Chapter 23
ELSA
‘May I join you?’ asks Frank, standing where I’m sitting in the hotel’s patio garden.
‘Of course,’ I say, gathering myself, having been lost in Marleen’s book.
‘What a beautiful evening,’ he says, and together we gaze up at the canopy of stars above the potted palm trees and softly lit maples.
‘Heavenly,’ I say as Frank gingerly takes a seat on the cushioned terrace chair. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Much better, if somewhat foolish,’ he confides, placing a rug over his lap. ‘Young Joe has been looking after me. Wheeling me round Shakespeare and Company, putting me in a taxi back to the hotel, that sort of thing.’
‘That was good of him,’ I smile, pleased that he’s been well looked after.
‘And yourself?’
‘Enjoying the tranquillity,’ I say, using the drink stirrer I took from the bar as a place-holder for my book when I failed to find Fran’s bookmark. ‘Who’d have thought Paris would be more tranquil than home.’
‘In my experience, it’s often the quietest places where troubles run deepest,’ he says, clearing his throat.
The arrival of the waiter gives me time to contemplate what Frank might be referring to.
‘Where did you travel to with the army?’ I ask when the waiter has departed, hoping to gain some insight into his life story.
‘The Far East, Middle East, East Africa, you name it, I’ve been there.’
‘Did your family travel with you?’ I ask, remembering him mentioning a granddaughter, and he wears a beautifully worn wedding ring.
‘They moved with me from base to base, but never to where there was conflict.’
‘That must have been hard, to spend so much time apart,’ I say, noticing a distance growing in his eyes.
‘Harder on my wife than on me,’ he answers, rolling the blanket on his lap between thumb and fingers. ‘She never knew from one year to the next where she’d be with the children. It took its toll.’
‘On you both, I’m sure,’ I say. ‘But from the tough times come the best of times.’
‘That’s how it should be,’ Frank says, receiving his drink from the waiter. He takes a slug that suggests that how things ‘should be’ isn’t necessarily how they were, or are.
Marleen arrives in the courtyard, back from her talk at the temple, and I wave her over.
‘I was just saying how the best of times grow from the worst of times,’ I comment, once Marleen’s settled, having ordered a glass of sparkling apple juice. And my mind turns to Bill, unable to imagine anything good coming from his loss.
‘From the mud grows the lotus,’ she says.
‘I used to hear that a lot in the Far East,’ says Frank. ‘Never did understand what it meant.’
‘It means simply that beautiful things grow from difficulties, that a negative can grow into a positive.’
Frank nods contemplatively, and I wonder what he’s reflecting upon, what horrors he’s seen.
‘How did your talk go this evening?’ I ask Marleen after the waiter has brought her drink.
‘It went well, I think. I spoke about compassion – offering compassion to others and to ourselves, through seeing as a child.’
‘Seeing as a child?’ I query.
‘Without expectation or judgement, without knowledge,’ she explains.
‘Impossible!’ scoffs Frank, clearly thinking Marleen has been supping the Kool-Aid.
‘When we let go of our thoughts and emotions, and recognise the world beyond our sensory experience of it, when we are one with the world, then anything is possible. That’s when we can really see the world afresh, and be curious about all that’s in it.’
Frank shakes his head in bemusement, turning his attention to the beautifully maintained borders instead.
‘Are you suggesting that through freeing ourselves of preconceptions, we’re able to be more compassionate to ourselves and others?’ I ask.
‘Exactly that,’ she says. ‘Children live in the moment. Adults don’t. When you can live in the moment and recognise each moment as a gift, then you can ask, “What will I do with that gift?”’
‘I see,’ I reply, mulling over her words, a feeling of momentum rising within me.