This morning I went down to the showers located in a stone cellar, hot and steamy. There were only two in the women’s section for this entire building - what a nightmare it must be during high season! Fortunately I was the only one there and so was able to take my time figuring out how to work the archaic plumbing. Once it got going, a large showerhead high above shed hot, strong water gushing straight down onto the crown of my head. I stood there in ecstasy. Without doubt the best shower I’ve ever had anywhere in the world. Maybe I should do a best of list, the best shower, the best bed, the best hike, the best interaction, the best museum - no that one would be too difficult.
Connie’s boat was in, baggage unloaded, and minutes felt like hours until I saw her. Then hugging in a wonderful flood of pure joy. I cried buckets – I am so much more emotional than I used to be, crying at movies and plays, even sporting events. I put it down to a kinder gentler me. Mom says I am just getting old. We got Connie's things loaded into a taxi and to her hotel. I had thought she might stay in the hostel with me, but obviously her trekking days are over.
She had already arranged for soup, a sort of strongonoff and bread as a sort of room picnic, which we ate on the floor talking a mile a minute. I felt like a little girl staying over at a friend’s house and sharing secrets in her bedroom. Everything unleashed. How our lives have changed since we met almost ten years ago! Amazing how close two people who have actually seen each other only three times can be. Meeting kindred spirits while travelling heightens the relationship, as if so much has to be discovered with so little time to spare. I hardly know this woman really, yet I can tell her everything.
She said she wanted to know everything that was happening in my life starting with the most important, so when was the last time I had sex? I told her about the dates I’d had over the last year and she howled with laughter. She's the only one not shocked at my sleeping with a dozen or so men in a dozen or so cities this year. I kept getting their names mixed up but that didn't faze her either. Such a relief - there' no one else who I can talk to about this Laughter subsided to smile as asked me pointedly when was the last time I’d felt truly connected, both physically, emotionally and spiritually to anyone, man or woman, and I paused before telling her about Hamish. For some reason it was easier to tell her how and where I'd slept around than about my last real relationship. She was sympathetic. At first.
“Maybe you need to find someone who is not British. I hear they are terrible at sex.”
“Well, I don’t know about all Brits but that Brit certainly wasn’t lacking.”
“So what’s the problem? Was he ugly?”
What’s with the ugly thing? Why do people find this important?
“No he wasn’t ugly. Not that that would matter. It’s just that, well, it was hard work. You know, he wanted to do things that I didn’t sometimes. And he was messy.”
“All men live like pigs.”
“And he made decisions and wouldn’t tell me.”
“Like what kind of decisions? What sort of things?”
“Like going back to school.”
“So?”
“In Germany.”
“Ah.”
“Exactly.”
“So going to Germany was his way of getting out of the relationship without a confrontation. Men are such cowards!”
“Well, no he didn’t really want to leave the relationship.”
“He had another girlfriend in Germany. Bastard!”
“No, there is no other girlfriend.”
“Then why go to Germany?”
“The course he wanted to do was there. It’s the best place for his kind of training. What he does.”
“Oh. So what - he wasn’t coming back?”
“Oh yes he was. Is. At least he said so.”
“Did he not want you to visit him there? Was he hiding something?”
“No. No, he invited me to come and stay anytime I wanted. He still does.” I felt my argument weakening.
“So he writes to you?”
“He phones. Sometimes.”
“So he still wants you.”
I stammered, “Yes.”
“Ah I know! He wants you to stay in England so that when he comes back you will stay there and never leave. Englishmen never want to leave England anymore. Ok, Scottish men too - they are all the same, cold and pastry in the face. Not pastry? Pasty. Ok, pasty then! They make their woman stay when it suits them, trapped in a country of rules and bad food. They are idiots and bastards!”
“Well, actually Hamish is rather keen to leave Britain. Getting this degree would help him do that. Be more competitive worldwide I mean.”
“He likes to travel. To travel as you do? Carrying everything you own on your back, staying in filthy huts, eating local food no matter how awful it is? That kind of travelling?”
“Well, yes.”
“Ok so now I am confused. Is he a bad boyfriend or what? Were you tired of him?”
“No, I …”. I drifted off a bit. How could I explain? Everything I said sounded weak and unconvincing even to myself. “I just found it hard to deal with someone else. Who had plans of his own.”
“Even if they included you.”
“Um, yes.”
She looked at me in a way that made me feel totally small and pathetic. “It sounds like you are in denial. Inside still too much alone. Set in your ways. Not willing to change. What do you call it? A sponster.”
