Fur Elize (1998)
This is another child of my Writer’s Craft course. I guess productivity goes up when one is forced to write for marks… which I guess is why I took that course. Surprisingly, this is also another one of my best stories. I touched it up a bit a year later.
I haven’t written any stories really since that class… I guess mostly because poetry is much more immediate, can focus on a few emotions I may be experiencing, and take a lot less time to write. I mean, on a really good poem, say “The Raven” by Poe, one can spend a long time working on it. But I don’t aspire to such heights…
Anyway, the assignment for this one was to really get into the psyche of a particular character. I think Mr. Reid may have given us a little snippet of a scene (the restaurant if I remember correctly, or some such) to get us started… but this is the story my twisted mind built up around it.
I still remember showing my teacher the preliminary draft. He read a few paragraphs and exclaimed “A melancholy guy? That’s different”. I was somewhat offended, as on some level Randy is me (as with all of my characters) and it didn’t seem so far-fetched to me. But I digress.
Fur Elize
Copyright © 1998
The phone had remained mute, however, and after a silent salute to that supporting pillar of my world, I got to my feet and walked to the door, past my piano, stepping around some fencing equipment and piles of books, everything covered with a layer of dust. The whole room was like that, a museum of artifacts from things my parents had forced upon me. I grabbed one of the leather jackets from the wall – it gets cold in the evenings and more than likely I’d be out late – and headed out into the city in my sporty convertible.
Such was the habit of mine, to appease that solitude. I would drive somewhere random, do something new. Sometimes I played basketball with guys I had never seen before and probably would never see again; sometimes I swam, or played the piano (poorly – I never took the time to practice) at coffee houses. When I was really down on myself I would just watch that game of basketball, the swimming, the concerts… a spectator looking at the bonds of friendship, the sheer joy and pride that radiated from these people. I might watch couples at plays – tragedies, usually, like Romeo and Juliet. How I scorned them, to be so locked in one role, one persona. To have people, even just one other person, know you that well, was anathema to me. My soul I kept hidden, and took pleasure in showing whatever aspect I wished. Yes, I scorned them, yet in the deepest corners of my heart, envy lurked – envy of their stability, their intimacy, their smiles and happiness. I think I knew of my jealousy, then, but could not face it.
It was this envy that drove me most of the time, not to the places of higher arts or sport, but to the bars and nightclubs, or even restaurants, where I would play Don Juan. I had getting into a girl’s pants down to a fine art, and it was relatively few times when I drowned my sorrows in drink rather than a warm body. Sweet, sensitive, totally obnoxious – whatever it took, I could be, but usually I picked my attitude, then a girl to fit it.
I was in the mood to be a complete jerk right then, so I surprised even myself when I pulled over into a parking lot of one of the biggest parks in the city. It was probably the weather and the time of day that sent me there. A clear, bright, Sunday afternoon, without a cloud in the sky.
Leaving my jacket in the car, I lit a cigarette and went for a walk, keeping off the paths. There were woods, and I walked in them, savoring the sound of twigs and leaves cracking under my feet, birds chirping up above, and the soft rustle of leaves in the wind all around me. I stumbled across a ravine, with a small stream running down its middle. I followed the water, its soft gurgling enhancing the soothing sounds that only nature could create.
By the time I reached the clearing, I was calmer, more subdued despite myself. The water ran between a number of rocks before plunging down a hill – almost a waterfall, but not quite. The sun shone brightly on the rocks and the water sprayed up, creating a perfect rainbow that arced over the falls like a gate to heaven. It was an image right out of a fairy tale – complete with a princess, there under the sheltering boughs of a maple tree, beside the brook. Her blond hair almost reached her shoulders, blue eyes pensive, her full cheeks and shape of features speaking of German origin. A pencil idly tapping her chin, she stared at what looked like a textbook for a moment before leaning forward to write something in a notebook. She was wearing worn jeans and a tight sweater, also well-used.
