When her turn came, she winced when the beautician placed the hair-curler on an open burner and stared in horror at the flickering blue flame. It was small comfort to see that after a while the operator did check the proper temperature of the curling iron by licking her finger and then touching the hot surface. The saliva sizzled on the steel and Lena experienced primitive fear, expecting her hair to fall off in scorched bunches. But after the last brush strokes her hair was safe and the hairstyle created was far better than what she ever received in those magnificent temples back home. One cannot have everything. She knew that.
“OK?” the beautician asked while still fussing around the perfect hairdo. “OK and thank you,” she answered and on leaving boldly added the local greeting of “hello”, which she found so silly at the beginning. She was on the way to become a naturalized citizen.
The afternoon was turning out well and when she left the beauty shop she was glad to see that the rain was still holding off. She finished her lonely supper at the restaurant and arrived at the concert hall dry and well-coiffed. Not the big events, but the small, barely noticed joys provide contentment, she thought as she inspected her casually sculpted hair in the foyer’s big mirror. Fleetingly she wondered whether this was the very wisdom Father Paul tried to teach her, but blending her hairdo with his quiet and spiritual teaching was so outrageously incongruous that the very thought made her smile. Looking around somewhat sheepishly she quickly rearranged her face into the appropriate pre-theatre expression, before people could wonder about the state of her mind.
The concert was better than she expected, and the performance after the intermission was thoroughly fascinating. She always liked Orff’s Carmina Burana, but never saw it performed with dancers. The originality and the wittiness of the movements, the unusual color combinations of the costumes were delightfully different and exciting. At one moment, the dancers were frozen in medieval piety, as if they just descended in holy restraint from a dated wall tapestry, but then exploded in riotous, almost ribald movements making fun of their saintly poses a minute ago. Nothing was permanent or predictable. Wild contradictions were woven into the choreography, nothing was safe from mockery, or from irreverent satire, and all of it was brimming with an irresistible Lebenslust, an exultation of youthful spirit that has not yet experienced defeat and has not yet considered the end of things. It was a performance of love and of lust, raucous, bawdy and yet surprisingly spiritual. The audience, hungry for fun and for laughter, responded enthusiastically. In the past when Lena heard this piece of music she always created mental pictures to go with it. Now she saw with something close to awe how closely the dancers performed exactly what she always imagined – only this was much better, had far more eloquence and humor. She felt joy and satisfaction, because she was so close to—almost part of
-- the creative process.
Still under the spell of the performance, she left the concert hall in an elevated mood to realize with surprise that while she was safe in the shelter of the building the long prelude to the storm reached the breaking point. Large puddles everywhere showed the amount of rain that fell within the last two and half hours.
Meanwhile the clouds moved to other places, and the water it left behind gurgled noisily toward the drains to tell what was happening a while ago. Raindrops turning into precious jewels glimmered on leaves in the streetlights. A gray, wet presence in the air mingled with the insubstantial early autumnal fog. Soundlessly it twisted and curled among the houses and blurred the shape of buildings and of trees. It added beauty and peace to the old town, already sinking into the intimacy of the night. People leaving the concert hall and the fun of Carmina Burana, were soon blended into the swirling mist, only the sound of their laughter and merry chattering proved that the place was not yet deserted. Then that too died away. A silent, misty beauty surrounded her.
Lena found her car and started the journey home in excellent mood, but as she left the last houses of the town the fog was getting thicker and her good mood thinner. A few miles later, out in the open country, she became uneasy. Visibility gradually decreased; she barely saw the road ahead of her. There were no fog lights on her rented car and as an alternative she switched on the headlights; however, that just converted the gray invisibility into glaringly white invisibility. The bright light tired her eyes and she switched it off again, silently thanking for whatever spirits were responsible for the road traffic, because there were very few cars. Sio, that restless water spirit of the lake, was up to a new trick and she seemed intent on erasing the lake and all the land around it. The world was gone.
She had no idea where she was. Her sense of direction was gone, her hands gripped the steering wheel ever tighter and she strained her eyes to see the road in the milky denseness. The little she saw appeared unfamiliar and increasingly she feared that somewhere she took a wrong turn, or perhaps she already passed the road where she should have turned left toward the village. It seemed to her that she was driving far longer than the eighteen miles should have taken. The country road, of course, was not illuminated, but at the crossings there were usually solitary streetlights to alert drivers. By now, she should have reached the streetlight to mark the left turn to the village, unless she was hopelessly lost. The pale streetlight stubbornly refused to appear. She drove on and had the uncanny sensation that she was all alone in the world, everybody was gone, and she was the last human being, alone and vulnerable to every danger real and imagined. She shook off the image, because scaring herself was the last thing she needed in this shapeless world.
Usually when driving in unfamiliar regions she paid close attention to various landmarks, and later used these signposts to find her way. She remembered that there were three major crossings on the main road between the town’s limit and her village and she had to turn left at the third. She already passed two of these, she was sure of that. But where was the third crossing?
