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.

Electra's dictionary; Chapter 24; maybe he's found the legend [erotic content]

Maybe he's caught in the legend,

    maybe he's caught in the mood,

       maybe these maps and legends

           have been misunderstood

                              ---R.E.M. Maps and Legends

Waking up in a strange place, in a strange bed, I am disoriented. I recognize the shape of the wooden chest of drawers facing the bed under an oval mirror, see the sheers that blow from the window. They float on the breeze like gossamer. I am calmed by the rhythm of Bran's breathing. As I listen, I lay and stare up at the ceiling that is a blur to me without my glasses

European time has messed up my clock. I am awake extra early yet I feel fully rested. I reach for my glasses and lay there thinking as I watch the dawn spill into the room. I feel so strangely free; there is no tension in my body. Bran sleeps with his arm beneath my neck, turned to me in sleep. His scent fills my sensibilities; it is immediate how much I want him.

I watch as he is lit by the morning light, watch the shadows recede. There is gray that is streaked through his dark waves, but it suits him; it adds to the poet about him. I run my fingers through it lightly, feel the thickness of his hair in my fingers. We have slept naked and as he moves in sleep, I feel his sex pressed hard against my navel. It makes me ache for it. I climb over him and kiss his sleeping face. When I reach his lips, he kisses me back and asks,

“what time is it?”

“Almost six,” I tell him.

“Christ, why are you up so early?” he reaches for my glasses and removes them, putting them on the table beside him.

“Some of you are already awake,” I tell him moving down the length of his body. 

It is not hard to convince him that it is time to get up. And yet, it is hours before we get out of bed.

***

The person Bran takes me to see, Jean Paul, is in a building in a busy section of Paris. It is confusion when we get there yet, somehow between my French and Bran's we manage to find the office where he works.

“Have you never been here before?” I ask Bran as we walk up and down corridors in search.

“We usually meet somewhere or he is coming to see me,” he shrugs.

“So, maybe I should have asked this before, but, who is he? What does he do and why am I seeing him today?” I ask.

He smiles at me and it is one of those incomprehensible smiles. The kind where I don't know if there is some kind of joke he is thinking or something else. I realize it is something else when he says,

“I have been showing him your work. What you gave me last time from the memory stick. I have been cleaning up the images and reworking them, by the way.”

There is this pause and then, slow on the take I say,

“you mean you are selling my images to him?” Or even more obtuse.... “your version of my images.”

“Something like that.”

When we get to his office I find that Jean Paul is contradictory, very polite and very flattering with the Parisian tendency to be a dangerous flirt. Dark and handsome, he is impeccably neat in his navy blue business suit that is obviously tailor fit. He is one of those who likes to touch. He takes my hand and then he pulls out a chair for me. There is a feeling that I don't want to insult him by displeasing him in any way, so I sit immediately as I see he is expecting me to. His English is beautiful and everything he says sounds French. What I find remarkable about him is that he is younger than he behaves, I would guess his age to be somewhere around late thirties to early forties, but his deportment is more old world, more similar to someone from some bygone generation.

“I have known Bran a long time,” he tells me when we are seated. But Jean Paul does not sit. He is standing by the window looking out. He moves around a lot. He goes from the window to his desk and then in front of his desk to stand in front of me, leaning on the desk behind him. He looks from me to Bran and back again. He reminds me of a curious mole. You can see him making observations and watch it spread across his face. It is not hard to interpret what he is thinking.

“I really like your style,” he tells me with an air of affectation. No, he is definitely not homosexual, and I could tell this immediately by how he looks at me, but his mannerisms are very flamboyant. “It is almost too bad I did not meet you sooner. Last year we had need of someone that has your kind of eye for things. It is too bad. But now we can do business. Bran tells me you are American, yes? I appreciate you coming here all this way. I was just in touch with Bran last week about you. Have you told her what we are prepared to pay?”

When I look at Bran he looks disconcerted and shrugs at me with a look of chagrin, which, I am sure was always useful to him as a boy.

“No,” I say looking back at Jean Paul, “he's told me nothing. I guess he wanted this to be a surprise,” and now I glance back up at Bran.

It is advertisement, of course. I don't mind, maybe, because it is another country. Trying to understand figures has always been my weak point. I don't grasp concepts that are abstract in this nature. I know it must be an impressive offer, only I don't find I really care. Jean Paul is nice and that is sufficient to me since I wasn't really thinking about anything more than Dean and I making the rent. Whatever else is just bonus at this point. So I thank him.

