Jasmine

by Winston Aarons

  How ironic, he thought, as he finally pulled out of the parking lot. The woman he loved madly, passionately, probably irrationally, wore a fragrance that bore his wife’s name. “Christ,” he muttered, “I have two Jasmines in my life.”

  As he headed north toward the university, his mind went back to what Marguerite had said at lunch. I’m afraid of your love, Sor. Your intensity frightens me. He knew she was implying that their affair was going too fast, that he was becoming too serious too quickly. He understood that. In time, though, he thought, she would come to realize that that is how he lived his life: intensely, passionately, and fiercely. He was not one of life’s nibblers. He inserted his whole being into whatever he did. He knew also that he liked to focus on one thing at a time. That’s why he could never be with more than one woman at a time. He’d hate the lies, the deceptions, and the different selves he would have to invent. He knew his limitations. If there was anything Sor Avraham knew, it was his limitations. He was an introspective man. He had spent years analyzing, studying his every move, every thought, gesture. He knew his shortcomings and accepted them.

  Still, the word “frightens” was disturbing. Why should she be fearful? She said she knew him. She said she knew he was the kind of man she could trust. She did say that. If he was moving too fast, he couldn’t help it. He was deliriously in love with her. He considered himself a moral man, with scruples, he would never willfully cause pain to another human being, but with her, he could not explain it, he just wanted her in his life, and he didn’t care whether she had a husband or children, he just wanted her. He didn’t care that he had just met Marguerite, that they barely knew each other. He didn’t care that he could end up hurting Jasmine.

  He knew he was being irrational. What was he thinking? What did he expect from Marguerite? He couldn’t expect her to leap out of a fifteen-year marriage, leave everything, and jump into his arms, bed, life. Even without children, as in his case, even if one had fallen out of love, one doesn’t just pack up and leave one’s partner. Subtle glues and bolts hold couples together. His outpouring in the motel room was irrational, he decided.

  Sor was late for his class. He had never been late for any of his classes in the three years that he had been teaching at the university. It irked him. “Marguerite Spares,” he said to himself, as he put his briefcase on the desk, “you have derailed my life.”

  While he erased the notes left on the whiteboard by the previous instructor, the Romanian student, whose name Sor couldn’t pronounce, pointed out that Professor Avraham looked as if he had got some sun. Fondling her Gucci scarf, she asked Sor if he had gone to the beach that morning.

  Sor pretended he didn’t hear her.

  The young man with the perpetual cold, who wore a large corroded Coptic cross around his neck and sat in the back of the classroom, slyly and loudly remarked to the class: “Professor Avraham is mortal after all. He can be late.” Sor, busy removing his notes from his briefcase and laying them out on the desk, ignored him too.

  Pen in hand, he turned and faced the whiteboard. It was spotless. Clean. He stood before it, deep in thought, then suddenly turned and faced the class. “We’re not going to discuss the short story I had you read for today’s class,” he announced abruptly. “Today we are going to talk about this desk,” hitting it loudly and violently with his fist, “this desk on which I have placed my briefcase and notes, this rectangular desk with its not very secure four legs, this desk that appears to be made of wood. But is it wood? How will we know that?”

  Startled, the students followed him with their eyes as he walked back and forth in front of the board. The Romanian stopped playing with her scarf. The student with the perpetual cold and the Coptic cross stared at Sor intently, one hand fondling the huge cross.

  “Can we, should we, determine what it is by its appearance?” Sor continued. “Is it wood because it looks like wood? I could ask you the same question about my self. The Sor Avraham who stands before you in his blue trousers and yellow shirt, who seems passionate about teaching, do you know him? I think not. You’d have to climb under his skin, hang around his thoughts, follow him everywhere he goes, see how he functions with different people and under different circumstances. After all, he might very well be quite different from what you think he is. There might be little patches in his life that even he might be hesitant to reveal to you, and downright scared to reveal even to himself, which he prefers to keep locked up in himself. There might be segments of his life, should you become aware of them, that would make you think differently of him. You have to dig up his history, his parents, you have to inspect his childhood, you have to go everywhere he has been, speak to every single person he has had contact with, follow him everywhere, wear his skin, dream his dreams, to know him. You have to go beyond his yellow shirt and blue trousers, to know him.”

