What I’m about to ask of you, and it’s the only way I can sort things out in my head, is that we not see each other, or write, or speak on the phone for a while. I know I’m asking you a lot, but please understand. It will be as hard for me as it will be for you. You must give me this space, Sor. I know, being the type of person I think you are, that you’ll follow my wish. I’m sorry for everything, and I’m sorry to be asking you to do this. It’s not something that just came up today. I’ve wanted to tell you for the past week but couldn’t. I recognize how serious you are about us, and I don’t want to hurt you. I have a family to think about. Maybe if I weren’t married it would be different, but like I said before, I don’t know. Please allow me this time to think, and sort things out.
Love,
Marguerite
The pendulum that had been swinging close to his being all day, whooshing over him like the fan in the Banyan Tree Hotel, threatening his stability, had now struck flesh and bone, drawing blood.
TWENTY-TWO
Sor was relieved that Marguerite said there was nothing between her and Plum. But he wasn’t totally convinced. He still harbored doubts. Maybe they did sleep together. He had no proof they didn’t, except her word.
After reading her letter, he went to bed feeling exhausted and beaten. He was losing her. He kept thinking of her request: You must give me this space, Sor. He did not want to lose her, not ever. Let her have her space, he thought, she might come to recognize how special and monumental our love is.
He did not sleep well. He remembered waking up after a frightful dream—he could not remember its contents—his heart pounding hard in his chest. He woke up in the morning more drained than when he went to bed. He felt as if something had methodically broken all his bones and sucked the life force out of him. I’m suffering the condition of unrequited love that the poets talk about, he thought, the great strain it puts upon the individual, the horrors of loving a woman you can’t have.
He managed to get through his ten o’clock class but canceled the conference he was to have with one of his students. Back in his office, he was alarmed at the number of e-mails he had not responded to. He was getting reminders for some of them. Some important ones were past due. He saw the one from Dean Solomon that Carmen had warned him about. He was to meet with him in Solomon’s office at eleven the next day. Solomon’s e-mail merely said there were some things he wanted to discuss with Sor.
Sor was about to walk out of his office to get an espresso in the hopes the caffeine would help clear his mind, when Julian Plum appeared in the doorway.
“How is my favorite English professor doing?” Plum said, smiling, but Sor sensed some discomfort in his voice that his friendly grin could not completely conceal.
“I’m painfully alive, Julian,” Sor answered, a bit of hostility in his voice. “This is a surprise. What brings you here? We haven’t spoken in weeks.”
The image of Plum and Marguerite on the daybed had not been completely erased by what Marguerite had said about Plum’s sex life, or lack of one, and her suspicions that he might be gay. She had known him for years. He was her best friend. She would know his sexual preferences. She might just be saying that to calm him, Sor thought. True, he had known Julian for a long time and he never once mentioned having had a relationship with a woman—or a man, for that matter. Plum dedicated his life to academia, his writing, and critiquing literary works. That’s his love, Sor thought, his passion, his sex, his life. Sor looked at Julian. He was wearing another one of his floral ties with a pink shirt.
“Don’t blame me,” Julian replied. “I’ve stopped by on several occasions, especially on Tuesdays, when I know you’re usually here in the mornings, but I can never find you. You’ve become a kind of phantom. No one sees you anymore. What’s going on, Sor?”
Sor knew that Julian’s visit was related to what was happening between Marguerite and himself. Maybe Marguerite had told Julian that Sor had seen him leave her house and Julian was upset by it. They were both playing cat and mouse.
“Come, Julian,” Sor said, “tell me why you’re here. I know you were at Marguerite’s yesterday. I know she spoke to you about us. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? But what I’d like to know is, are you fucking Marguerite?” It came out of Sor in a rush, impulsively, like an avalanche. It was as if it came from the lips of another human being, not Sor Avraham.
“Christ no, Sor. Is that what you believe?” Julian answered, playing with the end of his tie and gently kicking Sor’s desk with one of his rubber-soled shoes. “How could you even think of it? You know we’re just friends. We were at the university together. I can’t believe you’d entertain such thoughts about us.”
