Roses in December
Roses in December
Roses in December
Bashfulness never left her aura. At sixty-seven, the retired language teacher now lives in Seattle. Her father was the minister of a small rural parish near the Boden Zee, in Switzerland. Older sister, Vreneli, is married to a cheese-maker; younger brother, Hans-Rudi, is about to retire from the national railroad. They have their own families. Bloods double helix is like steel, of course, but it still cannot avoid corrosion if it is exposed to the acid rain of time and disengaging distance. Memories grow frail and then decompose; only sharp jabs delivered with frank spontaneity linger. "She is capable of anything," thats what everyone around her used to say, true, not always derisively. She remembered hearing it for the first time at the age of ten, after climbing into a second-story window on a ladder. If there is an inner circle even in a close-knit family, she certainly did not belong there. Gerda is a naturally born foreigner, a child of the lake. After high school she moved to Zurich where a large export-import firm hired her as an office gofer. Being at the bottom of the corporate pyramid did not bother this graceful, blue-eyed blond with high cheekbones. Cute as she was, no one pursued her. She did not emit subtle vibrations of oppressed exuberance; she lacked intensity; her modesty was real. At a crowded office reception, she caught the eye of a well-to-do American who had business with her employer. Ralph was a nice man; soft-spoken, unfailingly polite; in his early thirties. He kept returning to see Gerda who agreed to dates with the firm understanding that she was raised to be a virgin bride. After a few months, Ralph visited the family and, in a fairly good German, formally asked for her hand. They settled in an expensive Tudor house on Walnut Grove in Memphis, Tennessee, in the late 60s. Only then did Gerda realize how well she had married. Ralph's family was considered one of the founders of the city. And soon, the young girl who grew up in a proudly unpretentious Central European farming community became a country-club wife. Because she spoke German, French, and Italian, in addition to holding her ground in English, she was an attractive curiosity from the start. At Ralph's behest, she enrolled in college and earned a bachelor's degree in education, then an M.A. in German literature. It was not as if she had scholarly ambitions. There was simply nothing better to do. After graduation, she became a German language instructor at the citys prestigious Christian Brothers University. Did she love her husband? She was certainly grateful to him and grew accustomed to his elongated face, small piercing dark eyes that grew sad with time. She silently tolerated his tyrannical and fussy nature and never voiced the hurt his obsession with pornography caused her. Their son, Kent, was born in 1974. Gerda has proved that even former tomboys may become anxious mothers. (Did she read too much Goethe and Gottfried Keller?) She woke up in sheer panic night after night fearing that she would lose her child to crib death. But her angst was unfounded. Kent was a healthy infant
1
and good times followed; those seemingly never-ending years when the merry-go-round of daycare, work, social obligations; the eternal bubble of ad hoc developments make dirty dishes accumulate and prevent clothes from being hung up properly even under the watch of a piously dutiful Hausefrau. Then unexpectedly, at the age of 53, Ralph died of complications that arose from his inherited chronic liver ailment. Kent was in eighth grade. The trauma never left him. It kept coming back in different forms, sometimes as intense pain, sometimes as plain sorrow, badly hidden by faint smiles. He suspected from very early on that life is cruel and absurd. Gerda felt devastating emptiness. With moist eyes she caressed the places where her husband used to sit; his chair at the dining table, his favorite divan. She did not lack support. Her mother-in-law, who had been slow to warm up to her, and sister-inlaw Rhonda, a no-nonsense real estate agent and a good friend from Day One, were always there for her. She continued to pursue a successful teaching career and even took up private tutoring. One of her students was a divorced architect by the name of Wesley Corven. His firm won a 3year contract in Leipzig shortly after German reunification. Student and instructor (she was in her early 40s at the time) struck up a relationship. They maintained regular correspondence after Wesley's departure; he came back to Memphis for his summer vacations and the