Finally, after what seemed a very long time, she came to a crossing; it was indeed the third since she left the town’s last houses. Here the road to the left went straight to the village and the right hand fork down to the lake. But the momentary relief soon turned to confusion. For one thing there was no streetlight here. Of course the storm could have damaged it; however, no matter how she strained her eyes, she could not see the road to the right leading to the lake.
Visibility stopped beyond the nose of the car and she hesitated. For a moment, the thought of turning back and spending the night at one of the hotels in town until the fog lifted. That seemed like a good idea, but then decided against it. Although she did not know for certain where she was, the direction she was driving was correct; therefore, she could not be very far from the village. It seemed foolish to risk another long drive back to town in this fog, when she was so close to home.
Having lived all her life in cities where the streets are laid out in a grid pattern with geometric exactness, she assumed that if she turned left off the main road at this point there were only two possibilities: either she was on the right road and would reach the village in a few miles; or she made this crucial turn too soon, or too late.
In that case, at least experience told her so, there were two possibilities. Hanging on to the grid pattern illusion, she expected shortly to reach a crossing, where she could turn left or right. Either way, this road would run parallel with the main road from which she turned off. If she made the turn too soon, the mistake could be easily corrected by a right turn. If the village would not appear after this maneuver then apparently she drove passed her turn on the main road. In that case she would just turn and drive a few miles in the opposite direction and the road would certainly take her to the village.
The plan seemed logical and momentarily she was reassured, even though there was no rational reason for the belief that the ancient and narrow roads connecting villages founded many centuries past would follow any sort of geometric exactness found in New World cities. However, the mental picture of carefully laid grid
s freed her from anxiety for the moment.
After hesitating a second she turned left and glancing at the clock on the instrument panel, decided that if her assumption was correct it should take about five minutes to reach a crossing. She knew that on the left of the main road the hills of the vineyards rose; therefore, she expected this stretch of road to be very short. Five minutes to reach the crossing seemed like a fair estimate.
The five minutes were gone, but still neither the village nor the crossing appeared. Perhaps she drove slower than usually. To compensate for that she added another five minutes of grace time. After that too passed, she was still nowhere near a crossing, but the road turned narrower and steeper, and was also quite slick from the mud the recent rain washed over it. She finally admitted that her assumption about the grid pattern was wrong and it would be best to return to the main road. However, these extremely narrow country roads all had deep rain trenches on either side and maneuvering a turn might end her trip in the ditch and in water up to her neck. She was getting rather uneasy, but drove on hoping a widening of the road, where turning would be less risky. There was nothing else to do but to drive on and to hope for some solution. After all, she told herself, the very purpose of a road is to arrive to a place where people lived, and where people lived she could get some help. That thought gave her some courage to continue the hopeless drive.
After what seemed a very long time, she finally did come to a crossing just as she expected, and bravely risked the long awaited right turn; however, the road, instead of running parallel to the main road as she expected, curved again and was heading up into the hills, away from the lake. As the car climbed higher, the fog coming from the lake would certainly thin out and she could get an idea where she was, she told herself.
But the fog was not thinning, at least not very much, and she felt fine perspiration collecting on her forehead and on the palms of her hands. Lord God, you have so many angels in heaven, please send me one to help find the way, she prayed in anguish. Being lost in daylight was not a real problem for her, but to be so completely lost in this endless invisibility frightened her beyond reason. She was in a foreign country, totally lost, and if by some miracle she would find a living soul she could just barely manage to ask for directions, but never understand the explanation given to her. Why didn’t Clyde send her to some other place, where the local language is English? She was frightened and stressed and she expressed her anguish by getting angry at him.
She moved on slowly and cautiously, without a plan, and the road kept curving and climbing recklessly. No angels came to help; however, a few miles later the fog indeed thinned and finally she saw a dim light high above. It was higher than the window of a house would be, and even higher than a street light. First she had no idea what it could be, but getting closer to it she realized that the light came from an illuminated cross on the illuminated steeple of a church. Where there is a church,, especially a church with lights, there must be a village, she thought and steered toward the light with renewed hope.
The fog was still fairly thick near the ground; only the tower’s light could filter through the milky horror. If there were any houses near it, she could not see them, but she did perceive a small parking area in front of the church. She saw no signs of life, and as the only option, pulled the car off the road and parked it cautiously. If this is how this day has to be finished, so be it, she thought and decided to spend an uncomfortable night in the car.
She cut the engine and turned off the lights, but almost immediately started to worry. Clyde told her many times that it is very unsafe to remain in a stalled car. Should it ever happen to her, she should immediately leave the car and seek shelter somewhere else, he told her; however, she had no idea where to go. If there would be a graveyard next to this church like in her village, she could perhaps hide among the gravestones in sepulchral silence and in safe invisibility. The gravestones are tall and the fog is thick at the ground level; nobody would find her there. She opened the door a crack and the cool moist air was like a slap in her face. She closed the door again and decided that her thin summer dress and the shawl which was a decoration and not something designed to keep the body warm, were not the proper attire to spend a cold and wet night crouching behind somebody’s headstone. Anyhow, who would be lurking around in such a night to attack a possible victim, stranded in a car in this forsaken place? She tried to curb her mounting anxiety that gradually turned into fear, but decided to stay in the car nonetheless.
