Faeryqueen

'I think you need to be honest with yourself-- he was destroying you.... everything you gave have he used up; your cars, your credit, your exhaustion.... you were being evicted for the third time.... he drank your rent and blew it on whatever manic idea crossed his mind.... sober is he? What's in there....? He never saw you.... you were a blurry drunken haze; a dream; he never saw you....'

I cry when he says this....

'It was your final martyr act ....and now your true work begins.... you have suffered all human pain now.... you have allowed yourself to experience what human form is.... so now be like a good Tolkien princess and perform your miracles....'

I am crying.... very funny.... he is so cruel. So very cruel....

I must reflect

I see Eliot has texted and I need the distraction

I have come to the conclusion that everyone is crazy

His text is that he is here! I am so happy..,.,! Wow, I was not expecting his presence at all and I feel myself become flushed and stupid

Why does he affect me this way. I look at him and a want to throw up. I mean, I get seasick. I get that weird feeling. What is that? An adrenaline rush.... each time I see him it is better than the last time.... I don't know.... I hate this feeling

I really do

So I have to stop because Bailey is in my head. He is looking at me with concern

'Oh there you go again!' He tilts his head to one side, 'Angel.... when will you ever learn? You've always had that weakness for the boys, but I cannot bare another broken heart of yours, it's just too painful to watch you....'

Already I am crying, and I hear him sigh as I turn to go; just bolt right out of there

This world is crazy or I am or both and isn't it all so fucked up anyway? I am only stretched like that bow; springloaded; about to be jettisoned through outer space

He said breath

Fae of Morgan

Fae of Morgan




When you speak of shape shifting, that is only just a shadow of what it is. That is to say, it is a kind of illusion that anyone is the shape they take because everyone really is everything and everything does contain everything.

SansinGauf was wizard stuff, to be sure; the kind all legends of his kind are based upon. Wise and yet still curious, thus containing that element of wonder always. This is the secret of youth; to stay in wonder.....

In the Forrest World time stands still. Rather, there is no time. You go in there and the rest of the world continues; you can watch it all through a telescope too and it looks like speeding on a highway. The images move fast past the windows. That is how time looks from the other side.

Within the Forrest World SansinGauf was exactly as he always was; is; slight of body, like an agile and lean skinned athlete and very tall of frame with notably long arms and fingers; his legs were quite long as well; like his toes and feet which gave him great balance walking ledges and hills; so he had some quality of one of those daddy long legs spiders, wearing a long cape (that took on colors like gray or sage or deep marine blue) and a long, wilted knitted felt top hat dyed of woad and mended numerously with silver gilt thread that fell to his right shoulder from years of knocking into his sheep staff (his sheep were used only for their wool and they never left his side unless by his command).

So watching the Empress Mage Maevis Fae fall like a broken sparrow.... well, it was his moment to become one with this myth, for he had watched her story unfold before him.... on that other side of his glass.... she had been like his mythic legend; untouchable yet almost real; all these years, you see.....

To be sure, it is necessary to mention, many stories have been based upon SansinGauf, in fact, in your world, too; many legends and many fables.... he is wise and powerful; he is old and young; he is generous of heart but always keeps his head about his shoulders.....

She was a little fallen angel falling from the sky

and so, like a magnetic chord to his very center he was pulled to that little faery; to save the belle with the misty gossamer wings,  invisible to the human eye.....her fall rang with her cry that sounded like little bells tinkering down a well. Tinkering bells.....

She looked like a redwood tiger lily

That was her color. If you took alizarin crimson and mixed in a bit of gold.... she was a wood faery. Heir apparent .....faeryqueen; but she had been raised among peasants to protect her identity. A bit wild, to be sure and possibly feral as well; how could he not love her?

And so it took him days to locate her because of the ruckless that grew everywhere; and yet he knew this Forrest very well, even the borderline parts because he traveled quite often beyond it. This journey took him many days and he journeyed alone, without his sheep as the thick brambles would have easily caught their wool. He came prepared too, knowing about the poison of the lapis swans. By now the Hadessins would have given her up for dead not expecting that SansinGauf was watching out for her; long prepared and aware of the forecast. He had prepared the potion and knew what had to be done to preserve her life and revive her from the haunted sleep that slowly consumed her breath.

When he finally found her night had long fallen but it was a full moon. She had actually fallen between the shield of the wall and her invisible right wing was badly caught. This was unfortunate ....his heart broke for her when he realized, rushing to her side; this had not showed on the glass and he realized this would take more time.

When he touched her face it had gone that shade of pale violet. He had only just made it in time. She was down to her last breath. He moved to her side quickly but with light and careful moves and knelt to her, placing his mouth gently over her deathly pale delicate lips; he breathed. He breathed for her. One very long breath first. He exhaled into her, speaking the words. He watched the purple smoke choke out of her. Then lay down beside her. He could not free her wing until she could breath on her own and the violet cast to her skin was gone.