Just looking at her, without even hearing her voice, seeing her attitude, I knew I wanted her. At the same time, all my experience said that she was too strong a girl, with morals and dreams, and if I battered against that wall I would not get one step closer to her bed. I would get frustrated, and therefore drunk. I really, really hated being drunk.
Knowing this, I went ahead and walked toward her anyhow. It was just too good an opportunity to pass up. She looked up, absentmindedly said a mumbled greeting, and turned back to her books.
“Hello,” I said, sitting down beside her.
“Hi,” she said, looking up at me. “I thought you were just walking by.” Her voice had a hint of an accent, just enough to give it an exotic, foreign hint, that made her flowing voice all the more alluring.
“I was, till I saw you,” I said, smiling. I pulled out my cigarettes and offered her one.
“No thanks, I don’t smoke,” she said, as I shrugged my shoulders and pulled one out for myself. “It’s a disgusting habit, and hurts not only you but those around you.” Taking the hint, I stuffed it back in the box and tossed the thing over my shoulder, into the little stream. “Ok, I quit,” I said, still smiling.
She laughed and shook her head slightly. “Just like that?” she asked.
“Just like that,” I said, watching the little red and white package drift past my peripheral vision and plunge down the slope.
“My name is Elize,” she said, after a moment
I decided to keep the comic bit. It seemed to be getting some reaction, at least. “And I,” I stated, in a fake Spanish accent, my hand moving over my heart, “am Don Juan de Marco, the world’s greatest lover. I have made love to over a thousand women…” I slid a little closer to her. The rock was warm, radiating the sun’s heat.
Elize shook her head again. “It’s been nice meeting you, Mister Don Juan,” she said, raising an eyebrow and smirking skeptically at the name, “but if you will please excuse me, I really must finish this work.” She turned back to her books once more.
There I had slammed against the first part of that wall, and had an inkling of its strength. No serious failure yet however, so I stayed there, just looking at her, as she did her work. Eventually she looked up at me gain. “I was here first, you know.”
I nodded, looking into her eyes.
A little exasperated smile crept into her eyes. “This is my spot, and you’re distracting me. Could you please leave?”
“A most beautiful spot it is, too, all the more so by your glorious presence. But, as you wish, my lady,” I said, getting to my feet and bowing. Annoying this girl would serve no purpose, so I walked away. I could feel her eyes following me, but I never looked back. At that moment, I don’t think I expected to see her again.
Hurdling the door of my convertible, I started the car, vaguely realizing that someone had taken my expensive leather jacket. It didn’t matter, I had more. I drove to a bar, and checked to see that it was the girl who was being stubborn, and not my “charm” kicking out on me. It certainly wasn’t the latter, as I did not get drunk that night.
My tutor woke me up the next morning, knocking on my door. I let him in, got dressed, and realized that Elize still nagged at me. In my gut I could feel that she was within reach – but she was not like other girls, and I could not use the same approach. I mulled over it during the morning, devoting only minor attention to the lessons my tutor placed before me. He, too, was an artifact of my parents’ wishes, in their attempt to force me on everything the world had to offer. He was a wonderful tutor – he did the best he could. Unfortunately, I was hardly being co-operative. At lunch, he folded his briefcase and made to leave, our lesson over. I stopped him, asked him to stay. His frown of annoyance changed to one of puzzlement – never had I done that before, never had I shown any interest in his presence. Now I asked him to refresh my memories of art and painting. I did a few sketches with his suggestions, and after a couple of hours, he left, a smile on his face.
“See,” he said, “you’re good at this. All you have to do is put your mind to it.” I smiled and nodded, closing the door behind him, and dismissed the role of dutiful student I had put on. I pulled out a sketchbook and attempted to capture my imperfect memory of her on paper. Perhaps a gift of this sort might drop her guard enough to let me slip inside her walls.
Over the next few days, I must have filled half a dozen sketch books with images I was unhappy with. My tutor and I went over more techniques, though I never let him know why I was suddenly so interested, nor did I ever show him my true work.
