I
guess the daily chronology of this is less than exciting and it doesn’t go very
far in conveying my troubled state of mind. It was getting so that I didn’t
want to go anywhere where my emotional security regarding our deeper relations
might get tweaked. Lucy has always, like any truly beautiful woman, been vain,
impressed with the power which her looks give her, and, quite normally, with
the nice looking men whose attention she can command. Since she is also
searching for herself, her identity, some relation to a field of interest, and
exploring all that the world has to offer, it would be restrictive indeed to
censure her for the effects of all these qualities and these drives. They are
normal, and easily anticipated in someone so ideally endowed. But NEVER, NEVER
get romantically enmeshed with such a person at this stage. It is death: slow
and sure and painful. And the more sensitive the person who falls, the more
endlessly devastating will be the effects. I know, for I shall never never be
the same again. It will be better, much better for the man who claims Lucy at
the end of this tunnel of growth and experience. Lucky will be the man who
claims the last dance and takes her home. I shall always regret that it will
not be me . . . with anyone . . . with her above all.
So
many things now seem clearer in the perspective of time. She didn’t feel,
couldn’t feel, and she was only aware of a small part of it. She said that she
was a total loss in the mornings . . . not very amorous (at all!), not very
with it. But, you know, while I accept this on one level, I still deny it on
another. Sure, if she stays out late, has a nice draught before going to bed,
etc., she’ll still be out of it in the morning. But, on the other hand, if you
love and are loved, if you feel and are felt, if you are really into sharing,
well, it all just flows . . . there are no demarcations. Look, it isn’t all
that bloody important to me but obviously this is providing that it doesn’t represent
a turn off that lies just a little deeper. Just that I can imagine Lucy so
happy and so into life that I can’t see such an artificial distinction.
But
then there’s more. For Lucy does like to call the tune in a sexual way. A cue
rarely, in itself, turns her on. It is merely like a request to be considered
and she reacts to it in whatever way she feels at the moment. It is her own
well circumscribed ego that accepts or rejects; sadly it is rarely an ‘ego
involved’, if you know what I mean. I think that her past ecstasies have very
much been selfish ones, bits of self-fulfillment . . . I don’t think she’s ever
put her neck in the noose, handed someone the loaded pistol. I might even
venture to say, since she is older now and projections are now potentially more
accurate, that she may not be capable of true abdication (however impermanent)
of self. But she knows how to get what she wants. She got Morocco, but she
agreed that she wouldn’t stint on the loving (sun, sand, and salt water really
turn me on, I’d said) up to a point and if I’d agree to lay off stiff morning
overtures. Well, we both lived up to our promises, as it turned out. I am still
amazed how many things I must have felt but repressed during all those days.
Indeed, to read them paraded out on paper, in limited context, one would think
I was miserable 99% of the time. Far from it. Just that, having ended
disastrously for me, I tend to analyze and explore those elements which seem to
have signaled or contributed to it. This accounts for subjective distortions
and, relatedly, a little unfairness.
On
Monday morning we zipped down to Abbotts and plonked our money down for a 7 day
all in trip to Tangiers, leaving the very next Wednesday from Luton. We busied
ourselves with preparations, between brass rubbing, pubbing and the like. Lucy
was noticeably ‘up’ once the Moroccan die was cast. We drove to Luton on a bad
afternoon and took off for Tangiers about 4 p.m. British time. We arrived in
Tangiers around 7 p.m. It was a cool 66, but Lucy was brimming with happiness .
. . and wearing a straw hat I’d bought her in the market square . . . and
looking gorgeous in it!
Our
hotel was quite nice and quite modern. I was a little shocked when I saw two
single beds at right angles to one another, and fixed so that they could not be
placed side by side. But the view of the Straits of Hercules beyond the Bay of
Tangiers was really nice . . . in fact, we faced nearly due West and the sun
set right out our window. We put our gear away, showered deliciously, redressed
quickly, got a light evening snack, a meal, took a walk, then it was bedtime.
