Crossing Over to Distant Shores (Part Ten in a Series)

Part X -- Paris Stories -- Sleep

[Interlude:  the human body shuts its systems down with amazing efficiency preparing for the transformation of sleep. The brain curates thoughts and memories like a director of a vast art museum; but when awake, stimuli evoke obvious reactions, whether provoking, eliciting, or sensory. Closely observing the response to a difficult question, like the one proposed by Gabriel to Charlotte about America, was curious.]

Charlotte looked at Gabriel and flinched, "What?" She seemed wide-eyed, caught.

"What do you mean: What?" said Gabriel. 
He watched her intently; locked stare, beating heart.

She was classically trained as a lawyer in school, but hadn't practiced as an attorney enough to learn how to lie very well.

"You... you mean what I said about crossing over, I mean jumping in?" She knew exactly what he was asking, and that Gabriel was smart enough to interpret her inner-turmoil, illustrated so well verbally by describing plunging into the cold water, swimming across. [See Part IX, previously posted]

This rare awkward moment between them now turned on how fixed their relationship was; and whether Charlotte's life-plan centered on French art, or U.S. law?

Gabriel softly probed this line of inquiry, once he saw Charlotte's flustered response to his stimulative question about the other shore (America): "I thought the way you described your dilemma was fascinating, since you mentioned it involved a destination?"

Strangely uncomfortable, Charlotte realized what she said about a distant shore came from a deep, subconscious place. She said, "To get to the other shore, I have to go across." But was this journey pre-ordained? Was it required? Did it seem unpleasant, and why?

They didn't discuss the future, nor did she know much about her own plans, at least in a cognizant, logistical way. However, her analytical mind worked constantly in the background, especially during the sacred hours of sleep.

"Maybe we should talk more about what you're thinking after your study term ends here in Paris?" Gabriel asked, in a classic flanking maneuver.

Charlotte grew up in a family where the dangerous currency of emotion was used or flashed only in extreme circumstances. Less mature emotionally as she appeared, for her crying was a weakness, in her unfledged opinion of herself. But here, with Gabriel, the floodgates opened, and she wished they were anyplace but in bed, where right now she felt vulnerable and weak. 

But she pulled him in like the moon created the tides, and as her emotions swelled, he felt fiercely protective and watchful over Charlotte. Gracious Gabriel held her close and they each thought about their own hidden interpretation of this "crossroads" meeting, like an evolving mystery. Charlotte was a long way from her home soil, confused and exposed. Gabriel was on the precipice of artistic discovery, and yet at the same time, in love with this fragile girl.

Youthful naiveté prevented them from forming future plans using as much skepticism as angst; but who knows the future, or can guess which path is the best? Life plays out like a book, with each year, and then each decade, reflecting a distinct chapter in our history. Sometimes chapters weave together as part of a larger storyline, but often one chapter abruptly closes the interplay of that particular representation of our lives, not necessarily influencing its outcome. 

Gabriel could not fathom what life would be like without Charlotte, but did he really know if this relationship was best for him right now? For a Frenchman he still was "conservative" with a lower-case "c" - even though he wasn't in the "elite" upper class, nor was he very religious; in his heart he envisioned having a traditional family, including marriage and children. If both lovers moved on, would they always look back to this fortnight in Paris as the highest form of a partnership they’d experienced? If what’s past is prologue, meaning the past has set the stage for the next act, as a prologue does in a play; how would the rest of their lives be changed by the decision today of whether Charlotte would return to America without Gabriel?

Silence enveloped the moment. Quietly, her sobs pierced the reticence either had to speak again. Enough had been said already; and they were together now, sitting at the edge of the water to which Charlotte referred, feared, but knew she had to confront.

to be continued...............

 ##

Fiction 2018©Mark Pillsbury

August National Geographic Magazine Cover Story on Sleep:
https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2018/08/

The Girl Kneeling (Aristide Maillol) Bronze Sculpture (Paris Stories) - Part IX

The Girl Kneeling (Part IX)

La fille agenouillée

(Paris) “Sit with me here, Charlotte…” 

Gabriel was leaning up against the headboard of the antique Louis XV French Bed. They were both naked, yet felt no shame.

“What do you want?” replied Charlotte. She was pensive and withdrawn, curled up in the soft cotton sheets.

“How can I help you?” “What’s going on in your head?”

“I don’t know, Gabriel.” “I want you, I want my art, I want to share my life, but I’m as cold as a bronze sculpture.”

“You know how much I love Aristide Maillol’s works; I don’t see them as cold.” Sometimes she loved how literal the Frenchman could be, but not tonight.

“But they aren’t as detailed as the Realists.” Charlotte wondered what in the hell he was talking about, but strangely she sat up with her legs underneath her buttocks, facing forward, as beautiful as a statue.

Gabriel continued not knowing what to say, “You’re sort of abstract, Charlotte"; although he pondered her there as anything but abstract, face-to-face, kneeling like the girl in Maillol's bronze.

“It’s because I’m out of my comfort zone; I’m in between chapters of my story.” "It's almost, but not yet."

“How do you mean, Char?” (again, transfixed on her).

“My heart is wrenching, numb; and I don’t know what to follow, how to step into the water.”

She said, “You know you can dip your toe into cold water, and it might be OK, but it’s just too cold to jump in. I’m old enough to know how to swim and I know that to get to the other shore, I have to go across. But the water's too cold and if I jump in, it'll be terrible - for awhile, but I’ll get used to it. It might even feel good! When I’m acclimated to the cold water, I’ll be ready to swim!” Her perfect paragraph speeches captured the moment, always.

Nevertheless, Gabriel was pretty slow when it came to American metaphors: “Right now you’re just sitting there looking at the water, and you don’t know if you’ll jump in?”

“Exactly." Charlotte huffed a frustrated response. She almost rolled her eyes.

“Well, I can understand that Charlotte; thank you for saying what you did. I want you to jump in when you’re ready, but I don’t know if I’ll jump in with you?” Gabriel stood his ground.

He added with some hesitation: “Can I ask you if the other shore is America?” 
##

[my video talisman for this piece is dedicated to the real Charlotte:
of course, it's "Jump" by Van Halen, 1984] https://youtu.be/bX9RMdcFQAw

Fiction©Mark H. Pillsbury

To be continued..............