst the pines, looking at the view of the entire island all around me. The cicadas were so loud that their hypnotic cacophony made it hard to hang onto my thoughts. The sea was calm, with a few scattered white sails. I could see the little harbor, with pieces of the village around it. I recognized the Navy fort to my right, and the white beaches to the North, and tried in vain to spot my parent’s house off the Chemin du Langoustier. It felt so good to be out in the warm breeze, taking in the scent of hot pine resin, the sweet loneliness of being with myself and my dreams. One day, I would be up here with someone I loved, and we would kiss in the shadow and protection of the maritime pines, we would own the world.

My old bicycle was leaning on the trunk of a tall pine. The brakes were so bad that my friends and I had bought some cheap sandals with high cork heels at the Porquerolles market so we could drag our feet and use the soles to slow us down. I cautiously started down the trail, bouncing the tires over roots, skidding over the pine needles.

My parents had gone their separate ways, and had left me to spend the summer on the island. My father was working in Italy and my mother vacationing somewhere in Scandinavia. I enjoyed having the house to myself. Not quite to myself, since I had Simone, my governess, to take on all the hard work and boring tasks in the house, and take care of me. It was a great deal, and I appreciated every minute. The freedom was tangible, almost unbearable, and I could only hope I could summon the experiences to make it unforgettable.

Riding through the village, bouncing on all the rocks, I took the one paved road to the left, back to the house. I had worked up an appetite, and was looking forward to sitting out in the courtyard, eating Simone’s delicious food and looking at the bees dancing around the wisteria. I was reading a mystery. I always liked to read while having lunch. At night I would usually discuss the day with Simone.

After parking the bicycle in the service entrance, I knew right away something was wrong. Simone looked worried.

“Christine! Your mother called!” she said.

“Is she coming?” I said, with a mixture of hope and fear.

On one hand, I was hopeful maybe she was taking enough of an interest in her progeny to come and spend some time with me. But I was also afraid she would come home and start taking away my precious independence.

“No, but she has invited Mrs. d’Alessi to stay here for a week”

“What?!”

I was crestfallen. Francesca d’Alessi was a distant friend of my mother’s, and I also suspected a former lover of my father’s. She was a well known Italian actress currently living in Hollywood. She was married to Marco d’Alessi, a producer who was much older than her but who seemed to have been very instrumental in the rise of her career.

I could not believe my mother had the nerve to impinge on my freedom without even coming back herself.

“Why, why is she coming? Doesn’t she have enough houses already? Why does she have to come here?”

“Your mother said she had business in France, she needed the rest, and she wants to be incognito.”

“Shit! Whatever …”I said.

Simone frowned at the word. I still could not believe it! One whole week!

“When is she coming?”

“Today. Mr. Vernet is bringing her at 3:00.”

“Oh right, like she can’t take the ferry like everyone else … give me a break!”

I liked Francesca. I had never met her, but I had seen some of her movies. I thought she was beautiful though I could not at the time really appreciate whether she was a good actress or not. She had dark skin, very blue eyes, a perfect face and a flawless body with (what I admired most) straight hair of a non-descript color, with blonde highlights in typical Hollywood fashion. Some of the films, especially the ones directed by the Italian New Wave were, I have to admit, slightly above my head. She looked good in black and white, though. Right now, however, I hated her.

Since my father worked in the film business, I had met many famous actresses and actors throughout my fourteen years, and always found them to be extremely boring in person, especially from the point of view of a kid. They seemed to always listen to themselves talk, and usually did the most stupid cutesy things to try to make me smile. I regularly gave them murderous looks, and ran away to my room.

The idea of having to contend with “La d’Alessi” for a whole week made me want to pull out all of my mother’s roses and trample them until nothing was left. I decided I would not have anything to do with her, and continue living my life as close to the way it had been so far this summer as possible. So there.

I ate my lunch distractedly. I was not even interested in finding out the next clue in my book, nor did I care at the moment about who was the murderer. Let him or her go free. Let him or her kill them all for all I care. Once they are all dead, we will know for sure who done it. Simone was busy cleaning rooms, making shopping lists, working hard. I was furious at my mother.

At 2:30, I made my escape. I hopped on the bike, rushed to my friends’ house in the village, and summoned the troops to spend the afternoon at Plage d’Argent. It was me and “the girls” - Ondine and Veronica - and “the boys” - Jean-Pierre and Jean-Remy. Veronica was older than her sister Ondine and did not join us very often. So it was really Ondine and me and the boys, who were brothers. I liked them all, but had a special feeling for Jean-Pierre whose nickname was, of all things, Bambi. I could imagine the name was left over from when he was a chubby toddler, and maybe it was going to follow him into old age. I had a crush on Bambi and I loved to watch him. He was skinny but quite strong for a fifteen year old. He had blond hair, curly in places, and it always fell in front of his eyes. He was tanned from being constantly out in the sunlight in a bathing suit. He had the looks of an angel, and the manners of a bad boy. This was probably what attracted me, but who knows … Bambi, incidentally, did not return my feelings.

So Ondine and I went to pick up the boys, and off we went. We played a game where we would pull out the old canoe we had hidden at the Plage d’Argent. The canoe leaked and the game was to paddle as fast and as far as possible before the canoe finally sank. Then, we had to drag the canoe on the bottom, turn it over to empty it, and start all over again. Bambi liked to have Ondine as his partner and I always ended up with Jean-Remy. I did not like paddling with Bambi anyway as he always yelled at me. My favorite partner whenever she joined was Ondine’s sister, Veronica. She knew how to drop the competition aspect and pretend we were on an island in the Pacific, singing and paddling slowly in unison until we sank.

After all our exertions, we would lie on the silver sand in full sunlight and discuss everything from our parents to the latest news. We made fun of the people we called tourists. We had houses, we did not stay in hotels; we were locals, yet in our minds slightly above the real locals, those who lived on the island all year round.

A good day was when Bambi paid some attention to me other than mocking or yelling. Today was a good day. Bambi even showed me his new zippo lighter.

Francesca wanted to be incognito, so I felt I had to respect her wishes. I mentioned I was going to have to deal with an unwelcome guest, but I did not say who it was.

“Bummer! “said Ondine … “Why don’t you come to our house for dinner tonight? We’re having fish, as usual, but you are welcome!”

“Thanks, I will!”

What a relief not to have to face the awkward situation of whether I was welcome to eat with Mrs. d’Alessi or not.

So I called Simone from Ondine’s parents’ house in the village and told her I would not be home for dinner. “Is she here?”

“Yes.”

Obviously, Simone was not free to talk.

“Is she going to have dinner at home?”

“Indeed.”

“OK, see you tomorrow morning! Good night, good luck…”

I had a good time with Ondine and Veronica and their parents, and biked home as slowly as I could, as close to midnight as I could.

Day Two

The next day started with a few clouds, obscuring the ray of sunlight I used as my wake up alarm for the summer. So I got up late as I usually did on cloudy days. I took a shower, grabbed a t-shirt and some shorts to put on, and went out into the patio for some breakfast. Francesca d’Alessi was sitting at the table, buttering a slice of toasted bread.

As she looked up, I was struck by the color of her eyes. They were blue, luminous, like pools of aquamarine contrasting with her dark skin. She did not seem as beautiful as she looked in the movies, but there was something about her demeanor which somehow pulled you in even against your will. She extended her hand to me.

“You must be Christina … happy to meet you. I’m Francesca.”

I shook her hand, ignored the Italianization of my name, and sat down at the table. I proceeded to eat some toast with jam and drink some coffee, but Francesca started in. She spoke to me in English, and her English was definitely superior to my Italian.

“So you don’t mind being here all alone for the summer?”

“No, actually I like it a lot!” I tried not to sound as if I was giving her a hint …

“Do you have friends on the island?”

What do you think!? “Yes I do.”

“Are they nice?”

The grilling was really getting to me. I replied yes, and then she changed the subject. “So, to get to the harbor, I just turn left on the road and walk? How far is it?”

“Not far, and besides you cannot get lost on the island. It’s too small. You need to take the ferry? “ I was asking a hopeful question.

“I am meeting a friend at 10:30.”

“Then you better leave now … it takes about 20 minutes.”

A friend? Hell … was she going to bring Hollywood to the island? While Francesca was gathering her things to go, I went to the kitchen and interviewed Simone.

“Mrs. d’Alessi is meeting her friend Tomaso at the ferry. He will be here for two nights” she said.

I could not believe her nerve … I was being kicked out of what used to be my parents’ house, but had recently become mine thanks to Simone’s nurturing help. So the whole thing had been arranged for Francesca to meet some boyfriend behind her husband’s back? I rolled my eyes and grabbed the bike after kissing Simone on the cheek out of compassion, and telling her I would probably spend the day and evening with Ondine and the guys.

When I arrived at Ondine’s, she was doing summer homework with her tutor and they let me join in. I aced the spelling dictation as usual, but sweated a little more for the math. I had missed the first few days of class in algebra and still had not completely incorporated into my consciousness the idea that letters could be added or subtracted, even less obtained as a result.

We had sandwiches and cherries for lunch, and we were tying cherry stems into knots using only our tongues, when Bambi and Jean-Remy walked in.

“Hey you guys! What are you up to?”

“Nothing … what are you doing today?”

“We want to go fishing at Notre-Dame. Do you want to come?”

“Sure …”

And off we went on our bikes. Bambi had brought a fishing gun and snorkel gear. I had borrowed mine from Veronica. I did not remember where mine was and did not want to go back to the house and look for it.

Fishing did not mean sitting quietly and waiting for the fish to bite. Fishing meant hunting down the fish and spearing them with harpoon guns or hand held tridents. Sometimes we caught octopus and would pry the animal from the spear while it was grabbing at us with all tentacles. I had learned from a local kid how to turn the head inside out and beat out the ink before handing the octopus to the chef for lunch. I hated catching octopus and always hoped they were all busy somewhere else whenever we went fishing.

Jean-Remy caught some poor unsuspecting sand dab that day, and very soon we grew tired of looking at the sandy bottom and sat on the beach. Bambi started the conversation.

“Do you guys know that Francesca d’Alessi is spending the summer here? My dad saw her at the wharf this morning.”

“Oh, I know,” I said sighing. “She is actually staying at our house. I don’t think she is staying all summer however …”

All three of them looked at me stunned.

“And you were going to tell us when?” said Ondine. ”What kind of a traitor are you?”

I rolled my eyes.

“She is supposed to be incognito. Besides, I want nothing to do with her… she’s like using our house to meet her boyfriend behind her husband’s back.”

“Her boyfriend? “ said Bambi,” but Francesca d’Alessi is a dyke!”

Ondine was poking Bambi with her trident.

“What? Come on! How could you, little old you, of all people, know that?”

“I read an article in Cinemonde … she and Selena Hirschberg are doing it. I swear! There was a pretty hot picture of them together.”

Selena Hirschberg was the dark, intense, mysterious Argentinian star who had created a sensation at the last Cannes Festival, after her film won the Palme d’Or, by refusing all the interviews. This had driven the paparazzi crazy, and ultra grainy photos of Selena doing various menial tasks suddenly multiplied on the front pages of every single tabloid in Europe.

“You better beware,” said Bambi pointing at me “… she might attack you!”

I shrugged my shoulders … “She’s not a dyke. Her boyfriend came today. His name is Tomaso.”

“Have you seen him? Maybe he’s a she ...”

The joking continued as we all went back to Ondine’s parents who had brought a whole batch of sea urchins.

When I arrived back at the house, it was still early. No one was home and Simone had already retired to her cottage in the back of the garden. I sneaked into the guest room which had become Francesca’s. Things were quite messy in there and I could see evidence of Tomaso’s presence - cuff links, and man-sized sneakers. Various items of feminine and masculine clothing were strewn on the large bed.

I went back to my room and picked up my mystery book, finally interested in the next clue. At some point I heard Francesca and Tomaso coming in, but I was already dozing off, so I turned off the light and fell asleep almost instantly.

I was flying in the middle of a flock of large birds with long necks, like blue herons. The birds were flapping their wings and calling each other with the shrill cries of seagulls. We were all soaring above white clouds, and below us was the blue, infinite ocean. I was hanging on to one of them, feeling lighter than a feather, happy and comfortable. Suddenly, the bird plunged into a cloud with a vertiginous dip. The move broke my balance and I started falling.

I woke up suddenly from my dream. I could still hear the bird sound. It was a soft, repeated moaning, which broke into a long, prolonged soft cry. The sounds were gentle but seemed uncontrollable, intense with sweetness, evoking pain or almost unbearable pleasure. This was no bird. I realized I was hearing Francesca and Tomaso making love and the wings flapping was the sound of the headboard on the guest room bed hitting the wall, following their movements. Nothing but silence for a while. Then the sound of laughter, and the moaning started again, punctuated by more laughter and a soft masculine voice whispering in Italian.

No way could I sleep with this racket going on. I got up and went outside, realizing they had left the door open, and I did not have the nerve to go and close it for them. Outside, the moon was bright and the breeze was a little chilly. I sat on the steps on the other side of the patio where I could not hear anything. I could see stars and some clouds, and the leaves of the wisteria were fluttering in the dark.

Without warning, an immense sadness came over me to the point where tears came to my eyes. The loneliness was palpable as I crossed my arms over my knees and waited until the swells within me subsided. It took a while. I could not get a handle on it, nor pinpoint the cause of it. I started sniffling and realized it was going to get cold. A small light went on behind the drapes in the room across the patio. Someone got up. I heard water running, more voices, and the sound of the door to the guest bedroom closing. The light went off.

Shivering, I crossed the patio and went back to my room. Safe in the warmth of my bed, I stayed awake for a while, listening. But all was quiet and I eventually went back to sleep.

Day Three

I woke up to a knock on my door. When I did not respond, the door opened slightly and some dark-haired athlete tiptoed into my room, wearing nothing but khaki shorts.

“Christina, wake up!”

“What?” Wide awake by now, I feigned sleepiness.

“Come on, come have breakfast with us … we have plans!”

I sat up and Tomaso introduced himself. His smile was disarming and contagious. He walked out of the room. I got up and joined them in the patio. Francesca greeted me and handed me an already buttered piece of toast. They seemed to be going out of their way to pay attention to me.

My guess was they realized they had forgotten to close the door last night, and they felt they owed me something for disrupting my sleep.

The plan was that Tomaso was going to go water skiing, and would I please join them? Had I ever water skied? No, I hadn’t … ”Today is a good day to start”, said Tomaso. He was so energetic and engaging, I had to forget my anger as I escorted them to the little harbor. Francesca walked ahead, luminous and stunning. Tomaso looked like a Greek God, and I was walking with them, being part of them, on my way to spending the day with them.

And what a day it was!

The boat was waiting for us at the harbor. It was a sleek wonder of mahogany and chrome, a Riva speedboat, bobbing by the wharf, with skis and ropes sticking out at the stern. The captain, Mr. Vernet, helped us on board and pointed to the well-stocked bar in the back. Tomaso recommended a light Pastis for me, saying it would take the edge off my first water skiing attempt. The day was gorgeous. Not a cloud in the sky, and the Mediterranean looked like a lake of infinite blue. I declined the drink until later as I was feeling quite inebriated already. We exited the harbor and the boat rose up as it picked up speed toward Notre Dame.

Tomaso held me for my first attempt from the beach, and I managed to get up on the skis. It was exhilarating to be gliding on water in the frothy wake, looking all around me while Francesca was waving from the boat. I got up by myself on the second round and off we went into deeper waters, on a large circle off the coast. My favorite part was letting myself sink standing upright all the way when the boat slowed down far from the shore into the dark blue. After I climbed back on the boat, Francesca wrapped me up in a warm, dark green towel as Tomaso jumped into the water holding the rope, ready to take his turn with the mono ski.

There I was, finally sipping my Pastis. I remember looking at my foot resting on the chrome and rubber step on the side of the boat, the sky, the misty coast beyond, the wake, Francesca’s smiling face, and the walls of water with rainbows kicked off by Tomaso. I will remember this always, I said to myself. This is how real people live, I thought. Maybe this is even how my parents lived when I was not around.

At night, the three of us went to dinner at the Langoustier. We had melon and Tomaso showed me how much more glamorous it was to eat melon with salt. This is how people eat it in Rome, he said. We had grilled “loup” with fennel. We had wine. We talked about many things I had never talked about with adults, or even with anyone. I told them I had a crush on Bambi. After I had spent some time enlightening them on his name and nickname, they started giving me advice on how to “score” Bambi.

“Wrap yourself up with cellophane and wait for him in his room,” said Francesca.

“Cover yourself up with whipped cream and do the Dance of the Seven Veils,” said Tomaso.

I was laughing so hard, I had tears in my eyes.

“Well, he doesn’t know what he’s missing,” said Francesca, lifting her glass.

After dinner, we got back into the boat and Mr. Vernet took us back to Plage d’Argent under the moonlight. We had to jump off the boat into the water as it was too shallow for the Riva to go any further. We waved goodbye and splashed around as we ran toward the house.

Running across the living room, we realized we had made a mess by dripping salt water all over the tiles. Tomaso and I volunteered to mop the floor. “Buona Notte, everyone!” Francesca said goodnight cheerfully and went into the bedroom. After we were done drying the floor, Tomaso kissed me goodnight on both cheeks and joined her.

Once in my bed, I listened into the night. Now that they were my friends, I was hoping I would hear them again making love; hear them or see them do something to give me some clue as to what was really going on. I knew the facts of life of course, but I could not fathom what was so powerful that those who did it could lose control of their voices and their movements, as if caught in a current stronger than their will and their conscious beings. I listened and listened over the crickets, heard some cats meowing, night birds shrieking and rustling in the leaves. Eventually, exhausted by what had to have been the best day of my life, I fell sound asleep.

Day Four

Waking up, I found a little piece of paper on the pillow next to my head. I opened it and read:

Ciao Christina!

Good luck with the little deer

See you soon I hope!

Your Tomasino.

I suddenly remembered Tomaso had had to leave early on the morning ferry …. I folded the note, and put it away in a little cigar box I kept hidden in a drawer.

Today was the 14th of July, Bastille Day, a celebration in all of France. We usually did not have fireworks on or near the island but some people took the boat to Hyères to watch them.

This July 14th looked like it was going to be a work day for both Francesca and me.

She was already on the phone talking in an agitated way in Italian by the time I was up and about. She saw me and smiled at me with a little wave of her hand. When she looked at me, it was as if the world was coming together, as if the last piece of the puzzle had just fallen in. I would suddenly be tall, tan and fearless. I waved back and grabbed my bike. I had an appointment with the tutor at Ondine’s house.

We worked for a while, we had sandwiches for lunch, and I actually did better in math this time.

Afterwards, we went to Notre Dame for a swim with the boys. Everything around me had changed. I used to be visiting the beach, now I secretly owned it. After all, this was where I had gone water skiing the day before, where I had sped across the water in a mahogany speed boat with ice cubes clinking in my glass of Pastis.

Even Bambi, “the little deer”, had changed. I still enjoyed looking at him, but I was also chuckling to myself, thinking about the cellophane, the whipped cream and the Dance of the Seven Veils. My confidence had also increased. I was less in awe of the new chrome zippo, and less interested in counting the number of times he spoke to me or looked at me with any expression other than irritation.

As a matter of fact, I am the one who felt irritation. His wisecracks about Francesca were beginning to get on my nerves.

“You don’t know what you're talking about!”

I was sitting behind him, looking at his back and the blond curls in the back of his head. I threw some sand at him.

“Oh, because you do, don’t you? What do you know that we don’t? Eh?”

He turned to me with his most devilish smile. I would rather have died on the spot than shared anything I knew from the time I had spent with Francesca.

“Nothing. I just know she’s not a dyke, that’s all!”

And on we went…

That night, Francesca decided she would invite Simone to have dinner with us, to thank her for taking such good care of us. Francesca cooked some home-made spaghetti and I went to the bakery to buy a special cake, rum “baba”, Simone’s favorite and mine as well. We had a great time. Francesca had a way of drawing people out, and I had seldom seen Simone smile and laugh as she did that night.

Then it was time to go to the July 14th Ball on the village square. We could already hear the music from the terrace. Some local band with electric guitars and accordions was playing 'Johnny B. Good' and singing it in French, of course.

Simone decided to pass on an evening of patriotic revelry, so Francesca and I walked down to the little square, all decorated with bright colored paper lanterns and flags.

There were tables and chairs all around a makeshift dance floor. Couples and kids were dancing. Groups and families at the tables were laughing and lifting their glasses of cheap champagne in toasts. Some of the little kids were lighting fireworks in the corner by the small church. Many of the sailors had come down from the fort, and a whole side of the square was painted over with their uniforms.

Francesca was wearing a blue work shirt and jeans, and no make-up whatsoever. She looked tan, and younger than her thirty something years. She took in the scene, and smiled. Her presence was hard to ignore, and one of the sailors spotted her. He came over, and took off his hat.

“Mrs. d’Alessi, I know you…”

“You know me? And do I know you?”

“No you don’t…yet … but will you do us the honor of joining us for a drink?”

The sailor seemed so nice and so respectful, Francesca agreed to join them. I saw her disappear in a cheering sea of white and blue as I went over to join Ondine, Veronica, Bambi and Jean-Rémy with a smattering of parents, over in the far corner.

“Looks like your friend is having a great time with the Navy”, said Bambi, obviously obsessed by Francesca.

“Lay off her, will ya?”

“My, aren’t we protective….”

“Yes, I am.” I replied in a serious tone, leaving no room for banter.

So he finally stopped, and we all started dancing in a circle. Veronica was the most graceful of us all, and it was always a joy to watch her dance with her long wavy black hair flowing like a Tahitian’s. Bambi was more into strange Mick Jagger style poses, executed in zombie like jerks, and I was more comfortable with his kind of choreography, so we danced like zombies together, until he finally had to laugh, pick me up in his arms, and twirl me around.

“Christine! You’re almost cool, sometimes, you know that?!”

That was the biggest compliment he had ever bestowed on me, and it made me extremely proud and happy. I looked around for Francesca, and I saw a bunch of flashbulbs going off.

“What’s going on over there?”