Of
course, being fairly familiar with Tangiers from my previous trip, I was
brimming over with things to show Lucy. Our first minor problem was that Lucy
was already well tanned and would and could soak up the sun for hours at a
time. I, on the other hand, could take no more than a couple of 60 or 70 minute
exposures on the first day and only about 20 more on top of that for each of
the next three days. The longest I could stay out under that sun, even after a
week, was two 50 minute stretches a day . . . if that. I’d say that Lucy could
be out, after that same period of time . . . at least two 3 1/2 hour stretches
a day. And, remember, this is not counting the exposure that comes from all
that walking around in the city and touring!
I
seem to be returning constantly to the subject of differences. Look, I don’t
think the seeming disparity between me, who could spend 5 to 6 hours at a
stretch with the colorful denizens of the Casbah, and Lucy who could spend the
same amount of time basking in the sun poolside, is significant. Remember, Carl
and Lucy’s current boyfriend could enjoy the security of knowing that Lucy
loved them. I never could (because she never ever did). Had I that security,
the story would have been very different. Very. First, she could have talked to
Sammy for five hours and it wouldn’t have made any difference, though I might
still be angry at Sammy for using up her time and energy; or anybody for that
matter. Indeed, an honest and close examination of those few of my past
relations that involved me being loved clearly and unequivocally by a good
woman (Mary Ann, Helen, Diana) reveals that I often take advantage of the
situation and hurt them with my consequent inattentions (or attentions
elsewhere!). You know, it’s a funny thing, but I caught myself feeling this
very early in my affair with Lucy.
I
guess it was in late April one day in my office. It may indeed have been that
same day that Lucy told me that it was quite likely that she would walk away
from me after the summer. I can remember feeling that although I was completely
emotionally ensnared by her at that moment, and that I was a captured victim I
knew if I only could succeed in bringing her around to loving me equally, then
the balance of power (so called) would shift immediately. I knew that if I
could only reach that stage (of her loving me) that it would instantly cure my
insecurities and I’d have exactly the right operational attitude that would be
required to hold Lucy completely. It has never ever failed though not something
I would ordinarily brag about: once they fall, they never fall out (unless I
want them to). This is because my tremendous self-sufficiency doesn’t spell ‘need’
or at least that kind of ‘need’ that turns people off. I treat them at best well
and considerately and as independent and intelligent people, and they never
know for sure . . . .at worst I let them on their own if it’s not me who’s off
on his own. I was made to be some explorer or sea captain type who has to
follow his urge to go off and return to pick up my love when it suits me. But
this is a failing. And here’s where Lucy comes in. You see, she represents so
much to me, in terms of what we can be to each other together, that we would
move a distance from each other and this would trigger reactions that would
make us come together again . . . from natural, internal mechanisms . . . neither
of us would go beyond a certain point, because of love, selfishness, and mutual
consideration. Interesting . . . and I had a vision of a near perfection that I
cried for my failure to get even to the necessary starting point! And I was so
confident; I had not the slightest worry if I could only get to that magic
point. It wasn’t a matter of time, per se, just a matter of a few days or weeks
at most, but starting only from that moment that Lucy unequivocally—not
necessarily permanently—invested her heart in me. But that never happened.
Alas. It is so nearly equivalent to the bottom line, that I am tempted to stop
the story at this point.
And
I have to be careful, elsewise this will be merely a chronicle of hurts and
pains. Let me carry on by regaling some of the beauties. We did indeed share
love for travel, meeting new people, eating new and exotic food. We had a liter
and a half of good white wine with lunch, two with dinner, whisky in our tea in
the late afternoon and always a night-cap. Lucy had a great sense of humor and
got a real kick out of rare and unusual people of character. She warmed
immediately to our little hunchbacked guide, Hassan, who, in turn, warmed to
her. She really savored our mint tea that we had in the back of Ali’s shop in
the Casbah. We could have both sat there and did quite often for hours. Only
her requisite sunbathing kept us from staying even longer within the walled
city. We enjoyed our shopping, though Lucy had too much heart to be a stern and
unrelenting haggler . . . but she shared my victories with great relish. She
made everything we did together a really enjoyable experience. She had that
sensitivity and quickness of mind to reflect on the great beauty and happiness
of everything we did right then and there while we were doing it. She was, to
borrow a loving term from Gudrun of old, “fine, very fine.”
