It's My Take

Two Polish Films

 

If you've been looking for something new and different in movies, anything which departs from the usual emphasis on special effects, constant remakes (e.g., The Dark Knight, 2008), and endless Indiana Jones sequels – in short, the kind of output to which we're being treated lately by our Hollywood studios – may I suggest a couple of foreign flicks. I'd had access of late to my sister's library of Polish-made films, and it's been a most gratifying experience: they're noteworthy.

Polish cinematography has nothing of course to be ashamed of. Ever since Knife in the Water made its debut at the 1963 Academy Awards, Roman Polanski had quickly established himself as one of the premiere movie makers in the West; and at the age of 75 he's still active. No less can be said of Polish writing. Aside from Joseph Conrad, whose numerous novels have been adapted into successful movie scripts [e.g., Sabotage (1936); Lord Jim (1965); Apocalypse Now (1979)], the more recent crop of Polish writers includes Jerzy Kosinski [e.g., The Painted Bird and Being There (also a movie)] and Stanislaw Lem (Solaris). And there's Czeslaw Milosz of course. But all these artists and their work have benefitted from uniquely Western exposure and distribution system. The films I have seen did not. Consider this a feeble effort on my part to remedy this defect.

 

 

PHARAOH

 

 

i

Pharaoh (1966) is a movie adaptation from a novel (Faraon) by the turn-of-the-century Polish writer, Boleslaw Prus. I can't comment on the book which I may or may not have read as a kid, only the movie. As regards the former, Milosz himself has described Pharaoh as a "novel on... mechanism[s] of state power and, as such, ... probably unique in world literature of the nineteenth century.... Prus, [in] selecting the reign of 'Pharaoh Ramses XIII' in the eleventh century BCE, sought a perspective that was detached from... pressures of [topicality] and censorship. Through his analysis of the dynamics of an ancient Egyptian society, he... suggest[s] an archetype of the struggle for power that goes on within any state" [see Wikipedia under the "Pharaoh (novel)" entry]. From the same source we learn further down that "in the course of telling his story of power and personality, he [Prus] produced one of the most compelling literary depictions ever of life at every level of ancient Egyptian society. He offers a vision of mankind as rich as Shakespeare's, ranging from the sublime to the quotidian, from the tragic to the comic. The book is written in limpid prose, imbued with poetry, leavened with humor, graced with moments of transcendent beauty." All of which, I suppose, makes Prus's work my next reading assignment. But to the movie . . .

ii

The title alone would have us believe that we're about to witness a spectacle of sorts, and in a sense 'tis so. Don't expect, however, the kind of lavish production reminiscent of Cecil B. DeMille's The Ten Commandments (1956) or William Wyler's Ben-Hur (1959). An epic it's definitely not, and when compared to those productions – with respect to such conventional elements of modern drama as costume, special effects and the crowds – the film, you might say, is austere, reduced to bare bones. The budget is always a factor but I think other considerations were equally at work, one of them being a healthy dose of historical realism.

Take the chariot, for instance. Modern fiction, aided by Hollywood-made movies, would have us believe that the chariot was a formidable weapon of ancient warfare. And while it may be true that by Nero's time, and for the purpose of gladiatorial games, the chariot may have undergone significant modifications in its general construction as regards its sturdiness and damage-inflicting potential. So it's not inconceivable that the chariots of those times would resemble the monstrous vehicles of warfare such as portrayed in Ben-Hur or the more recent Gladiator. Not so with The Ten Commandments which depicts the era of Ramses II (1279-1213 BC), the most likely pharaoh believed to have reigned during the times of Exodus. The reproduction above – a chariot removed and reassembled from the tomb of Tutankhamen (aka "King Tut") – dates back to 1333-1324BC), so it's highly unlikely that in so short a time the vehicle could have undergone a major transformation. And the same logic surely carries over to the times of Ramses III (1186-1155BC) – the hero of our story: his chariot looks so flimsy and poorly-made in fact that it makes you wonder how come it doesn't collapse from right under. In any case, it's still debatable whether the Egyptian chariot was primarily an instrument of warfare or whether it was designed with some other activity in mind, such as hunting. There is a general agreement, however, that the chariots used by Egypt's enemies – the Hittites, most notably, and other Mid-Eastern powers – were generally speaking heavier, sturdier in construction, and more adaptable to warfare. No doubt, topography had a lot to do with it: the deserts and uplands of Egypt were not suitable for heavy-styled chariots (see "The Chariot in Egyptian Warfare," Wikipedia).

As to the crowds, Memphis was no Rome. Though the ancient seat of the pharaohs and the administrative center of Egypt throughout the Old Kingdom – the population estimates vary from 30,000 inhabitants to mere 6,000 – its decline was near complete by the Twentieth Dynasty of the New Kingdom. So the sparseness of the crowd, while striking the unsuspecting eye (accustomed besides to Hollywood's idea of splendor) as somewhat incongruous and odd, is more in line with historical reality.

iii

But historical accuracy aside, the relative austerity of the scenery, and of production in general, serves a deeper, dramatic purpose. I think it's by design. Instead of the drama afforded by the grandness of the spectacle, we're treated to a drama of words. One thinks here of Hamlet, or of Richard III perhaps, in which plays (or movies adapted from said plays) the monologues and the soliloquies quite rightly precede and preempt all action and drama and become center-stage, although a comparison to the Greek tragedies – Aeschylean in particular – is, I think, apter. In those plays – such as in the Persae, for instance – the stage was delimited to two actors at a time, three at most, which had only brought forth the power of the spoken word; and it seems that Jerzy Kawalerowicz, the director, was after the same effect. Indeed, only in intensity does Pharaoh appear to depart from the Greek prototype: except for the heir to the pharaoh still reigning – the future Ramses III – the dialogue and the delivery lack in passion. It's only appropriate, however, considering that the chief antagonist of the youthful heir apparent is the priestly caste intent on holding on to their status of privilege. Stakes may be high but resolute and levelheaded, as becomes their class and position in society, they remain.

iv

The moral of the story? That insofar as humans are concerned, wielding of power requires wisdom, the greater the power one wields, the greater the need for wisdom. Secondarily, perhaps, that the purpose to which power is used is no exception. Indeed, even the most noble and worthy of causes – such as helping the people, strengthening the state, or the righting of justice – are no guarantee that the power so used won't misfire. Which calls for judicious exercise of power under all circumstances – aided by divine guidance, perhaps, as the priestly class would have it. Pharaoh is thus a tale for all times. But I won't tell you how the story ends lest I dissuade you from viewing the movie.

 

 

THE DOLL

 

 

i

The Doll (1968) is also a movie adaptation from a novel (Lalka) penned by the same writer. Which goes to show that good motion pictures proceed only from strong writing. The power of the image and the visual derive thus, so it would seem, from the power of the word and the author's conception as their origin.

The novel is regarded by many as one of the finest Polish novels ever written and, along with Pharaoh, made Prus a potential candidate for the Nobel Prize in literature. The influence of Zola is evident, and some have compared the novel to Madame Bovary by Flaubert; both were Prus's contemporaries. Upon seeing the movie, however, I'm convinced that Stendhal's Le Rouge et le Noir offers a more telling contrast.

ii

"Of course it's the women who keep the doors of society closed; they do not like outsiders to discover that there is nothing behind them" – so says Lord Steyne to Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair, the movie. The good Marquis forewarns thus the adventurous Becky, Becky the social climber, of the trouble ahead. And Becky's cardinal sin is, mind you, she's merely trying to improve her standing in society. God help those who commit a far greater offense and dare marry outside of their station, or those who become a party to such an alliance – like poor Rawdon Crawley, for instance – for theirs is the lot of disinheritance, infamy, even death.

