TO LOVE FLAMINIO

by Nina Galen

 

 

PREFACE

 

The memoirs on which this story is based were discovered in a cardboard suitcase left unclaimed in a train station in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. Using red and blue ink, the color sometimes alternating within a sentence or paragraph to provide emphasis, their author wrote painstakingly in small, Gothic script, often minutely covering both sides of airmail paper, in an apparent effort to conserve space.

The editor's task was to form a continuous narrative based on these lengthy fragments, straighten out spelling and syntactical errors without losing the flavor of the original, and, where appropriate, render conversations into colloquial English.

Besides these papers, the suitcase contained three butterfly ties, four pairs of white gloves, a white, badly torn man’s shirt, and a pair of men's black shoes, the heels of which were completely worn down on the outside edges. Also found were several volumes in French, German, Danish and English of works of history, philosophy, and poetry. Pressed between the pages of one volume was a miniature Indian painting of no worth to collectors.

Efforts to discover the author of these memoirs have been unsuccessful. He apparently is, or was, a Dane, but the various foreign embassies contacted in an effort to trace him, or anyone resembling him, disclaimed knowledge of such a person.

While the unknown author has apparently changed some place names, there is little doubt that the setting of the first part of the story is the Sri Aurobindo Ashram complex in Pondicherry, India, and that the events described took place in the late 1960's.

 

 

PART ONE

 

Chapter 1

India.

The golden sun was setting on the idyllic former French enclave of Villefranche-sur-Mére. Conningsfield (me) sat on the sea wall. Below, on the narrow beach, some Hindus praying. Others relieving themselves. Not so idyllic you say? Perhaps. But just then Her Ladyship rides past on a rented ashram bicycle. So Conningsfield's heart was beating faster, though he did not often watch her (too polite. Also he had to direct the battle on the other side.)

Using all energy, like a soldier, Her Ladyship pedaled upwind to the end of the promenade. There is at that spot, out of sight of the sea, a strange "no man's land." Empty streets. Low buildings with doors and shutters always closed. Here the ashram houses, the native quarter, and the French colonial Governor's mansion almost touch. (A most desolate spot, always some pigs eating hors d'oeuvre in the gutter, do not ask what.) Having some fright she turned, without pedaling came whizzing back, the wind pushing her like a sail. Then a terrible squeak and she stopped.

"You should rent one," she told me. "They're only a rupee a day."

Of course it was not a question of money, though I am not a rich man, rather of dignity. For how can one ride a bicycle and carry an umbrella under the armpit without appearing ridiculous? The monsoon officially over, rain is seldom my worry. But one must always be well armed in this part of the world.

Then she must absolutely tell me all she has seen today.

"The weather vane on the lighthouse is pointing north-northeast. That's south." She pointed a little out to sea. "North." Thumb back over the shoulder. "East." The horizon.

West lies with the shabby waterfront buildings and, so far away, Denmark, my home.

We started walking back together. I asked her what else she had seen.

"The sidewalk outside the police station is covered with khaki shorts."

An incredible land for the American tourist. Washday. I must laugh. Then she would know what I had seen.

I blushed, caught unawares. What had I seen while gazing out to the flat sea? Not a sail. Hundreds. Sixty ships of the line. The Redoutable, the Santissima Trinidad (four decker and largest — in 1805 — afloat), the Victory, the Dreadnaught, l’Intrepide, the Royal Sovereign, and the Formidable, etc. (Also five Ruderboote and three dinghies!) Over there, the coast by Cadiz. A light wind, full sail, some confusion. "Run up the signal to open fire!" "Fire broadside!" Then a shot is heard, then the hoisting of colours and the battle begins.

What had I seen? I saw Conningsfield struck down on the deck of the Victory, carried below with a ball in the spine. "Gentlemen, we have won a great victory, but we have lost Lord Conningsfield."

"The battle of Trafalgar," I replied.

She looked at this confessed military megalomaniac a little odd. "Who won?"

I blushed again, for answer looked modestly to my feet.

"Who lost?"

"It is always Villeneuve who loses," said Conningsfield with satisfaction. He had never thought highly of that French admiral (1763-1806), valuing his own life more.

We walked slowly farther. She told me that early in the morning she had seen "this figure wrapped in a shroud looking through a wall at the sunrise." There was no hole or window in the wall. She thought it might be a very poor person afraid to burn his eyes.

This is a danger when looking at the sun. India is full of such blind beggars.

She looked rather sadder. "I saw this little dog. It was..." But she could not tell me.

I felt like hugging her. How civilized she was. Almost in tears for a so small and worthless animal. To be with her made me feel lonely and apprehensive about my own future.

"That wall is going to collapse," she announced then, like an expert engineer. "Look at those cracks."

As the sea wall fell into the waves, Conningsfield caught Her Ladyship to safety in his arms. They walked on.

"Tomorrow I see the Mother,"

"Already?"

"This girl I met here, Thérèse, arranged it. I'm not expecting anything."

"You won't be disappointed."

"You felt nothing at all?" She turned and nearly ran over my foot with the bicycle wheel.

"A very nice old lady, but keine Hexerei." In spite of her great age, and that she gives these days only silent audiences, the old Mother of the ashram, protegée of the Founder himself, spoke at some length with Prof. Dr. Conningsfield who holds so many titles and degrees as listed on the visiting card he had sent to her.

"When you say 'keine Hexerei' you mean no witchcraft. No magic."

"That is correct." Her knowledge of German is excellent for an American, owing to a year spent traveling in that country.

"I don't expect witchcraft."

"You will not be disappointed."

She looked then at the darkening sea. "I mean ... it's not witchcraft that I don't expect."