Sor studied Julian’s face as he spoke. “Sorry, Julian, I had to get it out. I had to know. For Christ’s sake, sit down,” Sor said, still a hint of anger and suspicion in his voice.
Julian sat down. “Marguerite is suffering, Sor,” he finally said, after looking around the room, as if he would find what he wanted to say in some crevice. “She loves you, but she loves her boys, maybe even her husband, regardless of what’s happening between them. Marriages are complex things.”
“What about me, Julian? Am I not suffering?” Sor answered heatedly. “Is my suffering not important?”
“Of course it is, Sor,” Julian said, playing with a paper clip he picked up from Sor’s desk. “You are the last person I would suspect of going into anything half-cocked, not knowing what you want. I’m sure you love her deeply, and must be suffering with the roller coaster ride you are currently experiencing with her. But maybe you’re going through a midlife crisis. You’re both married to wonderful people. You only think you need a change.”
Sor exploded.
“Midlife crisis,” he shouted across the desk at Julian. “That’s a lot of crap, Julian. Everything a man does after he’s forty we blame on midlife crisis. A man or woman falls in love—it can happen at any age. It’s not dependent on some life-cycle drivel. You get bored with your wife or your husband, you outgrow them, you grow in another direction, and sometimes, you meet somebody who lights your fire, and you fall in love. Midlife crisis is what psychologists use to put our behavior in boxes. The real midlife crisis, Julian, occurs when you’re past forty and become fixed in your ways. Afraid of change, afraid to be adventurous, and you tell yourself there is nothing left to do in the world, no hope of joy, no hope of experiencing new things. That, Julian, that’s midlife crisis.”
“I take back that statement, Sor,” Julian said, nervously adjusting his tie. “You’re right. But try to understand, I’m just trying to be some kind of mediator for two people I care for and who are suffering. I probably should stay out of it. Marguerite doesn’t know I’m here. She asked me to keep the whole thing to myself. But when I left her yesterday, I thought I should discuss the matter with you.”
“I’m sorry, Julian. My world is breaking up, falling apart,” Sor said. “I love Marguerite. I’ll leave my marriage tomorrow—today—for her. What we have is good. It’s healthy. We should be together.”
“But you must consider her position, Sor,” Julian said. “You have no children, she has. She loves her boys. It’s not easy to ask her to take them from their father. However bohemian she might appear, she believes in the family. If she did not have those boys, maybe it would be a different matter. But then, there’s her art. I’ve known her for years, Sor, and I think what she wants most is to be free of the responsibilities that come with having a husband and children, and give herself to her art. But having them, she feels she must do her duty by them. She feels obligated.”
“Have you ever been in love, Julian?’ Sor asked. “Have you ever been in love so much you want to be a part of that person, you want to hang out in their being? Have you ever been in love, Julian, until it hurts, until you forget who you are and where you are going?”
“No
t that intensely, Sor,” Julian replied quietly, “but I have felt love and its pain.”
“Well, I have felt that with Marguerite, Julian,” Sor said. “Now consider the pain when the woman you love in that way writes to you requesting that you do not see her or write to her because she wants some space, she wants time to herself to sort things out. That’s what she requested of me in a letter last night.”
“If she asks it, there’s nothing you can do but grant her wish.”
Sor sighed. “I know that, but it’s so hard. I don’t know what I’m going to do. On top of that, Solomon wants to see me. Some students complained, I think. And I missed a faculty meeting. What did Shakespeare say about troubling situations? When they come, they come all at the same time, or something like that.”
“Maybe things will work out somehow, between you and Marguerite,” Julian said. “You are both fantastic people. I see how you have influenced her work. She showed me some of the paintings she has done since she met you. They are wonderful. I had no idea she had switched from watercolor to oils. You have certainly inspired her. I think you have become her muse. She might realize she needs you, Sor.”