Be that as it may, two sets of circumstances appear necessary in order for such an illicit union between a man and a woman to stand a chance in hell. First, at least one of the partners, if not two, must be strong enough to stand up to the pressures from his or her peers so as to persevere in the face of conventions. The inner strength and ambition on the part of the lesser of the culprits, in addition to constituting a dramatic element of the plot, is important insofar as it provides courage to the other; but the courage of the other party, the one who comes from a life of privilege and stands therefore to lose it all, is absolutely essential. The second requirement seems to be – there's got to be strong pressures, both from within and without, for the existing social barriers to crumble or at least lose their initial poignancy. Red and Black benefits from both elements – Stendhal's conception of his main characters and the defining historical moment (in this case, the ineptness of the Bourbon regime). Well, Prus's work is no different in kind. It is, in a manner of speaking, a variation on the theme.

iii

Consider the two plots. First, Red and Black [and I'm citing here from Erich Auerbach's Mimesis: the Representation of Reality in Western Literature (1953), p 454]:

Julien Sorel, the hero of Stendhal's novel Le Rouge et le Noir (1830), an ambitious and passionate young man, son of an uneducated petty bourgeois from the Franche-Comté, is conducted by a series of circumstances from the seminary at Besançon, where he had been studying theology, to Paris and the position of secretary to a gentleman of rank, the Marquis de la Mole, whose confidence he gains. Mathilde, the Marquis's daughter, is a girl of nineteen, witty, spoiled, imaginative, and so arrogant that her own position and circle begin to bore her. The dawning of her passion for her father's domestique is one of Stendhal's masterpieces and has been greatly admired.

And now, The Doll:

Wokulski begins his career as a waiter at Hopfer's, a Warsaw restaurant. The scion of an impoverished Polish noble family dreams of a life in science. After taking part in the failed 1863 Uprising against Tsarist Russia, he is sentenced to exile in Siberia. On eventual return to Warsaw, he becomes a salesman at Mincel's haberdashery. Marrying the late owner's widow (who eventually dies), he comes into money and uses it to set up a partnership with a Russian merchant he had met while in exile. The two merchants go to Bulgaria during the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-78, and Wokulski makes a fortune supplying the Russian Army. The enterprising Wokulski now proves a romantic at heart, falling in love with Izabela, daughter of the vacuous, bankrupt aristocrat, Tomasz Łęcki. In his quest to win Izabela, Wokulski begins frequenting theatres and aristocratic salons; and to help her financially distressed father, founds a company and sets the aristocrats up as shareholders in the business (see Wikipedia under "The Doll (novel) entry).

Needless to say, both love affairs end up tragic.

iv

 

So far so good and the parallels with Red and Black are unmistakable: Wokulski's ambitious, go-getter's nature and the aristocrats' willingness to tolerate the intruder and admit him into their circle, so long as he's being useful of course, are two such elements. True, Wokulski is not a social climber like Julien Sorel was, and his infatuation with Izabela is not a means to an end for him; but this is a rather minor detail, a matter of a different dramatic conception, perhaps, though leading to no less tragic end. Where all the parallels break down, however, is in the person of Izabela Łęcki. Unlike Mathilde de la Mole, who is a free spirit and sees through the superficiality and shallowness of her own social circle, Izabela is superficial: she sees Wokulski only as a plebeian intruder into her rarefied world, a brute with huge red hands; for her, persons below the social standing of aristocrats are hardly human. Interestingly enough, while The Doll takes its fortuitous title from a minor episode involving a stolen toy, readers commonly assume that it refers to the principal female character. Quite so!

Equally striking is the contrast between French aristocratic circles during the Bourbon era and those of Poland at the turn of the nineteenth century. One such factor has already been alluded to – "the defining historical moment." The French upper classes during the Restoration lived under the specter of the French Revolution whose gory events were still too vivid in their memories, too horrifying to ever forget, whereas Polish aristocracy was relatively free of any sense of the impending doom. Facing no such crisis as yet, they were basking thus in the aura of their own invincibility and false sense of security, which had made them even more haughty than the French were, colder, crueler and more insensitive, and less amenable therefore to concession-making of any kind. Consequently, they guarded their privilege with even greater ardor and zeal than the French did. (What they shared in common with the French was a definite disdain for the bourgeoisie.)

There were other factors besides – the least of all being the fact that the Poles have always emulated the French – the French language itself being the lingua franca among the Polish elite while Warsaw had long enjoyed the reputation as "the little Paris." And as is true of all who are given to emulation, they tend surpass the very model which serves as a pattern – especially as regards such aspects as artificiality and pretentiousness and, generally speaking, the least favorable of traits. Wokulski's eventual downfall highlights thus The Doll's overarching theme: the inertia of Polish society.

v

The characters, the attitudes, and relationships of the dramatis personae . . . are very closely connected with contemporary historical circumstances; contemporary political and social conditions are woven into the action in a manner more detailed and more real than had been exhibited in any earlier novel. . . . So logically and systematically to situate the tragically conceived life of a man of low social position . . . within the most concrete kind of contemporary history and to develop it therefrom – this is an entirely new and highly significant phenomenon.

So writes Prof. Auerbach of Red and Black and Julien Sorel (pp 457-8). Well, the same kind of tragic realism pervades Prus's work, and it's captured most wonderfully in the movie. As regards Warsaw, for instance, "it was possible, in the Interbellum, to precisely locate the very buildings where, fictively, Wokulski had lived and [where] his store had been located . . . . " (Wikipedia) Especially striking is the contrast between the salon life, all gay and carefree, and the life in the street where misery and hunger was the order of the day. In between the two extremes, there were people like Wokulski.

A compelling story masterfully transformed into film, unforgettable imagery, brilliant performances – what more can one ask of a movie? I heartily recommend it. To whet your appetite, I've included a link to a five-minute clip – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6E8e6-hkalA – compliments of YouTube. Enjoy!

 

PS: Both movies are available in VHS format through Amazon.com under "faraon" and "doll-lalka" searches.

 

 

 

As I Lay Dying: random thoughts on the creative process (among other things)

       

I

It had started innocuously enough. First, they picked me up from the gutter and fed me. Then put a roof over my head and clothed me. And then, they left me there to die.

No use telling 'em to stick to basics – just a room with a view, of my own preferably, so I could read and write. But no! They had to go the full mile. It's like that with people with money. They think money can buy you everything.

It's a nice pad, really – one bedroom, a functional kitchen, a decent size living room, even a den to do some writing and whatnot. Furnished, too, including pantry and the fridge. I won't starve for a month, that's for sure. Best of all, it's all paid-for. So who am I to complain? Compared to the hole in the wall I was in, it's a palace, any bum's dream. But that was in sunny California. This is H town.

It's been over a week now since I was left thus to my own devices, each passing day more difficult than the last, and I'm going nuts. No one to see, nowhere to go. I don't know how much more I can take. Which will go first, my mind or my will? It occurs to me they're interchangeable.

The two books they'd left me with I devoured. "It'll keep you busy for a stretch," was their word on departing. And they have – for two straight days and nights, too. I'm reminding myself there's more where it came from – two thousand volumes give or take, still in transit, many of them unread. It'll keep me busy for the rest of my life if that's how I'd choose to spend it.

Somehow, I'm not very hopeful.

II

"Which single book would you rather have knowing that you'll be shipwrecked on a desert island?" (Many say, "the Bible.")