“Looks like that little guy from Nice-Matin has spotted your friend yakking it up with the sailors. That’ll make a nice front page, I’ll bet!” said Ondine…

I rolled my eyes and cursed under my breath. I don’t think Francesca was counting on this, and she was supposed to be incognito. I should have spotted the photographer and warned her, but I had not been paying attention. I looked over and Francesca was laughing with the sailors, and seemed to be having a great time.

“I guess it’s OK with her”, I said … still a little worried.

But I knew famous people were always torn between the fear of being recognized and the fear of being ignored or unknown. After a while Francesca got up, followed by the photographer from Nice-Matin and some tourist amateur photographers. She walked over to our table. I got up to greet her, and so did Bambi and Jean-Rémy.

“Is everything OK?” I asked.

She nodded yes without answering, and I proceeded to introduce her to my friends.

The band was playing a French cover of the Rolling Stones' 'Honky Tonk Women', and Francesca said “Oh, I haven’t danced yet! Let’s dance!”

We all got up to dance with her, and some of the sailors joined us as well. Bambi and I were honing our zombie dance, and soon he and I, Veronica and Francesca ended up as a wild foursome. Francesca was a good dancer, if a little subdued and controlled. I caught her looking at Veronica with a flash of admiration, and I suddenly was ashamed of the jealousy I was feeling.

At some point, the flashbulbs got to be a little too much, and as the band started playing 'A Media Luz', a popular tango, Francesca took me aside on the way back to the table.

“I need to go home, sweetie …”

“I’m going with you!”

Francesca turned around and as the flashes went off she graciously waved at the crowd, as if at some grand event.

“Buona notte, everyone!”

Revelers and sailors were waving back and saying goodnight. I did not want to leave Francesca alone, so I waved at my friends from afar, and we started walking home, leaving the crowd and the photographers behind.

It was very dark and still warm. Myriads of stars were out, no moon yet, and we could hardly see.

“Y todo a media luz…” Francesca was singing in Spanish “que es un brujo el amor” … then she hummed to herself for a little bit “que suave terciopelo, la media luz de amor … la la la”, and then was quiet all the way back. At some point, she took my hand, so I could guide her on the trail.

We got back to the house safe and sound. We could still hear the music coming from the square. As we said goodnight, Francesca grabbed both my wrists and looked at me with those incredible blue eyes.

“Christina, carina … I have a great idea for tomorrow. You just wait and see …”

She looked excited. She kissed me on my right cheek and twirled away back to her room. I could hear her sing to herself “y todo a media luz crepusculo interior … la la la …”.

I read my mystery book for a while before turning off the light, but my interest in who could possibly be the murderer had waned considerably since I had first taken it up …

Day Five

I could hear Simone’s voice in broken English behind the door as I was getting ready to come out for breakfast.

“But, Mrs. Hall, doesn’t want Christine to go out on the water!”

As I walked out, I realized they were actually discussing the possibility of Francesca going out on the Nostromo, my parents’ sailboat, and taking me with her. The Nostromo was small, less than 30 feet long, but it was a beautiful all teak and brass sloop with an inboard motor and a comfortable cabin with all the amenities.

I used to love going out on the Nostromo with my parents when I was little. Then, my mother decided she hated the sea, and my father started using sailing excursions to attract young women. After my parents separated, I had a few occasions to go out on the boat with Felipe the Corsican man who was in charge of maintaining it, and with friends of my mother’s every now and then. My father had named it “Nostromo” after his favorite Joseph Conrad novel. It lived in the harbor and Felipe made sure it was clean, seaworthy, and always kept the brass tacks shiny as new.

“She knows I know how to handle a sailboat,” says Francesca. “Do you know where we can reach her?”

Simone didn’t know, but she added that if Mr. Felipe agreed, it would be fine with her to take the Nostromo out. I think she was getting tired of always policing things on behalf of my absent mother.

As I was finishing breakfast, Francesca talked to Felipe in Italian for quite a while. She was smiling and joking, it looked like it was all set.

“Felipe, un minuto per favore … ”she said. She turned to me. “Do you know where the ‘big bag’ is for the boat?”

I did indeed, and she instructed me to go and get it. The big duffel bag is where we kept all necessary items for an overnight on board Nostromo: sheets, blankets, pillows, some pots and pans. Overnight?! We were going to stay overnight? I could hardly contain my excitement. I had not stayed overnight on Nostromo since I was about five years old!

Felipe was coming over to help us with the big bag and with some groceries, and we were packing essentials for overnight, including my mystery book, of course. I could not help but bounce and skip on the road as we walked to the harbor with Felipe. Francesca looked ready, wearing jeans torn at the knees, and a striped sailor shirt. She was discussing the idiosyncrasies of the boat with Felipe.

“Christina, Felipe says you can handle working the jib. Is this true?”

“Yes, sure, I’ve done it before … ”

I had done it under close supervision from Felipe who knew the sea inside and out and who told me everything step by step, but there was no way I was going to say anything to impede Francesca’s incredible plans.

On the boat, Felipe partly unfurled the main sail, pulled the jib from the hold to get it ready and hooked it up. Then he helped us open the duffel, get out the sheets and make the two little bunks in the main cabin. Finally, he pulled out the plank, Francesca started the engine, waved at him, and we were off.

I was nervous, as I had not been sailing for a long time. It looked like a perfect day, though, with calm seas and a soft breeze, ideal for apprentice sailors.

Once we passed the jetty, it was time to sail. I helped Francesca hoist the main sail and then proceeded to do the same with the jib. But my movements were awkward and I felt at all times like I was going to fall and make a fool of myself. The shackles were rusty with salt, and nothing seemed to come easily. Fortunately, Francesca’s plan was to go to the Southern side of the island, where little rocky coves were not reachable by land. This put the breeze at our back, and I didn’t have too much work to do after all. We did one clumsy port tack, brought down the sails and used the motor to pick the best cove. We dropped anchor. There were very few other boats around. I recognized Bambi’s mother and a friend in a converted fishing boat.

Francesca took off her jeans and her shirt, down to a simple two piece black bathing suit. She was slender and strong, with skin the color of light rosewood. I tried not to stare at her, but I noticed she wore a thin gold chain around her waist. She plunged head first into the green water without hesitation. I poked around in the cabin for a while, found my snorkeling gear and my fish gun, but decided I did not feel like killing anything today. I dropped the rope ladder from the stern to make sure we could get back on, and then jumped from the bow and swam around with Francesca. She was a smooth, easy swimmer. When she came up from diving, her hair and face would glisten with liquid sunlight, in a tribute to her natural beauty. In the water, she was all fluidity and elegance. I felt privileged, but also intimidated to be out there almost alone with her.

We spent the day swimming and lying in the sun, until the light began to change and all the other boats had left for the day.

Francesca decided we had to watch the sunset together, drinks in hand. I went below deck to dry up and put on some clothes, and she made Pastis and water for both of us. Coming back up, the scenery was breathtaking. The rocks by the cove had taken the color of blood, and the sun was surrounded by pink clouds.

She handed me my drink, and we sat on the deck side by side, watching the sun go down.

“I am so glad we came here … I didn’t feel like staying on the other side after last night. Too many people …”

“You seemed to be OK last night, though. Does it bother you when people recognize you?”

“Well, it is flattering in a way … especially if they are friendly. But I always think my job is to act, not to be on public display like that…”

“What is it like to act? Do you like it?”

She graciously answered the question. “The common wisdom is that acting is great because you can be many different people other than yourself.” When she explained something, she truly talked like an Italian, with all kinds of hand gestures. “But in reality you find out eventually that all these characters you play, the good ones, the icky ones, the desperate ones, they’re all you. They are all alive within you … All these different feelings, they are not foreign to me. I’ve known them all, I’ve had them all at one point or another. It’s just a matter of filtering the right one at the right time.”

The sun was halfway gone. Francesca was asking “Christina, have you ever seen it? Il raggio verde? The green ray?”

“No, but I have read the novel by Jules Verne. In it, these people mount an incredibly difficult and expensive expedition to go to the North of Scotland to the Faeroe Islands, to be sure there will be no land to interfere with their viewing of the green ray.”

“And do they get to see it?”

Looking at her, I told the story as if I was daring to tell an intimate dream.

“No, they never see it … the heroine and this guy she likes are up there waiting and waiting and, at the time when the ray finally happens, they are busy looking into each other’s eyes. And all they see is love … the light of love. They are so much into each other, and they miss the ray altogether. But it’s all right … ”

“Che bello … what a beautiful story … ”

We were quiet and looking into each other’s eyes all of a sudden. Just like in the story. Francesca looked genuinely moved, but it was only something from a book.

I was the one who looked away first, to see the sun reaching the green ray point, but no green ray was showing up.

She got up and decided to make dinner while I stayed outside and watched the dusk fall on the walls of the cove.

She had made another batch of Italian pasta and I had a little bit of rosé wine. I was determined to direct the conversation. I wanted to know everything about Francesca. “How come you know how to sail like that?”

“My family lives near Naples. My father and I would go sailing all the time. I was sailing alone when I was about your age … ”

“Do you still live in Naples?”

“No … my husband has a villa on Capri and we go there every now and then, but most of the time we live in Malibu, California.”

She had mentioned her husband and it opened the door to more important questions.

“Do you … huh … do you love your husband?”

“Yes, I do. I love him very much.”

“Why do you sleep with Tomaso, then?”

“Hmm … sometimes, people like me and my husband love each other, but we are not really physically in love with each other anymore. So, I have Tomaso. I love Tomaso. He is a good friend and a great lover, but he is not the marrying kind.”

“Does your husband know about Tomaso?”

“Yes, he does.”

“And he doesn’t mind?”

“I don’t know for sure, honey … but as far as I know he doesn’t seem to mind.”

Then, I asked the question I was dying to ask … “What is it that makes someone a great lover?”

“Well, let me see … ”

She was thinking hard … she was actually going to answer my question! “A great lover is someone you feel so safe with that they can take you to the edge and they are still with you. You are not left alone out there, so you can stay longer … ”

Not that this made any sense to me, but I appreciated her effort. I was still on the attack however. “What about Selena Hirschberg?”

“What about her?” asked Francesca … obviously taken aback by the question.

“Bambi says you sleep with her.”

“Bambi! That guy sure knows a lot! Where did he get this?”

“I don’t know, but I think he read it somewhere.”

She paused … looked down … then looked back up straight at me. “Well, you know, I’m in love with Selena. That’s enough motivation to be sleeping with her, don’t you think?”

“You’re in love with Selena?”

“Yes, I am. She is beautiful, fiery, and Indian. You would love her too … ”

“Do you, like, make love with Selena and all that stuff?”

“Yes, I do. Anytime I can, believe me.”

I was remaining silent, trying to wrap my mind around all of this.

“It’s not so weird you know … you’ll see … everybody does it. Those who don’t do it have thought about it at least once in their lives, and those who are angry about it are those who want to do it the most”

“Is Selena a great lover?”

Francesca was pensive. “Yes, she is … too good maybe, if there is such thing. .. Sometimes she can make you forget who you are.”

“Is this good or bad?”

“Well, it feels very good … but I think in the long run, it might be bad … ”

I was still processing this deluge of revelations from an adult I hardly knew.

“You love a lot of people,” I said.

“Yes sweetheart, my heart is full … but there is always room for more, you know.”

On saying this, she suddenly got up. “Let’s go for a swim!”

“Now? “The water around the boat seemed black and uninviting.

“Yes, now! Come on, let’s do it. Let’s go for a midnight swim!”

Upon saying this, she proceeded to take off all her clothes, and to dive head first from the boat into the night, hardly making a splash.

“Come on! It’s delicious!”

What the hell, I thought … I’ve got to do it. So, I took off all my clothes as well and jumped off feet first holding my nose as usual, without even thinking, so I wouldn’t have time to get afraid. The water felt incredibly warm. Swimming without a bathing suit was new to me and I was surprised at the sense of freedom and vulnerability it gave me. We swam a little far from the boat, and floated on our backs looking at the stars. I could not see her very well, but I could feel the water rippling from her movements to stay afloat. There were so many stars, it was hard to distinguish the constellations.

“Do you know the names of the stars?“ she asked …

“Yes, I do, at least some of them … ”

I started naming them, remembering what I had heard about them at the Paris Planetarium. I was saying the names in French: Betelgeuse, Rigel, Cappella. Francesca was listening intensely.

“Tell me more … ”

Sirius, Orion, Arcturus, Vega de la Lyre, the Big Bear, the Little Bear, the Medium Bear, Goldilocks ... I was making them up. She laughed.

“More … tell me more … ”

The night was calm and the air was still warm. Out from behind the cove, the moon started emerging like a spotlight and the stars began to fade. I could see Francesca floating on her back, looking at the sky. I could hear night birds flapping their wings, and the hollow sound of waves in the rocky coves. It all seemed like a dream. There I was, all alone in the wilderness with this woman who was treating me like her equal. I was floating too, smiling to myself and enjoying the feeling of swimming naked in warm waters. Oh, this was the life … indeed …

Once the moon was up, the cool breeze also rose, and we decided to get back onto the boat. Fortunately, I had left the little ladder unfolded at the stern.

Francesca went up ahead of me. The drops of water on her body were like glitter in the moonlight. I could see the chain around her waist.

“Do you know where the towels are?”

I did, and I got them for both of us … We dried off inside the cabin and closed the door. Inside, the light was soft and, since we had already made the bunk beds, they looked cozy and inviting. I went into the little bathroom to brush my teeth and then settled down in my bunk with my book while Francesca took her turn in the little bathroom. The boat was gently rocking, making creaking sounds and I could hear the waves licking at the hull. I was imagining we were miles away from civilization. Me and Francesca, we were alone on the ocean.

She came over and sat on my bunk. She was still naked, her shoulders wrapped in her towel. She took my hand.

“You are a wonderful kid,” she said.

Then she bent over and lightly kissed me on the lips, lingering just a little.

When she stopped, I was bathing in the light of her smile and my heart was beating faster. She was still holding my hand. Without thinking, I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it.

“You need to be happy, my sweetheart … ”

As she said that, my eyes started blurring with tears. I could feel uncontrollable sobs welling up in my throat. She lifted me from the pillow and held me for a long time. “ …there … there … ” she was saying, rocking me gently. “There, my angel … May your dreams guide you to happiness”.

In between sobs I kept trying to say “but I am happy”, but I don’t think anything intelligible came out. When the storm finally subsided, I realized her neck was drenched with tears, and I pulled back. I used a corner of her towel to dry her, and she gently patted my swollen eyes with another corner. We were so close. I could feel the warmth from her skin like a heat lamp. She took a tissue from the little night table in between the bunks and handed it to me. I blew my nose and greedily grabbed her hand again as I lay back down. I was looking at her face in wonder. I was taking in her beauty and trying to slow down my breathing. She stroked my hair and my cheeks for a while. Her touch was calming and electrifying at the same time. She kissed both my eyes and my lips, soft as a feather. Then she kissed my hand as she was letting go of it to get up from my bunk. I was still trembling as she lay down on her side and turned off the light, whispering “good night, sweetie … go to sleep … lots to do tomorrow.”

I turned toward the wooden wall in my bunk. I could hear the blood rushing through my veins and the water against the hull. My breathing was still shallow and I was shaking for no reason I could think of. Finally, after what seemed to be a long time, I settled down and turned around to face inside the cabin. The moon had risen even higher and moonbeams were criss-crossing through the portholes. I could see Francesca sleeping with abandon, looking so vulnerable with her arms up on the pillow like a baby. She had kicked off the sheets and her body seemed to be translucent in the moonlight. I would have given anything to have the nerve to cross over and lie down next to her, holding her tight and feeling her skin against mine, her hair against my face. I watched her sleep for quite a while. As she shifted in her sleep, each movement was one more expression of beauty. How can anyone be so perfect and not be cruel, obnoxious, or dead?

I caught my eyes closing on their own and I eventually drifted off into sleep with dreams of ocean waters and endless voyages through comfort and love.

Day Six

When I opened my eyes, it was late. The hatch was already open and sunshine was pouring in. I could see part of Francesca’s leg outside; she was already up. I could smell coffee in the little kitchen area. The boat was gently rocking and I could tell it was going to be a slightly cooler day. I got up, folded the sheets and put them and the pillows into the duffel bag. I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, then went up to meet Francesca in the bright light of the morning.

“Good morning, amore mio,” she said, “here is some breakfast for you”. She had cut melon and strawberries into little cubes, made some toast and buttered it, and arranged everything neatly for me on the placemat on the folding table.

As we prepared for departure, I was literally floating … not cautiously stepping on the deck, but gliding, swinging around the rigging like in a Hollywood musical. Francesca and I smiled at each other a lot. At some point, I hoisted the jib and dangled from the deck to undo a line which was caught. I saw a look of concern on her face but I looked back and waved. She smiled and blew a kiss in my direction. She kept calling “amore, let’s go, ready about!”, “amore mio, let’s do another one”, and with every call, I turned into a better sailor. The sea was a little rougher on the Western side of the island but, by then, we were a well tuned seafaring team. She was my skipper and I was her first mate. I was flying about the deck adjusting this, tying that, tightening, loosening, until the boat was steadily breaking the waves, full and by, panting at a good clip. Francesca held the wheel with her feet and leaned back into the sunlight. I lay down on the cushions in the wheelhouse and rested my head on her leg. I could see the white mainsail and the sky, and with every lift of the boat I could feel the pressure of the muscles in her thigh. Every now and then she would gently stroke my hair. I would look up at her and she would smile at me. It was like time had stopped and the world was nothing but this infinite sky, dark blue sea and the wonderful isolation of our small sailboat…

“Amore, it’s time … one last starboard tack to home … ” I got up, she sat up at the helm, and we executed our last tack perfectly. I sat at the bow with my legs dangling, watching the harbor approaching as we encountered more boats and waved at them. I started furling the jib and then we brought down the mainsail as the boat was gracefully turning in a circle. She started the motor and we entered the little harbor as I was lowering the bumpers. We had been gone for weeks, it seemed. I was arriving in a foreign country, an exciting new land. The small harbor master’s building, the flotilla of white fishing boats once familiar were like a discovery … a quiet side entrance into a new life.

There was a large motor yacht in the harbor, the “Orion”, flying the colors of Greece in the guest slip at the far end of the dock. I busied myself doing all the chores I remembered from the last time I had sailed on the “Nostromo”. I folded the jib into the sail hold, and Francesca helped me wrap the mainsail into its blue protective cover. As I was swabbing the deck, a man was helping Francesca with the gangplank. He was dressed like a sea captain in a light opera, with white pants, a blue blazer and a white cap he took off when he started talking to her. They were speaking English, but I could not hear what they were saying. As Felipe was walking toward us to get the keys, I took our bags out, locked the last hatch, and watched as the man hopped on a little golf cart and sped off toward the Orion.

I had left the big duffel in the cabin. Felipe said he would bring it over later and we walked off toward home. I was windblown, my skin was sticky with salt, my hair matted, but Francesca still looked like she had just stepped out of a giant clam shell like Botticelli’s Venus.

“Sweetie, this was Stavros Spanodakis. He invited me to have dinner with him on the Orion tonight.

Ah, the Greek billionaire. He came to the island on the Orion every now and then, but this was the first time I had actually seen him in person. I was distressed. This was my last evening with Francesca and I had been looking forward to spending every possible minute with her. I managed to compose myself and act reasonable.

“Ah, good … should be fun.”

I don’t think she was fooled for one second by my calm demeanor.

“You know, Christina, he is on the list to finance my next film. The production company would love for me to give him a little push. I would much rather stay with you, carina … ”

She put her arm around my shoulder as we walked and it did a lot to make up for my disappointment.

Francesca had to pack in the afternoon, and I did not feel like hanging out with Ondine and the boys, so I took a sandwich and rode my bicycle to the top of the hill. I was pedaling with a vengeance, and almost made it to my favorite spot without having to walk the bike. I could see the Orion in the harbor from up there, and I was angry that someone like Spanodakis had the money and the clout to abscond with Francesca any time he wanted. I lay down for a long time. I slept for a while, then just lay there and looked at the sky as I had on the Nostromo.

I imagined I could have brought Francesca up here. We would have walked through the pines on a really hot day. We would have talked about all kinds of adult things, mainly about love. She would have taken my hand and maybe kissed me again like she did on the boat. Maybe even more than that … a real kiss, a lover’s kiss …

But I was not Selena Hirschberg, I was not a lesbian, a dyke, as Bambi would say, and I was not even truly an adult. I loved Francesca, but could I imagine sleeping with her as a lover? I just liked the way she was so physically affectionate with me and called me all these beautiful Italian names. I loved the look of her skin, her eyes, her hair, and I could still feel her lips on mine, and how I had hoped she would never pull away. I sighed so loud it came out as a whimper. I rolled over and got up as if rejoining the present would ease my state of confusion. I brushed off the pine needles and walked over to where I could look at the little coves on the South side of the island. There we had been. There we had spent the night together. There we had truly loved each other, I was sure of it. No one can take this back, not even Spanodakis in his fake captain’s uniform.

It was almost dark when I finally came down the hill and I realized I had waited so Francesca would already be gone by the time I got home. Simone and I had dinner together. She asked me if I had had a good time on the Nostromo. I said yes, and I added I was sure my parents and Felipe would be quite surprised at my progress as a sailing partner.

After dinner, Simone went to her little bungalow and I hopped on my bicycle and made for the harbor.

The portion of pier where the Orion was docked was locked so I could not get anywhere near, but I could see there was light on the yacht. I was trying to make out what I was seeing, and if any of the moving spots on the poop deck was actually Francesca. I could not really see anything and I went back home, a little dejected by the ineffectiveness of my spying.

At around eleven, the phone rang. It could be my mother; possibly … She sometimes called at the strangest hours, especially if she was in a different time zone and had forgotten about it. Instead, I heard a man’s voice with a strong accent.

“Allo? This is Demosthenes, I am purser for Mr. Spanodakis.”

“Yes?”

“La Signora d’Alessi has requested that Christina come and fetch her at the dock.”

I could not help but smile …

“Oh, all right. I will let her know, she will be there right away.”

I did not have to tell Christina to jump on the bicycle and ride like the wind to the harbor. At the gate to the pier, I saw Francesca in a white evening gown which brought out her tan. She was wearing turquoise earrings and gold sandals. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Next to her was Demosthenes, standing by the golf cart. When she saw me, she smiled and rolled her eyes toward Demosthenes who kept looking in the distance for the Christina in question to come and fetch la signora in some kind of vehicle.

