SOUND of SILENCE

Chapter 5 from the R.M. Dolin novel, “The Dangling Conversation.”

Chapter 5: Sound of Silence

ISABELLE: “I remember what you said but what’s happened, happened, so, there’s no point pointing fingers. Besides, technically I’m not seeing him, it’s more like I’m seeing him sometimes. When I told you about him you called me foolish, so I don’t mention him anymore. You said I’m not ready for the complexities of a relationship and a bunch of other blah blah stuff. Well, I didn’t listen then and I’m not listening now. A girl’s gotta move on, I can’t stay single forever just because all my relationships end in disaster. I get your point though, and maybe we can agree that’s compromise.

“His name’s Henry, an old school name for an old school soul, which is why I know you’ll like him. It’s mostly going okay but he travels a lot, which means we don’t see each other as often as I’d at least like. In his absence we rely on emails and texts, with an occasional phone call. This is the crux of our problem, Henry prefers emails, says they’re the modern form of romance from the golden age of love. I adore the way he thinks his letters are profoundly passionate, but honestly, they’re more like a Reader’s Digest bedtime story. I tell him I need more, not more content, more connection and more often. He laughs me off saying anticipation is an essential part of passion, but I say no, his intervals of silence are hurtful.

“What I want to know is how two people argue when no one’s yelling? That kind of ambiguity didn’t exist with my Ex. Probably better to say me and Henry are disagreeing but if history’s a guide, it’s a difference without distinction. My Ex lived to argue, no middle ground, no ratcheting up in increments; we can be discussing something as meaningless as where to eat and the next thing I know he’s screaming in rageful anger. I’ve been trained that any time two people are not on the same page they’re either arguing, or about to be. Henry and I haven’t been on the same page lately; we’re not arguing, at least not yet. It’s unfair to even call it a disagreement since we’re not in conflict, more a mismatch in expectations; not even that really, we’ve just stopped communicating, stopped anticipating, that’s the sad scary part. Our only sounds are those of silence on the edge of amplification.”

KYLE: “There’s a long stretch when Nadia and I stop talking. We don’t end DC in conflict, just go silent; for her things have run their course even though I’m far from finished. She moves back to France, to the familiar comforts of Paris while I remain in Washington; no real reason, except no reason to leave. A part of me stays in the futile hope she’ll return. She at least eventually writes, not for explanation, just to say she’s okay and doesn’t love me anymore; that’s the coldly callous emotionally empty way it went down. You think I’m dramatic but it’s almost verbatim how her letter reads, terse uncaring words on a folded piece of paper. How does someone do that, move out in the dead of night without explanation, dismissing love like a littered can tossed in a ditch along an abandoned road. I’m decimated as much by what she says as the brutal way it’s delivered.

“This cold uncaring side of Nadia is new and causes me to worry something nefarious is at play. I’m devastated to the core but can’t be angry; confused, yes, and consumed with worry. People don’t fall so perfectly in love only to be cruelly kicked to the curb unless something’s wrong. Conspiracy theories run rampant: maybe she’s in crisis, some dark evil force making her mask true feelings. Maybe she’s being pressured to recant her devotion for reasons she can’t reveal. There’s no way she writes that note, unless something’s wrong. I’m lost with unfamiliar feelings; overcome with sadness, some for me, but more for her and whatever’s causing this sudden tectonic shift. There are her demons, and it must be that they’ve taken control. In my dark denial I’m convinced she mourns the loss of our love; crying until tears no longer come. Collectively, my soul’s million messed up pieces sense her equally shattered state; further evidence we’re not done. I want so much to be there for her, to rescue her from tragedy; each effort to reach out though is met with stone-cold silence.

“It’s not possible to be angry with someone you love but impossible not to worry. Not knowing what drove her away is the invisible ink splattered all over her letter like a messed-up Picasso. My need for answers finds only echoes; emails bouncing back, letters returned unopened. There’s a fine line separating my need for clarity and becoming a stalker; difficult to navigate the in between without being pathetic, a task that thus far is beyond my reach.

