Over dinner, pointing his fork for emphasis, Chrystel offered his opinions on every-
thing ̶ people and politics, exotic places ravaged by civil war, the Mayor of the
city, "your average American". His words gleamed with exciting good humor.
For the most part, he told her, human existence was determined by men who sat
in conference rooms and board rooms; men who drank fine Scotch, smoked hand-
rolled cigars and wore boxer shorts. As for the rest of the sweaty world one only
need fear men who go long periods without sex, and people who were afflicted
with those two incurable diseases: the common flu and human stupidity. He
assured her that, with the decline of the Soviet Union, the making and spending
of money were the twin engines that would drive the pleasures of the guzzling
world.
When he suggested she put her money to work in the stock market she withdrew
her life savings ̶ ignoring a nagging voice urging her to call her daddy first ̶ and
handed it over. Not once did she fear he'd vanish for good from the earth. The
investment proved sound; it paid big dividends. She bought property in
Westchester with some of the profit. And when the moment arrived when he
would sleep with her, she responded like a virgin for whom trust was more
important than passion.
In recent years she'd grown soft and round at the hips and legs. At social events
where men sipped alcohol, spoke with harmless humor, then seemed to steer the
conversation toward the possibility of sleeping with her, her body stiffened; she'd
smile and move away.
With Chrystel there were no preambling moments, no rough manly haste either to
reach that summit. Each night after dinner she waited for signs, for desire like
smoke alarms to go off in the living room.
One night he took a sip of his coffee; his long fingers carefully rested the cup and
saucer on the table; then he turned and looked at her. She smiled, a little
uneasily. He got up, outstretched his arm, and said, "Come, let's go inside." Just
like that. As if he were taking her on one of his trips overseas, their destination
not yet clear.
For weeks her bedroom had been in a state of readiness for just this moment. Still
fully clothed he insisted on undressing her. He explored her soft round contours,
until at last it seemed he approved and wanted every part of her, bulges and fat
and bone. It was a ritual he would repeat each time they slept, full of sighs and
vague mutterings; his hands restless and probing, over her breasts, between her
thighs; his hands squeezing the globes of her buttocks, his lips on her navel.
Throughout all this she kept her eyes closed, happy to surrender to his
examination, happy to be found satisfactory.
She wished they were young again, with all the time in the world to be reckless
with their passion. Then she thought: thank goodness this is happening right now,
our bodies still healthy and mature, good and strong, our intimacy an intelligent
thing, thank goodness.
"Are you okay?" he would ask, breathless beside her; and her quick response, "Yes,
I'm fine", seem to calm his heaving chest. "What are you thinking of?" he'd ask,
staring up at the ceiling; and she'd answer, "Nothing. It's good to have you here."
She felt no need to talk about him to anyone. In a city of marriages made and
unmade, a city of love and betrayal, alimony and anger, orders of protection from
a stalking spouse, in a world so fractured and violent and ripe for television news,
wasn't she better off this way, half-knowing who he was? Hadn't she come this far
on her own, trusting her own instincts?
One evening, late summer, before the start of the Fall term at John Wayne
Cotter, she hinted that perhaps she could accompany him on one of his trips to
Europe. She would, of course, pay her way, and not interfere. She could stroll
around, visit museums, take mini excursions while he was off doing whatever he
did. Chrystel listened patiently; he said he didn't think it was a good idea. His
silence, the chilly way he stared up at the ceiling worried her.
It was a mistake, she realized, to broach the idea while they were still in bed.
Wrong time, wrong place.
She had dared to suggest they redraw the lines that defined their relationship. He
might interpret it as a craving in her for some new cloying alliance. What more
need they ask of each other? After all they were friends, they were lovers;
approaching middle age. Why not just leave things as they were?
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 