Thoreau Bound, page 38
“She’s not naked,” Thoreau answered.
“Not naked!” said Beatrice skeptically. “What do you call a woman wearing nothing but a cheap perfume? Topless as a mermaid, bottomless as a barmaid, nude as a ninny, starkers as a nanny, bare as a frolicking nymph? Not even dishabilled in those thin thong things that thespians thwang between their thighs?”
“Penelope is not naked,” said Thoreau, examining her clothesless body as he crafted his reply. “She is garmentally challenged.”
Beatrice laughed.
“Darling,” she said, “you do have a way with women and with words. But when it comes to actions — intelligent actions — you lack audacity. Pity poor Penelope. A woman will forgive every mistake that a man makes, except one thing. If she invites him to her bed and he refuses to go, then — depending on her self-esteem — she either doubts her beauty as a woman, or doubts his power as a man.”
“Beatrice,” said Thoreau, surprised how the mere sound of her voice could make him shiver. “There are some things I never had a chance to tell you.”
“Dear sweet innocent Thoreau,” she said. “Before you have a chance to say it, I know precisely what you want to say. It’s harder for a man to hide his emotional feelings than it is for him to hide his sexual ones. A woman in love has a soul like a mirror; a man is love has a heart as clear as glass.”
“Tell me, Beatrice,” said Thoreau. “Do men and women love in different ways?”
Her voice, supremely sensuous, felt and sounded like her warm lips trembling on his ear.
“A woman is completely alive,” she answered, “only when she loves. And everything between our loves is nothing, like the dark empty eternities between the stars. Know, dearest, that when a woman loves a man — when she loves him with her whole soul — her love is measureless in space and time. If he has been tender with her — tender in his actions and his words — she will love him and remember him for life. That infinite capacity for love is the heart of womanhood, the brilliant jewel of joy and agony in every woman’s life. ... And how few men — how precious few! — prove to be worthy of a woman’s glorious deep love.”
Thoreau wondered if every woman loved like that, or if that depth of love in women was as rare as true creative genius among men. Beatrice spoke again.
“Now, darling, that I’ve warned you about falling into follies in the future, let me attempt to rescue you from this foolishness that funks your present life. Hand the telephone to Dr. Heissundkalt. Don’t say good-bye; don’t tell me something cakey-sweet that you feel now but won’t feel one week from today. Chaire, dearest. Take the best care of yourself. Make your body strong and your heart stronger, so that when you meet just the right woman you will be just the right man.”
Just then, Thoreau realized that he had been thinking about Beatrice, brooding about Beatrice, dreaming about Beatrice, for the past seven weeks. He wanted to tell her that, and tell her as a poet would express it — with such power that she remembers it, with such sincerity she believes it, with such beauty it delights her like a warm fire in the heart. But his own heart felt like jelly, and the poor words he almost found melted in his throat like peanut butter. Silently, Thoreau passed the telephone to Gert.
“Dr. Gertrude Heissundkalt, this is Beatrice Loverly. We met very briefly at the WANDERBORE conference in Crete.”
“Ms. Loverly!”
“Call me Beatrice, Gertrude.”
Smiling with admiration, Gertrude waved and whispered to Karin.
“It’s Beatrice Loverly, from WANDERBORE!”
Karin’s eyes lit up delighted and amazed. She rushed to her sister then pressed her ear against the phone.
“It is so thoughtful of you to call,” said Gertrude.
“It’s my pleasure,” Beatrice replied. “The other day, one of our members rang me up. She informed me that your life lately has been filled with exceptional stress. Would you care to tell me about the situation, dear?”
A pause, a silence, and then Gertrude burst into tears.
“Beatrice,” she said, sobbing as she spoke. “My husband had been fooling around with other women. At last, when he put his hands on my sister, I threw him out. I thought I could find strength in the spiritual peace of Greece, and in the intellectual challenge of my work. Yet when a woman shrinks her mind, closes her legs and shuts her fists, she can never take the gifts from the goddesses.”
“And at the bottom of despair,” said Beatrice, “a man betrayed you, the goddesses snubbed you, but a passion for your work rekindled your feminine flame! Take a slow deep breath, then tell me about it.”