It's a preposterous idea, completely out of touch. Likewise with Robinson Crusoe, the fable. Why bother trying to survive, let alone read anything, if you're destined to spend the rest of your life alone? Even hope would be useless, for any such hope must center about the idea of "beating it." That's why all the clinging and clawing and scratching. Indeed, only with the appearance of good boy Friday does the novel assume the aura of credibility. The Lord of the Flies is by far a more realistic portrayal. For all the inherent evil and the darkness of human heart, both thinly veiled by upper-class upbringing and the veneer which is civilization, at least the boys have one another. They form a community.

Aristotle had once said that man is a political animal. Utter nonsense! He's a social animal first and foremost. It's not a great book that will keep you from going insane on a desert island, no musical composition or the finest work of art, but human interaction. Barring that, you'll have no chance in hell.

III

A scene from The Cardinal of the Kremlin, by Tom Clancy, comes to mind. It's a new KGB, more humane, above such methods of extracting information as torture, waterboarding, and whatnot. Sensory deprivation is the latest thing. They put you in a tank for a day or two, and you're floating. No sense of gravity to tell which side is up or down, no bodily movements to orient yourself by. You're in total darkness, deprived besides of all sound except perhaps the beating of your own heart; and after a while, even of that you're not certain. Yet your mind keeps on racing as never before and your imagination is at its most active, craving for input, any input, but none is forthcoming. You experience nothing except your own disembodied self. Soon enough, even this you begin to doubt. Am I dead or alive, in heaven or in hell? Any sensation, even excruciating pain, would be better, infinitely better and more welcome, than the state you're in. And so it was with Svetlana:

She was lying on a gurney when he got there, the wetsuit already taken off. He sat beside the unconscious form and held her hand as the technician jabbed her with a mild stimulant. She was a pretty one, the doctor thought as her breathing picked up. He waved the technician out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

"Hello, Svetlana," he said in his gentlest voice. The blue eyes opened, saw the lights on the ceiling, and the walls. Then her head turned toward him.

He knew he was indulging himself, but he'd worked long into the night and the next day on this case, and this was probably the most important application of his program to date. The naked woman leaped off the table into his arms and nearly strangled him with a hug. It wasn't particularly because he was good-looking, the doctor knew, just that he was a human being, and she wanted to touch one. Her body was still slick with oil as her tears fell on his white laboratory coat. She would never commit another crime against the State, not after this. It was too bad that she'd have to go to a labor camp. Such a waste, he thought as he examined her. Perhaps he could do something about that. After ten minutes, she was sedated again, and he left her asleep.

IV

I'll never understand a recluse. It's a genetic defect or product of maladjustment. Both perhaps. How can people like that go through life is beyond me.

A writer's retreat is another oxymoron. And I don't mean "workshops" for they are community. I mean rather the condition of self-imposed solitude, as when you withdraw yourself from your natural habitat for art's sake. All art on my view is a by-product of interaction – the artist's response to his or her environment. To deprive oneself thus of the needed stimulus is not only foolhardy but ill-fated as well. It's like removing from under you the ground you stand on or extinguishing the fires. Memory is not enough. You need constant egging and agitation, aches and pains, a sense of accomplishment born out of struggle, agony and ecstasy, intensive engagements and strategic withdrawals. Like the rhythm of life itself with all its ebbs and flows. A creative process must reflect such a cycle since art is life in miniature. Otherwise, it's sterile.

V

There's no greater punishment than solitary confinement and no hope of escaping it. Give me a rowdy prison or Solzhenitsyn's gulag, sodomize me many times over, but don't deny me your presence. A concentration camp would be better than the jail I'm in.

I think of God as I write this, and I cry. All-consciousness and no one to share it with, all in vain for lack of connection! The Creator exiled from her own creation. There's no greater pain, no greater loneliness, no greater suffering. Hell would be a thousand times better. I pray there are angels in heaven – for God's sake!

Why then do I bother to write under these conditions? Right now it's the only meaning I can attach to life, my only connection with my past, my present, and even less certain future.

VI

I must diagnose my present condition, put a finger on what exactly is ailing me, identify the cancerous growth and remove it. I know that sitting on my ass all day long or twiddling my thumbs ain't going it cut it. It's a recipe for disaster.

As long as I remember, I was never conscious of time. There was never enough of it in a day to do all the things you wanted to; if anything, I'd always run out of time, wondering all along what I'd done with it, when and where I'd squandered it. But now? Time has become my constant companion, a fellow traveler, a shadow. And I can't seem to get rid of it; whichever way I turn, it keeps on following me like a phantom. It'd become my worst enemy in fact. Imagine – all the time in the world and nothing to do!

I'm thinking of strategies. Perhaps if I introduce rigor into my life, I might beat it. For all the drawbacks of living in a rural town, there are some advantages. For instance, everything's spread out. Just think: the nearest liquor store, two miles from my involuntary confinement; a smoke shop, mile and a half; a full-service supermarket, another two miles give or take. But you get the idea. So daily walks, I'm thinking, along with upper-body workouts, and I'll be in shape in no time. I realize it's artificial to be structuring your life so – it's so foreign to me! – but I have a bigger fish to fry. And now the immediate object, it seems to me, is to overcome the lethargy that's slowly setting in and taking over, a kind of numbness which gradually descends on both body and soul and is reminiscent of dying. A self-imposed regiment and Spartan lifestyle may well be the ticket.

VII

There's still the matter of quality. One would think an artist could create in the midst of turmoil, that some of the best works are born in fact out of some such and no other circumstances. Nothing could be more false! Where one usually goes wrong here is about the nature of the struggle: it's not with oneself but with the material. And while emotional conflict, hopelessness, despair, any of the above, may serve the artist as a necessary backdrop – indeed, as a powerful resource for the work in progress! – there's also a sense in which that struggle must essentially be over. In short, one must first come to terms with oneself, with his or her own situation, before one can tackle the extraneous problem of taking control and giving shape to the composition. Clearly, I've got a long way to go. Hence this frantic effort to pull myself by my own bootstraps and stress on the physical.

Yet I know I'm deluding myself. It's not my body that needs overhauling but my mind. Total catharsis! Mind and spirit has always been the prime mover for me, the body merely following. So let me just plug away with my writing though I know it stinks. Who knows, I might surprise myself one day and have a good laugh.

VIII

I intend for this work to be autobiographical after the manner of Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer – a kind of mélange of personal experiences and reminiscences put together into a coherent whole. I realize it's a tall order, him living in the City of Lights and I in H town – no colorful characters here, no memorable episodes, no heroes, least of all, no city which always holds its allure and forever keeps you captive. Right now it's just a diary – how well I know it! – a veritable record of my wretched state of mind, but give me time. Contrary to popular belief, Solzhenitsyn's Gulag was not a random collection of notes hurriedly jotted down on sheets of toilet paper but a reconstruction. Well, I'm in the same boat more or less, imprisoned with no means of escape. And I, too, hope to put these notes to good use someday, to make them into a readable whole, one that's compelling and flowing and all that. But first let me throw this albatross off my neck so I could breathe again. I've got to get back to the rhythm of writing. How else am I to justify my existence?

Meanwhile, I'm beset by images from the past. The other day I dreamt of Alameda. Apparently, I was visiting there with the idea of returning. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, typical California weather. It seemed like a holiday or a Saturday at least, and the signs were abundant. Park Street was a real promenade, teeming with life and people strolling leisurely with no care in the world. I ran into Nick and Yvette. When I told them I'd moved to Kentucky, Nick exclaimed: "How could you do such a stupid thing?" I wanted to play chess but they had other plans. They promised though to call me the next day so we could have a few games.

And then there was Nancy. As she boarded the bus I was on, imagine, we started talking. She was as real as can be, every single aspect of her from head to toe, her voice and smile, too, so real in fact I felt I could almost touch her. It's been long since my dreams were this vivid. It's my mind, I guess, compensating for the unreality which surrounds me.