She walked toward me, turned and waved at Demosthenes as I got off the bike and we started toward home, on foot, with me walking the bike. Demosthenes climbed onto the cart and disappeared along the pier.

“So, how was it?” I asked, not really wanting to know …

“It was good.”

She was giving me no details, and I was feeling possessive.

“Did you sleep with him?”

She laughed, and frowned at me in mock annoyance.

“Christina! No, of course not, what do you think!?”

“Did he want to sleep with you?”

She responded seriously this time. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. But you see, I can say no. I don’t have to sleep with everyone just to make a movie. It’s good to say no to things you don’t want to do! The hell with them!”

She paused …

“Christina, please take my hand, will you? You know I can’t see in the dark!”

And on we walked, back to the house. The first thing she did was take off her shoes.

“Let’s have a drink … a drink of water actually, I am very thirsty.”

So we sat in the kitchen. I got some ice water from the refrigerator. I chose the best glass for Francesca, a red crystal one with cut designs, and poured her a nice tall glass.

My irritation at her dinner with Spanodakis was completely gone. I wanted to take care of her. I reached for her hand across the table. She held mine in return and rewarded me with a smile which melted my heart even more. But she was still in charge.

“Sweetheart, do you know what you are going to do? Like with school and all?”

“No, not really … I still have a couple of years to decide.”

“Just remember to always stop and think about whether something feels good before you do it. If it does, then follow it. Follow it all the way and don’t look back. You can’t go wrong.”

This went against everything I had ever heard from teachers and advisors at school. Good feelings led to nothing but depravation and laziness.

“How do I know when something is really good?”

“You know it because it stays with you. You drink too much, it feels good, but then you wake up with a headache …that’s not good. You do something really good, it sticks to you, you can take it with you anywhere, and it will keep. It never goes away, though you don’t always know it at first.”

I was looking at her, trying to understand what she was saying, trying to never forget.

“I will miss you,” I said.

“I will miss you too, my angel.”

She finished her glass and got up. I did too. It was time to go to bed. As we were walking toward our rooms, she turned to me and we fell into a spontaneous embrace. I was holding her very tight. I could have sworn I could feel our hearts beating together. She kissed my neck just below the ear. The sensation was so strange and so powerful that I had to breathe in and out, too fast, almost in a gasp.

“Oh my …” said Francesca, as she gently released me. “Tesoro, come on sweetie, time to go to sleep … Come wake me up tomorrow morning if I oversleep, OK?”

She waited for my answer.

“OK.”

She went into her room and closed the door.

Sleep was entirely out of the question. The mystery book was still at the bottom of my backpack from our trip on the Nostromo and I could not bring myself to pick it up. I went out onto the patio and waited for Francesca’s light to go out. She had closed the drapes and I could not see into the room, but I knew she was there, and I could imagine her. I stayed for a long time afterwards in the dark. I was not sad anymore. My heart was light, a strange energy was running through me, and every sensation seemed amplified. I could hear the night crickets, I could smell the pine needles and I could almost feel their warmth from having spent that whole glorious day in the sun. I wanted this feeling to never, ever leave me. I wanted this being I had become today, to remain within me forever.

Day Seven

I did not have to wake Francesca in the morning. I could hear her and Simone moving around and talking as I got up. When I joined them, the sun was already warm and the smell of jasmine was in the air. But what mattered most to me was Francesca’s smile, warmer to my heart than a thousand suns.

At 10:30, the jeep from the Langoustier came to pick her up. I helped load her bags in the back while she sat next to the driver in front. I commented on the large number of bags she was travelling with when she had been wearing a minimum amount of clothes while on the island.

“Oh, but I had gone half way around the world before I came here … ”

“Where are you going now?”

“Well, to Toulon, then Paris, and then I will fly to Los Angeles. You’ll have to come and visit me … ”

I hopped in the back of the jeep with the bags and off we went toward the harbor.

When we parked by the wharf, it looked like everyone had come to say goodbye to Francesca. The reporter from Nice-Matin was there, so were Ondine, Veronica and their parents. Next to them, I saw Bambi, Jean-Rémy and their parents, the one policeman of the island, the postman, and a small group of tourists from the 2 hotels in town, cameras in hand.

Mr. Vernet had come to pick up Francesca with the Riva. I looked at the speedboat, the varnished wood, the chrome step, remembering where my adventure had started less than a week ago. I did not quite know what the adventure was, but I knew it had turned me upside down.

Francesca was very gracious as usual. She went to my friends and kissed them all on both cheeks. I noticed with relief she did not spend more time with Veronica than the others. With Bambi, after she kissed him, she smiled and gently hit his cheek in a make believe slap, and I could swear I saw him blushing. Then she came to me. I was the last one, closest to the speedboat. She gave me a hug, and whispered in my ear.

“Ti voglio bene … don’t forget … ”

Then Mr. Vernet helped her onto the speedboat, she waved at the crowd, and off they went. I watched the Riva go slowly through the harbor. When they passed the jetty, it rose up like a rearing horse and sped toward the misty coast in the distance, disappearing behind its own wake.

I had a big lump in my throat and my eyes were stinging, but I was determined not to cry. Francesca would not be around to take me in her arms and comfort me with kisses.

I managed to return to some kind of routine in the days that followed. I still felt like all my senses were in overdrive. I was in a trance, favoring swimming and walking alone to being with my friends. When no one was around to distract me, I could think of Francesca and almost feel her presence. I could swim with her, walk with her, talk to her, and tell her everything I had ever dreamt of telling her.

When Felipe came to the house to bring the duffel bag, I asked him.

“Felipe, what does ‘ti voglio bene’ mean?”

He laughed, and shook his finger at me.

“Who told you that? You’re just a kid! Who told you that?”

“No one … no one told me. I read it somewhere, I just want to know what it means … ”

“It means ‘I love you’, that’s what it means. Now stay out of trouble!”

Summer’s End

After a few more days, I grew tired of my languor and perpetual nostalgia, and decided I needed a change of pace. When my mother called, I asked for her permission to leave the island and finish the summer with some friends whose parents had rented a house near St. Tropez. She agreed.

Simone was sad to see me go, but was happy to be able to close the house, go home and join her son in Vendée.

In St. Tropez, life was very different from on Porquerolles. I lived it up as much as my fourteen years would allow me. We went dancing until dawn, we sat on the crowded beaches, gossiped and drove around with the older kids. One night, in Ramatuelle they had stretched a sheet on the little square to make an outdoor movie theatre. They played a Spanish film with Selena Hirschberg, and we all went to see it.

Selena was indeed very beautiful, with long black hair and very intense black eyes. I don’t remember much about the plot of the movie as I was mainly interested in the love scenes. How good was she really? The love scenes were light and tasteful. I kept imagining Francesca instead of the male protagonist who seemed quite delighted with Selena’s performance. But I could not really tell what made their lovemaking so exciting except maybe the guy was somebody else’s husband, or a famous cop, or a saint, I don’t really remember ...

Finally the summer wound down, and we all returned to Paris, including my mother who finally came back.

I went back to school and settled down into the gloomy weather and everyday routine.

Many times, I thought of writing to Francesca, or maybe calling her. My mother was not very forthcoming, and seemed to resent any interest I showed in Francesca. However, I knew I could probably get her phone number through my father and I hoped I could get her address through her agent in Paris. I went to see all her movies, read about her, and often saw her on television. When you love someone who is in the public eye, it is as if their public persona is somebody else altogether. People around you talk about them in familiar tones as if they know them personally, and little by little they don’t belong to you anymore. Every once in a while, I would have a dream about Francesca where we would hold each other and kiss as if we were in love. I would wake up and imagine she was having the same dream, and I could not help but let it brighten my day. Yet I grew shy about contacting her and, since I never heard from her, I eventually let my life drift away from the memories of that summer.

I remember crying secretly in my room when my parents sold the house on Porquerolles and the Nostromo. They were separated and had no reason to keep them. This part of my life was over, and it was now time to grow up and be the best student I could be in order to leave school as soon as possible and move on to University.

And so I did. I did very well in the baccalaureat and went on to the Sorbonne for an intermediary year, and then to the Institute for Political Studies on the Rue St. Guillaume. There, I arranged for an exchange scholarship with a university in California. This was not based on visiting Francesca in Malibu. I had read she had left Hollywood and had returned to Italy to live in Rome with her husband. So my decision I think had more to do with the fact that my father was American yet I had never been to America. He himself also lived in Rome, though I very seldom spoke to him. I think what I wanted most was to be away in new surroundings, just as I had escaped the island for St. Tropez two years before.

My life was full of schoolwork and suspended living. I saved my favorite clothes for a future time where I would be fully alive. I had friends but I was always on the periphery of their circles, their conversations and their sexual games. I had flirted, kissed in cars and under piers in England where I had spent a couple of windy summers but I was disengaged from most things, except maybe books and films.

One morning in May, the phone rang. I picked it up and it was a woman from United Artists in Paris. She told me they were presenting Francesca d’Alessi's latest film at the Cannes Film Festival. She said Francesca had asked if my mother and I would be able to attend and, if so, she had reserved a room for us at the Martinez Hotel in Cannes. I was flabbergasted, to put it mildly, and said of course we would attend, and please thank Francesca for us. I could not believe it. After all these years, Francesca was thinking about us! I told my mother the news when she came back home in the afternoon.

“Sorry,” she said, “but I hate the Festival, and the idea of going there makes me sick! But you can go if you want … I bet you Francesca just wants to paper the audience, though … why else would she want us there?”

I said I had no idea. I had long ago given up on any kind of argument with my mother. I was secretly delighted to be going on my own. I was eighteen years old and I had passed my driver’s license test a few months earlier. I decided it would be most fun to drive down to Cannes all by myself.

I left early in the morning on the day of the screening. I had packed a new dress I had bought the day before. I wanted to look as good as possible but the task had seemed daunting. I did not know what to expect or what to think. I enjoyed the drive, and seeing the weather improve mile by mile as I approached the Mediterranean. My time with Francesca on the island seemed so far away and I was a little bit nostalgic for myself as the kid with the no brakes bicycle and the summer tan.

I arrived in Cannes a little later than I had planned. The Croisette was swarming with people and I had to park in a lot on Rue d’Antibes as the Martinez garage was full. I went to the hotel and checked in. I did not have time to enjoy the room as it was already time to go to the screening. I took a quick shower, put on my dress, a jacket and some shoes with a reasonable heel, and walked over to the Palais des Festivals where the screening was to take place. I picked up my ticket at the will call window on the Croisette, and walked on the red carpet to the auditorium. This was my first time at Cannes. My parents had gone often, but had never brought me with them.

The scene inside was exciting. I had a reserved seat amongst all the celebrities, some of them I had met before, but none of them would ever recognize me. Fine with me. I was only interested in one of them. I looked around for her for what seemed like a long time, and then I saw her.

She was surrounded by people and photographers. She had the same easy elegance I remembered. She was smiling as she made her way through the crowd with her usual grace. She always drew people to her, yet knew how to keep some good natured distance. This seemed to serve her well in this kind of event, designed for grand entrances and flamboyant exits. She saw me. Her face lit up in a glorious smile and she fluttered a miniature wave in my direction as she walked toward the stage. Suddenly, it was all worthwhile, the drive, the dress, everything. I was happy to be there, to have come all this way to honor her.

While she was on stage and they were introducing the movie, some woman came over to me, and whispered that the reception would be at the Carlton after the screening, and she gave me the suite number. Thank you … I will be there! Francesca was well received by the crowd. She was very popular in France, especially since she had left Hollywood. The film started …

She played a prostitute who was trying to escape her situation in Palermo and rebuild her life. The film was harsh and violent. There were no love scenes, only sordid sex, but filmed in a grainy, abstract way which made them seem more like nightmares than any kind of reality. Francesca was on screen most of the time and she was good. There was a heartbreaking sadness in the character. I remembered what she had said that evening on the Nostromo about how she acted feelings which had been hers at some point or another in her life. I had a brief moment of guilt, thinking of all she had given me and how little I had given her in return, back then …

As the end credits rolled, the crowd roared and applauded. The director came to take a bow, and held out his hand to bring Francesca up for a standing ovation. It was a great success.

I made my way to the Carlton with great difficulty as the crowd was thick getting out of the Palais and walking on the Croisette. I had to cross to the beach side, and I kept bumping into people. Finally, I got to the hotel and found the suite without getting lost. I knocked on the door and an elegant older man opened it.

“You must be Christina!” he said. “… I feel like I know you already! Come on in … I am Marco d’Alessi.”

He held out his hand. He had a strong Italian accent and thinning hair but he made me feel at ease and welcome.

Francesca was sitting on the couch in the living room surrounded by people holding champagne flutes and various appetizing canapes.

“Christina! Oh, Dio mio, how you have grown! Che bella! Marco, look at her … isn’t she beautiful!? Come here, come sit next to me … ”

She looked a little bit older. I could see new tiny wrinkles in the corner of her eyes but they gave her face a kind and soft expression which made her more real and more human. She gave me a hug and we had a few private minutes to talk. I told her I was going to a university in California in a few days. She asked me if I felt good about it, and I said I still felt a little bit tentative about everything. She caressed my cheek briefly and then took my hand. She held it throughout the endless procession of people coming to congratulate her.

“Oliver, Oliver,” she called, “… come say hello to my Christina. Look how beautiful she is … she is going to California!”

A young man approached, dressed in a tuxedo. He was extremely handsome, with straight longish brown hair and a charming manner. He shook my free hand and talked to me while more people were coming to solicit Francesca. His name was Oliver Schneider and he worked for United Artists in Hollywood. They were going to distribute the film.

Francesca squeezed my hand and let it go. She had to move into the next room with a TV crew who was doing an extensive interview.

“Sorry, carina … got to work … don’t go away!”

Oliver brought me a glass of champagne and asked me if how I knew Francesca. I said we had gone on a sailing voyage together and did not offer any more details. He sat next to me on the couch and we started talking about the film, about California, and many other quite mundane subjects as the night wore on.

I found him very attractive and I was flattered by the attention he was giving me. He was looking at me as if he thought I was beautiful. At some point, someone came by with a tray full of little sandwiches with smoked salmon. We both reached out for the same one and our hands touched. He looked at me and we both laughed. At the second glass of champagne I was beginning to feel good and stopped constantly looking to see if Francesca was done with the interview.

We were reclining on the couch and looking into each other’s eyes. “You are so sophisticated!”, he said to me. I knew he was wrong and his remark was only based on my friendship with Francesca, but I took it in all the same.

We got up and went out on the terrace to look at the row of palm trees and the ocean sparkling in the moonlight. We smoked cigarettes and had more champagne. I felt so glamorous and grown up. We were standing very close to each other and he kissed me very lightly. I kissed him back, then turned away to go back to the living room. He followed me with his hand on my shoulder.

Most people had left and I did not see Francesca. Marco was saying goodbye to everyone. He came to us. He said Francesca was very tired,and would I please come tomorrow morning at 9:00 and have breakfast with them? I thought it would be better to see her without all these people. I said I would be there and, bidding him goodnight, I grabbed my jacket and went down to the lobby with Oliver.

“Come with me to my hotel,” he said. “You’ll see it’s so beautiful there … ”

I knew what was happening … what was going to happen. I wanted it to happen. I said yes.

Ten minutes later, we were driving on the lower Corniche toward Cap d’Antibes in a convertible Bentley. The car was gliding silently on the winding road; the breeze was cool but not cold. Everything was perfect. I could not help but touch the walnut dashboard.

“Is this your car?”

“Nah, of course not. I rented it … the company pays for it. Isn’t it great?”

It was. I was looking at him as he was driving. This dashing young man was taking me, little old me, on this most anticipated adventure. Every now and then he would turn to me, smile, and gently stroke my arm. I would have quite a story to tell Francesca tomorrow.

We arrived at Eden Roc. He took his key and we went down to his room. It was a suite right by the water. I was a little bit nervous, but it was time for me to finally pass into adulthood and I could not imagine better circumstances. I did not quite know if I was in love with him, but I had a quick daydream of him and me getting together in California.

He took a bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator. He opened it and we went out on the deck which looked out on a little rocky cove where the sea formed a natural pool of shimmering moonlight.

“Here’s to us!” he said. Our glasses clinked for the toast, we drank, and then he kissed me. I could feel my knees trembling as he gently guided me into the bedroom.

“Are you taking birth control?” he asked.

“No, I am not.”

“Don’t worry … I will be careful.”

He undid my dress, and then turned off the light as he undressed and I took off my underwear. Feeling someone’s naked body against mine was a brand new, exciting, sensation as we sank onto the huge bed flooded with silver light from the moon through the open window.

Afterwards, he got up and went into the bathroom. I stayed in the bed and pretended to be asleep. I felt sticky and afraid to move. He got back into bed, turned away from me, and pretty soon I could tell from his breathing he had fallen asleep. I got up and went outside. There was enough light from the hotel above to outline a set of rocky steps going into the water, and I went down. The water was cold, but cleansing and soothing even though it was also stinging quite a bit. I went into it up to my waist and floated a little. There were no stars and the clouds were attacking the moon.

So this was what made the world go round. At first, it had been very enjoyable. I was sorry the lights were out because I wanted to see everything, know everything and be fully present. And I was for a time, as we kissed and went through a few preliminaries. Oliver was kind and gentle. “You have beautiful shoulders”, he said. But then, at the critical moment, when he put his hands behind my knees and pushed my legs back until I could see my feet in the air, I started drifting off and isolating myself. I could not believe people like Francesca would find themselves ever in such an undignified position. The pain was not too bad, though it was sharp and radiated all the way to my throat. Afterwards it was just strange to feel this movement inside of me, and it did not seem to be connected to another human being.

I was shivering in the water, I was getting really cold.

Oh well. I guess I was not going to be one of these great lovers after all … I hadn’t gone to the edge, whatever that was. I am going to have to practise this to get better at it, I thought. I felt numb and detached. I went back to the room. Oliver was still asleep under the covers. I went into the bathroom and ran hot water all over myself, then I returned to the bed and eventually entered a dreamless sleep.

When I woke up to the sound of the shower, it was already eight o’clock. Oliver came out smiling and handsome, dressed in tennis whites.

“Good morning! Shall we order breakfast?”

I apologized and said I was supposed to have breakfast with Francesca at the Carlton at nine, and I needed to leave as soon as possible. He did not argue very much, which I have to say hurt my feelings a little. I got up and was mortified to see there was a blood stain on the otherwise pristine white sheets of the prestigious Eden Roc Hotel. He noticed my expression of dismay and said “Don’t worry … they’re used to it. People come here on honeymoon all the time”. Honeymoon … yes of course … I covered up the spot and went into the dressing room to get dressed in private and digest my humiliation.

He opened the door of the Bentley for me and off we went. The sky was overcast, so we left the top up. I led the conversation, asking him where he was going, when he was returning to California, and all kinds of trivial questions. I really wanted to ask what he thought of me as a lover: had I been really bad, and what I could have done to improve my performance? But I did not feel like I knew him well enough to ask, and stuck to nervous small talk to avoid silence. He asked me if I wanted to be dropped off at the Carlton, but I did not want Francesca to see me in the same clothes as last night and I needed to freshen up and be by myself for a while. So he took me to the Martinez. He kissed me goodbye as a satisfied lover would, but my mind was already with Francesca, and I did not linger. We exchanged phone numbers and I waved at him as he pulled off on his way to play tennis at Eden Roc.

I picked up my key and rushed to my room. Somehow, last night, I wanted Francesca to know I had slept with Oliver. This morning, I wanted to hide it from her. I took a shower and put on my travelling clothes as I was going to drive back to Paris today. It was five minutes to nine when I saw the message light on the telephone on the nightstand was blinking red. I picked it up and dialed the code …

“Hi, carina, this is Francesca. I know it is early, but can you come at 8:00 for breakfast? We realized we could get on a flight directly from Nice to Rome instead of going through Paris, and we need to be at the airport at 9:30. Please come, I would love to see you … love you, sweetheart”.

Oh my God! I had missed them … It was 9:05 … Maybe there was still a chance … I rushed down the stairs without waiting for the elevator and started running toward the Carlton as fast as I could. I crossed over on the beach side not to have to wait for the red lights. I had left my handbag at the Martinez so it would not slow me down. I could see the Carlton Beach sign and I was focusing on it, not wanting to look anywhere else until I was there. Finally, once at the sign, I looked over to the other side, and caught sight of a black limousine waiting in front of the Carlton. Then I saw Francesca and Marco walking out of the hotel. I was relieved, out of breath and disheveled, but I managed to cross the street without making a commotion. Francesca spotted me immediately.

“You!” she said smiling and pointing her finger at me in mock reproach. “You cheated on me!”

I did not reply, but rushed and fell into her arms. I was holding her very tight. I must have grown, as now my cheek was right against hers. The words came out of me on their own, uncontrolled.

“I love you! Oh … I love you!”

I must have choked on the last word. Francesca was calm as usual. “Don’t be sad, sweetie … go for the good life, always … you’ll get the hang of it!”

Marco came to separate us gently. “Sorry, Francesca, Christina … but we need to go. We can’t afford to miss this plane, shooting starts tomorrow morning … ”

We let go but I held on to her hand as the driver opened the door, all the way until Francesca was finally sitting in the car. Marco was waving at me from the other side.

“Ciao, Christina!”

“Come to Rome! Please come visit!” said Francesca.

The window started going up and she disappeared behind it. The limo started off then did a U-Turn around the center divider, before gliding on toward Nice. The tinted glass was too dark; I could not see inside. I watched it drive away until it was a mere little black dot way out there on the Croisette. I surprised myself with the intensity of my emotion. What I really wanted to do was go get the car and drive straight to Rome as fast as I could. There I would ask Francesca if we were really in love with each other way back then, and now. And if so, then I would insist we do something about it, now that I was not only older, taller, but a real woman.

But I did not do it of course. I had to find out her address, I had to return the car to my mother, I did not have my passport with me, and I had to report to school in California by the end of next week.

I never did go and visit her in Rome or anywhere else.

