Alexandria the Great and Other, Lesser Beings

By Janine Jason

It’s 1908. Josie, the sixteen-year-old daughter of a Krakow professor, escapes betrothal to a mineralogist by running off to America with a superbly handsome stranger. They couldn’t be a poorer intellectual and political match but their physical attraction is intense. The story of their initial encounter becomes a family myth of True Love that dominates three generations of otherwise intelligent, independent women. The novel chronicles the tension between these women’s professional goals and their emotional and physical drives. The pivotal character is the brilliant, exquisite Alexandria Bach, who vows that Love will not ruin her life the way it destroyed her mother Josie. Alexandria is educated at the best of schools, becomes the first woman officer in U.S. Naval Intelligence, and plans a diplomatic career—until a man risks his life to win her love. How will she resolve her dilemma? If she marries and has children, would they be the debris of True Love or Its gifts?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janine Jason
• Release date: Oct 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452385273

Janine Jason

Janine Jason's previous publications include a nonfiction book entitled Parenting Your Premature Baby, published in hardback by Henry Holt, Inc. in 1989 and paperback by Doubleday Dell, Inc. in 1990. It was cited in the Library Journal as one of the best lay medical books of that year. Janine has recently published two novels: Reunions and Alexandria the Great and Other, Lesser Beings. Both are available as Ebooks. In addition to writing, Janine is CEO of Jason and Jarvis Associates, a medical and epidemiology consulting firm she co-founded after spending 23 years in the U.S. Public Health Service (PHS), as a medical scientist at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). While at CDC she ran a variety of activities, including Hemophilia-AIDS Surveillance and Epidemiology, evaluation of the National AIDS Information and Education Program, and the HIV Immunoregulatory Laboratory. She collaborated with persons at other PHS agencies and consulted to foreign Ministries of Health. Dr. Jason has >100 peer-reviewed research publications, both related to and independent of HIV infection, and is viewed as a world's expert in the overlapping areas of immunology, infectious diseases, and public health. During the years Dr. Jason was at CDC, she provided free health care at Emory University, where she was a Clinical Associate Professor in the Department of Pediatric Infectious Diseases, Immunology, and Epidemiology. Now, in addition to her writing and consulting, Dr. Jason continues to provide free health care--at the Volunteers in Medicine Clinic on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. Janine received her undergraduate degree from the University of Chicago and her M.D. degree from Harvard Medical School. She did a Pediatric Residency at Children's Hospital of Los Angeles and Immunology Fellowship at the Hospital for Sick Children, Toronto, Ontario. After two years as a Research Associate at Yale University she entered the PHS. Since 2003, she's lived a bicoastal life, spending half the year fighting the weeds in her yard in South Carolina and half the year fighting them in Oregon and San Francisco. She enjoys two very independent daughters, a high-powered husband, and bizarre sheepdog. Janine travels a good deal--for work and pleasure--and takes her dog along as much as possible.

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Alexandria the Great and Other, Lesser Beings:

True Love’s Assault on Three Generations

by

Janine Jason

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Published by:

Janine Jason

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 by Janine Jason

License Notes, Smashwords Edition

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Visit the author at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JanineJason

and http://www.jasonandjarvis.com/janinejason.html

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Alexandria the Great and Other, Lesser Beings:

True Love’s Assault on Three Generations

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Preface

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Cynics say True Love isn’t true and isn’t love. They condemn It for harming innocent bystanders and spewing detritus, generally in the form of offspring and the scorned. How did these people become so cynical? Maybe they were once mesmerized by the object of their current derision. Or perhaps they consider themselves detritus.

Romantics, on the other hand, damn the cynics and declare that life would be meaningless without True Love. So, who are these Romantics? Granted, some are young anticipants of True Love. But others are not so young. These, surely, have already been mesmerized, at one time or another, in some form or other, by True Love. Yet somehow they have escaped cynicism.

Romantic or Cynic, who of us, while in True Love’s thrall, doesn’t consider It worth any and all grief? Who of us doesn’t pray for Its return?

What is the origin of so deeply felt and widespread an obsession? It would be facile to blame it on our childhoods being contaminated by cartoon—romances, methodically reissued to each new generation. But the tenacity of True Love’s appeal suggests a more intrinsic defect. The fault, if you will, may not lie with Walt but, rather, within ourselves.

Perhaps Science holds the answer. The human genome has been sequenced. Discovering the precise chromosomal location associated True Love addiction will surely gain someone a Nobel Prize. It’s just a matter of time. Pending that breakthrough, budding geneticists should note that the inheritance pattern is X-linked recessive or autosomal dominant with a heavy female penetrance.