“Being her muse is fine, Julian,” Sor said, “but I want to be more than that to her. I want her to love me for other reasons, too. Look at me. I’ve never been so emotionally distraught, and confused, and so utterly torn down. I have never experienced anything like this in my life. I didn’t know love could bring so much pain and suffering.”
“You’ll get over it,” Julian said, looking at his watch and extricating his slender body from the chair. “Remember the old maxim: Time heals everything. And on that note I must leave you. I wish I could talk some more but I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. And don’t worry about your meeting with Dean Solomon,” he said, as he walked to the door. “You’re a good teacher. The students love you. He wouldn’t want to lose you.”
“That’s good to hear, Julian. Everyone’s expendable,” Sor replied.
“Oh, by the way,” Julian said before leaving, “try to see Dick Olephant. He’s been asking about you. He’s concerned. Seems you haven’t dropped by for a cup of his famous brew in weeks. He is upset by it. You should try to see him.”
“Good old Olephant. It’s funny that you should mention him. On several occasions I have thought of paying him a visit. Maybe I will today. He has his office hours now. Maybe I will see him a little later.”
“Good,” Julian said, as he walked through the door. “Get back into your old routine. Re-embrace your old life.”
It was the first time Sor had talked about what was happening between him and Marguerite with anyone. He felt relieved. He temporarily put out of his mind his suspicion that Julian might have slept with Marguerite.
TWENY-THREE
“Sor Avraham,” Dick Olephant joyfully greeted Sor when he walked into his office later that day. “What brings you here? I’ve not seen you since we met in Zanzibar. When I didn’t see you after that, I began to wonder if I had offended you. I thought maybe I shouldn’t have burdened you with my personal problems. I know you don’t easily share your personal life. I thought maybe you take it as an affront when others divulge theirs to you.”
“You have misread me this time, Dick. I’m not like that,” Sor replied. “I’ve been having some interruptions in my life. Nothing serious.”
“Interruptions… hmm…” Olephant said, patting and stroking the hair at the back of his neck with his huge hairy fingers, as if in anticipation of some juicy piece of news. “Anything you wish to share, Sor?”
Sor was tempted to tell him about Marguerite but decided against it.
“Dean Solomon wants to see me in his office. Some students complained to him about me. He’s upset, too, because I didn’t attend one of his meetings.”
“You didn’t grab some student’s breast, I hope,” Olephant said, laughing, “or ass?”
“Christ, no,” Sor said. “I can’t think of anything I might have done that was inappropriate.”
“I don’t think it’s anything serious. Sometimes he just wants to see how the faculty in his department are doing. He’s a decent man, Solomon.”
Sor sat in one of the chairs facing Olephant’s desk. He looked past Olephant at the framed print of Henri Rousseau’s painting The Dream on the wall behind his desk. Olephant had purchased it at the Museum of Modern Art while in New York the year before. In the painting a naked woman reclines comfortably on a sofa in a dense tropical jungle. Looking out from the dense foliage are a snake, a lion, a monkey, an elephant with upraised trunk, and birds—but no toucans—and a flute player in a bright-colored loincloth, playing his instrument. The odd thing is that the woman does not appear to be frightened. She is very relaxed, as if she were in the privacy of her bedroom. She’s pointing at something, maybe the flute player, a relaxed, inviting gesture.
Sor often wondered what Olephant saw in the work. Why did he choose this specific painting for his wall? What did it say about him?
Sor had not been in Olephant’s office since he started seeing Marguerite. Looking at the painting now, he had a different perception of it. The woman in the painting had become Marguerite. Maybe for Olephant it represented a woman he once loved, but for Sor she was Marguerite. The woman had long, almost black hair. Marguerite’s hair was copper-colored, like the seaweed he saw on the beach in Delray Beach. But it didn’t matter. It was still Marguerite. It was Marguerite staring at him from the flimsy poster paper. It was Marguerite, naked, reclining on her daybed. But who is the flute player? Is it Sor? Julian Plum? Another man? Sor began to feel uneasy. Maybe it was a mistake to visit Olephant. He wasn’t yet in the mood to see friends. He was too wound up, too jerked up by what was going on in his life. For Christ’s sake, the woman he loved was drifting away from him, and he couldn’t stop her from going.
