The Intimacy Maelstrom

By Linda Leven

This is a story about relationshipsbonds of passion between men and women. The drama revolves around six individuals, their amorous intimacies, and the unperceived wounds and psychological mutilation they sustain as they plummet into the Intimacy Maelstrom.
Dmitri is a self-absorbed, young Russian intent on achieving the American dream, and thinks little of marriage and fatherhood. In contrast, unattractive Irina desperately fears becoming an old-maid. Her work colleague, Caroline, older, sophisticated, despite having a soul-mate, is bored and seeking breathtaking romance. In his twilight years, Dr. Ramirez is dispirited in his burned-out marriage, but believes he is too old to alter his life, until meeting sexy Claire, a patient. Unfortunately Nina, his wife, is an old-fashioned woman who believes only marriage, children, and family bring fulfillment. Into this mlange comes Ronny, her sonhandsome, sexy, a sensualistwho adores women, but in his own aberrant, warped manner.
The author paints, in vivid colors, a picture of tormented lives entangled in passionate but toxic, perverted, unhealthy relationships. Although the lovers may strip themselves of their lacerating liaisons, do they walk away unscathed and unscarred? The novel illumines the imperceptible damage and mayhem sustained when our lives and happiness depend upon fickle, unreliable love from others. The bold, flaming, shattering scenes portrayed may have one gasping for fresh air and sunshine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469180427

Linda Leven

Linda received her B.A. and M.A. in mathematics from New York University and worked over 20 years for IBM as a software developer. Currently Linda lives in New York and is working on a book of short stories. Visit WWW.LINDALEVEN.COM for details.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

AN UNCOMMON WOMAN

Unlike most of us, Caroline Windsor no longer perceived and measured the passing of her days in hours, minutes, and seconds. Curiously, she had come to measure time and its preciousness to her in a most unusual and revealing manner. She measured it in, shall we call them, man-meetings. And this evening, when the gentleman stranger arrived, and an hour later, after he departed, she would assign him number 1,215—a phenomenal number of men to have met no matter how one attempts to fathom and justify the situation. For over three years now, it had been going on, night after night without ever a diminution of intensity, as if the same romantic drama were perpetually being performed, each evening being a precise replica of the preceding, never varying and never ceasing to astound and shock those who might inadvertently and unwittingly be involved.

With artful grace and elegance, Caroline hurried across the white-marbled lobby of her luxury Park Avenue condominium and headed directly to the elevators. She was tall, about five foot eight, and as thin as a needle—weighing just a bit over 115 pounds. As she carelessly yanked off the black scarf tied theatrically at the nape of her neck in the style of the silver screen divas and ran her hand through her long, wavy, dark-auburn hair to fluff it up, most remarkable about her was her chalky-white, clear skin covered with a very heavy layer of garish, colorful make-up. One could not resist turning to look at her, for she was a splash of bright colors like the modern paintings she had visited that weekend at MoMA. To match her excessive makeup, she was decked out in scarlet-red, skin-tight jeans and a lighter red T-shirt, it too being tight-fitting and cut provocatively low in front. And to enhance this flaming red flamboyant outfit, she wore high, yellow-leather, spike-heeled boots and a gold-colored, short, leather jacket.

Failing to observe carefully, by her demeanor, style of dress, the sleek way she moved and carried herself—with an air of nobility and arrogance—one might have mistaken this uncommon woman for some young, glamorous superstar of the Hollywood or Broadway ilk. Or, admiring her long elegant stride and swinging hips, she might have been mistaken for a high-paid runway model. Indeed, her unique, pretentious style radiated self-esteem, poise and a sense of the melodramatic. However, upon closer observation, one could clearly see that Miss Caroline Windsor was not at all a young ingénue, but a mature woman, perhaps in her early forties. She had, however, none of the signs of a middle-aged woman: no short gray hair, no matronly attire, no slouched-over posture, no humped back or rounded shoulders, no large sagging breasts, and no chubbiness on the hips and buttocks. None of this for Caroline! She was not about to acknowledge her advancing years nor allow them to alter the stunning slim lines of her toned body. She considered it of the utmost importance to remain youthful looking in face, body, and overall deportment.

This evening, apparently in feverish haste, she dispensed with her daily routine of picking up the mail; there was not a minute to spare. The workday had ended and her personal time was being launched, as always, with the first blind date of the steamy summer evening. He was due in exactly half an hour, leaving no time to dally.

I see it’s going to be a busy night, eh Caroline? her doorman, meticulously dressed in his blue, militaristic uniform cheerfully teased as she hastened past his station. How many have you got coming tonight… less than a dozen I hope?

She was such a delicious amusement for him that he could not resist a little harmless jibe which he knew, because of her openness and candidness, she would simply acknowledge and then blithely disregard.

Yes, James… I think… yes… three. Ring me. You know the routine, she nonchalantly answered as the elevator door gently closed, cutting off her last words and swiftly whisking her off to the nineteenth floor.

