"Another one?" asked Olga, smiling, after finding yet another card in her mail with already familiar handwriting but still unknown sender. How unusual for Belgrade, Yugoslavia of the 1970's and not some earlier, romantic age, a romance novel or movie, Olga thought. The postcards from all over the world have been coming in an irregular but steady pattern: the Dutch windmills, Austrian ski terrains, Swedish Dalarna horses, German Gothic cathedrals, fountains of Rome, even temples of India. A few lines written in an even, immaculate masculine handwriting conveyed a short, sophisticated message in English or French, never in her mother tongue, Serbo-Croatian, except for a word here or there. Who is this man, Olga (an incurable, full time romantic) has been asking herself, hoping that this subtle game was courting. She couldn't be sure whether this dream creature lived in Belgrade and traveled much, or even what his nationality was. Why did he play this game with her? If he wanted to raise her curiosity, he has succeeded.
As always, Olga was trying to read behind the words, to solve the mystery of the man who was -- to say the least -- acting in the most unusual, although subtle way, sending her messages of ever-present attention. Sometimes, around the holidays, small but appropriate gifts like Spanish castanets, Russian nesting dolls, or Belgian lace handkerchiefs would arrive. Yet, she had never seen him, he had never approached her to reveal his identity, to expect anything in return. Who was he? His signature seemed purposefully illegible, while the rest of the text was always perfect. The handwriting, the text, and the choice of the cards pointed out to a very sensitive and sophisticated man. A tactful one, too. Had she met him without knowing it? She could not be sure.
Sometimes, in a shower, she would inspect her tall, slender body that men had always admired. She felt grateful to her parents, nature, and life for the health and beauty she had inherited. Later, in bed, her last thoughts would drift to that unknown man.
"Good night, stranger," she sometimes whispered, almost sure that, wherever he was, he must be thinking of her too.
Now, fixing an earring, and looking at herself in the family mirror, she smiled. Milosh, her husband, has been ready for a while, patiently waiting in the living room and whistling softly. They were going to a reception with the foreign representatives.
Olga's has been a comfortable marriage: Milosh a tolerant husband, busy with his career. He respected and loved her, but his love was not articulate, imaginative, or exciting. He never did silly little things, never acted like a lover. Even in the bedroom they stayed two respectable people. Like her mother before her, like so many of her girl friends, Olga craved romance and passion.
There were men around her, men that had been in love with her for years, waiting for her to notice them; waiting for her to show signs of boredom, loneliness, or a moment of weakness. They were perfect friends through the years, but no one could boast of more. She did not have time for them. In her early forties, Olga has already secured a prominent position as a commercial artist, lecturer and writer. She had a twelve year daughter, too, "her masterpiece," as she often called her.
While deciding on a different pair of earrings, Olga heard Milosh jingling the car keys, by now, probably irritated. Only mildly, though. Everything about him is mild, Olga thought. "Milde Sorte," she often called him, like that German brand of cigarettes she was seeing around.
"You know, Misha, " she called to him, "I'm actually sick and tired of those receptions. There is nothing for me there. Couldn't we, for once, just stay at home or visit some friends instead?"
"Oh, Olga, you love receptions. I am the one who is really tired of it all, but I have no choice. You will be the best looking, best dressed and best loved-and-hated woman there. If I get noticed, it will be because of you. Let's go."
And he was out the door, while she, still coping with her coat and purse, switched off the lights, and rushed to catch up with him. I know someone who would at least hold my coat for me, Olga thought not really grudgingly. Thinking about her Knight in the Shining Armor has become an intimate joke, more like a game. Naturally, she had assigned to him all the qualities she wanted in a man. He had to be perfect or she didn't need him. Often, she day-dreamed about him, sometimes thought: Something must be seriously wrong, unnatural, even disgusting about my secret lover. Maybe he is a Quasimodo of some sort. Why would he stay incognito otherwise? She did not really expect to meet him, and if she did, it would have to be only a big disappointment. And she almost preferred it this way. She was all right as is. Nothing needed fixing, since nothing was broken in her life. Yet.