He had to tilt her face to him as he lay carefully beside her, keeping the caught wing slack so as to not cause it further damage. She was still in pain, the caught wing....he could feel it.... the poison of the Forrest shield had been slowly killing her despite her magick; he reached inside the deep pocket of his cape and felt for the silver box. He placed the flower petal against her right wrist where the pulse beat and held it there with his thumb. He cast ....saying incantation, tapped her with the blue jeweled tip of the fine handle of his blade where a blue energy of light took to glow and come alight.

And so he lay thus: one arm cradling her head and shoulder and the other hand holding the soft petal to her wrist, breathing into her. It was slow going as she was so cold. Her veins would not allow the flow of the potion until she reached a warmer body temperature, he knew, which is why he erected the shield of camouflage; throwing his cape about once peeling away all that lay between their flesh. Bare skin to skin they lay beneath his cape; he breathing into her mouth and holding her tiny wrist; he then closed his eyes and fell asleep holding her to him as if he were her fortress.

SansinGauf was always caring of small animals, of course he loved his sheep and all manner of living creatures.... his great love had been his step sister whom he could never have and all his life his passions were shared with deep affection, but no one had ever captured his heart since his first love.

Watching Fae fall from the sky, as Fae is her name, plain Fae....

the years of study and preparation for when the time would come to ....entwine their fates and purpose as it had been long foretold, long expected to prevent what was to be the evil threat on the horizon


seeing the Empress before him at last, SansinGauf was nearly in awe and all his years of healing kicked in

only stopped to realize for a second--

.....he needed to heal, not just the flesh, but the fragmented soul inside as well.... he felt it as he lay beside her..... felt her soul and all of her pain for within there he felt the poisonous wounds of this incarnation .... the kind to damage deep, which she hid so deeply that it haunted her waking mind. She had spent a life beaten and in chains until she had been found by the faery kingdom and reclaimed; too late.

This had been known

But only now did he understand what this had done to her

knowing only the greatest force could possibly heal this

but where would the chances be to save humanity if she herself was not healed? SansinGauf lay there beside her thinking, watching the full moon watch him; watch them.... it was by morning when he stirred and saw that her invisible wing had been freed..... by the power and light of the moon and the morning light; morganlicht;

"Fae of the morning light ...." he whispered aloud, giving her his pet name, whilst still half asleep. He was over five hundred lifetimes older than the Fae of morganlicht .....

.....and SansinGauf had been called upon for this, task..... and well, she needed a healer, after all; he had saved her life which made him feel responsible for her, so in conflict of emotion he felt ....love for her

like a father but also,

like a lovesick poet.

By the light of the moon he had been too exhausted to find resolution with this thought and fell asleep under the full moon on the eve of the last day of April, as depicted by the human calendar and then awoke breathing out the morning dew of Fae

the legend creates a Fable

When I meet with the wizard he tells me I must write a fable

I say why?

He tells me I am indebted to use my gift to deliver a message

To whom?

But he only says in a vague shrug,
“Humanity.”


The Legend Creats a Fable...... this is The Fable he has asked me to write for humanity:



What she knew falling down upon the soft mossy earth was total exhaustion; for the Faery Empress had traveled many leagues and fought dangers that jeopardized her mission and her very survival.

It had been long known of her coming to this part of the deep forest world and her arrival had been expected and hoped for these many generations as fables and legends had been passed down and embellished upon of her purpose and the change her influence would create by her arrival.

Only SansinGauf knew of the grave dangers that would challenge the possible coming of the Savior; the Empress Faery. He had watched her progress and journey from his glass; the one he had made of Dortil sands; ground by ritual by the full moon for six cycles. He alone knew how to make such a glass and how to ask of it the wisdom it was known to portend.

SansinGauf had watched her fall six nights hence from that very glass, she had been chased into the Forrest by the lapis swans who were the deadliest sending creatures the Hadesissians had and were mostly reserved for extreme  situations as their venom, once administered, emitted such a strong poison that it drained the great Hadesiss of a week's supply of his kingdom's emnil grain; the grain his peasants lived on who worked the fields.

Once she had reached the Forrest World, however, the lapis swans could not follow and this territory was beyond Hadesiss' commanding empire; not that it was with respect that the swans turned to head back to their master with their news; the invisible wall at the entrance of the Forrest World would kill any without invitation, instantly, by agonizing death if the ageant's sting (a deadly bee-like creature that lived only in the Forrest).

It took six days for SansinGauf to find her, using his small, pocket-sized glass. It was tedious going all the way to find her, however, as the exterior parts of the Forrest were more overgrown with ruckless weed than anywhere else (ruckless weed; was known for its camouflage charm to confuse invaders who might have managed to pass the invisible wall).

He watched her fall. In the glass. She fell like a broken sparrow.

He had watched her from the glass.... longer than he could remember. Only, it was only one human life time ago he first saw her. How many hundred had he seen through? To walk this earth and go unnoticed and drift in between worlds; toiling here, toiling there.... admittedly, he had spent several human lifetimes being rather lazy. Quite lazy, in fact. Enjoying the nice plant that the valley friends provided. His valley friends; he liked to spend holiday with them. They were somewhat known in the human world, roughly speaking. Amongst that world, they shaved their feet to fit in, but they did not really fit in. And only the ones that wanted to ever left this world for that one. They did not tend to stay away, however. Why would they?

