SOLANGE, MY SOLANGE

Wow, who is that woman? Tall, dark-haired and green-eyed, her clothes perfectly orchestrated with her appearance, she passed by me on that Sunday morning at church, headed toward an empty seat. For a moment, an exotic, delicate but alluring perfume played with my senses, leaving a powerful, lasting effect. After that I didn't hear a word of the service.

"What's ailing you, George? Why are you so restless today? Stop wiggling and turning like you have shingles," Bob was saying.

He is a good friend and a highly reliable CPA. I love him dearly, but I wouldn't discuss feelings with him. He thinks heart is a muscle.

At forty seven, acting like a teenager, I had to turn and look at that siren several times, wondering who she was and hoping that she would start coming to our church. I couldn't tell if she had noticed me at all. All I could see was her self-assured, calm composure with a half smile lingering around her thin, perfectly shaped mouth. Even her makeup was immaculate and subdued like her whole appearance. I felt powerfully attracted to her and wanted to know everything about her. During the service, I rehearsed what I was going to say at the end when we all gather around the table in the corner of our fellowship hall, for coffee, tea and cookies.

As soon as the service ended, I dashed toward the coffee table where the usual crowd of "coffee addicts" gathered. She was nowhere in sight. I turned around and saw her slip through the sliding door headed toward the cars parked in the street. Too late! I checked the guest book to find her name and address. Two women and three men were listed as the visitors. I hadn't noticed anyone but her! One of the names was Mary Smith. That made me smile. For a moment, I had a crazy thought that she might have used a false name to protect her identity, but I abandoned the idea instantly. She wouldn't have chosen such a simple name even in a joke. Mary Smith! It was so common, I immediately imagined a plump woman in oversized sweats with rollers in her hair. The name was followed by the address and a phone number. It was quite near the church, I noticed.

The other name had a ring to it - Solange Holst. That was more like her: unusual, feminine, intriguing. But there was nothing else there: no address, no phone number. Her last name sounded German, while I could've almost bet she was French. Solange! With her exquisite taste, she had to be French. The German name could be her husband's. I felt a stabbing pain at the thought. She can't, she mustn't, be married. What if she is, though? Please, God, don't do this to me.

I had to find out, so I drove by Mary Smith's home. It was a small home, nothing sophisticated. My green-eyed nymph couldn't live there. It was childish, I know, but I just had to do it: I rushed home and called Mary's number.

There was a lot of racket in the background and a child's voice shyly asked: "Who is this?"

"My name is George. Is Mary Smith there?" I was nervous; a professor and a public speaker, I was now more nervous than that child. Almost stammering, I added fast: "Is your mom at home?"

"Mo-o-o-om," was the response on the other side. A baby was crying in the distance and some other voices were heard. I waited, full of ambiguous fear and guilt, for what seemed a small eternity. All of a sudden, a soft, out-of-breath woman's voice said: "Yes? This is Mary." She sounded as if she came running from somewhere. Her voice was sweet, though, and almost as child-like as her daughter's.

"My name is George Simms and I usually greet the newcomers to our church. I'm sorry I missed greeting you today. I hope I'm not disturbing your Sunday dinner with my call."

"Oh, not at all. I'll have to finish cooking it first, but the kids are being too restless today. My husband isn't here."

"I'm embarrassed to ask, but can you describe yourself. I can't quite place you, although I usually know who is new."

"Oh, that's all right. There were many people. I sat in the last row, at the end, close to the door. I am short, blond, and a bit on the heavy side. In fact, I am much heavier than I would like to be. I have three children, one is a baby, so, you know..."

She was obviously apologizing for her neglected figure.

She couldn't know how I loved her for being blond and on the heavy side. I was a step closer to my goal. She was married and she was not the woman of my dreams. "I think I have noticed you. You look much better than you are giving yourself credit for." And I almost meant it, I was so overwhelmed with love and gratitude. "I won't keep you any longer. I'd just like to welcome you. Hope we'll see you again with your whole family."

"Thank you. We'll be back since we're in the neighborhood and need a church, especially for the kids. I liked it today."

A sigh of relief and a tide of warmth for that dear woman swept over me. Thank God, it is not my siren. Mary is a good person, and I wish her well, but Solange is the one I must pursue.

"Solange... Solange..." I repeated endlessly, whispering and calling as if she could hear and come to me. Her name sounded sweeter, more intriguing each time. I hoped passionately she was not married... God, don't let that happen to me, now that I have found the woman of my dreams. Solange, Solange, we are going to get to know each other quite well. Next Sunday I will not let you disappear like Cinderella. A flood of happiness engulfed me. This is it. I know. I can feel it. This is it, this time.

Never before did I feel so attracted to anyone, so sure that she was the right woman for me. With Susan, for instance, I'd never felt physical attraction at all. She'd been a good, supportive friend, one I could always rely on, yet I'd never felt quite comfortable with her. I couldn't see myself married to her for the rest of my life. No romance there.

Cleo was quite a different story. She picked me up at an art exhibit reception. I was powerfully attracted to her from the start. She was gorgeous: with a body of a goddess, her honey-colored hair long below her waist. Soon I was addicted to her and I knew it. She knew it, too. But, she didn't care for me too long, for some reason. One day she just said: "It's not working," and stopped seeing me. It took me a year to recover, although I knew she was not good for me: an incurable alcoholic.

I know Solange is not that kind of a woman. She is so classy, so sophisticated, quite on a different plane. And, against my better judgment, I grabbed the local telephone book and started reading all the Holsts. There were several. Not her name, though. Probably listed under her husband's name, or unlisted. Desperately, I was hoping for the latter.

Waiting until Sunday was torture. I spent most of the time day dreaming about all kinds of possible situations with Solange and me in the leading roles. Like she is at church and sprains her ankle. I take her to the hospital, then to her home, and after that we become inseparable. She is grateful and falls in love with me. Or, she is going through a divorce and looking for a job. Somebody tells her I am teaching business writing, so she asks me for help with her resume. She invites me to her home. We work on her resume, then she needs some other help. I become indispensable, and, gradually, we become lovers.

I had several different versions of the "story" in which she is temporarily incapacitated, so I take care of her: shop, cook, feed her, and -- of course -- dress and undress her. She is shy at first, but learns to trust me. We become close and comfortable with each other, so the rest comes naturally.

The next Sunday, to make sure I don't miss her, I stood at the church door greeting the newcomers. Mary Smith came with her husband and three kids. She was just as I imagined her: a sweet, slightly overweight blonde with a heart shaped face and innocent eyes. Her husband was awkwardly towering over her: dark, with huge mustache, he was one of those good men who never know what to do with their hands and where to put the hat.

"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Welcome!" I greeted them warmly. "I am George, the one who wouldn't let you eat your Sunday dinner." It was so easy to feel genuine love for those simple, good people. Mary proudly radiated love for her family and the whole world. "It is so good to meet you all. Lovely children," and I shook hands with the husband. Mary blushed, looking up at her giant husband with pride. A healthy-looking baby in her arms was fast asleep. A boy, probably six years old, was a miniature replica of his father, already overly serious. The girl, slightly older, smiled shyly, as if remembering our phone conversation.

