Travels Through Love and Time

by Christine Hall Volkoff

  Francesca squeezed my hand and let it go. She had to move into the next room with a TV crew who was doing an extensive interview.

  “Sorry, carina … got to work … don’t go away!”

  Oliver brought me a glass of champagne and asked me if how I knew Francesca. I said we had gone on a sailing voyage together and did not offer any more details. He sat next to me on the couch and we started talking about the film, about California, and many other quite mundane subjects as the night wore on.

  I found him very attractive and I was flattered by the attention he was giving me. He was looking at me as if he thought I was beautiful. At some point, someone came by with a tray full of little sandwiches with smoked salmon. We both reached out for the same one and our hands touched. He looked at me and we both laughed. At the second glass of champagne I was beginning to feel good and stopped constantly looking to see if Francesca was done with the interview.

  We were reclining on the couch and looking into each other’s eyes. “You are so sophisticated!”, he said to me. I knew he was wrong and his remark was only based on my friendship with Francesca, but I took it in all the same.

  We got up and went out on the terrace to look at the row of palm trees and the ocean sparkling in the moonlight. We smoked cigarettes and had more champagne. I felt so glamorous and grown up. We were standing very close to each other and he kissed me very lightly. I kissed him back, then turned away to go back to the living room. He followed me with his hand on my shoulder.

  Most people had left and I did not see Francesca. Marco was saying goodbye to everyone. He came to us. He said Francesca was very tired,and would I please come tomorrow morning at 9:00 and have breakfast with them? I thought it would be better to see her without all these people. I said I would be there and, bidding him goodnight, I grabbed my jacket and went down to the lobby with Oliver.

  “Come with me to my hotel,” he said. “You’ll see it’s so beautiful there … ”

  I knew what was happening … what was going to happen. I wanted it to happen. I said yes.

  Ten minutes later, we were driving on the lower Corniche toward Cap d’Antibes in a convertible Bentley. The car was gliding silently on the winding road; the breeze was cool but not cold. Everything was perfect. I could not help but touch the walnut dashboard.

  “Is this your car?”

  “Nah, of course not. I rented it … the company pays for it. Isn’t it great?”

  It was. I was looking at him as he was driving. This dashing young man was taking me, little old me, on this most anticipated adventure. Every now and then he would turn to me, smile, and gently stroke my arm. I would have quite a story to tell Francesca tomorrow.

  We arrived at Eden Roc. He took his key and we went down to his room. It was a suite right by the water. I was a little bit nervous, but it was time for me to finally pass into adulthood and I could not imagine better circumstances. I did not quite know if I was in love with him, but I had a quick daydream of him and me getting together in California.

  He took a bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator. He opened it and we went out on the deck which looked out on a little rocky cove where the sea formed a natural pool of shimmering moonlight.

  “Here’s to us!” he said. Our glasses clinked for the toast, we drank, and then he kissed me. I could feel my knees trembling as he gently guided me into the bedroom.

  “Are you taking birth control?” he asked.

  “No, I am not.”

  “Don’t worry … I will be careful.”

  He undid my dress, and then turned off the light as he undressed and I took off my underwear. Feeling someone’s naked body against mine was a brand new, exciting, sensation as we sank onto the huge bed flooded with silver light from the moon through the open window.

  Afterwards, he got up and went into the bathroom. I stayed in the bed and pretended to be asleep. I felt sticky and afraid to move. He got back into bed, turned away from me, and pretty soon I could tell from his breathing he had fallen asleep. I got up and went outside. There was enough light from the hotel above to outline a set of rocky steps going into the water, and I went down. The water was cold, but cleansing and soothing even though it was also stinging quite a bit. I went into it up to my waist and floated a little. There were no stars and the clouds were attacking the moon.

  So this was what made the world go round. At first, it had been very enjoyable. I was sorry the lights were out because I wanted to see everything, know everything and be fully present. And I was for a time, as we kissed and went through a few preliminaries. Oliver was kind and gentle. “You have beautiful shoulders”, he said. But then, at the critical moment, when he put his hands behind my knees and pushed my legs back until I could see my feet in the air, I started drifting off and isolating myself. I could not believe people like Francesca would find themselves ever in such an undignified position. The pain was not too bad, though it was sharp and radiated all the way to my throat. Afterwards it was just strange to feel this movement inside of me, and it did not seem to be connected to another human being.

  I was shivering in the water, I was getting really cold.

  Oh well. I guess I was not going to be one of these great lovers after all … I hadn’t gone to the edge, whatever that was. I am going to have to practise this to get better at it, I thought. I felt numb and detached. I went back to the room. Oliver was still asleep under the covers. I went into the bathroom and ran hot water all over myself, then I returned to the bed and eventually entered a dreamless sleep.

  When I woke up to the sound of the shower, it was already eight o’clock. Oliver came out smiling and handsome, dressed in tennis whites.

  “Good morning! Shall we order breakfast?”