So, as it was, SansinGauf, knew how to relax, but he enjoyed his work more and being the most admired Sansin yielded a great deal of reward so as to make his work quite enjoyable. As far as wealth, he would likely be the most wealthy in the world, but he owned nothing. He was obliged what ever he desired if he asked. But SansinGauf was a wizard of principle and since he never accepted payment to treat the Forrest World's ailments, if there were things he required for a need for which he could not provide himself, he would gladly accept an obliging gnome's provisions; whatever that might be. This is, no doubt, how he came by their weed.

Rouen (Electra's Dictionary;Bran and Beth stories Chapter 28)

I watch French scenery roll by as Bran drives, keeping my thoughts neutral. I lean my head against the side of the window and look out. The interior of Bran's car has a distinct smell. It reminds me of the way my grandfather's car always smelled; a kind of musky, dusty, sunny smell. For awhile I write in my journal because I want to capture some of this. For me, it is better than pictures. So I write-- my passing, random thoughts.... We have not spent a lot of time in his car. When we have shopped for food in Paris for the flat we walked. So again, as I look around at the inside of his car, I think of how many conversations we have had over the phone with him sitting in here. And as I think of this, I look at what he must look at as we speak; the details of his dashboard or the shape of the windshield edges, the maps stuffed in the visor, the car stereo that has interesting buttons and dials. Those things that you stare at mindlessly as you talk to someone's disembodied voice.

The car stereo plays some kind of music—Bran's music-- that I can't identify. He has diverse taste in music, which I like. I like how it takes me out of my head, and that it is nothing like anything I have ever listened to. And as I listen and watch the scenery go by, the music starts to paint a picture in my thoughts. I start to see a story that I want to write. The scenery, the music, the smell of his car, it all adds to it and I get lost in this for awhile.

I love the architecture I see as we go and the cities that we pass. The street signs, the advertisements, the landscape; I am stimulated by all this. It is new and different to me. I look at the faces of the people we see; their expressions and the clothes they wear; the things they carry; the bikes; the cars.... He was right, it was good that we left Paris for awhile; it is good to get away with him. There is a kind of excited feel as we drive further away.... It almost feels as if we are running away together. It feels euphoric. And also, almost, for me, too much so. It makes me feel.... sea sick. Like going up too high on the Ferris wheel. Of course it is because I am afraid of this. How I feel with him. What I feel. The thrill and rush that is always there. And I don't know, it makes me wonder if I could handle feeling this all the time.... if we were together. And it makes me wonder too why now I don't run away. Like I always do. And always have done. And why, with him, I can't.... disentangle myself from.... this seaweed hold on me.

He remarks at scenery we pass and says,

“it looks like that artist's work we saw.”

And I see what he means when I look at what he points to. The slope of the land, the shape of the house, the trees along the horizon.

We had gone to see an exhibition one day. The same day we had gone to the Louvre. Looking at art with him.... may be my favorite of all things to do with him; observe and listen to his thoughts as we look. We are drawn to the same kinds of works. But I guess that is no surprise because this is what first drew us together. He saw my work first before we met. That is like being handed the legend.

But then I say,

“Bran, I thought you told me-- when we first met, you said that you and Clair had been together for ten years, like me and Dean. Remember? But before-- when we were talking this morning, you said that you were only together a short time before she got pregnant.”

I look at him.

He looks back at me,

“well.... yes and no.”

“.... but it can't be both.”

“Well, yes it can,” he tells me. He does not continue right away. He concentrates on navigation; checking Google map as he drives --and I wonder if he does this to stall sometimes. He says, “I knew Clair from the office of one of the places that I used to do a lot of business with.... I was with Anna still--”

“Anna? --the woman you told me about that you saw recently?”

He nods,

“so, initially, when Clair showed an interest in me, I had to turn her down.... I was actually surprised when she approached me. I never really noticed her that way. Maybe because I was always more preoccupied with Anna.... anyway, so what happened.... Anna and I broke up, but it only lasted for a few months....”

“And during that time you hooked up with Clair.”

He nods,

“someone told her Anna moved out. So I got a call from her one day to console me.... and we met up and went out a few times....”

“Hmm,” is all I say.

He says,

“I didn't ever lie to her what my feelings were for Anna, Beth. She knew I was still....”

I am still trying to figure out the math, so I say,

“so, ten years?”

“By the time it was really over with Anna.... it was five years that Clair and I had known each other....”

“It carried on that long? And every time you and Anna split up there was Clair waiting in the wings?”

He does not answer this. He rubs his beard uncomfortably and concentrates on the road.

“So what finally ended things with Anna?” I ask.

“I found her with my best friend.”

He says this simply but the weight of it looms heavy. I watch scenery for awhile and fill in the rest for myself. But then I have to ask,

“so how soon after did Clair get pregnant?”

He makes a frustrated sound,

“I remember it was May when I …. showed up that morning, unexpectedly, at my friend's house and I remember that only because it was the day after her birthday.... When Clair got pregnant it was the end of August....” It is awhile before he says anything more and when he does, he looks at me, glancing away from the road for a second, “I know what you're thinking and I suspect you're right, but.... I have two amazing kids that I would never trade for anything.”