"We'd appreciate if you'd show us where the kids are supposed to go," said the father, and Mary added:" I hope the baby won't bother anyone. She is usually quiet." I took them upstairs, worried that Solange might come while I was not there.

"Your kids will enjoy their new friends. They'll have fun here, believe me," and I took them back to the fellowship hall and showed them some seats in the front rows.

Just then, while I was quickly returning to the entrance, Solange entered. Alone again, in an emerald suit with a white silk blouse, her eyes greener and deeper than ever.

"Good to see you again, Solange." My heart was beating so wildly, I was afraid she could hear it. And her voice, so sexy, so deep, it was a shock of pure pleasure to hear it for the first time, when she responded: "Thank you," and glanced at my nametag. "Thank you, George. It's good to be here." It was as if she had known me all along. As if we have known each other for an eternity before we met. "Would you like a name tag, Miss Holst... or is it Mrs. Holst?" - I attempted desperately to resolve my painful dilemma. "Oh, whichever you prefer," she responded nonchalantly and left me to look for a seat. The service was about to start.

I would have been mad at her, if I could. What a tease. What a lovely, lovely tease. But I still didn't know if she was married. She didn't want me to know. Not yet. And, again, I had to sit far from her, as all the seats were taken.

At the end of the service, however, I made sure I was close to the door. When she passed by, I asked, "Would you like to join us for lunch at a near-by Chinese restaurant? We sometimes go there after the service for good food and fellowship."

"Gladly," she said with another smile that felt like a kiss on my cheek. "Very, very gladly, next time." Again, I could not decide whether I was mad, sad, or just disappointed. She had such a way of saying no while her eyes caressed and kissed me, that it made me happy to be alive, no matter what.

When she left, I didn't feel like Chinese food, even less like going home. Our minister, with the guest speaker and several others, was headed toward the local gay and lesbian restaurant that was about to be closed because of poor business. Some people in our congregation made a point of eating there to support the business. I decided to do the same since there was nothing else for me to do anyway. Being around people would help me survive till next Sunday.

The outfit actually consisted of two parts: a bookstore and a restaurant. The walls had posters of John DeAndrea's, Ruth Bernhard's and Edward Weston's gentle nudes, soft and creamy like Ansel Adams' sandy dunes, echoing the same gentle, natural curves of the bodies. New age music, calm and soothing, filled the room. There were people already seated around small tables, eating and chatting. The food was good and healthy and I was glad I hadn't gone to the small Chinese restaurant where, out of habit and laziness, I had gone so often.

At the next table, two young men, holding hands, whispered intimately, exchanging meaningful glances and hushed giggles. Memories shared, I assumed. I didn't want to envy them, but what would I have given to be able to do the same with my Solange.

Solange! As if summoned by my desire, she was in front of my eyes engaged in hugging two men. It was a shock, although I didn't know why. After all, a woman has friends. What do I know about her anyway? She was hugging them in a friendly way. Nothing feminine or sexual about it. In fact, it struck me how she, was not at all feminine at this particular moment. The hugs were a buddy-type, like the ones exchanged by men after winning a game. Nothing to worry about, George. In fact, those two men probably were each other's lovers. Your Solange is still unchained and free. Thinking about it some more, I was happy to know she was an open-minded woman. As sophisticated and refined as she was, I knew she had to be educated and therefore without common prejudices. I hoped she was wise and kind enough to accept the lifestyles different from her own. I knew I could not find a partner in a prejudiced, narrow-minded woman. I have had one in my youth and would not have another. I, in fact neither of us, knew any better then. We were too young. But now, I knew what I wanted, what I needed.

I almost rushed to greet Solange, then realized it would not have been a good time. I would never crowd her, overwhelm her, or threaten her feeling of freedom. No, I would be patient with her, because I want her for "keeps," as the kids say.

That Wednesday, I went to the church singles' dance. I don't usually do that, but it was such a long week. The dance was unusual, to say the least. Our church fellowship hall was turned into a semi-dark nightclub with a huge crystal ball hanging from the ceiling, slowly revolving. Myriads of silvery, flickering flames, like schools of tiny, vibrant fish, were dancing over the walls, our faces, and the whole room. The whole atmosphere was enchanting, like in a fairyland. Some people danced in the middle, embraced tightly, following the beat of their hearts. Others in a loose, friendly grip, were engrossed in conversation more than in the dance. One fragile, enchanted figure danced alone, like a lost child in a dreamland of its own. When she approached, swirling dreamily, like in a trance, I recognized Solange, my Solange.

Without thinking, I approached her saying, "Somebody as beautiful as you should never dance alone," and naturally started to embrace her loosely for a dance. She stepped back, for a second without a smile on her face, and retorted shortly. "No. Thank you. I am enjoying myself this way."

Taken aback, hurt more by her tone than by the words, all I could do was say, "I am sorry. I didn't mean to..." Not knowing what else to say, too embarrassed for words, I left the dance floor and sat in the dark corner to collect myself. Obviously, I'd made a big mistake. I didn't know what I could do to erase it from her memory. I remembered her eyes, her cold tone when she said "No," and knew, without understanding it, that nothing would ever be the same. I wanted to know why. Why couldn't she just dance one dance with me and then excuse herself in any way she wanted? Why did she have to hurt me? What was so terribly wrong in asking her for a dance? I didn't know her well enough to embrace her, I know, but I didn't really "embrace" her. It was more like "shall we dance" type of gesture. Quite natural, not offensive.

I needed to be alone, so I left. First, I decided to write her an apology letter and explain. Explain what? What could I say that she didn't already know? I couldn't even finish the sentence there, at the dance floor. Even now I didn't know what it was I "didn't mean" to do. I wanted to dance with her. After all, we were at a dance. It was a singles' dance. I presume she is single and so am I. What did I do wrong? Like a dog catching his tail, I went on and on, in a circle, more confused at the end than at the beginning of my futile analysis. There was no resolution: Solange was the only one who knew what she didn't like in my action and she would either tell me, or I would have to live without knowing. I couldn't harass her further with insisting.

But the question in my mind persisted: what kind of woman was she. Cruel and heartless? A siren and a man-hater? I realized: I didn't know the woman at all. I had assumed so much, knew so little. Nothing, in fact. Then I remembered Mary Smith's sweet kindness. Maybe that was what I really needed, a woman like Mary: warm, nurturing, understanding. But, she is married. The best women are always taken. And, although I found her sweet, I did not feel attracted to that kind of a woman. That's not something one could rationally explain.

There had to be something wrong with me, I kept thinking. Why couldn't I find somebody to love me? Could it be that I didn't see myself realistically? Did I know what I wanted? Thoughts of that sort I had always had whenever a relationship ended, but it never really helped in learning anything to save me from future disappointments. I knew, there was nothing I could do, only wait and observe Solange. Maybe, later, we could talk and explain things. She needed to find out more about me and then accept me. The hope gave me strength to live on.

There were days, however, when I knew things were not that simple. There was something I could not explain rationally, yet could sense strongly. Deep down, something was telling me there was no hope for Solange and me. What was it? A feeling? A feeling of what? Fear, doubt, foreboding, or just intuition?