  I apologized and said I was supposed to have breakfast with Francesca at the Carlton at nine, and I needed to leave as soon as possible. He did not argue very much, which I have to say hurt my feelings a little. I got up and was mortified to see there was a blood stain on the otherwise pristine white sheets of the prestigious Eden Roc Hotel. He noticed my expression of dismay and said “Don’t worry … they’re used to it. People come here on honeymoon all the time”. Honeymoon … yes of course … I covered up the spot and went into the dressing room to get dressed in private and digest my humiliation.

  He opened the door of the Bentley for me and off we went. The sky was overcast, so we left the top up. I led the conversation, asking him where he was going, when he was returning to California, and all kinds of trivial questions. I really wanted to ask what he thought of me as a lover: had I been really bad, and what I could have done to improve my performance? But I did not feel like I knew him well enough to ask, and stuck to nervous small talk to avoid silence. He asked me if I wanted to be dropped off at the Carlton, but I did not want Francesca to see me in the same clothes as last night and I needed to freshen up and be by myself for a while. So he took me to the Martinez. He kissed me goodbye as a satisfied lover would, but my mind was already with Francesca, and I did not linger. We exchanged phone numbers and I waved at him as he pulled off on his way to play tennis at Eden Roc.

  I picked up my key and rushed to my room. Somehow, last night, I wanted Francesca to know I had slept with Oliver. This morning, I wanted to hide it from her. I took a shower and put on my travelling clothes as I was going to drive back to Paris today. It was five minutes to nine when I saw the message light on the telephone on the nightstand was blinking red. I picked it up and dialed the code …

  “Hi, carina, this is Francesca. I know it is early, but can you come at 8:00 for breakfast? We realized we could get on a flight directly from Nice to Rome instead of going through Paris, and we need to be at the airport at 9:30. Please come, I would love to see you … love you, sweetheart”.

  Oh my God! I had missed them … It was 9:05 … Maybe there was still a chance … I rushed down the stairs without waiting for the elevator and started running toward the Carlton as fast as I could. I crossed over on the beach sid
e not to have to wait for the red lights. I had left my handbag at the Martinez so it would not slow me down. I could see the Carlton Beach sign and I was focusing on it, not wanting to look anywhere else until I was there. Finally, once at the sign, I looked over to the other side, and caught sight of a black limousine waiting in front of the Carlton. Then I saw Francesca and Marco walking out of the hotel. I was relieved, out of breath and disheveled, but I managed to cross the street without making a commotion. Francesca spotted me immediately.

  “You!” she said smiling and pointing her finger at me in mock reproach. “You cheated on me!”

  I did not reply, but rushed and fell into her arms. I was holding her very tight. I must have grown, as now my cheek was right against hers. The words came out of me on their own, uncontrolled.

  “I love you! Oh … I love you!”

  I must have choked on the last word. Francesca was calm as usual. “Don’t be sad, sweetie … go for the good life, always … you’ll get the hang of it!”

  Marco came to separate us gently. “Sorry, Francesca, Christina … but we need to go. We can’t afford to miss this plane, shooting starts tomorrow morning … ”

  We let go but I held on to her hand as the driver opened the door, all the way until Francesca was finally sitting in the car. Marco was waving at me from the other side.

  “Ciao, Christina!”

  “Come to Rome! Please come visit!” said Francesca.

  The window started going up and she disappeared behind it. The limo started off then did a U-Turn around the center divider, before gliding on toward Nice. The tinted glass was too dark; I could not see inside. I watched it drive away until it was a mere little black dot way out there on the Croisette. I surprised myself with the intensity of my emotion. What I really wanted to do was go get the car and drive straight to Rome as fast as I could. There I would ask Francesca if we were really in love with each other way back then, and now. And if so, then I would insist we do something about it, now that I was not only older, taller, but a real woman.

  But I did not do it of course. I had to find out her address, I had to return the car to my mother, I did not have my passport with me, and I had to report to school in California by the end of next week.

  I never did go and visit her in Rome or anywhere else.

  As it turns out, Francesca d’Alessi was killed six months later in a head on collision with a drunk driver somewhere near Ostia. It was during a week of finals for me in California. I remember exactly where I was when I heard. I was in my car driving to school. I was so stunned that I had to pull over and try to take in what they were saying on the radio. I could not believe neither my mother nor my father found it necessary to call me and tell me in person. Francesca was their friend, I guess, and not mine. Besides, I don’t think they would have been very supportive. I was just alone, trying to get a handle on an unfathomable grief, full of regret and unanswered questions.

  I had managed to miss her in Cannes after she had invited me and paid for a hotel room which I didn’t even use. Why was I so eager to lose my virginity that night of all nights? Why did I insist on changing at the Martinez, thus reducing to one minute what was to be my very last encounter with her? Why didn’t I move Heaven and Earth to try to get her address or telephone numbers during those four years? Why the hell did she have to go to Ostia that night?

  There was a memorial service. I saw Marco, looking despondent, with some other family members I did not know. I think the woman next to him was Francesca’s mother. I could swear I saw my father in one of the newscasts, walking in the crowd behind her casket. I looked for Tomaso but did not see him. My mother did not attend. I did not attend. I was in the middle of finals.