IX

In Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller remarks: "It is not difficult to be alone if you are poor and a failure. An artist is always alone – if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness."

It may be so. Consider, however, that Miller is residing in Paris, his true home. He's got plenty of friends among the émigré community, friends who sustain him through dinner invitations, conversations and whatnot, even if he is on the bum. And when worst comes to worst, Paris itself can become a friend. Hence the corrective: "Loneliness" doesn't work with "being alone" as a backdrop. Quite the contrary, it needs stimulation in order to be effective. Intensive engagements and strategic withdrawals!

But I had better stop my ramblings and thoughts of self-pity. Better times are sure to come.

       

PS: This was written on July 3, barely a month into my stay here, and was to be the opening chapter perhaps of my next work of fiction. Needless to say, I was still going through a rather difficult period of adjusting myself to living conditions so different from those in California and was at my lowest. Since then, my books and computer have arrived and I'm slowly regaining inner composure and sense of self. Consequently, I no longer feel trapped. (Which isn't to say I don't miss the social scene. The kind of sociability one can almost take for granted in Northern California, here one has to forge. And it ain't easy!) Besides, I've also made peace with my benefactors. Taking the lead from good ol' Atticus Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird), I've come to realize that to really understand people you've got to get in their shoes: For it's not only the case that most of us can't help who we are; when all is said and done, "most people are [real] nice . . . when you finally see them." And I'm trying to live up to this truth insofar as my nature and temperament will allow.

So why publish a piece which no longer reflects my true emotions and feelings? For one thing, I believe it contains some valid remarks on the nature of the creative process. More importantly, however, because it reverberates the main theme of my once feature article ("A History of this Blog"), as well as my early impressions of Kentucky life (as in "Postcard from Kentucky," for instance). As regards the latter, check out the local paper, Kentucky New Era, for local touch and flavor (see the link below or the margins). For good measure, I've also included an RSS feed from The Tennessean. Music City, USA.

http://www.kentuckynewera.com/

       

       

       

       

    

The Disappearing America

[What follows is a chapter from my first novel, Memoirs of a Secret Agent: a cautionary tale. Though written during the first term of the Bush administration, it's still relevant in many respects so I thought it might be fun sharing it. Stanley Crawford, a Homeland Security operative, has a brainstorm after hot sex with his new love, Doris McKenzie. (There is nothing like a boudoir for full self-disclosure.) Section III is the pertinent one in that it expands on some of the ideas expressed in an earlier blog (see A History of this Blog: in search of an anchor, August 14); sections I, II, and IV provide the backdrop. It's an "expository lump" and a rather long one at that, but I think it works.]

 

I

The descent from heaven to earth, from the sublime to the trite, is a long, multistage process. It's as though you had to travel through many stratospheres – not unlike a space capsule, perhaps, on its way back from deep space, except for resistance. It's a kind of free fall, but then again, it's painstakingly slow, unaffected by gravity, almost imperceptible. The floating metaphor comes perhaps the closest. Just as a particle of dust must settle sometime, only no one knows where or when, so must two humans who have tasted eternity. The climax itself is violent, explosive, a one-time experience – indicative perhaps of breaking a barrier. The aftermath is anything but. It's a state of contemplation, tranquility, of both peace and euphoria, of awe and reverence – all-transcending, a product of having been brought face to face with the divine. You can't navigate on your way down. The ship controls are on automatic. You can only marvel at the spectacle of descent and partake in the entire experience. You're in a trance. When you come out at last, you've landed.

We were both in a state of limbo, of suspended animation between two worlds. Except for holding hands, our bodies would barely touch but we were closer than ever, much closer than during any physical contact before or after. It's as if our souls, our entire beings – minds, bodies, feelings, emotions, reasons – were all conjoined in some inextricable way. We both knew we could never again replicate the experience. We could only reenact it.

There was no need to talk, no place for gestures physical or verbal. We both knew what had happened. Any action, comment, remark, observation, statement, anything at all, in addition to being superfluous, would only desecrate the experience. Perfect silence was the only mode available to us, the only proper form of celebration, the only way of being.

For a long while, there was nothing but the sound of slow, rhythmic breathing and the beating of hearts.

II

We stayed in bed, the same bed in which just a while ago we could only fuck, make love, enact and reenact our carnal desires and innermost wishes, practically devour one another in pursuit of our sexual appetites and fantasies, healthy or otherwise, wholesome and unwholesome, giving each other pleasure in whichever way we could – all in the name of love. That was the pinnacle of our understanding back then, the most we could hope for, the limits of what we had thought possible.

But it wasn't the same bed. All those things were behind us now. Even love, as we had conceived of it then, seemed unimportant, trivial, a mere steppingstone to a more perfect state, embracing as it were not just the two of us but the world at large, all forms of life, all objects animate and inanimate, the entire Cosmos in fact.

And so we stayed in the same bed in perfect communion, wondering, thinking, sharing. We were at another plateau.

III

Intermittently, we talked. I'd speak of the disappearing America – of the idealistic sixties, of the Kennedy years and Peace Corps, of the flower generation, the hippie revolution and Vietnam of course, of the Columbia- and Watts riots, Wounded Knee, the Civil Rights movement and Martin Luther King, of the good ole corporate responsibility when jobs were plentiful, the unions responsible and the worker an asset, of times when we still had a strong manufacturing base and well-to-do middle class, when the label "Made in USA" meant something both at home and abroad, when greed, cutting corners and the bottom line weren't the only things that mattered.

I was a child of the sixties. She'd missed it by a decade. It made no difference, however. This wasn't like the earlier attempt when she had questions concerning specificity, context, where I was coming from. This time our understanding was perfect. It's as though our unified consciousness had spanned all humankind, beyond America, reaching to the very beginnings of history, even to Creation, well into the far-off, indeterminate and uncertain future. Our sensibilities were one – all-comprehensive, beyond borders and culture, beyond ethnic diversity or racial divide, beyond nations and nation-states, ways of power and all temporal things. It's as though God Himself had entered our very beings to impart this vision to us – bemoaning his erring children, ever-prayerful, ever hopeful.

She voiced concerns of her own. She spoke of the immigration problem which neither party would address and which had started making inroads into the local job market, and of outsourcing – a kind of process in reverse whereby jobs were being transferred overseas to places like India or Taiwan, where pidgin-English was preferable to retaining a higher-salaried, American workforce. It had started affecting the insurance industry, her own employer. None of us begrudged the rest of the world becoming enriched on the coattails of American prosperity. But was it right, we wondered, when it came at the expense of its people?

We both agreed this was still the best place on earth as evidenced by the invading hordes – people from all corners of the world, of every accent, skin color and culture, coming in droves, daily, legally and illegally. Nowhere else would they be rather than here. But for how long? And for what reason? We questioned their loyalty. What stake did they have in America? Didn't they come here just to rape her, to take their spoils, to squeeze her lifeless and dry, to make their money and run, only to leave her like some useless carcass, all-barren and in tears, when there was nothing else left to take?

It still was, we thought, the land of opportunity. But in the eyes of many, including many of its citizens, it was quickly becoming a narrowly-defined, almost vulgar concept, delimited more and more to the money-making proposition, to accumulation of wealth for its own sake, to enriching oneself by hook or by crook, to the devil-may-care type of attitude while the country and its people were going down the drain.

But that wasn't what America was supposed to be about. Freedom was. Freedom from government, from undue interference and excessive regulation, freedom of religion and worship, freedom to pursue your own idea of happiness, however construed, freedom to excel in any area whatever, freedom to become whomever you wanted to become; and yes, even the freedom or the right to disagree with your government and its policies, freedom of speech, the right to civil disobedience in the honorable tradition of Emerson and Thoreau. All these have been bestowed on us by our Constitution as our unalienable rights. Pursuit of financial or economic independence, both as a nation and on the part of its citizenry, though an admirable expression of that freedom, wasn't meant to preempt it, let alone cancel out equally worthwhile if not more admirable pursuits.

