"I don't really know what love means to you. But to me, it is a matter of transcendence. I feel stronger, better, and nobler when I am in love. So I make a point to fall in love every few years. This year is the year and you are the lady of this year."
I made the mistake to say so to a lady of my dreams recently. The result was that I got a black eye, a spit to the face, and a disappearance of the lady from my life. Sometimes honesty is not the best policy, trust me. Neither is the amateurish application of phenomenology in romantic situations. I know I am not very intelligent, but I thought she was more intelligent than me. I thought she would see through my clumsy word construction and saw that I was really crazy about her and that she was not the flavor of the year, but the taste of the remaining years of my life.
Anyway, she was gone and is gone. For a week I tried to get her back, to no avail. So I gave up. I am not a guy into perseverance and begging. I have pride. I just have to take ownership of my stupidity.
One question that has been going on in my head and frankly sometimes does drive me to anxiety and pain is whether I will meet another woman like her again, especially in the allotted 25 years or so of what is left of my life. And the answer to that question is a resounding, loud answer, "No".
I was not smitten by her at first. She was no drop-dead gorgeous beauty. She was past her prime, dark-complexioned, tomboyish, and full of restless energy. She thought fast, acted fast, and usually trotted instead of walking in measured steps as a lady should. But boy, the words came out of her mouth struck me for their seasoned rationality, compassion, and understanding, not counting the accent, a lilting Caribbean and British mixture that delighted my ears. I knew then right away she was not putting on an act. She was indeed kind and generous. The woman was full of love inside her. I was intrigued and wanted to know more about her because unknown to almost everybody, I was full of love inside me, too. But what first drew me to her was a book, not her voice.
I met her on a cruise. She was sitting by herself in the buffet dining room on deck 15, eating breakfast and reading a book. I happened to walk by precisely at the moment she folded the book and was about to get up from the table. The book was "The Stranger" in the original. I couldn't help myself. I had always been a compulsive guy. So I asked her in my broken French, acquired way back in high school days, if she liked the book. That prompted a stream of rapid-fire French words of which I didn't understand a thing. I sheepishly smiled and switched to English.
-Sorry, that was all the French I could muster. Are you from Haiti?
-Jamaica.
-Jamaica! Wonderful country. I've been there a couple of times. Beautiful beaches, friendly people, marvelous rum, and big, fat marijuana cigarettes. I love them all. Please sit down. Talk to me for a few minutes. I'm dying of a female company. Seriously, please, please tell me why you read "The Stranger". I'm very curious to know.
-So you've read the book?
-Many times. Both in the original and in English translation. I love the book very much. In fact, when I get back on land, I'll look it up and read it again, now that I've met you. That must be a sign. I believe in signs. Do you?
-Don't know what you're talking about.
-Of course, you do. Listen, there are thousands of passengers on this ship. How many of them would be reading a French novel written by an existentialist whom I respect and adore? And how many would read the novel precisely, exactly, the moment I walked by? Nobody but you. That was the sign, the serendipitous moment, the sweet nectar of luck and coincidence, that I always live for and marvel at.
-You sound like a poet. Are you?
-No, I just happen to have poetic sensibilities and crazy, impractical wishes and dreams. Back to my question. Why do you read this marvelous book? (I pointed at and then touched lovingly on the front cover of the book. A moment of rapturous transcendence came over me).
-It looks like you really like the book. So tell me why.
-But I asked you first.
-I'll tell you later. But please tell me first.