“Your visit calls for a special brew, Sor,” Olephant said. He got up and walked toward the bookcase where he kept his coffee-making paraphernalia, not noticing, or pretending not to notice, the emotional turmoil taking place in Sor, which vividly broadcast itself on his face.
“Thank you, Dick, I appreciate that,” Sor said, almost absent-mindedly. He turned in his chair to watch Olephant make the coffee.
Olephant had an ornate stainless-steel device for making French-pressed coffee. He kept it on top of a squat bookcase that stood against the wall near the door. There were four cups resting in their matching saucers, a plain white porcelain canister filled to the brim with cubed sugar, and four silverplated spoons on a white cloth napkin. The napkin had an elephant’s head with trunk and tusks embroidered at one end, the long curved brown trunk, like an extended phallus, cradled Olephant’s initials: R—O. Sor had asked him once who had done the embroidery work, but Olephant was not forthcoming with an answer. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Sor never asked afterwards. He figured it was done by one of his old girlfriends. Maybe the woman he abandoned his wife to be with.
To Olephant, the drinking of coffee was a spiritual act. He did not believe that good coffee should be served in mugs. “Diners and truck stops serve their coffee in mugs,” he once told Sor. “Fast-food joints serve it in plastic cups. Any eatery of consequence, Sor, serves its coffee in a cup with a saucer, and stainless steel spoons, along with cubed sugar, made from natural cane.”
“I couldn’t get my hands on some good Jamaican Blue Mountain beans, but today, just for you, my friend, I am making Hawaiian Kona, a brew fit for the gods. The best that Hawaii has to offer. The volcanic ash in the soil must contribute to its unique taste.”
“Never had it,” Sor said. “I’m sure it’s going to be good.”
“Here, my friend, enjoy,” he said, pouring a cup for Sor and setting it down before him with a spoon and the canister filled with Demerara sugar cubes.
Sor felt himself relaxing. The coffee, Olephant’s company�
�he almost forgot about Marguerite. But he knew it was temporary. He knew she’d be back in his thoughts. “How do you do it, Dick?” Sor suddenly asked. “How do you chase all these women and still maintain your balance and focus, and do your job?”
“Like a tightrope dancer, Sor, like a nimble tightrope dancer,” answered Olephant taking a delicate sip of the coffee. “I fuck and pray. I kneel down before the God of sex and pray for luck, pray that I do not fall. But that’s not what you want to hear. You want to know how I maintain my equanimity. Why I do not implode like the cultures and civilizations that bit the dust that I teach my students about.”
“Nothing so drastic, Dick. It’s just that I have never seen you in a bad mood. I never find you depressed. Except that one time in Zanzibar.”
“That’s because you have never seen me at night, Sor,” Olephant said, “when I’m alone, on a Friday or Saturday night without a date, without a woman’s body in my bed to hold and hug and fuck. I cry, Sor, my pillow soggy with my tears. These are the most profound moments of the sensualist. I’m weak when it comes to women. I love their flesh, their smell.”
Sor left his chair and walked toward the door of Olephant’s office. A student going by was text-messaging someone on her phone. There goes the language, Sor thought, and a new hieroglyphic in the making.
After a second cup of coffee, Sor decided to leave. “Thanks for the coffee, Dick,” Sor said, gathering his papers and briefcase. “I apologize for being such poor company. I must go. I have a class in a few minutes.”
“I’ll walk with you as far as the library,” Olephant said. “I had asked them to reserve a book for me. They called today to say it’s in.”
“Don’t remain a stranger, Sor,” Olephant continued, as he closed his office door. And then, almost offhandedly, looking around to make sure they were alone, “By the way, I know about you and Marguerite Spares. Julian told me. I think you saw him today. I told him he should speak to you. He isn’t sleeping with Marguerite, Sor. That’s what he told me and I believe him. They’re just good friends. She wanted to speak to someone and he is the only one she felt she could confide in.”
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