It has always been the beauty of America, its singular attraction, that it was never one-dimensional but accorded its people opportunities for full development in any area whatever – not just in accumulation of wealth but in arts, crafts, technical and scientific innovation, research, physical culture. All this was captured once by that unforgettable, though now defunct, phrase – "the American dream." Or by Walt Whitman's notion of America as an idea, as the great experiment, as the hope of humankind. And at the bottom of it all was freedom.

The creative energies, the American spunk and perseverance, its fortitude against any and all odds, its domination in the field of science and technology - all were a by-product of that freedom, its direct or less direct manifestations. But our golden age of television was long gone. And so it was with the Hollywood era, the times when we could still dream of heroes. The best in the American jazz hadn't seen its heyday since the sixties. And it was no different with rock 'n' roll, that all-American icon of pop culture: we couldn't think of anything memorable or noteworthy past the seventies. Even the best in musicals – the uniquely American invention of making Johann Strauss and opéra bouffe accessible to the American palate – have been of late either English- or French-originated productions: Andrew Lloyd Webber and Les Miz were a case in point. All have fallen victim to the vulgarization of culture, to reducing it to the lowest common denominator, to increasing the paying base, to selling out to quick profit and box-office success. Only in computer technologies and software development did we still excel, but there was a reason for this: because of a worldwide demand for ever-cheaper, better products, it was one area in which both quality and profit could still go hand in hand. Hence Bill Gates, presumably the richest man in the world and possibly the last icon of American excellence.

We didn't mind, of course, the rest of the world catching up. Ideally, we had both thought, all governments and human societies should emulate our way. The whole world would be better for it. But we weren't quite ready for "global government," charitable or Christian as such an idea might be. They haven't prepared us for this. Even less were we ready for our own government selling-out to international business interests and cartels. We were afraid of losing our country in the process.

And so we talked, and shared, and communed. We didn't need love or sex. Later, perhaps, but only as a validation, to reaffirm our perfect union, to seal this once-in-a-lifetime conjoining of mind, body and spirit, to celebrate our becoming with one another, with all there is.

What joy for a man and a woman to ever experience. What a foretaste of the divine. She was beautiful to me. I was beautiful to her. We were both beautiful and perfect in each other's eyes.

It was two in the morning.

IV

She had gone to the kitchen to fix us some food – scrambled eggs, bacon, whatever came to mind. We haven't eaten much throughout the day. Our bodily needs had been put on hold while our spirits soared, ever connected, to become united forever. Nothing would keep us apart. But the physical reality was reasserting itself. We were both hungry, nearly starving.

I followed her, naturally. I couldn't bear to have her out of sight. I watched the lovely figure, the figure of my beloved, from the kitchen chair behind. She seemed the epitome of efficiency, not a motion wasted, all her energies, concentration, effort, devoted to a single task. I admired her in all of her facets. She was a perfect woman. I pictured a perfect life.

We didn't talk much. We were still in awe of our experience, of our perfect union. She turned on the radio, a music station, perhaps to lighten the mood. After all, we were still earthlings, destined to live in a real world. We shall have our flights now and then. Meanwhile, we had to live.

I was figuring on spending a few more hours with her, of making sweet love until daylight, of holding her in my arms and kissing her tender lips. I knew she wanted the same. She, too, was eager for validation, for the sealing of what we had become, for consummation beyond all consummations. We belonged to one another now, thoroughly, completely, without forethought or reservation.

My only concern was a practical one, how to coordinate my work schedule with her living in West Virginia. No matter. I'd be commuting for a stretch till a more permanent arrangement was found. I knew I couldn't stay away. I'll explain to Gloria later. She must understand. As much as I had regretted it, for I loved her also, it was different with Doris. I was certain that Gloria would forgive me. If she truly loved me, she'd want me happy.

We were interrupted by a news bulletin:

A helicopter carrying Osama bin Laden, along with his presumed

bodyguards, was reported to have crashed somewhere over the moun-

tains of Afghanistan early this morning. Fortunately, an American

reconnaissance unit was the first on the scene. Judging by dental

records and other available evidence, there is no doubt that one of

the casualties was bin Laden. We're still awaiting confirmation.

The identities of the remaining victims of the crash and the purpose

of the mission are unknown at this time. Full-scale investigation

continues, and we shall keep you abreast of all new developments.

The president shall be giving a public announcement of this mo-

mentous event at 9 a.m. this morning, Eastern Standard Time, from

the Rose Garden. Full press-attendance and nationwide coverage by

most television and radio stations, including KXLU, are expected.

Stay tuned for further updates.

Love & Murder in Cyberspace: The secret life of Ms Galahad (Chapter 2)

 

The Secret Life of Ms Galahad

 

Thursday morning, November 16, I got a phone call. It was Becky, Jake's secretary. The Galahad report was ready. Would I please pick it up, the sooner the better? The boss, she pleaded, needed the money.

I'd told her I couldn't wait myself. I was there in a jiff. Within an hour I found myself engrossed in the reading.

 

November 15, 2006

 

Dear Mr. Walker:

I must state at the outset that you presented me with a tough nut to crack. I've been in this business for scores of years now and I hope soon to retire, but never before have I ran into so elusive a subject. Ms Galahad must have the swiftness of Hermes, the cunning of Odysseus, and the ancient wisdom of Hera. She is a real charmer. Please forgive me for resorting to these banal analogies but they're true. Even if I didn't know you were a classicist at heart – remember, we talked about it a number of times over gin martinis at Roy's – I still would have employed the same language. None seems to fit better. So in a sense, Mr. Walker, you chose a worthy target. Ms Galahad is one of a kind.

Now to the business at hand. And here, I'm afraid, the situation is not quite so rosy. But first, some vital statistics.

 

Full Name: Nancy Roberta Galahad, no siblings

Date and Place of Birth: January 12, 1969; St. Paul, Minnesota

Parents: James Kilpatrick Galahad and Gloria Skeie

Present Address: 1327 Willow Street, Apt # 17, Alameda, CA

Telephone Number: (510) 548-0727 (unlisted)

Education: Graduated from St. Mary's Catholic School for Girls, St. Paul (1989); BA in Cultural Anthropology, University of Chicago (1996); MFA in Political Science, Mills College (2002)

Financial Data: Beneficiary of a trust fund set up by Ms Gloria Skeie ($250,000); a savings account of approximately $30,000 with World Savings; a credit card (Visa), $10,000 credit limit; a small checking account (Washington Mutual)

Criminal Record: None

 

Before I bring you current on Ms Galahad's present goings-on, I must digress for a moment. I've done some preliminary checking into her family history and let me tell you: it's not a pretty picture. She comes from a highly dysfunctional family, mainly due to her alcoholic, given to violent temper, father. James Kilpatrick Galahad acquired notoriety in his hometown – especially parts known as "the Irish District" – which is a feat in itself given the size of St. Paul. Hardly a day went by without his name making the police blotter or the local papers. Typical offenses were rather minor considering – barroom brawls, spousal abuse, disorderly conduct, things of that sort. It's their frequency that's staggering. To make a long story short, a restraining order filed by wife, Gloria (1981), was followed a year later by a no-contest divorce. Ever since, the child was in the sole custody of the mother while the father had mysteriously disappeared. The mother never remarried. Nancy was thirteen at the time.