-Okay then. A deal. I heard about Camus when I was in high school. His name was being floated around in newspapers, magazines, and books in Saigon during the 60's, my formative years. I made a mental note that I should look into this man whom everybody was raving about. But I was busy studying for exams and I had to pass the exams if I wanted to get the military deferment that would allow me to live a few more years. The Vietnam War, a civil war no Vietnamese wanted, was raging on and destroyed my people and the land. So I slaved for the exams. I was not too bright and I was lazy when I was younger so I had a lot of studying and catching up to do. And I passed. To my relief and my parents' immense pride. A few months later, I even managed to secure a scholarship to study Public Administration overseas. The first day when I arrived at the campus, it happened that there was a used book sale event that day. I brought back to the dorm a few books, one of which was "L'étranger". I read it through one sitting on that very first day and night, with an aid of a dictionary, that I was in America. I was in Chicago. I was a stranger in a strange land. Six months later, when my girlfriend back home wrote me a dear John later, telling me that she was "resolute" in her decision to say goodbye to me for good, I reread the book. Then a few years later, when my mother died in the hospital because of the ineptitude of the Vietcong "doctors", I read it again. I read it when I felt lonely and unhappy. I read it because I wanted to live despite the absurdity I found in living, knowing that I was going to die anyway. I read it and "The Myth of Sisyphus" when I felt suicidal. Those are the only two books of Camus plus a couple of short stories that I read. I like Camus's writing style. Laconic, epigrammatic. So unlike mine. Now tell me what drew you to the book.
-Strange that we met. Strange that you cited the reasons you like about the novel. Strange that you talked about signs and serendipities.
-Now you got me all curious, intrigued, and confused. Would you please clarify?
-My name is Cherry. Not a pretty name as you would think. Growing up, I got so many corny and stupid jokes because of it. What's yours? Roberto, heh. A plain name for a complex man, if I may say so. Now, Roberto, I read the book for the very reasons you mentioned yours.
-No way!
-Yes!
-Wow! I can't believe it. Anyway, Why is your French so good?
-I grew up in Haiti when I was a little girl. I studied languages in college. I'm a retired high school teacher, widowed, and not really lonely.
-I studied this and that in college, unemployed, uninhibited, unhinged, unattached, and very lonely. (That caused a big laugh out of her. Her white teeth shone, her face radiant, and then I thought she looked beautiful and sexy.)
So we talked on and on, past lunch, and into dinner time. At dinner, we picked up where we left off and continued talking. She encouraged me to express myself in French. I ordered a bottle of red wine.
We later went up to deck 16 to look at the stars, to listen to the winds and the sound the ship made as it parted water, and to talk some more. It was way past midnight when I saw her try to suppress and stifle a yawn, so I said goodnight and added that I had had a marvelous time and I hoped she had had the same, that I would wait for her tomorrow morning for breakfast at the table where we first met, and that if she would show up, I would be very glad indeed. I further added that I was trying to get some sleep, but I doubted that if sleep would come that night for me. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek and said in a very sweet, somewhat husky tone of voice, "Don't be silly, honey. Get some sleep. I shall be seeing you tomorrow for breakfast." And then she headed to the elevator by herself, leaving me behind, watching her sashaying away, her hips swaying. She knew I was watching her.
She did show up for breakfast. And things between her and me got accelerated from there. We dated. We had hot and heavy marathon sex sessions together. We saw each other for two years. We went on for four more cruises. I flew to Kingston. She flew to Vegas. Our frequent miles rocketed.
Then what I feared the most happened. She pressed for marriage. I balked, saying that I had been married five times already. Marriage didn't work out well for me. It was allergic to me. Then, subconsciously or not, I blurted the words that earned me a black eye and a vanishing act from her. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that I am still married, though separated. Yes, I was a coward. In some strange ways, I still love my wife though she infuriates and depresses me so many times. But that didn't mean I didn't love Cherry. I did. In fact, I loved and respected her more than any woman alive and walking on this planet. But I would never divorce my wife. I could not do that. I would not do that. Not only my son would kill me, but I would not be able to live with myself, because i was the one, not she, who wanted to get married when we were going out. I must take ownership of my marriage vows, especially with the woman who was reluctant to enter that vow in the first place.
So where are you now, Cherry, the dark lady of my dreams? I hope somehow and someday these words of mine reach you and you find it within you to understand, to forgive, and to believe that I do love you truly. You were the person who taught me what it really means to be alive. You also taught me to come to terms with the predicament of being born as humans: alone among the animal kingdom, we know ahead of time that our existence is finite, that we are going to die. This awareness is at the root of explaining the diverse responses each of us has in facing the inevitable end of our existence. Finally, I think you should know I still read Camus.
Wissai
Ft. Lauderdale, Florida
November 9, 2014
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