holidays. Gerda even visited him once. Her second marriage seemed to be in the offing when one day Wesley candidly informed her that he was marrying a local woman in Leipzig. She took the snub in stride and soon had other suitors, including an Egyptian man, a dentist and devout Coptic, the older brother of one of her many women friends in town. Things did not pan out and her life became a dizzying spiral, turning fast, going nowhere. Belief in stability played its old trick on her. Amidst the shifting, twisting, deleting and replacing, the circular motion of alternating seasons kept crowding more of the same days upon featureless tomorrows, giving the appearance that nothing ever changed, when in reality everything did. Square-jawed Kent turned into a spoiled youngster, expecting too much for too little, rewards and praises for what he believed were heroic efforts. He majored in history at the state university but his heart drew him toward rock and roll. He sang with a band during his college years; had an undeniable stage presence his dance even drew screams from the girls in the audience. Although a professional singing career was not in the cards, the understanding of the music business he acquired, coupled with the experience of an aborted attempt to launch a recording studio, landed him in a music marketing agency in Seattle. Teaching, some administrative duties, which came with seniority at the college, and her extensive circle of friends, kept Gerda busy, numbing the pain of her empty nest. Kent married a Yoga teacher, named Debby, a fanatic vegan with straight black hair. Five years into the marriage she declared that she did not want to have children because there were some mental health issues in her family. Kent was confounded; and when he politely asked why he
2
was not informed about this before they tied the knot, Debby calmly offered him divorce. He did not take her up on it. "I would be heartbroken if I lost her," he told his mother, whom he called at least three times a week. "Kent is a wimp," Rhonda assured Gerda. She had allegedly observed certain things already at the wedding that convinced her that this union wouldnt last. With three divorces under her belt, her expertise could hardly be ignored. The marriage headed south, indeed. Kent voiced his suspicion that his wife used her familys alleged mental health problems to avoid wet diapers and nights chopped to pieces by baby hysterics. In return, Debby criticized Kent for not making enough money, bringing up her father over and over again as a shining example of what a strong man with determination can accomplish. According to Rhonda, Debby's stepped-up predilection for expensive clothes was a clear indication that she had someone and was plotting her way out. Then the skies became even darker. The music marketing agency struggled to survive and was moving toward social media-related activities for which Kents skills and experience were not suited. "I'll be frank with you," the principal owner told him, "we can keep you on the payroll only if you bring in more. You can do it. I have confidence in you." Kent worked long hours, suffered from insomnia and developed some painful back problems. To complicate things, his health insurance came through Debby's employment. Gerda reached the decision to be with her son after his dog died and he cried heart wrenchingly on Skype. She retired, sold the inherited mansion with Rhonda's help, and bought a condo in Seattle with Kent's help. She kept only the furniture and household items she needed for her new, two-bedroom life style, offering everything else to family and friends. And when she saw that there was no claim for most of what has accumulated in a fairly large and prosperous household, she put an ad in the newspaper:
EVERYTHINGS MUST GO!!!!! ANTIQUES FURNITURES, CHANDELIERS, PAINTINGS, MIRRORS, RUGS, GOOD BRAND, CLOTHING SIZE 4/8, PURSES, SHOES SIZE 7, DECORATIVE ITEMS, ETC.
After two months of hellish chaos, life settled into its new groove. Gerdas presence had a calming effect on Kent, who was assured that if he lost his job or his marriage ended, he could stay with her. The considerable difference between what she received for the house and spent on the condo represented a substantial cushion against the uncertainties of the future. Gerda believed that she would help run her son's household; shop and cook, become a natural peacemaker. Things turned out differently. Kent told her how much Debby disliked her and how unhappy she was about her mother-in-laws presence only 20-minutes away. Mother and son saw each other once a week for lunch.