“One morning, my sister Karin came home and brought with her an interesting and problematic case. She told me that she had found a young man who had an overwhelming fear of women. He had lost interest in women, he could not become erotically aroused.”
Karin blushed as she rolled her eyes, then shyly glanced at Thoreau, who stared at her with astonishment.
“Worst of all,” Gertrude continued, “it appeared that he had a Santa Claus sex life.”
“A Santa Claus sex life?” asked Beatrice.
“Yes,” said Gertrude. “He comes but once a year.”
“I see,” Beatrice replied. “And I assume that with great personal patience and professional skill, you worked to cure him of his sexual dysfunctions and fears?”
“That’s right,” Gertrude answered. “I studied some cases in Havelock Ellis, I formulated a plan of action, I enacted that plan in extensive sessions of therapy. And now I can say that the patient is completely cured. The change is between Nacht und Tageslicht — night and daylight. Before he came to me he was a wreck, but now in bed he performs like a car parked overnight in New York City.”
“Like a car,” asked Beatrice, “parked overnight in New York City?”
“Yes,” purred Gertrude. “He is tireless.”
“You put your whole heart into your work, didn’t you Gertrude?”
“Yes, Beatrice. All my learning and experience were required to cure him. But then ... but then ... oh Beatrice, I am so ashamed!”
“You can tell me, dear sister,” Beatrice said.
“Then I committed the greatest sin of therapists: I fell in love with my own patient! Oh, it is so wrong, it is so wrong. But I was so lonely and confused!”
More sobbing, but these were the tears of a confession that would heal the wound.
“Beatrice, there is one more thing. I almost cannot tell you, but I shall.
... With my sister I am sharing this man in bed!”
“Now, Gertrude,” said Beatrice, “remember the words of our good Goethe: Geteilte Freud’ ist doppelt Freude — ‘A joy shared is a joy doubled.’ ... Gertrude, are you ready to begin your new life?”
“I am ready.”
“Good. Let’s work together and get this problem solved. The first step is to forgive yourself. You were vulnerable, you made mistakes — some significant mistakes — and inside yourself you have been suffering because you want to be sincere. But the past is frozen — we can never change it — and now you must accept it then move ahead. You can’t blame yourself completely: you were afraid of the future and you were lonely, and lonely women always fall into relationships with the wrong men.”
“Yes, Beatrice,” said Gertrude. “I see that and understand it now.”
“And what woman on Earth,” said Beatrice, “is immune to the charms of this marvelous young Casanova? ... His kind face and his two bright eyes could seduce a Medusa, and tempt even the most faithful wife. No woman can resist this man.”
“What can I do now, Beatrice?” Gertrude asked. “My life is ruined and it’s my fault. Das alles kommt halt über jede Frau: No woman can escape her fate.”
“Gertrude,” said Beatrice, “listen, dear. No woman can escape her fate until she first embraces it. You have made mistakes, and — because you are a smart woman — you can examine them, understand them, and then learn and grow. The secret of happiness is nothing more than this: Break the harmful old patterns, then choose to do the new good thing.”
“What should I do?” Gertrude asked.
“Start now,” said Beatrice, “by repeating a poem we learned at the conference. ... She who binds to herself to a boy ... ”
Then Gertrude answered: “Does the winged life destroy.”
Beatrice continued: “But she who kisses the boy as she flies ...”
“Lives in eternity’s sunrise,” Gertrude replied.
And then she breathed deeply and said: “Already, I feel so much better!”
“Of course you do, dear. The best medicine is truth. Now why don’t you come to England to visit me for two weeks of talking, healing, and exercise? Bring your sister and your daughter, too. You won’t be walled in: I have a cabin in the woods on a small lake, like that American writer, Henry David — lately I’ve never been able to remember his last name.”
Gertrude explained the offer to her sister, who listened attentively. Karin became so excited at the notion that she jumped up and down on the bed as if it were a trampoline. The sisters hugged each other, grabbed the hand of Nikola, then ran out the bedroom door to pack their clothes. Karin ran back in, kissed a small kiss onto Thoreau’s cheek, promised she would send a postcard, then scurried out through the doorway.
