The neighbors saw him come and go but asked no questions. He was something
of a mystery to Theresa Wamp even though she'd been seeing him for three
years. That mystery, the many gaps in his profile, was part of the attraction,
part of the trust they invested in each other.
This much she knew. He was a European, born in England, raised in France; the
son of a career diplomat who had served in several parts of the world. His home
was now New York city, though his job in international finance kept him
traveling around the world.
They met quite by accident in a Manhattan hotel where Theresa Wamp was
attending a conference, and he was checking in. The second time their paths
crossed he raised his hands in mock defense and swore he was not following
her; adding as he moved away, "Though I must admit you are an extraordinarily
attractive woman."
Extraordinarily attractive. That same morning she had looked at her body in
the mirror, and had concluded that she was, well, anything but "extraordinarily
attractive". And then this man, carelessly tossing a match, starting a fire in the
most obscure place inside her; this complete stranger, Chrystel Lefevre.
Once he realized how far away from Manhattan she lived he insisted on driving
out to visit her. Evenings spent in restaurants and apartments in the city were
fine if you considered Manhattan the cultural capital of the world which in his
opinion it was not. He wanted to get out of the city. He welcomed the change in
his routines of airport limousines and taxis and, heaven forbid, the subway.
He would phone from his apartment, saying he was on his way. Two hours later
he was at her door.
The first evening the doorbell rang and she opened the door, she knew ̶
because panic and excitement were so sumptuously on her side ̶ that before
long she would surrender to him. He did not move toward her. He stood there,
assured and elegant in a black coat, a bottle of wine in one hand; saying that
for a moment he thought he'd rung the wrong doorbell. She wanted to extend
that moment before asking him in, just standing there awhile longer, arms
folded, smiling, receiving him.
He wasn't an extraordinarily handsome man; he was slender, long-limbed and he
carried himself with innate dignity; and he had that fretful air of wanting to
banish, at least for awhile, his other world back in Manhattan. She felt he
meant it when he told her how much he valued getting away to the Chez
Therese enchantment of her home.
As the weekend visits went by, he seemed to delight in quiet evenings of wine
and conversation. He praised her cooking, her table setting, her living room
arrangement. She had expected some delving into each other's histories, and
she started one evening with a cheery anecdote about her college days. He
cut her short and deftly changed the subject.
Evenings of mystery and enchantment. In some old-fashioned, maidenly way she
wanted to be enchanted.
Almost before she realized what was happening he transformed her life; starting
with the gifts he brought her, odd things he'd picked up as he passed through
Tokyo or Paris; olive oil from Italy, a piece of sculpture, engravings, perfumes.
She rearranged her rooms, finding places to accommodate most everything,
even the Sicilian beret which she wore just once. He liked to surprise her with a
phone call from some foreign capital at an hour when she was sleeping, and he
was having breakfast.
Little things like that kept them connected. And when he sat in her living room,
dinner almost ready, his legs crossed, the index finger of his right hand thought-
fully scratching his temples, there was an aura of assurance and power about
Chrystel, a completeness that made Therese less afraid of life, less anxious
about the world.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 