I look out the window again and blindly stare at the moving sights and don't say anything. The wind blows through the car windows that are down as we drive, the air is warm. He reaches his left hand to me and without words, slides his fingers through mine and holds my hand for a long time in silence until he needs to use it again.

***

I notice when we arrive in Rouen that the streets are somewhat narrow and busy and I wonder where we will find a place to park and ask him.

He says,

“I arranged with the hotel. They have a garage. I've stayed here before.”

“Oh, did you have a credit here too?” I ask.

He gives me an ironic smile.

We go down a narrow street that twists around and then pull through a narrow entrance way. We go inside to register. He says,

“let's just put our things down in our room and head out to the Cathedral. We can take a tram.”

“OK,” I follow him.

It is a small hotel, pretty and modest. The furnishings everywhere are not new but rather antique and quaint. I like the sounds of our footsteps as we walk towards our room and the way that our voices carry down the narrow hallway. I watch him open the door.

The room has pretty windows with lace curtains. I go to look out and see the view is of the street below. It is a modern city I see, populated with its own rich present day culture. But then, I think about the medieval history of this city of Normandy.... and try to imagine what I see without the modern details.... try to imagine people on horseback going down these streets and the story of those lives long ago lived here; the politics and the wars and the people like King John and King Philip II ....how it obviously lingers here in affected details of brown paint to suggest the medieval style of a past long gone.... perhaps as a source of identity.

There is a crystal chandelier that hangs from the ceiling near the bed. The room is painted a pale blue-gray and the bedding matches, along with the Louis XIV chairs that flank a small, round, gilded table. I notice the bathroom has a nice bathtub.

And then he says,

“ready?” and he takes my hand and we go.

Electra's dictionary (Bran and Beth stories; Chapter 27)

The times he goes to call his family, I go downstairs to the courtyard and write in my journal. Or go for long walks. Which is what I need. It lets me reestablish the distance I still need.

“What are you writing about in your journal all the time?” Bran asks me when I come back after one of these times. He watches me close it.

“Thoughts,” I say.

“Legendary? ....to be later transferred into your blog....?”

***

I have been using Bran's laptop to read messages from my life back in Detroit. Messages from Dean, which have been impersonal and short; dealing mostly with money concerns. It has been a blessing and a curse to not have my phone. I miss my daughter. It has been strange not being able to communicate with her frequently. I feel conflicted and strange; to miss her but to not want to leave Paris. When I mention Jamie, Bran insists I use his phone to call her. Only I wish she could be here with us. I wish she could know Bran and be a part of ….this secret life we share. This life we have when we are together. And I find that I wish.... we could stay in Paris and never leave.

“Tell me something about your mother,” I ask in the morning as we are waking up.

He says,

“hmmm,” and rubs his eyes in a drowsy state, “she liked to write, like you. You remind me of her. ”

“Do I?”

“Yes. There is something about you in your manner that she had, just a sense about you. I noticed it the first time we met at the exhibition. Remember that day?” he asks. And I think of the first time I saw him; how he was the tallest person in the room, the immediate attraction and how he made me laugh. He says, “you were wearing that striped scarf....” I feel him kiss the top of my head.

“Tell me something else about her.”

“Well.... she made the best apple pie,” he says thoughtfully. And then he says, “she used to have this funny habit of calling me--” and he says something in his language. Then he says, “which means, 'my little man'. But she called me that all my life, even after I was grown.”

“How cute!” I laugh trying to think of him little. Then feel an unfounded pang of regret that I never got to see that. I would have liked to have known him then. And wonder what it would have been like to have grown up knowing him and how different everything would have been. After awhile I say, “you don't like to talk about your past.”

“No, it's not that. It's just so long ago. Don't you also feel that now as you get older? It is close yet far away,” his voice is still husky from sleep. I am going to miss waking up with him.... I turn my head into his side and press my face into his bare skin and wish I could stop time from moving from this moment.

“What was your father like?” I ask muffled by his body.

He is thoughtful before he says,

“like me, I would say. And he was also tall. I don't know if I look more like my father or my mother. He was a scholar, he liked to read about history. He was more forthright than I am though. He could put you in your place and slice you to ribbons with his words without ever raising his voice. But he was also funny. He liked practical jokes.”

“What about your siblings? Tell me about them.”

I feel the vibration of his laugh,

“why so many questions this morning?”

“Because there is so much about you that I don't know.... and so much about your life that I will never know.... I know....”

He makes a sound that is frustrated and indulgent at the same time. And after consideration, he sighs,

“as kids, my brother and I would ride our bikes through the neighborhood and egg people's houses. We would get up at the crack of dawn on Saturday while everyone was asleep.”

“The crack of dawn? That's pretty ambitious. ”

“We were a deadly team. I followed his lead into trouble every time. Only, I think my sister was worse, especially if she had her friends around. They were always so wild. But I really missed her when she left home. We were a close family.”