That week was strange – the loneliness I had felt had vanished, and I did not really understand the reasons why. Yes, it had to do with Elize, but why she had such an effect on me, I still do not fully understand. She was pretty – but I had slept with prettier girls. She had denied my attempts – but others that had done so I had simply ignored, and moved past. In retrospect, I believe it was the way she seemed when she sent me away – slightly annoyed, but only because she was busy with something important, and not truly because of my demeanor.
Saturday morning I had something I thought would do. I leaned back to look at it, seeing if she could take offence at anything. I had recreated everything – the stream, the sun, the rainbow, the maple, and Elize, more beautiful than in life. The image held the pose I had first seen her in, pensive, bent over her textbook. I smiled. Victory surely was mine.
My phone rang, shattering the peaceful silence of my apartment. My smile slipped, fell, as that defensive, rebellious, impossible mood slapped itself over my mind, obliterating all else, as bleak and solid as prison walls. Groaning, I sprang for the phone, yanking the receiver off the hook, bringing it to my mouth as I muttered “Yes?”
Why did my parents have to call me, I wondered. They had called a month or two ago – wasn’t that enough meddling in my life? I had to answer the phone, of course – once I had ignored their calls for weeks, and was out the window and blocks away at the first knock on my door. I ended up with my bank account frozen and my credit card canceled over that one. That was just the sort of humiliating trick my parents devised to torture me.
My parents were rich; my father owned half the big businesses in the city, and his investments in others gave him yearly returns well in the tens of millions. My mother was his lawyer. They traveled a lot, but they took whatever opportunities they could to pick at my life, to try and manipulate me into doing things I hated doing.
“Randy? We want to talk to you,” said my mother.
Why couldn’t they just leave me alone, I asked my mind again. My father gave me all the money I wanted, and had told me to do whatever I wanted, yet he insisted on scrutinizing my every action.
“Yes?” I asked. “What about?”
“We just want to know how you’re doing.”
“Just fine, mother, just fine. Is that all?”
Her frustration was tangible; maybe she was even on the point of tears. If I upset her, I thought angrily, why does she still call?
“We hardly ever hear from you, Randy. I just wanted to know you’re all right.”
“I’m fine, just fine,” I repeated.
“I hear you’ve developed an interest in painting, son,” my father said. “I’m happy for you. I’d like to see some of the things you paint. ”
“I burnt them all. They weren’t any good,” I lied. I could feel the pain on the other end. Just leave me alone, I wanted to scream. Can’t you see I just want to have my misery in peace?
“Maybe you should come live with us again, Randy. Are you truly happy by yourself?”
The mere mention of moving back home sent warning bells trilling through my skull. To be constantly under the eye of those two people, who thought they knew me yet did not, to have to suffer their expectations and their torture — no. I would rather die.
“No!” I said emphatically. “I’m happy here,” I lied.
“All right, son. We won’t pressure you. I just hope you really are all right. Your mother and I are going away for a few months; when we get back, we’ll give you a call.”
“Sure, dad, sure. Talk to you then.” Click; I hung up the phone, got in my car, and drove aimlessly, my former good mood shattered. I bought more cigarettes at a store, smoked half the pack before my mind cleared enough to think. I got drunk that night, not even trying to seduce a girl. I knocked over a mailbox or two driving home, but I barely noticed.
The next morning seemed like an eerie replay of the previous week, but I could not bear the silence more than a few minutes past waking. I got up, showered, shaved, dressed, and as I came out of the bathroom my eyes fell on the painting of Elize I had spent all week doing. Her image seemed so perfect, so beautiful, that my first instinct was to tear if from its stand and smash it on the floor. Instead I closed my eyes, calmed myself, imagining once more that little spot in the park. I still did not know why my mind kept going back there, but I decided to follow it. I wrapped up the picture, carried it down to my car, and drove to the park. I pulled up the roof, locked my car — a jacket was one thing, the picture another, I could not afford to have it stolen — and briskly walked to the clearing. The day was sunny, but the occasional cloud obscured the sun.
I sat down where Elize had been, and waited. I waited for what seemed like hours, and as the sun passed overhead, I laughed. What reason had I to think she would be back? None. Except the nagging feeling that this place was special to her, a secret place, one that children often have, and sometimes stay with a person. She would be back, if not today, then perhaps another time. I waited, soaking in the simple warmth of the sun, the slight breeze, the smell of the woods; I think I must have closed my eyes.