  “If that’s the case, Professor Avraham, we can’t truly know another human being,” the student with the Coptic cross nervously blurted out. Sor didn’t answer. He didn’t want to interrupt the flow of his talk. He figured the student would get the gist of what he was saying by the end of his lecture.

  “This desk, then, yes, this desk,” Sor continued, tapping hard on the desk with his fingers, “how do we determine its authenticity, what it truly is? How can we determine whether it has its origins in a tree, or whether it’s the product of twenty-first-century ingenuity? Is it wood? Was it once a part of a tree that grew tall and beautiful in a forest? Did its branches hang over a stream with fish, its roots exposed where the stream ate away at its embankment? Did deer or caribou rub its trunk and bark raw with their antlers? Did a wolf urinate on its roots, use it to mark his territory, attract a mate?”

  The desk in question was an old desk, battered and scuffed. The Formica strip that was glued to the side of the desktop was lifting at one end. Sor held it between his fingers. “This is a part of the table’s skin,” he told the class. “I’m going to peel it off,” he said, and slowly, methodically—he wanted to impress the students—he walked around the desk, stripping away the Formica, until the whole strip was completely removed. “Now let’s see what we have here.” He kneeled down beside the desk, looked closely at its exposed surface, and pressed his nose against it, making a loud sniffing sound for the class to hear. “Well,” he said, “it doesn’t look like wood. It doesn’t smell like wood. I don’t think it is wood. This desk has had no relationship with a tree, or forest, or stream, never experienced rain, or an animal using it to mark its territory with its urine. No wolves, guys, no wolves urinated on its roots, no deer rubbed itself against its trunk.”

  The students were silent.

  “Come, look at it, Rita,” he said to the Lebanese student who sat closest to the desk. “What do you think? Is it wood?” Rita slowly got up from her seat and reluctantly examined the desk. “It’s manmade,” she said. “It only looks like wood.”

  “Please,” he pleaded with the students, “never, never evaluate a thing merely on the basis of its external appearance. You cannot know a thing by looking at its surface. Go beyond surface impressions. Climb, climb under its skin.” He pulled at the flesh on his arm. “Look at this skin. It’s nothing more than a fragile integument covering my flesh, bones, the heart pumping my life. It says nothing about me. It gives no intrinsic information, no basis for judging me, knowing me. You can’t know Sor Avraham by looking at his skin. It’s nothing more than a flaccid, easily penetrable protection tossed over my being. To know a thing, you must remove it from its skin, skin it like an animal, strip it naked, climb into its thoughts, gut, smell its entrails, experience all its experiences, live its life.”

  The class session was over. Sor packed up his notes and walked out of the classroom. He left the Formica strip on the desk. Some of the students were still in their seats, talking quietly. A group of them were standing and talking excitedly in front of the door. They stopped talking and smiled at Sor
when he passed them. He hoped he had gotten though to them and that his demonstration was not too radical. They were freshmen. He hoped he had not frightened them.

  Sor was exhausted. The sea and sun and Marguerite had drained him. But when he got to his office, he had a strong urge to e-mail Marguerite. He didn’t feel like waiting until he got home. He wanted to surprise her. She would not expect to hear from him so early in the day. He accessed his personal e-mail from the university’s computer and wrote to her.