3
For the first time since moving to Zurich in 1965, she was alone again; but now, as an older woman, without prospects and responsibilities. She could have dwelled on the sad thought that the dust of years had settled into the ashes of decades, but she didnt. The nearness of big water brought back idyllic memories of the lake of her childhood, and her vagabond nature woke up with youthful vivacity after a long slumber. She joined the local Goethe Institute and a health club. Other than occasional flare-ups of pain in her arthritic left knee, she had no health issues and was attractive for her age. She pulled up her skirt in front of a full length mirror and made an approving clicking sound as she wiggled her extended right leg. The merry echo of an ancient song reverberated among the lonely walls. But then she looked at those bikini photos taken when she was in her early 30s. There was one in particular that her husband loved to show around. She was coming out of the ocean with a confident smile; drops of water scintillating on her solid breasts. Ralphs face flashed up; she remembered his kindness, the long road they had traveled together. Summer was doubtlessly over. Its withered, melancholic carpet covered the forest floor and remained silent as she kept on walking. The attention her defiant, inaccessible charms used to elicit in her younger years was gone. Men looked by or through her as if she did not exist at all. By late afternoon cold wind from the Puget Sound whirled down the avenue. Then it began to rain in large drops, knocking on the wide windowpane with growing insistence. A well-known German film director was scheduled to speak that evening at the Goethe Institute. It was only five minutes by taxi. Why not? The event was already in progress when she arrived. "The language of cinema has a universal syntax," the director explained in a slowly articulated German. "When we see on the screen a man going to the window and looking out, it will be understood everywhere in the world that the next frame will show what he sees without the need to show him actually looking." Gerda spotted an empty seat in the crowded auditorium. She sat down next to a man who looked at her and quickly introduced himself in a muffled voice. Cameron Rodriguez was a retired professor of romance languages, with a youthful ambition to perfect his German. Who knew that he would become Gerdas sweet Cappuccino in a month or so? But is there a direct path in life, ever? Is there opera without overture; an affair of the heart without the prelude of erotic suspension? The lecture ended, the Q and A session died down and the parting thanks by the Institutes director led to another round of applause. Cam turned to Gerda and now, with the lights on, he found her stunning. Of course, the old fox knew not to rush, to keep the conversation small, terminable at any moment at the ladys request. He lived by the advice he gave his grown son about the art of approaching women:
4
Make absolutely sure that you dont send up her blood pressure by putting her on the defensive. Saying a polite hi would do. Since Cams German was rather halting, they automatically switched to English as they chatted about Seattle, the citys charm; its popularity among foreign tourists; the weather. The lecture hall was empty; it was time to go. Cam said that he always waited until the crowd was gone since he was slow on the stairs: a football injury in my right knee has haunted me since my college days. Im slow on the stairs too because of my left leg... Gerda smiled to herself at the strange coincidence. He soon became aware of the matching handicap and they descended arm in arm. Their gentle touch -- supportive and dependent at once -- created a sweet stir in the somnolent hearts of these veteran pedagogues. Cam was six years older than Gerda. He had a daughter and a son from a marriage that had dissolved two decades ago. He was a compassionate and sensitive man, with an intact gusto for life -- pushups and sit-ups daily, dying out most of the grey in his hair every six weeks. They met for dinner the following Friday. He told her that he lived on a houseboat on Eastlake (as the eastern shore of Lake Union is called). They ended up there. He offered drinks, turned on his state-of-the-art sound system to play Besos de Fuego, asked her to dance and whispered into her ear: "Give me your lips, the lips you only let me borrow Love me tonight and let the devil take tomorrow I know that I must have your kiss although it dooms me Though it consumes me, your kiss of fire..." Then he added a few lines in Spanish. The sky was full of joyful stars, the air was fresh. She cast her moorings and surrendered to the Southern wind that climbed on her like glowing vapor on the brilliant lake. Afterwards her mood became somber and she wanted to be taken home. White as sheet, she fumbled in her handbag for the plastic keycard and said in a thin voice before vanishing in the vestibule: You got what you wanted. Goodbye, Sir! Cam sent her an e-mail the same night, thanking for the wunderbare evening; for sharing his loneliness. I fell into a trap, she answered, next day, but I dont blame you, I blame only myself. And I have come to a decision that, given my upbringing and the way I have lived my life, I cannot
