The Reluctant Trophy Wife

by Judith Petres Balogh

  selective memories. Now here I am, savoring my quiet life, having champagne,

  strawberries and yoghurt for breakfast and am free to enjoy your welcome

  company. You see, splendid isolation goes just so far and there are times when

  the hermit wishes for company. I am glad to see you. “

  “In other words, nothing dramatic about your stay here.”

  “Heaven forbid, no. At my age, I cannot afford dramas. Bad for the health.

  This arrangement works excellently and is improving our marriage. As the saying

  goes, it is not the substance in a given drug that kills you, but the amount you

  take of it. Too much marriage can be deadly. It is good occasionally to separate

  from the dear spouse, before the over-praised togetherness suffocates both

  partners. Separated, we each can catch our breath, and after a while when we

  reconnect it is with such enthusiasm as would put to shame a newlywed couple. I

  would advise married couples to employ this foolproof recipe: spend some time

  away from your beloved partner before the first homicidal thought occurs to

  you.”

  “But don’t you miss him all summer?”

  Sarah leaned back in her chair and laughed so hard that her countless gold

  necklaces, bracelets and huge loops of earrings shook on her ample body. “He

  won’t give me a chance to miss him,’’ she said after she recovered. “I expect him

  to show up here any day soon. In spite of his devotion to his family it is just so

  much he can take of beer, sauerbraten, dumplings and relatives. Then we shall

  stay here until early winter and enjoy the house, the hills, our meals, each other,

  the lake and then return together to the States for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

  Ah, the leisure and the blessings of retirement! You do as you please and do it

  when you please. As long as you can.”

  NINE

  Ever since she first enrolled in college, Lena was constantly involved in some activity. She filled her life with projects, at times exciting, other times almost boring, but she was always busy. A full schedule gave her the illusion of being needed and through it she created for herself a sense of happiness. However, during her married life, especially in the last few years, there were times when she felt the need to slow down and to withdraw from the noise of life. Just like Sarah, she too yearned for occasional solitude. When alone with her thoughts she was recharged and after such a quiet period it was easier to reenter the whirlwind of social life. When she mentioned this need to Clyde he teased and warned her that solitude was the preferred state of existence for socially maladjusted individuals, for eccentrics and for those, who use the hermit’s life as an insincere excuse for doing absolutely nothing. He also pointed out that this longing for solitude was one of the contradictions in her character, because it was evident that she was a people-person, who loved company.

  She never tried to explain to him what solitude meant to her. She shrank from anything that sounded too dramatic, too morbid, too extravagant or emotional; therefore, she did not talk about her complicated need to be alone and to reflect on her life. She felt that solitude was a preparation for the greatest mystery any mortal can experience, the spellbinding event of death. For this awesome occurrence there are no previous experiences, no learned skills and no user’s manuals. There are no retakes here; one has to do it right the first time around and therefore some preparation for it is essential. Some say that sleep is the true practice for death, and this is why so many children have a horror of falling asleep.

  Lena found the idea of the Grand Exit vastly more complicated than the simple act of falling asleep. She believed, probably because of early religious indoctrination, that during the first stage of death one has to give a truthful account of life. One will have to tell in all honesty all the virtues, as well as all the shortcomings and weaknesses. Being alone and undisturbed is the indispensable practice on how to properly confess an entire life, and how to present or to defend the content of existence during the few decades on Earth. Clyde did not like to disturb his life with uncomfortable ideas and untested eventualities; at any rate he categorized such thoughts as unnecessary preoccupations, practiced by young, romantic and highly unsuccessful poets only. “When you are dead, you are dead, and we do not know it any differently”, he used to say. “Nobody ever came back from there to tell how it is.”

  “But some did,” Lena argued.

  “And if you have time to spare, I’ll tell all the reasons why these encounters are unbelievable. I admit that some people have experienced strange hallucinations, which are undoubtedly influenced by the culture in which they live, or the religion they practice, but that is hardly an acceptable proof. I am not saying that they are lying, but I do know that they encountered these impressions while severely traumatized. The mind is capable of doing strange things when the body is in danger or is gravely injured.”

  She dropped the subject. He was absolutely convinced about the truth in his negation; it was pointless to argue. On the other hand, she was not secure in her own beliefs; therefore, she could not line up convincing counterarguments. His convictions carved in stone against her fragile ambiguities would have rendered any further discussion unproductive.

  In her busy life with Clyde she could indulge in the luxury of solitude only during the very early hours of the day at her solitary breakfasts. It was never enough. Now, this long summer offered almost too much of it. Being carefree and alone was a relaxing experience, a form of spiritual free flight, but it could also be frightening. On the very first day of her exile she already sensed the scary aspect of being cut off from the world; it was inevitable that she should consider Sarah Isenburg a relief from too much isolation and too much solitude. Lena was drawn to her and henceforth arranged her walks so that she would pass the charming cottage as often as common politeness permitted.