As it turns out, Francesca d’Alessi was killed six months later in a head on collision with a drunk driver somewhere near Ostia. It was during a week of finals for me in California. I remember exactly where I was when I heard. I was in my car driving to school. I was so stunned that I had to pull over and try to take in what they were saying on the radio. I could not believe neither my mother nor my father found it necessary to call me and tell me in person. Francesca was their friend, I guess, and not mine. Besides, I don’t think they would have been very supportive. I was just alone, trying to get a handle on an unfathomable grief, full of regret and unanswered questions.

I had managed to miss her in Cannes after she had invited me and paid for a hotel room which I didn’t even use. Why was I so eager to lose my virginity that night of all nights? Why did I insist on changing at the Martinez, thus reducing to one minute what was to be my very last encounter with her? Why didn’t I move Heaven and Earth to try to get her address or telephone numbers during those four years? Why the hell did she have to go to Ostia that night?

There was a memorial service. I saw Marco, looking despondent, with some other family members I did not know. I think the woman next to him was Francesca’s mother. I could swear I saw my father in one of the newscasts, walking in the crowd behind her casket. I looked for Tomaso but did not see him. My mother did not attend. I did not attend. I was in the middle of finals.

I finished school eventually, but instead of getting a good job related to my studies, I found solace in playing music and singing, and ended up in the unlikely situation of pursuing a musical career. I stayed out of any relationship with anyone for quite a while, aside from some depressing one night stands which seemed to be the normal thing to do at the time. I hated taking birth control pills and I could not imagine myself spending my life with any of my partners. Sometimes, on warm summer evenings when the sky was especially purple with the best sunsets brought on by pollution, especially in Los Angeles, a languid feeling would come over me to assuage my loneliness. Francesca would be there with me, perfect, athletic and free as she was when I was fourteen years old, and I would imagine our dialog …

“Francesca, tell me life is good.”

“Life is good, amore.”

“Tell me you love me …”

“I do … I love you.”

“No, no, tell me in Italian!”

“Ti voglio bene … don’t forget!”

But I must have forgotten, because it took me so long and so many years to finally understand all the things she had said to me, way back then …

MODERATO

All Dharma is a dream...

(Tibetan Proverb)

Chapter One

Cafés are genuinely important to the quality of life in Paris. In California where I live, in the chic part of Silicon Valley, there are cafés, but they are self-conscious and snobbish in a cheap sort of way.

Here in Paris, they are real places where you can go and spend all day with friends, or simply sit there alone. You can order anything from milk to 12 year old Scotch. You can sit on the terrace and people watch, or read a book, or even write one if so inclined. The place is not intended to be special or cool. It is just a home away from a home which might be far away or inhospitable for any reason.

In my case on that warm day in June, a café was just a nice place to rest between bouts of shopping and an eventual movie. I had come to visit family and old friends in Paris, where I was born, and take a healthy vacation away from my job and my problems in California.

I sat on the outdoor terrace of 'Le Babylone' with George and his wife Francine whom I had known for many years. An unsung and nondescript establishment, it stands on a sharp corner of the Rue de Babylone, across from Le Bon Marché department store.

The day had turned sunny and beautiful and, to a semi-Californian, it is amazing to see and feel the animation of the streets of Paris. The passers-by, even though they may sometimes be rude or angry, always seem more alive and more at ease than the crowds in Hollywood, or even San Francisco.

There were pigeons everywhere, clustered in the trees of the Parc Boucicaut across the street, like grey fruit ready to be picked. Yet the minute you approached this fluttery harvest, it took off with a racket like so many banners flapping under hurricane winds.

I was having a lively discussion with my friends, whom I always caught up with during each of my yearly visits.

We would talk mainly about movies and film-making as this is what Francine did for a living. They knew close to nothing about me and my personal life. I don’t believe they were really interested either, not out of indifference but out of a general commitment to safe superficiality.

If something awful were to have happened to me, I think they would have been deeply concerned and ready to help, but for the time-being they were quite content with keeping their distance, and so was I. Nevertheless, our movie gossiping was far from shallow as we swapped indiscreet revelations amid much laughter.

George mentioned in passing an old film I had seen with my estranged lover Alison, and the thought of her, insidious, unnerving, started interfering with my concentration. Suddenly I had a flash of how much we had enjoyed the film when we saw it. It was an esoteric South American work but it still put us on the edge of our seats. I remembered the excitement of dissecting a film with her. After she had left me, she had got into the habit of being non-committal and vague, to the point of witlessness.

“I liked it!”

“Why? Why did you like it, Alison? “

“It was good!” or “I hated it!”

“Why?”

“It was sick!” or “I hate Cher!”.

These pronouncements were definite and unchallengeable, unless she went back to see the movie with Marie, and Marie was of a different opinion.

Marie … I guess I could see what was attractive about her enough to understand flirting with her. Yet behind her unquestionable appeal, I could perceive an aura of unspeakable darkness. Alison, however, had bought the whole package, leaving me at a loss to understand anything ever again about relationships of any kind.

I blinked and tried to force myself not to think about her and my life back home in California, which I did with some success.

The cafe was fairly empty. We were sitting at the narrow end, facing the department store. Next to us, across from the doorway, a woman was sitting, wearing the same Ray Ban sunglasses that Francine was wearing. She was drinking a café-crème and something about her reminded me of Marie.

Marie had a straight Greek nose which made her face look unusual, lending it an exotic aspect which, reluctant as I was to think anything positive about Marie, I could not help but like.

The woman was thin, unlike Marie, and had thick dark hair tied up in an unruly bun. She was reading a book and I was craning my neck trying to see what it was. It was Marguerite Duras’ 'Moderato Cantabile'. I had seen the movie a long time ago, and all I remembered from it was some kid playing a sonata on the piano. He hated playing it, and I remembered hating it too.

While still managing to talk to George, I started catching quick glimpses of the woman over his shoulder. I made a conscious effort to start looking at him and to be present in the conversation. He was asking me questions about a common friend and how I had met her. I started telling the story, but went out of my way to liven it up, make it wild and funny, as if I was on stage. The anecdotes kept pouring in embellished with cute wisecracks and extravagant descriptions, reducing George and Francine to stitches.

Only after I caught the woman smiling and looking in our direction out of the corner of my eye did I realize that I was doing all this for her benefit. She got up and went inside. I felt some relief, as if during an intermission. Her book was still there. She came back very soon and, as she returned to the terrace, I saw she had taken off her sunglasses. She looked at me very briefly. Unbelievably, she was smiling in my direction. She did not look like Marie in the least. Her expression was soft and bright, and she had huge green eyes. She sat down, put her Ray Bans back on, and picked up her book again while the waiter brought her another café-crème.

My heart started pounding and my mind was racing all over the place. Unthinkable … it was unthinkable that I would have these feelings here, here in Paris, in this café, in the company of people who would not understand anything of me and my life. Unbelievable … right here in the land of my stilted youth where I had only been a good daughter, friend, and occasional lover to a jobless actor or two.

George and Francine were getting ready to leave. I got up too, as if in a dream.

I am in love, I thought. Just like that. This is ridiculous. There had been nothing seductive about the woman, no stealthy approach or meaningful glance full of sexual undertones. There had been nothing but a light smile and a square look. This was precisely what attracted me. Saying goodbye to my friends, I was looking behind them to remember everything about the woman. I took in the white collar, grey sweater, beige oversize canvas handbag, tight black pants, and white running shoes. I think her shoes got me especially because in the entire city of Paris, this woman and I were the only ones wearing athletic shoes and not actually jogging or playing ball.

I was tempted to stay at the café and talk to her, but I had already told Francine and George that I had to be somewhere else. We were crossing the Rue de Babylone to go through the park, when Francine realized that we had forgotten to pay. We came back, and the woman this time did not look up.

“It must be something in the air…” Francine said, apologizing to the waiter.

Then, before I knew it, we were gone. We were walking through the park amongst myriads of running toddlers, old people, nuns, and shady characters, all hanging out in the same sunny garden.

We said goodbye again, and I rushed into the Metro station, secretly hoping that the trains had suddenly stopped running, so I could come back up and see if the woman was still there. But the next train arrived promptly. I hopped on and, lost in my thoughts, started flying toward Solferino.

Panic … No other word can describe the chaos that was taking place in my brain. The insane, absurd temptation of going right back to the café was grabbing me and telling me to stay on the edge of my seat, ready to bolt when the train reached Solferino so I could run to the other side and rush back to Sèvres-Babylone.

On the other hand, the infamous cold and oh so arbitrary voice of reason was telling me to stay right there, glued to the moleskin until my final destination on the other side of town. Besides, every woman in Paris who doesn’t walk around in men’s clothes and slicked back short hair is usually spoken for by at least one man.

What would I say to her if I were to return to the café, after already making two exits in a row?

“Hi! I see you like Marguerite Duras. I’ve read all her books. She is très amusante!”

By the way, I automatically assumed the woman was French, which would also make me very uncomfortable. Only people who exile themselves voluntarily can understand this sentiment. In a foreign language, you can get rid of the very shame that shaped your being, and give yourself new pride in a world where everyone is willing to address you as an adult.

For the first time since losing Alison, I was interested enough in someone or something to be tempted. For a second I had thought she looked like Marie and it had sparked my imagination. It was all for a reason. Everything happens for a reason.

But still … if the woman was in any way interested, and if things did happen for me, what would I do? I was here to visit family and friends who did not know anything about my life. So what kind of mess would I get myself into?

* * *

Here I am, fantasizing and making a big deal out of nothing. This is the craziest daydream I have ever had. This is nothing but a romantic delusion born out of hell fire. On the other hand I can’t spend my life loyal to Alison in thought, and getting battered constantly by her lack of interest.

Maybe I am attracted to the woman because I don’t know anything about her, Alison style. But what if she is a friend of somebody I know? Shudder … What if, what if?

Chapter Two

The train, after an excruciating wait at Solferino and an endless journey through darkness, finally pulls into Sèvres Babylone…I am walking very fast … not running, mind you, but pressing on. Up the stairs … No. The escalator will gain me some time. If I go slowly, she will be gone. If I hurry, I’ll run into George and Francine. Up, up, out into the sunlight. God! This street is crowded … I am walking on the park side of the Rue de Babylone … The café is in sight, I see the waiter bringing stuff, but I still don’t see the terrace facing Le Bon Marché … Ten more steps, here it is …

She is there!

Oh dear! What do I do now? Hidden behind her sunglasses, she is reading the book, with an empty café crème in front of her. She does not look up. I walk past her and go inside the café, pretending to make a phone call.

Downstairs, it is dark. It smells bad and Francine has warned me that the toilet was a Turkish toilet, so I can’t even use the restroom. I can’t aim properly in Turkish toilets (how do real people do it?) and it would not do any good to come back up with wet shoes, athletic or not. Besides, if I wait any longer, she can leave anytime. I come back up. She is still there.

I sit down on the terrace at the same table where I was with George and Francine, but this time I am sitting next to her and not facing her. She still has not looked up. I was wrong. What do I do now?

The waiter comes, asking me what I want. He does not seem to recognize me, which is good. I’ll have a café-crème. Copycat. It’s time to try liking things I never liked before.

* * *

<<Excusez moi … >>

She spoke to me. In French, as I feared, but she spoke to me!

<<Oui?>>

<<Est-ce-que vous avez l’heure, s’il vous plait?>>

The time … I did detect an accent. Maybe she wasn’t French after all … I flashed my new watch with a purple mountain range on the face, and said <<Quatre heures dix.>> Ten past four.

<<J’aime votre montre, d’ou vient-elle?>> I like your watch, where does it come from?

“Well, I sort of designed it,” I said in French. “Someone gave me the face as a present and I bought the band, where I live, in California.”

“Oh! Are you an American?” she said in English.

“No, I’m not,” I replied in English also, “but I have lived there for twenty years.”

“Well, I am. I am from New York. My name is Linda.”

She took off her glasses and put down her book.

“Linda” I said in pure American ritual, “I’m glad to meet you.”

I introduced myself to her.

“Hi Christine…”

Her smile was absolutely devastating. She did not look like Marie at all. She was beautiful, warm and maybe a little sad. I remembered she was reading a book in not so evident French.

“You speak French beautifully,” I said, “and you can read the most obscure French books without any problem, yes?”

“Oh, this … I am reading it for my job … Fortunately, it is very short. This man and this woman meet in a café, nothing happens, and it’s the end.”

We laughed together, an easy, cheerful laugh, freer somehow than what had gone on earlier with my friends. The conversation flowed very easily, and I was not nervous anymore.

Her name was Linda, she was from New York, and she had lived in Paris for three years now. She had a job as a production assistant for one of the TV Stations. It was pretty hectic and disorganized, but it paid well and it gave her a visa. Right now, at the beginning of June, there was a lull in the programming, and she had a little time to do some research ahead of schedule. She had just broken up with a boyfriend (OK … I get this … ) and she was staying at a friend’s apartment in the Rue de Nevers. The friend was traveling around the world or something for a few months, and she was trying to decide whether to stay in Paris or go back home.

Taking my turn, I explained my situation, my failed music career and my current stressful job for a movie theatre chain. My eyes started stinging when I described how hard it was for me to work with someone I had once been involved with, and whom I still cared about a great deal. Alison again … I could not believe the pain was so very much alive after all this time, all these attempts at eradicating her from my mind forever and ever.

“Working with men is hard enough to begin with,” Linda said, “let alone working with the ones we love … ”

She could identify with my predicament. Then it came, fast and easy, with no warning, no preparation, no calculation. I said: “Oh, Alison is a woman … Not that it makes it any easier, mind you.”

Linda smiled, simply, gloriously, and shook her head, looking into my eyes without a trace of discomfort or avoidance. “Men, women, it’s all the same, really … ”

“No kidding!”

We laughed, and I felt so comfortable that I didn’t even resent the fact that the conversation started rolling on safer subjects like movies and books. I had not yet stopped to take a reality check. Here I was, talking with this stranger about the most intimate subjects. I let myself be carried away. The street, the pigeons and the department store had disappeared from my consciousness. I think the waiter came and we both ordered sparkling waters, but I have no real recollection as to when or how, and as to who paid for what.

I was sobered up by the fact that she had a boyfriend. Maybe by opening up to her, I had made a new friend. New insights about relationships were always valuable in order to heal this poorly sutured wound of mine, define it, open it up to the air, and let it close naturally when the pain would not be needed anymore. I wanted to understand everything and come out of it all happier, wiser, and kinder. Any help was welcome. I looked at my mountain watch again. Four forty-five.

“Do you have to be somewhere?” she asked. I noticed a shade of disappointment in her expression.

“Not really. I was supposed to go visit a friend, but instead I’d like to make the 5:30 show of this new movie I’ve been dying to see.”

I said it half-heartedly as I realized I did not want to go to the movie anymore if it meant losing precious moments. I had been brave, I had come back to the café, I was not about to throw it all away …

“What movie is it?”

I explained about Thelma and Louise, about Ridley Scott, and how I liked most of his films, how he created the character of Ripley, or the woman who managed to be proven right, strong and true, and still not die a horrible death in the end. Ripley used to be Alison’s favorite hero and role model. Courage, intelligence, compassion … These days, she seemed to have jettisoned them from her own personal space ship Nostromo.

“Were you going alone?”

“Yes, I go to the movies alone all the time.”

She looked at me with an air of defiance. “Can I go with you?”

I was taken aback by the request. Yet a feeling of excitement almost like deep happiness came over me. It would be quite all right. I managed to add how delighted I was to take her with me to the movies. She smiled. For a second I felt some unexpected emotional current surging between us, but I was not about to believe that women like her could ever be turned around.

We took a cab to the movie theatre which was a very fancy one on the Champs-Elysees. I had not taken a cab through Paris in years. It was very exciting and I felt like visiting royalty. My host was very sweet, talking excitedly about the Musée d’Orsay which used to be a railway station. Where did the train tracks use to be, she was asking? Well, the ground floor was probably a safe bet.

It took all my energy to stay connected with the environment enough to pay for the tickets and reach our seats. Once we were seated, our conversation became a little more substantial.

“What happened with your boyfriend?” If we could be friends, it was better than nothing, I might as well find out the details.

“Oh, it’s simple,” she said. “Julien and I were together for two years, then he met this Italian model, and now he is with her.”

The details were slim, but I could definitely identify with her on that one. “I know the feeling,” I said. “It’s no fun. Do you still have any kind of relationship with him?”

“We’re trying very hard to be friends, but it’s very recent, and things are not yet very clear between us. Are you friends with Alison?”

“Not really. Sometimes, it feels like we could be lovers again any minute, and sometimes I think she makes a point of demonstrating how little she cares about me.”

The houselights were fading down. We had fortunately missed the endless string of commercials that show in French theatres, and the film itself was about to start.

When the lights dim in a theatre, the onset of darkness produces a delightful feeling of anticipation. I loved going to movies with Alison, and we went all the time. I always felt very close to her and we would hold hands and smile at each other in the dark as the opening credits started.

The film was good, violent at times. The screenplay was compassionate, but not sentimental. Linda seemed to react and looked at me every time there was something particularly funny or difficult. Sometimes she smiled softly, the way Alison used to. The whole experience was strange. It was a little bit like being with Alison again, but in a situation that was not blocked or preordained, and where anything was possible including friendship; including love.

At the end of the film, the two women find no way out of the world around them and jump to their deaths in a green T-Bird, in a flash of sunlight that looks like Heaven. It was sad, but also exhilarating and empowering. I almost followed an impulse to take Linda’s arm as we walked out. She was serious and a little bit shaken. “I loved it. Thank you very much for letting me come along.”

Needless to say, the gratitude was all on my side. As we walked out into the still sunny street, she grabbed my wrist.

It was only to look at my watch.

“Oops, it’s late. I have to run. I’m having dinner with a friend, and I’m already very late.”

She shook my hand formally, said “So nice meeting you!” in a hurried tone, and rushed down into the Metro.

By the time I returned her goodbye, she had already disappeared through the swinging doors.

I stayed frozen in space for about five minutes. It hit me: how would I see her again?

We hadn’t made any plans, I did not know her last name nor exactly where she lived. How stupid could I be? Was it possible that, once again, I had made something good happen in my life and then let it go, stupidly? Was I never fully awake? Damn!

I ran down into the Metro trying to catch up with her, but it was too late. The platform was empty and the trains had already left.

How could I have lost her so soon?

Chapter Three

It was very difficult at home to keep my attention on anything. I watched the news on TV with my mother for a while, and then some program which happened to be about a man and a woman who meet in a café. Like 'Moderato Cantabile', they meet, nothing happens, and it’s the end. Did the book ever mention the stupidity of the person who lets it all slip by out of somnambulistic paralysis?

Alison, in my view, was always passive and did not believe she could play a real active part in her own life. Now, for once, I had vanquished my own passivity just to drop the ball again.

Why, why did I let this go? Why didn’t I have the nerve to ask when I could see her again? What could be the danger?

My friend Ruth always said “if it’s on your mind, honey, it’s on theirs too!”. This had usually been true in my life so far. These days however, I could not be sure of anything.

How could I still love Alison after all the hell I had gone through? If someone doesn’t love you, doesn’t appreciate you, let them go. Loving them can only be an exercise in self-destruction. Deep down, though, something was telling me that Alison still loved me. She was the one who was self-destructive in not recognizing that. On one hand, I was trying to convince her to be with me, like a traveling salesman pushing some household cleaner. But on the other, I was also fighting to avoid a sea of unreality where love had turned into meanness, cruelty and indifference.

When Marie left her, a move that seemed to surprise nobody but Alison, she and I started having conversations that were very powerful and intimate. Like clockwork, the next day she would contradict her previous statements and catch me unprepared. Hell, I should have kept my distance. Marie and I were competing for Alison’s allegiance in a tug-of-war, and I was bound to lose every time because I was available, and therefore undesirable.

Maybe this was what had stopped me from asking Linda if I could see her again. Be remote, unattainable, and you will have everything. If to get something you have to not want it anymore, what’s the point? How could I wiggle my way through these traps of destiny and bad timing and end up satisfied with my life? Was there room in our world for ease, pleasure, and uncomplicated love?

Sleep was eluding me. It was hard to get my mind away from Alison, and I hated myself for letting Linda go. Letting Linda go … Listen to me … I did not even know the woman, and we had gone to a movie together. No big deal. I could see her face, Marie-like nose and all. Her smile electrified me and told me I could conquer the world if I wanted to. But why would I want to conquer anything but her?

Could this woman avenge me for all the pain I had gone through? Yes, I can still fall in love, and some people do want to be with me!

My impression was that Linda liked me, and I was responding to her. Here’s to you, Ruthie! Here’s to you, Alison, who had the nerve to call me sick for loving you. Bad timing, you said. Well, maybe it was time for good timing now.

Above all else, it was time for practical considerations. She said she lived in the Rue de Nevers. I could go lurking there until she showed up and pretend that I just happened to be in the neighbourhood. No. Such an indirect approach would wreck the spirit of things. The phone book was useless since I did not know her last name and she was staying at a friend’s anyway. What could I do?

I decided to go by the Babylone at exactly 4:00 pm the next day. If there was some truth to all this, she would be there. What if she was not there? Then I would come back day after day until I had to go back home to California. I would return tomorrow and the day after just like in 'Moderato'. It would give me something to do in the afternoons and in between movies 'Thelma and Louise', I would never forget it. There was a connection between its atmosphere of danger, uncertainty, its forlorn country rock soundtrack and the way I felt now.

There were crazy things that could be boldly attempted. Risk gave you some power even though you had none. It was daring to be honest with Alison about my hopes of getting back together. It showed some nerve to think that I could run into Linda again at the café and assume she would want to see me there too. Maybe it would end in a flash of sunshine and then nothing. Maybe this was what life was all about. It was worth it. Wasn't it?

I kept trying to sleep and, every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing Linda and the way she looked at me. Something was going on there. She seemed upset about her boyfriend. There was nothing going on there.

… I am crazy. Because I am craving the feeling of being loved, I am giving all kinds of meanings to a nondescript encounter in a nondescript café. And yet … how many times do strangers ask you to go to a movie with you and look at you like you were their long lost salvation? Ah! Sleep now. Sleep. Like hell! Let’s have a cigarette and think …

Smoking was the first grown-up thing I had ever done, and it still had a liberating, rebellious aura to it. In my view, the anti-smoking fanatics were turning more people into smokers by provoking their rebel selves.