  Dear M,

  I couldn’t wait until I got home to write to you. There’s a new impulsiveness in me, and today, in particular, I find myself ready to ignore all conventions, rules, etc. I just destroyed the desk in the classroom where I taught my 2:30 class. I did it to show the students how inappropriate it is to evaluate a thing by its mere surface appearance. Maybe since I did it for the students’ intellectual growth I’ll not be guillotined when the administration finds out about it, even though I don’t think the students will say anything. If anything, I believe they were impressed by my demonstration. It’s something they’ll be able to speak about later, carry with them—the manic behavior of the English professor they once had.

  At the moment, I’m so filled with you, so overwhelmed by the day, the beach, you, your love, our love, our bodies, free, together—nothing else matters. The afterthought of the two of us in the motel clings to me like a delicious taste that won’t go away, that I don’t wish to go away. Why is it I cannot get enough of you? I just left you but I want to be with you again, now. Is it because of our predicament, because we’re married, because we’re forced to meet on the sly, because we have to pretend to the world that we’re not lovers, because it’s risky, because stolen fruits are sweet?

  We must have another day like today. Be free to love, abandon our bodies to sun and sea and brine, to turn away briefly from the day’s pressing duties. Let’s be like the two pelicans we saw, their wings almost touching, flying in unison, bound together for life.

  Where did this happiness come from, this joy I’m feeling, that has captured my life? The comfort and familiarity I feel when I’m with you—it’s as if I have known you for several lifetimes, and in that time, lived well and happy, as friends and lovers, neither becoming stale nor bored with each other. Maybe we’ve been searching for each other all our lives. I’ve never been this happy, Marguerite. And looking at you today on the beach, playful, ecstatically happy, and then naked on the bed in the motel room, your hair loosened, talking calmly to me about your life and your dreams, you seemed younger and happier than I’ve seen you since we met. I didn’t expect that I’d meet someone in this life that would make me feel so complete, so myself, who could flush me out of my stupor, my moribund state, wake the sleeping strings in me, make my body sing.

  I think I’ve awakened something in you, too, though one can never be sure of the other person’s feelings. But when you place your hands in mine, when I take them, when I take your body, when I take your breasts and flesh in my mouth and climb onto you, pour myself into your body, I feel your happiness. It’s good, it’s good, my Kantian voice tells me, my Platonic muse tells me, my most ungodly irrational benefactor tells me, my skin, my bones, my blood tell me, it’s good, it’s good.

  Before I close, which I must do now, I’m so tired from the day’s activities—beach, sun, you—I’d like you to know that what I feel is not fleeting. If the intensity of my love frightens you, forgive me. I know what I want in my life. I want you. You are not a plaything, something I’ll use and toss away, dispose of when it pleases me. I, too, am frightened. The future is not demonstrably clear. We can’t see the road ahead, what’s around the bend, the shaded curve in the road. The whole prospect of starting over again intimidates me. So I understand your fear. You’re more cautious. You have children. What you feel is quite natural. However, your coming into my life, shaking me from sleep with your volcanic love, your pure heart, has made me less intimidated. That’s why I’m not afraid to speak what I feel now. I know I want you in my life.

  I don’t know what is happening to me. I can’t even control myself as I write this letter. Look at the dribble. Look at the nonsense I’ve written to you. This is the rambling of a madman.

  Sor

  SIXTEEN

  When Sor finished his letter to Marguerite, though he had several departmental e-mails that needed his immediate response—two of them were sent to him the day before and were marked urgent—he was so exhausted that he went directly home, promising himself he would respond to them the following morning. When he got to his apartment, he did not, as was his custom, change out of his work clothes. Instead he went into the bedroom, lay face down on the bed, and fell asleep. He intended only to take a short nap of twenty to thirty minutes, but he fell into a deep sleep, and slept for almost two hours.