“I invent reasons to be in Paris, traveling halfway around the world for the possibility to once again occupy the same small space on the Metro. When you’re in love, there’s no measure beyond reach; no humiliation you won’t endure. I carry her last letter long after memorizing the way each word inks the page, I don’t read it, just need it near. With hope all but vanquished, I make one last desperate attempt; a short note, honest emotions are not measured in words. I tell her I’m in town while omitting the fact I’ve been riding the Metro all week. Since I don’t know what happened to end the best love either of us will ever know, I’m not sure how such a note is written, which explains why it takes so long and I struggle so hard for just the right words. I tell her if she’s with someone, or her distaste is unavoidable, I understand; but if there exists a possibility, I’m ready to do whatever’s required. Once sent, I brace for the finality of her choosing not to answer; no matter how hard it will be, no matter how impossible the task, I realize I must accept whatever she says.

“I don’t know if it’s divine provenance or Satan’s sadistic torment, but Nadia breaks her silence with a short note that’s every bit as terse as the letter in my pocket; she’s married but if I’m still in Paris we should meet. So, we do; even after all hope is vanquished from my broken heart, my need to see her strips out the obvious reasons to walk away. All the way through her long and deeply emotional explanation, the only thing I hear is that she’s married. It’s ridiculous how the way we reconnect is by declaring things are really over; and just so you know, in case there’s a shred of remaining doubt, this is me at my most pathetic; even having to hear all that is a cost worth those precious moments together. It’s not possible to describe in any way that makes sense how my soul needs to hear goodbye escape her breath. People like to say after someone dies how they wish they had one more chance to tell their loved one how much they matter, how much they’ll be missed, how much the world is now empty and devoid of joy. That night with Nadia in Paris is God giving me that moment.

“For reasons I could never defend, we vow to see each other whenever possible; people have so few meaningful connections it’d be a sin to waste ours. Of course I agree, and we do; whenever I’m in France. It’s awkward meeting for dinner or walking around the Versailles garden; she says she’ll invite me to meet her family but each time there’s a reason it ends up being just the two of us sitting for hours talking in ways that transcend time. Our conversations are epic; we talk about life and the philosophy of love; what it means to be happy. We’re both into poetry and novels and discuss our favorite authors; not for the things they write, but the lives they live. Writers are people of passion and we both believe the world would benefit from more of that. Taboo topics include why she left DC in the still of night, her subsequent silence, and reasons for moving on.

“I anticipate each precious rendezvous and the joy of being with her without pressure or expectation. Like all such things though, the visits grow farther apart until not at all. I can spend hours explaining the ‘whats’ and ‘whys,’ but it long ago ceased to have value, at least for me. I don’t judge her for getting married, just as she shouldn’t judge herself for getting unmarried, but I think she does. Love swirls in a strange dynamic; few people can explain why they marry but every couple knows with acute precision why they unmarry, and they do it in a way that bypasses their fear of loneliness. What I’ve learned through all this though, is that love is layered in loneliness, like sediment along the washed-out banks of a prairie river running through every mistake I’ve made, ever regret I wish could be washed away by an upstream surge.

“It takes a while, but I do meet someone and eventually marry; that’s a story for a different night but even then, even though I love my wife completely, Nadia remains an inescapable element of my soul, and I never stop believing I’m a part of hers. I can’t start that story until I finish this but as you’d expect, it’s filled with just the sort of drama that gets a guy like me banished to a bench like this.

“You already know things with my second wife don’t stick; in the aftermath I decide it best to be alone, me and relationships aren’t designed for the long haul. Nadia and I haven’t seen each other in years, we exchange birthday wishes but that’s pretty much it. My isolationist lifestyle suits me and I’m resigned to this outcome. But then, one day, completely out of nowhere, I’m overcome by an intense desire to see her. I can’t explain the catalyst any more than I can say why a bear awakens from hibernation but there it is, this sudden consuming need to hold Nadia’s hand; to look into her eyes and take long walks as we talk profoundly like we did twenty-three years, five months, and fourteen days before. So much has transpired but I’m not thinking about that as I board my plane. I can’t say what I hope to accomplish any better than I can determine the odds of success; all I know is souls have the power to carry you beyond hesitation to the threshold of destiny, which is exactly what mine has done. I haven’t been to Paris in years but after several Metro transfers arrive at the Versailles Château Rive Gauche station; from there it’s a short ten-minute walk to Nadia’s; ten minutes to finalize fate, along with my still unexamined “why”, which I know I’ll be expected to explain.”

