The flower fascinated Ben. His mind focused on the intensity and depth of the colors, focused like he’d been doing all week, yet with no effort on his part. The white seemed to brighten, and the purple pierced his eyes like a glowing sunset. It was so beautiful, intensely beautiful—too beautiful. The colors burned his retinas with impossible brightness never found in nature. The white was so bright, the purple so vivid that it dulled and blurred everything else. The only reality that remained was the flower and him. The colors and clarity pulsated, his eyes seared by the image, his ears seeming to hear inside the skin of the flower, the roots, the water and air …
“We’re all set,” Iain said, sliding several papers into his briefcase. “Ready, Ben?”
“Yeah. What? I’m fine.” He turned away, blinking rapidly. The afterimage of the flower stuck to his vision.
“Are you all right? You look pale.” Dr. Wulfric stared at him as they moved away from the front desk.
“I was just zoning out. That flower is pretty. What’s it called?”
Iain and Dr. Wulfric looked over their shoulders to the desk.
“An orchid,” they said in unison.
The image of the petals was still clouding his eyes, as if he’d been staring into a bright light. A shudder went down his body. He was on the verge of having an aura migraine. He could feel it at the base of his head, in his chest, his nerves sparking and twitching.
Breathe, Ben. Breathe.
Panic was setting in—and he couldn’t let that happen. The only thing he could do was try to calm and focus his mind. He took several deep breaths … .
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
He counted each breath, feeling the air as it entered and exited his nostrils and expanded his lungs, pressing down to his stomach. He imagined the oxygen spreading to every corner of his body as he inhaled and flushing away the toxins as he exhaled. He saw his body as a galaxy of its own—the air, the breath, the wind that flows, making the planets spin, making the blood flow, delivering the nutrients and oxygen to the far reaches of space, his body, his cells.
There was a mantra he had memorized for occasions like this: Breathing in, I know I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know I am breathing out. He repeated this mantra several times, matching his breaths with the words. The panic stayed in his heart, but began to subside.
When he breathed in deeply, he changed the mantra: Breathing in a long breath, I know I am breathing in a long breath. Breathing out a long breath, I know I am breathing out a long breath. When his breath was short, he changed it accordingly. It was an old meditation he’d learned while doing tests with Dr. Wright, to prepare his mind to stay sharp and focused, and his body relaxed.
Ben’s mouth began to open. He was going to tell Dr. Wulfric he was on the verge of having an aura migraine and needed a Sumatripan, but he didn’t speak. He felt the blood in his head drain out like a stopper being pulled from a bathroom tub. The release of pressure felt amazing. The bright images consuming his vision began to subside, instead of growing and crystallizing into zigzag patterns.
It was passing.
The fresh air outside felt good. He could smell everything: the leaves on the ground, perfume from a woman who passed had moments earlier, the grime on the streets rank with that sweet-rotten smell. His senses were sharp. He dodged the bullet, but it wasn’t over. He would have to close his eyes on the ride back to the airport.
***
As the cab pulled up to Charles de Gaulle Airport, Ben felt better—fine even. He was lucky—so lucky—that it had passed.
He stepped out of the cab and said goodbye to Paris. There was so much of the city he wanted to see, still so much he wanted to do. The first few nights he’d walked around a bit, sometimes with Dr. Wulfric. They took in the sights, the fountains and churches, but all the while that guilty feeling was present—he shouldn’t be there—if he couldn’t be in Paris with Emily, then he shouldn’t be in Paris at all.
Dr. Wulfric had led him to Notre Dame, and he stared up at the horned and birdlike gargoyles through binoculars while Dr. Wulfric snapped countless pictures and pointed out the nuances of Gothic architecture. The guilt, along with a dull headache from hours of intense focus at the Louvre, overshadowed the fun he should have been having. A voice inside his head told him he should go back to the hotel and be alone, get a bottle of whiskey, and let the warmth of the liquid hold him tight. The voice told him he should feel guilty, that he should feel inadequate, that he didn’t deserve to see such beautiful things; he wasn’t good enough, smart enough—he didn’t belong there.
