I am walking past the cows in Chambésy when I encounter her. She engages me in conversation and is very patient with my struggles to express myself in French. She says “Mon mari est au ciel.”
Faced with a danger that poses a risk to myself and everyone else in the van, I am unable to act. Exasperated, she takes control of the situation, displacing me and ensuring safety and survival for all of us.
I wash my laundry in the bathtub and then use a portable drying rack to dry the clothes outdoors. The owner of the house, who I’ve never met, not only moves the rack out of sight but ties it down to prevent me from moving it again. My objective is to put it where the sun is shining. Her objective is to keep her property looking pristine.
He has a deeply spiritual relationship with music. He tells me that he has listened to John Coltrane for years but only recently understood what Coltrane was about. Now he listens to Coltrane as if for the first time.
She comes across his journal and finds documented there details of his infidelity. When she confronts him he claims it was merely an exercise in creative writing. She believes him until it becomes impossible to deny the truth; then she forgives him.
Under his black linen jacket Tom is wearing a white t-shirt with a photo of Dennis Hopper. The bartender at Bar du Nord bonds with Tom over their shared enthusiasm for Dennis Hopper. He recommends a fifteen-year-old Laphroaig. That’s when things began to go in the wrong direction.
I have a bad habit of sensing that it’s time to leave and then just leaving. That’s what I do this evening; however, I take a wrong turn somewhere and end up in France.
Maria is Italian. Her husband, Peter, is Scottish. They met in Russia but now live in Grand Saconnex. Their two young daughters converse fluidly in Italian, English, Russian and French, slipping from one language to another often in mid-sentence. Excited to have a guest in the house, the younger daughter jabbers at me incessantly until Maria tells her to leave poor Wayne alone. The little girl looks at me and says “Povera Wayne!” I am entrusted with their home while they are away with my only responsibility being to water Maria’s plants. Maria never speaks to me again after returning home to find her plants dessicated.
Peter takes soil from Maria’s pots and uses it to create the Golem. I travel with the Golem and he keeps me in a constant state of confusion. At times he is a victim; at times he is a villain; often he is both.
It is only after the fact that I discover the couscous I had for lunch was made with horse meat.
Leaving our bikes outside we seek respite from the heat among the cool, dark, stone walls of the monastery. Halili has brought a mango which she shares with me. The sticky, fleshy fruit is very sensual. Halili refers to the experience as the fall of mango.
We have just heard that Saddam Hussein has invaded Kuwait. We are all shocked and terrified, fearing the worst. Is this the beginning of World War III? What path will the escalation take? Somehow being in Europe it feels more immediate. In North America there seems to be a greater detachment. How many there even know where Kuwait is? Global conflicts have been waged on European soil within human memory; the same cannot be said about North America. There is a buffer of abstraction.
You can call it “Coca-Cola.” You can call it “Coke.” You can call it a “cola.” The only thing you can’t call it, which the Swiss insist on calling it, is “Coca.”
Doug is a fish biologist. He studies the impact on fish of aquatic habitat disruption. He loves to go fishing with his buddies. So when I bring a large Arctic char for the meal at Dee’s place I assume that Doug will know the secret to cooking it, and that he will also enjoy eating it. It turns out Doug actually doesn’t like to eat fish and never cooks it. He enjoys the sport of fishing but doesn’t care to eat what he catches. So I struggle through the process of roasting the char and then watch Doug poke at his dinner with distaste.
This is the first time I have invited Joyce to have dinner at my place. I have made a Scotch broth and she seems to be enjoying it until she pauses and asks what the meat is. I tell her it is lamb. She looks like she is going to retch and says “I don’t eat lamb.”
We plan to meet Nat for dinner at a little seafood restaurant next to Dolac Market. I get a text from Nat saying “Alas, I’ve done my usual Saturday exercise of getting drunk before the sun goes down.”
He used to spend every Saturday morning nursing his hangover while watching English football. Now he no longer drinks and he prefers watching American baseball because he doesn’t care about it. English football was too emotionally demanding.
He said he almost married his cousin who is a famous Canadian author and television personality. It’s not clear to me whether he knows that she is a lesbian.
There are special athletes who can survey three dimensions in a glance and understand what is happening. There are rare athletes who can add the dimension of time. They understand not only what is happening but what is about to happen. They can pass the ball to the future.
My uncle asks me what I thought of the football game. I shake my head in an attempt to silently suggest “wow, that was something.” Uncle Cyril says “Don’t just shake your head; say something.” I blush and anger and distance myself from Uncle Cyril.
We are seated at the diningroom table with guests. My dad takes out a five dollar bill and waves it at me. He says “I’ll give you five dollars if you’ll yell.” Then he turns to the guests. “Even for money he won’t speak.” I run from the room in tears.
I ask about her family, whether she has any siblings. I ask how long she has lived in Geneva. I ask about her relationship with Jacky. I ask what it is like to work for Hans. She winces, looks out over Parc la Grange and says “You know, conversation is more than just asking questions.”
Sitting by the fort, looking out on the lake, we watch with delight while their kites strain as if to break free.