ISABELLE: “It’s hard to admit you were right, but you were. This silence between me and Henry blew up two days ago. It’s embarrassing how the crap I struggle with is stuff I should’ve long ago processed. Some baggage I suppose just can’t be jettisoned and it turns out I’m a lot more damaged than previously assumed or should reasonably expect to be and, well, I have to admit, it’s caught me unprepared. When I was a girl and emotions got the better of me, dad would calmly sit me down and say, “ya know, Isabelle, real men, are expected to be strong and stoic, but strong women like your mom, they’re reserved and dignified, devoid of melodrama. Strive to be like your mom and quit acting so silly.”

“He was right then and he’s right now. Yet, my emotions are too strong to be suppressed or outrun, they grip me with a suffocating control that won’t let go. I struggle to find equilibrium in relationships, never knowing the right balance between too much and not enough; it causes me to bounce between the two like a buoy caught in a storm. It feels like the fault lies in allowing myself to love too quickly while holding back in fear of where things might lead. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t do well at concealing how overwhelming this all gets, its why I cry at sad movies, or how certain songs carry me to sacred places. I’m too damn damaged to know what I’m doing and yet, don’t know what the hell to do about it.”

KYLE: “I’ve no idea what the hell I’m doing as I stand outside Nadia’s doorway like a sinner at heaven’s gate uncertain if I’m allowed to even knock. But then, there it is, as unceremonious as anything imagined; Nadia, on her side of the doorway devoid of expression looking at me staring back like a nervous teenager on Prom night. On the one hand, we’re two scared souls with too much history to be overlooked, on the other hand, we’re complete strangers trapped in the purgatory between everything lost and the infinity of what might still be possible. She’s standing close enough to touch but still short of forever. A lot gets said in silence, things dare not spoken aloud, like “sorry”; not for what’s been done, but for how it turned out. Sorry for wasting our one precious life; fettering away possibilities for something profound, something that’s always been right in front of us.

“Silence is a wall of separation, neither of us sure what crossing might mean but fully aware of its implications. If she invites me in, what does it say about everything that’s happened? Would I be stepping into a world that no longer exists, yet so desperately need. If I step over that threshold, what’s it say about our future? What risks are required and what becomes of left over consequence? People want love to be spontaneous impulse based on the emotions of now, but as you journey down life’s uneven road you realize love requires more; more than seemingly possible. If I step through that door and back into her life, I know neither the role I play or the damage I’ll cause. What I do know is that the implications far exceed what I can fathom.”

ISABELLE: “I wish I lived in a world bound by the constraints of rational thought, well-reasoned deduction, and constructive behavior but I don’t, my world is built on imagination masking well-developed perception, keen observational skills, and a constant struggle to find my place in relationships. When that all gets mixed together, you have a volatile cocktail waiting for its catalyst. Henry doesn’t know it, and certainly doesn’t intend it, but he’s the catalyst causing my crisis. I try not to judge, after all, there’s plenty in my life that wouldn’t hold up under cross examination, but Henry cycles in and out of meaningful contact. He’s not a person prone to emotions and can go days without sending even a small message to let me know we’re still together; still okay. I’m not needy, I just need to know we’re okay.

“He’s reserved, timidly withdrawn from words of tenderness, which isn’t usually an issue because when we’re together, he leaves no doubt as to how he feels. My struggle lies between the intense closeness we share when we’re together and the aimless way I feel so alone when apart. He escalates my need for assurance to the point I’m left without an effective counter to my rampant imagination. I have this fear, it has no basis, but still the same, it’s as real as this bench; it’s the fear that anyone I love is eventually going to walk out. I know logically it’s irrational, the aftermath of a history built on bad choices, but like Dad says, “ya burn your hand often enough on a hot pot and pretty soon every pot looks hot.”