The following is a case series, intended to further this scientific inquiry. The subjects include three generations of intelligent women addicted to the Myth of True Love. The data suggest that the disorder originated with Subject Number One, Josie Bach, who followed True Love willingly, assumed she would die in Its thrall, and judged It worth all penalties. Alexandria Bach James, Subject Number Two and Josie’s eldest daughter, spent a lifetime attempting to elude True Love, oblivious that It had her pocketed the entire time. Subject Number Three, Michelle James—physician, Josie’s grandchild, and author of this case study—identified the obsession and tied causation to Josie’s gluttonous consumption of the entire familial allotment of True Love. She doubted whether a prescient awareness of the cost to her descendants would have stayed Josie’s swig. After all, an addiction is an addiction. But perhaps later generations can be spared.

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Part I: Origins of a myth

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Chapter 1~1908, Krakow

Who on God’s gracious earth is that?

Josie Bach jerked her lips back from her friend Clementine’s cheek. A remarkable creature stood at the perimeter of a dance floor. He was a man of heroic proportions—at least six feet, probably a full hand more.

Josie gave silent kudos to the wonders of pomade, evidenced by the Being’s lustrous handlebar mustache and black hair. Her appraisal moved to his torso. Well-defined shoulders and hips created a near perfect isosceles triangle. He stands like a Colossus while these petty men . . .

The stranger’s clothes weren’t the norm for Krakow and more pauper than Promethean. Definitely no match for their bearer. His dark jacket was vest-like in the front but long and split-tailed at the back. The cuffs of his white shirt jutted from coat sleeves that couldn’t compete with the length of the man’s arms. Pointed black leather boots showed too much of themselves before disappearing inside narrow, black pants legs. The entire outfit showed a good deal more wear than was proper for partying.

In spite of his attire, the alien was extraordinary, a deity in disguise. Josie couldn’t imagine why the exquisite barbarian was wandering among her schoolmates. She watched him draw feminine hands to his smiling lips and wondered if his hands ever turned the pages of a book. As Josie watched him lead an undeserving mortal onto the dance floor, she reminded herself that hand-kissing was a boorish affectation.

So, who is he? Josie repeated.

How did you get your father to let you leave the house in that dress? Clementine said.

Josie kept her eyes on the stranger. Compensation.

Her father Demetri was a linguistics professor at the University of Krakow. Two months earlier he betrothed her to a twenty-eight-year-old mineralogist on the faculty of the Sorbonne. Demetri felt it was in her best interests. She viewed it as an anachronistic betrayal.

Demetri bored her with lectures on the appropriateness of the match. The males in their lineage had all been professors of some sort or other, somewhere or other, seemingly since prehistoric times. Antoine, the mineralogist, was a genealogically distant cousin who, to her father’s thinking, was perfect for her.

To Josie’s ears, the harangues were sounding less and less confident, as if Demetri was trying to convince himself as much as her.

Maybe I should get myself engaged to some old lecher, Clementine said. It could do wonders for my wardrobe.

So who is he?

I’m speaking hypothetically. I don’t have any specific lecher in mind.

No, no, him. I mean him. Who is he?

Though that dress wouldn’t work for me, given my nonexistent bosoms.

Josie frowned but didn’t move her eyes. Meaning you’re not fat. Easy to have a large chest when you’re short and fat.

Fat, you? Hardly. The accurate term is voluptuous.

Overweight.

Not to mention your hair. I’d sell my brother for that hair.

My crown of thorns. . . Josie finally looked at her friend. Besides, half the time, you’d give Charles away for no reason at all. Anyway, what does my hair matter, or my dress? Pretty soon I’ll be married to a grotesque pervert I’ve never met. Papa keeps promising the man will change rocks into gold for me. What will gold matter if I’m married to a lump of charcoal? And Paris, why live in Paris if I can’t enjoy it? Why should I marry anyone? Why can’t I go to university? This isn’t the eighteen hundreds. Lots of women stay single until long after sixteen. Especially in Krakow. We’re as cosmopolitan as Paris. Too cosmopolitan for arranged marriages, I would have thought.

Clementine patted her friend’s arm. Josie’s strong will and sizable intellect ruled their clique. Clementine’s position beside the throne had been secure. She couldn’t imagine Josie disappearing to Paris.

No one lives the Life of the Mind more than I do, Josie said. I enjoy even the feel and smell of books, those sensual reminders of the delights waiting inside for me. I can’t imagine anything more delicious than falling asleep with a book on my chest—well, almost anything. She shook her head. Taking a book into my bed is one thing. A decrepit professor is another matter entirely. Disgusting.