“I think you mean a spinster.”
“One of those women who have mouths like chicken’s bottoms, and look over their glasses at you if you laugh or have an idea. My god you can’t turn into one of those! I will never speak to you again if you do. From this moment. Our friendship is over. I’m speechless!”
“Oh Connie, don’t be so theatrical.” What is it about me that seems to attract such highly dramatic women friends? And relations? Mom, for instance. Hmm, I may have hit on something there. “Ok I admit I’m not used to being with someone else. Living with someone else. Having to adjust my life to include someone else. Someone with faults.”
“Do you think you can find a man without faults? It’s impossible.” Then she looked at me sharply. “You are not trying to find a replacement for that dead boyfriend of yours are you? Because he is dead. And because he is dead he has no faults. You have forgotten his faults. If you live with such a memory you will always be alone. And you would deserve to be. You will die an old lady with no friends. At least no friends who live in Sweden. I mean me!”
“Please, let’s talk about something else.”
“This is not going away you know. We will talk of this more. Much more.”
“I thought you were speechless.”
“You are making fun of the only friend you have? The person who is going to tell you the truth about yourself? Never mind your apologies! Now I will tell you about my life and you are going to listen to me for a change, to someone who knows how to live, how to really live.“
Despite her tantalizing words I found Connie has settled down, well, at least as settled as Connie will ever get. She lives with a man in Stockholm who has another live-in girlfriend in Helsinki, going between the two, which suits Connie just fine, as it leaves her ‘time off’ to pursue other interests and other men herself. I discovered she now has three children all under four, but won’t allow either children or their fathers to intrude on her self-exploration, enlisting the help of her neighbours and young language students who all act as casual nannies. “A child can be so cloying.”
“Connie – but you have three.”
“Yes. I love them but I can’t stand being with them. Thank God their fathers do.”
“Fathers? Plural? How many?"
"Three. One per child."
"Are they all still around?”
“Oh yes they come by to see their flesh made real, but who can stay with a man after you’ve had a child with him? It changes men.”
Well, at least Connie will not be one of those people who consider marriage and motherhood as interchangeable necessities. Her latest craze is acoustical massage therapy and she is setting up a studio at home. She has decided to write her memoirs “which will be fascinating, but so many people do not want to see them in print. I will have problems with the censors but my story must be told!”
I long to hear more about her children. What would they grow to be like I wonder? She showed me photos and told me about their characters, remarkable for someone who seems to spend absolutely no time with them. Her eyes have a certain light when she talks, a sort of softness and twinkle both at the same time. No matter how disparaging she was of this one’s poor concentration or that one’s lack of artistry, you could tell she was deeply in love with them all. I felt a pang, a longing for a whole mess of children – a noisy, messy, chaotic mess of little bodies to inspire and conspire.
She asked about my own work but when I told her I was considering an offer with the Royal Geographic Society but was worried it might be a little staid, she interrupted me to say “I know, you must take up photography. There’s a lot of money in photography. I know someone who takes photos for magazines who makes over $200,000 American dollars a year and has three homes in three different countries. That would be perfect for you.”
Thankfully I didn’t have to answer as Connie went off on another tangent. Talking about Hamish had brought him even more to my mind. I hae tried so hard to put him away in some dark recess, and thought I'd been successful but now find he springs back fully formed in my memory. He would have loved hearing Connie flit through her life in 200,000 words or less, and would have caught my eye during a few of the more colourful episodes. He always understood exactly what I was thinking. We could get going on a subject, any subject, and talk about it for hours. We seemed to spend all our time talking or laughing. Oh, yes, Hamish’s laugh. It started in his eyes then erupted in a whole river of pleasurable gurglings before he’d shake his head and make a sideways smile, as if the laugh didn’t want to depart his face. Oh I miss that laugh.
Andrew’s laugh is harder to conjure up. Connie’s comment made me wonder whether in fact he and I would actually have anything to say to each other if we were to meet now. I still read his poems, but they don’t seem as amazing as they used to. Is it them or me? Would Hamish and Andrew be even remotely alike? What would they think of each other?
Well, I know Hamish would be accepting. Right from the start, when I was feeling guilty and worried about how I could possibly be with Hamish without thinking about Andrew, Hamish just sort of invited Andrew's ghost into our relationship. He asked to see the photos and hear the stories. At first I had thought I had to choose either one or the other. I didn’t realize it could be all three of us.
And now I don’t have either.
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