“Good afternoon, Don Juan,” said Elize, playing with that name. I opened my eyes, and there she was, in front of me, bag slung over one shoulder. That day she wore a loose shirt with floral patterns, worn sneakers, and jeans.
I smiled. “Yes, I am here. First, this time, so now this is my spot. If you wish to share it, you shall have to pay a toll,” I said, as jokingly as possible.
“I could move elsewhere,” she said, arching an eyebrow.
“You could. But then, you wouldn’t have the pleasure of my company,” I replied glibly.
“You’re full of yourself, aren’t you?” she asked. almost laughing, her head shaking slightly, sending shimmers down her hair.
“All right, I will waive the toll – for today. On the condition that you let me show you something.”
She looked at me- narrowing her eyes. “If it’s anything famous of Don Juan’s, I don’t think I want to see it.”
“No, no,” I said, smiling. “Don Juan is busy today. It’s just me, Randy Jamieson, at your service! ”
“All right, Randy, what is it?” she said, laughing.
“It’s back at my car, come on,” and led her through the most difficult route back to my car, so I could help her along and perhaps catch her should she fall. No luck with the latter – she was more agile than I – but I was at least getting somewhere.
We reached my convertible, and she whistled as it became clear that it was my car. I flipped the roof open, uncovered the canvas, and held it up for her to see.
She stood speechless for a few moments, just looking at it. Finally, she breathed, “It’s beautiful… ”
“It’s yours,” I said, handing it to her.
She held it in her hands, staring at it again, then looked at me. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re a good painter. ”
“Oh no, that was Don Juan,” I said, smiling. Clouds obscured the sun, yet I felt elated. I was worried she wouldn’t accept it for a moment.
She laughed, a crystal laugh that seemed so delicate, fragile, that I was captivated by it’s beauty. So I said so.
“Thank you,” she said. I felt a drop of water fall on my hand, and glanced up at the sky. Clouds were already thick in the air, and another droplet landed on my nose.
“Bad day for a trip to the park, I guess. Here, hop in, I’ll drive you home.”
“No, its all right,” she said. “I can walk.”
“I know you can, but you’ll get wet, and so will your painting, ” I said. “It’s no trouble at all.”
“Okay,” she said, and I smiled. Here we go, I thought. Almost within reach. She walked around to the passenger side, frowned at something, and hesitated. “What happened to your car?” she asked.
I silently cursed myself for forgetting about the dents those mailboxes had made. “Some drunk guy hit me. No big deal,” I lied.
She shrugged, got in. “Where do you live?” I asked. She gave me directions and I started out that way.
“Have you seen that movie?” I asked.
“What movie?”
“Don Juan de Marco.”
“No,” she said.
“Do you want to? I’ve got it at home; we can watch it on my big-screen TV,” I said, glancing her way.
Her expression hardened, and she shook her head. “No. Please, just take me home. My father would expect me to come home, if it rained.”
I shrugged, did not press her further. How easy it would be for me to reach over, grab her thin, beautiful, soft body in my hands, rip off her clothing, and take her right there. I savored the idea, as something I could never do, would never do. What sort of victory would that be? Where was the challenge, of bending a will, of shaping thoughts?
“You do okay on that assignment you were working on last week?” I asked, dismissing my dark thoughts.
“Yes. As well as I could without the book I was studying. I had to return it to the library. The school didn’t have any of course.”
She was much more open once I steered discussion to school. She was an academic; she wanted to go into English Literature, and hoped to get into University. That would take some long hours at the restaurant where she worked and good enough grades to swing a few scholarships her way. She dreamt of being a professor, or even a simple teacher.
She invited me in to her house. I met her father; a construction worker. Her mother was a housekeeper, and not home at the time. The more she told me about herself, the more my hope dimmed. This girl had goals, motivations, and plans that did not include a spontaneous fling with anyone. She needed stability, security – and that took time to build, time I did not take simply to get sex. Yet the more I learned about her, the more alluring she became.