She took a deep breath. Now, for the last time, who is he?

Clementine rarely had an edge on Josie and intended to enjoy this instance to the fullest. My cousin from America. What do you think of him?

Not bad.

Given that response, Clementine wasn’t about to volunteer any details. She decided to count to ten in her head before offering a word. She made it to eight.

What cousin? Josie said. Where in America? How did you get a cousin in America? Why didn’t you tell me about him? What’s he doing here?

Questions escaped from Josie’s mouth but she managed to keep the most revealing one caged. Was he taken? His behavior suggested otherwise, but nowadays, who could be sure? She certainly wasn’t going to ask.

Clementine laughed in triumph. Andrew left Warsaw two years ago, after a fight with my uncle. Uncle called him a laggard. That and worse. Andrew said he could run his own life. Then he disappeared.

What’s he doing here?

He came home last month. My uncle thought it was for keeps but Andrew arrived at our door yesterday. He says he’s going back to America. He’s got a ticket for the morning train to Gdansk. I don’t know if he planned to stay in Warsaw and changed his mind or if he came home to brag about being right.

Right about what?

That he can take care of himself.

Is he?

Is he what?

By himself?

Maybe you should ask him that.

Clementine waved to her cousin, who was twirling his partner in a fast-paced mazurka. Josie grabbed Clementine’s arm.

Don’t.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.

America. Josie knew so little about America. It was too far away to seem real. Going to America was as good as walking off the face of the earth.

It was just that I thought you sounded interested, Clementine said.

Josie told herself to calm down.

I’m always interested in learning about new places. Where in America is he from?

I don’t know.

For heaven’s sake, Clementine, can’t you remember anything?

Well, excuse me.

You must know something about where. Think. What did he tell you?

Not New York, but a city. Honestly, he’s very nice. Well spoken. You’d never suspect that he hasn’t been to university. You needn’t be afraid to speak with him. He’s not the slightest bit coarse. Mother and Father wouldn’t let him come to the party otherwise. You’d enjoy him.

Josie didn’t respond.

All the other girls do.

Josie felt her face flush. She hated being so pale. Might as well be transparent.

The music had ended. Couples were negotiating whether to maintain or dissolve partnerships.

Josie took a deep breath. What I do know is that I came here to dance and I intend to dance. Do you think Charles would be willing?

He’ll be delighted. I’ll tell him you’ve accepted his invitation.

With that, to Josie’s dismay, Clementine turned and walked—not to her brother but to her American cousin.

So, you’re the famous Josephina.

Josie thought his smile, as he reached for her hand, constituted absolute proof of the Catholic view of Grace. She’d done nothing to deserve that smile and yet there it was, infusing her with a warmth that would surely last until her last breath.

She instinctively drew back her arm. Too late. Her fingers were enclosed in his. It felt like that was exactly where they belonged.

Flustered, she lowered her eyes. His hand dwarfed her own. It squeezed hers gently and she was struck by its soft warmth. Like my hand is a bird in a nest. She wondered if hers was the only female hand he hadn’t kissed that evening, and then fretted about why he hadn’t.

Clementine tells me you’re an expert on all of Western Civilization, he said.

The absurdity of the compliment diffused her anxiety. She laughed, as much from relief as amusement, and blessed a friend in whose eyes she could do no wrong.

Ah, well, Josie said, Clementine considers me an expert whenever I’m the slightest bit more knowledgeable than she is. Since Clementine never studies, that’s pretty frequent.

Josie allowed herself to glance at his face. It trumped the body. She would have been jealous of his high cheekbones except that in this particular situation viewing bested having. Then there were his eyes—large, wide set, and a cobalt blue than outdid the blue-green irises she considered her own best feature. And his mouth. On any other face his teeth would be too white, his lips too full. But on his... She blushed at her thoughts—and his smile.

Clementine seems to have studied one thing well enough—you, he said. For instance, she tells me you like to dance.

Right that second, Josie gave Clementine an ‘A’ for Friendship. True, she’d been upset when Clementine scurried off to Andrew. But, in point of fact, that one, simple act achieved more than Josie’s own endless fantasies ever would have accomplished. I do like to dance, Josie said. But I’m not very good at it.

Josie surprised herself with those words. She considered herself an excellent dancer. But that was by Krakow standards. Andrew was a man of the world.

Let me be the judge of that, he said. Then, like Poseidon, he led her to the shoals of the dance floor.

By the way, in case Clementine didn’t tell you as much about me as she told me about you, I’m Andrew Bach.