And now, entering the big reception hall, she smiled and quickly passed through the faces like turning the pages of a new book to see if it would be worth reading. But, the faces did not reveal anything. Like always, she and Milosh knew most of the people, especially as some were almost like a social fixture, always there. They met some new people, too, mostly among the foreign representatives. Among them was that tall, slender, golden-haired French diplomat with a petite, bird-like wife. Usually, Olga paid no attention to the names to remember them later. But, she almost found the French couple looking vaguely familiar. Maybe not. One meets too many people nowadays, a few worth remembering, she thought, almost tired with life, too early in the evening.
With a glass of wine in her right hand, she used the left to make her way through the crowd towards the far-off corner to greet a friend. There was something, or somebody, whose presence she felt all along, no matter where she moved about the room. Turning around, as if responding to an unknown force, she met a pair of blue French eyes. She smiled, and stopped to chat with an acquaintance. But, wherever she moved, she felt those eyes following. Some kind of invisible ties, a flow of some kind, appeared to be running between her and that man. Her lips kept smiling, but her eyes acquired a look of someone chasing an enigma, like a beautiful but elusive butterfly.
Olga wore a velvet, low-cut, sleeveless gown with a red poppy flower on her left shoulder. The black color made her look even softer, heightening the almost pearly sheen of her fine skin in the light of many chandeliers. The tightness of the dress revealed her attractive body in motion. Men's eyes were brushing against her body, her smiling face, her lavish hair, savoring her as always. Turning around to check where Milosh was, she met again those warm blue eyes brightening on meeting hers. She realized that the warm flow, the force she felt strong and gentle at the same time, had something to do with this slender blue-eyed foreigner. What was his name? Denis? Denis Lombard.
Later, thanking the hostess at the exit and following Milosh, she caught the eyes saying good-bye, now serious and darker. She gracefully bowed her head in wordless response. He did the same, with a long, respectful but meaningful look.
The rest of the week was very busy. At the end, her friend, Mira, invited her to the ballet "Swan Lake," because Marko, her husband, was unable to attend. Olga accepted readily: "Swan Lake" has been one of her favorite ballets since she was a teenager. Dressed in blue lace, she appeared softer and fragile, her eyes open in surprise when Denis and Mireille Lombard greeted her with a smile of recognition. There were some other mutual friends too.
It was hard to concentrate on music. Tchaikovsky sounded more dramatic, even tragic than ever before. There was definitely a strong physical attraction between her and Denis. After the theater, the whole group decided to have a drink and a chat at "Tri sheshira" (restaurant "Three Hats"), in the still cobbled Skadarlia street, popular with the artists and intelligentsia who, through more than a century, needed music, wine, and whatever else to drown their "schmerz" stemming from unhappy love, unsold paintings, returned manuscripts and other life's ailments.
As the evening progressed, everybody was in high spirits, laughing and talking in unison. Olga and Denis were quiet at first, listening to others, but very conscious of each other's physical presence. Olga noticed Denis's golden hair and his brilliant, charming smile. She felt like touching his strong masculine hands, with baby-fine golden hair against his tanned skin. A striking combination of strength and tenderness was the first thing she sensed, and almost an overwhelming aura of abundant life energy and health in his laugh, his gestures, and the gleam of his blue eyes. Whenever she met those eyes, she felt their thoughts crossed too.
Suddenly, following the train of his own thoughts, Denis turned to her and asked, "What makes you happy?" She smiled and responded readily," My daughter. She would be enough, but I tend to crowd my life: I love to read and do that voraciously. I appreciate arts and try not to miss the exhibits. The same is true of concerts and theater. I travel a lot, by business and otherwise. I actually love my work, compulsively, like everything else." And she giggled, looking into his eyes for approval.
"Go on. I know what you mean. Without thinking, tell me which piece of art comes to mind first?"
"Renoir's 'Blue Umbrellas,' Rodin's 'Kiss,' Van Gogh's 'Starry Night.' Enough?"