  She enjoyed the woman’s wit and charm, and delighted in her irresistible common sense that was colored with a special brand of benign sarcasm and flamboyance. Her roaring joie de vivre was always gently tamed by an inimitable sophistication. She was a fountain of unexpected and amusing declarations, and her familiarity with a wide range of subjects made her into an outstanding companion.

  The May morning was exactly as all summer mornings ought to be. The sky and the lake were shimmering in the best shades of blue, the birds did their part, and the apple blossoms having completed the purpose of their short life, spread pink and white carpets over the grass. How quickly they fade, these delicate blossoms, and how generously they offer the last of their exquisiteness as they slide down ever so gracefully to inevitable death. Could Man ever learn this elegant perfection in accepting what is inescapable?

  The day was as flawless and as summery as one could wish, yet Lena was disturbed and started her morning walk earlier in order to clear her head. Earlier she watched the morning news transmitted from a German TV station and much of what she has seen and heard was upsetting and it left her in a state of disgust and confusion.

  She made a detour around the village to reach the path that went down to the lake. At this early hour she was the only one there and the stillness was tranquilizing; it was just what she needed .The water was gently lapping the shore and a youthful eel snaked its way among the seaweeds and moss-covered stones. The sunlight glanced off its skin, turning it into an undulating silver streak as it moved in the shallow water among the rocks. Beautiful, she thought, but knew that she would probably die of shock if she met one of its kin while swimming. Beauty goes just so far.

  She took the piece of bread saved from her breakfast and fed it to the ducks. A small company of common coots hurried to the scene, but Lena disliked the aggressive little birds that would even attack their own young if these begged too insistently for food. She tried to pitch the pieces of bread away from them.
The eel, showing good sense, disappeared just in time. A bevy of swans soon arrived gliding slowly, majestically holding their heads high, as if they had nothing to do with the assembled group of their poor relatives, the plebeian ducks and murderous coots, loudly fighting for the pieces of bread. We were just passing by, the haughty swans seemed to say, and we are not at all interested in your paltry crumbs. We are certainly used to better fare and it is below our dignity to fight for miserable handouts…Despite their self-aggrandizing attitude their motive was obvious, it was written in their shifty eyes. Elegant or not, they were just as greedy and just as eager to get a free meal as their uninhibited noisy relatives were. They were late though, because by that time Lena had no more bread left. The swans soon realized that they missed their chance and in a most unhurried way, without the slightest trace of nervous agitation, changed the direction of their swimming. Ignoring even the minimal courtesy of calling out a ‘hello’, the locally adopted greeting for farewell, they were gliding away elegantly without disturbing the water surface. They left hungry and disappointed, but never lost their aristocratic aloofness. That is true royalty.

  Regretfully she left the lake. Just like on previous morning walks, instead of going home, she once again turned into the narrow path to reach Sarah’s cottage. She had no intention to disturb her new friend unannounced, because she abhorred to be imposing, but it gave her pleasure to pass her cottage and to know that a kindred spirit, speaking the same language, lived close to her in this forgotten corner of the world. Just passing her cottage was reassuring.

  “Hello,” Sarah called out as soon as Lena was close to the gate. She was at the arbor, an easel stood in front of her and she was painting. Next to her were chairs and a small table with a vase of flowers, and of course strawberries and a bottle of sparkling wine in a silver cooler. The woman had style. In a foreign village of about six hundred souls she was spending the morning alone in her garden, but had to have flowers on the table and a silver bucket in which to cool her wine. The swans would approve.

  “Glad to see you happen by. Come in and visit with an old woman.”

  “Good morning, Sarah, and a happy day to you. Actually, I was not just happening by; I hoped to see you and spend a little time with you.”

  “In that case, pull up that chair, pour yourself some of the bubbly, sit and watch while I ruin this perfectly good canvas. What have you been up to since I last saw you?”

  “Nothing much. I visited the ducks and the swans after I watched the news this morning, which confused and depressed me; I mean the news did, not the water fowl.”

  “So very American!” Sarah teased. “You must have your Blackberry and your TV, even if you land on top of an iceberg.”

  “Not really, but it came with the house. I can get BBC, CNN and several German and Swiss stations, and so I do watch the news.”

  “You don’t say so! I am impressed, although I stay away from the news. My doctor and also my religion forbid me to pay attention to politics. It is bad for the soul and for the blood pressure. What did you watch that so demoralized you?”

  “All of it. Only the weather report was good.”

  “Ach.”

  “This does not seem to disturb you,” Lena remarked.

  “My dear, I’m ancient. The dinosaurs roamed the world when I was teething. Most things acquire different priorities when you are fading into the sunset. But truthfully, in spite of doctor’s orders, I too listen to the news at wellspaced intervals just to see where the world is going; however, I quit agonizing over it. I am now wise enough to know that I cannot change anything. And of course, nobody asks for my opinions and solutions. This wisdom, by the way, is one of the few benefits of aging.” Her throaty laugh was reassuring, as if someone would say, it is all right, and there is nothing to worry about, relax, do not hold your breath and have some more good wine.

  “Does it mean that you are divorcing yourself from the world?”