Rumors have it that James Kilpatrick Galahad was given to molesting his daughter from a very young age. When the mother eventually found out – or at least began to suspect – all hell broke loose. It's rather significant that there aren't any domestic-violence complaints prior to 1981 whereas in 1981 alone there are at least five. Which lends credence to the theory of chronic child-abuse by the father and follows the usual pattern: it tends to spread to include spousal-abuse as well, both out of shame, I presume, and to keep the suspecting wife silent. Further support comes from the nature of many of James Kilpatrick's offenses: he's been known to frequent houses of ill-repute and a number of times had been arrested and cited for indecent exposure in front of a minor. In the interest of fairness, I must add that in each and every instance, these charges were dropped for insufficient evidence. Still, his long and despicable record speaks for itself.

Here is my take on what really transpired between the filing of the restraining order by Ms Gloria Galahad in 1981 and the divorce proceedings in 1982. For little Nancy' sake, the wife must have agreed not to press child-molestation charges on the condition that James Kilpatrick remove himself from the wife's and daughter's presence for the remainder of his natural life. That meant, of course, that he was never again to be seen or heard from by either of them, which tends to explain his rather mysterious disappearance. In my experience, it's not unusual in such cases for the mother to be protective of the child's welfare. Testifying in court about the gruesome details of a sex act with a parent can be traumatic even to an adult. There's no telling what irreparable damage it can do to a child.

All of this is unsubstantiated of course, in the realm of speculation. It needs hard facts to back it up. I'm confident, however, that I am right and if given enough time, I could get to the bottom of things. A stay in St. Paul for a day or two, another one in Chicago, and I'm certain I could clear this up for you once and for all. The question is, Mr. Walker, are you willing to incur additional expense – even more importantly, how much do you want to know and how badly do you want to know it? Since none of us can undo the past, perhaps we should let it rest. Call me and let me know what you think.

Before I bring you current, let me close this sad chapter in young Ms Galahad's life. Up and until 1982 she was attending public school. Then, there followed a two-year gap of which we know nothing. In 1984, once again we see her enrolled, this time in St. Mary's, a prestigious Catholic school for girls. She stayed there for the duration until she graduated in 1989. She was twenty at the time. For your information, St. Mary's not unlike a convent. The girls live and stay on the premises. Even at recess times, they're not allowed to visit their families, although visitors are allowed.

Which brings up two main points. First, Ms Gloria Galahad must have been rather well-to-do. A year at St. Mary's costs a parent nearly $40,000 – no less than some of the best Ivy League schools; five years represent a nifty sum of $200,000. As you can see, Mr. Walker, these figures quickly add up. There wasn't any divorce settlement to speak of, none at least involving any substantial transfer of money or property. James Kilpatrick was a drifter besides, a no-good bum who couldn't hold a job. He lived, one could say, off his wife's generosity and kind heart. Whatever she saw in such a man is beyond me. Perhaps he was attractive once. We'll never know, of course. In any case, all the money in the family comes from the wife's side.

The second point is more important for it bears directly on Ms Galahad's past – not to mention her present circumstances, behavior and character. As you know, most kids graduate from high school at the age of eighteen, not twenty. Nancy was a brilliant student besides, not only diligent but bright, and her transcripts from the University of Chicago and Mills College only bear this out: a composite 3.98 GPA from both institutions, magna cum laude material by any stretch. So repeating a year was out of the question. There is only one way to explain her delayed graduation: between ages thirteen and fifteen – the period immediately following her parents' divorce – she was out of school, public or private. There is no record of her enrollment in any educational institution whatever. Where was she during that time? At home? Some other facility? And what was she doing while there?

It's my educated guess, Mr. Walker, that she was undergoing therapy. It would be highly irregular if she didn't and her education had not been interrupted in fact. The rising awareness on the part of the victims of child abuse, especially if it's sex-related, can be very slow in coming, painstakingly gradual, oftentimes delayed until late adulthood. That's one reason why the offenders usually get away with their despicable behavior for as long as they do: their victims "cooperate" in a manner of speaking. In trying to hold on to their sense of self, they choose to live in a state of denial, a world of make-believe, rather than risk shattering their already fragile egos. Unwilling to face the facts, they create a reality all their own, embellish it, make it into something it's not. Until, that is, the awareness sinks in. And when it does, it hits them like a ton of bricks. It's a shock of a lifetime and it often scars them for life.

Since Nancy's mother was a person of means, it stands to reason she'd take all the necessary precautions to make the transition as painless as possible. Naturally, she loved her daughter (all the more so, I presume, since the ugly truth had come out) and felt guilty perhaps – if not by association then for not having had the premonition to step in and act sooner. Who knows, maybe she could have spared her daughter some of the pain? One thing, however, appears certain. The child couldn't continue the way things were – to keep on facing her teachers, other children, friends, as though nothing had happened. Some kind of therapy was a must if there was to be any hope of recovery. Where exactly? Under what circumstances? What were the relevant details? – this, I'm afraid, we'll never know. Nor do I believe we should. Let's just say that money can assure one of privacy – privacy beyond scrutiny, that is. And in this case, we had better respect it and let it rest.

Another possibility is that in addition to therapy, she had to undergo an abortion. Abortions are legal in Minnesota but in order to keep the father's name out, and for little Nancy's sake, the decision was made to seek help from a private facility. Even now I dread to think of this. Still, we can't discount the possibility. All the more reason, Mr. Walker, not to delve into the past. Let's just respect it and hope for the best.

Once again, it's only a theory. We're still in the realm of speculation. Consider this, however. The day of Nancy's graduation from St. Mary's (1989) coincides with the commencement of her trust fund. Within a week, she's out of St. Paul and on her way to Chicago. Why such a hasty departure? Not because the fall term was about to begin. That's almost a year down the line. (Her application bears the date of February 5, 1990; the letter of acceptance, along with a modest scholarship, of February 26; her first day of classes, September 4.) What was the real reason?

In my experience, Mr. Walker, there are no coincidences, only consequences. It's a simple universe, really, far simpler than most people suppose. It's a universe of cause and effect – nothing more – and to tell the truth, I'm quite comfortable with it. Now, this is what I think.

Nancy had a talk with her mother, a heart-to-heart talk. Must have told her St. Paul was out of the question, that she couldn't continue living there, not then, not ever. Too many memories, past associations – harmless in and of themselves but reminding her nonetheless of the pain she'd gone through. It's as though that pain wasn't in the past but had to be relived daily, every waking day in fact. While at St. Mary's she thought she'd be OK. She lived there in relative isolation, removed from all the artifacts and people that might have reminded her of her wretched experience. But only one day into her homecoming, if we can call it that, convinced her beyond any doubt that she was deluding herself. The streets she once walked on, the park where she played as a toddler – anything and everything about her hometown, including the quiet neighborhood where she grew up, served as a bitter reminder. Even her lovely home had lost all its charm. The nursery room, her own little room which was given her once she reached puberty, even the living room with its cozy fireplace on cold Minnesota nights – every piece of furniture and knickknack in fact, once delightful and source of pleasure and joy, the carpets, the drapes, the impressive mahogany bookcase taking up the entire wall, and those so huge and comfortable pillows into which she could sink and look into the glow of the burning wood, savor the smells and marvel, and simply forget oneself and dream while the warmth emanating therefrom penetrated every cell of the body, the sounds of the classical pouring in uninterruptedly from KSJN (Did you know, Mr. Walker, that Classical Minnesota Public Radio is one of the finest in the country?), all that meant nothing to her; on the contrary, it had descended on her with the force of tsunami. Then and there, her mind was made up. However much she loved her mother and hated the idea of parting, it was impossible for her to stay. She was an adult now, no longer a minor, and therefore free to go as she pleased. It was time to move on and turn a new leaf.