"So far so good. We are compatible. What do you like about 'The Blue Umbrellas?"
"Call me crazy, but that woman in the painting is me. I know exactly what she feels while the air vibrates with the excitement, electricity, and moisture of a spring shower. diving deeply into his eyes, she checked for more than superficial understanding.
"I know," Denis replied, smiling back into her eyes, "I have always felt the same about those 'gentle rains from heaven,' as the poet says. In fact, I love to walk in the rain."
"Me too. And, I love some silly things that I do not dare talk about."
"I have some outrageous dreams myself that I will fulfill one of these days. Let's exchange some secrets. So far we are as similar as twins." And the blue eyes stayed with hers a bit longer. "Apres Vous, Madame."
"Well, to start with: I love to swim in the sea at night when it looks as if the stars are scattered both in the skies and in the water." And she looked at Denis, who was nodding and smiling encouragingly.
She continued: " Like you, I love rain. Walking in the rain, especially in those unexpected, quick, summer showers that wash the nature. After them the sun shines more brilliantly, like a smile on a child's teary face. For years I've had a craving to dance in the rain, but -- somehow -- I haven't had a chance to do it. By now you must think I am absolutely crazy."
"Not at all. It's a perfectly natural, beautiful idea. I'm sure our prehistoric predecessors must have enjoyed it quite often."
"Yes. I hope. In fact, there is one more detail in it, but it's too personal and we will leave that alone."
"I hope you are talking about dancing in the nude."
"You are dangerous. And, yes, you are right, too."
"I can imagine you, like Danae. You just have to make sure that the rain isn't actually Zeus in disguise, or you may have some unplanned babies," and they both laughed thinking about the Greek myth.
"I love that myth. At least, in it, Zeus is not as crude as he sometimes chooses to be. I wouldn't like that experience even with a Greek god," Olga proceeded.
"I don't think you have to worry. Even a common man would be grateful to gods for a chance to be gentle to you.'' Olga blushed, understanding the message, and they stayed silent for a while, each in their own thoughts.
Further conversation revealed even more how much they had in common.
"I love poetry," Denis was saying. "Write it too. Nothing worth mentioning, of course.
My favorite music includes romantic composers, Tchaikovsky, for instance," and he stopped, looking at her, expecting her to comment.
"Oh, that must include 'The Swan Lake,' I hope... My Swan Lake?" and they laughed again. Soon, they found out they shared composers, authors, famous artists and so much more. At the end of the evening they felt like two old friends. It was agreed that Olga would take the Lombards to some monasteries in the area.
Olga was looking forward to seeing him again and learning more about that fascinating man.
Milosh couldn't go, so she found herself sitting in the back seat of the Lombards' Porsche watching Denis's perfectly shaped, strong hands on the driving wheel, answering Mireille's questions and, secretly, imagining how it would feel to touch the soft, little curls of Denis's nape so close to her during the whole ride. All of them were in a good mood, so they ended up singing French chansons, having a lunch in a cozy little restaurant by the river, and buying fresh eggs from some farmers.
By the end of the day they knew enough about each other to feel comfortable in telling their secrets, fears and faux pas. They laughed and laughed together. Both Olga and Denis were well read. They compared their favorite quotations. They both loved exploring unknown places, traveling, or simply being outdoors. Both of them were workaholics, still finding time to enjoy life, no matter what. Mireille added her wisdom. "Why work at all? The best is just not do anything. Bridge is as much as I can contribute to the society." Like other diplomats' wives, she did not work and played bridge two to three times per week. Naturally, their social obligations were demanding, too, but they had a woman who did all the cooking and cleaning, a man for the garden work, and they hired more help for parties and receptions. "Why do people like you two tend to complicate life unnecessarily?" Mireille yawned languidly, like a cat ready for a nap.
The Lombards had two sons, ages seven and nine. They invited Olga and her family to come and use their swimming pool as often as possible. While the children splashed in the water, chatting endlessly, the four adults sat in the garden drinking champagne and exchanging ethnic jokes. Without clothes, Denis had a perfect, firm, suntanned body that made Olga blush involuntarily. He smiled and embraced hers with a warm, admiring gaze. Much, much later he told her that he could hardly restrain from kneeling in front of her and kissing her feet. Milosh had never said anything like it, Olga silently acknowledged.