Go home and have a drink. Stare at the painting of the cabin in the woods and lose your mind.
The rest of the trip he was just a man doing a job. He conceded to the voice in his head and looked forward to his little apartment, his small couch, and tiny kitchen. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to open a bottle of whiskey, light up a cigarette, and stare at that painting. Ahh, the cabin in the woods … His mouth watered and he licked his lips. A night of anguish and pain was long overdue—a night of drunken torment, recollection and loss, rolling on the floor wet with tears, consumed by emotions, the chemicals in his brain swirling, releasing a constant flow of dopamine and serotonin to mix with the alcohol, creating seesaw-like patterns of pleasure and pain.
These thoughts and feelings swirled in his mind as he sat reading a book in the airport terminal. The flight from Paris to Philadelphia was boarding in less than thirty minutes. He read and reread each line, each page. His mind was elsewhere.
“Is it any good?”
Ben jumped. The voice came from his side. He snapped back to reality, and looked to the voice, not sure who or why anyone was talking to him. He locked eyes with a black-haired girl sitting in the chair beside him. His own voice was momentarily lost in an inward flutter of air.
“I … I’m sorry, what’s that?” How had he not noticed her? She was sitting right beside him. She was beautiful. His heart began racing.
“I’m sorry, did I scare you? The book, is it any good?” Her words came out in a light French accent. Her lips curled at the corner of her pale, flawless skin as she waited for a reply with one of her pencil-thin eyebrows raised. Ben looked at the book; he couldn’t remember the last ten pages.
“Umm,” he cleared his throat, “yeah … yes, it’s good.” God, his face was reddening. His cheeks were so warm—hot even.
Am I sweating?
She smiled, showing him the cover of the book she was reading, holding it awkwardly so her thumb kept the place. They were reading the same book.
“I see you have good taste,” she said, then chuckled.
“I see you do, too.”
“It’s so rare to see people reading books these days—real paper books. Everything is electronic. You know, those e-readers?”
“Sure, I, uh, thought about getting one, but I have so many books at home I still haven't read.” Currently Ben was reading three books: the book he had with him at the airport, Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil at home—for the mornings and late afternoons—and a book by Thich Nhat Hahn about mediating in the moment—also for the mornings and late afternoons.
Books were everywhere in Ben’s apartment: in the boxes in his dining room, hidden in drawers, stacked on his coffee table, and on his dresser and bedside table. He tried to keep his books in neat piles and not scattered about. He did not want to be mistaken as a hoarder. However, the reason he didn’t get an e-reader wasn’t because of all the books he still had at home or because he simply liked paperbound books, it was because he couldn’t get himself to buy something he really didn’t need.
Maybe if Emily had wanted one, he would have bought one for himself as well. Maybe he would have liked it. Maybe not. He would never know. It was hard enough talking himself into buying a new pair of jeans. In Ben’s world, extra things weren’t necessary, not when he spent the majority of his time alone staring at an old painting on the wall.
“I’m Sophia
.” She held out a hand.
He hesitated a moment, then took it. “I’m Ben. Nice to meet you.” He hoped his hand wasn’t clammy.
“You going to Philadelphia?”
“Yes, but I live in Baltimore. I’m going home. You?”
Her eyes widened, “I’m going to Baltimore, too! That’s so strange! My sister moved to the U.S. a few years ago with her husband. They just had a baby. What brought you to Paris, business or pleasure?”
“Congratulations on being an aunt. I, um, guess you could say I was here on business. Only sort of … it’s hard to explain.” She was about to say something, but Ben quickly interjected. “Where in Baltimore does your sister live?”
“Oh, ah,” she put the book down, looking through her bag, “I don’t know the area; it’s my first time going to see her since she moved from Annapolis.”
“Annapolis is a nice town; I know it well. You don’t have to get the address if you can’t find it; it’s all right.”
