Reluctant Lover
The stone paths were carved deeply into the side of the steep white cliffs, their ragged edges softened by thousands of years of salty winds. The sun was shining brightly, the Mediterranean air providing refreshment. I could practically see Augustus treading the path ahead of me, head held high, his sandals shuffling over the stones. Geckos, green and grey and no more than five inches in length, slithered down walls in front of me on the craggy path, eyeing me with suspicion and pity. Who dares enter their domain? What poor soul would relegate himself to the arduous walk? Not a soul in sight to save me if I should tumble.
I remembered my mother’s inane suggestion, made with her readily available anger and fear, that I enter the local police chief’s number into my cell phone should I find myself alone and in trouble. “Who’s going to claim your body should you die on Capri? Your ex-husband or us? Your death would leave us in a very sticky situation with him.” I laughed aloud at the absurdity of the notion. Leave it to the fish below, to the hawks circling overhead, to the geckos to feast upon for months, I thought. I was thrilled to have the coastline to myself.
I had pulled the plug on a slowly dying marriage, and sold the house we had made into a home. He moved into the city, while I attended to the details of unraveling our intertwined everything. I packed up the antiques, the Oriental rugs and the paintings. He kept the Corbusier furniture and the copper pots. In the 14 years we were together, I never saw him cook one thing. I rented a small house, dumped the unopened boxes in the middle of the living room and left for Italy, unsure of my destination or aim. The bags under my eyes were dark and I was beginning to show my 40 years. I had numbed myself for the past months with copious amount of grass and red wine, hoping to anesthetize my aching heart.
I trudged along the path, trying not to listen to the constant barrage of voices in my head. Stone tablets dotted the trail, written in both Italian and English, describing the history of the various plants, trees, fish and birds. I duly read each of the dozens of engravings, thinking about the soul who had cast each one into the rock. Every detail was interesting and new to me. The woodcock can see in all directions without turning its head, as its eyes are set so far back. Thistle was used to make crowns for the drunken Romans, too inebriated to feel the pain of the thorns. Terraced agriculture was introduced by the Arabs, who traded goods and information with the Amalfians. I then stumbled upon the Reluctant Lover. A tall plant with a protruding spike covered in dazzling flowers of pink and white, it was said to coax even the most dismissive suitor.
I immediately thought of the Pig Farmer, but truthfully, he was always simmering just below the surface of consciousness. I carried him like a bag of rocks that I wanted to fling into the sea below. We raised beautiful swine together and made incredible salumi; he, his girlfriend and I. Our time together was intense and interesting and allowed me release from the torturous struggles and deep guilt at ending an old way of life. We got drunk together too often and he would say things to me that he didn’t have the courage to say sober. I fell madly in love with this eccentric, damaged, sophisticated soul. I spent months luxuriating in the sweet thought of him while fighting off the urge to throw him against a wall, and alternating between screams and whispers, expose my desires. I began to feel physically ill after time spent with him and his bland girlfriend, my deep disingenuousness sending me spiraling into blackness for days. She would tell me details about their love life, about how he never looked at her when they had sex, which was apparently anal and all of the time. I began refusing his invitations, which made him more adamant. One last time, he insisted I come to dinner, and promptly hung up the phone. I arrived and had several glasses of wine, only half-listening as he offered me his guest cottage while I found a place to live. He was excited about traveling to New York with me the following week, inquiring if I wanted to stay at his apartment in the city. While his tall, silent girlfriend dutifully cleared our dinner dishes into the kitchen, I was overtaken by an emotional tidal wave and told him that I loved him. “Not worth your time,” he stuttered, showing me to the door. Shaking uncontrollably, I saw myself home in a river of tears. He traveled out of town, leaving me to wail like my Arab mother-in-law at her husband’s funeral. I spent a week, sitting on the floor of my cold, dark and empty house, now under agreement to others, and wrote and rewrote him a letter of such intensity, I still shudder to think of his initial reading. He called many days after receiving the envelope, his voice high and tinny, almost childlike.
“We need to talk about the letter,” he said, a tone implying I had mailed him a box of dog shit. He went on to say he appreciated our friendship and hoped that it could continue. My ardent prose, so thoughtfully written through blinding tears of agony and ardor, had been given the kiss of death.
I wanted to rip the very thought of him from my mind. In Italy, I hiked and slept and read, hoping to regain my sense of self. I picked up an attractive stranger in a Roman bar and had dismal sex. I entered every church with an open door, a time consuming task in southern Italy, and laid my forehead against the cold marble and prayed to be released from his spell.
Guiltlessly, I cut the Reluctant Lover’s spike with my fancy French knife and placed it in the center of my journal, still vacant of words, to dry and be exposed; a talisman for a stronger moment.