Denis was a perfect knight. She had never been appreciated, adored, or courted more than at that time. His taste was refined in everything, his sensitivity matched hers. The two families developed a strong liking for each other. There was always some perfectly natural reason for Denis to call and invite them to a garden party, opera or a quiet evening in their garden. Olga and Milosh returned those invitations readily, introducing Denis and Mireille to some Serbian culinary delicacies. It was obvious that everybody had a good time. Milosh found Mireille quite attractive and interesting for conversation. Both husbands respected and liked each other, enjoying common opinions in politics, sports, even women.
Then, their mutual acquaintances started mentioning to Olga that Denis used every occasion to comment how she had been the most attractive, talented, and intelligent woman he had ever met. That pleased her enormously.
A year passed unnoticed, another summer at the door. One brilliant day in June, Olga was sitting in a restaurant with Denis. "Are you aware that the people around us think we are a couple in love?" Denis asked, touching her hand gently, while laughing his charming, powerful laugh so full of joie de vivre. And, really, people were looking at them: an attractive, happy couple, apparently fond of each other. Playing tennis regularly, Denis was already magnificently brown like freshly baked bread, his blue eyes matching a light blue summer suit. Olga wore a white hand-crocheted dress. After the dinner, Denis drove across the Sava River and they walked by the river and the Museum of Modern Art. They walked for a while, then stood speechless watching the flow of water. He bought her a bunch of wild flowers from a gypsy street vendor, then invited her to his home for a drink.
"What are your summer vacation plans?" Denis asked her. Mireille had already left for France with the boys, as soon as the school was over. He was expected to join them later. Milosh was in Scandinavia, on a business trip. Their vacation had been planned for the Mediterranean.
"Dubrovnik, as always," she smiled as a woman tired of repetition but ready to comply with her husband's choice. The evening was soft and warm, filled with fragrance of freshly cut grass and the flowers, arranged by Denis, "To greet you," as he put it. For a while, they sat in silence. There was electricity in the air, like before a storm. Denis brought her a drink and seated himself on the floor, by her feet. She tensed in fear of the unknown.
"Olga, I have dreamed about this for much longer than you know. I have been in love with you, desperately, for a long time." He stopped, and watched her face, not sure whether to proceed. Her eyes wide open, she was more afraid than surprised.
"Have you ever given a thought to the man who could not travel anywhere without taking you with him: in his thoughts and his heart?"
"You mean, the cards and the gifts have come from you," Olga whispered not finding enough voice to speak up.
"Yes, my dear. I had met you at your lecture on the modern Swedish design and fell in love with your mind, your taste, your femininity... all of you."
"I don't remember meeting you then. There were so many people there. The cards and gifts were beautiful, thank you. I still have them all. I never knew what to think, since you didn't reveal your identity for so long."
"I didn't dare. I wasn't sure whether you'd remember me. We were not actually introduced then, and I was with a crowd. of other people You had impressed me like no other woman in my life. I'd thought it was going to go away, but it grew with time. Since I actually met you, I have so much more reason to respect and love you. I respect you, Olga, do not misunderstand me. I have never felt or done anything like this before. Since I met you, I haven't actually been married to Mireille but to you only. I swear to God. I understand now: I had not married out of love. And Mireille has some serious problems, which I have learned to live with. We all have a cross to bear. I am alone, Olga, as single as a man can be. Trust me without explanation for now. I never knew love before."
He stayed silent for a while. She did not dare to move or say a word..
"I have read all you had ever published, and had been everywhere where I expected to see you. Sounds like a fixation, I'm afraid, but I am normal, Olga, perfectly normal, I just love you. That is all."