Bran says,

“Beth and I just started working together recently....”

Again I glance at Bran and as I do this, I notice that Jean Paul has not missed this either. And so when I look at Jean Paul now, he smiles at me as if he just got caught reading my diary but is not even slightly sorry. This is when he says,

“you know she is beautiful, Bran,” and looks right at him.

But Bran plays it innocently. He pretends to ignore the insinuation as if he missed it. And then Jean Paul says,

“oh look, it is lunch time. Let me take you out to celebrate....”

It is hours later and we are still at the cafe and with every bottle of wine that Jean Paul opens, his hands get more familiar with me under the table.

I say to Bran,

“I think we should go,” I keep my voice down.

And then we are saying our good-byes and I am pulling Bran out the door. It is hours before we recover from the bottles of wine we consumed. We sight-see for a bit and walk along the Seine, somehow find our way to the Eiffel Tower ....that we just look at in a drunken haze. We sit on the grass even though I am wearing a long black skirt; we are both still dressed for the business meeting; Bran in his newly pressed black suit.

“Did we really just drink three bottles of wine?” I ask him.

He doesn't answer for awhile. He stares at the Eiffel Tower instead. Then he says,

“yeah.... I think so....”

“So that means that we each had a bottle apiece,” I suggest now.

After a long pause he says,

“no.... Not really.... You drink slower.”

Later we have coffee and find our way to the art section of Paris. We act like tourists on holiday. He wants to buy me things. Normally he is very cautious about money. Even though he goes flying around the world for his work, I know that he is not wealthy; his travel comes out of his work expenses and he has a family to support. But now, he buys me flowers when we pass a stand, and small things that I admire.... a pair of handmade silver earrings and a mother of pearl ring.

I say,

“how am I going to explain this to Dean?”

But he kisses my head and says,

“he won't even notice and if he does, just say it was a gift from Jean Paul....” and then he says, “I wish we had more days here so we could drive somewhere..... I want to be with you in Provence, Beth.... I will you take you there next time....” 

He kisses me openly, in public, not caring who sees. And I don't know if it is the danger or the fact that we are in Paris, but it feels still so much like a dream and so much like we are half the age we are. But all I want is be naked with him.... even with Paris surrounding us with all its glamour and history.

It is a beautiful day and I am sorry when the sun starts to set.

I think that there are moments in time that are eternal. They are so tactile, so close that you could stop time to visit them because they seem to remain always in a loop of present; a loop of present presence.

Like the walk back to the flat on Rue de...--???? (cannot remember how to spell) as we walk. I watch the street lights, as we move past them, reflecting off of the slick streets from a passing rainstorm, feel of his hand that wraps around mine. And entwine. In this way I see it in cinematic perfection. Always to remain as it is captured in my lens. There is a rare, certain silence that is not really silence. Non-intrusive. It is a subtle conversation that goes between minds. Thoughts without compromise, they just flow. I have noticed it is this way with us. We don't need words.... experiencing, we are together.

Bran slows his pace as we near the building. It has only been about forty-eight hours that we have been here but it somehow feels like home.... and more like home than any place that I have known. Because of how it feels with him.  

I stare as he looks at me in the moonlight, it illuminates his face perfectly as if it is his element. It makes me want to draw his face.

Only now it is he who says,

“you are beautiful” and watches me with those moss colored eyes.

We go up, go inside and he shuts the door behind us. And then takes my hand, takes me with him to the bedroom. 

Electra's dictionary; Chapter 23; Dial Celf

We walk the Paris streets at night talking. The streets glisten with the slick dampness of a recent rainstorm. We find places along the way to stop at. We eat and drink. He holds my hand as we walk,

“I was reading from your other blog recently,” he tells me.

“Which one? You are funny. You may be the only one who ever reads them. Unless I write about sex.”

“The one about John.”

“Oh, that one. I haven't touched that one for awhile.”

“Does your husband know you still talk to him?” Bran asks and stops me. The l'arc de triomphe is looming like a construct around him. His tall frame seems to fill the arch when I look back up at him. He has turned intense suddenly. It seems like a strange place to be having a serious conversation. Here where there is history, like a backdrop to a film.

“We don't talk any more,” I tell him.

“No? Are you sure about that? When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“About six months before I met you. Why? Did it make you jealous?” I ask him. But I am really just teasing him. “I don't even remember what I wrote on there. You shouldn't be jealous. You see, I think I realized that it was my perceptions that made it so....at the time --epic. And that is what a writer or any artist tries to capture. The bridge between a transition of self. Don't you do that too with your art? Don't you find that?”