Thoreau sat stupefied. Was this Karin the same woman who last night swore to love him for as long as Germany had beer?
“Glück auf den Weg!” Thoreau shouted. “A pleasant journey to you!”
Penelope picked up the phone. She chatted and laughed with her friend Beatrice, then said good-bye with a promise that she would write soon.
“Well, Thoreau,” said Penelope. “We’re alone at last, and we have a nice soft bed. Shall we enjoy ourselves for a few hours, or should I sigh like the thousand virgins and get dressed?”
Thoreau threw the floored clothes at Penelope, and Penelope tossed a robe to the young man.
“You need a vice, Thoreau,” the woman said. “You’re too good, and this world gives too much trouble to the people who are good too much. If it wasn’t for me and for Beatrice, you’d give up on this worldly world and retire to a goddamn monastery. Pame: Let’s go! Pack all your books and things, say good-bye to this lazy bad-for-the-ass life, and then meet me outside on the doorstep.”
“Where are we going?” Thoreau asked.
Penelope grabbed some food from the tray, then placed a motherly kiss on his forehead as she answered.
“Home.”
39
Sunsets in Agia Souvlakis
Agia Souvlakis is a tourist-fishing village on the south coast of Crete. Studied by anthropologists, the village might be viewed from four perspectives. High above, the rocky coastline and the quiet beaches stretch eastward many miles toward Paleohora, and westward two miles to Dembacchae. Moving closer, observe a few dozen white houses protruding from the hillsides like teeth from ninety-year-old gums. From the paved road higher above we cruise into the town-center — blink twice you’ve missed it — with a bank, a post office, a bakery, two cafés, two restaurants, one food store, a bus station, a half-star hotel, and a small church with a loud bell that rings weekly, on Sunday mornings at nine. Walk from the town-center towards the water and you reach the dock, made of a huge slab of concrete jutting into the sea. The dock collects painted boats, black-capped fisherman, orange fishnets in constant need of repair, and wooden crates filled with shimmering fresh-caught fish.
Agia Souvlakis is picturesque. Yet it was easy to discover how and why this small town had become immune to the mad plague of tourists who perennially invaded the most beautiful places in Greece. Here, in Souvlakis, the prices of everything that could be bought were suspiciously inflated, and the natives who sold them — unlike Greeks everywhere else — were uninterested, unfriendly, unwelcoming. In all of Souvlakis, there was not one place to buy fast-and-loose women or food. Credit cards and checks were not accepted; the bank opened for a mere one hour every weekday; and the lone grocery store sold food and wine only in the rare moments when the owner felt in the mood to unlock his doors. In Souvlakis, restaurants closed at sundown, and the “deesko” — as the local Greeks called their café with a music jukebox — bolted its doors at eight.
Many visitors commented unfavorably about the dockside public outhouse: it had no door, and it smelled like it would have defeated even Heracles’s labors to make it clean. But the greatest discourager of all was the half-star hotel, for everyone who stayed there agreed that its rating was far too high. Without heating or air-conditioning, the rooms felt too-chilly in the evenings and too-hot in the afternoons. Sleep was made impossible by either the olive pits that stuffed the mattresses, or the chickens squawking on the roof. Toilets were not quite level against the wooden floor, and their seats not quite attached to the ceramic bowls. And whenever a guest turned on the water tap there was a strong chance that a small fish or a string-like turd would emerge, and then — before it could be accurately identified — sink into a glass of brownish fluid, or slither down the rusty drain.
Attracted by the seaside scenic beauty, many tourists arrived on the morning bus. But repelled by the lack of comforts and luxuries — and the complete absence of television — most of these tourists departed after a few hours or a sleepless night, seeking Crete’s northern cities for more excitement, louder music, flusher toilets, and cheaper booze.
Penelope tied a bunch of scilla flowers over her door — to bring good things to all who stayed there, and to promote fruitfulness, she explained. She took my hand then led me through the doorway of her home.