Josie had to tilt her head to the ceiling just to see his face. But, oh, the view rewarded the effort. Andrew appeared to indeed know a disquietingly great deal about her. The way he probed for more detail was even more unnerving, albeit in the most delicious of ways. His proximity and interest were an intoxicating combination. Fortunately he managed to guide both the conversation and their footsteps so she didn’t get tangled up in either.

One dance followed another, linked by pauses that carried no question of terminating their pairing.

Clementine tells me you may be moving to Paris next year, he said.

Josie’s euphoria plunged. Surely Clementine had shared the details of that projected move, details Josie refused to think about, never mind discuss. Maybe. Maybe not, she said. Paris is beautiful but so is Krakow.

Andrew laughed. You find Krakow as beautiful as Paris?

Josie was not about to admit she’d never been to Paris. Where is it you live in America? she said.

Chicago.

Josie found the name odd. Is Chicago as beautiful as Paris? she said.

As Paris or Krakow?

His teasing felt intimate in a decidedly pleasant way. Whichever you find more beautiful, Josie said. Far be it for me to hold you to my judgment.

Chicago isn’t as beautiful as either Paris or Krakow. Not yet. It’s a new city. All of America is fresh and new.

Josie heard the pride in his voice. So, there was, at least one reason Andrew wouldn’t be staying in Poland. Warsaw wasn’t his home any more, Chicago was.

Suddenly America felt as real as Paris or Madrid, even if it was beyond her ken. It existed because it was the place where Andrew, himself unearthly yet concrete, would return. A spear of pain pierced her remarkable bosom.

So you like it there? she said.

It goes beyond liking. Chicago is my city. I’m young. It’s young. I feel like I can do anything when I’m there. My city and I can do anything. I don’t feel that way in Poland. Here, history weighs on me, tells me what I can or can’t be. In Chicago, I make the decisions. I tell my city what we’ll become. No one tells me what to do.

Josie couldn’t imagine having that sense of control. The idea was liberating, yet frightening. If she were as large and powerful as Andrew, would she feel the excitement without the intimidation?

How did you have the courage to go to . . . Chicago? The name rolled over her tongue.

Andrew laughed. Courage? I don’t recall it being an act of courage. Far from it. I trapped myself. I told my father if he tried to force me to go to university, I’d leave for America and make my own life. Tatoosh took me at my word.

Josie watched his lips curl around that usually sweet term for Father. Why did Andrew resist going to university? Josie would never turn down a chance to continue her studies—if only Demetri would admit that gaining knowledge was infinitely preferable to marrying it.

What, pray tell, is so bad about attending university? she said.

Books, babble, bah! There’s more to life than sitting in a cloister, imagining you’re important because you’re thinking. Not doing anything, just supposedly thinking. Universities are full of immature scam artists talking about thinking, thinking about talking, telling other people what to think, and never doing a single thing.

Josie found the opinion blasphemous. She’d have condemned anyone else for it. Instead she said, You honestly feel that way?

Josephine, I would never lie to you. God’s truth, academics are frauds. My father judges me a failure because I haven’t been to university but in America I’m a success. In Chicago, I’ve started a business. Each day I work at my business. It grows, I grow. I act, I do, I don’t just talk. My words lead to action, not more words. And my actions lead to money. I’ll be rich in America.

What business? she said. Josie wasn’t even sure what the word meant, in a real and practical sense.

A factory. A meat factory.

Josie wasn’t at all certain what a factory was, didn’t have any idea what a meat factory might be, and had no intention of asking. It sounded highly unattractive, not at all something for social conversation. Besides, she didn’t want Andrew to consider her ignorant. If you like it so much in Chicago, why are you here? she said.

I made money. I thought it was time to come home to Warsaw. I came to show my father I’d succeeded. I was going to return to my Tatoosh’s house. I came back but saw I couldn’t stay. No matter how rich I am, I’ll always be nothing in my father’s eyes. I belong in America.

Josie’s heart ached. Clementine was right. Andrew would leave. How could she hurt so deeply over someone she barely knew?

You’d like America, Andrew said.

Josie had to smile. If Andrew were there, she supposed she would, or could.

America would like you, he continued.

Oh, really? Your country would like me? Your America has likes?

Yes, she has likes and dislikes. She likes you because you’re bright and independent and beautiful.

Josie felt her face crimson and her heart trip. Your America is quite complimentary, she said.

Come meet her. You’ll see I’m correct.

You seem to be in love with America. I’ll take your word about her. She felt her blush deepen as Andrew smiled at her.

So, you’re jealous of a country? he said.

Embarrassed at the truth of his words, she said, Don’t be ridiculous.

He pressed her hand. I love my America as a mother. She feeds me. She cares for me. She’ll love you too.

