Conversations with Strangers - 1. Conversations with Strangers

Conversations with Strangers

“Hello.” It was a deep voice, and richly textured: a lover’s caress that gently plucked the heartstrings. I gave a slight, involuntary shudder when I heard it; a chill ran up my spine and an intense feeling of dread welled up inside me. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again he was standing before me: a tall man, with an unshaven face and hair, once blond, now faded almost completely to grey. His face was severe, constructed of decisive lines and harsh planes. The long waves of grey at the sides softened it only slightly. I doubted that he had ever been called beautiful, but he exuded an aura of…strength. Towering over me, he stood proudly, as a fact, as a law of nature: immutable and permanent. I looked into his eyes – twin blue awls – and felt bare, utterly impuissant against this force confronting me. His stare radiated certainty, seeming to say that he had already overcome his greatest trial, that there was nothing more could be done to him. His gaze was penetrating, it was knowing, and it was distinctly uncomfortable. I did not look away. He smiled at me – a broad, lop-sided grin that was refreshingly human – and it occurred to me that I had said nothing at all. I let out a deep breath that I did not realize I had been holding .

“Hello.” I was proud that my voice was strong and steady.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“I already have a drink,” I mumbled, finally breaking our stare.

“Have another.” It was not a suggestion. “Two scotch and sodas,” he called to the bartender.

“May I sit down?”

“And if I say no?” He grinned, and sat down across from me.

“Are you here by yourself?” he asked.

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Who?”

“Someone I once knew.”

“But don’t anymore?”

“I’m not so sure.”

“A friend?”

“I wouldn’t call him that.”

“What would you call him?” he asked.

“A bastard son of a whore?” I offered with a shrug. He laughed; it was a mirthless sound.

“Why are you here then?” His deep voice carried that same note of authority; he expected an answer.

“I came because I had to come,” I said after a moment. Confusion flickered across his face. I counted that a victory, though I could not say why.

“I don’t understand.” In that instant he changed, or my perception did. His face was different now – less, somehow. He seemed ordinary; that was a disappointment.

“Then I cannot explain it.” An uncomfortable silence fell while he stared at me appraisingly.

The silence dragged on until finally he asked, “Do you love him?”

I did not answer immediately, did not know how. I took a long swallow of scotch. “If I know what love is,” I said at last, “it is because of him. And if I have hated anyone, I have hated him. It is difficult – perhaps impossible, now – to pick just one emotion from the maelstrom. Love and hate are inextricably tied together for us, I think, like two sides of a coin.”

“That is bleak.”

“It is honest,” I replied. “It is the price I paid.”

“The price of what?”

“An ephemeral happiness,” I said quietly.

“Was it worth it?” His eyes demanded a response, but I steeled myself and met his gaze unflinchingly. I did not answer, would not. In the dim light of the bar we studied one another openly, each searching for a crack in the façade.

“What was he like?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“He was unique,” I said simply. “Unlike anyone else I have ever known. He was eccentric, and often bizarre. Always brilliant, and occasionally even wise. His is the kindest soul I have known. And the cruelest.” That seemed paltry, trite, inadequate. I fumbled for words, but none came. “Of course, you shouldn’t trust me – I’m quite incapable of seeing him objectively. I saw an idol, an intellect, an ideal. I saw a kindred, and a saviour. I saw greatness. For all of that, though, I’m not sure I ever just saw a man.”

“That is a great deal for anyone to live up to.”

“Too much,” I agreed.

“Do you remember the beginning? What was it like?” I did not answer immediately, instead taking a long swallow of my scotch. I set down my glass and studied his eyes. They were nearly

incandescent in the dim light, and utterly inscrutable. I would have given much to know what lay behind them. “Tell me. I want to know.”

“My first thought,” I whispered, “was that god’s face was handsome.” I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the sounds of the bar. For a moment, I allowed myself to remember. Knowing that it would never - could never - happen that way again was shattering.