Melancholy stayed with me that whole week. Neither food nor sleep had any attraction for me. Her slender silhouette, dancing in the semi-dark church hall kept reappearing in my mind as if trying to tell me something. Obviously, she was a very private, very lonely woman. There was a reason for that, a reason I didn't know, but a reason strong enough that I couldn't change it. She was lost to me. That I knew.

I still was interested in everything about her, still intrigued, but I had no hope of ever coming closer to her, and I stopped trying. It hurt, though. I couldn't believe that losing someone I never had could hurt that much. Emptied and robbed of hope, my life had no meaning, no joy anymore. I fully understood the term "broken heart," that never before had such a personal, direct message.

In the weeks that followed, afraid that Solange might read my secret if our eyes met, I started avoiding her. Now that was impossible, just as impossible it was at first to get to know more about her. Gradually, her name started appearing on all volunteer lists. All of a sudden, she was everywhere: visiting the sick, elderly and dying; teaching kindergarten classes. She was the one who suggested she could do something about our forgotten, dilapidated garden. And she fixed the food for all the committee meetings on Sunday and Wednesday nights. It all made sense to me: those who have no life of their own make the best volunteers. But why? Why she? Smiling and kind to all, she never favored or singled out anyone. She may have been lonely, but she wasn't looking for a relationship. Forget her, George, and go back to your usual bachelor-self.

Out of the blue, one Sunday, while I was greeting the newcomers at church, Solange passed by me and, smiling, gently touched my hand and handed me a note. I opened it instantly. It read: "George, I am sorry. I should have talked to you sooner. But, it is not easy for me either. You are a fine man and I don't want to hurt your feelings. Just trust me. It wouldn't have worked with us. The reason is not you, but me. I hope I have not caused real heartache. There is too much of that in the world without my adding to it. I am having enough of my own. You will find a fine woman you deserve. I have to go on with my own burden. Please forgive me. Solange."

I didn't understand it, but it proved: Solange was, as I always knew, a fine, fine woman. But, as my heart had told me, she was lost to me. The reasons were not important, although I wanted to know them. I trusted her, as she had asked. I respected her reasons, whatever they were, but my heart still lived with the memory of her, with the dreams of what I hope could've been, as a substitute for what now I knew would never be.

When it became available, I did check her address. Not that it mattered anymore. She lived in the country. I could see her being equally kind to animals and plants, working in a beautiful, lush garden. I could see her move through the spacious, sunny rooms with big windows, walking barefoot on the old, creaky wooden floors, listening to soft classical music, arranging flowers in tall, crystal vases. Oh, I could imagine her smiling tenderly, softly talking to me, her eyes sad from compassion... but I knew, I knew now, she was never to be mine.

Spring came reluctantly and our church organized a picnic in the churchyard. The trees were barely opening their tender buds, the grass fresh and young, like baby's hair. All around the building, multicolored clumps of new spring flowers tossed their heads, neatly planted by Solange. People had brought chairs and blankets, baskets of food, balls and racquets. Surrounded by the kids, teaching them to paint the eggs for the approaching Easter., Solange sat on the grass, dressed in a long gypsy skirt and a white blouse, reminding me of Snow White and her little admiring dwarfs. My heart ached at the sight of her.

Restless and unhappy, I could not sit and relax like the others. Wandering from one group to another, seeing people engaged in light conversation and laughter, I hoped to find something that would catch my attention and keep me there. Nothing worked. I felt almost disgusted with people laughing for no real reason, talking about petty, insignificant matters, as if being serious at a picnic would have been a sin. I wondered why I had never noticed their lack of depth before.

Under the old oak tree a group of men sat, seriously talking. I didn't know all them, but I saw Bob there too. When I approached, wearily lowering myself to the grass, "I can't believe it," Bob was saying. "Wouldn't something show, after all? A man's body is different from a woman's."

"Sure, but you've never known him as anything else but a woman," a middle aged man was saying. "I've known him for years, though. We were in a summer camp and I saw him almost naked, swimming. It was seven years ago. He was a man. He is a man. Not a burly, hairy orangutan, not a muscular body-builder, but a sensitive, normally built man. I doubt that he's had a sex-change operation since then. They are too expensive. If you look closer, you'll notice his hands and feet are a bit larger than a woman's. He is a transsexual, there is no doubt about it. He'll tell you honestly, himself, if you ask."

"It must be tragic to have to live like that. Almost between two sexes, not belonging to either one. I'm sure people must often be insensitive, even nasty to him. Does he have a job? How do they know him: as a man or as a woman? There have to be too many difficulties and problems," Bob said recognizing my presence and greeting me with a smile only, not wanting to interrupt the conversation.

"It's a bit more open nowadays, so many men, and women, are coming out of the closet, but seven years ago... Maybe that's why he'd moved here, to start from the beginning. Science has proved: they have no choice. They are what they are, just as we are, too." That same man, unknown to me, reasoned.

"True. I never thought about it, though," another man went on thoughtfully. "We don't choose to be men or women, we don't choose illnesses or talents we have. We live with them the best we can. That is the part of the same human condition," he ended, nodding.

"Yes, but how many people stop to think about it, or learn the truth about it? By many, homosexuality, and bisexuality is still considered an abnormality, a weird choice, unless it's in their own children. Then they learn fast. People hate those who are different, they are afraid of them. You would be surprised how many people are homophobic. Even school children are cruel and violent with those they see as homosexual," somebody cut in, vehemently.

"I know," Bob added, sadness in his voice. "In my neighborhood a boy had been beaten almost to death by other kids. And he was just a bit effeminate, not necessarily gay... Think how lonely trans-sexual people must be. We know about this particular case from our church: no friends, no family... And whom is he supposed to date: a man or a woman? I don't understand. I don't know anything about trans-sexuals. And, honestly, I feel uncomfortable around them, just like with the homosexuals. I don't know what I may say that would hurt their feelings, and I may not even know. It's hard to like something that is so different, you cannot even understand. Maybe, that's where the problem starts. It is downright shameful how little we all know. And we consider ourselves educated people. Before I can make a decision to accept them fully or to reject them, I need to know more. How do I even call him?"

"Just call him Solange and treat him as a woman, if that's what he has told you. Solange is a very fine human being, no matter what gender. I know him." He firmly concluded.

All readily agreed.

Suddenly, I felt sick. Solange? My Solange?

Unable to deal with the shock and an avalanche of mixed feelings, I left the picnic.

Memoirs and Short Stories
MIGRAINE

For hours, for days the migraine was ailing me. It approached quietly, from afar, first as a dull, shapeless discomfort, gnawing, then throbbing, and finally growing into a terrible, inhuman pain, turning time into a huge blister. Streets, objects, and people, all familiar from before, now showed their ugly side, as if turned inside out. Human faces looked distorted, disfigured, disclosing their secret ugliness and meaning otherwise hidden from me.

In my head, I could hear that stubborn humming noise of pain, interrupted by unbearably sharp screams of distress. Through that inhuman pain, I felt the twilight zone approaching, threatening to reveal to me a totally new, horrifying world.

