towards a door we never opened, into a rose garden
—TS Eliot
I watch other people and envy them. Their lives seem safe and predictable. Not mine. I’m always at the centre of a storm. Mind you, it’s a storm of my own choosing.
Sure, I was very nearly killed in an auto accident—drinking far too much and popping pills—so, I suppose there’s a reason why I long for an ordinary life, just as there’s a reason why I obsess about dead people.
I look at Elias and he’s smirking—of course, he’s a shrink and doesn’t buy half of what I say, especially statements that begin with ‘because’ and end with a contrite look on my face.
“You tend to see yourself as a victim, Leon, but everything that’s happened to you is the result of choices—your choices—Maya included.”
I don’t know why he always keys on Maya. Yes, she’s the storm in my life, and yes, my lifeboat is swamped in a maelstrom, so I guess he figures he’s a lighthouse.
But he’s not—he’s not a light to me—more a foghorn continually emitting warning blasts.
And maybe that’s why whenever I see Elias, it rains.
It’s past five when I exit his office and head back to my Rosedale manse—an Art Deco home formerly owned by Jessica Skye.
Jessica was a Thirties’ actress with Harlow looks who haunts me continually—partly because of her huge dark eyes staring at me from her portrait above the mantel—and partly because she inhabits a virtual wing of my house.
I know it sounds crazy but the closest I can get to explain it is to compare her ethereal abode to Wonder Woman’s airship—partly invisible, but real. I access this wing through a portal in my basement that outwardly appears to be a wine cellar, but actually conceals a Thirties’ speak-easy. Behind some swing-out shelves lies a second door that leads to a part of the house that is not of this world.
I still can’t quite wrap my mind around my surreal experience but when you live in a Cubist house once owned by a Thirties screen star, I suppose anything is possible.
Einstein said the Past still exists, around a bend in the river of Time—so, I’m not crazy and I believe it’s true, and not just by taking the word of a genius, but because I’ve been inside Jessica’s shadowy apartments.
I’ve seen Mobled Queen and she’s haunted me ever since
In my mind I picture her extant wing of the mansion as a Cunard liner from the Thirties ran aground on a desert island. The ship’s crew and waiters, all in white, wait upon her while she throws elaborate island parties replete with exotic fruit and drinks the color of water.
She and Emilia Earhart live on in a perpetual sunny afternoon beyond the ken of the world at large.
I know—I sound insane, but as I sit here in the rain outside my manse, it all seems so clear.
Somewhere in time, there is a sunlit garden where beautiful people are whiling away a June afternoon—it’s not something I hallucinated—I’m inner-directed and know what I know. That sunlit garden party is real. I stumbled upon it once, and fully intend to go back and prove it exists.
But just how I’m going to do that, I have no idea.
I eat a light supper sitting in the front room by the light of the fire. It’s basic, if not a Spartan repast—Swiss cheese on rye and a glass of Shiraz.
I know—with my history of alcohol abuse I shouldn’t, but ever since I explored the basement speak-easy and stumbled upon that portal to the past, I’ve needed the occasional drink to calm my tremors.
No, they’re not DT’s—they’re more a distant thunder—a reverberation that pulses inside me every time I remember the dark surprise in Jessica’s eyes.
I can see her still.
Sometimes, I tremble so much, I have to squeeze my fingers tight into a ball and scrunch my eyes closed and try not to see that white petal in a dark sea—Jessica in the garden below, staring up at me.
She inhabits a turreted, second-floor room that doesn’t exist in the time or space—how can it be?
But I was there! I know it’s real—as real and palpable as this longing for a woman that’s been dead half a century but managed to ignite a conflagration within me.
The rain has stopped and I wander outside and stand on my front lawn. It’s cool and there’s a slight breeze. I look up at the manse Jessica built—a monolith towering above me—a Cubist house with curving lines, now illumined with the aura of a full moon about to crest the roof line.
It’s romantic standing here beneath the dark oaks, listening to the rustling leaves, and watching the Moon break free and beckon to me.
A wild delight surges through me. I can sense Jessica is near. She’s on the grounds with me and the darkness provides just obscurity to soften the stark actuality of the everyday and liberate her spirit.
I begin to shiver and can take no more. I force myself to go in and shut the door on my fantasies, but it’s futile—I can’t shut her out completely, because nightly, she haunts my dreams.
The following morning the sunlight through the kitchen windows comforts me in the daily routine of coffee spoons, things to do and places to be. I add one item to the list—see Stella about original house plans.
I know I’m obsessing, but I have to satisfy a hunch.
Stella’s the agent who sold me the house—she’s tenacious—and that’s good because if there are original blueprints, she can get her hands on them.
But the thought of Stella make me uneasy in other ways—her seductive charm for one—and the fact that everything with Stella comes at a price. I wince at having to venture back across boundaries, blurry lines of desire and unspoken wishes.
Don’t get me wrong—Stella’s beautiful, but not the one I’m looking for—not the one I need.
Stella is bright and vivacious even at this early hour and as usual overwhelms with her energy.
“Of course there are plans, Leon—but it’ll cost you.”
Her long blonde hair is swept into a fashionable side pony and with her Eau de Hadrien fragrance, she’s intoxicating at such close range.
“What do you have in mind?” I croak nervously.
“Cocktails on the Roof Terrace of the Park Hotel would be nice—for starters.”
Her eyes gleam. She’s almost irresistible and I’m wondering why I don’t give in—maybe Elias is right—maybe I should check and see if I still have a pulse.
I push the thought away.
“Friday night at eight—if you get the plans to me today.” I tell her.
“Hmm, I’ll have to check my schedule, but I think that’ll work for me. I’ll Fed Ex them to your house this afternoon, unless you prefer I drop them off.”
I give her a mischievous grin. “I’ll be out all day, Stella—the courier can leave them in the mail box.”
Her eyes are dancing. “Be careful, Leon—all work and no play.”
“Ha ha, don’t worry Stella—I’ve got enough excitement in my life.”
“We’ll have to see about that,” she purrs, leaning in and giving me a chaste peck on my cheek.
I emerge from her office relieved I’ve once again deftly sidestepped her rush, but can’t help feeling mildly unsexed.
A thought crosses my mind I might prefer spooky things at a distance rather than a real relationship—prefer a stormy relationship with Maya to being with her.
But the truth is I’ve fallen in love with a screen goddess who might not even be there.