5
adjust to the morality of the day. What happened between us cannot happen again, and Im closing the book on dating. If thats what the world has become I would rather be alone. Cam was intrigued. In a further e-mail he apologized for rushing things, portraying himself also as a victim; surprised, overwhelmed: You are an Aphrodite, timeless in your beauty and natural sensuality; but also charming and modest like Mary with the Child, he wrote and sent her a dozen roses with a poem: Pale is the night, silent the lake, silent the sky; Ghosts glide in the high wind The Moon is faint -- a mere hint. The squeaking damp old roof apostrophizes My lonely lifes arid landscape; It makes me puzzle (some more) about life, love, and fate. Remembering the blueness of your eyes, The fairness of your skin, the softness of your voice Makes me sigh As these hopeless days of lizard-fingered minutes crawl by and by. A bit transparent, but it worked. She called him on the phone to thank him for the flowers; telling him how much she appreciated his lyricism that reminded her of Heinrich Heine. After some reassurances, she agreed to dinner on strictly Platonic grounds. They talked about their careers as language professionals, their marriages, and their children. Gerda learned that Cams daughter had spent some time at the Betty Ford clinic and that his son was employed by a venture capital firm in Los Angeles. Cam was extremely concerned as he suspected fraud behind the young financial advisors outrageous spending habits. No one can make that much money in an honest way, he said, sooner or later he will be called to the carpet. They talked about lifes absurdities and how one wizens, discovering that the frozen landscape of yesterday is todays precious memory. They were octaves apart but played the same tune. She gave him an appreciative glance when he helped her into a light blue raincoat, lifting out her blond cascade. A fleeting kiss, and just like a young girl, Gerda escaped into her building. Soon they met again, trying out a new seafood restaurant downtown. The conversation somehow reached a point where Cam felt prompted to talk more intimately about his personal life. He spoke of his infatuation-propelled marriage that occurred shortly after receiving his Ph.D; by the time we discovered how unsuited we were for each other, we had already brought two children into the world.
Then came years of searching for true love, for that certain life partner, the soul mate...So many false starts, so many disappointments...The problem was that I couldnt trust anyone. It is difficult in this day and age. Then one day I asked myself: How much do you need to trust a woman to enjoy her company? I had to admit not all that much. With this new perspective came a profound change in my moral Odyssey. I knew deep down that this was not alpha maleness. Lost like an ass in a hailstorm, I was. Gerda listened attentively, her pretty oval-shaped eyes fixed on Cam. Have you thought of starting a relationship with a younger woman? she asked. Definitely not! I need the solidarity of age. Working life is behind me and listening to varied aspects of some office intrigue is positively not on my bucket list. Let the ingnue dance with the ingnue. She liked the answer; he noticed it, and began to court her: Every day I don't see you is life evaporated. She answered with Do you want me to cook for you one night? The fireworks on the Fourth of July could not be bigger and more glowing than his yes-yesyes! When she opened the door they embraced for long minutes. Cam followed her into the kitchen, confessing his love. Gerda took a pair of matching magnets from the refrigerator door, snapped them together, saying You and I. The alternating current of desire that surges between the Stoic Saxon and the Epicurean Latin juiced up their veins. They loved each other with the zeal of hungry predators but not without sincerity, which is the kernel of any binding force. But, of course, there can be no sincerity without buffoonery! Togetherness liberated them from a shared, suffocating inward hardness; and soon big laughs dissolved the abject chards of the past; melodious colors made plaintive reflections fade out. Gerda, the once obedient grudge, who devoutly waded through the unspeakable tedium of grey years, became a vivacious young girl; Cam shed the carapace of grandeza that he wore in the role of wandering minstrel. But the skill of flattering women he acquired during his years as a chartered libertine was still welcome. When he told her things like you are my beautiful Swiss fairytale princess; golden crown on your golden hair, fine silver cloak on your shoulders, as we dance down on the narrowing garden path, flowers in your hand..., her answer, some variant of Youre crazy and am not joking, sounded more like dont stop...