~*~

Eyes – eyes like blue fire – are what I first remember. I was sitting at the window of a cramped little café in the market, he was playing the guitar and singing, and I was not even listening to him. It was mere chance that we were both at that café, that our eyes happened to meet from across the room. I glanced in his direction, perhaps intentionally, perhaps by mistake – I no longer recall – and luminous orbs transfixed me; I suddenly became acutely aware of the blood coursing through my veins. I could feel it in every part of my body, pulsing faster and faster until an unbearable torrent rushed through me, pounding at my skull, threatening to burst from my veins. I couldn’t think; my knees began to buckle. All I could hear was his voice, preternaturally loud, drowning out all other sound. And what a beautiful, haunting voice it was, able to capture every facet, every nuance of human emotion. The guitar ebbed and flowed with his voice, sometimes fading into the background, and sometimes surging up around his voice in moments of breathtaking beauty. I shut my eyes to escape the intensity of staring into his, and I just listened. I can only call it a catharsis.

When I opened my eyes he had finished playing and was still looking at me with those eyes. He started towards me and my field of vision narrowed until all I could see was his face. I blinked once, twice. Had he spoken? I looked down and saw his hand extended. I reached out to shake it, very aware of the sweat on my palms.

“Hello,” he said politely, barely loud enough to audible. “What did you think?”

“There…are no words,” I whispered hoarsely.

He said nothing, but smiled. It was a lovely smile, utterly transforming a hard, angular face. “I could play some more of my stuff for you. If you’d like.” His voice was faint enough now that I had to lean close to hear. It had a soft, slow cadence: each word distinct and mesmerizing. We were close enough that I could feel his breath on my forehead. I did not even think to speak, could not. He grabbed my chin and gently tilted my head up until our eyes met. I felt my knees tremble. And then he kissed me – softly, passionately, intimately.

~*~

“The first is always the sweetest.”

“And the most bitter,” I murmured.

“I do not think the man you remember is coming tonight.”

“No,” I said reluctantly, “I do not suppose that he is.”

“Can I buy you another drink, then?”

I nodded. ”Another scotch.” He stood up to get the drinks while I pondered my next move. “Have you ever been in love?” I asked him when he returned.

“Yes.” I waited for more. “A long time ago. In a different lifetime, when I was someone else.” His voice was wistful, and he had a look of nostalgia. It was unseemly on that austere face.

“Tell me.” I used the same tone of command he had.

“He was young – perhaps too young – but with a depth of understanding that I’ve never found again. All I had ever desired was someone who shared the same wavelength, someone who asked the same questions I did. Someone to take the edge off the acute loneliness that was all I had ever known. I do not know how I knew it was him, but I knew the moment I laid eyes on him. He understood, as no one else ever has.” He sighed. “I’ve been in love a time or two since then, but my time with him is the only period in my life when I haven’t been alone.”

“The first is always the sweetest,” I said.

“And the most bitter.” He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. They carried a haunted, harried exhaustion. He looked old.

“What about now?” I asked.

“I have someone,” he said slowly. “Next month will be our tenth anniversary.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. What about you?

“Yes,” I said simply.

“It’s odd,” he mused, “that we should have so much to say about the first, and so little about the last.”

“Love is…different…when you’re older.”

“A more enduring flame, perhaps, but less bright.” His face was etched with sadness. He was not the same man who had first approached me.

“When I was young,” I said, after a moment, “I thought that being in love meant seeing only one another. It was only much later I learned that it means looking outward together at one beacon.”

“Those are very wise words.”

I laughed bitterly. “And yet they bring no peace of mind. I learned that lesson too late.”

“Too late for what?” he asked. I did not answer.

~*~

I sat alone at the window of my apartment, looking down into the street below. It was late, and drops of rain ran down the glass, obscuring the view of the city outside. It hardly looked real, rather like an impressionist painting – shifting, distorting, changing with every glance: a dream, or the fading recollection of one. I knew that if I looked closely I would discover that it was not people and cars and office buildings I was seeing, but ephemeral, transient brush strokes – beautiful and intensely intimate, but ultimately different for each observer.

Sipping my wine I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of the city outside. I heard a car horn, a baby crying, the awful screech of metal grating against metal. Those were real, concrete, not open to interpretation - comforting in their ugliness. I reached down beside me and picked a crumpled piece of paper from the floor. I unfolded it and did my best to smooth the creases, though I knew the words on it by heart.

I do not know where to begin, or what to say. I know that you will understand, even the things I cannot bring myself to put to paper.