KYLE: “It’s easy to confuse fear with caution, which for me grows exponentially every second I remain on my side of Nadia’s doorway. If outcomes are the result of careful consideration, I wouldn’t have recklessly leaned through our wall of silence, but I have to know before taking that next step if coming to France was a mistake. Was I expecting too much, asking for the impossible? She turns away as my lips miss their intended target, but even just to glance her cheek is staggering. Dejectedly, I conclude this has to be enough. I frame my question in the form of a kiss, and she provides her answer; the simplest most direct form of communication ever devised, and now, all that’s left are unintended consequences. You said once lawyers never ask questions, they don’t already know the answer to, that’s why lawyers make lame lovers. Isn’t knowing better, removing the wonder of what’s in someone’s heart?

“I came to Paris for the answer I now know, retreat now emerges from the shadows of my heart. The wondering is ended, coming to France was asking too much from a life that was. Stunned to stillness, I rest with the reality of my moment; the utter loneliness, the saddest of all sounds wilting like a balloon losing life. The excitement that carried me across the ocean and brought me to this door an evaporated reduction, the failed fragment of a dream, a cast-off sliver of what was hope. As lost as I am to describe this moment, any description of what happens next remains as elusive now as it was then. I still feel the warmth of Nadia’s breath as she turns to face me with a smile so slight you’d likely not notice, but so undeniably warm and inviting that when it brushes my lips it starts the kiss that carries me back into her life like we’ve never been apart.”

ISABELLE: “Sometimes it seems, love is all about leaving. I know I shouldn’t, but I think about Henry all the time, even when his silence incessantly echoes. Each day draws me deeper into profound feelings, which only inflates my fear I’ll lose him, and that causes me to spiral into irrational thoughts and less than dignified actions. This current fiasco starts when his messages grow farther and farther apart and with each one, the word length lessens. This then couples with an observation that content, at least in my estimation, grows less affectionate and more aloof; a pattern he repeats. Normally I assume he’s dealing with something he doesn’t want to share and just needs space, but this time is different, his silence lingers like the after-taste of a stale wine, which ferments insecurities that distill away waning attempts at reason.

“I counter by pulling back, it’s a childish tit for tat but I don’t care. So, he needs space, whoop ti do and la de da, we all do without hurting the ones we love. He needs time away from whatever pressures and obligations his job creates; I get that, I get the way we’re sometimes overwhelmed and its okay but going stealth isn’t a solution. We’re not currently on the same page, two people seldom are, that’s the natural ebb and flow of life. At least that’s how “healthy-me” bins his aloofness and, so, I back off to wait – until such a time as he chooses to re-engage. But he doesn’t. He shows no indication of missing me or even a modicum of longing. He doesn’t wonder why I’m silent, which triggers my irrational imagination to drift toward dark reasons for why that might be; things like he’s secretly meeting with his Ex, or realizing the distance between us and our life constraints is too much to overcome, or when I’m really letting irrational me have voice, deciding he’s just not all that into me anymore, which unfortunately, is the harbor where “damaged-me” drops anchor.

“After all, I argue with the bitterness of wind in snow, if he cares about us, if he thinks about me as much as I think about him, how does he not want to reach out with tenderness? How can he not long for any measure of connection? If we’re being honest, the time it takes to construct a message subtracts two minutes from a day that’s mostly spent doing nothing. So why, I wonder, does he choose silence? In anger I stop all correspondence. At first, to respect his need for space, then to teach him a lesson; to let him experience what it’s like when someone you have a consuming desire to be engaged with goes silent. But that only lasts a moment before even damaged-me understands its immature. But still I’m silent, the scant few messages he manages are about superficial things like movies he’s watched or where he’s gone for coffee, and they leave me uninspired. I know he’s reaching out in his aloof way but he’s not ready to engage, at least not at the level I need and that’s when darkness creeps in, the darkest branch being that I’m losing him.”