She looked up at him. Her big soft eyes took Ben’s breath away: her dark pupils floating in large pools of clear white pierced through him. She was stunning, her hair so straight and black, her features so delicate and small, yet perfectly proportionate. Her teeth were even whiter than her skin, if that was possible, and he tried to think of the whitest thing he had ever seen to compare them with, but he couldn’t.
“Why, you don’t want to talk to me anymore?”
“No, I …” Ben felt words disintegrate on his tongue, and the air grew incredibly hot on his skin.
“Oh, I’m making you blush!” She laughed. “I’m only joking with you. It’s no problem. Here, I have it.” She reached out and put a hand on his knee—briefly, a touch. Ben’s blood boiled.
He looked at the piece of paper.
“Oh sure, I work at a bar a few blocks away. That’s close to the harbor.”
Sitting across from Ben, Iain put down his cell phone and nudged Dr. Wulfric awake from a light snooze.
“Why, what—what’s the matter?” He fumbled for his glasses, which were already on his face.
“Take a look.”
Dr. Wulfric rubbed his eyes. A lovely girl was talking to Ben, leaning over the armrest. She was smiling and laughing, touching his arm.
“Well look at that,” Dr. Wulfric said.
The loudspeaker rang out:
“Now seating business class only on Flight 815, Paris to Philadelphia.”
It repeated itself in French, and then English again.
“That’s me,” Ben said, putting his book in his carry-on, and standing.
“Business class, my-my. You must be a very important bartender.”
“Trust me, it’s nothing like that. I assure you.”
Sophia stood as well.
“Good thing I decided to upgrade. Where are you sitting?”
Ben looked at his ticket, and Sophia looked at hers. They were on opposite sides of the plane.
“That’s a pity; I wanted to hear how you liked Paris. Do you have a pen?”
“I think so, in my bag.” Ben fumbled inside his carry-on until he found one.
“Here,” she took the pen from Ben’s hand and scribbled something on the back cover of her book. “Trade you.”
She took the book out of Ben’s hand and gave him hers.
“Hope you remember what page you’re on.”
“I’ll find it.” Ben smiled. He’d stopped using bookmarks years ago. He enjoyed using his memory to remember the page number. It was much easier than people thought when he told them. All he had to do was look at the page number and tell himself: I will remember. That was it. Simple. He wondered why no one else did it, or at least tried. Ben believed the human brain could remember anything, down to the smallest of detail, if focused correctly.
“I’ll be in Baltimore until Wednesday,” Sophia said, putting Ben’s book in her bag. “Give me a call; show me the city. I love my sister, but I’d like to get out of her house for a bit. Maybe see the harbor.”
“I, umm …” Ben couldn’t speak. His heart felt like it was going to explode.
“It’s okay,” Sophia said, putting her hand on his shoulder, smiling. “If you don’t have time, that’s fine. I won’t be upset.”
“No, no, of course not.” Ben looked into her eyes. They reeled him in like a tractor-beam. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to lean forward and kiss her, right then and there. So badly. Her lips were so soft, her skin … God … he hadn’t felt an urge like this in years. He couldn’t control himself. “I’ll call you, definitely. I’ll call.”
She put out a hand to shake, “Well, it was nice meeting you, Ben …”
“Oh, Walker. Ben Walker.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Benjamin Walker. I’m Sophia Lorenz.”
“It’s nice to meet you too, Sophia Lorenz.” He cocked his head, “That sounds so … I don’t know … familiar.”
Sophia rolled her eyes. “Yes, there’s a famous actress named Sophia Loren. And yes, I look kind of like her when she was young. Not really, but that’s what everybody says—been hearing it my whole life. My parents thought it would be cute to name me after her.”
“I don’t even know what she looks like. I’m sorry; I won’t bring it up again.” He remembered Emily liking Sophia Loren movies, but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen one.
“It’s all right.” She smiled, “My name is Lorenz, with a ‘z,’ not Loren.”
Dr. Wulfric and Iain stood behind Ben as they filed up the ramp and into the plane one by one. Ben stepped aside to let Sophia stand in front of him. He could feel Iain’s and the doctor’s eyes on the back of his head and thought he could hear them snickering like schoolboys.