There is something in his voice. It has a warm timbre that moves. I can feel that longing sadness. It is contagious. But I love listening to him speak; it is like listening to bedtime stories; it is lyrical and lulls the mind into believing you are safe. And right now.... it seems so impossible that I am going to be four thousand miles away from here in just a few days and will not get to hear him ….or feel him... this close. I close my eyes as I listen to him and try to ignore the ache that has begun to surface. I had no illusions when I came here to Paris. I tried not to think about what would happen. It was a blind faith leap into a new set of emotional variables that I am not sure I was fully prepared for.

I move up to look into his eyes and without planning to, it falls from my lips.

I say,

“I am going to miss you,” my throat tightens painfully and I go hoarse. My eyes sting and begin to pool. I feel a tear escape and spill. It rolls down my face without permission. I hold myself together and watch his face to try to read him as I try to master control over my emotions. He stares intently into me, wiping the tear with his thumb. And then kisses me. Long and deep. Desperate and consuming. When he stops and looks back at me, I see that his eyes are red and that his lashes have clumped together. I notice a wet trail. And fall into the whirlpool of the shifting planks of mud and moss.

They gauge his moods, the moss unearthed. They are kaleidoscopes, engined by whatever element induces mood rings to change color. They camouflage and change and reflect light. Mud and meadow. And as I look into them and fall, I think of what Jean Paul said. That Bran is in love with me and that I doubt it.... and think of how we have never said it. Only I know why we don't. Why we can't. And why we shouldn’t.

Bran says,

“it won't be forever, you know that. We're working together now, so we'll have to see each other. I'll get us more clients.... I have to be in the US next month for business. I can stop in Detroit or you can meet me.”

But that isn't what I meant.... It is this flat.... which has become home with him. Even as I know and knew that our time here was only ever ephemeral.

Before I know what I mean to say, I blurt out,

“but I'm sure you can't wait to go home. You must miss your family.”

“Beth, don't,” and the hurt in his voice punishes me.

It is the fact that our time is coming to an end. I need to remind myself of the reality of our situation.

I say,

“can I ask you something?”

He says,

“what do you want to ask me?”

“Why did you wait so long to start a family?”

By now he has told me many things about his children. They are twins; Crystal and Dylan. They are five. I know things about them that he has told me. Things like, Dylan likes football and archery, even though he isn't old enough to have a bow and arrow, he likes to play a video game that simulates this. Crystal has an inclination to piano because she spends hours playing with the keys and her favorite color is magenta. And I also know, though he doesn't say, that Crystal is a daddy's girl and sense she holds a very soft spot in his heart.

“You mean because I am old enough to be their grandfather?”he laughs.

“Well, only if you started very early! --but, no, really, Bran, why did you?”

He is staring up at the ceiling and thinking about what to say. He strokes my hair before he begins,

“because it didn't happen until then. I guess I was looking for something.... and it just never appeared,” he says this simply. He shrugs, “and then it happened unexpectedly. We had only been seeing each other a short while when Clair got pregnant and I figured it was about time.”

There is so much that begs the question. Or questions. But some things are best to remain ignorant of. I keep my thoughts to myself and decide to respect his past without prodding in that place.

But then he says,

“there was someone. Before Clair.”

Because this is what I didn't want to know. Where I didn't want to delve. I feel myself holding my breath.

“It was an unhealthy relationship and lasted longer than it should have.... it took me a long time to get over her.”

“And did you ever get over her?” I ask.

He breaths in very deep and slowly lets it out. He says,

“yes. But only recently. I saw her, by chance somewhere....”

“Somewhere?”

“At a local food store one day,” I feel his body go tense, “we said hello. It was weird.”

“Weird?”

“Because I saw what she had become --or maybe what she always was ….and maybe it is because I could be objective that I could finally see.... her. Finally after all these years. She told me she was divorced and....” he shrugs and makes a sound of disgust, “I'm glad I finally saw her for who she is and thank God I never married her.”

“What was it that you saw?” I ask.

“Her ego. And her greedy nature.”

I can tell how he says this that whatever image he has conjured from his memories is flooded with repulsion and bitterness.

“When was it that you saw her?”I ask.

“About five or six months before I met you.”

I think about this and after awhile I say,

“'close yet far away',” repeating what he said about looking back. And it hangs there between us for awhile, “yes, Bran.... I do know what you mean, as I get older. I do see that. Even as it feels, sometimes, like you can touch a memory, as if it is that close and tactile ….but then suddenly, like an old yellowed photograph-- it feels like ancient history ….and then you wonder how you got to be this old....” And then I say, “do you think that is what it will be like one day between us? How it was when you saw her?”

I don't know why I say this. Some wicked part of me. It is the self-sabotaging impulse that always takes over for me.

“Beth....” he pulls me to him roughly and then I can't breath because his arms are so tight around me. I can feel my bones being crushed. Only I don't want to be released.

But I knew this week would end, I knew this.

And then my emotions change on me and suddenly I feel like I need to escape from him because it feels like I am suffocating. These emotions. It is too much. I start to push him away but, again, he says, “Beth,” and comforts me in his arms like I am a child. He strokes my hair and skin as he rocks me and it makes me cry. He speaks to me in his language saying things I don't understand. The strange words that sound so beautiful. He says,

“don't cry, Beth. Let's drive somewhere. I don't want us to waste this day and regret it later. Let's go to Rouen and spend the night there.”

