Fate sometimes delivers angels, all the more surprising when they don’t look particularly angelic. I was sitting alone on a bench under a tree this afternoon, savouring the quiet and reading my book when she arrived. She blew over, saw me and whirled down, talking a mile a minute, and I could just see the exclamation marks.
“Thank God there’s a woman here! I have been staying with two men, well boys really, only boys! Of course it’s cheaper to stay in a room all together and I thought I was with mature adults. I thought so! For three nights it was cool. Three nights for God’s sake! Why did it suddenly not become cool? They’re idiots! An extra beer inside and they become idiots! I’m speechless! So I sleep in the nude! That’s not so strange! I always sleep in the nude! I have always slept in the nude! It doesn’t mean anything except I like to sleep in the nude! I don’t even find them handsome. If I did I would have been having sex with them already! Why would I wait three days? But no! A bit more raki in them and they think suddenly I can’t resist them. That they are irresistible. My God!”
With this she suddenly grabbed my hands and said, “You understand! You understand everything! I can tell you are an understanding person. I knew it the minute I saw you! Fate brought me here! We need to talk more. There is much depth in you, and I have so much pain too. Why have I not seen you before? Ah I am speechless with joy. Come!” She took my arm and literally pulled me to the little taverna nearby, called out in perfect Greek to the waiter to bring us a bottle of wine and some olives, then faced me again, smiling for the first time.
“Who are you? Some goddess who came down from the mountains to walk amongst the mortals? You are very beautiful. And reading Ovid, so you must have a brain too! You must tell me everything about yourself. I need to know who you are! I feel like you are the second half to me.”
There was a nano-second pause which I took to mean it was my turn to speak, but before I got anything out she carried on, “Ah you have a Canadian flag on your bag. I love Canadians! Unless you are one of those Americans who think they will get better service if they put a Canadian flag on their bag. They are idiots! Everyone can tell they are Americans! I love Americans! Their spirit! I will never live there but I love their country! Why do they need to pretend to be something different? But I can tell you are not American. You have a sensitivity that I share. We are from opposite sides of the planet that meet in the ancient world. I am from the old world and you are from the new. But I can be whatever I like and have no ties to any country. And you do not either. I can tell you are one the world’s travelers! Not here for a useless two week holiday in the sun, looking to have sex with idiot boys, but someone who understands the world and tries to make sense of it. A woman of the inner circle.”
I laughed. I really couldn’t help myself. The wine came and she poured out two glasses, giving one to me and raising the other in a toast. “To the women of the inner circle! To finding a friend of the soul!”
We drank and she put her glass down with a flourish. She was striking in a modern, northern European way. Defined cheekbones, pale skin, short, short black hair with white blond tips, several tattoos on her arms and legs and as many piercings in her ears, and with a direct blue-eyed gaze that went right through me. Her accent was northern too, but not clearly of one country that I could discern.
“Who are you?” she asked, or rather demanded, and then it really was my turn to speak. After I told her my name and where I was from, she asked questions in a matter of fact way and listened with as much force as she spoke. It was oddly easy to tell her things. When I told her I’d been a teacher, she shot up both her arms and exclaimed, “I too am a teacher! I knew we were connected souls. I can say no more!”
Well, yes, she was a teacher. It turns out she gave sailing lessons one summer.
Throughout our ensuing conversation, there were many exclamations at how parallel our lives were, although I became unsure as to whether or not ‘parallel’ was a concept she totally understood. She has four brothers. (I have two sisters.) Her father is an architect and her mother a painter. (My father is a research scientist and my mother sings at funerals). She left school at 14 and has travelled throughout Europe since, able to speak five languages fluently. (I went to university, and my language skills are hit and miss, although I can find a toilet and get a sandwich in several by now). She had an abortion at fifteen (I had my first kiss at twenty). However, it did turn out that we had the same star sign and were the same height. Practically twins.
She was relentless. I didn’t even know her name at this point, but felt here was someone so outrageous, and yet with a certain something that invited trust. Someone I could actually talk to, once she let me. It was rather a relief to have someone to really talk to. Someone who didn’t know me, or who had any expectations.
We ended up “being speechless” for hours. Philosophy, music, jewelry, literature, numerology, mathematics, suicide, teacups, religion, art, history, food…everything. Thoughts I could only share with you found themselves on my lips to her. I found out more about her in a few short hours than I know about friends I’ve had for years. I still haven’t exactly told her about you, but I think she suspects you exist. She does know I have been through big changes in my life this year, but not what caused them. At 3am, after 13 hours of solid conversation, we decided it was time to go to bed, in the same room as it turns out, as she had left her old place and it was too late to find another. I didn’t feel at all threatened by her. This surpirsed me no end. Maybe I need to be around humanity again.
The only thing that stops her from talking is sleep it seems. We’d barely got into the room when, true to her former billing, she stripped down to nothing and crashed into bed, falling asleep instantly. I swept aside this evening’s collection of silverfish from my own bed, changed into my more demure nightshirt, and likewise slipped into a deep sleep.
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