Apart from pain, fear was my constant companion. Shapeless, undefined fear. Not fear of something. Not fear of somebody. Just fear. Another presence. A shadow. And the pain that stretched into eternity. People around me were on the other side. They did not feel the pain, they could not understand me. It seemed as if the pain radiated a gluey, reeky phlegm, polluting the atmosphere around me. Sensing something, people avoided me. Nobody stopped to chat with me like before. What can the healthy feel for the sick? Pity? Loathing?

They chatted among themselves about petty, meaningless things, turning to me only with superficial, insincere questions about my health, not even listening to my answers. They sounded so hollow, so disinterested. Maybe I never knew the truth about them before.

It was like a plot of the healthy against the sick and hurting. Disgusting. Even in the physician office-when I finally realized I needed professional help-it was not much better. I had to wait long hours to be admitted. My file was lost or misplaced and it took another eternity to find it. The pain was getting worse. I could not stand it any longer. Human voices and the noise in the background sounded distant, unclear; everything was enwrapped in a drowsy, painful, gluey vomit of that huge octopus squashing my cranium.

Finally, I was admitted into the doctor's office. She was young and healthy, smiling and beaming. I hardly told her how I felt, she immediately replied:

"Yes. I know. It can hurt enormously." Then, looking at my jacket that I was taking off, she added: "Where did you get that beautiful jacket? I have always wanted one just like that. Do you want a sick leave? You work, right?"

I didn't know what to say. I was hoping to get help from her. I though she knew what I needed.

"I love your hose," I heard her again. "Such a pretty shade. I love legs to look bare, don't you?"

My head felt bare, as if the hair and the skin were gone and the brain, completely exposed, pulsated painfully.

"It's your sinuses. Only sinuses can hurt that bad. I'll prescribe an antibiotic. That'll help almost immediately."

I got up and started getting dressed to leave, while she was writing the prescription.

"No, don't wear anything on your head. If I had such thick, beautiful hair, I'd never wear anything on top of it. My hair is thin and limp, you see. " and she touched her blond hair."

Who is styling yours? Natural? No kidding. I envy you."

I couldn't listen anymore. Can a creature like that know how to help me? I hated her. I hated them all. Without exception. They were doing it all just to torture me. Nobody heard. Nobody understood. And nobody cared. They were all healthy and on the other side. What world did I belong to? Where was reality? I felt like tearing that strange membrane between my world and theirs.

At home, I scrutinized myself in a big mirror. What was that woman talking about? There was no trace of beauty that I could spot. My eyes were full of fire, deep in their sockets, surrounded by large, dark-blue rings. My skin was sallow, dry and colorless, my hair brittle and lusterless. Even my body, drained of life juices, appeared suddenly aged.

I remembered what another doctor, an old man, had told me: "You are still young. Remember that, and enjoy life. There is no better medication than that. You don't know yet. It all comes later."

What are they talking about? Am I going crazy? I must help myself, nobody else will. I took the prescribed medication and followed the directions carefully, trying desperately to return to the world of the happy, healthy ones.

The pain was withdrawing slowly, reluctantly. I knew it would be back some time again. Tired, exhausted, I was gradually sinking into the abysses of sleep.

I must have slept a long time. When I awoke, it was a bright, sunny day. The birds chirped outside. The pain totally gone, I felt hungry.

While preparing food: eggs, milk, and honey, I was listening to my favorite music. Music. How thirsty for music I was! As if returning from a long journey, I felt eager to enjoy my home and everything I loved in it. I noticed, anew, every single little thing around me. Each had beauty and a new meaning now.

I took a long bath, to wash off even the last traces of the painful, nightmarish experience I had gone through. It almost felt like a joyous ritual: the warm water, my own body that looked new, too. What a fox, I remember a man in the street, following me, saying. I was offended then, now just smiled. Powdering myself, I decided, looking into the mirror: I'll have my hair cut shorter, perkier, younger. Also, I'll get some new, tight, attractive clothes. Spring is coming!

As if returning from a long journey where I have learned so much, all the objects acquired a different look full of beauty and new meaning. Temporarily liberated from pain, my life turned into an even more precious gift to be enjoyed.

Memoirs and Short Stories
SMOKING

If you had told me that Dragan and I were to become lovers, I would have laughed at you, I would have pitied you for not seeing how impossible it was for many reasons. Dragan and I worked in the same publishing house: I as an editor, he as an illustrator. After a year I was moved to a new office, at the far end of the building. All the next year Dragan came to my office almost daily and stayed for hours talking about our work, but also discussing literature, art, and life in general.

Dragan was one of those men you had to notice in a crowd. Tall, slender and sinewy, fast thinking and fast moving, he was so much like a thoroughbred horse -- intelligent and sensitive but stubborn, too. He was admired for his work, feared for his temper.

Dragan was a heavy smoker. It came naturally with his compulsive nature. His fast movements, like those of a beautiful but potentially dangerous wild animal, included those particular routine gestures of a professional smoker. You know, the way they caress the packet of cigarettes before they open it, as if choosing the right cigarette by some extra sensory perception. Once he had the cigarette out of the packet, Dragan would knead it with his long, sensitive fingers always stained with some paint or glue. Those fingers moved as swiftly and sensuously as Dragan himself and one could not fail to notice them, in fact watch them spell-bound as they danced uninhibited, playing with everything around. Hands of a good lover, I can say now.

Dragan's hands. One could imagine those hands engaged in any kind of work from creating exquisite objects d'art to delivering a baby from a woman's womb. There was something primitive and earthy, almost not clean enough about Dragan. Yet, at the same time, tall and dark, he looked like a Spanish nobleman.

"Are you sure you have no Spanish 'blue' blood in your veins?" I asked him many times.

"No, I am a Serb, with Tsintsar blood, or better yet, Tsintsar mind," he would answer with pride. There was so much pride in him, in spite of all doubts and insecurities. Tsintsar is a Serbian colloquial term for a person of Greek origin. Shrewd businessmen, Tsintsars were usually wealthy. But, Dragan was poor, because money did not stick to him. He did not have a Tsintsar mind, I thought with a smile. Most of the time he worked for free, just for the joy of it. That's where we were alike.

Both he and I were known to work long hours in the office, after everybody had left for home. Nobody asked us to stay longer and nobody paid for that. But it was impossible to leave things unfinished, especially if everything was going so well. Yet, the moment one project was finished, Dragan would start another. He always worked on several simultaneously. People envied him both for the quality and the quantity of the work he was able to finish. His idea of a break or relaxation was skipping from one task to another. How I understood that! My role models: my parents and my grandparents have never been seen without doing something meaningful. "Rad je odmor posle rada," my father taught me, smiling. "Work is the rest after work," he always repeated.

Once, I entered Dragan's office, unannounced. He was working and didn't hear me. There I stood at the door, watching him, his huge desk completely covered with illustrations, his tall, slender body bent over them, picking the right one. The left hand was holding the telephone receiver, the right one searching for the cigarette lighter. That was Dragan, doing at least three things at the same time, and enjoying every bit of them all.

