This is a personal story about hazard evoking quixotic responses ….
“When he returned from work that evening I was in the kitchen adding the finishing touch to our martinis which we would drink in the living room. A new ritual as martinis were my latest craze. He had encouraged it by bringing me exquisite long stemmed classic glasses, a shaker, jars of jumbo olives, a sharp paring knife so I cut lemon twists as thin as an eyelash and a book on the history of martinis. We took care of each other in those foolish and indulgent ways. It also marked the end of working days. His, as a Physician, and mine, as a novelist.
He walked in that evening and his footsteps were different. They did not move briskly to the kitchen where he would plant a long kiss on my mouth and then lift his glass so I only had to carry mine. I waited , called to him and then he appeared in the doorway with death written on his face. The kiss had died in his throat.
He did not spare me but confirmed that a three fold assault on our life had occurred. We were hit financially, professionally and emotionally. As I fished the olive out of my drink and bit down on it hard I felt my soul had just shrivelled and died. Then he said that now we had a battery of experts who would battle for us. Victory could not be taken for granted. His handsome face was drawn and ashen.
“I don’t care. I love you,” I reached to touch his arm.
Oddly, I could not reach him as he sat further than usual from me. He sat like the condemned man prior to execution. His martini glass
was still half full. He took tiny judicious sips and had not bolted it down like a desperado. I was gulping mine as though I had found an oasis in a parched desert. He noticed it and a tiny smile tugged at his lips.
“Did you make a move today?”
He was referring to our chess games which lasted days as we made moves alone and let the other person discover them. It was easy as we were a married couple who lived together. The element of surprise and discovery kept our interest permanently engaged. We were both decent players but he consulted a book as well. I played instinctively as my father had taught me at the age of ten.
I knew what he was doing he was trying to restore normalcy.
“How can you think of the game at this time,” I croaked as shock waves pummelled me.
“No one is going to fall apart,” he took a deep sip of his martini.
I burst into tears. He got up reached me and then planted the delayed kiss on my lips. It was spit and the salt of tears. I disgraced myself and had fallen apart.
I set the novel I was working on aside. Doom had invaded our romantic life. Fear of losses had chased paragraphs and chapters out of my head. Then I began to write short poems at 6, 0 clock. This was half an hour before he would return from work. All the new emotions roaring inside my head found a home in a poem. It was safer this way. I l was quite passionate about poetry and had written it secretly for myself for years. I used the smashing Mont Blanc fountain pen he had gifted me and an ancient notebook. Each development or obstacle in our assorted challenges became the subject of a poem.
Like shooting stars we plummet to a shattered destination
gathering in flight a million scars.
I have a place to project all the doom and gloom without knowing if the poems are any good. Yet, I am writing daily and that has to be enough for now. During the day I head to my Health club and play ferocious games of squash. My opponents puzzled, urged me to take it easy as I took all the games from them. I am not hitting the tiny ball i am pummelling fate. All of life has become a war zone and this is kept a secret from family and beloved friends.
The chess playing changes. We play a game each night after dinner. We face each other not as lovers but adversaries. We study each other’s faces and moves. I am playing identical moves with both pieces. The Rook and the Knight is what I use. He knows everything about me and reads my intentions as well.
“You have never played like this before,” he captures my pieces skillfully.
“I am playing only to win. Just like our life.”
“Relax,” he says calmly, “the lawyer is the best in town and so is the financial man.”
“I want to win every game,” I say recklessly.
I have made an after dinner martini which is something we never do.
“That’s the alcohol talking and not you.” he lifts my glass and pours it down the kitchen sink.
I tip my King over, a sign that I have conceded defeat.
“No! You are being hasty. You have not studied the board completely. Take your time please.”
“I am writing poetry now,” I want to shock him.
“ Instead of the novel?”
I don’t reply. He gazes at me for a while.
“That’s all right. Its a break. Follow your moods. Will I get to read a poem?”
He never did and so many were about him. As forces outside my life shook the glory of a joyous partnership I became someone else. I wrote tough poems daily at an appointed hour, played competitively for the Squash House League of my club and drank an extra martini daily. I sent four poems to a pal who was a Professor of Literature at a bespoke University.
“There is blood on the page, my dear. What has happened to the lyrical novelist?”
So I simply hid the notebook. I felt it had to stay that way.
Then the typhoon which had destroyed half our lives headed for another destination. I picked up the novel and wove a fictional tale about our story. I never consulted him as he was my central protagonist. The book would tell him about all the conversations i wanted to have with him. But he had died by then. An untimely and tragic end . On that day i made two martinis and toasted him with both. Then I flew across the Atlantic to bury the wedding ring he had given me in the olive garden of a north African country. “