And I also know that that understanding will be a poor salve. I want to ask you not to hate me – to forgive me, even – but I have no

right to do so. I owe you better than this letter, but it is a debt I cannot pay in full. Not yet. I will only say thank you. Thank you for all

those things for which there are no words. Thank you for sharing what I thought was mine and mine alone. Thank you for walking

beside me. If I have had a friend on all this earth, you have been a friend to me. There is one other thing I wish to say, something I

have never told you, but which I wish to finally say to you: I love you. I always have. I don’t doubt that you knew – that you know –

but I am sorry I never said it before know. If you can forgive me anything, forgive me that. There is so much more I could say, so

much more I want to say, but it seems unnecessary now, for you know me as you know yourself.

Adieu, mon ami. Adieu, mon coeur.

There was no salutation, and no signature – only the most tacit acknowledgement of what had passed between us. Crumpling the letter in my fist, a choked sob escaped my lips. I threw my wine glass and it shattered against the wall in a shower of glass and wine. I could contain it no longer; I screamed until I was hoarse.

~*~

“Why have you told me this?”

“Catharsis, I suppose,” I replied. “It has been a heavy cross to bear. And there is no one – has never been anyone – to share that burden.”

“I thought you’d found someone?”

I laughed scornfully. “He does not – cannot – understand. He does not see as I do, does not feel in the way I do. I’ve been lonely my whole life, whereas I do not believe that he even knows what the word means. Not as I understand it.”

“Few do,” he said quietly. “People think that they do, but they do not. They do not understand that companionship – or the lack thereof – has nothing to do with being lonely. They equate loneliness with being alone but do not understand that loneliness can be at its worst when you are in the midst of people who love you. Knowing that your loved ones do not see as you do, do not feel with the depth, the intensity, that you do, that is loneliness. To be extraordinary, in the company of the banal: that is loneliness.”

~*~

“Hey!” I shouted at him from across the street. He turned and I knew that he saw me, though his expression never changed as I walked toward him. There was a boy at his side, whom I guessed to be no more than half his age. “You and I have unfinished business!” I watched him closely for a reaction but his face was unreadable. I could sooner forget my own name than that face, yet it seemed entirely unfamiliar to me. Eyes that had once been windows were walls. The boy on his arm looked up questioningly at him, and then at me. I stopped a few feet from them, daring him to ignore me.

“I think you must have mistaken me for somebody else,” he said smoothly. His face was cold, his eyes held no glint of recognition. A white-hot rage blinded me as he turned to walk away but just when it seemed about to erupt, it vanished as it had come. A stillness – a certainty – replaced the fury. I barked a laugh – mirthless and contemptuous.

“I know you, my darling,” I crooned. He froze mid-stride. “I know your daemons and your doubts, your devils and your deeds. I know your passion and your muse. I know you to your broken soul.” My voice was flat, hard, unyielding – each word driven in as a nail. He turned slowly to fix me with a cold, blue stare; his face made the stones look soft. I could have wept.

“And for that,” he said very quietly, “I can never forgive you.” His voice was like ice, and utterly unfamiliar to me. I backed slowly away from him; I had not prepared for this.

“And it is the most beautiful soul I have known.” It came out as a ragged whisper, torn from my throat against my will. At first I did not think he had heard me. But then his face crumpled in anguish, and for a brief moment I saw familiar eyes looking back at me, pleading with me. I turned on my heels and walked away.

~*~

“I understand.”

“You alone.”

“I am…sorry,” he said after a long silence. His face was haggard and worn, almost as though he were aging before my eyes.

“I know. I’ve always known. And you know that I am due more than that.”

“I…” he faltered. A pleading look entered his eyes. I stared at him coldly.

“Say it.” My voice was ice. “I want to hear it from your lips. Sometimes merely knowing is not enough. I want to hear you say it.”

“I’ve never said it, not to anyone.”

“But you will say it to me.” It was not a question. He nodded agreement, but fell silent. I watched him, unblinking. “You told me once that you owed me a debt. Say it, and I will consider that debt paid. It is the best offer you will get, and a far better one than you deserve.”

“I…I love you.” The smile on his face was genuine, and he looked happy for the first time I had seen; he was stranger once more.

“And I you,” I replied softly, lightly. I swallowed the last of my scotch and stood up.

“What now?”

“Adieu, mon ami.”

“Adieu, mon coeur.”