His hands constantly shaped and executed the beautiful creations his mind conceived. But, in the act of smoking, his hands were in their element as if coming to life while clearly, almost bluntly, revealing Dragan's true nature. For him smoking was a ritual, and rituals were of the utmost importance in his life. Many times he would be engrossed in conversation, watching his partner with eyes so childishly and unexpectedly blue in that fine featured face with Gypsy-dark skin and raven hair. While Dragan was passionately explaining something or other, all those smoking-related movements were taking place in the background, in a routine, unconscious way. If you knew Dragan at all, you would know that he was always explaining something. And, he was always intense and passionate. His smoking was not "just a habit," as in other people. Oh, no. Nothing about him was as in other people.

Dragan's smoking was like the background in the Mona Lisa. The ritual, the lovemaking with the cigarette, for Dragan was essential, just as the landscape in the background of Giocconda's portrait is as important and masterful as her smile. Without it, there would be no Mona Lisa, no smile at all.

In his daily conversations with me Dragan was intense, high-strung, never letting me say much, his words pouring, gushing like hot blood out of a fresh wound. I never questioned why he spent so much time with me, because I had no time to stop and think about my own life. I was busy living it. I had a husband and a four-year old son, my work, social obligations and so much more. I was vaguely aware that Dragan was married and had a daughter younger than my son. It was of no importance to me. I never asked him about his life or his family, and he rarely talked about it. It was as if there was no outer world except the office where we had our long, daily talks. As different as we were in our backgrounds, upbringing, and education, we were close in that passionate, intense joy of life through the art that we both created and appreciated as a daily staple.

At first, when we discussed art, it seemed like a general exchange of information, our likes and dislikes. Nothing personal or intimate. Slowly but inevitably, during the process, we were coming closer to each other, closer to our deep, hidden needs that were unknown and neglected even by our spouses, asleep in the darkness for a long time, hungrily waiting to be brought to daylight.

The summer came unexpectedly. A sensuous summer with hot days and bare bodies. People from the office were gradually leaving for vacation. One day, Dragan burst into my office:

- "You can start crying now, because I am leaving for a long time," he said in a jokingly haughty tone.

- "Oh?"

- "I am taking my well-deserved vacation."

- "Where are you going?"

- "Where else: to my father-in-law's little weekend house in Mitrovica. I am not high-paid and richly married like you. We don't get to go to the Dubrovnik Riviera every summer."

I knew Dragan was joking, but the intonation in his voice revealed a sore spot in his pride, too. Highly talented, an outstanding student at the Academy of Art and Design, Dragan never earned more than an associate degree, due to the financial difficulties so many people had long after the World War II. His mother had died when he was only two, and his father, a blue collar worker, had to work long hours to support his two children. Dragan was practically raised by his seven year-older sister, a child herself. Having a son of my own, I could imagine him growing motherless: a shy, overly sensitive little orphan, inquisitively observing the world, while the others played and participated. He had started working early, yet going to school at the same time was not difficult for him. Thirsty for knowledge, an avid reader, soon he was better educated than the majority of those with higher degrees. The hardship in the vulnerable, growing years, however, left him bitter, with a chip on his broad, proudly carried shoulders.

His cheerful voice brought me to the present: "Are you listening, Sleeping Beauty?"

"I am, of course. So, you are going to Mitrovica, and you expect me to feel sorry for you. But, Mitrovica happens to be a lovely place on the River Sava. I've been there and loved it. I hope you will make some sketches and watercolors while there. I would like to see them: the sketches for the business, the watercolors for my private interest. Don't just sit in the sun, fishing and growing a beer belly." The idea was preposterous, I knew. No other man in the office had a body as lean and muscly as in a racing horse. He didn't drink beer, either. I could, however, imagine him opening a bottle of Dom Perignon for special occasions. Maybe.

"How long are you going to stay there?" I went on.

"Two to three weeks. You will stay a month in Dubrovnik, I'm sure. Yet, when we come back and compare our skin color, my tan is going to be much deeper than yours."

We didn't care for skin cancer then. I always set next to the water, reading a book. In a day or two my skin would turn reddish-brown like in a freshly baked bun, smelling of salt and olive oil, like the rest of the Mediterranean. The otherwise fine, invisible hair, covering my legs and arms, would turn shiny gold against the tan of the skin. I liked my summers: that natural, languid look of the healthy, exposed bodies, the sensuous sultry environment, the constant, powerful symphony of the cicadas in the heavily aromatic, lush Dalmatian greenery.

Dragan's voice broke my reveries with a question: "Do you dare to enter a contest with me?"

"Any time. What kind of contest?"

"A skin tan contest. When we come back from the vacation and compare our skin color, my tan is going to be much deeper than yours. You will have to treat me, as a winner, to an ice cream at the Opera Cafe. Now, don't scorch your aristocratic, satiny hide, just because you are so sickeningly competitive. You have no chance of winning. I am a gypsy and a tramp, you are only a lady."

The Opera Cafe with its Italian-style, multicolored umbrellas and small tables, across the street from the Theater and next to the old Museum, was a favorite place for a good cup of Turkish coffee or a bowl of ice cream. Pistacchio was my favorite. One could watch the passers-by, usually carrying their parcels of merchandise from the elegant stores on the Knez Mihailova Street.

While I was thinking how we had never been out together, our office being the only space we shared, he swiftly drew closer to me, his arms stretched for an embrace, ready to kiss me goodbye. I panicked, opened the drawer of my desk and started blindly rummaging through it, while talking fast about something totally unrelated. He just smiled and said:

- "I hope I am allowed to write to you, just a postcard, innocent and coded. No answer expected, my lady."

And he was gone, without waiting to hear my response. When he left, I sat down, suddenly very tired. Startled with my own panic, I needed to talk to myself. What was I afraid of? Since when could I not handle a good-bye kiss from a friend? Of whom was I afraid? Myself -- that was the only honest answer. A shocking discovery. Until that moment I had not realized I was attracted to Dragan. On the other hand, the whole office probably had been observing us for two years, assuming much more than that, guessing at how much more, even gossiping all along.

With those thoughts and worries, I left for the vacation.

On the outside, the vacation was just like any other. We had always gone to the same summer resort on the Adriatic Coast, and although it was one of the best, I was getting bored. I have never liked any routine: too predictable. On the inside, though, this vacation was quite different from all the previous ones. While I was enjoying the sun, the transparent turquoise Mediterranean waters, the hot pebbles under my feet, and the little shiny shells my son and I collected into his red plastic bucket, I was actually absent from the scene. My body was there: I did the talking, eating, or whatever else, seemingly participating in all the activities. Nobody knew I was just a sleepwalker. I had a secret now, and it changed me, splitting me in two, lingering around my eyes and mouth like Mona Lisa's intriguing half-smile.

Yet, if you had told me that Dragan and I were going to become lovers, I would have jumped at you saying "That's not it. That's not it at all." And I honestly believed it. The level of awareness had changed slightly, but we were not ready yet. That is, I was not.

That secret of mine was beautiful. At times it brought quiet happiness, but at the same time it was also alarming, filling me with restlessness and apprehension. I was not alone in my world anymore. Somebody had entered it, because I didn't know I'd left the door open. The thought was frightening. I knew I was not quite in control of myself, the depth of panic and fear in my office on that summer day showed me the abyss of my own unknown being. I lost my freedom, I was captured. Strangely, it was pleasant. Like a seed in woman's womb, my secret had a life of its own: once I discovered it, I knew it was growing without my approval. Just like any life, offshoot of my own, it would take powerful violence to extinguish it.