We
walked, talked, took pictures and I took great pleasure in the hungry happy way
Lucy drank it all in . . . like watching a little girl in a toy
shop. She wanted everything. And how I wished I could have given her
everything. Indeed, I felt so bad that I hadn’t planned to take more money than
I did, for my only credit card was not honored, except at one bank where I did
manage to get an additional $150 advance. In fact, we spent about six hours of
our vacation doing just that: trying to get enough money to buy even more and,
more importantly, to rent a car to take a side trip down the beach to Tétouan,
but we had no luck. But Lucy took it in good stride and we did have one great
evening before we left—almost.
Unfortunately,
Tangiers was not without incident. Let us say at the outset that I am glad that
I am writing this and not relating it verbally to, or in front of, Lucy; for
she would probably laugh and make light of the whole incident but maybe not. Depends
on how self-perceptive and honest she is.
It
seems that there was this attractive young Dutchman probably about 27 or 28 who
was at poolside daily. He had come down with his girlfriend (as we learned
later) of several years’ standing. He had taken a fancy to Lucy and had taken
to nodding a hello and an acknowledgement about the third day before we were to
leave. He had noticed that Lucy and I had taken to having a bottle of the white
local wine at poolside at midafternoon. On the next to the last day the waiter
brought us over a 2nd bottle of wine and nodded in the direction of the
sunbathing Dutch gentleman. We saluted him without glasses and drank his
health. He did not come over immediately. In fact, we’d gone upstairs,
showered, and come down again and were in the bar/restaurant area adjoining the
pool area when he came over. And he made no bones about his interest in Lucy. By
ordinary American standards it would have been embarrassing, I contend. Less
than three minutes of perfunctory questions during which time he ascertained
the usual details of nationality, occupations, relationships, he began straight
at Lucy and his own interest in coming to the U.S., his need for contacts and
all sorts of things. The man was clearly nobody’s fool, he was good at it. And
I know that he caught something in Lucy’s eye, that invisible something . . . ‘interest’
you might call it for lack of a more suitable word. She was clearly flattered
by his attentions and that almost invisible dropping of guard that often
follows. As I like to say, like the zebra in the herd of tens of thousands who
has a limp or infirmity that is almost naked to the ordinary eye. But not to
the lioness. With uncanny perception it can find the one animal with the
slightest disadvantage/weakness. And so on. This guy knew, he got the scent
just standing slightly downhill. And man, he knew no social bounds.
I
can just hear Lucy laughing and arguing and getting irritated if she had to
hear this to her face. What an imagination she would say! And that in itself
would tell a tale. I would stake my life on my perceptions. It was a bit like
the Sammy situation, only this guy was not only humorless, but deadly serious.
Well, I figured on being about half European myself and decided on a European
answer to the situation—the American one would have been to either tell him to piss
off, thump him on the spot, if he didn’t, or gather the lady gently by the arm
and move away. I asked him if he wasn’t sure he didn’t want me to leave because
clearly he seemed to have something very personal he wanted to say to the young
lady. A slightly less deadly but more sophisticated chap would have stepped
away then. But he merely said ‘no’ and kept at it . . . talking as if I weren’t
there. He told her how much he wanted her. I interrupted again. “I think you’d really
like to take her upstairs and have it off, wouldn’t you?” I said, almost a
little incredulous myself. He seemed a little surprised at my directness but
only for a split second. Still a little surprised, he looked at me and said “You
would give your permission?” I looked at Lucy this guy was too much. “I don’t
think it’s mine to give, is it?” Lucy dismissed us both with something like ‘don’t
be silly’ and the conversation took on a suddenly less heavy breathing tone as
he plowed on about needing to have someone in the U.S. to sponsor him, etc. In
the end these two swapped addresses!