KYLE: “I awaken the morning after our second first kiss to the pre-dawn darkness of the coming day. There’s such seriousness in sunrise it’s the best time to contemplate life and the consequences of choice. After all that’s happened, I feel the need, even the obligation, to greet the sun. After all, she puts so much energy into each spectacular show, we ought to at least take a moment from our mostly meaningless day to demonstrate gratitude. From Nadia’s living room window, I marvel at the way Versailles Palace awakens; the grand gold domes softly glisten as warming rays begin their day-long bombardment. Then, like a barnyard rooster herding hens, the sun chases night shadows down the long cobble stone plaza before disappearing beneath gold crested gates steadfastly keeping visitors away for at least a few more hours. For background accompaniment, I gently play Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante, a powerfully passionate piece for violin and viola. With all this going on, I comfortably take my morning café in softly silhouetted silence, content to let the world move along without me; at least for as long as the world will allow.

“Something causes me to turn around, perhaps a hop in my heart or a skip from my soul, who knows; but there stands Nadia, a Greek Goddess cast in rays of sunlight beaming through the window. Her light blue bathrobe’s unevenly closed and her unmatched slippers accent disheveled hair displaying the aftermath of last night. She’s not yet fully awake but her seductive smile seems so slight yet so full of hope embraces the day. She’s more damn beautiful than the mere mortality of words can hope to convey. And in that smile, that soft, thin line hiding words that went unsaid for years, I see, things are gonna be okay.”

ISABELLE: “It’s way less straight forward for me and Henry, this fiasco forces me to face the fact you’re right. I’m not traumatized over you being right, but what you were right about; and that, coupled with the damage inflicted from past relationships, manifests my fear I’ll be alone forever, which is heightened by the irrational thought that even if I do find someone to love me, it’ll only be a matter of time before I unlove them or they leave me. How does anything in this world echo through the void of silence more than that?

“I’m not proud of damaged-me and the havoc she can cause. My many attempts at keeping her sequestered fall far short as all this insanity clearly demonstrates. I know my silence hurts Henry and adds stress to our relationship and for that I’m filled with remorse. What starts out as a troubling moment builds into this cataclysmic struggle within me, resurfacing crap that should’ve stayed buried. Now it’s not, and all I can do is work to stuff it all back into my personal Pandora’s Box. I would certainly be manic if not encouraged by the fact you found a way through the morass.”

KYLE: “I don’t know about navigating the morass, I’m more like an unrehearsed sheet of music, the notes appear neatly arranged but no one knows the chaos lurking within until they’re played. I have always believed if you hold close and cherish broken pieces of your life, they eventually reassemble when the time is right. For me it’s later that evening, it’s early December and we strolling hand-in-hand along the Champs Elysees looking at store front decorations. Occasionally we wander inside, in part to warm up, but also because maybe, just maybe, we’ll find Santa. We stop for drinks at a quiet café; coffee or tea, perhaps hot chocolate or apple cider, Nadia’s having a hard time deciding.

“We find a table in the back corner away from the merriment of shoppers. Nadia quietly plays with her cup, wrapping delicate fingers around the porcelain surface to embrace escaping warmth while staring off into the distance. She’s not looking at anything in particular but lost to thoughts I dare not disturb even though I’m torn to wonder if they’re about me and the fate of our future. When I catch her glancing at me, she smiles that flat line smile in a way that shatters our silence; a simple confirmation we’re gonna be okay. I stare back fully appreciating the new start God is giving me. I won’t reveal details of the rest of my stay; some things gentlemen don’t discuss. I’ll share that we got lost later in our walk, but we knew that would happen, so it only makes our moment more magically complete.”

ISABELLE: “I sometimes believe in magic but then wonder about the extent to which everything’s predetermined. There’s a Shakespeare quote from Julius Caesar, where Cassius says, “the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.” Shakespeare’s right, fate is not fixed, we have the power to navigate destiny, like you did in boldly going to France. I just have to hope Henry can be patient while I work on broken-me, just like you waited for Nadia to be ready. It’s hard though, so damn hard to hear beyond the sounds of silence.”