How did we become lovers? People always ask that question, yet no one wants to hear about the price, the pain and suffering. I myself did not know why things of that kind were happening to me. I never wanted to live a lie. Love cannot exist in a lie. It has to be free and clean. Of all people, why did he and I, both married, so different, have to come together?

How to become lovers must have bothered Dragan much more than it bothered me. In fact, it didn't bother me at all. As if living in a dream, my needs were buried deep, deep, never to be dealt with, it seemed. Dragan wanted to make the move closer, yet was afraid of ruining everything, losing the privileges of being in my presence at all. He had worked hard to impress me, to please me, to win me.

One day he approached Mira, a colleague at work, with whom I had been close. She revealed their conversation to me much later. When he himself did the same, I kept my promise to Mira, never admitting that she had told me. From their two versions and my knowledge of their personalities, I have created my own vision of that scene. I have rehearsed it often, under different conditions, as my relationship with Dragan progressed. It became real, as if I had been there.

Knowing Dragan, he must have started a new cigarette to help him concentrate, while approaching Mira:

- "Mira, you must help me. You are a good friend of Kristina and as a woman must understand her better than I. Maybe she even talks to you about me. For two years now she has been all I can think about. We talk daily, yet I don't know whether I understand her at all. Is she made of flesh and blood?"

- "Yes, she is made of flesh and blood. And no, she never talks about you. Sorry, Romeo. We usually discuss literature. Sometimes children."

- "Does that woman know, in my thoughts I am kissing that spot behind her knees -- you know she always crosses her legs sitting -- while she is explaining why I need to change the tone of sepia on my illustrations. Is she teasing me or what? I can hardly concentrate on work."

- "Why are you talking to me? Talk to her. You are not dreaming about my knees."

- "Please, Mira. Help me. You are my only friend here. I don't want to ruin the friendship Kristina and I already have. I have never cared about any other woman so deeply before. I don't want to offend her but I am only a human being, flesh and blood. And she is the only purebred around here. The rest are cows."

- "Well, thank you. Usually, my friends don't call me a cow."

- "Mira, don't fish for compliments. I am desperate. I don't want Kristina to think this is one of those cheep office love affairs, but I must move closer to her. I love her."

- "You don't have to tell me. I already know. The whole corporation does. It's pretty obvious. Kristina is probably the only one who doesn't know it yet. But that's her. She lives in her own world, very beautiful and unreal. I guess, she is an idealist, just like you. But you do come from two different worlds and it would take a very powerful love, your love, for those two worlds to come together."

- "You are right. But what do I do? Better yet, how do I do it?"

- "I don't know. You'll have to figure that out yourself. But I'll tell you what she once told me. That may help. Do you know how a she-wolf picks her mate, the best suited mate for her?"

- "No. How?"

- "That's what Kristina taught me. The she-wolf runs as fast as she can for as long as she can, and all the male wolves follow her. One by one they get tired and drop out. The one that does not quit is her match, the most suited to be her mate. You may be picked out in such a way, or not at all."

- "I love that. Competition. I can handle that, but I still don't know where to start."

- "First of all, don't think so much. This is not a science project. Just be yourself and let instinct do the work. If you're both ready, it'll happen. If not, you don't need it."

- "I am ready."

- "She will cooperate, I hope. The she-wolf will. The call of the wild, my dear. Good luck!"

At the time, I didn't know about that conversation, so when Dragan and I had to do some overtime work on Dostoyevsky's "Brothers Karamazov," instead of spending hours in the office, I invited him to my home. My husband and son were out of town visiting my in-laws.

Dragan came on time, all clean, starched and pressed, smelling of good aftershave. He brought me a yellow, long-stemmed rose bud and a book on Picaso's Blue Period.

- "Thank you, Dragan," I started. "You shouldn't have spent money on me. However, strangely enough, you guessed what I like. It doesn't happen often. People always buy red roses, but I don' care much for them. Also, I prefer one rosebud to a large bouquet. It's probably strange, but..."

- "It's not strange at all. As they say, more is not always better."

- "I agree. The fact is, I grew looking at long-stemmed rosebuds in my mom's slender vases. Probably that's why I love them. But, you couldn't have known that."

- "In fact, I thought you must like them, since you had a silk yellow rosebud on your black satin dress that you wore for the Academy Award reception last winter."

For a moment, I was speechless. I believed men never noticed women's clothes, definitely not such details. Mom had always complained how Dad had never noticed her new dresses or hairstyles. By the time he'd notice them, they usually were old. The whole experience usually turned into an unpleasant one for both of them, since Mom reproached Dad, bitterly.

- "That dress is a real piece of art." Dragan was saying now. "You designed it yourself."

- "How do you know I design my clothes?"

- "First, because nobody wears anything like that. Superb taste, I'd call it. Second, your clothes looks like part of you, as if you were born in them, like Venus from the sea foam."

Embarrassed and flattered beyond words, to change the subject, I took his book on Picasso, and asked:

- "How did you know that I do not agree with the rest of the humankind: I respect Picasso's work, but I like only his Blue Period. Don't even try to argue. You will gain an enemy, if you do." I opened the book and found the picture of "The Old Man With the Guitar."

- "You see, this one was done for me. Just for me."

- "Sure. Although before you were born."

- "Later on Picasso got too busy chasing younger women."

- "And doing some pretty outstanding art work, if I may add."

- "All right, all right. Let's have some refreshments."

While I served juices, cake, and Turkish coffee, he was looking around admiring my home. He was impressed with my choice of the art work: a portrait of my son by Jakesevich, two watercolors by Emerih Fejes and two "music miniatures" by Cibe, a Mediterranean landscape -- an oil -- by Zhivko Stojisavljevic and, my favorite "View From Kalemegdan" by Mishkovic. I was reluctant for a moment, but showed him Jelena Vasic's floral "paintings" hanging in my bedroom: two landscapes and a lush, Rubenesque nude. I was so afraid he was going to say something brash either about my bedroom or the nude. I didn't dare look at him and was eager to leave the room. Strangely, he was quiet and only asked:

- "Do you know Jelena Vasic personally?"

- "Yes. I bought her nude from an exhibit she had two years ago, and the other two pictures are gifts from Mrs. Danilovic. They are good friends."

- "Did you know that Jelena was an excellent artist, just like her husband, before she developed a severe allergy to paints. Then she switched to flower and leaf collages. She is superb. Quite original, too."

In the conversation that followed, Dragan admired my antique furniture and large, lush plants. He proudly told me that he had built a wooden terrace in his home all by himself. After we finished the work, we pleasantly chatted some more, then, sitting next to him on the sofa, I showed him my high school photos. When the ones from the beach came, I covered them impulsively with both hands, not wanting him to see me in the swimsuit. A little struggle ensued.

I don't know how I found myself in his arms. The summer was still hot and I had on a sundries. One strap slipped off and he was gently removing the other.