“She’s pretty,” Dr. Wulfric whispered.
Ben half-turned. “Shut up.”
Sophia smiled and stared ahead, giggling to herself.
***
There was a man sitting in the terminal far from Ben and his company, yet within eyesight. He had a Nikon camera with a telescopic lens resting on his thigh, connected to a laptop. He focused the camera using the screen on his computer, not wanting to draw any attention to himself.
Just another tourist, he knew people would think seeing him.
He snapped away until Ben and Sophia stood to get on line. After a moment he closed the monitor, put the lens cap on the camera, and packed his gear. He took out his phone and sent a text: Boarding. See you on ground.
The man adjusted the rim of his hat, grabbed his gear, and stepped up to the back of the line.
Chapter 9
Ben stared at the phone number scrawled on the inside page of the book, her book, remembering the feeling as Sophia spoke to him, touched his arm, and had that look in her eyes. Her smile burned in his mind, and he lost himself in a daydream thinking about her light-fragrant scent. Jasmine and vanilla. He found himself wanting to bury his face in her dark, black hair. He wanted to breathe in her intoxicating aroma. He wanted to squeeze her hair in his palms and feel the softness rebound between his fingers.
The flight from Paris to Philadelphia turned out to be an incredible eight hours. The seat beside Ben on the plane was empty. He waited for his neighbor to appear, stealing glances over his shoulder trying to see Sophia, but the backs of the seats were too high.
Then she appeared and sat beside him.
“I’ll get up if someone comes.”
No one came, and Sophia and Ben talked for the next eight hours. Ben told her about his trip to the Louvre, and the paintings he had seen, and the ones that he liked. They discussed the Raft of the Medusa, and Sophia could not believe how much detail Ben knew about the painting.
“It’s one of my favorites,” She told him. “Théodore Géricault was an amazing artist. His real passion was painting and drawing horses, which is ironic, because he died from injuries after falling off a horse. He was only in his thirties.”
“Wow, that’s young. I didn’t know that.”
Sophia, as it turned out, was
taking night classes majoring in Art History. She taught English during the day to get by, but her real passion was art.
They discussed the life of Théodore Géricault for a while longer, and then began on Leonardo da Vince, when the movie came on. They quieted down to watch it together. Forrest Gump.
“Air France isn’t very up-to-date,” Ben said, and they laughed, and whispered over the movie.
The eight hours breezed by. Ben never thought he would want to spend more time in an airplane, but during the descent, he felt a pang of sadness that they would soon be parting ways. They said goodbye at the airport. Ben promised to call, then they both went their separate ways. Ben watched Sophia run to her waiting sister, and the two girls hugged as if they were still children.
He thought about this back in his apartment, alone.
Pangs of guilt overtook him at times, as if liking these thoughts were in direct violation of his now-nonexistent marriage. It was so long since a woman had paid any attention to him. He never tried to pursue any girls at the bar. He did not rebound the way many people did after losing a boyfriend or girlfriend or a spouse, by sleeping with anybody who could give them some comfort. It was wrong to replace the person he loved, still loved, with a substitute—even for just a night. It was not fair to anyone, especially the other person. The thought of sleeping with anyone other than Emily rarely crossed his mind, and when it did, he immediately suppressed it with intense feelings of guilt, as if he were cheating on her, and disrespecting her memory. All the regulars at the bar heard his story, felt his pain, and left him alone.
He liked it that way.
Now, just a full day after returning from Paris, Ben was staring at his phone. Dialing the numbers scrawled on the back page of his book would be the hardest thing he would ever do. He stared at each number, the numbers she’d written in the book—her book—with her own delicate fingers. The handwriting looked exotic, something mystical. He put the pages up to his nose, breathing them in. He thought he could smell faint wisps of jasmine mixed with the starchiness of the paper. He followed the gentle curves and crests of each number with his eyes, lost in a trance, as if deciphering some ancient and divine secret.
The Experiment of Dreams Page 9