She asked me about myself and I started telling her how my parents were traveling gypsies who had sold their poor son to a local banker . She looked at me with that same searching expression, her eyes narrowing, and asked for my history, not that of Don Juan.
I laughed, thought what the hell, why not. I told her about my parents, how they were filthy rich, how they claimed to give me freedom and then bugged me all the time with phone calls.
“They’re concerned. They love you,” she said, over coffee. I laughed. My parents? Hardly, I explained. They just didn’t want me to be an embarrassment to them, that’s all. They hoped I would find something like painting to occupy my life.
She asked me what I liked to do. “I like being Don Juan.” I replied, jokingly. “If Don Juan paints this well, why not?” she said. That’s not what I had meant, but I left it at that.
It was late evening before I left, more perturbed than when I had come. Second meeting, still no sex – if it were another girl, I would not have bothered talking to her again. But Elize was different; she was more than a body, more than just flesh. In my mind she was special, and even today I do not know what the difference was, but I’m glad for it, and for whatever circumstances may have placed me in the frame of mind to notice it.
I saw her many times in the next few months. I gave her any textbooks of mine I had that she wanted, bought her any books she needed. One night I distinctly remember; we were walking home from a movie and she was cold – so I bought her a new jacket. The incredulous, grateful expression on her face made my day. That night was the first time she kissed me, and it made me feel elated, happy, victorious. After some time, we started having sex, but by then my relationship with her had grown so that it was but icing on the cake, not the cake itself. It was no longer the winning point; the game had changed. Being with her, laughing with her, dreaming with her, making her smile, and just plain having fun, that was what mattered now.
What surprised me the most was that I did not tire of the role I played when with Elize; it did not chafe. I found myself having to lie less and less to her, becoming more open. I wrecked my convertible, driving home slightly drunk one night; she became instantly protective and gave me a sobering speech on just how irresponsible it was of me. I had known all that, of course, but she made me care; she gave me something to care about. I really did quit smoking because of her, too. She became my guardian angel, stopping me from doing stupid things.
Nevertheless, I still stretched those other parts of me, parts that Elize knew nothing of, the parts that liked to be the hot shot in the clubs, and played the old game of conquest. These victories became more and more hollow, it was something I had done before as an escape, but now I needed no escape. I was truly happy, for the first time in my life. I played Don Juan less and less, and instead painted more, played more basketball – I joined a team and actually went to half their practices. I felt firsthand the bonds of friendship that I had so scorned and envied not so long ago. I even swept the dust off the old piano and started practicing again.
Then the phone rang, as I was painting. Instantly, a dark mood swept through me, that ever-present cage that was my parents snapped shut. What do they want now? They’ll ruin everything, I thought, and answered the phone.
“Randy, how are you?” asked my father “Fine,” I mumbled “What do you want?”
“Aren’t you even going to ask me about my trip?”‘
“How was your trip, Dad?” I asked, words twisting in my mouth.
“It was good. I closed a deal early and had time to think. Randy, we need to have a family discussion. About your future. You certainly aren’t happy with things the way vou are, and your mother and I are concerned.”
“Dad, I’m fine,” I started to say, with a sincerity in my voice that I’ve never used with my parents — but my father stopped me.
“No, no… I won’t talk about it with you on the phone. Tomorrow we’ll come pick you up, we’ll go out together, to a restaurant. A family outing. Then we’ll talk.” He paused, and the silence on the line was deafening.
My stomach started to tie itself into knots. Why did they have to butt into my life now? Can’t they leave me alone, leave me my freedom? I banished all my emotions and fell into the role I had always played with for my parents, the disgruntled son, and muttered “Sure, dad.”
“Don’t you try to get out of this one,” my mother said sternly. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” Click.