- "No. Please, no," - I was more pleading than commanding, and a desperate wrestling ensued. I fought breathlessly, sincerely, out of a fear not known before, he with a desperation I could not understand but could sense nonetheless.

- "Please. I beg you," he murmured. "You don't know what this means to me. You cannot understand. Please, I will be indebted to you till the end of my life."

I didn't quite understand those words. And it was not the words that touched me. I had never known that kind of feeling with my husband. There had been no passion to speak of, ever. Dragan's desperation revealed loneliness akin to mine. There was no doubt about his sincerity. I knew that. There was almost nothing sexual about his need. Just a lonely, lost child at my mercy. My resistance broke down.

During the lovemaking, the torrent of his passion overwhelmed me. I was carried away, too lost to participate, almost drowned in it. We were both quiet, a bit awkward afterwards. Everything was changed. He was a different person: grateful and tender. Then he suggested we take a shower together. Hand in hand, like two children, I following obediently, as in a trance, more an observer, less a participant. He was in charge.

Mira had been right. He had no difficulties afterwards. The call of the wild worked powerfully and I discovered I was an equal partner. So, he was not in charge anymore but I was not -- didn't want to be -- either. For the first time in my life I was swept off and carried away by a big wave, swallowed by a high tide. I did not care about the rest of the world.

At first, sex was a discovery: I did not know something like that existed in life, only in the movies. As if we were made for each other, our two bodies, intertwined in passion and tenderness, were so perfectly tailored for each other, as in Rodin's Kiss, as in Picasso's Lovers, so natural, so beautiful, so exactly made for each other.

We were constantly hungry, longing for each other, while separated, kissing and lovemaking for hours when together. I felt, for the first time, that I understood what physical love and attraction meant and how powerful they could be. Watching Dragan approach from a distance, I would feel an intense wave grow and rise, spreading all over my body, bursting through all the cells... I was alive, so alive!

I knew each tiny muscle on Dragan's body, his tight, flat stomach, narrow hips, and beautifully rounded shoulders. He liked to walk naked -- his long, slender feet looking exactly like mine -- while he was searching everywhere for his cigarettes. Lying in my lap and smoking, he would explain his newest art projects. Then we would make more love, each time different, new, unexpected, better than in Kama Sutra, Dragan would comment proudly. He claimed that we had invented some unknown positions. I didn't care. I was happy and oblivious to the world.

Just as I knew Dragan's, he, too, knew my body better than a maestro his violin. His long, fast fingers like a pianist's played an orchestrated rhapsody, awakening my every cell in celebration of life.

When we became lovers, Dragan changed altogether. There were no traces of that arrogant, stubborn man he was before. His blue eyes were pouring love; he became selfless in total adoration of my whole being. It was as if seeing him naked and knowing his body, I knew his secret, too. Knowing his secret, I had power over him. I could never use it, though: the same powerful river was flowing through me and through him, enriching us both, making us participants in Nature's heartbeat. There was something so vulnerable in that perfectly shaped, sensitive yet athletic body, as if it were hiding a child, a child that never grew, never wanted to grow, still in search of his mother whom he had lost at an early age.

I sensed what he was really like and what he needed. My maternal instinct responded to the crying child in him. All of a sudden, I understood why he nervously moved his hair from his eyes whenever he felt insecure, like a lost, unprotected child. His hair was short, nothing to move from the eyes. That gesture was one of those "meaningless" but revealing details that have roots in our deepest childhood wounds.

Gradually, Dragan started talking more and more about his marriage. Perhaps because he felt safe with me, or because the pressures at home were getting unbearable. I was speechless at the immensity of the abyss opening in front of me. I never knew a marriage could be so devastating. Mine was not perfect, but it was not a living hell. It had a secret flaw, true. Outwardly, I had lived with it successfully, fooling everybody but my parents. All my friends and relatives believed mine was a perfect marriage. In a way, it was. My husband and I respected each other, I was fond of him; in his own way, and he probably loved me. He just never told me, it never showed in the way that I could understand. Maybe our temperaments were not matched, I explained to myself.

Our bedroom scene was the saddest part of our life together. Most of the time we slept in separate bedrooms, to get more rest (as I rationalized). My husband considered sex a natural urge, I called it lovemaking. For years I felt craving for warmth and intimacy, but since it wasn't there, I busied myself with other things: motherhood, career, studies, social life, telling myself that I had a good man for a husband and that life was never perfect anyway.

While my husband and I tolerated and respected each other, Dragan and his wife were engaged in a totalitarian war aimed at a complete destruction of the enemy. Once, unexpectedly, he told me, "You know, you are the only woman I dare turn my back to, knowing you wouldn't stab me." I understood, it was not about me, and the sadness in his voice told me he was not exaggerating. On another occasion, during our lovemaking, he said, "How wonderful it is that you do not use sex when you want to ask something from me." And then, once, he mentioned that he often slept with his child to make it impossible for his wife to pay him night visits when she wanted to ask for something. I didn't know what to think about his inability to settle it in any other way. I realized I didn't know anything about his life at home and wished it could have stayed that way. But nothing ever stays the same for long.

Dragan had completed me as a woman and I was grateful for that. There were days when life seemed so simple, so natural. It was as if I understood it finally. I was not an outsider in it anymore, but an integral (although tiny) part of a huge, rich and exciting universe, going with its natural flow. Finally I understood what sex was about and achieved that airtight intimacy that I had always craved. Often, however, I would have some vague fears of possible humiliating scenes in the office or at home, but always shunned them before they developed. I didn't want to think about unpleasant things. Life was finally good to me. But there were more and more situations that required lies. More and more complicated lies as our liaison progressed. For my birthday, thirty-six red roses appeared without a card and my husband hadn't sent them. "It has to be from the office," I murmured faintly. And during the winter vacation, for the first time, I did not join my husband and my son, but stayed in town. A special publication was being released and the office could not let me go, since some other editors were ill (I explained patiently). Sometimes, during the night, I would wake up, my husband snoring evenly, and think, "What if he finds out? What if Dragan's wife calls and tells him?" I almost expected something to happen, I just didn't know from where it was going to come.

One day, entering my office, I overheard a colleague, a fine intellectual poet, discussing Dragan and me, "I don't see what she finds in him, such a pure, refined woman? He is too low to clean her shoes."

I was taken aback. How painful it was to know that people gossiped about me. Naked and vulnerable, once untouchable and proud, now I was a conversation piece for people to slander or show mercy, whatever their choice. And yet, how right that man was. So often, I felt violated, smeared by my relationship with Dragan. Why did it have to happen to me? Why did I participate in it?

Other things were gradually becoming intolerable as well. I found Dragan's incessant smoking quite unpleasant and annoying. Everything felt sticky and dirty, as if covered with a sickening, invisible membrane. I had always been against smoking. In my whole family (as well as in my husband's) there had been no smokers for generations. Our families believed that smoking was a self-destructive behavior found in primitive and weak people, prone to addictions. Cleanliness was the way of life with me. My second nature. I hated the smell of his cigarettes in my hair, my clothes, and my skin. Only for a short while there had been other, strong influences that sidetracked me. Maybe I got used to the whole package called "Dragan" and didn't notice it that much. When the annoyance with his smoking re-appeared, it was there to announce the end. I just didn't know it yet.