She sat silently, stunned by the torrent of his emotion. Finished, Denis just sat in silence, so sad, like a lost child, and so lovable. She wanted to touch his golden hair, to embrace him like a child, to hold him in her lap...but, in panic and dismay, she suggested a little more time. Time to think it out. They both were leaving on vacation soon.
"Please, Denis," she kept repeating, looking at him with her big, dark eyes, full of unknown fear.
Back at home, in her bed, she felt empty and robbed of something that could have been beautiful if she had not been so afraid. Afraid of herself, for the first time in her life, so out of control. She could not fall a sleep longing for him, his strong masculine hands and soft, child-like blue eyes. She saw herself in her mind's eye, running back to him barefoot, in her lacy nightgown, her hair wild and loose, like a picture of a woman possessed with passion that she had seen somewhere long time ago.
Soon, his cards started coming from Paris, South of France, and castles on the Loire. Later, she responded with two postcards from the Mediterranean.
When their vacation ended and Olga returned home, Denis was already in his office, working. She did not call him first, but dropped by unexpectedly to find him at his desk, his golden head bent over some papers.
The rest was inevitable.
They forgot about the world, spending as much time together as possible, visiting museums and galleries, discovering small cafes and restaurants, talking to strangers in the streets and parks. They shared and enjoyed everything. Whatever they touched, bloomed with beauty and deep meaning. Olga introduced Denis to Neruda's love poetry and he became their favorite poet, their beloved season - summer. They discovered they shared love for the seashells, sand, and pebbles. She would visit him in his office, after hours, when everybody had left. He would wait for her impatiently. The blinds were down and his big office, with the palm trees, reminded them of a beach. They would take a shower together, then spread a big towel on the floor, seashells and rose petals scattered all around. This was their vacation, now, since they had had to spend the previous one separated, far from each other.
Like teenagers, they explored each other's bodies with tenderness and an insatiate curiosity. They talked endlessly, learning everything about each other from their early childhood. Denis would kneel in front of Olga, and start kissing her from her toes upward. She loved to play with the golden curls on his chest, like in a Greek god.
Denis was so different from any man she had ever known. She had never loved blue eyes, except in her mother and her daughter. Now he joined her dearest ones. He pleaded to meet her parents. It had to be planned carefully to come naturally. He felt like asking for her hand or at least their approval of him. When they met, they liked each other. Her father quoted Balzac and Hugo, and Denis remarked how Olga was the spitting image of her bubbly father. After that, everything was simple: Denis was admitted into the family. They had one strong tie in common - their love for Olga.
Denis was a passionate and tender lover. There was a certain purity in him that made their love a simple, pure joy. They both needed that. Neither had had a love affair before. Neither accepted adultery and deceit easily. Yet, they could not imagine life without each other anymore.
Naturally, they were still getting together socially as well: formally dressed and polite to each other, exchanging small talk, while in their mind they already were undressed, on the floor of Denis's office with the seashells and rose petals, feeding each other strawberries and cream.
At first, they were blissfully happy. She was not for a moment jealous of Mireille. Denis had told Olga he did not love Mireille and their sex had ceased to be a happy experience years ago. He often watched TV late, with a drink, waiting for Mireille to fall asleep. She was not interested in his work, nor in anything else he did. Unlike him, she found life in other countries outside France of no interest to her, and spent time playing bridge. She slept a lot and had some emotional problems that he didn't like to talk about. Like the wife in Graham Green's story "Blue Film," she blamed Denis for not making her life more exciting, since he was finding fun everywhere he went.
Denis never showed anything but respect for Milosh. He seemed to have genuinely liked him, because -- he said -- Milosh always had a gleam of pride in his eyes when talking about Olga. Olga was not sure about the "gleam," but did not press the issue. She knew, Denis was a dreamer and a romantic. He saw everything in life wrapped in "the clouds of glory." She was like that herself, but neither of their spouses shared that quality, practical as they were.
Once or twice, either Denis or Olga had to leave on a business trips. While apart, they only grew hungrier for each other, more tender and passionate on return. From Russia, she brought him amber cuff links, from Greece a silver ring. The autumn came and they collected yellow, golden, and red leaves from the park to scatter in Denis's office for their clandestine meetings. They went to the market place and shopped for seasonal fruits to eat together. He was happy when people took them for a married couple.