  He had a long dream. Its content was so powerful that he was able to recall the dream in its entirety afterwards. He is back in New York, in the apartment building where he and Jasmine lived before moving to Florida. It’s an old four-story building. It doesn’t have an elevator. They live on the fourth floor. As he climbs the stairs to his apartment he hears a noise coming from inside one of the apartments on the second floor. It sounds as if someone is vigorously buffing the floor. The sound is coming from the apartment of the couple whose garage is next to his. The wife had suffered a miscarriage and had been distraught for several months. She eventually had a nervous breakdown and was treated for depression. He can hear her talking in the apartment. There is another voice. It’s not her husband’s. It sounds like the voice of the superintendent. Maybe there was something in need of repair and he’s come to fix it.

  Just before he reaches the third floor, he meets Mrs. Cassal. She’s carrying a small plastic pail with dirty clothes and detergent. She’s eighty years old. She’s walking slowly, mindful of every step she takes as she makes her way to the laundry room in the basement. As they pass each other she says something to him but he cannot make out what she is saying. He hears only the words “hide your nose.”

  He continues to climb the stairs. When he reaches the final set that will take him to his own landing and apartment, he finds he cannot go any farther. The floor is sealed off with bright yellow and black tape. The same tape is taped across his apartment’s door in the shape of a large X. Unable to go into his apartment, Sor proceeds to walk back down the stairs. He again passes Mrs. Cassal. She again says something to him, and again all he picks up is “hide your nose.”

  When he reaches the lobby of the main floor, the front door is not the door he is familiar with. It’s a different door. He opens it. It doesn’t lead outside as it should. Instead, it leads into a large storeroom. It’s his Uncle Dudley’s old storeroom in Jamaica—they stayed with him once when they went to Jamaica. It was a large room in the back of his uncle’s haberdashery store, where he used to keep the spices and other Jamaican produce he bought from the people in the surrounding areas and later exported to England.

  Sor is overcome by the different scents emanating from the sacks and barrels: allspice, annatto, cocoa, ginger, coffee, and demijohns of orange oil extract used in aftershave lotions. He walks around the room. He puts his hand in each open sack. He lifts handfuls of each item and brings them to his nostrils. He sniffs and savors their odors. He uncorks one of the huge green bottles holding the orange rind extract, and kneeling down beside the bottle, his nose pressed against the opening, inhales the scent of the pungent oil. A sack in one corner of the room draws his attention. It has three small x’s stenciled on it and the word forbidden written in small bold letters underneath. He is drawn to it. He wants to smell its contents. As he walks toward it, his father suddenly appears in the dream. He is seated on a small stool in front of the bag, blocking Sor’s way. His father does not speak in the dream. He simply sits in front of the bag with a frown on his face. Sor strains to look over his father’s shoulder to catch a gli
mpse of what is in the bag, but his father’s huge frame completely blocks his view. He feels frustrated, filled with anxiety, like a child prevented from playing with his favorite toy.

  It was then he woke up. Jasmine was standing by the bed looking down at him. She must have just come into the apartment; she was still wearing the clothes she wore to the office and had her handbag slung over her shoulder.

  “You must have had an exceptionally hard day,” she said, bending down and kissing him on the forehead.

  Suspecting that Jasmine might have already noticed his sunburnt skin, as the students had earlier, he said, “I went to the beach for a couple hours this morning. I had to unwind.”

  “I’m glad you did. I notice you have not been yourself lately,” she said. “You seem to be somewhere else, but I didn’t want to bring it up.”

  “I’m sorry if I seem distant,” Sor responded, rubbing his eyes. “It’s just university stuff, nothing more.”

  “What beach did you go to?” she asked, removing her pantyhose on the other side of the bed.

  “In Delray, where I usually go,” Sor lied, “by the old washed-up log, where we stop when we take our beach walk together.”

  Sor watched Jasmine as she undressed and slipped into the loose, almost floor-length dress he had bought her at one of the tourist shops in St. Maarten the year before while they were on a Caribbean cruise. He felt guilty. He had never lied to Jasmine before. They had always been honest with each other. Sor loved honesty in others, particularly in a mate. He knew he would not be comfortable living with someone who lied. But here he was, doing it.