I
am also 100% convinced that if this guy had met us on, say, day 2 of our trip,
our love affair would have ended on June 17, not when it did. I would have been
‘set up’ by his persistence and her refusal not to abruptly cut him off but to
enjoy his attentiveness. I would have taken the next plane to London, without a
doubt. Fortunately, as the case was, we had less than 24 hours left and Jan, or
whatever his name was, left us for that brief period. But I hurt deeply with
the knowledge of what clearly, to me, would have or could have happened.
On
our last night in Morocco we joined out travel group and went out to a ranch
about 17 miles outside of Tangiers for an evening of music, wine, &
barbecue. Everything was going fine, it was a pleasant farewell evening. But
then it happened. I get on line for the chicken and this over-zealous waiter’s
shoulder hit a large ornamental tree trunk on which a small lamp had been set. It
tipped over and fell. On my left foot. The tree trunk weighed about 400 pounds
. . . and I was only sandal-shod. Even at that, the ground below being sand, my
toes simply went down into the soft ground. But the buckle over the second
little toe went down as well, and broke the toe. At first I thought I could
make it through the evening. But then the swelling started . . . and the pain
commenced. And it was painful indeed. And I felt such a fool. In the end the
photographer took Lucy and I back to Tangiers and the hotel in his car. I still
recall it all with great embarrassment.
If
Lucy only knew . . . I was hurting from two things at the same time. I felt the
decay and ruination of everything I had wanted. I only wanted her love . . . they
could cut the damn toe off! I’m not saying she was not solicitous, she was
indeed. One fact. Weird as she thought my request was, she did agree to make
love—and me with my left foot in the air! I paid her kindness back by walking
the two miles to the Casbah (we couldn’t get a cab to save our lives that
morning!) and spending another hour-and-a-half picking up all the items we
thought we’d leave until the last day. Instead, that last day we made two trips
to the Casbah and bought every single item that we wanted—using up just about
our very last cent. On the surface—and in many ways—it was a wonderful trip and
I knew we’d both love to do it again.
We
landed at Luton at nearly midnight, were delighted that the old Jag started up
right away, pleased that my painful foot could still manage the clutch pedal .
. . and got home to Cambridge about 3:30 in the morning, exhausted but full of
loot. That early Thursday was the 23rd of June . . . one week and we’d be off
for Pamplona.
Dreary
England soon dragged on Lucy again. We went down to see Clive in London on
Friday. We met him in a wine bar in the West End with his new housemate, the
soap opera star Alan Browning. Alan was going to Pamplona with him . . . they
were going to fly down. Lucy and Clive took to each other immediately. We
really had quite a bit of wine that lunch-time. Clive gave Lucy a nice
Coronation Crown (coin) and we parted looking very much forward to
rendezvousing in Spain.
I
can’t remember all we did in Cambridge that last week. We did take the girls to
the Midsummer Fair . . . but again the weather plagued us every day. I do,
however, remember one more bad day. I guess it began with me caressing Lucy
around 9 am. It might sound like I was making excuses if I try to recall what
kind of day I’d had before and thus whether it was in need of assurances. I
was. I guess there’s always that element. But clearly, the days in Cambridge
were a strain for both of us. Anyway, Lucy wasn’t having any of it—and she was
snapping and bitter. She was offended, insulted even . . . to her it was just
getting prodded by a penis and she found it demeaning. But, naturally, I was hurt.
But even then I was going to let it pass. I had, however, to go out to
Pampisford to return the lawnmower and the vacuum I had borrowed, and to see
the girls. Jessie was nearly hysterical when it came time for me to leave. And,
although I knew that Lucy was enjoying an excellent, and rare, morning of
sunbathing, I was anxious to return because I was sensitive to her being hurt
by a too-lengthy absence at Pampisford. But I had to take the extra time to
walk with Jessy down to the Rec Ground to reassure her of my love and
non-desertion.