Why Chicago? Perhaps she had a distant relative there – an aunt or a second cousin. Who knows? It could have been Timbuktu. The important thing is – she had to get away from St. Paul and quickly, as far away as possible. And she did, with her mother's blessings no doubt.

I'm not a betting man, Mr. Walker, but I'll bet you dollars to donuts – it's my intuition – that she didn't make many trips back home since that eventful day in early October when she left St. Paul so abruptly nearly twenty years ago. I may be wrong of course. People are full of surprises. Perhaps she's grown stronger and more resilient, better capable of dealing with her painful past. Her love of her mother always served as a magnet. The odds are against it, though. From my long exposure to sexual molestation cases, therapy goes only so far.

As to her stay in the windy city, I'm afraid I can't be as helpful. To tell the truth, I was running out of time. Everything looks kosher though. It takes on average four years to get a BA; Nancy did it in six. Nothing unusual there. She may have worked part-time or taken less than a full load. If you wish I could make further inquiries but I don't think it would be time well spent. So let's turn to the final chapter, the here and now.

She arrived in the Bay Area in 1997. Enrolled in Mills College a year later. Lived in Oakland throughout her post-graduate studies and held a number of part-time jobs. In 2003, after completing her masters, she moved to Alameda and stayed in the same apartment since. Also in 2003, she started working for Earthcom. That's as far as I got. Saw no point in pursuing it further. Decided instead on having her followed, to learn some of her quirks, habits, idiosyncrasies. Isn't this what you really wanted to know, Mr. Walker – the person behind the veneer?

Well, I've had her under surveillance for almost a week now and let me tell you: I still know next to nothing. Ms Galahad is the exact opposite of a creature of habit. There's no telling what she will do or when. It's almost as though she'd made it a point long time ago that no day in her life would be like any other. Consequently, there aren't any routines to depend on, no schedules to adhere to, no activities or engagements she participates in on a more or less regular basis. That's what gets me, Mr. Walker – the very irregularity of her life. She shops at different places and at all times of day or night. Attends a spa now and then, but then again, there's no telling when. Even her coffee habit – you do know, I suppose, that she's addicted to caffeine – isn't much of a lead. It's Starbucks most of the times – gosh, I don't see how she can stand it! – but you can never be certain. Sometimes she'll throw you a curve and go to Peet's or Java Rama instead. Still, you can't count on an encore. She'll be there when least expected.

If there was one way to summarize Ms Galahad's life, habits, her modus operandi, to attribute a rationale to her conduct, a rule she seems to live by, it would have to be this. Unpredictability is her very essence. She's as unpredictable as a cat. One could say – and that's no exaggeration, believe me – that she lives as though she was being followed. In fear of being followed, perhaps! Her unpredictability is, as it were, on purpose – by design. It's meant to throw you off, to make you lose your scent, to derail you. She lives, in a nutshell, as though she were (still?) a prey – and you, I, everyone else for that matter, a predator. But perhaps neither of us should be taken aback. If my theory as to her wretched past even partly bears out, her behavior is "normal." The trauma is for life. Once haunted, always haunted.

Since your interest in this case concerns a possible engagement, I delimited my inquiry to matters of social and personal significance. Ms Galahad has many acquaintances but very few friends. (I'm not counting of course her work associates, of which there are many.) It's a pity considering she is such an extrovert – so quick on her feet and silver-tongued besides. We both know, however, that social graces, outgoingness, what have you, aren't always what they seem. It's a defense mechanism for many – a way of warding off the insecurity of the self. Still, she deserves better.

There was a woman named Linda, five years Nancy's senior, purportedly a butch. They shared an apartment while attending Mills College and for a stretch went through a stormy period. There were some fights, rumors of abuse, possibly a complaint filed with the police. (Don't ask me how I found out!) It lasted about a year. They still talk to one another now and then, although it's Linda who initiates most of the calls. Whatever relationship may have existed between them, it must have cooled off for Ms Galahad is by and large unresponsive. As best I can tell, they haven't seen each other in years.

So there's at least one bit of good news, Mr. Walker. Ms Galahad may be a feminist at heart – as far as convictions go – but she is not, and I repeat, not a confirmed lesbian. The brief interlude with Linda proves nothing. Everyone experiments with sex sooner or later. It's part of normal human development. Besides, it'd go against the grain, counterintuitive to most child-abuse cases. These unfortunates either turn into abusers themselves or forever remain under the specter. Of one thing I can assure you, though: Ms Galahad hasn't crossed the line.

Whatever the causes of homosexuality in both men and women, and it's a controversial topic – genetics, acquired behavior, what have you – violence isn't one of them. Usually, a boy or a girl finds that their role model – same-sex parent in most cases – isn't up to snuff. Consequently, they shift their allegiance to "the stronger sex" – the other parent, that is. Role (mis)identification is the usual outcome. A boy becomes a girl, tries to act like one – smiles, giggles, etc. – and vice versa of course. Violence, on the other hand, always trumps sexual-identity crisis. It turns its victims into subjects, automatons if you will. If a gay man or woman has a choice in a manner of speaking, it's only in becoming "the other." Child-molestation victims have none. Besides, violence is gender-neutral. Abuse is abuse, regardless of who – whether a man or a woman – is doing what to whom.

As you requested in our last meeting, I've done some preliminary checking into Ms Galahad's so-called "sugar daddy." His name is Richard Cromer and the description more or less fits. I wouldn't say, however, that their relationship was platonic. They do see one another now and then, and on occasions there transpires what you might call an "exchange of favors" – a quid pro quo. He's rather well-to-do, has a profitable business on the side – something having to do with a traveling circus or a carnival – and lavishes Ms Galahad with gifts.

Naturally, she reciprocates. In the main, however, you're right not to be jealous if your interest in her centers on the emotional. He's a playboy-type ("a wannabe" may be a better term since his experience and ways are rather parochial, for who'd chose Alameda for their hunting ground?) – all the money he's got is inherited – somewhat on the witty side but dull compared to you, shallow and artificial. He couldn't hold a conversation if his life depended on it, certainly not about the classics or literature – any number of topics in fact that you and I have touched upon and tried to discuss while inebriated, mind you, over those potent gin martinis at Roy's. Besides, Ms Galahad isn't the only one he sees. He's been spotted with other women around town – seems to flaunt this behavior in fact. To some men, as we both know, it's a mark of distinction, not unlike displaying a trophy or a badge of honor.

Surely, Nancy couldn't be unaware of this. She is too bright besides, too intelligent and introspective, to fall for such a man. The way I see it, it's a relationship of convenience. They each get out of it, I suppose, what they think they want and deserve. For Mr. Cromer it must be her brightness, her native intelligence, her wit. For her, who knows? A sense of security perhaps, a father figure, the one thing she'd never had. One thing, however, seems certain: with him she feels safe. So if romance or affair of the heart is what you're after, then by all means, go for it, Mr. Walker. In that department, Mr. Cromer is indeed no rival. Be prepared, however, to travel the high road. Shed your idealism. Let go of your passion. Keep in mind that most people, through no fault of their own, come as damaged goods. You'll need the patience of a saint – the kind of love Paul speaks about in First Corinthians – to pull it off, especially with someone like Nancy. Love her by all means, cherish her all you can – most importantly, perhaps, be kind, understanding and patient – but don't expect anything in return, not for a while at least. Who knows, someday she might come around and become the treasure you see in her? I wish you luck.