Electra's Dictionary Chapter 26

                                                                         Wavegirl

Jean Paul says to me,

“There is something between you and Bran, yes?”

We are walking outside in an area that he calls the Promenade just behind the building where the offices are. The Promenade is shaded and has the view of the landscape; thick with old trees and hedges, topiary and rose bushes. We stand in the stone archway looking out.

I don't look at him. I say,

“what do you mean?” and then think about the two young women Jean Paul assigned to show Bran around the building on a tour of it. Instinctively, I suspected a ploy and glared at Bran when Jean Paul took my hand with familiarity to drag me away. Bran just shrugged at me as he was dragged off in the opposite direction.

Jean Paul turns back to me. I feel his eyes studying my face. It makes me uncomfortable. I shake the weight of my hair to fall over it.

“How long have you known Bran, mon granola?” he asks.

I decide to study his face instead of answer his question. I look directly into his eyes. They are very dark, and, like liquid, like ink, but warm; they match his hair and lashes and blend with his olive complexion. I can see how his eyes must have won him many conquests, even with the age lines around them which only seems to sharpen and enhance all the angles of his face. Yes, I see he is handsome but I am unmoved.... I move back a step needing space.

“You know he is married?” he asks me now and raises one smooth dark brow and looks intently, “and has children.”

I smile slowly because I have to fight the jab he has induced,

“I am married and also a mother.” I start walking towards the steps that lead down to the stone walkway and feel him rush to follow me. We are halfway down the length of the walk that leads to the grass and I ask, “what do you want? To do business with me or to find some amusement?” and only after I have said this do I realize that I could be putting our negotiations in jeopardy. And I think: fuck it. Nothing is worth that much.

“I would rather know what you want,” he says in that slippery manner that is beginning to make my skin crawl.

“How long have you known Bran?” I ask now, “you said, the other day, 'a long time', or something like that.”

“At least fifteen years. Probably more.”

“You know his wife?”

“I met her once.”

I don't say anything. Even though I want to ask. I don't want to ask. I don't want to know. And I know better than to be sucked into this game with him. Finally I say,

“you knew him before he was married. You knew him when he was....”

He laughs,

“a ladies' man?”

I look at him with what must have seemed like open disgust because I didn't have a second to edit my face,

“I really don't see that about Bran.”

And at this Jean Paul laughs very loud. It almost echoes. Then he says,

“your eyes tell me everything about you, mon granola, even though you think your lunettes keeps them hidden.”

Mon granola?

While wanting to escape Jean Paul, I am distracted by a little bird trying to wrestle a tiny branch.... Then turn to look towards the office building hoping to see Bran when a handful of people begin to walk towards us. Instead, I see one of the women who had dragged him off.

I say,

“can we go back? I can't take the sun this time of day.” It is a good excuse because the sun is strong over us and my skin is already starting to show signs of being burned.

“I should have known, of course, mon granola, but there is un belvedere up ahead,” and points to a gazebo.

I shake my head and begin to walk back towards the building.

“Please tell me that I have not offended you,” he says now as he catches up to me.

But I don't feel like talking. I head back towards the doors we came from. We are already upstairs and weaving through the office corridors when he says,

“I was only hoping to get to know you better.”

But I don't answer this either.

He says,

“you interest me, mon granola. There is something different about you. I see what it is.... why he's in love with you.”

He has touched a nerve now. I have to stop because I feel upset. It is making me dizzy. Hoping to hide this I say,

“how would you know that?-- he would not have told you that-- and please, why are you calling me that?”

“So he has not told you? I can see he is. But you doubt it....” He stares at me now, invading through my eyes, he bores into my head. I pull back when he touches me. He puts his hand on my cheek and touches my hair, “granola, because I think that you would taste like milk and honey.”

I have nothing ready in my mind to reply so I say nothing, too distracted and feel relieved to see Bran stepping out from the glass office doors towards us. There is a look of concern in Bran's eyes when he sees me, then turns to Jean Paul with wariness. I keep my voice low and whisper,

“are we almost done here? Can we go?”

He looks at Jean Paul again, and whispers back to me,

“is something wrong?”

I start to say something but don't get to finish when Jean Paul says,

“how is your wife these days, Bran? You haven't mentioned her or the children at all.”

Bran smiles. Openly forced. He looks like he has swallowed a mouthful of razor blades leaving him with indigestion. He says to me, looking at me,

“excuse me,” and I can see the sharp pin points of the green in his eyes standing out in anger like live wires. He moves towards Jean Paul now and says, “you mind?” and now he is looking right at Jean Paul. I see him put his hand on the sleeve of Jean Paul's tailored suit and forcibly pull him towards a window that is far from where I can hear. It is a short conversation and I watch it happen.