Josie couldn’t think of a response.

Come with me. Come with me to my America.

Josie said nothing.

She’ll take care of you. She’ll love you.

Josie began to pull her hand from his.

I’ll take care of you. I’ll love you, Andrew said.

She left her hand right where it was.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 2~1917, Chicago

By the time the school year neared its June finish, Josie and her two eldest children, Eugene and Alexandria, had developed a comfortable weekend routine of sitting at the kitchen table, three heads shadowing three open books. On one particularly warm day, Andrew came in from his yard work just as Eugene vivified the threesome’s convivial silence by reading aloud one of his homework questions.

"Florence is to Renaissance Europe as blank is to present day America. Explain and defend your answer, Eugene read. Mother, I know the answer is supposed to be ‘Chicago’ but what are some reasons why?"

That question shows you why Chicago’s nickname is Windy City, Josie said. But why are you calling me Mother?

Josie’s last sentence was more a statement of mourning than a question. She knew the answer as surely as Eugene knew the answer to his homework. Ten months earlier, the school principal had advanced Alexandria and Eugene three full grades. He assured the teachers that this would stop their questions and discounted Josie’s social concerns. Alexandria had adapted like an amphibian to land but Eugene was still floundering.

Only babies use Momma, Eugene said. What do you mean? Why is Chicago the Windy City?

Because Chicago’s filled with people who brag about their city, Josie said. Windbags is another word for braggart.

No. You’re making that up, Eugene said.

Alexandria looked up from her book. Momma’s right. I read it somewhere.

Andrew had been leaning back against the kitchen sink, water glass in one hand, kitchen towel in the other, silently admiring his wife and progeny. Now he joined in the conversation. Chicago is loved by her successful businessmen and artists just like Florence was loved by hers, Andrew said. Chicago’s leaders are showering her with gifts—just like Florence’s leaders gave their city.

Josie’s eyes moved from Eugene to her husband.

Chicago’s museums and libraries and parks are like gift boxes that important people fill with art and books and plants, Andrew continued

Josie watched Andrew rub the towel over his gritty forehead.

The buildings are named after their donors, like the buildings are gift cards that show the generosity of Chicago’s Mighty. he said.

The hubris, Josie muttered, forcing herself to turn her eyes back to her book.

Andrew continued as if he hadn’t heard. And it’s right the Mighty should name their gifts after themselves. Why, who knows? Some day, there’ll be a Bach Museum, or an Andrew Bach Park, or a Josephine Bach Library. Wouldn’t that be perfect, the way Momma loves to read?

Andrew’s teasing caused Josie to smile and look up from her book. When she did, she saw that Andrew’s eyes were fixed on Eugene.

When you join me in the business, maybe we’ll make enough money for all three donations, Andrew said. Who knows? The Bach name might end up tied, part and parcel, to our City’s.

Josie grimaced. Andrew had promised to stop pressuring Eugene about The Family Business. Eugene wasn’t interested in the factory. Why would he be? He was only eight-year-old. Andrew never pushed Alexandria or his namesake Drew about managing the factory. Oh, Andrew did have plans for Alexandria but these involved matrimony, not the family business. In spite of Alexandria being barely seven years old, Andrew had taken to reciting that With her looks she’ll have her pick of men, never mind she’s five times too smart for her own good. Josie couldn’t imagine how anyone could be too smart for her own good. Andrew would then go on about what he expected in a future son-in-law and finish by praising his future self for allowing Alexandria to choose her own spouse. Josie found this diatribe logically inconsistent but chose to focus on Andrew’s conclusion. Of course, Alexandria would pick her own husband. This was America, not Poland. Andrew hadn’t begun to harass Drew yet. Drew was only two years old but Josie suspected age was not the only factor. Eugene had the misfortune of being the firstborn son and, with that, the sacrificial lamb.

Josie couldn’t believe that now Andrew was at it again, tormenting Eugene about the Family Business. Less than a week earlier he’d agreed to stop. Josie knew she should be furious but that wasn’t the emotion evoked by seeing perspiration gluing Andrew’s undershirt to every muscle of his chest and arms.

Josie had become extremely fond of their yard. More accurately, she thanked the Lord for Andrew’s devotion to what he called Our Gardens. She feared the children might sense her thoughts but assured herself they were too young for that. She reminded herself that she had every right to stare. Andrew was her husband. There was no shame in a wife looking at her husband. A cat can look at a king.

Skyscrapers, Alexandria said.

What? Eugene asked.

Yes, exactly. Skyscrapers, Andrew said, wiping his hands on the towel as he spoke.

"Things Chicago has that make her