Even at the beginning of our affair, I was conscious and turned off if he came from work and touched me without washing his hands first. The first time he had noticed that, he looked at me strangely, but didn't say a word. From that time on, he would remember to wash his hands, sometimes take another shower, too. That was when he "wanted to get under my skin." At that time he would have done anything for me. I didn't even have to ask. For instance, he was the only man who could chose a gift for me that I would really like. My husband never learned, though I had instructed him for years. Even with Dragan it gradually changed. So did I.

One day, I was returning home from one of my love meetings with Dragan, rushing by my husband straight into the bathroom to wash. "You smell of smoke like a Turk, " he commented. "And you have been taking a shower immediately after coming home. Only lately, never before." I couldn't tell whether he was stating the facts or letting me know that he was aware of something. "You are a very clean woman, I know that," he ended emphatically and with a finality. The way he emphasized the word "clean" made it unclear whether he meant physically or morally. I was almost certain he wanted me to know he was aware, but I brushed off the thought like an annoying bug circling around my face. There was no time to dwell on that.

More and more things in my relationship with Dragan were becoming unpleasant and quite different from what I was used to having in my own family. My husband and I had very similar family values. We approved and disapproved of the same things. We never showed disrespect toward each other, never verbally abused each other. Scenes, yelling, put downs, we knew existed in other marriages, never in ours. Dragan, however, often boasted about his "victories" in the squabbles with his wife. It was his everyday life.

Once he told me about his father throwing a dish of food all the way from the kitchen into the yard, when his mother had burnt it a little. "My father was a real man," was his comment about the episode. The story was so shocking to me, I was speechless. There had never been anything like that neither in my parents' marriage nor in my own. The longer my affair with Dragan lasted, the more it became obvious that everything but sex was a nightmare. I could have been happy on a deserted island with him, but in the world, especially a civilized world, I was constantly embarrassed if he were anywhere near.

Gradually, some other things became clear too. He had an unbearable temper. In spite of the great love he always expressed for me, he started abusing me verbally. At first, having had no experience with that, I thought it was because his life was full of stress and conflict. However, life was getting too much to bear, not only for him but for me too. He started adding to it. Less than perfect before, our marriages were openly collapsing now. There were people in the office to consider, too. It was terrible, especially for me: I had always been respectable and wanted to stay so.

While I suffered in a subdued way, restraining myself from the eyes of the world, Dragan reacted in his way. He practiced all the existing violent and self-destructive habits, including an attempt at suicide. I could not stand it anymore: neither the destructive relationship nor the humiliation and abuse. How did I ever find myself in this dirty, degrading quagmire? My reason told me to quit. Immediately. And I tried. It took several attempts, which in itself was unusual for me. I was determined, however, one of them was going to be successful.

Like people whom I had considered weak and pitiful, I found myself in an "off and on" relationship. We were splitting and patching up just like those "other" people who didn't have any dignity, taste, or self-control. When I found strength in myself, I would withdraw. My life would become cleaner, simpler, and almost happy. I felt relieved. I was in control of my life again and everything was all right with me and the rest of the world. But, after a while, I would also become aware that my life was empty and without excitement. Yes, I was busy, active as always, both socially and with my own family, but there was that gnawing feeling that I had no love in my life. I, who was constantly "adored" by men from a distance, didn't have that special one that made me feel complete. What was wrong with me, with men, with the world? "What are men for?" I kept asking. In bed with my husband I would feel raped, often cry, and he would not even notice. Luckily, he was not around much (his job included plenty of travel) and his sex never lasted more than three minutes. I found it to be a total waste of time. He reminded me it was my duty. We were married, after all. That I understood. I never felt it was anything else but a duty. I always fulfilled my part of the contract. But where was love?

Naturally, I would eventually go back to Dragan. At first our love making (that is how he called it, and that is what it felt like) made me happy. I discovered, we discovered together, he insisted, innumerable ways of making love. Together, we were tiny droplets in the powerful river of life, embraced in its natural flow. I found out what life was all about. Now I knew what other people had known all along. It was good to feel like a member of the human family. I became happy, radiant, creative and --finally -- complete.

During one of our perfect times together, I got pregnant. Dragan had been pressuring me to divorce my husband and I was telling him I could not do it. It would crush my husband, I knew that. He did not believe in divorce and he loved me (in his own way). Dragan would storm and go insane from rage and jealousy whenever we talked about it. Tired of it all, wanting to regain some peace and order in my life, I finally consented.

When I was sure I was pregnant, everything changed. The reality set in. Dragan told me he was not ready for the divorce yet, because he would lose his child in the process. His plan was to have his wife divorce him, so he could keep his daughter. They were inseparable. Dragan was clingy when he loved, I knew it by then. I could imagine how much he loved his child, the flesh of his flesh. His plan would take time, but would be successful, he assured me. In the meantime our child would grow and we would eventually all live together. Everything collapsed. I saw Dragan clearer than ever before. Yes, he was unpredictable, just as he had claimed. I could not trust him anymore. I was free. However, there was everyday life to deal with and the issues were urgent. A new life was growing in me. I felt guilty. I was absolutely sure, amidst all this confusion that I was not going to have my husband raise my lover's child. I had no respect for the lover who thought it was an acceptable solution. Everything corroded and started disintegrating.

One day, in the kitchen, I confronted my husband:

- "I need to talk to you. I am pregnant."

- "Are you sure? That is wonderful. It is time for another child," - he exclaimed, his eyes shining.

This was too much for me. I wondered if he was still unaware of the truth, or just pretending.

- "Listen," - I started, - "It is not as simple as that. I know we should have another child, but not this child. You cannot want this child. I will not have you raise this child."

I looked at him with all the pain, guilt and suffering in my eyes. His face, the face I knew so well in all situations, was looking straight at me from a distance of only three feet. His big, dark eyes, that I always considered beautiful because they were so expressive, were slowly changing as the knowledge entered his mind and slowly started casting a dark shadow over the light that illuminated them. My eyes didn't move from the scene. I had to end this nightmare of guilt and dirt, lies and deceit. I knew there was no marriage after this. With the trust in Dragan gone; I knew there was no future for my husband and me together either. All Wanted was to be clean and truthful again as before, whatever the price. I was determined to become clean enough to be able to live with myself.

- "I know you cannot live with me anymore. I understand. But I will not have that baby. I cannot. I feel that you should know."

When I finished, he turned around and left the kitchen. I sat there empty, drained of any thought or feeling.

I don't know how long it took before he came back and stood exactly at the same spot where the first part of the conversation took place. We were looking straight into each other's eyes again. His eyes were dark, and clear like a deep, calm lake when he said:

- "I think we should keep the child," and quietly left the kitchen.

We didn't keep the child. I couldn't. We stayed married, however, never again mentioning the incident. After that conversation in the kitchen we were more married than ever before. I also felt I finally knew my husband. Consequently, I could not bear the thought of Dragan. He disappeared both from my life and from the office, after a messy conflict with his boss.

It took a long, long time for me to understand why I needed that experience with him at all. And it took much more to forgive myself.