Alison … where are you now? Why did you leave me in this predicament? No. Stop. Don’t think about Alison. Visualize. Think about a brick wall or a flushing toilet, creating a handy image of disposal-with-humor which could be soothing in a sanitary sort of way. Linda … should I take this seriously? Should I forget it, and not take any risks? Should I not embark on the adventure, whatever it is?

I could have pretended to Alison that we would never get back together even if she was writhing at my feet and spitting on Marie. Ah! But here I go again, when I should think about a brick wall and go to sleep. Linda … I don’t even know Linda. Stop that too … One day my mind and my heart will be full of nothing but brick walls. What fun.

It was still dawn when I woke up. Too early. I must have slept for three hours all in all. I went upstairs, to have breakfast with my mother, and came back down to call a friend and make plans to have lunch with her, anything to distract me.

Friends were the only solid value these days. Brick walls not required. Besides, this one knew all about me and I could ask her advice and talk about Linda.

Alison does not want me, her loss! I will never see Linda again, big deal. I’ll just have fun with my friend Françoise, and we’ll solve it all in two sentences and three jokes. Besides …there will still be time to go by the Babylone and check out the scene.

Suddenly I was sure Linda was going to be there and everything was going to be just fine.

My mother had let me have the car today. Parking was going to be a pain. Françoise had advised me to go, go and go to the Babylone, lurk the Rue de Nevers, spy at the TV station, all TV stations if I didn’t know which one it was, do it all. Why? Because if there was anything to it at all, it was worth it. Create something different with life, something unique and wild. What else is there in the world other than that which is unique, different, and wild to die for?

So there I was. It was three-thirty, and I was counting on the traffic being awful so I could go slow and not arrive too early, wait, look stupid and not know what to do with myself. Worried about parking, I decided to go into the Bon Marché parking lot, and maybe spend the rest of the time until four o’clock in the store. Maybe find a copy of 'Moderato Cantabile'. Yes, that would be fun. It took forever to reach the bookstore. Pocket books? Yes. Marguerite Duras. They had every book she’d ever written except that one. Oh well. My watch. My mountain watch. Ha ha. Five past four. It was time to check out the scene at the Babylone.

I walked up the stairs, through the store, almost running. Out on the street. It was cloudy and the Parc Boucicaut looked windswept and forlorn. Rain was in the air. The terrace of the Babylone was empty. She was not there. Maybe she was inside. Opening the glass doors, I peeked in and stared at everybody. The waiter stood in my way and said “Bonjour!”. Maybe he knew her. Maybe she was a regular. I went down the slippery marble stairs to the telephone, pretending again to make a phone call. No Linda.

Ah! What the hell! I was disappointed, dejected, furious at her, at everything. I had probably dreamt the whole thing. What a fool I was! A fool with Alison, a fool with Linda, a fool all the way. Twenty past four. Waiting any longer was futile and I did not feel like sitting down and ordering something. It was all a ridiculous fantasy. I would not come back tomorrow. I had too much to do. Come on, be real.

I went back down into the parking lot, drove the car out, careful to swing one more time by the Babylone, just in case. No one was there. It seemed desolate and deserted. Forget it.

I went to a friend’s house for dinner and had a good time bordering on oblivion. I pretended that I was someone other than I was. I successfully avoided all impure thoughts. Alison, Linda, all these figments of my fertile imagination took a back seat that night. I slept better than the night before. I was so tired.

* * *

The next day was organized in such a way that I could not possibly have time to visit the Babylone in the morning. Looking for a movie that would last beyond four o'clock, I checked Pariscope Magazine for films, theatres, and schedules. I had seen everything. Ah! A semi-obscure Polish movie was playing at the Publicis, Saint Germain. That’s far enough. I did enjoy the film, even though I did not understand it, which was a sure sign of great intellectual content. I had the car again, and this time I had parked it on the street, a once in a lifetime spot. Alison used to say “Unlucky in parking, lucky in love” every time I had trouble finding a parking place. The irony was just perfect now. My watch said four-thirty. It was too late, too late to go to the Babylone.

Getting back to the car after the movie, I had to walk in the general direction of the café. Hmmm … why not? I have nothing else to do anyway. Here’s a bookstore. Let’s waste some more time. Do you have 'Moderato Cantabile'? Yes, here it is, second shelf from bottom, on your right. I bought the book, and decided to go to the Babylone, and just start reading it. Like that. Just to pay tribute to the potential of what could have been. Quarter to five. I did not even look anywhere, and sat on the terrace. It was warmer than the day before, and quite pleasant. The waiter came, and I ordered a sparkling water. I opened the book and started reading …

She arrived behind me from inside the café. She put her hand on my shoulder and said “So you are a regular here after all!”

Speechless from sheer shock, I quickly hid the book in my bag before she had a chance to see it and catch me being sentimental. I turned around. She looked great. Her sunglasses were on the top of her head. She was wearing jeans and a black sweater, with no shirt collar underneath. Her eyes were made of cool green. I had forgotten their power. Her smile hit me again, soothing, exciting, gentle. “What time is it?”

Her manner of approach was not very varied. I laughed, and finally managed to look at her openly and be present. “Five o’clock. Are you a regular here?”

“No, not at all. I was hoping to find you again. I did not know how to get in touch with you.”

“Well, I didn't know if I could ever find you! I was planning on coming here every day until you showed up.”

She laughed. A joke … what a joke. Yet here she was. Let’s not be cynical and self-deprecating. Now was the time to enjoy things.

“I’ll tell you what” Linda said as she sat down next to me. “Are you free tonight?”

Suddenly, it was like the world, the universe, everything fell into place. Life was really starting. This is what was meant to happen, and it was happening. I would not stand in the way. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. What’s going on?” I was so elated that I could not stop smiling.

“Well, I have to meet someone for work right now, but if you didn’t mind waiting for me for about … huh … an hour and a half, maybe you and I could have dinner together and pursue our conversation of the other day.”

“No problem. I’ll be here!”

She got up, lugging that huge bag and touched my arm gently, looking straight into my eyes. “See you then!”

She was gone. I felt so incredibly strong, intelligent, interesting and interested, as I pulled out 'Moderato Cantabile' from my bag. I knew I had bought it for a reason. Here it was! It was late, but the sun came out in rays from behind the clouds like God in Hollywood films, all golden and flowing down like sweet honey. I won’t disappoint you, I said to the preciousness of the moment. I’ll make the best of it!

Chapter Four

It was so incredibly hard to keep my mind on the book. I liked it well enough. The narrative was ominous and full of hidden meaning that was never uncovered, so you could always blame yourself for not understanding something that anyone else would be getting just fine.

Oh my God! It’s over already! Linda was right, nothing happens. And they were able to make a movie out of it. It was not 70mm Scope or anything, but it won a major award. Some directors specialize in films that are supposed to have all kinds of meanings, but no one can really explain to you what they are. I guess that’s possible. Not everything should be explainable anyway. I should know.

It was torture stopping myself from looking at my watch constantly. I concentrated on the reviews that fill the end of the book, and tried very hard not to think for a while. Why was Linda reading it? What kind of TV program these days would concern itself with something like this?

What was I doing in this café which was probably going to close soon, waiting for this unknown person? Who knew if she was going to come back, and if she was, who was she anyway?

Can we really instinctively know if people are good on first impression?

Marie … she seemed unstable and off-kilter. Maybe Alison was just a con artist and in Marie she had found a soul mate. Maybe I was the intruder all along and never knew it.

What if Linda was using me as bait, like Katharine Hepburn used Elizabeth Taylor in Tennessee Williams' 'Suddenly Last Summer'? Maybe she was trying to get her boyfriend’s new girlfriend interested in women so she would leave him alone ...

These goofy ruminations were getting me nowhere. I thought of ordering some alcoholic drink to calm my nerves, but I wanted to be as present as possible if and when she came back.

The brick wall was in place, with battlements and all, ready to guard me against fantasizing about tonight.

Where should we go? Should I drive? Did I have cash? Ooops! Yes, I did! What a relief. Somehow, automatic teller stops are never very glamorous and should be saved for outings with people you trust. Could I trust Linda? And trust her with what? I seemed to have trusted her quite a bit already. What time? Five-thirty only. Time slows down till it dies …

The little park Boucicaut was getting ready for the end of the day. The pigeons had calmed down, and the people were walking out of the Bon Marché loaded with red bags and packages flourishing ribbons. I was starting to feel a little bored. Marguerite Duras was over and done with. I was not hungry, nor thirsty.

What does one do? Light a cigarette. Five minutes, that’s how long it takes, ten if you really nurse it. Here’s the waiter. Damn! How many sparkling waters can I drink without having to use the Turkish toilet? A café crème will be much safer. Another tribute to Linda the unknown …

The waiter brought it, and I was careful to pay right away, just in case I had to leave fast.

Should I prepare for good things, should I prepare for bad things? Just take the bet that everything will be great. Then the voice of my mother: nothing will ever be great for you. We’ve all got bad luck; nothing ever works for us, especially in love, money and fame. Ah, forget it. Linda is coming back soon. It may seem like a long time now, but it will be nothing but a nanosecond when she’s here. Besides, she’s beautiful, and she seems to like me enough to go to a movie with me, and ask me to dinner out of the blue.

How old is she? I wonder … Younger than me, I’m sure. But when you get to be forty, everyone is all of a sudden younger than you. What could her last name be? I’ll ask tonight, so I don’t have to wonder anymore.

I was rambling on and on, taking a few more steps into the land of asinine madness.

Suddenly she was back before I even had the time to really worry …

“'Moderato Cantabile’, heh? How do you like it?”

She did not seem surprised that I had the book. Suddenly, it was easy not to pretend. Everything seemed to come very easily around her.

“I was curious to read what you were reading. It’s OK. I did not hate it. But maybe I was prejudiced in favor of it.”

She smiled as if she understood. “Where shall we go?”

It was early still. I was far from hungry. I did not feel like going anywhere without having some time to get acquainted again, to get re-connected. The thought of going now seemed impossible to me. We needed something to link us together before we could face the trivial task of walking or driving to a restaurant. We had done pretty well going to the movies, but this was different. I felt shy all of a sudden. I had something to lose.

“It is still early,” I offered, “why don’t we just go inside and have an aperitif before it’s time to go to dinner? I need to shift gears after spending all this time alone with Marguerite.”

Linda laughed. Her laugh was devoid of any kind of mockery or ridicule, and just gave you this great feeling of having said something unforgettable. She heartily agreed and we went inside.

The setting sun was bathing the café with golden light. Alison … Alison, and how she looked that evening in Yosemite in the setting sun. She was sitting on her haunches, listening to the park ranger and laughing at something. Her face was soft and gentle, looking very tan in the reflection of the … how do they call it? … Alpenglow …

Ah! Stop that. Linda was looking at me in a strange way. “What’s going on?”

I lied, for the first time since we had met. “Oh, nothing. I think I’ll have a Pastis.”

Pastis , Ricard or Pernod, the bastard sons of absinth, the liquor of oblivion, the liquor of Verlaine and Rimbaud whose relationship was always alluded to, but never explained, by schoolteachers. Pastis, essence of anis diluted in water is refreshing and light. As a teenager, I was allowed to have Pastis as it was easy to make it just the right strength.

Linda ordered some kind of traditional aperitif like Lilet. We started comparing strange Italian drinks made from various plants including artichokes, and reviewed the real medicinal properties of a horrible concoction named Fernet-Branca. It used to be in vogue at some point during my adolescence, and I remember forcing myself to like it. Linda said she had always dreamt of tasting it. I replied that she could never ever have a Fernet and still live a perfectly happy life.

We were laughing when the waiter arrived and we cheerfully toasted to new friends. Everything was just fine.

“I was so busy yesterday,” Linda said as if to apologize for her absence. “I worked for ten hours in a row. I’m glad I had some time today.”

The conversation went on about her work and what it was like. She seemed to know a lot about France and yet everything seemed to amuse her as if it was still part of a long vacation. I had felt the same way about California for the longest time. Work was not really work; everything was always new and exciting because it was foreign and nothing affected you as much as it did at home. Home … I guess California was home to me now, Alison was home. Hell, where was home now?

Linda put down her drink and let her right hand rest on the table. It was delicate and elegant, with long, thin fingers, trimmed nails, and a silver ring on the middle finger. I was letting myself stare at her. She was looking up, smiling. A strand of her hair kept falling into her right eye and she kept pushing it back. I loved watching her do that. The effect she had on me was amazing.

It was getting dark but they still had not turned on the lights in the café. Fittingly, someone was playing Simon and Garfunkel on the juke box. “... as the room is softly fading, I can only kiss your shadow, I cannot feel your hand...”

Linda had something on me, and I had nothing on her. She knew enough about me to know that I could possibly be interested in her. What was going on in her mind? Did she feel lonely for some American or semi-American company? Will I find out, or will she send me a note ten years from now, saying I really wanted you but I let it go by?

“So, I said,” daring and devastatingly original, “tell me more about yourself … ”

Hell. I’m not a power seducer. I need the other person to be a part of it too, to meet me halfway. One more trait that did not go over too well with Alison … Don’t be like her, Linda. Take a couple of steps, give me some clue …

“What do you want to know?”

“Oh, you know this and that … Your background … All the stuff that doesn’t really mean much but I don't know anything about you.”

So I learned bits of trivia about her, and she learned some about me. Indeed, the information seemed superficial and useless. It did not matter whose family had money, where they came from, where we went to school, and all that. I appreciated hearing that her father was of Greek origin, third generation American, and her last name was Christoforos.

“You know what that means? It means the one who carries Christ, as in St. Christopher, patron saint of transportation, who is supposed to have carried the infant Jesus across the water … ”

She looked at me with great suspicion …

“Are you religious? Like Catholic or something?”

“No, oh no, not at all. I just like all these legends and stories, and religions are full of them. That’s the fun part. There’s also Catholic school and all the stories about nuns, but I didn’t go, so I have none to tell. Sorry.”

On we went … The drinks were giving us a nice buzz and we decided it was time to go to dinner. We agreed on the Brasserie at La Closerie des Lilas, an old traditional Montparnasse restaurant. We paid and got up, and she asked me about my parents. The story of my family had never sounded so special and interesting. Both her parents were still alive. I only had my mother, my father had passed away a few years earlier.

We kept on comparing what we had in common and what was different, as if anything we shared contributed to bringing us closer.

Getting to the car, starting it and driving away happened without either of us noticing. Happily, I let go of my once in a lifetime parking place.

The level of our conversation was quite basic, as if we were saving ourselves for later, and the best was yet to come. We had the evening ahead of us. We were laughing at everything. Life was suddenly simple and thrilling.

My expectations were at the same time high and non-existent. The thought of Alison came to my mind again. I shall love who loves me, Alison, and if it is not you it won’t be you. Could it be this woman risking her life with me, jaywalking across the Boulevard Saint Michel where I had parked over a pedestrian crossing?

We made it safely to the other side, and walked into the Closerie. We asked for a table and waited in the soft embrace of the piano bar, the mahogany and green, the presence of dead poets and soon to be executed lobsters.

Linda was standing by the bar and I was secretly admiring her. Her beauty came from inside, it was beyond looks, history, convention, age or status, and it was attracting me like a magnet. It seemed to me that something very basic had already been worked out for us. Can you read it too? Or are you like Alison - blind and confined in your preordained definition of what life is supposed to bring you?

Chapter Five

We were lucky, and were given a very nice table on the verandah, far enough from the lobster tank that we did not have to feel like Nazis on a rampage looking into the faces of the soon-to-be-eaten.

Linda was looking at the menu. The piano in the background was playing Patsy Cline’s 'Crazy', a song I could definitely identify with.

The Closerie des Lilas is what the French used to call an American Bar, which means that they serve cocktails and somebody plays 'As Time Goes By' on a grand piano at least twice a night. That night, the pianist was playing 'Crazy', and he was talking directly to me. Next thing I knew, he was going to play 'Is That All There Is'?, and the night would be wrapped up after discussing Paris traffic, a few aging Hollywood stars and the political career of Shirley Temple.

Alison used to lapse into small talk diatribes in order to avoid reality, and I had developed an aversion to it. Trivial conversations are only acceptable when both participants are madly in love with each other. Romance was designed by God to give life to the ordinary, for all of us who can’t afford to watch the sunset on the Canal Grande from a gondola in Venice every evening.

We decided on oysters on the half shell, salads, champagne to “celebrate” as we both said, even though we had nothing to celebrate. Linda looked gorgeous and suave as she turned around to greet someone.

“Pierre! I didn’t know they allowed you in here!”

“Lindy! Where the hell have you been?”

Pierre looked like a typical French businessman on a drunken night out. I was trying to overhear their conversation, but it was not easy as Linda (Lindy?) was facing the other way. Finally, he kissed her on both cheeks and left. Linda turned back to me half smiling, but with a desperate sigh, as if things were getting a little hard to handle.

“What’s happening?” I asked, made bold by the waiter opening our bottle of champagne, a great luxury in California, but a regular, if expensive, commodity here.

“Oh, that’s Pierre. He is a friend of Julien’s. I haven’t seen either of them in a long time.”

“He calls you Lindy?”

“Yes, that’s how friends call me. I like it better than Linda Louise.”

“So what’s going on?”

I was not giving up, remembering how hard it was to keep conversations going with Alison.

“Well, nothing, that’s just it.”

“What do you mean Lindy?

I accentuated the nickname humorously and with a trace of irritation. I was upset that in the first place she had said “My friends call me Lindy”. Was I to be excluded from this very special group? She had been secretive about what had just gone on with Pierre, and had not even introduced me to him.

Her dialogue with Pierre was none of my business. My curiosity was betraying ulterior motives that I was ashamed of. It was all coming out with sarcasm, designed to get what I wanted without being honest about it. Usually, this approach is doomed to achieve the exact opposite results.

Linda looked at me with a puzzled look, which included a little bit of anxiety. Sighing, I got a grip on myself. Come clean, come clean, it's the only way out.

“You know, it’s funny, but when you said ‘that’s how my friends call me’, it hurt my feelings, even though you and I can hardly call each other friends at this point in time. Also, I’m afraid your conversation with Pierre has upset you. I hope you will talk to me about it …”

Linda started laughing and her eyes filled up with tears as she raised her glass of champagne. “Here’s to the weirdness of life. I don’t happen to know you very well, and I don’t usually introduce myself as Lindy to strangers, you know.”

She kept looking at me as she was drinking, and that look set everything back on track for me. Weirdness of life indeed. She went on without any further prompting. “The strange part is that Pierre said nothing. He sees Julien all the time, and he mentioned that he had talked about me with him yesterday. But that was it. He acted like there was no connection between me and Julien. Even worse, I think he was being careful. He did not want to open that can of worms with me. He just talked about himself, as usual, his own problems with his girlfriend, et cetera … I guess I would have appreciated some acknowledgement of my predicament involving his best friend. It gives me a strange feeling of wandering around the Twilight Zone.”

It all sounded so familiar, like Alison’s glassy-eyed forays into a counterfeit void. It always seemed to me that they were designed to avoid any kind of truth that might require genuine tact, care, or delicate handling. I shared some of this with Linda, as well as some anecdotes involving the cult of unreality, a common pastime in the lesbian community. Linda seemed to detect some homophobia in my discourse.

“You seem to have little respect for all this lesbian drama.”

“I guess I am still angry at them. I feel that we all need each other’s help, encouragement and commitment to truth in order to create something good, whether it is romantic or not. I feel that they betrayed me by being crude, manipulative, superficial and boring.”

“But Alison was not always boring, was she?”

“She was when she would start saying that she had no free will and that Marie was somehow pulling her strings. That made everything worse for me.”

“But were there ever times when things were good?”

As she said that, the food arrived, and the conversation and the evening took on a different turn. Everything became magical and exhilarating as if nothing could possibly ever go wrong in any of our lives ever.

For some reason, and maybe this is why wine was invented after all, I felt very free to tell Linda about Alison in very intimate terms. I told her about Yosemite, about Alison’s good sides from our past. She did have a gift for happiness, she could be a hedonist, and was interested in everything. I described my joy at seeing her, the strength that I felt from our connection when it was there, the way her face would light up with youthful energy.

Alison was often languid and always mysterious. Sexually, she had a tendency to indulge in artificial stimulants, mainly marijuana. However, when she was sober and connected, she became soft, vulnerable, emotionally unleashed and daring. I guess love between women has the capacity to open doors that some people think should have been kept shut. Alison, before Marie, was sometimes willing to go part of the way through those doors, and came out of it all sweet, generous and seemingly invincible.

I stopped talking.

“You know, I’ve slept with women before … ” Linda smiled as she said it.

“How was it?”

Time had suspended itself beyond surprise, beyond conventions, in whole, pure, wonderful madness.

“It was not like what you are describing … ”

She was shaking her head softly, and her voice was getting so low I was terrified that I was not going to be able to hear what she had to say. “It was hurried, unemotional, and full of questions. I can’t say I did not like it, though … ”

“Does it worry you that you liked it?”

“A little bit, I guess … It’s almost as if it was very powerful, but we were both trying to ignore that power, and we kept talking about men we liked and what we did with them, and all that. Somehow, we were afraid to cross a certain threshold.”

“How many women did you sleep with?” I tried to maintain a matter of fact, detached tone. After all, it was in her past and not in her present.

“Oh, two. The first one only once, but I was more involved with the other one. Her name was Lisa. I met her at a seminar in communication I was taking in Los Angeles. I guess we did our best to communicate in a meaningful way! We stayed together at a friend’s apartment in Santa Monica for a full week. It was wild.”

“What happened after that?”

“I went back to New York, and started working for a TV station there. I ran into her at a party. She was with some guy … I was not with anyone at the time, and I was kind of happy to see her. She talked to me as if we were mere acquaintances. You know, this and that, movies, plays, with a very loud laugh. She told me that she hoped I was happy, because she was getting married the next week. I tried to agitate some memories, but she seemed to have forgotten them all, and I just went on my merry way. It was a little sad, especially since she made it seem like it had been only a weird, disturbing dream which was better forgotten.”

We had finished our food. The champagne was almost gone. There was no music playing. I was treading on thin ice, but I decided that being honest and straightforward was the only way I was going to make the evening end well one way or the other. The question came out easily. “Have you ever thought of doing it again?”