For a while, she strained her eyes to try to see, and listened intently to pick up any unusual noises, but after a while, exhaustion took over. She closed her eyes and dozed restlessly for a while, when a bright light shone into her car. She woke up instantly and her first reaction was absolute panic. Logical thought came reluctantly and much slower: someone with evil intentions does not walk around with a flashlight.
“Helena, you here?” She almost cried with relief as she rolled down the window.
“Paul! Father Paul! Are you real, or are you an angel sent to help me?”
“Last time I looked, I was not. No wings, no heavenly halo, no gossamer gown. Nothing of the sort. Evidently I am quite real and very human.”
“What are you doing here?”
“That would have been my next question, Helena. What exactly are you doing here in the middle of the night?” He laughed at this strange situation, and his laughter chased away all ghosts and all fears. “This is my parish, my church, my territory, and I am here quite legitimately. But you! What on earth are you doing here at night and away from home?”
“I am lost,” she all but sobbed.
“Obviously. At one time or another in our life, we all are. You probably took a wrong turn and then could not find your way back to the straight path.”
“Indeed. Both actually and symbolically. I made a mistake. I was sure that coming from town I should turn at the third crossing, and I did.”
“Well, that should have been correct, and you would have arrived home in a short time; however, the trouble was that you turned off too soon. In this fog you probably could not see that it was not a real crossing, just a left oriented forking that took you up into these hills and into one of the villages under my care. This thick fog at times confuses even the locals.”
“Now feeling safe and secure with you, I can see that. But you? How is it that you are here? What miracle brought you here at this hour?”
“No miracle, nothing magic, or perhaps after all it is a miracle, at least one of the lesser kinds .Heaven seems to have known that you needed help and it used a round-about way to send it to you. There is a small, picturesque village beyond this church, but of course, you cannot see it from here in this fog. It so happened that earlier this evening I was called here to give the Last Rites to one of my parishioners, a sweet old grandmother, and to pray with the family. Eventually she died peacefully, and I was on my way home, when I saw a car parked in front of the church. My church. This was most unusual, so I decided to investigate, and found you here. So much for an imagined miracle.”
“Now what?”
“Now we shall drive home. Our village is quite close.”
“And not on the other side of the globe?”
“No Lena. As a matter of fact, it is only about four miles from here. Trust me, and follow me. I know this old road so well that I can drive it blindfolded. I’ll move slowly, just watch my taillights. Soon we shall be back on the main road. In a few minutes we’ll be home. I shall deliver you to your doorstep.”
It was this simple. She felt a rush of peace and of joy as she followed him. Like a guardian angel, he took care of her. She could relax, follow him with assurance and all would be well.
Soon the two cars stopped at her house, and she invited him in for a cup of tea, feeling somewhat daring for asking a Catholic priest to join her. People went to hell for less. After all, it was close to midnight and she was unsure about church etiquette. It surprised her that this nightly visit appea
red quite natural to him; he found nothing strange about having tea with a young woman at her home at this hour. He settled in an easy chair with a relaxed air and she went to the kitchen to prepare the tea. After pouring it, she spoke haltingly.
“Father Paul, I am lost in more ways than just making the wrong turn on a fog-shrouded road.”
“Is it about your ambiguities? Or should I ask again, are you a believer?”
She looked at him with some surprise, because she no longer felt it to be a problem and could not even remember when her doubts and fears disappeared. It was very likely a gradual shifting. Somehow, at some time, things fell into place and she was at peace in that domain.
“No more of those,” she answered honestly. “It is so odd, because I am not even thinking about it anymore. I stopped questioning and the doubts and fears seemed to disappear on their own.” He made no comment and for a short time they sat silently. She finally said quietly, “Now my problem is not with the hereafter, but with life here and now.”
“I guessed that much. Do you care to talk about it?”
“I think I do. Perhaps this is the reason I was bold enough to invite you in at this witching hour.” He did not respond and after some hesitation she added, “My marriage lost its meaning, if it ever had any. I wish I could undo it.”
“Why are you disappointed?”
She told him. She talked about the initial excitement and joy, which she mistook for love, and about how this mistaken euphoria was soon followed by terminal emptiness. She told about her wish to have children and her desire for self-actualization. Almost in tears she talked about the never-ending social engagements, about his dedication to his career at the cost of everything else; his need to control everything, including her, and her own weakness in always caving in to his wishes. She talked about his paranoid fear about his career, which resulted in her exile.
“And you want me to advise you?” It was not a question. She answered by silently nodding. On later reflection she knew that her request should not have been asked at all. As a Catholic priest, he could not possibly advise divorce; on the other hand, he could not support a marriage, which according to Catholic Church law was not a marriage at all. It was unfair to put him in that position.
The Reluctant Trophy Wife Page 33