If I were to end it here, I'd recommend cautious optimism. I can't do it however in good conscience. Of late, a week or so ago, another man has come into her life. Mark Gould's the name, a new hire by Earthcom. Do you know him? I've done some preliminary checking but it doesn't make any sense. He lives in a shelter, one step away from being homeless, bi-polar besides. Yet Ms Galahad seems to be taken by him. I've seen them together more than once. On one occasion, I saw him re-emerge from her apartment at midnight after they'd spent hours together, doing God knows what. Thus far, I have no idea what goes. So until I do, Mr. Walker, and it'd take about a week, two at most, I suggest you hold your horses and don't bring up the engagement.

It's up to you, of course. You can proceed on the basis of this report, knowing full well it's inconclusive, exercise your best judgment and keep your fingers crossed, or you can retain me for another week or so – to make certain. If I were you, I know what I would do. Considering the nature of your concern, how important she is to you and how much you've already invested, I'd go the extra mile.

It all depends, of course, on whether you can afford me. Unfortunately, my services won't be cheap because this kind of work is usually around the clock and the hours can quickly add up. (We both know how cautious Ms Galahad can be.) I'm afraid I'd have to ask you for a thousand up front, another thousand when done. Again, I realize it's a hefty sum for what seems like only a week's work, but if you're really serious about marrying this woman, believe me, it would be money well spent. Better safe than sorry!

Feel free to call me and let me know what you think. Meanwhile, I'm certain we shall run into each other at Roy's one of these days and have another delightful conversation.

Sincerely,

 

Jake Hammonds, PI

License # 74356

1515 Clay Street, Suite 1250

Oakland, CA 94612-1499

Love & Murder in Cyberspace: ruminations from a boiler room

(For your entertainment – first chapter of my recent novel, Love & Murder in Cyberspace)

 

Mark and Richard

 

I

Where shall I start my wretched tale of Galahad and I? In the beginning, the middle, the end? Each clamors for attention, saying "pick me," "pick me," and for good reasons naturally. It's still a toss-up as I far as I'm concerned, especially since I've lost track of time. So much has happened since, I don't know anymore. Where is the beginning or the middle? And I'm still uncertain of the end. In all likelihood, I'll either shoot myself through the head or die from overdose. And that's the desirable alternative. The thing I dread the most, I could get a life sentence.

The last three months have been dreadful. I was on the run, from myself first, then the law. Not one peaceful moment in the whole lot, no sense of reprieve. No wonder I turned myself in. Anyone would. There's nothing worse than uncertainty, not knowing whether you're guilty or innocent. I'd rather stand convicted, right or wrong, than have her on my conscience and live the rest of my life like some hunted animal from cave to cave – a stranger to myself, equally unfit for the company of men. Even if they hang me.

My recollection is still hazy, especially of that night. Will I ever know? Perhaps it will come to me like a bolt of lightning; perhaps it never will. Even so, I'm beginning to recover a sense of composure, a kind of peace that comes only with acceptance. Bit by bit, I've started reconstructing the sequence of events, states of mind, motives, so as to piece it together into a coherent whole. And it's been only days.

Thank God for solitary confinement, a true solace for the troubled soul.

But I had better get on with my story. So little time, so much to tell.

II

Galahad and I have been sweethearts, you see. Prospective sweethearts, I should say. Then, she sprang this character on me. Mark Gould was the name. I knew him to be worthless, a complete scumbag, totally undeserving. What business did she have to connect with someone like that? Was it to spurn me, to make me declare my intentions and act like a man, or did she really fall for that jerk head over heels?

The latter was unthinkable, totally out of character; the former, a cause for concern and opportunity at the same time, how well I knew it, to take action, decisive action. Understand therefore that I had to find out which was which – where exactly we stood, Galahad and I? Mark was inconsequential in the larger scheme of things, a mere appendage, a pretext.

Easier said than done.

III

All Capricorns are gold diggers by nature. Financial security is their prime concern, and Galahad ranked with the best of them. Relationships were always a means to an end – a stepping-stone to a life of ease, comfort and general well-being. I ought to know. Ran into her sugar daddy once. A harmless little fellow, not much to look at, rather plain and nondescript. So physical attraction couldn't have been a factor, though one never knows of course: there's no longer accounting for a woman's taste. In this case, however, I was dead-certain. No wonder she'd kept it a secret. Didn't want to be seen with anyone like him. In her place, I'd be embarrassed too.

So I wasn't jealous, not on account of Richard. Far from it, I considered it a privilege to play the role of a rival. Of course, my rivalry was of a different kind. Let her use other people, I thought, to feed her insecurities – more power to her – provided of course she looked to me for her emotional needs. In that department, I was certain I had no equal.

Consequently, I was fairly content to fill that niche in her life. In time, of course, I'd hoped to break her out of her ugly habit – her rather misplaced concern with things material. It presented in fact the greatest challenge – to make her unencumbered and free like I knew she could be. That's why I loved her so – for her potential! Meanwhile, I accepted her weakness as a temporary aberration, a glitch, something she'd eventually grow out of. I pictured a happy ending. But then, she sprang this Mark character on me – not only a pauper but a worthless leech. It made no sense. Again, was she spurning me, using him as a puppet to affect our breakup or did she really fall for that creep?

IV

The rest of the story follows a natural progression. Events take shape all on their own, each impinging on one another swiftly with mechanical efficiency, exhibiting the iron law of cause and effect beyond all questioning, uncertainty or doubt. It's almost as though I was caught in some humongous spider web, unable to free myself, destined to follow the dictates of the moment, drawing me closer and closer to the final act.

Galahad, I must preface, was one of the most secretive persons you could ever meet. She guarded her privacy like one does their heirlooms. Even her residential address she regarded as top secret. Post office box was all she'd ever give out, and even then you had to consider yourself lucky. Consequently, it was imperative to disguise all interest in the matter and proceed with the utmost caution or I'd never learn the truth. Hence the first item on the long list of must-dos – keep on going to work as though nothing had happened. (Didn't I mention we worked for the same firm? How silly of me! That's how we met.)

Then it struck me. I couldn't possibly risk being spotted by her after hours. Her naturally suspicious nature would have alerted her and told her something was up. Any detective work would have to be done by proxy. Fortunately, I knew a PI by acquaintance. We frequented the same tavern. Seemed like a nice chap, easygoing and reliable. Jake Hammonds was the name. Gave me his business card once. Reasonable rates, he assured me; could use extra work. A phone call the day after got me the appointment.

In less than half an hour our business was over. Didn't go much into detail. How could I? I was grateful he didn't inquire. Simply told him we had met at work and were considering an engagement. Didn't know much about her. Raised in St. Paul, Minnesota; in the Bay Area since 1997. Graduated from Mills College with an MA, in political science, I thought. Did tarot-card readings on the side, possibly a Wicca, frequented a spa now and then. Had a rich boyfriend named Richard, but their relationship as far as I knew was platonic. I assured him I wasn't jealous. "Sugar daddy" – that's what I thought of him. Other than that, she was an enigma.

Naturally, I wanted to know more – about her life, habits, circle of acquaintances and friends. Would he please follow her for a week or two? A standard background-check, nothing out of the ordinary. I'd told him of my past marriages too – all tumultuous, passionate and brief. Didn't want to make another mistake. This time I wanted to make certain. Charlie Pride's country tune, "It Was a Picture-Perfect Wedding," kept ringing in my ears. "Wrong" was one word I didn't want to understand.

I think he bought it. Didn't bat an eye.

I apologized for the vita brevis. Not much to go on. Just a name, physical description, where she worked, the town where she lived, the make of her car.

He said it was enough. Would get back to me with a full report in a couple of weeks. Asked for a thousand in advance, two thousand on completion.

I paid without hesitation. Didn't mention Mark Gould. No need to. No matter what, the truth was bound to come out, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

The worst part was over, the next about to begin. The waiting!

It was early November, two weeks before my birthday.