She took her time to answer. The piano started playing again, a song I did not recognize. A bad sign. I tried to undo any possible hex by discreetly tapping the underside of our table. Knock on wood.

“Well not really. I have been very absorbed with Julien for the past two years, you know.”

OK, I got it, loud and clear. Back off, back off.

“I am sorry it ended like it did. It must have been rough on you.”

Hiding my disappointment that Linda had not taken advantage of the subject at hand to make a significant move, I retreated into momentary silence.

Maybe if I was Marie, I could look at her in a deep meaningful way, loaded with sexual vibes, and say: “Hey”, and plant my face in front of hers, until she finally gave in and kissed me. The tamer and the tamed. But I wanted my wild horses free, and in the prairie. Not in the circus, where all the glitter masks captivity and pain.

Linda’s eyes were filling up. This says it all, I thought.

She went on talking about herself and Julien. He was a journalist of some kind, and he was always talking to her about movie stars he had met, and how attractive they were. She wanted a commitment from him but never could get it. He admitted to her that he was always tempted by the greener grass on the other side. Finally, he had decided to cross over once and for all, and ended up with this oh so very cool and glamorous fashion model named Sonja. He did not seem to have had any problem making a commitment to Sonja.

“Would you want to get back with him?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t really honestly say that I was deliriously happy when I was with him. We had a good life that fit in perfectly with the lives of everyone around us. I guess I would like him to come back so I could say no. But I am probably kidding myself. The truth is I don’t know what love feels like anymore … ”

“Well, maybe I don’t either,” I said, and we dedicated the rest of the champagne to our common bewilderment.

I was never sure that I wanted to get back with Alison. I knew I wanted to get out of the hell I had been in when she was with Marie, and I wanted to make something good out of our relationship, one way or the other. Sometimes, when we connected, usually for a short time, it was comfortable, and I thought it was worth all the suffering and tomorrow’s probable reversal. When the reversal finally came, however, I felt betrayed and cheated, incredibly alone and rejected. I would have done anything to make the pain stop.

Linda and I paid and shared our bill, and we were ready to go outside. I looked around the Closerie while she went downstairs to the restroom. Never had it looked so glamorous and rich, like a good antique. People at the tables were laughing, cheerfully eating and drinking. I regretted that Linda had not given me more hope, and wished our evening had been more on the side of danger and flirtation. But we had indeed established some kind of intimacy, and she did not seem too scared of it. In fact she seemed to enjoy it. It could be that she did not get too much of a chance to talk to anyone about personal things. Maybe this was why she had picked up a stranger at the Babylone.

She came back upstairs, smiling and taking in the decor and the diners. We both had the same impression it seemed. The old café was suddenly transfigured by some yet to be understood meaning.

We were silent on the way to the car, and to the Rue de Nevers where I was to drop her off. I drove straight into the narrow passage.

“Here, this is where I live!”

The building looked very old, sagging a little, with an old doorway and a code keypad to keep the burglars out.

“It is very nice. You have to come see it some time. I’d give anything to own it, but my friend refuses to give it to me …”

I was sitting at the wheel, anxious about the way the evening would end. Don’t let it be entirely anticlimactic. Goodbyes are all important when the situation is not clear, and you have to live with your last impression. What could I get away with? How forward could I be?? It was harrowing to decide what to do, and I felt paralyzed by fear of rejection or shame, or both. It would be very safe to at least ask for her phone number. That I could do.

“Will you give me your phone number, so I can get in touch with you without hanging out at the Babylone every day?”

“Oh yes, and give me yours too. I like the Babylone, but not all that much … ”

We exchanged phone numbers. I wrote hers on a loose piece of paper. A treasure I was never going to lose.

She suddenly got out of the car. In a panic, I did too.

“Well, good night,” she said. “This was a lot of fun. We have to do it again.”

“Yes, let’s!” I said, walking around the car to find myself next to her in the final moment.

She looked at me intensely or maybe I imagined that she did, and then gave me a good, honest, normal California style hug. I held her tight for a few seconds, and it felt good. I don’t know who let go first … Maybe I did. She went to the door and fished the key out of her giant purse. As the door opened, she turned to me and said “Talk to you soon, OK?”

“Yes, take care …”

Her voice became very soft. “You too … ”

She was gone. I got back to the car and stared until I knew which windows would light up on the face of the building. None did. The apartment must be facing the back … I reversed out of the alley, and headed for home.

I felt empty and incomplete, as if I had cheated myself on something. Was there anything I could have done to make this better and clearer? Was I cautious because of a correct instinct that I had to be very careful because of the lack of obvious invitation in her manner? Was I only prudent because of my natural cowardice and homophobia? After all, she had given me enough indication that she was open to the idea …

Chapter Six

It is always surprising how in Paris, the City of Light and Glamour, freedom, intellectual adventure, you-name-it, one can observe the most backward and creepy customs. In my mother’s building, I had a nice little room in the servants’ quarters, with a common toilet for the whole floor. It could have been great. My mother’s apartment gave at all times an impression of solid comfort and silence. You could hardly hear the neighbors, unless they were playing basketball in their living room. The architect had thought it all out very well. But in the servants’ area, he had designed walls and floors that were paper thin. Domestic employees were supposed to be up at dawn anyway, so who cared if he cut the soundproofing budget to a minimum. Everything that happened in the hallway, hurried steps, screams, gossip on a background of vacuum cleaning, sounded like it was all happening inside my pillow, right next to my ear.

This particular problem was not helping me deal with the extreme confusion that was taking place in my head. After my dinner with Lindy, (I now took the liberty of calling her Lindy to myself and it felt quite good) I had found it very hard to make any sense of the whole adventure. This interest in another person had softened me up, and I doubted that it was a good thing. The brick wall had a breach and let in a lot of thoughts about Alison which were not very constructive. I could not see any exits from the cramped corner that my life in California had become.

My feelings about the evening with Lindy were mixed.

At times, I felt that I had missed an occasion to create something by making some kind of a move, or at least a clear, honest verbal overture. After all, I was supposedly the one in charge here. How could I expect the other side to take the first step?

Other times, I felt that I had done the best I could by being honest and not pushy. Pouncing did not seem exciting to me. Responding to something hidden but mutual was more my style. She would come to me when she was ready, as long as I kept the messages true, if not necessarily clear. If she did not, then, if nothing was gained, nothing was lost either.

Alison liked to replay her relationship with Marie, and cast me in the role of herself as the weaker element. There was a ladder of abuse, and my part was to stand in as the lowest rung. She often made a point of showing me that I was the last thing on her mind … Maybe it was time to make things happen in a different way with somebody else. There was however some danger of encountering the same problem, as Lindy obviously seemed more interested in Julien than in me.

On the other hand, she had sought me out, even knowing who I was, and my situation. Besides, she had already done the infamous deed, and told me so! What an interesting dilemma, and quite unexpected … In Paris, of all places.

Paris, the city where so many had come to help their real lives unfold. It was the city of tolerance where Vita Sackville-West used to take Violet on outrageous jaunts, and where Natalie Barney would hold her court in total openness and freedom. Yet to me, Paris had always seemed closed and oppressive. Maybe it was just because I was from there and not from Oakland where there is no there …

I kept waiting for her to call me. The days went by after our dinner, and every morning when my phone rang I was always hoping it was going to be her. Lindy Christoforos, American in Paris, straight woman in running shoes, lonely person who picked up strangers for no reason …

By the weekend, she still hadn’t called.

I kept myself busy, seeing friends and family, more movies, various museums and going on sightseeing adventures that I would undertake on my own. I would imagine that I was with Alison or Lindy, talking to them, choosing dark corners where we could kiss secretly and turn the excursion into an erotic adventure.

Driving past the Rue de Nevers was especially difficult as I would crane my neck, hoping to accidentally run into Lindy. No such luck, and I almost had a couple of accidents as Parisian drivers don’t take kindly to unexplained slowing down.

Sunday came and went …. still nothing.

I felt discouraged, and started applying my methods for not thinking, without much success. Should I give up on the whole thing? Why hasn’t she called? Answering machines were common in California, but not yet inParis. These devices were akin to a modern version of what telegrams used to be in the old days. One could record little concise masterpieces that left a lot to the imagination. You could prepare your message in your head and entrust it to the machine, saying only as much as it was safe to say. I wondered if Lindy had one in her borrowed apartment … Well, there is only one way to find out. Why should I wait for her to call? Telephones work both ways … If Ruthie was here right now, what would she say? The same thing Françoise had said. Go ahead, you have nothing to lose. But what if I get hurt … She’ll be back with Julien, or maybe she’ll be with somebody new … you might not win … true. It’s like the Lottery. If you don’t play, you are sure not to win. Do it! It’s only a telephone call for God’s sake …

Before I knew it, I was dialing her number. Here it was …. an answering machine. All right! I had never really noticed the tone of her voice … soft, husky, yet totally unaffected. “Hello, this is Linda, I cannot come to the phone right now, but if you would like to leave a message for me or Igor Metzguev who is now away till the end of October, please do so after the beep”, “après le bip sonore”, as she repeated the last part in French. I left my message in English.

“Please call me in the mornings, if you want to do something …”

Do something? What? How silly. Oh well, we’ll see, and leave it to fate.

No call the next day either. I was going crazy. I was cursing my life and the stupid situation I had gotten myself into.

First, I find someone who might be able to help me forget Alison. Second, she is just like Alison, and is leading me on or toying with my mind, or my heart, or some other ethereal and fragile entity within my system. And why would anyone do this? She does not get anything out of it, and I don’t get anything out of it. Once more, I had not asked to start this. I had come back to the café all right, but she was the one who asked to go to the movie with me, then to dinner. She had picked me up, there was no other word for it. Why can’t people stick to their original ideas? Maybe, just like Alison, she got tempted and then became scared when things got too close to really happening, and tucked her cold feet back in.

The thought was infuriating me. Why can’t people just start living? I could remember myself as an adolescent, afraid and confused. Hopefully, I had learned something since then: the hardest part is to acknowledge what you are really feeling and not to give in to disguises, cover ups or rationalizations.

Once you have mastered step one, things become more manageable. Becoming a sexual deviant is not so painful if you let yourself enjoy the good part. It sure made the bad part much more palatable.

I had to keep in mind that my time here was limited and that there was none to waste. Maybe there was a way I could talk about this openly with Lindy, and at least play the game with all cards on the table. If she claimed not to be interested, then I had to go with that. It would be a waste, but there was nothing I could do about it. And at least, I would have saved myself the humiliation of pouncing only to be turned down.

Two days later, I found myself dialing her number again.

Again, the machine answered. Her exotic voice was soothing, and making me more impatient at the same time.

“I think we should talk about things a little more. My phone number is blah blah blah … ” I said. “Hope to hear from you soon, I hope everything is OK. Please call me.”

I hung up, reluctant to leave my room and eager to leave it so I did not have to wait for the phone call. Waiting for phone calls has to be one of the most horrible things in life. It is the daily grind of the betrayed. I knew all about it from my last days in the music business. Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Right. Dream on.

I kept myself busy all day again, deciding at times that there was no more hope. Well, if she does not want me, she does not want me. She does not know what she’s missing, ha, ha. I slept with great difficulty, with a lot of Alison dreams, dreams of rejection, of disconnection, of the unreality that sometimes seeps from real life into our dreams.

Then, early in the morning, the phone rang while I was still half asleep. It was Lindy.

“Hi! Is this too early to call? Did I wake you up?”

“No, are you kidding? This is great. How are you?”

“Fine, especially now that I have your phone number again. I was going crazy looking for the piece of paper it was on, and you are not listed.”

Oh, I had not left my number … I was flabbergasted at my own stupidity…

“Sorry … I’m glad I thought of giving it to you again. Would you like to get together? It would be great to talk…”

“Well, I was wondering if we could get together on Saturday night … ”

I had plans with Françoise and her husband, but things could be arranged…

“You mean tomorrow?”

“Yes, Saturday as in tomorrow.”

“I would love to. Where shall we meet?”

I was sure she was going to say the Babylone, just for old time’s sake. Once more, she was ahead of me and surprised me.

“Why don’t you come and meet me at the apartment?”

“Great! I’ll be there! What time?”

We decided on seven. A little early for a French date but, after all, she was not French. I enthusiastically agreed and we talked a little bit longer about how busy she was at work and how idle I was for the time-being. I said goodbye, adding that I was looking forward to seeing her tomorrow. “Same here,” she said very sweetly, and that was it.

I was ecstatic about the idea that I was going to see where she lived. It always struck me as unfair that I always liked to go and visit other people, and that it was very seldom the other way around. I always felt better outside of my home when I grew up, and the stigma had stayed with me. People sometimes came to visit me in California and it was fine, but it had taken me years of getting used to having my own house and being able to clean it every once in a while. Other people, normal people, had much cleaner, nicer houses … I did not really have a home of my own in Paris nowadays, and inviting her was out of the question. Even my little room was an extension of my mother’s apartment and, as we know, extremely noisy. Besides, it was much more fun to go there.

I called Françoise to reschedule our plans for the next day. She was very excited and made me promise to tell her everything about my second evening with Lindy. The nickname just sounded so much better and more adventurous somehow. In my mind, it gave her a more assertive attitude, less ready to abide by the dynamics laid out by Julien who dictated that her role was to be sad and abandoned. There were other people in the world who could give her joy and excitement. I was definitely applying for the job if she was going to give me the break that Alison would not give me: being valued and appreciated, as a friend and, who knows, as a lover as well … I was certainly willing to give it a try …

Chapter Seven

I woke up in the usual racket after a sleepless night. How was I going to spend the day, to not be too impatient about the evening? It was all set with my mother; I was going to have the car. The weather was overcast, threatening to rain.

I had lunch with some friends from high school, trying very hard to concentrate on a conversation. The real conversation was going on in my head about what I was going to tell Lindy tonight. Something had to be done and the situation had to evolve fast, or I would be going back to hell in California without having gone through to the end of this.

After lunch, I took my mother with me to see a movie, a French one with a lot of style and very little substance. Neither of us really liked it, and we went home in the always hellish traffic. The clocks seemed to have slowed down to intergalactic time. I decided not to rehearse my upcoming encounter with Lindy, and leave everything to the moment. I did my best to free my mind of all expectations and concentrate on living in the present, the most difficult task ever attempted by mankind.

Oh my God! Six-thirty! I’d better leave now, think of the time it will take to find a parking place! I said goodnight to my mother, and left in the still-crowded evening. At the end of this drive there is Lindy Christoforos, the carrier of Christ, an almost Greek woman with a French ex-boyfriend. As I drove, I cultivated my anger at Alison as a means of stopping myself from having too many expectations about Lindy. Oh, the tangled webs …

I drove all the way into the Rue de Nevers, and had to back up because there was not a single parking place. I went back onto the quay and searched the side streets to no avail. Here we go, maybe there is some truth to the lucky in love, unlucky in parking saying after all. It was almost a quarter past seven. I could be fashionably late, but I did not want to aggravate Lindy for stupid reasons like being really late. Across the bridge, I finally found a place on the other bank. As I walked back, it was beginning to drizzle. Seven twenty-five. I arrived at her door and tried to open it. It was locked. I realized I did not have the security code and did not know where the apartment was. I needed to get to a phone and call her. Fortunately, I had the precious piece of paper with her phone number. I walked out of the Rue de Nevers into a café, got change and descended into the murky downstairs to call. She answered. “Allo?”

“Lindy?”

“Yes,” she said without questioning my use of the nickname. “Is that you?”

I described my predicament, she sounded very sweet. Everything was all right. She gave me the code and told me it was on the fifth floor and there was only one door. I walked back, feeling much better. I punched in the code, and started going up the ancient staircase. It felt just like I did, a little bit slanted. She was on the last floor waiting for me, smiling, welcoming. Life was beginning to make sense again.

“Hi! I totally forgot about the code and all that. Sorry … ”

She hugged me, and I walked into the apartment which was definitely worth checking out. She looked stunning in the golden light, at home barefoot and in jeans, a white shirt, and a proprietary air about the place that gave her even more presence and beauty.

The apartment was an attic with beams and whitewashed ceilings. The floor was covered with antique red hexagonal tiles with a Navajo rug here and there. The floor was at a different level in each room, and the walls were decorated with paintings by unknown painters, the Picassos of the future, a great investment for her friend Igor. The windows were looking out onto the roofs and the river. The night was misty, soulful and mysterious. Lindy was taking me into the kitchen, which was not really a kitchen, but opened up into the large living room. The lighting was soft and subdued, with candles and dimmed lamps. She had some Slavic women’s choir softly playing on the stereo.

I was expressing my enthusiasm about the place.

“You can see why I’d love to have this as my own. Unfortunately, Igor is coming back this fall.”

“Then where will you live?”

“Good question. Julien and I used to live together, so I don’t know where I will end up.”

The kitchen was more modern and luxurious than one would have expected in a penthouse apartment. A whole dinner was prepared, ready on the counter, a salad bowl, oysters, clean dinner plates, and a bottle of Bordeaux. I looked puzzled.

“Oh yes, she said, since this is Saturday night and it’s madness and lines everywhere, I thought we would have dinner here instead of going out. Is that OK?”

“I think it’s perfect … ”

We sat down for a while on the couch and had glasses of wine. The moment was truly magical. Outside, I could hear the horns, the senseless agitation, and the meaningless frenzy of Saturday nights in a working town. Inside, there was this feeling of safety with underlying excitement. Nothing can really go wrong. It’s all here, ready to go, just enjoy the ride and don’t pretend you are not really on it.

Lindy was telling me what she had been up to since last time we had seen each other. The level of intimacy had definitely risen, even though things were still quite formal between us.

She had seen Julien, and had had lunch with him.

“He was all right, and making a real effort to redefine our relationship. I kept being torn between asking him about Sonja and refusing to talk about her. What would I need to know about her, except that she is richer, more famous, and more beautiful than I am? I don’t need to hear that.”

I wanted to tell Lindy that I thought she was quite beautiful herself, but I kept quiet, saving all my nerve for later.

We went on for a while, comparing Alison and Julien, and their ways.

I described to Lindy, how Alison had made a specialty of rejecting me and never missing an occasion to tell me how she never really was in love with me, not now and not ever. If Alison hinted at a conversation she had had about us, I always hated myself for asking what had transpired. Somehow it came down to “This will hurt your feelings, because I don’t really love you”. Sure enough, my feelings got hurt really badly, and I hated myself for being so vulnerable.

The fact that Marie was one of the most abusive people I had ever known did not seem to figure into her reasoning. Instead of being angry at Marie for leaving her and treating her poorly, she took it out on me in her normal pecking order. Yet, there were also times when I could have sworn that she still loved me. Where was the truth and where was reality? Could there really be two realities?

“Don’t you think, said Lindy, “that there can be two realities, one that is real, in harmony with some kind of universal flow, and one that’s an illusion … ? The hard part is to decide which one will hurt us the least. I think that Julien was happier with me than he is with Sonja however, right now, he needs to do this.”

Somehow, it did not bother me that she sounded still so involved with Julien. I felt safe because she had not pretended to be in love with me or anything of the sort. We had a clean slate. I was still nervous because my grip on reality had been loosened by my experience with Alison, and I was not sure that my instincts were in any way to be trusted. It was a little bit like driving a Mack truck on a mountain road in the fog while blindfolded. How good a driver was I really? The only way to protect myself against drama and meaningless pain was to tell the truth about what I wanted.

Then, and this was the hardest part, I had to train myself to deal with the reactions to any move I dared to make.

Rejection is never fun for anyone. If the reactions feel cruel, shallow or standoffish to the point of absurdity, then we have to realize these are not our people and we shouldn't be involved with them. It was probably a symptom of my own sickness that I still loved Alison. Was Lindy a symptom of my sickness, or a definite sign of recovery? The only way to find out was to level with her, and I was committed to doing just that tonight. There are moments in life when you just know only the truth will do. We can’t afford to mess with lies, when we only have three weeks to express ourselves … Indeed we should never mess with lies at all, because what can seem like an extensive lifetime when we are young does not feel much longer than three weeks when we are older and the time comes to leave graciously …

We decided to have dinner. There was a table, set French style with a tablecloth, right in front of the largest window, and it was overlooking the slate roofs above the Rue Guenegaud. As we were taking dishes and stuff out of the kitchen, we would touch slightly by accident as we would reach to get something from the counter. The power of the feeling scared me, and I wondered if she experienced the same thing. Yes, Ruthie, I am still wondering. After all these years …

Lindy was sitting at the table across from me. We were talking about absolutely everything. Julien and Alison were of course recurring subjects of our analysis, but somehow I think neither of us was bothered by the reference to the other person. It was almost as if bringing it all out into the open was somehow purging, cleansing, liberating.

We were eating and thoroughly enjoying the whole experience.

There were times when Alison and I would get together and do things, but she would often start daydreaming, or scanning the crowd for somebody she was dying to see, probably Marie and her new girlfriend. Lindy and I were talking about others, yet we were present and relishing each other’s company, at least for the time-being.

We were going over everything. She was actually asking me what it was like to live one’s life identified as a lesbian.

“Oh well, it depends,” I said. “Do you really want to know?”

She laughed … “You don’t have to tell me. Obviously, however, I am curious…”

I took a swig of wine, trying to stay relatively cool. “Sometimes, I think gay women are so screwed up that I would have been better staying straight. This Alison thing has made me question everything. If one were to describe her relationship with Marie as a man and a woman, it would sound horrible and abusive. Imagine a tough biker type with tattoos, and the broad he likes to make fun of and drive crazy with jealousy. Yet she hangs on, cuz he’s such a guy … Surabaya Johnny … I’m putty in your hands, that kind of thing … very twenties somehow. The straight world has gone beyond that, so why do gay women think this is attractive behavior? Why do they like sex to be so objectified? Why are they trying to be so tough and shallow, so exclusive and unreal?”

“I’m not so sure that the straight world has gone beyond that at all … ”

“You’re right … Of course, you’re right. But for some reason, I still think gay women should be above all this. Why? I don’t know … Maybe for the same reason someone like Gandhi thought the lowest among us were the chosen ones that would show the world the way to Truth.”

“It sounds to me that the key to all this is the same, gay or straight, Brahmin or Untouchable. Pariahs seem to me to be the result of a tacit agreement between the oppressor and the oppressed. Somehow, both parties have to agree, one to hate, and the other ones to hate themselves in response. Don’t you think?”

