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When Jennie finally turned around and looked at me with a sad smile, which was so unlike her, the magic was over. But moments later the sadness vanished. Something was in the air. Did she realize what my thoughts were? She looked at herself, blushed, and stepped out of the sunshine. She went to the far side of the balcony where there was shade, and looked down onto the garden.
Strangely, at this moment I became angry with myself. I wanted to join her there. I longed for her, but couldn't move. Some hero I was! I realized that it was pure delusion when I imagined that one could simply cast to the wind the great apartheid that had divided mankind by sex since the most distant ages.
"I need you, Jennie," I heard myself whisper, but whisper was all I could do. Oh, why must the world of women be shunned out of respect, divided by marriages? Why did this apartheid exist? I needed more at this moment than it allowed. Mere survival was no longer enough in this unfolding theater of tragedy. Something had to drive the urge for survival. Survival should have felt like the most precious privilege in this torn-apart world, but it didn't suffice any longer. There is more to being alive than mere survival. Survival didn't seem precious in the face of the constant denial and self-denial that draws everything down to the lowest denominator. Why couldn't I acknowledge to myself what I felt deep inside? Why couldn't I tell her about it? I had to laugh at myself. What a hypocrite I was!
A girl named Vanessa came to mind; a stewardess I had long admired; a black African girl. She had told me how a friend of her once tried to console her in a time of a great personal crisis. This friend had said to her, "But Vanessa, I have never regarded you as a black person!" The girl nearly committed suicide over this blatant denial of the worth of her identity. And, damn, I was doing the same thing in a different way and couldn't help myself! I was saying to her, you are a wonderful friend, while I should be saying to her that I cherished her deeply as a most precious, beautiful woman, a gem from the treasure chest of our humanity. What on earth was I lying to her for with this act of silence, and subjection to apartheid? Was I even lying to myself?
Before I could find the answer, Jennie altered the situation. She came in from the balcony and sat into the living room, on the sofa across the way from me in the kitchen. There, I could see her clearly again, in her full beauty. "Would you like some tea?" I asked. I could almost kick myself. That was the least of what my thoughts were centered on. I poured the tea.
I pulled myself together as I looked for a cup. I promised myself; this time I will be honest! I started by serving the tea that I had made, and I did in a manner that allowed me to come close to her. I sat down beside her, almost trembling.
Oh how does one deal with a mythology, like marriage, that has persisted over countless centuries that shouldn't allow such closeness? I didn't know how. Apparently, neither did she. Once I had served the tea I feasted my eyes on her, unabashedly. That, apparently, was all the honesty I could muster. Naturally, it didn't escape her attention. She responded with a smile, a lovely, gentle smile. She didn't seem to mind that couldn't help myself, noticing, but neither did she come right out and talk about it. Nor did I. Thus, the silence continued, but in a more 'gentle' way, now.
Eventually, I became embarrassed by it all and escaped into the kitchen once more. My excuse, this time, was that I had forgotten the sugar. Of course, I could see her from there just the same.
Looking at her from a distance was different. Or was it? I had thought, that by retreating, the situation would become less intense. I was wrong. It remained as beautiful, as exciting, and as agonizing beyond measure, as it had been when I sat right beside her. I experienced a paradox in this that I couldn't resolve. There was a deep peace in those moments that refreshed the soul, but this peace left me exhausted as though I had run a mile in three minutes.
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Stories about
Love
from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche
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