I believe that I know Bran well enough to know his moods, but I have not seen this one of his. I watch Jean Paul smile up at him and take a step back when Bran leans towards him. There is a look of raw surprise in Jean Paul's face as Bran speaks. And then, as I watch, I see some understanding reached between them. I watch as their expressions become serene and hard to read. When Bran returns to where I am, he is visibly still upset. I see his eyes are still bright and seem to glisten with a sharpness. He puts his hand on my arm and says,

“let's go. We can 'e-sign' the paperwork. I think we're done here.”

***

He buys me more flowers before we get home. They are lilies and irises. I fill a vase with water and put them in.

“Do you want to go out or stay in?”he asks me, watching me with the flowers. “You look so nice, we should go out somewhere.”

“Tell me what you said to Jean Paul.”

He makes a face,

“I don't want to talk about Jean Paul. I would rather talk about something else, if you don't mind, Beth.”

“Like what? That soon our week will be over and....” but I don't finish this.

He says,

“tell me about Electra, I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Electra and father.... I was just thinking about it recently. Those things you write about in your blog. Your confusion over identity, because you don't know who your father was.... and I just wondered.... am I a part of that neurosis.... and also.... if it turned out that the one you call 'Hitler' was your father, could you handle it?”

I am surprised he has figured this much out. I hadn't expected he had got this far. I want to change the subject but the emotion of his eyes compel me; they master; they are poet's eyes. They are beautiful. 
I say,

“I don't know.... you know why, don't you?”

“Because he rejected you ….and physically abused you.”

“Yes, but....what else?”

He does not answer right away. He studies me. He puts his hand up to my face and touches my skin. He says,

“you know Jean Paul just wants you for himself and how can I blame him?”

I shake my head because his subject change has fucked with my thoughts,

“Bran, I was degraded by my father.... because he believed I was this vile, illegitimate, mulatto bastard.... if I were to find out that it was all such a lot of bullshit.... I mean, to be rejected by him, this heinous person who is my complete antithesis, that....was actually really my father? That.... would be the worst insult. The worst irony. I don't know if I could survive that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know,” I say, but he looks at me strangely and I realize that I have said too much. “Never mind. I don't know,” I repeat stupidly.

He looks like he wants to say something but is not sure what.

But then he gets a text from Jean Paul asking if we could do a mock up for a bathing suit ad using 'Wavegirl'. Without the hole of course. I feel a stab inside.

It is only that, this image is significant to me. It gave me some kind of courage when I could have given up. I have rolled that thing up and moved it everywhere. I never transferred the original painting onto canvas but kept it on the cheap, shitty material I did it on because it was all I could afford at the time. So, you see, it is more a symbol to me. It is a part of my soul. Even though the figure is flat and has no depth, except for the giant hole in her abdomen, because that was significant to the emptiness of my life at the time.

I am quiet when Bran tells me this. I stare out the window thinking. And then I am no longer in Paris. My mind is back in New York. First in the room with my dying father just after my mother died. Then in another room when Jamie was still an infant. Her father shouting threats at me.... and later in a court room signing away my parental rights... I am in places I don't want to be ….but from where Wavegirl was born.

It is awhile before I realize that Bran is watching me. His eyes that compel trespass. It is a long while before either of us says anything. I am wrestling within. I finally say,

“I didn't realize you shared that image with him.”

He is standing by the window on the other side. He takes a breath and shrugs,

“Beth, you can say 'no'”

“But you would think that I was being immature. Or maybe vain,” I say looking into his eyes to see his first reaction to what I just said.

“No,” he shakes his head. He does not pull his eyes away. “I'll tell Jean Paul we will come up with something else.”

I turn to look back out the window.

And then I begin to think about my father, or the person who I grew up believing was my father. He was in advertising, a successful ad-man. On Madison Avenue. How funny to find myself in his world now. Selling my soul. Maybe it's in the blood? But he wasn't an artist, my mother was, he just sold space. Selling and money was his whole life. He made lots of money but in the end he lost it all; he died penniless. I think again of loss. Of the giant hole in the abdomen of Wavegirl. And then suddenly I find myself thinking of Andy Warhol; the man who sold the art world.... and the significance of the soup can, the ironic commentary on the triviality of life, repeated images of icons. Yes, this too is art.

I turn around and say,

“but will it still be my image? I mean, the one with the hole. That image will still be mine, right,I mean, legally? ”

Slowly he says,

“Yes.... I don't see why not. I'll talk to my lawyer.”

What else do you do with something that is so deep within you that it burns a hole in you? There is no choice but to turn it into art. And if only something superficial is seen and appreciated as some kind of aesthetic commodity that came from a deep dark place maybe that is what it has to be. Maybe it is time to give up the ghost. And maybe it will free that part of me.

He brought his laptop with him, and later, as we work together on this, there is an energy between us. And as we work, I watch him. I have never seen him at work before. To watch now and see what he does. And see that he is brilliant at what he does.... 

We spend hours cleaning up the image, engrossed, testing out different colors and bathing suit styles. And the hours fly by and as they do I recognize there is a new dimension between us that I don't think either of us expected. A flow of energy so much like the energy we have when we are having sex. A charge and silent but fluent communication. It is thrilling. 