Lindy was walking on eggs trying not to be offensive. I didn’t care, really. I was not above any of the behaviors I was criticizing, and I agreed with her. I poured us some more wine, and the conversation moved on to easier grounds.

After dinner, we checked out Igor’s bookcase together. We found some books in French and English that we had read, some that we had never read but wished we had, and some we could never read no matter what desert island we were on. We sat on the couch, side by side, sipping some old cognac, and talking about ourselves, the world and everything else.

At that moment, I felt very close to Lindy. Compared to her, I saw myself as a bitter curmudgeon, full of resentments and judgments about everything and everyone. She seemed kind, animated by a natural love and enjoyment of all the nice things in life, from the simplest to the most difficult, like relationships and other hellish endeavors. We felt, in our review of the world and the past, protective of each other yet compassionate of others, as if some new understanding was dawning on us as we were discovering each other. Maybe this was the first real sign of love between us. The silences were easy, quite peaceful, and the nervousness of our first encounters had vanished.

“What are you thinking?” she asked as I was staring into space, evaluating the changes in my mood.

The magical courage came back to me, as it had so rarely before. “I was thinking of how all I could think about when I got here was whether or not I would ever sleep with you … ”

She smiled, easily, generously. “And right now?”

“Now my mind seems empty and devoid of any expectation. It’s strange … like all feeling of control is gone.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It feels good, even though I would be at a loss to explain why.”

I asked her permission and lit an after-dinner cigarette, one of those that make you swear you will never smoke too much, so you can always enjoy that special moment. The smoke was bathing the room with some ancient, unspeakable mystery through the orange flickering light of the candles. Every object seemed to carry its own load of deep meanings, prophecies, and answers to the riddles of the world. Whatever tape she had been playing had run out. There was silence in the room. I could hear her breathe, and I could see her heart beating in the tender part of her neck. Behind her I saw a clock, and realized to my amazement that it was past two in the morning. Panic seized me, for whatever reason.

“Oh God! It’s so incredibly late! I am keeping you up. I should go.”

As I was speaking, I was amazed at my own fear and cowardice. Lindy, who in my moment of passivity I expected to pick up the reins and lead me back to sanity, followed my unfortunate lead and said as she got up, empty glass in hand, “Aie! Goodness, you’re right! And tomorrow is the only Sunday where I have to get up at dawn. We are shooting some location footage for the archives, and I have to be there. I’m sorry … ”

“No, I am sorry to keep you up so late.”

I was putting on my jacket, gathering my things. Oh, all was said and done. In Paris I did not work, and had very little tolerance for the obligations of those who did work … Why did she have to get up early tomorrow of all days? The sneaky impatience was coming back, along with the frustration of not knowing what I was doing. I mumbled something about helping with the dishes, but she said she would take care of it all, that she actually enjoyed washing dishes. We walked to the door together, she opened it, and turned around to say goodbye …

“Thank you, I had a wonderful evening.”

The courage came back: I had the nerve to look straight into her eyes and, when she hugged me, she left her cheek right there, against mine, without pulling back.

We were both rewarded for our courage, when we found ourselves involved in the softest, sweetest, fullest kiss one can imagine. When we finally pulled apart after quite a while, my heart was pounding away, and Lindy looked flushed and out of breath.

We both laughed, embraced in a final hug.

“I'll call you,” she whispered, and I was down the stairs before I could even think of looking back to see if she was still there and to catch a last glimpse of her. Instead, I bounced out into the cold night. I had no idea where the car was, but some inner pilot took over my feet and led me toward the bridge. I felt some huge wave of unreality wash over me as I walked across the shimmering river. The cathedral was still lit, and a late night promenade boat glided by like a waterfall, its searchlights on, illuminating the stone banks, and disappearing around the bend in a crown of light beams, bright as day, dream like … like life itself.

Chapter Eight

The idea of sleep was now foreign to me. I would constantly wake up and imagine myself getting up, driving or, better yet, walking to the Rue de Nevers, punching the security code that was engraved in my mind forever, climbing up the stairs out of breath, and knocking on Lindy’s door … She would be awaiting me and I would never leave Igor’s unbelievably idyllic bohemian apartment.

It took three nights … three nights of agitation and daydreams. I saw some friends, but my connection with them was hanging by a thread … I was not listening to any conversations. My only comfort was to walk, walk everywhere, until I felt so tired that the idea of calling Lindy seemed like an impossible endeavor.

On the third night, I had come back from some dinner party where I ate nothing, drank nothing, saw and heard nothing, and I was finally in bed after having walked around the block about five times. The walls were oppressive like the torture chamber in the Cask of Amontillado. Closing in …

Suddenly I saw myself dial Lindy’s number. It was half past ten. If she is home, well that will be a sign …

Her voice on the line … with a French intonation … ”Allo?”

“Lindy?”

“Yes, Hi! I was hoping it was you … ”

“And it's you, you in person … How are you?”

“Well, I was wondering if you could possibly come over.”

“Now?”

She sounded as if she was joking, but there was also a nervous tone to her voice that was unmistakable. Again, it felt like a dream, but in dreams everything always seems so normal.

“Come only if you want to. You remember the code?”

“Yes, but … ”

“I think we need to help things go where they want to go.”

My ears were pounding with the bass drum of my heart. How can this woman be like this? Does she know what she is saying? Does she really mean what she says?

“What do you mean?”

I felt like a traitor. She knew I knew. Why was I still hiding and pretending? Lindy burst out laughing. “Well, if you don’t know what I mean, then maybe you should not come over at all!”

I was caught …

“I’ll be there! Don’t you fall asleep!”

She laughed again. “No chance!”

I got out of bed and put away the childish nightgown that I always wore when I was in Paris alone and in a state of total lack of expectation. I put on a T-shirt, jeans, a jacket, shoes … I was going through the motions. My mind was blank. I went down to the garage, started the car, and escaped into the shiny night and the pavements varnished by the drizzle.

It was on a weekday, and yet the streets were still crowded. Paris never sleeps. The world never sleeps. The monuments on the river bank were all lit up, like a special favor to me. I knew exactly where I was going and why, and I was ready for it. I did not feel like a tourist anymore, but not like a native either. Life had just become different in the past half hour.

I turned right on the bridge, and left, directly into the Rue de Nevers, where I proceeded to park on the sidewalk. In this new life, there were no cops to give you parking tickets. There was nothing crude or trivial like the shallow oppression of the everyday city. Paris would never be the same again.

The code … up the stairs … I was getting a little less confident. Did I understand all of this the way it was meant? Lindy …

She opened the door and said “All right …” with relief.

She closed the door, grabbed both of my wrists and sat me down on the couch. “This is OK, right? You’re not scared or anything, are you?”

“Hey, wait a minute! I’m the one supposed to ask you these questions. You know, I could never have imagined that you …”

She shrugged. “Sometimes things get really clear for me. This is what I want to do right now.”

I was staring at her, in awe of her poise, her beauty, and the way she gave in so easily to impending freedom. I regained my composure and proceeded with the matter at hand without further discussion.

Suddenly I felt I was becoming the adult I was meant to be, the one who savored all that life had to offer, the one who could share, give and receive joy like some spiritual homework given to us by a divine teacher. I had a thought for Alison, and somewhere in my mind I felt some regret for all the times that we did not make love while we were still together, young, lithe and free of all the betrayals to come.

The bedroom was on top of a couple of wooden stairs, a garret with a huge skylight and a bed that took up almost all the space. We undressed slowly, carefully, making a game of folding each item neatly. When we were done, we sat on top of the bed facing each other. Lindy reached behind her head and, keeping her eyes on me, shook her head gently and let her hair down. I had seen it done many times in movies, but nobody had ever let down their hair for me like that before. I had never realized the power and seductiveness of such a simple gesture. When I ran my fingers through her hair to keep it away from our faces as we kissed, it was thick, heavy, and fluid like water, and I knew I had been granted a privilege usually reserved to the Gods of Ancient Greece.

Lindy and I were in a situation close to a pick-up scene or one night stand. We barely knew each other and desire had driven us more than thoughts of everlasting companionship. Yet there was the recognition of love, and the intensity of our feelings betrayed a depth that we had not really prepared ourselves for.

It was late, and the faint light of day was beginning to grace Igor’s romantic skylights.

Lindy and I were finally taking a break and talking, since sleep seemed to be entirely out of the question. Sleep meant relaxing, and relaxing brought on more lovemaking. So we simply stuck to words for a while, like a connection to the secular world that had brought us together.

Then dawn finally won over the darkness. This morning the show featured ethereal streams of translucent magenta over a sky of purple agate. I could see it all from Lindy’s bed, through the skylights.

I asked Lindy how she could have had the nerve to ask me to come over so directly after I had spent three agonizing days of hesitation about calling her. Why hadn’t she simply called me first?

“Do you ever do this … put something in the hands of fate? Think well, if she doesn’t call me, that will be it. If she calls me, then it will be a sign and I swear that I will do the rest of the work, and take it all the way.”

“You did. And somehow, I did not do a very professional job … Well thank you for bringing me back to my senses, so to speak.”

I felt I had been cowardly, as usual, but Lindy reminded me that I was the one who came back to the café to look for her. I guess we both had done a good day’s work and were now collecting the fruit of our labor.

We were swimming in warm waters, in a cocoon of softness. Nature had become our friend and the sun our brother. We were very different people from the night before. Our conversation breaks were taking an alien turn …

“It seems to me that we are on a sailboat and we are gently sailing into the heart of the blue ocean. I feel like time has stopped, and I will never go back, nor will I wish to … ” The visions of my adolescence were obviously coming back to the surface.

“To me, it feels like I have come home to the place that I have been wanting to visit for so long … ”

Lindy did not seem to suffer from any fear of having converted herself to a lower form of human being. Instead, she seemed to enjoy it with a vengeance, pleased with herself, rolling around in her pleasure as in lukewarm tides of Caribbean surf … I was amazed that she did not seem to suffer the agony of “is this all right?” and the fear that every woman lover of women must feel at some point: the fear of the reversal, the betrayal, the 'I only wanted to be friends – what have you done to me? – I’d rather not see you again' rite of passage, rite of shame, plague that can break the most wonderful attempts at liberation. The love that dares not speak its name … indeed … To their credit, Alison and Marie dared speak its name … at least for a little while, and without a single thought for how much it might hurt me …

“What are you thinking?”

Ooops … I was exposed and felt disrespectful of the present moment. It was a crime against me and Lindy who was smiling as she was asking the question. She was definitely innocent of any such crime.

“I’m afraid I was thinking about Alison and Marie. How we think the oddest things at the oddest moment! But I was also thinking about you, and how you don’t seem to be feeling any fear … ”

“Fear of what?”

“Fear of being catalogued a lesbian forever, fear that I will turn against you, or worse yet, that I will stick to you like glue and that you’ll never be able to shake me and get on with your life.”

“Are you feeling any of these fears?”

“You mean now?”

“Yes now … ”

I searched within the deep recesses of my heart, looking for my familiar insecurities, but could not find that many at all. In fact, I could not find any at that moment. There was only a welling up of happiness, calm, laughter, and the green green eyes of Lindy that were watching over me in the blue light of dawn over the roofs of the Rue de Nevers …

We made love one more time and, by then, we had all the skills and effortlessness acquired through a long and full night together. Afterwards, we slowly got up, relishing the delightful weariness in our bodies. I took a shower while Lindy was making some coffee. We sat on the couch where we had sat that first night when we had dinner. The day was really here, and the noises of the cars on the Quai were finally penetrating the reverent silence of Igor’s apartment.

We were making plans of the greatest importance. I was going to leave and go home as if nothing special had happened. Then Lindy would go to work and I would have a normal day, except that I knew that when the evening came, I would go back to Lindy and we would have this most wonderful secret affair … Maybe before I had to leave, we could spend 48 hours together in a row. Would everybody know about this?

She said she might tell Julien, but she would be afraid he would ask her to bring me over to his house so he could watch us and do it with us.

She was laughing and we felt so strong, so indestructible, maybe a little smug … Well, we had an edge on the world …we were happy, pure and somehow sanctified.

It was time for me to go if I didn’t want my mother to think that I had disappeared with her car. It was light out. The mystery had been replaced by the ordinary. Yet, the magic was lingering, with me, at the door.

Lindy was standing on the doorstep looking quite regal, wearing a fluffy terrycloth bathrobe from a famous hotel on Cap d’Antibes that I had once visited a long time ago. She had to go to work. I had to go. We stayed on the landing and kissed until the temptation to go back inside became unbearable. Someone had to make a decision. Bravely, I lightly kissed her neck just where I always saw her heart beating, and next thing I knew I was racing down the old uneven steps.

I was out in the light, out on the street. The car was still there, illegal, out of place. I backed it up to the Quai, and sped toward the darker western skies. I felt elated and shaky. My mind was full of memories of the night and expectations of nights to come.

There was a God, or a Goddess, someone watching over me, who had put me on the path of this unknown woman, and had given me the nerve to come back to her, back to the café after jumping off the train at Sèvres-Babylone …

Chapter Nine

The taxi was getting stuck in traffic by the Porte Clignancourt on its way to Roissy Airport. On the right side was a building under construction with a huge billboard. It showed a scantily clad woman with deep cleavage and an enticing smile, requesting that one dial 3615-ORGASME on their minitel. Minitel was the computer network installed by the French bureau of communications. They gave you the terminal for free and then collected on your various calls and time online. “Hi, said the woman … “I am Pamela … I am shameless, you are faceless, call me …”

I suddenly thought of the loneliness everywhere that people tried to escape from through minitel networks, singles groups, pick up bars and gay bars. I had been so lucky!

“Are you going on vacation?”

Hassan, the taxi driver, was trying to break my daydream so I could join him and bring some friendly company to his day.

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you going back home, then?”

“No, not really either … I guess I’m just going away.”

Hassan smiled … “Should I take you back?”

Ah, the temptation … I smiled back. “No, no … thank you.”

There I was, on Tuesday, on my way back to California. I usually always took the Sunday flight. But Lindy and I had made other plans. Lindy had taken Monday off, and we were going to get our 48 hours together. So this time, I had packed, and called a cab to leave on Sunday. I had said goodbye to everyone. I think Françoise and her husband were the only ones who knew of my secret plans.

Climbing into the taxi, I had told the driver to take me to the Rue de Nevers instead. I had jumped off the train of time. I was off to Cythera … in a taxi.

Rue de Nevers, I entered the code and proceeded to wheel my suitcase up the five flights of stairs. Without any prompting on my part, Lindy came down to help me. The bag was not too heavy and we quite enjoyed negotiating the narrow steps and tight corners.

Then we closed the door on the stairs, the streets and the city, and under Igor’s skylights we made love in the bright sunshine. It was as if we were on a beach. It was hot and sultry, and we were mellow, slow and gentle. It was as if our souls were somehow directing our bodies into a dance around the light as it kept changing. Once more, I could not figure out whether I had stepped into a dream or if I had finally awakened to reality.

Lindy told me she had a previous engagement with her friend Diego who lived on a barge on the river. Diego was a painter in his mid seventies, born in Argentina. His beloved wife Antonia had died a couple of years before, and he and Lindy had been a comfort to each other. She did not want to cancel. She said she would love for Diego to meet me and for us to have our first dinner as lovers, with him.

We went down to the Vert Galant to watch the golden hour descend upon the center of the city. On a clear summer day, the setting sun graces the river with sparkle while it sets ablaze the windows of the Institut and glows through the glass roof of the Grand Palais. I was in my home city, but it had suddenly become a mysterious undiscovered place of striking beauty.

The Vert Galant is a place for lovers, and many couples around us were holding hands or kissing. We agreed that while it would be great to be able to make out in the open like these people, we also enjoyed keeping a tantalizing distance.

“As long as it is temporary!” Lindy said it as she leaned her head on my shoulder and stole a kiss on the base of my neck.

We walked along the still crowded square and up to the bridge. The strangers around us seemed more interesting and friendly than usual. We were in love with each other, we were in love with the world, and the world loved us back.

Diego’s barge was anchored not far from the Pont Neuf. It was small but had the looks of a converted seafaring vessel. We climbed aboard and right away I loved it and wanted to move in and stay forever. The deck was decorated with flowers, lounge chairs, a green and white umbrella and a couple of small palm trees. The door was open on an interior full of paintings, seafaring lore and framed photographs. By the window on the river side, a table was set for three, with candles and a bottle of wine. Diego saw us walk in from an old fashioned bar where he was busy mixing some South American cocktail in a silver shaker.

“Welcome! I am honored that you chose to bring beauty and love under my roof!” he said smiling broadly and waving us in.

He took us on a tour of the barge. It had a bedroom and a living room that Diego had turned into his workshop. His paintings were abstract, yet exuded calm, with an exuberance of color. By the door there was a crisp black and white photograph of Antonia, young, happy, posing by a dangerous looking waterfall. The kitchen was a perfect boat’s kitchen. Every item had its place as if to protect it from being shaken by storms on the high seas.

Dinner was delicious. Diego was a great cook and he said he had prepared food especially for us from his mother’s ancient recipes. There were sweet and sour vegetables to soothe the heart, he said, and grilled sweetbreads on a wooden board. Good for sex, according to him. I laughed with him, and cared for him as if I had known him all my life. We toasted to all of us, to friendship and love.

“Always be good to each other, and always be true!” Diego said … there was a second of unease as Lindy and I had not yet speculated on where we were going from here, but it swiftly passed as our conversation continued by candlelight, interrupted by the soft rocking of the barge whenever the tour boats glided by in an explosion of flood lights.

For dessert we had dulce de leche, and Diego and I entertained Lindy with an improvised duet of 'A Media Luz', one of the most erotic tangos ever written, he said. Then Diego took two Polaroid photos of us, and gave us each one, to always treasure as a souvenir.

We finished the evening with yerba mate, sipped Argentinian style through silver straws from carved gourds. Finally, we said goodnight to our host, my friend Diego, our friend and protector, and walked off into the night holding hands.

It was only the beauty of the full moon over the river and the bridges that held us back from running full speed ahead to the moonlit garret awaiting us on top of the Rue de Nevers. That night, exhausted and overwhelmed, we managed to fall asleep in each other’s arms before the skylights had a chance to turn purple with the first signs of dawn.

The next morning, we woke up giddy with renewed energy. We had some coffee and some fruit, but could not stay apart for too long. Our lovemaking had become more sophisticated and quite intense. So, when lunch time came around and we felt hungry for food, we decided it was time to take a real break and spend some time doing more mundane things together.

At first we thought of going to a movie, but we wanted to look at each other and not be in the dark. So we went to have a light lunch on the Place Dauphine. Lindy was laughing a lot, and the names of Julien or Alison were conspicuously absent from our conversation, which was more about reminiscing and commenting on our last twenty-four hours. We were stunned that everything was going so well. Maybe that first day at the Babylone, some unconscious part of us already knew what was in store. I told her I loved Diego and never wanted to lose touch with him. I pointed out how easy it is to lose oneself in Paris, and how once you dropped out of the everyday routine the chances of running into someone you knew were quite slim. Lindy said she did not care who she ran into. Unfortunately, I had escaped with a lie, so I did care.

We decided that we wanted to discover something together, so we would always remember it as ours. The closest virgin territory was the towers of Notre Dame. Neither of us had ever been up there, as typically in Paris they were always under construction. We entered from the side, and started up the stairs. Climbing up was surprisingly tiring and I confessed to Lindy that my legs were a little bit shaky. She admitted hers were too, and we were still laughing when we reached the top.

It was not very crowded up there, and the view was sweeping and breathtaking. We were pointing out landmarks to each other, remembering incidents, sometimes hilarious, that had happened to us while visiting or being near those places. I told her I had gotten lost in the Cluny museum as a kid. I had accepted I was going to have to live there forever and was almost disappointed when my mother finally found me. She talked about her Greek family on her father’s side. A few of them had come to Paris for a brief visit with her. They had taken over a restaurant near the Pantheon. The men had danced until dawn, while the women sang, and both consumed the little restaurant’s entire stock of Ouzo.

Standing by the chimaera with the horns, we remembered reading the Victor Hugo novel. She told me she had identified with Esmeralda. I told her I had identified with Quasimodo, the hunchback who lived in the tower, rang the bell and saved Esmeralda from hanging. Of course I was in love with Esmeralda then, and now, unbelievably, she was in love with me.

Going down was even harder than going up, and we needed a rest. So we crossed to the Ile Saint Louis, and walked to the lower bank by the Pont Saint Louis, and sat down below the stairs. There was nobody there, nothing but cobblestones and the milky flow of the river.

In between the rumble of tour boats, there was a sweet summery stillness in the air as we took in the beauty of the spot. There is something about a moving body of water that brings on a contemplative mood.

As we were talking, Lindy’s eyes were joyful and limpid, and looking into them it suddenly occurred to me that the two of us might be more than a mere sexual adventure.

“You know that I love you.” I said … ”You know that?”

We had said it to each other many times in the heat of the night, but it was a different story to say it like that, flatly, sitting out on the stone steps, in broad daylight and in complete consciousness.

She replied softly. “Yes … I’m afraid that I feel the same way about you.”

“Nah, you’re not afraid … you’re never afraid!”

She laughed, but then dared to ask the hovering question. “What do you think we should do about it?”

“You mean other than what we’ve been doing?” I asked.

“Yes.”

We stayed silent for a while. I watched a speedboat going upstream and a flight of pigeons burst out from under the bridge.

“How about…” I stopped mid-sentence.

I did not know what to say. I could not stay in Paris, and I could not bring myself to ask Lindy if she had plans to move to California.

“How about … nothing?” she said it looking at me with the sweetest and most glorious smile.

Wow. I was shocked. Part of me was hurt that Lindy had not said that her utmost desire was to live with me forever and ever. But I was also surprised at the relief I felt.

I took a deep breath, hesitated for a while staring silently at the current creating little wakes around the pillars of the bridge, then finally I smiled back.

“All right … We can try that … I’m with you … I am … ”

We were still all alone on the stone bank. We kissed in the shadow of the stairs, under the protection of the trees, the cathedral and the old Pont Saint Louis.

“Come on,” she said. “Let's go home … ”

We went back up the steps, then walked briskly across the bridge and rushed by the book and print vendors on the upper bank, past the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Quai. Lindy was running ahead, slender and graceful and, as always, trying to control her hair. I caught up with her.