Heavy rains started and she had to wash her legs in the sink, one day, after running through the rain to meet with him in his office. He watched her do that, and it became his favorite memory, he often told her.
The winter came and he wore a white pullover that made him look irresistible. He had her wear it on her naked body, as the only garment, arguing that it looked much better on her, showing just enough, yet not too much (the pullover ended where her long legs started). After that, he would wear the pullover hoping that it kept the warmth of her body with the enchanting combination of her perfume and the body odor, not to mention the memories thereof (his wording that made her laugh). That white pullover was their favorite. He loved some pieces of her wardrobe: white silk pants and a blue oversized shirt, a big black straw-hat with a red rose, tiny white lace bikini panties she had bought in Italy thinking of him and wore that first day she came back to his office after the summer vacation (he called it appropriately "The Italian wedding dress"). She took great pleasure in dressing for him. He took great pleasure in undressing her.
Denis often told Olga that he knew her body better than she herself, loved her dark, heavy hair and the way she tossed it, while laughing. He even started learning Serbian language. "Nema problema," (No problem) became one of his off-hand phrases, and Olga had to laugh at how "Serbian" his intonation was in spite of the French accent. He sang to her "Tamo daleko, daleko kraj mora," (Far away at the sea shore) with a mixture of respect for the Serbian history of suffering and French romantic chivalry. He learned, and used, typically Serbian terms of endearment, like "Dusho moja," knowing that it was how her mother called her, and therefore had a stronger appeal than the French "Cherie." It seemed, he knew everything about her and wanted to know more.
Soon, the spring came and their love was new and young again. Yet still another summer passed and their passion grew deeper and stronger. The autumn rains and the winter snow followed and found them still happy as ever, growing more and more in love. They did not care about the rest of the world and, somehow, the world left them alone, too. Only, here and there, when she found him quiet and insisted to know why, he would just say: "Oh, let's not get into that. It's Mireille. Nothing involving you. It's just her old annoying ways." And Olga would do everything to make him forget.
It was not easy for her to live a double life, either. There were lies to be invented, time taken from home and her family. Guilt ridden, sleepless, she would pray: "God, please, don't make me be another Anna Karennina. Help me, God, not to hurt Milosh and Jasmina. Don't let me abandon my child for a lover."
Jasmina was doing fine at school, never really needing any help. She was not acting as a teenager yet, but would blush around the boys and become overly shy. Olga new, pretty soon, Jasmina was going to need her even more. The questions about boys, romance and sex would start. She wanted to be ready, with a clean conscience and an open mind, to support Jasmina's road to womanhood.
As for Milosh, there were things that were missing, and they were important to her. He seemed to not know or understand her as a woman at all. She wondered if he even cared enough to find out more. Once, she came home with a woman's magazine that had a test of intimacy for spouses. She answered the questions quickly, easily, and almost hundred per cent correctly, about him. He did not know the answers to the color of her underwear or a nightgown, her favorite dress, flower, perfume, music, book, movie, food and many other things. She almost cried when they compared the results. He failed the intimacy test! That was what she missed in him the most.
On another occasion, when her birthday was approaching, she gave him a lot of hints about her favorite perfume. Now, she felt, he will know, and surprise her with something that will surely make her happy. Another disappointment. This time, she did cry. He just didn't know. In spite of all that, over all, he was a decent, good man, so she persistently tried to forget "those other things." His respect for her, and his almost awkward shyness, made up for all that he was not and could never be. She never thought it was his fault, therefore shame and guilt were always close. The cake was not sweet under the icing.
One day, unexpectedly, Denis started," Olga, I don't know how to tell you. I have bad news. Very, very bad news."
"Mireille?" she asked.
"No, much worse. I'd received a transfer to Sweden. It cannot be changed, I've already tried."