"I would say that she is a very nice old lady. Certainly an intelligent and kindly old soul."

"But keine Hexerei." My words had somehow disappointed and puzzled her.

"That is my opinion, but I could be absolutely wrong."

"My appointment's for three o'clock. I have to organize some flowers. What did you take her?"

"I don't recall. Some red ones and some blue ones that I found in the jungle."

"What jungle?" she laughed.

I laughed too. Could she not see the jungle surrounding us?

 

I shall now in "our hero" form give my real ideas and impressions upon first seeing Her Ladyship:

One day our hero went out on official inspection tour of the ashram with his usual Prussian masque. He was that day wearing full parade dress (white gloves, umbrella, gold watch chain, gold tie needle, etc.). He remarked a girl aged approximately twenty-five to thirty years old. He remembered his time in Greece. She looked like "the military girl," as he had called a poor German girl at Rhodes beach. He therefore considered her to be German. She had straight, clipped hair, very big sun spectacles, and her skin was a rather odd colour, somewhat rosy. He had seen this before, but where? He could not remember. In the car (she had been invited to go with the same tour) they talked German and English; her English was not so horribly American, fortunately.

When they took leave, she said, "I am Deborah." So natural, so modest, not like those snobs who propose to condescend by not mentioning their titles. Of course the very name "Deborah" deeply moved him, so full of Biblical memories, reminding him of home and childhood, and he was so sad the rest of the day.

In the days that followed he saw her sometimes, discovered she was accustomed to follow her own head, but not in an "American" way. He found that she was sometimes shy, had a very good brain, and, that they both held many opinions in common and also different (the last could be interesting and funny).

On the first of their little walks together (all short ones, she was rather lazy until the bicycle) she had said, "Please take me home." So natural, so feminine. She was then dressed in blouse and trousers, but with satisfaction he saw that it was not provoking or indecent. Her slacks were not tight to her posterior. She did not strive to look sexy, no makeup. Shy and correct as he was, he did not so often look at her, walked at a good distance. Once he was in a restaurant with her and sat down rather far, one chair away from her, he was so polite. And she said, "But please take the other chair."

And then one morning, walking by the sea, she asked: "Who are you really?"

Our hero was too stunned by the question to reply at once. Should he have become furious, waved his umbrella and shouted at her: "What do you mean, my young woman? Would you like a good thrashing on your bottom?" No. That was not his way with such beautiful and intelligent girls. Instead, his admiration for her grew. Now that he knew her to be undeceived, he could relax and be himself — Frederick le Grand (!) le Roi Soleil (!) etc.

But how had she known? Had he lowered the masque?

"I could see your eyes from the side," she told him.

Then he knew that she really had seen the truth. Our hero's eyes are mild, honest and youthful, not the stern military gaze he would prefer. For this reason he wears sun spectacles with one-way mirror lenses. A reasonable disguise in a hot land, but if you are in northern Europe and use sun spectacles, esp. mine, apart from summertime, you will reveal your inferiority complexes. Their one weakness: they are vulnerable from broadside. Perhaps their most special and useful effect is that these pieces of mirror reflect back to the interlocutor the exact degree of honesty in his own expression. An honest man will see an honest man; a rascal will see a rascal and be warned.

Then Fate showed its next kindness. Her Ladyship, who came to Villefranche with no previous room reservation, was obliged two days ago to give up her room and change to one in the guesthouse where I am staying. (Only later it was not an unmixed blessing, for, as you will see, complications arose.)

Arriving at the guesthouse, I helped Deborah lift her bicycle off the street through the small gate in the wall. At the other end of the garden, already two of the guests had finished tea. They called to us to sit down with them (at the empty pot and the crumbs — most kind!). These were two American "girls," only sixty, seventy years apiece. Somehow they have found their ways to Villefranche. Juney stood by Deborah's chair (she had been leaving to go to her room, where she is completing an enormous photograph montage depicting her life and which she plans to give as Christmas present to the Mother). Now she cleared her throat. A typical American voice, high in the nose.

"Well, before I go, I just thought I ought to explain you last night's pie."

Yes, the pie had seemed peculiar, but better forgotten for all time. Juney is young for her old age, has been improved by surgeons who have grasped the facial skin in front of both ears, pulled up the loose, cut it off and stitched together the wounds. Deborah says it is the first circumcised face she has ever seen. Very comical. Now, as Juney was standing over us, I was looking up at her chin from underneath. The same operation has been performed there. I watched with fascination as she talked, like a ventriloquist puppet with a powdery, sewn-together face.

"Well, you see," she began, "it had started out to be a lemon pie. Lots of corn starch for a base. Then just at the crucial moment," she looked about wildly and held her head, "no eggs! So I had them send for eggs and they brought two of the teeniest you ever saw. Well, plop, in they go and I beat and beat. But still the color isn't right, so I tell the girl and she comes back with this yellow stuff which I suppose I should have tasted first — it was that stuff they use on rice, saffron. So in it goes, just a teeny weeny pinch. But omygosh, when I tasted it. So then I had to find something to hide the taste, so I had her get me a bottle of that fizzy orange drink they have here. Fanta. Glug, glug, glug, in that goes. Then I boil and boil. Nothing. I put in some cream of tartar that Mary loaned me and beat and beat, but it still won't thicken. Boil some more. No good. Beat it. No good. And then," she screamed, "I put it in the refrigerator and — you won't believe this — it sets!"

Deborah and Juney collapse giggling in each other's arms.

I tell you, it is amazing that we are all alive and well. I notice that dead rats are lying around the drains each morning. Poison?

"I hope it's only poison," remarks Tom dryly, then laughs. Deborah laughs too and they exchange a long look.

Who is this Tom? Why has he not been mentioned before?

 

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