One evening when Gerda was making chicken liver pate and Cam stood there handing this or that at her request, hugging her intermittently, he said: True love is in the liver and the only way to discover it is to open it. But if I had done my searching this way before meeting you, meine Lieblinge, I might have faced a pack of troubles, especially with the police. How would you like some water on your head, my troubadour; great admirer of my mind and soul, as I can see... I hope you will like my liver too, though might have used too much sherry ... They were seen regularly at Goethe, until the incident, that is. A longtime member and supporter of the Institute, a venerable old man by the name of Allen, died. Neither Gerda nor Cam ever laid eyes on the gentleman but they felt obligated to attend the funeral service downtown. They wanted to skip the reception that followed but ended up drifting with the crowd downstairs to the churchs massive community room, where a semicircle formed around the deceased mans family. His oldest daughter, a grandmother in her own right, introduced a retired admiral as an old family friend. An admiral is a high-ranking sailor, in America, Cam whispered to Gerda, are there many of those in Switzerland too? No, she whispered back, there was only one but he left for lack of sea. He got tired sitting on his anchor, Cam murmured. A woman in front of them turned around with a reprimanding Shhhh! They moved to the back of the standing assemblage. Praising words and shared sadness over the loss gradually gave way to the thought that we the still living -- must go on. When my husband died, an elderly lady addressed Allens widow, I found solace in reading Janet Evanovich and David Sedaris. First I felt uncomfortable for being absorbed by such light, amusing books, and had to ask my dear Jimmy if it was appropriate. His approval from Heaven was as clear as daylight. She is lying, Cam hummed, Jimmy told her to read Crime and Punishment. You are worse than a teenager, Gerda whispered. Restlessness grew but no one wanted to be the first to leave. Not surprisingly, the admiral came up with the tactic of disengagement. He directed his glance upwards and uttered these words as if they had been prefaced with and now, in conclusion:
8
Looking at your five children, 12 grandchildren and three great-grandchildren, I would say job well done, Allen! And that Darwin was right, Cam buzzed, distorting his face so as to resemble a monkey. Cappuccino, cappuccino Gerda sighed. A man in front of them turned around: There is some coffee in the front area but I doubt that it is cappuccino. That certain irresistible force that makes everything (including the example of mortality at hand) appear to be slapsticks began to linger over their heads. They didnt dare look at each other for fear that laughter would burst the dams of self-control, purchased at the heavy price of a choking lump in the throat. But then it happened. Rosalie-Therese, an octogenarian lady -- eccentric, notoriously late, interrupting events with impromptu observations -- appeared at the bottom of the steps. She was dressed in black; her wide-rimmed grey felt hat adorned with a green feather was tilted in such a steep angle as to reveal her severely smoothed hair dyed sunset orange. No one noticed her until someone emitted an unusually shrill sneeze and she echoed with a whining Gesinheit (meaning, no doubt, Gesundheit). Gerda and Cam headed to the exit that led them to the parking lot. Their uncontrollable ha-ha, ho-ho could be heard all over the place. Each limped when they tried to walk fast (Gerda to the right, Cam to the left). But now, caught in the storm of hilarity, they exaggerated and made symmetrical their respective limps. They had forgotten to bring an umbrella and were getting thoroughly soaked on the way to Cams car and that made them laugh even harder. The misty feeling in old bones that winter's wolf will eventually get its way drowned in the daybreaks rite of their private spring. The silent ocean stretched ahead like infinite blessed days to come. Someone recently saw them at the Fairmont Pierre Marques in Acapulco. They were sitting under a beach umbrella on the terrace, facing the fountain. Cam was absorbed in the newspaper, Gerda, sunglasses on the top of her head, right foot in Cams lap, was writing postcards. Some went to Vreneli and Hans-Rudi, you wanna bet?