  “I never considered divorce but now that you mention, it does sound like a good idea. I love to live, but there are times I am weary of the world and the irretrievable moral failure of our culture. Actually, all of it frightens me. We are living in an age of rational disbelief at a time when science explained mostly everything we ever wanted to know, but left us empty and thirsty. Art has divorced itself from intelligence and presents a vacuous void of terrific dimensions. Entertainment, on the premise that the audience is hopelessly dimwitted, has specialized on variations of violence, crime, vulgarity. sex and the absurd. Religion has been replaced by a custom-made New Age spiritual neutrality that is brushing on nihilism. Although the existence of a temporarily absent God is accepted by most Christians, the idea of any sort of after-life, save some form of Oriental reincarnation ,is rejected. According to a study completed in 2005 in the USA, only about 20-30 percent of Roman Catholics attend church regularly, and on a given Sunday morning fewer than one out of five Protestants are in church. This is what the polls report, but be warned that polls and statistics are questionable. People have a tendency to lie on questionnaires. I just mention this in case you belong to the sect that believes all what the statistics tell you. As you know there are two ways to lie. You can lie straight without blushing, or you can use statistics. Anyhow, nowadays people will not accept responsibility for the care of their soul. It is generally accepted that after the vital signs stop, the soul no longer exists. That is truly a frightening prospect for an old cantankerous woman like me, teetering at the edge of the grave. All in all, this Brave New World really has very little to offer for me. I take my refuge with the classics and with Nature and ignore the rest.”

  “It is strange to hear such depressing ideas from you, because you are so positive, so strong; a real life-force, a true earth mother.”

  “Correction. Don’t misunderstand me, I am not a pessimist. I told you that I love to live. Each sunrise is magic. I adore my garden, celebrate the day with strawberries and wine and I got the best when I married George. What I don’t like is the way the character of the once familiar and comfortable world is changing. By the way, the new battle cry is ‘change’. Any sort of change is considered good, as long as it is different from the present. Everybody is dissatisfied with everything and with everybody. The noble voter clamors for change in the hope that it would cure his depression. He hasn’t learned the wisdom of ‘what ain’t broke, don’t need fixin’. They don’t demand improvements, they want changes in the true throw-away-society spirit. One continent passes this pernicious virus to the other and the infectious disease spreads without an antidote. As a result a general malaise pervades the world. If we could put Solon in the Oval Office and elect St. Augustine for vice-president, Solomon for the High Court, Attila the Hun at the head of the Armed Forces with Genghis Khan supporting him, Mother Theresa at the head of the Department of Health, Darius for treasury, Cicero for Speaker of the House, and in order not to leave out Hollywood, Bob Hope for the Department of Education--he might not teach a great deal to our children, but he could certainly entertain them, which is what they really demand—but behold! It would take less than four years for the distinguished voter to grumble just as vehemently as he does now, and he would clamor for change, just as he did before. Which is one of the reasons I don’t join the monkey parade.”

  Lena laughed and her dark mood lifted. She no longer cared so passionately about the news; the confusion and the malaise were gone. Perhaps the walk did it, or watching the ducks and swans, but most likely it was Sarah’s indestructible personal charm and wit that cured her. Sarah was natural and honest and in her presence all things fell into their proper places as if obeying a higher command. Being with this sober but warm-hearted woman in the safety of her overgrown garden was healing. The empty promises of world leaders, the ever present greed and its consequences, the political correctness escalated to the point of irresponsibility, the blind insanity, materialism and greed no longer shackled her.

  After all, this exile might offer benefits
she did not expect. Already she no longer had to be on the alert about using the wrong adjective to the right person, or using the right adjective to the wrong person. She did not have to form a socially and professionally accepted opinion about issues which she only halfunderstood and for which she cared only marginally. he was no longer expected to be concerned about a future which was not in her power to influence.

  “Being with you is an intellectual and emotional vacation, and this is the way life ought to be,” Lena said and stretched leisurely, waiting for more of Sarah’ wisdom.

  However, Sarah at the moment was more concerned with her painting than with the fate of the world. She stared at the colors on her palette and then scrutinized her work with displeasure. “This here is supposed to be early morning. It is supposed to show that magic moment just at the point when the stars fade and the sun sends its first rays over an awakening earth.”

  “Trying to capture the mood of a world that just loves to wake up to start working?”

  “Respect art, my child! Irreverence won’t do. Can’t you see how this work frustrates me? The lower elevations should show that shadows are still lurking and the colors there are no more than a feeble promise. The tops of the trees, the crests of the hills should already light up with sunshine and pearly clouds with vivid gold edges should give substance and depth to the sky. And yes, it should convey the contentment and the hope of the day to come and it should herald the magic of a summer morning in the country. Does it show all that? Not on your life!” She then applied a soft gray to part of the sky. Still not happy with it, she added dabs of yellow and a soft streak of pale orange. Through the gradually built layers of colors the painting acquired a deeper dimension and the mood of the morning finally started to glow from the canvas. “The sorcery of colors,” she said, but without conviction. “If only I could get the right hue!” She mixed shades of yellow to paint splotches of the rising light on some of the treetops.