“Come in, Thoreau!” she said. “Come in, and be at home. You will like it here. It is quiet, but you can hear cicadas singing; it is simple, but the simplicity will bring you peace.”
In this white sandstone house with blue doors and blue window shutters, everything felt earthy, invigorating, and bright. I examined again the familiar three rooms: the storage room for Kosmos’s mule and supplies; the guest room now overpopulated with books and art; and the kitchen and bedroom where Penelope kept her wood stove, her cooking and eating table, and her small bed. The walls were still covered with sketches and words created by Kosmos, and onto these walls I added his latest inspired picture of the puffin bird.
On the kitchen table sat two basins: one filled with underwear in soapy water, the other brimming with green olives in olive oil and orange juice. Penelope stirred these olives; she placed two flowers into a vase; she opened her shutters to let more light pour in. Onto the table she placed a pitcher of pomegranate juice, nodded for me to help myself to a cup of the tart drink, and then began assembling ingredients to cook a meal.
“I’m going to welcome you with a dinner you’ll never forget,” she said. “A Cretan specialty: fava beans with onions, potatoes, tomatoes, spices and herbs.”
She stopped her work for a moment to kiss my cheek.
“I’m so happy that you’re here at last! Unpack your clothes and put your backpack under the bed.”
Glancing lovingly at the young man, and lustingly at the bed, the woman added: “Maybe we should have dessert first, and dinner afterwards.”
“Penelope,” I said. “can we discuss something?”
“You are just like Kosmos!” she said, in a bittersweet tone. “The world is waiting desperately for you to act, and there is always something that you want to discuss. And what does it mean, this discuss-ting word? It means that you want to tell me not to do something that I want to do!”
“Penelope, I’m feeling — ”
“What you are feeling at this moment, Thoreau, is called ancient Greek hospitality. Everything I have is yours: my house, my food, my heart, my body, and my bed.”
She led me to the bed then sat down there, motioning for me to sit beside. I sat on the chair instead.
“Penelope,” I said slowly. “I think that the best thing ... for both of us to do ... is to enjoy a platonic relationship.”
“A play-tonic relationship!” she shouted. “Is that where you dress up like a leather purse and then tie me up? ... What the hell do you mean?”
“It’s a very close and rewarding intellectual and spiritual friendship without any sexual contact. Like a brother and a sister, a bedless marriage of hearts and minds. A platonic friendship is a variety of love: Love from the neck up.”
“Your neck up, or my neck?” she asked.
“Both necks up,” I answered.
“Maybe it’s not as bad as it sounds,” the woman said. “There are a lot of things that I can do to you with both necks up.”
I laughed, and before I could say more, Penelope spoke her mind.
“Listen, Thoreau: if you wait for the perfect woman then you’ll never get involved in any good relationships, just like the artist who waits for the perfect moment of inspiration and never gets anything done.”
To continue her persuasive argument, she bounced off the bed, leaped onto my lap, and then circled her arms around my neck and shoulders.
“Lovely face, great tits, good-hearted sincerity,” she said. “The gods tell a man: ‘In a woman you can have two out of three.’”
That remark made my lips smile, a smile that I attempted unsuccessfully to hide. Of the second and third qualities, Penelope had ample helpings. I wondered if I would ever find three out of three, and brains, too.
Penelope reached her fingers through a hole on the bottom of the wicker chair seat, then pinched my rump so hard it tingled like stings from a bee.
“Ouch! ...Penelope, I’m trying to think about Kosmos now.”
“And I’m thinking about Kosmos every minute of every day,” she said. “How will it help him if the both of us are miserable?
“Penelope — ”
“Don’t Penelope me, Thoreau! I’m sick and tired of being Penelopeed! Just shut up for a minute and listen with both ears. If we don’t sleep together then people will talk. But if we do sleep together then the whole village will know it, and then the widows and wives and daughters will stay away from you, and all their jealous uncles and husbands and fathers will be your friends, instead of your suspicious rivals and bitter enemies. Under every rooftop is a sighing daughter and a lonely lusting wife. Trust me, Thoreau, it’s too dangerous for a man to romp like Casanova in a small Greek town.”