Bran does not seem convinced. He is giving me a doubtful look but I see that he is trying to work out a thought. It takes him awhile but then he says,

“no.... ”

I wait and just look up at him. He says,

“we should probably head back.... we have that meeting in the morning.”

“Do I have to go?”I ask.

“Why wouldn't you want to?”and he is now looking thoughtfully down into my eyes. He removes my glasses to look right in but the moss of his has turned Monet in my vision.

“I don't like meeting people. Especially if I have to sell myself,” I tell him. “I'd rather you just did it for me.”

But he shakes his head,

“he wants to meet you. He told me he likes your quirkiness.”

“Am I quirky?”

“He's interested,” I see in blurry vision that he is smiling, “this can be good for you.... for us.”

***

And in the middle of the night I wake because my dream mind has forgot what is real. But no, he is there.... his presence.... reassured. We sleep in some stranger's bed. We sleep closer than anyone I have ever slept next to.

And my mind goes places. With him. Between sleep, the trap doors unlatch.... streams of consciousness.

I never meant to be too much too take. Because that is what they would say. Too dark. Too moody. Too unpredictable, too much in character with my red hair.... too passionate. Too poetic.... too tragic, too mental.

I never meant to be this way. I was not trying to be. I just never figured out how not to be. But I guess, by now, I have given up trying to be something else. I guess, maybe, I am feral. I am strong and tough but not where it shows. It is in the internal world. My father said I looked like a cream-puff but was a sharp-edged blade of steel inside. Only he got it wrong. How could he know that father that he killed made the razor edge so sharp? Behind the edge is a universe. In there are so many fractures of celves.

Within the tomb

within the womb.....

The pace of his breathing lulls me to sleep even as I try to think, my mind lets go....

there is no access here. You peel off the layer like an article of clothing. You inspect the wear and tear or damage. You put it away either hung in the closet or folded in a drawer. You shut the drawer, shut the door. And as you go down the hallway, you can see light that comes from a window in another room. You follow it and go inside. You look out the window. Your mind is transported into day dream. You think of what you are running from. Hiding from. You sit on the floor and cry..... because only in here you can. Here in this soundproofed room. Wail out the monsters where otherwise there is no voice. Here you can fall apart.... and then as you dream out the window.... you see a garden and then you climb out the window.... you go to the garden and find a tree to climb.... and fall asleep on a branch.... and dream of love....

What is it about music....? it enters in and becomes a part of the cellular mind. But then there is the denouement for me. It captures, like a picture; or scent; a snapshot in time. The emotions, sealed within the walls of sound in this metaphorical jar. All of it is there. My whole life at the time, all contained in the timing of notes and sounds. Which is why I cannot listen to old songs or songs from my past. Those jars are meant to be left sealed off, like a stairway to heaven, and filed in the archives like a girlfriend in a coma..... those old songs were just my rough drafts.... I had to go around the bend. But I am further evolved this way. Still perfecting the stone and now

....as I try to figure out how to go from Garbo in Anna Karenina to Hepburn in the African Queen ….and then.... finally.... to truly just me.... I wonder if it is only me or is it always such a struggle to figure out the purpose and how to be and accept the tragic riddle we call life.

In Freud's descriptions of the emotional map of the mind, he was known to site how the early environments engrave the person for life. The absence where the illusion of security was never suggested is not possible to mourn. This void is entrenched into the muscle memory of the mind. It is not possible to recover a loss for something you never had. It is best to acknowledge this. Because there are other methods better to counter balance this void. But there is a negative side which is.... that often those you encounter will find that you are too much to handle.

Too intense. Too much. But maybe it is because we have gone over the edge and lived to tell. It scares the rest away. But I don't really blame them. And this is why I really just like to be alone, less prisoners to carry back.

But I see it is different to Bran. He does not seem to fear my darkness.

But he is an artist too and I think this may be why.

I think it is a common mistake to believe that the artist is creating. The artist is a medium. The artist channels energy. Like a lion tamer, an artist constructs the random impressions into composition, but the composition was always there. The failure of the artist is that the artist's ego tries to get in the way of what the muse is revealing. The artist's role is to be a tuning fork. Artists should be like archaeologists uncovering a buried treasure. Of course, this is just my belief and maybe I am speaking in satire partially. But no. I am not really. I do really believe this.

He says in half sleep,

“Beth, go back to sleep,” as though he senses me. He runs his fingers through my hair. And I am tangled and released.