I cradled the phone in my hands, staring at its black surface until the sun sank below the horizon, and the room grew so dark that all the familiar shapes around me blurred into a general blackness, and enveloped me in silence. It was a silence broken only by the beeping of the phone that I had not replaced, and by the whispering of my darkest fears. “No,” I moaned. They wanted me back at home, where they could keep an eye on me. Push me into things I did not want to do. They wanted to watch me like some rat in a cage, laugh at all my stupidities. I could see them, peering over me as I lay, tiny, under an examining table, with their hypocritical smiles and reassurances as they prepared to torture me. “NO!” I yelled, and before I knew what I was doing, I squealed out of my driveway in my blue Porsche, and went downtown to the oblivion of drink and flesh — less of the former, more of the latter. I staggered home early the next morning, collapsed on the bed. I woke to a knock on my door, rose to answer it. It was my parents.
My father was a tall man, with short dark hair and a large black mustache that made me think of the wild west. I remembered playing with it when I was little. What things keep children amused! He was wearing a format black suit, with a tie to match. My mother had more lines on her face than I remembered, her dark brown hair streaked with white, a little frayed. She wore a simple yet formal blue dress. Her eyes were drawn with worry. Judging by their expressions, neither were happy.
My mother glanced at me once, and sighed. “Honey, you cant go out like that. Look at yourself!” I did, and realized she was right. My clothes were wrinkled, beer-stained. I smelled like a pig. For a second I hoped they would leave in disgust, leave me in peace.
“Into the shower with you! You aren’t getting out of it this that easy,” my mother said, and forcibly pushed me into the bathroom. I showered, shaved. Came out and dressed, formally, and found my parents looking at the painting I had been working on when they called, what seemed like an eternity ago.
“This is nice,” my father said, nodding approvingly.
I looked at him strangely. Compliments? From my father? He had barely spoken to me in years, and then only to gripe about how concerned he was, and to say he was sending over someone with a new toy to play with, hope you like this one. Vaguely, I realized he hadn’t seen me in person in over a year. “My tutor did that. To show me how,” I lied. His face slipped. Good, I thought. Maybe he’ll give up on me. Eventually.
I was quite glad that I hadn’t left any painting of Elize lying about. That would certainly have occasioned comment – a relationship like that would have those two buzzing over me like flies. I followed them into their Mercedes without a word, and they certainly offered none to break the silence. They pushed into the parking lot of a fancy restaurant somewhere, and it wasn’t until we were half way to the door that I looked up at where we were.
“No! Mother, let’s go somewhere else, please,” I pleaded.
“Whatever for?” she asked, looking at me. I made no reply, not knowing how I could explain that Elize worked here without giving away parts of me that I did not want them to see, that I did not want them to pick apart and analyze, in their endless attempts to make me miserable.
So we entered, sat down, and Elize sprang on us, smiling. I shook my head and tried to shoo her away when I thought my parents weren’t watching, but she just looked at me sternly, then came over and asked us if we’d like anything to drink, while we decided. I felt my world come apart as roles clashed, as the Randy that Elize knew battled the one my parents expected, wanted to see. My parents’ Randy, longer entrenched, more immediate, won out, and my higher emotions and thoughts were eaten away, washed clean, as I filled myself with misery and vexation, with the need to escape, to be free, and brought all my anger and frustration at being caged to the forefront of my mind.
“Look, father, I am fine, really. You didn’t have to drag me out here,” I began, calmer than I sounded.
“Randy, have more respect for your father,” my mother said. “Wait until he is ready.”
I shut my mouth and waited, fuming inside. Finally, my father started, in his stern lecturing tone that immediately put me on the defensive. “Randy, I’ve given you many opportunities to choose your own life. I’ve opened many paths for you – offered you a position in the company even. I know you turned it down, and that’s fine. But you’ve thrown everything else I’ve given you out – including all the money, which you seem to waste with abandon. No, forget I said that, I don’t care about the money. But your life, son! Your life! What are you planning to do with it?”
He paused, and I realized that he meant me to answer that question. For the first time in my life, he had thrown that question at me straight up, and I had absolutely no answer to it.
I was saved by Elize, who brought our drinks and asked if we had decided yet. She smiled at me.
“Do you know each other?” my mother inquired.