“Now I know why you wear running shoes!” I said, out of breath.

I guess we had found our legs again.

Once in the Rue de Nevers, we did not waste any time. We were so well-tuned by then. We had learned to move together and to be attentive to each other. It did not take much effort to get where we wanted to go. We stayed as long as we could and held each other through the sometimes overpowering emotions that would surface in both of us afterwards.

Lindy insisted on going down to the Rue de Buci to do some shopping for dinner, and I stayed alone in this beautiful apartment, letting myself believe that, at least for these few hours, it was also my own.

I repacked my suitcase, carefully putting away in my wallet the Polaroid print from Diego. I called a cab for the next morning and sat down at the desk to write the first love letter I had ever written in my life. It was long, daring and lighthearted. I kept picturing Lindy reading it and the words flowed as easily as if they were dictated to me by Eros himself, son of Aphrodite, shooter of arrows, and lover of Psyche.

Once done, I folded the letter, and tucked it next to the bookmark in the pages of the book on her nightstand. Ha! Imagine that! It was Marguerite Duras’ 'The Lover'. The TV station must have been preparing a special on our dear Marguerite.

Lindy returned, and we sat down to dinner, elated by the memories of our day together and the ease with which we had solved our future. It was simple: no upheaval, no obligation, just live in the present and make the best of it all.

She had put on a jazz CD. I am not a fan of jazz but this one sounded like Miles Davis. It was slow, and dreamy, the kind of music that made you want to move slowly and lean back while blowing smoke rings and absorbing some forbidden substance. All we had was champagne, but that was just fine. We were feeling euphoric, not eating very much and toasting to everything.

At some point, we put our elbows on the table and held our left hands palm against palm as we pronounced some unlikely vows. I started with the obvious. “Will you always love me?”

“Yes, I will always love you.” Then she took her turn. “Will you always desire me?”

“Yes, I always will. Even if I can't do anything about it, it will always be there.”

She smiled in the candlelight. “Will you always be good to me?” she asked as our fingers folded around our left hands and held tight.

“Yes! I will! Now I realize what Diego meant last night … good to you and true to you, I will be.”

We sealed the vows with a kiss, and soon we had to forget about dinner and proceed with all the living to be done, the loving ahead of us, before the next morning. We set the alarm for two hours before we had to get up as we didn't want to fall asleep and then have to just get up and go.

We eventually did fall asleep but we woke up in time, without the alarm, and made love for what we felt could be the last time. Suddenly our lovemaking became more emotional than skilful. Not surprisingly, it was harder to let go than we expected. I looked up at the wispy pink clouds of dawn through the skylight one more time. It was only a few days ago that I had first seen the sun rise from Lindy's bed. A lifetime had gone by, but it could also have fit within the blink of an eye.

“Next time you come to Paris, I probably won't be living here … ”said Lindy. I think she meant the apartment, but she could have meant Paris. There was promise and regret in her tone. I did not know which one to go with, so I just held her and tried to engrave these few moments with her in my memory forever.

Finally, the time came. Lindy took a shower while I deliberately did not. I cleaned up the dishes from the night before, and finished packing. Lindy's shooting crew was supposed to come pick her up a little before my cab was due. I made some coffee which I drank a little too fast and burnt myself.

Lindy said she would call me and leave a message on my answering machine so that I would get it when I got home. I said I would do the same. One last kiss, and then we rushed down the stairs to escape the feeling that we might be doing the wrong thing after all. I was bouncing my suitcase on its rickety wheels without paying any attention to noise or damage.

The entrance to the Rue de Nevers is marked by an arch made of a more recent building that had been constructed over the narrow passage. We saw the van was already there in the frame of the arch. A man and a woman in the cab waved at Lindy. She waved back, and then we held each other tight standing on the street inside the arch. My heart and my breathing seemed to be fighting each other. When we pulled apart, her eyes were down, but she looked at me briefly and I could see how impending tears could bring out the jade in her eyes.

“Lindy” I began ...

The van started honking.

“J'arrive, j'arrive!” she yelled back.

Her cheek against mine … briefly … "I love you".

She was gone, hopping into the van and waving.

I waved back.

I turned around and felt lightheaded as quiet tears started flowing down my face. I was suddenly exhausted and had to sit down on my suitcase. What had we done?! I was leaning against the wall behind the arch trying to make sense of it all. I lit a cigarette, trying to compose myself and think my way out of this sudden despair. Had we missed the chance of a lifetime?

But I knew that my life had completely changed already … I was a different person than I was three weeks ago … My body, heart and mind had reconciled for the first time ever, even if my heart was a little the worse for wear at the moment. We had crossed a threshold past the barriers of isolation, conformity and stereotype, and there was no turning back.

Lindy had taken me by the hand and effortlessly walked me through it, after all these days of excruciating hesitation.

And then she had turned me loose … Maybe it was the most generous gift of all. We had a new take on life and we were going to see how it would affect our separate destinies. And then let the chips fall where they may. I might come back soon, or I might not. I might meet Lindy half way in New York, but nothing could ever match the beauty and excitement of the discovery, the sense of wonder that had graced our past four days.

I finished the cigarette and walked outside the arch to throw it away in the public garbage can. By the time I went back to get my suitcase, my taxi had arrived.

When I finally got to the airport, the first thing I did was call her and leave a message on her answering machine. Hearing her voice on the recording again, I realized how far we had come in those few days. I had never loved like this. I had never lived like this, with such intensity. I had never known such freedom.

Lindy, beautifully open, masculine with the masculinity of courage and strength, feminine with the femininity of gentleness and intuition … liberated with a sense of freedom and adventure which is not tied to any of the world’s stale institutions and conventions. Pure with the knowledge that she takes pleasure in the giving as well as the taking … She had enfolded me with love that was benevolent and generous. If I did not end up being with her, well maybe I could be more like her.

After the phone call, I went to the airport bookstore to see if by chance they had a copy of Marguerite Duras’ 'The Lover', not that I am such a fan of hers, mind you, but it would be a great comfort to know that Lindy and I were once again reading the Obscure One at the same time together. Of course, they didn’t have it. No surprise there, and off I went.

They called the San Francisco plane for boarding. It was time to take my new self back into the world at large.

VON ASCHENBACH

Like a gift from the heavens it was easy to tell

It was love from above that could save me from hell

(Carlos Santana, Chad Kroeger - 'Into the Night')

Halfway through dinner that night, it occurred to me that I had a crush on Bethany.

There she was, drinking a little too much, talking and laughing with me and Minna, her mother. There was nothing out of the ordinary until I went into the kitchen to put some plates away and help my gracious hosts with some facsimile of clean-up.

Stepping through the swinging door, an exhilaration I hadn’t felt for many years came over me … it was a mere flutter of the heart, with the exciting implication that I would never get tired of looking at her, and that her presence in a room enhanced our simplest experiences and gestures.

There was also around her an aura of kinship, of inner and past trouble, that made me feel protective about someone I did not know all that well. There is always a taste of the unknown in those we are infatuated with, and our job is to make them reveal that mystery to us so we can solve all their problems.

The specter of Thomas Mann’s novella 'Death in Venice' raised its wizened head in the back of my mind.

In it the aging hero, Gustav Von Aschenbach, becomes obsessed with a young boy named Tadzio. As the epidemic of cholera descends upon the City of the Doges, Aschenbach sees himself as Tadzio’s protector, while he is himself about to die.

Coming back to the dining room, I was appalled that, at my age, I could already be channeling good old Von Aschenbach. It was somewhat reassuring to think that while he was much older than Tadzio's mother, I was a couple of years younger than Minna, and Bethany was not a kid anymore. At 28 she had come back to live at home and go to school to study for the California Bar.

Home was a beautiful villa in the wealthy part of Venice, California.

Venice. The similarity in names struck me as most ominous.

A few months before, Bethany and Minna had been vacationing at a mountain resort in Colorado where I had gone to spend some time with Alison, my partner of many years, and some other friends. The two women were the bright spots of my week there. We would stay up long after everyone else had gone to bed and discuss the world around glasses of wine and other exotic alcohols. Minna had very kindly invited me to stay with them in Venice if I ever had to go to LA. Flattered, I thanked her but thought I never would. Yet they felt like old friends and I was looking forward to staying in touch.

They were unconventional, intelligent, and well travelled. Bethany charmed everyone and had a knack for talking to kids and older folks as if they were her peers. As for Minna, she was always ready for adventures on skis or otherwise.

They were for me a symbol of my beloved West: Bethany a typical blond and lithe Southern California kid, and Minna a sophisticated, active woman who managed to look good in most styles of hiking gear.

Believe it or not, being old as the hills has its good sides. Hopefully, we can leave behind the strife and commotion that had made our young lives so complicated.

The time had come for me to make peace with many people with whom I had quarrelled or who had hurt me in the past. This redemption quest had started for me within the year of my stay in Colorado.

A visit to Los Angeles to meet with an attorney was part of this effort. As I was planning the trip, I recalled Minna's kind offer. I sent her an email to which she responded promptly and repeated her invitation for me to come and stay over. It was just for a couple of nights, and I was looking forward to seeing them again.

So there I was … I felt good and light hearted, enjoying all the fun and banter as we put away the dishes. Going upstairs to my perfect guest room at the end of the hallway, I still kept Aschenbach at bay. In fact, I marvelled at the way I could get this feeling and yet keep it light, and know that it was just a gift, a little bit of heaven for free as they say in Moroccan pastry shops when they give you a sample of their wares.

It was not until morning that the disturbance appeared to be a little more serious than first thought.

Bethany was going to be at school all day, and then out on a date with her boyfriend Vijay, or “VJ”, as they referred to him in notes on the refrigerator door. We had talked at length about VJ the night before. They had showed me a photo of him and Bethany on a fancy cabin cruiser, holding bottles of beer and smiling at the camera.

They were not exactly the Beauty and the Beast. VJ was one of those people blessed with a mixed heritage. His mother was Indian and his father from Boston or somewhere similar back East. He had the most perfect features I had ever seen on a young man. His smile was broad and confident. He was slim, elegant, with brown skin that highlighted Bethany’s blond hair as it blew in the wind. They were your perfect textbook Hollywood couple: rich, beautiful, and in love.

Minna had assured me that the relationship was serious, though no engagement had been in the works as long as Bethany had not finished her PhD.

Sensing that I was going to see very little of Bethany, I caught myself scheming to make sure that any amount of time we spent together would be nothing short of perfect and meaningful … What could I say that would leave an impression on her? What could I do to create a special place for myself in Bethany’s memory amongst the previous occupants of Minna’s guest room? Probably nothing … Getting hold of myself, I came downstairs determined to hang on to my peace of mind and not fall into my old habit of turning a blessing into a curse.

My plotting had been useless anyway. Much to my chagrin, I was spared honing to perfection my few moments with Bethany. She was long gone by the time Minna and I were having some breakfast while looking out to the ocean.

That morning the water was shimmering silver under a light mist. Lone joggers were running lazily on the beach, dogs ran back and forth frantically retrieving tennis balls.

Without Bethany, the conversation had lost some of its excitement. Still there was a light, easy flowing feeling in the air and I found myself riding on it.

Minna told me the secret location of the spare house key so I could let myself in later. She had to attend an awards banquet that night. Being one of the recipients, she would have to give a speech, and there was of course no way she could miss this event. Minna was very matter of fact about the award. She acted like someone who had received so many of them already that they were part of her routine.

It was almost a relief to leave the house and drive on the freeway on my way to Hollywood to meet the attorney. The day was beautiful, and not too smoggy. I detoured a little bit along 405 South just for fun, and revisited many of my favourite locations on the way.

So many years later, everything looked more or less the same. There were new buildings here and there, but the back streets still had their pink or blue rickety shacks and faded surf boards drying on the yellow grass.

Finally I turned back North and drove into Hollywood, the well named Tinsel Town, unreliable guardian of our dreams and desires.

It was quite stylish that morning. It looked clean and cheerful from the palm-lined avenues of Beverly Hills to the usually grimy sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard. I pulled into the attorney’s driveway on Selma, and walked in with a spring in my step.

The meeting went very well, and so did the lunch afterwards. At first, we had to catch up on our respective domestic situations and make some obligatory small talk. Around dessert, however, our level of conversation became more intimate than I thought it could ever be. We even managed to get in touch with truths I never imagined would come to light.

We discussed a particular night where I reminded him he implied that if I stayed with him until morning, things might go better for me in my career. He had to concede that in this day and age it would be called sexual harassment.

I did not clear up all the mysteries surrounding our business relationship, but he did apologize and agree that many things he did then were obnoxious, hurtful and out of line.

We toasted to greed and to being young and stupid.

I felt generous, magnanimous and overflowing with forgiveness. It was liberating and strange all of a sudden.

After all these years, I had finally become myself. At least I thought so.

When I returned to Minna’s house in Venice Beach, it was at the hour when the sun starts going down, and the light becomes richer and softer at the same time.

I retrieved the key from the hidden location, and walked into the empty house. It was cool and still light inside. It was definitely too early to turn in. I left my shoes on the wooden floor in the entrance hall, and went right back out.

The sand was still exhaling warmth as I walked on the beach all the way to the ocean and dipped my feet. The chill in the water caught me by surprise, but there were many swimmers and waders basking in the fading sunshine. The mist was gone and the silver of the morning had turned to gold. What a place to live!

I sat down on the sand and stared at the waves for quite a while. People were smiling at each other and I was smiling back, saying hello. It was not too different from the times, years before, when I had lived in Santa Monica, but I did not feel the same. I felt better. I smiled, remembering how we used to make fun of 'MacArthur Park', the “someone left a cake out in the rain” song. As I watched two toddlers see their sand castle get destroyed in a surf apocalypse, I was lecturing to Richard Harris: let us not blame those who left the cake outside, when we are the ones who should have cared enough to hang on to the recipe.

Good thing the 1970s had moved on long ago and taken their depressing and obscure songs with them.

Shadows started stretching to announce dusk, and the sun disappeared behind a small cloud. I went back into the house.

In the refrigerator I found the leftovers from last night’s delicious dinner. I was getting ready to warm them up when I heard the front door open and close.

Had Minna decided to forego the Awards night? Nah … in spite of her outward detachment, I think she was very flattered and looking forward to it. She would not miss it short of a catastrophe involving major National Security issues.

Back in the living room, I caught sight of a blur rushing up the stairs. It was Bethany. Ah, maybe she forgot something, or V.J was with her and I had missed him. I went back to my dinner, finding a plate, and firmly intending to plant myself in front of the huge flat screen TV to watch one of Minna’s DVDs.

Searching for just the right DVD in the bookcase, I was also examining the book collection which I always enjoy doing. They had a lot of current and past best sellers … some of them I had read, others which seemed to be an endless repetition of stories about women coping with middle age divorces.

Here was something different: 'The Ultimate Orgasm', by John Wyclife, M.D. Interesting … Then some classics: 'Anna Karenina', Henry James’ 'The Bostonians' … ah, a second copy of 'The Ultimate Orgasm' three shelves below. Well, you never know when it might be lost or stolen. Better to be safe than sorry!

I had just returned to exploring the DVDs, when Bethany came down. She walked into the living room and said hello. She was alone. Her eyes seemed a little pink as if she had been crying.

“I thought you were going out tonight,” I said.

She shrugged. “Yes, well so did I!”

She seemed upset. I did not want to intrude, but I wanted to be comforting somehow. “Come here and I’ll fix you a nice cup’o tea.”

I was holding up the bottle of 12 year old Scotch that Bethany had been drinking from the night before.

She smiled. ”Great idea!”

I prepared that Scotch on the rocks like it was the Holy Communion, cooling the glass with ice cubes, pouring the whisky over the ice with great care.

“Would you like to share some of last night’s leftovers with me?” I offered.

“Sure, that would be nice.”

She seemed to unwind a little. I wasn’t thinking of Von Aschenbach then, or of any misplaced desire I might have experienced earlier … I just wanted Bethany to feel better, and I was determined to help in some way.

Minna had opened a bottle of Château Haut-Brion the night before, and I brought it to the table by the window. Bethany and I sat down to dinner as the light turned crimson with the last rays of the sun disappearing into the ocean. I did not watch for any green ray. I was keeping a close eye on her and doing my best to smooth out the frown from her brow, and chase away the touch of sadness in her eyes.

She was talking easily of this and that. We talked about movies we liked, we talked about our travels, where we had been, what we thought. Australia. I could picture in my mind Bethany travelling through Australia by herself and how thrilling it must have been for those who met her just like that, by chance, on the road, in the middle of the Outback, and who got close enough for her to call them friends or lovers.

We talked about a book I had read about the unanswered questions surrounding the attacks of September 11th 2001. It was dark outside. The wine was delicious and light, going down easy and was helping to relax both of us.

I heard myself voice the question I had been dying to ask. “So what happened tonight? Do you want to talk about it, or would you rather not?”

Talk about it please, don’t hold it in.

“Oh, I can talk about it … What a fiasco!”

She explained that VJ had called while she was still at school to cancel their date as he was feeling sick. She decided to stop by his house anyway to keep his spirits up and help out, but he was not there.

“So I called his cell phone, but it was on voice mail.”

“Do you have any idea where he went?”

“Well, I can guess, but I am not about to go lurking after him or anyone for that matter!”

I asked where she thought he went.

“Ah, there is this girl, Olivia Ramos, she’s from Brazil, and she flirts with everyone including him, of course. He always says he thinks she’s really hot. For all I know, he was there.”

“Or at the emergency room.”

“Well that's true...”

She did not seem convinced.

“He thinks she’s hot, eh? Hmmm … What does he say about you?”

“Ha!” she said with a little self-deprecating laugh. “He pays me nice compliments every now and then, but I don’t think he’s ever said that about me. At least, he’s never said it to me.”

“Well, this might not mean much to you, but if outwardly you are quite stunning, there is also something about you that is dangerously appealing. I should know. I happen to have developed a huge crush on you since … well, since yesterday.”

I said it lightly, like a joke.

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m not. I mean it.”

She looked down, briefly, and softly chuckled. She looked straight back at me, smiling. She did not seem embarrassed.

I glided on. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand here … Do you two get along well? Do you like being with him?”

“Yes, I do. We have fun together. And sex is good … at least it is for me … ”

In my mind I could see a 14 year old Bethany studying late at night trying to decipher Dr. Wyclife's arcane instructions. At least that's what I would have done.

“Well, it's essential of course … but, Bethany, more importantly, do you love him? Your mother thinks you will marry him … ”

“Oh, I do love him … Sometimes I think I live through him a little too much … I cling to him maybe. That's what it feels like, anyway.”

“Well you know, I believe that a good relationship should help you come into your own and not make you more dependent, but that’s just me. However, from what you told me, it sounds like VJ might be more into himself than he is into you … it could be that this imbalance is what makes you hang on for dear life, when in reality he is simply not giving you the comfort or reassurance you need.”

She looked at me with a funny little smile. Maybe the rescue operation was beginning to work. I looked back at her, amazed at her beauty. Yet the ghost of Gustav Von Aschenbach was asleep in its unholy grave and not bothering me at that moment.

“What do you know about this,” she asked. “Have you ever been with a man?”

“Yes, I have, more than one. I have been around the block a few times,” I said jokingly. “What do you want to know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that your first time?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not … ”

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

“Sure…Let me find my pen…”

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

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

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

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

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

So far, so good.

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

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

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

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

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

OK, enough already.

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

I smile.

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

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

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

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

“Whoa…”

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What can I say? My pleasure!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ever since I had seen Alfred Hitchcock’s eerie and suspenseless 'Vertigo' as an adult, I had been aware that it is not the mere human being that we obsess on, but the idealized image that we have of them. Looking at the photos from the Gala in the Venice News, I could see all these other people who looked so conventional and uninteresting. They seemed to be milling about and posing in some kitschy vacuum, going for a sexy look, and chasing after some stereotypical idea of success. In the end, they all looked alike, except for Bethany. But was she really that different from them? How would I know? I hardly knew her, except for this wonderful gift of herself for a couple of hours one night in Venice, California, when she happened to be needy and probably curious.

Then one day, I happened to be driving down the hill at sundown, listening to the radio in my car, that last bastion of privacy. They were playing a song that I had heard only a couple of times before. I loved the song, and could not help but start singing along full blast.

As I was singing and driving, the clouds suddenly opened up onto a patch of purple sky with a giant moon reflected in the waters of the San Francisco Bay.

It was not dark yet, but the streetlights had come on, responding to the splendid moon with glitter while the giant tsunami of fog rolled over the hill.

The thought of Bethany, loving, tender as she had been that night in Venice, wove itself into the music and came back to me, so real and intense that my heart started beating faster. It dawned on me that whatever her original motives might have been, she had given of herself without fear, without defences and with a real purity of intent.

Then I heard the words of Francesca, my friend, my long lost love, whispering right next to my ear: “if it stays with you, amore, you know it was good. You know it was true”.

For an instant, I was able to grasp the possibility that what Bethany and I had given each other might not require repeated encounters in order to remain. It would last because it lived in each of us, it was our own, and we had opened that door for each other. Maybe it was the circumstances, or the spirit that we both harboured that night; perhaps it was just one of those unworldly connections that happen sometimes between strangers, but we had inadvertently shared a moment blessed with a view of a world beyond our selves.

At least, it was like that for me, and I can only hope it was the same for her. I have never read the 'Ultimate Orgasm', but I could see clearly for the first time that the magic and mystery of sex could at times offer us - if we are open and mindful - a miniature glimpse into the essence of life itself.

My infatuation with Bethany remains to this day, albeit in a more restrained, almost spiritual way. I still grieve for any kind of link between us. It would be good and settling to know how her life is going, share in her happiness, or be there for friendship and comfort when needed.

As things stand, I will never know who she really is, whom she chooses to be in her life of every day, and maybe it is better this way.

When I look back at our brief moments together, I see nothing but love. She found it again where she wanted to find it, and I found it deep within myself … to keep. My new mission is to nurture it and finally create within and around me the good life Francesca had lived and talked about.

The first step was to recognize that my attraction to this young woman who was beautiful, brave, and probably a representation of a self I would have liked to be, was not about despair or death.

As it turns out, it was all about life … Aschenbach be damned!

For me, it is just beginning …

THE END