She did not say a word. There was nothing to say. She had known all along this was only a temporary gift, a borrowed time to be paid for later. The time had come. It was the end of happiness, the end of her life. She was like a somnabul, an empty shell walking, no thoughts, no feelings. Her spirit was somewhere else, in another world. Strangely, people never noticed anything. She was dying, bleeding her life out, and the world went on. Nobody even noticed. Milosh asked her the most trivial questions about the electricity bills, Jasmina complained about her morning cereal.
The days before Denis's departure were like a blur, like a sickness with high fever. Nothing to remember, only pain, pain and yearning for him.
The last she saw of him was at the farewell reception he gave. She was standing in the corner, in her emerald silk dress, her big dark eyes like those on the Muench's painting. In his office, earlier, they had agreed to part in front of other people. That was better.
From her corner, Olga was looking at Denis talking to people, wondering how she was going to live on without him. She was looking around at his office where they spent so many happy hours together. She knew each chair, each painting, even the ashtrays. Like a dead fetus, a child of love, something settled in her to stay after he was gone. She saw his pale face, his blue eyes dark and serious. Shaking hands with everyone, he came to her, placed a pale pink rose bud in her hands, looking into her eyes.
"Good bye, Olga. Thank you. Good luck." That was all. And she was already in the street, trying to open her car with a wrong key, her eyes full of tears.
How can I live on? How can I live without him? I want to die. I want to die.
And she nearly did. She never quite understood why and how that truck hit her. Nothing was left of her BMW. She was seriously injured: her head, chest and legs. But this was all happening outside her, to someone else. She did not feel pain, did not care how long it would take to recover. One thing was certain, however. She had not tried to commit suicide. It had just happened so she could learn how much she still loved life. She was not ready to die. Neither was she ready to live. Yet.
But, live she did. There were her daughter, her husband, and her friends. They had been neglected for too long. And there were still things to do.
For a long time there was no word from Denis. They had agreed to take that approach rightfully. She was thinking about him, though. About him and her, and how all this could have happened. She was sorting out two images of herself, "then" and "now." They were different, and she still did not understand why.
Then, more letters started coming to her office. Almost as often as before. Even some unexpected calls. Quite a nuisance. She could not recognize the man anymore. This all had nothing to do with her. The man was tending to his needs, while she wanted him to stick to their agreement and leave her alone. Why did he write? She had no will to respond. There was nothing left to say. Obviously, theirs was one of many love affairs. At the time it felt like something unique and precious, but it probably always does at first. It's over now. With the feeling gone, that aura of magic, it became so common, almost distasteful.
But she needed to clear it with herself, how it all could happen, so she would never make the same humiliating mistake again. She analysed, she compared, she concluded: back then she felt but didn't think, less analyse. Now, she really listened to him. He was complaining about his wife ("a crazy alcoholic"), his sons ("away in a boarding school, leaving him alone to deal with their mother"), his whole life, empty and meaningless "without her."Mireille belonged in a mental institution, he insisted. He deserved some life... and the complaints went on and on. They sounded confused and repetitive, as if coming from a deranged or intoxicated man. Was he drinking? Depressed or disturbed? How much did she know him? This was not the man she knew. Denis was a strong, intelligent, attractive man. Who is this man? Was she blind then, or had he changed so drastically? His letters were still full of praise and devotion for Olga. He needed her more than ever. That she believed. But, at the same time, Mireille must have needed him all along, now more than ever before. Isn't that what marriage is about?
Olga had never asked anything from him. How could she? He was, conveniently, married. So was she. She gave him what she had to offer, out of love. But, then, was it love if it could pass without leaving behind something lasting? Mutual respect? Friendship? The only residue here was shame, a strong disappointment more in herself than in him.
Yet, she had loved him. That's what she had felt back then. And if he had asked her to marry him, she may have done it. It would not have been an easy decision, but... How easy it is for a human to make a mistake, she thought sadly. Could it be that she was blinded by passion, seeing what she wanted to see not what the reality offered?