“No,” I answered curtly, before Elize could say anything. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.” Her smile slipped, and the pain in her eyes sent ten thousand daggers through my heart. I looked away, to my father, and spoke, hoping my voice would not tremble. “Look. Dad, I’m fine just the way I am, if you’d leave me some freedom! Trust me,” I implored.
My father looked at me, and replied calmly. “All I’ve ever wanted from you, son, is that you be happy. No matter what you wanted to do. Then I could honestly and proudly say to everyone, that is my son. This is what he does, and it is a good life, for he enjoys it and savors its moments. That’s all, wether it be garbage collector or lawyer or painter- if it makes you happy.”
My world rocked, perceptions shifted; maybe my father really felt this way, perhaps it was some trick to throw me off-balance, for me to drop my guard. It did not matter, because before I could say anything, he went on. “So I had you followed yesterday,” he said, softly. My stomach tightened in knots; my eyes went wide. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Raising his voice, my father’s index finger gesturing wildly, he continued. “I have let you get away with a lot of things, Randy. But! I will not stand for my son,” he said, his voice trembling, mustache quivering, “for my son! to be a… a … jigolo! ” With that, he threw on the table a folder. from which spilled pictures of me, with a woman I barely remember, half drunk, last night.
Elize reacted with what I can only describe as a wail, a heart-wrenching, ear piercing sound. I did not feel the ice-cold drink she pitched at me hit my chest, for that wail sent a chill through me that no mere water could match. It wrung my heart and brought tears instantly to my eyes.
“What have you done,” my mother whispered. I could stand it no more, and overturned the table as I staggered out with some hope of catching the fleeing Elize. She had vanished; so I caught a cab to her house. Her father answered the door, his bulk blocking almost the entire opening and whispered not-so-veiled threats at me. I waited in the park for her; she never came there. Finally, I caught her leaving school. She refused to talk to me, angry tears filling her eyes as she caught sight of me. I let her go, and drove home, the loneliness seeping back inside, numbing my mind, ripping my heart to shreds. Once more I sat on my bed, and my eyes flicked across that painting that still stood by the door. In my anger I threw paint on it, smeared it with fingers and hair and cheeks and tears. Dark angry reds and somber mouming grays were splayed across that canvas, to fit the chaos of my mind.
Eventually, I collapsed before the piano. I glanced at the music, which out of some chance was open to “Fur Elise”… Yes, I thought, that would suit nicely. After a few bars, I threw the music away, watched it flutter to the floor for a moment, and started to compose my own somber, heart-wrenching chords, to ease my mind, not caring that my paint-covered fingers covered the keys blood-red.
Tired, I fell asleep, got up and went out, and drowned myself in alcohol and nicotine. My parents called me; I knocked the phone off the hook They let me be for a while after that. I went to bars and clubs, sought refuge among the women there, but I could find no pleasure in it. Everything seemed so dark, so hollow, after the depth and that Elize had brought me. So instead, I went back to that basketball team. Renewed some friendships. Painted, played the piano. Eventually I dragged my life out of that slump, because always I had that bliss I had found during my time with Elize as a guide. If things were without that brightness, without those smiles and shared moments, I was heading the wrong way.
It was years before I saw her again. I remember playing the piece I always considered my masterpiece, the great sonata I had written in the months after Elize left me. In the reception afterwards, I was standing alone, glancing out at those who had come, when I heard a voice out of a dream call “Don Juan!”
I turned, and smiled at the beautiful angel that was before me. Tears came to my eyes as I hugged Elize. She introduced me to her fiancee. and I wished them the best. It was strange, how time dulls the pain. She had her PhD and was teaching; she was happy. At first, I was hesitant around her, not knowing if she truly was happy to see me, or if she still held some grudge and my presence caused her pain. Elize has always been remarkably insightful, and she banished the last of my worries when she invited me to her new house. On entering the door, I looked up and smiled, all doubt gone, for there above her fireplace hung a scene I remembered well, that of a clearing in a park, and a young girl, buried in thought, overcapped by a luminescent rainbow that shone like the gates to heaven.