  I finished school eventually, but instead of getting a good job related to my studies, I found solace in playing music and singing, and ended up in the unlikely situation of pursuing a musical career. I stayed out of any relationship with anyone for quite a while, aside from some depressing one night stands which seemed to be the normal thing to do at the time. I hated taking birth control pills and I could not imagine myself spending my life with any of my partners. Sometimes, on warm summer evenings when the sky was especially purple with the best sunsets brought on by pollution, especially in Los Angeles, a languid feeling would come over me to assuage my loneliness. Francesca would be there with me, perfect, athletic and free as she was when I was fourteen years old, and I would imagine our dialog …

  “Francesca, tell me life is good.”

  “Life is good, amore.”

  “Tell me you love me …”

  “I do … I love you.”

  “No, no, tell me in Italian!”

  “Ti voglio bene … don’t forget!”

  But I must have forgotten, because it took me so long and so many years to finally understand all the things she had said to me, way back then …

  MODERATO

  All Dharma is a dream...

  (Tibetan Proverb)

  Chapter One

  Cafés are genuinely important to the quality of life in Paris. In California where I live, in the chic part of Silicon Valley, there are cafés, but they are self-conscious and snobbish in a cheap sort of way.

  Here in Paris, they are real places where you can go and spend all day with friends, or simply sit there alone. You can order anything from milk to 12 year old Scotch. You can sit on the terrace and people watch, or read a book, or even write one if so inclined. The place is not intended to be special or cool. It is just a home away from a home which might be far away or inhospitable for any reason.

  In my case on that warm day in June, a café was just a nice place to rest between bouts of shopping and an eventual movie. I had come to visit family and old friends in Paris, where I was born, and take a healthy vacation away from my job and my problems in California.

  I sat on the outdoor terrace of 'Le Babylone' with George and his wife Francine whom I had known for many years. An unsung and nondescript establishment, it stands on a sharp corner of the Rue de Babylone, across from Le Bon Marché department store.

  The day had turned sunny and beautiful and, to a semi-Californian, it is amazing to see and feel the animation of the streets of Paris. The passers-by, even though they may sometimes be rude or angry, always seem more alive and more at ease than the crowds in Hollywood, or even San Francisco.

  There were pigeons everywhere, clustered in the trees of the Parc Boucicaut across the street, like grey fruit ready to be picked. Yet the minute you approached this fluttery harvest, it took off with a racket like so many banners flapping under hurricane winds.

  I was having a lively discussion with my friends, whom I always caught up with during each of my yearly visits.

  We would talk mainly about movies and film-making as this is what Francine did for a living. They knew close to nothing about me and my personal life. I don’t believe they were really interested either, not out of indifference but out of a general commitment to safe superficiality.

  If something awful were to have happened to me, I think they would have been deeply concerned and ready to help, but for the time-being they were quite content with keeping their distance, and so was I. Nevertheless, our movie gossiping was far from shallow as we swapped indiscreet revelations amid much laughter.

  George mentioned in passing an old film I had seen with my estranged lover Alison, and the thought of her, insidious, unnerving, started interfering with my concentration. Suddenly I had a flash of how much we had enjoyed the film when we saw it. It was an esoteric South American work but it still put us on the edge of our seats. I remembered the excitement of dissecting a film with her. After she had left me, she had got into the habit of being non-committal and vague, to the point of witlessness.

  “I liked it!”

  “Why? Why did you like it, Alison? “

  “It was good!” or “I hated it!”

  “Why?”

  “It was sick!” or “I hate Cher!”.

  These
pronouncements were definite and unchallengeable, unless she went back to see the movie with Marie, and Marie was of a different opinion.

  Marie … I guess I could see what was attractive about her enough to understand flirting with her. Yet behind her unquestionable appeal, I could perceive an aura of unspeakable darkness. Alison, however, had bought the whole package, leaving me at a loss to understand anything ever again about relationships of any kind.

  I blinked and tried to force myself not to think about her and my life back home in California, which I did with some success.

  The café was fairly empty. We were sitting at the narrow end, facing the department store. Next to us, across from the doorway, a woman was sitting, wearing the same Ray Ban sunglasses that Francine was wearing. She was drinking a café-crème and something about her reminded me of Marie.

  Marie had a straight Greek nose which made her face look unusual, lending it an exotic aspect which, reluctant as I was to think anything positive about Marie, I could not help but like.

  The woman was thin, unlike Marie, and had thick dark hair tied up in an unruly bun. She was reading a book and I was craning my neck trying to see what it was. It was Marguerite Duras’ 'Moderato Cantabile'. I had seen the movie a long time ago, and all I remembered from it was some kid playing a sonata on the piano. He hated playing it, and I remembered hating it too.

  While still managing to talk to George, I started catching quick glimpses of the woman over his shoulder. I made a conscious effort to start looking at him and to be present in the conversation. He was asking me questions about a common friend and how I had met her. I started telling the story, but went out of my way to liven it up, make it wild and funny, as if I was on stage. The anecdotes kept pouring in embellished with cute wisecracks and extravagant descriptions, reducing George and Francine to stitches.