Now, she wondered if Denis had really loved her or just needed excitement added to his empty marriage. She had always thought of him as strong and giving. Now she remembered how he had told her Mireille considered him selfish and egocentric. May be she knew better, after all. Who was killing whom in this marriage? Had he ever had an honest complaint about Mireille? How would she know? Denis had not been the only man who had ever cried on her shoulder for marrying "a wrong woman." How "wrong" were all those women, she wondered. Maybe, rather, we get what we deserve. And she felt ashamed, and sad that she had ever been so nearsighted, so blinded, so weak and therefore unfair to so many people: Milosh, Jasmina, Mireille?
She looked back at herself, over and over, not recognizing that woman, blind with passion, loneliness and a powerful hunger, looking for the "perfect man that would love her the way she needed"? Well, whatever it was in her then, must have been "served," because now it was not there anymore. She did not feel passion, hunger, or loneliness, only regret, shame, and guilt. Both she and Denis had believed that they were lonely in their marriages because their spouses were so different, that they did not understand them. So, they went through life lonely and unfulfilled. How often do we hear this, she wondered. So often, by so many people, that one believes it has to be true. Yet, is it? Not anymore, she realized. She felt, after that experience, she was a different person. As if she could see and hear better. Could it be that both she and Denis had been egocentric and selfish, in love with themselves and love itself?
Romance. Romantic love! What 'potion' in it causes people to do crazy things that they have to regret later? Now, romantic love seemed to her like an addiction: "high" for a while but shallow and pathetic later. Like a crime of passion, an act out of our control, with which we cannot identify once we are out of that mental and emotional state.
For days, for months, she wrestled with her part in that affair. Never before could anyone think of her as easy. What happened? Was it, like in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, only a temporary madness? It certainly looked like it now. She felt sad each time she looked at Milosh and her child engaged in some happy, loving interaction. If she could only go back to the time when she'd been still clean. But she was grateful she had not gone even further. One thing she knew: it could never happen again. She knew better now. As if awakened from a bad dream, she felt the same relief and a renewed capacity to understand and enjoy everything that life offered on a deeper level.
More deliberate than ever to keep her life in order, enriched by the experience, Olga continued to meet her life's challenges and family obligations. Time passed. Denis stopped writing. Jasmina started blooming under her parents' love and care: her talents became more visible and resulted in an overall feeling of happiness and fulfillment for the whole family. Milosh was steadily climbing in his career, too, respectful and understanding as always. In his charming, shy manner, he would praize her to their friends, "Have you noticed the water in our city has improved? It affects people. My wife has never been better. She is all I have ever dreamed of finding in a woman." With a pang of guilt and sadness, now she recognized, behind his joking words, Milosh's unwavering love and pride in her. And she was happy. Happy because he was too. Her goal was to make sure she made him and Jasmina happy. Nothing else really mattered. The rest was pure vanity. Even her professional work was important only to the extent it was of use to others, never significant enough to interfere with her family.
For a long time, Olga wanted to talk to Milosh about her guilt and pain. She wasn't sure whether it was right or cruel to do. She had the need to have it in the open and off her chest, to feel clean again. It was up to Milosh to decide about their future then. Knowing what pain it would cause Milosh, she waited. One day, however, they talked about a couple they knew, getting a divorce because of the wife's infidelity.
Milosh was genuinely concerned, "It is sad, especially because of the children. It will affect them for the rest of their lives. Maybe they could've resolved it without a divorce. One can forgive and forget. Life goes on and things change. Nobody wins in a divorce."
Something broke in Olga, and she started passionately explaining her opinion. Before she could get into personal details, Milosh stopped her with his gentle smile. His beautiful, dark eyes had so much wisdom and love in them when he said:
"Olga, we are old enough to know how tricky words can be. They are used for lies as well as the truth. My truth, your truth. Even that changes, as we change. I believe in commucation beyond words, in trust. Love and respect each other, and live our life the best we can."
That was Milosh. He either did not want to know more or knew it all along. Either way, she respected and loved him for being exactly the way he was. Touched by love, Olga felt closer to him than ever. It gave her an inner eye for life altogether. She finally found peace and joy like never before.