And it is no surprise that while working with him I feel myself get wet. And as this happens to me I wonder if he feels it too. Until he says,

“come here,” and sets me on the table where we have been working. He pulls up my long skirt, removing what I'm wearing underneath.... We don't want to waste time. He enters fast, anchoring me to the table.

Electra's dictionary; Chapter 25 legend as dictionary

We wake up late. And waking, there is this feeling of a cloud in my head.... which feels so heavy. I cannot move from where I sleep. Slowly, I realize I am caught in Bran's limbs and fingers.

We have nothing planned for the day. Tomorrow we meet again with Jean Paul and others from the office.

There is a vague disturbance I cannot place....

I think about how it felt to kiss him under the Parisian sky. Forgetting we are in public. That other language people speak in, where the real truth is spoken without words and sometimes through fetishes. Those secrets that come out in the bedroom by someone who has stumbled upon a legend. It feels, with him, there are no taboos. That is the mind fuck with him. It is what I am addicted to about him.

I think about last night. There is something about being with him. Being under his influence. It brings out something. Secret doorways.... with long-lost buried keys. Keys that are legends. But what is the point of keys and legends if the master set has been usurped by another master? He never asked permission.

That feeling of losing one's self. I fall through his eyes into his soul. With all the trappings of baggage and bondage. His and mine. It feels as if something that I had long thought to be true about myself has been proven false.

As I lie awake, I don't move. There is a part of me that wants to pull away. Hide. But I am caught in him, tangled in his arms and fingers. Seaweed arms that wrap like tentacles around my mind. I am not used to this. I am not used to closeness. It scares me. Usually.

I know that I am in love with him, but I cannot say the words. Not out loud. Not to him. Because to say them to him, it would seem there was an ulterior motive. But it is not the words; whether said or not, or thought or not, or admitted or not.... it is something else which disturbs me. I am confused why I let him in. Because I should know better. As we only have short intervals together-- only I think this is why .... it seems safe because I can see the exit clearly. But this is a delusion. And I am deluded. Because I don't think I let him. I didn't. But every time we are together again he passes more cleanly through my walls. And each time it takes him less time to accomplish this. And, really, there is no need to run away, when running away is what we will inevitably do. We will run back to our real lives.

So, really, this is the dream.

I know next week I will be back in Detroit and all of this will be over. Why does that life seem like a lonely, sad, dream that I finally got to wake up from? My relationship with Bran is like constellations you see in the sky that seem to move away, or planets and moons that move in orbits. We come close and then we part. I wonder how long it is possible to keep doing this. Because each time we become closer. And each time it becomes harder to say good-bye. To let go. The loss each time we part. And each time, I am slammed by something like a tidal wave. Left emotionally beached. Emotionally stranded.

He says in a husky whisper,

“I know you're awake. What are you thinking about?”

I go to move but I am still caught in his fingers. I say,

“that this is the dream.”

He sighs and coaxes with his fingers, he strokes my hair to keep me from moving. Like I am a pet. And then it makes me feel too sleepy to move.

“Beth....” And for awhile there is silence, but I know that he is thinking of what to say. I feel his mouth kiss my head. He says, “I know that what we do is deceptive to the people in our lives.... but... I realized something about life when we weren't talking.... we do choose what we have.... and I realized I can't stand the idea of you not being in my life.... life returns to being flat and tasteless.... when there is no you.... but I can't leave my family and I know you know that and I know you can't leave your life either. At least not now.”

“No, I would never ask you to leave your family....” I tell him and sigh too because this is an exhausted subject. But after awhile I find another one to change it.

“I see now that you obviously had all of this planned,” and turn to look up at him, “all this with Jean Paul, I mean.”

His smile is wolfish and reminds me of last night, how we made love. How we fucked. And feel it burn everywhere through me.

He smiles,

“your skin is transparent, I can see you blush everywhere.... Open your legs.”

He moves over me, his hands on my knees, opening me more as he sinks down and into me and pulls me with him into his rhythm.

****

Later we don't feel like going anywhere. We stay in while it rains outside. He has brought his guitar with him and he plays for awhile. I like to listen and watch him when he plays. He has a nice voice when he sings. It is an acoustic guitar with a warm and deep, hollow sound. And then when he says that he is hungry, I go into the kitchen and find things to make from things we picked up at the shops. I make one of my own inventions, spinach “pesto” with feta cheese and pasta. I put things out on the glass dining room table and set places, fold napkins. But when he comes over, he wants me to sit on his lap instead. What is this need between us to have to always be wrapped around each other, always touching? Like a compulsion. And so we eat this way, sharing food.

He says putting food in my mouth,

“you need to open a bank account.”

“You know we have one.”

He says,

“no. Your own.”

“Bran, Dean will think this is strange. It will make him suspicious.”

“Beth-- he needed money and you saved his ass, didn't you? So....” and shrugs in that way he has, “tell your husband it is a business account. There's a European/American bank I use. We can open an account tomorrow. After we see Jean Paul...”

“Why does this matter so much to you?” I ask.

“Because I think you need someone to teach you about money,” he tells me very seriously.

I don't answer. It is ridiculous. I don't care if he is right ….because it is possession. And it is control. And loss of control. And it is loss of control from the ones in control.... it is in love.