Every evening and all day Saturday, young men came and went—up to her apartment, a short rendezvous, then back down, gone, never to be seen again—as many as three in an evening and usually five or six on Saturdays. Always observant and watching, every doorman and porter in the building assumed that Caroline was feverishly shopping for a man—and a young man at that—for some romance and, no doubt, hot sex. Because of this, she had become quite the celebrity in their eyes: a bold older woman who knew what she wanted and was going after it in her own unique fashion. Her apparent goal, they applauded. After all, surely an older woman, single and attractive, had the right to have a young man with whom to occasionally amuse herself. But the way in which she was proceeding, internet blind dates, was a bit unorthodox and open to controversy as to its effectiveness and suitability for a woman of her age and caliber. Still, they admired her determination and willingly gave their assent, even if, in truth, they hadn’t even come close to understanding what was really driving Caroline in her anomalous, daring pursuit.

Indeed, no one really fathomed the complexity and profundity of her motives. To all casual observers, in the jargon of the age, she was just a hot broad on the move for some hot action with a gorgeous young dude.

When, precisely half an hour later, James formally rang to announce the arrival of the first of her three dates for the evening, Caroline, applying her carefully thought-out modus operandi, kept the young fellow waiting in the lobby an extra fifteen minutes just to assure that he had emotionally settled to a reading of steady. For sure, a young man invited on a first blind date to the apartment of an older woman whom he understands is seeking a passionate love affair can become quite impetuous and foolhardy, with emotions raging. He might be arriving with inflated fantasies of impassioned lust, illusions of a sumptuous night of sex—simply put, with heightened and unrealistic expectations as to what the evening held in store for him. So, under the observant watch of her ever-inquisitive doorman, a ten or fifteen-minute wait in the lobby as a cooling-off period, Caroline felt, would serve to dampen her date’s spirits—anchor him back to reality and place his feet firmly on the ground. And of course, she wanted to subject him to observation by the many tenants and guests traversing the busy lobby. After all, allowing a stranger into your apartment under such unorthodox circumstances was a daring and perilous escapade in the dangerous world of the day, where, each evening, horrific murders and brutal rapes graced the television headlines and were glamorized by becoming the plots of popular TV docudramas. Caroline simply wanted her dates to be observed and feel observed just in case their motives were less than honorable.

With only these minimum precautions in place, Caroline, this evening and every other evening of the week, appeared to be engaged in a massive manhunt—over the years, meeting hundreds of blind dates at her apartment. She had discovered a seemingly inexhaustible source of men and knew exactly what she was doing, why she was doing it, and the most efficacious way to go about it. Everything was crystal clear in her mind, and nothing was going to deflect her from her purpose.

Bob, her first of three blind dates for the evening, she was sure would be a charmer; she had not the slightest bit of uneasiness. He had described himself on the phone as twenty-five, six foot tall, slim, Ivy-League educated and gorgeous. You won’t be disappointed, he had arrogantly assured her in their first and only phone conversation before she made her studied but still gut decision that he was someone she would like to meet. Many men she turned down, but those who passed her stringent requirements got an immediate invite to come over here and meet me. To be sure, her conversation with Bob had gone exceptionally well; they had each explained precisely what they were seeking in a relationship and had agreed that they were on the same mental wavelength and should meet each other as soon as possible.

I’m kind of in your situation, he had philosophized to her on the phone. I have somebody in my life… that is, my girlfriend. But the spark’s just not there anymore. I need that special woman to fire me up again… I need to have something exciting to look forward to… someone different with whom to share my feelings and ideas. Some new atypical viewpoints would be interesting… or at least some new stories! I suppose I could say that what I’m looking for now… on the side, of course… not at all thinking of abandoning my girl… would be a woman who could be my good friend and lover. She’d be the perfect, sexy woman whom I could daydream about all week and look forward to seeing. Being together should be a special treat for both of us.

Of course, Caroline had heard it all before, but it was his attitude and circumstances that appealed to her. She wanted no man who was seriously looking for a wife with whom to begin a family and a home sweet home in suburbia. At the other extreme, she didn’t want a man who was simply looking for a quick, one-time physical experience with a new woman. Bob had uttered all the magic phrases: friend and lover, share my feelings, and special treat for both of us.

For the evening, Caroline had changed from her garish red to sexier, more subtly seductive attire: black, skin-tight jeans, a bright orange, silky blouse that tied in the front, exposing her midriff, and gold, four-inch high heels. Unequivocally accentuating her long, shapely legs, excessively arched insteps, and prominently displayed layer of rippling stomach muscles, she had to be instantly identified by anyone at all familiar with the theater and arts as a ballet dancer or a well-toned runway model. Caroline purposely advertised the fact that for twenty-five years, she had dedicated her life to the ballet, seriously studying with the goal of eventually dancing with the New York City Ballet. Even now, she looked the part despite the fact that she hadn’t danced for over twenty years. Her movements had a certain dramatic flair and theatricality about them. She knew how to use her body and could cause the passion to flow in any man as she walked across a room or leaned against a wall. In truth, every one of her movements was carefully calculated to be enticing and sexually provocative to the opposite sex.

When the doorbell rang, Caroline took a deep breath in preparation for her skillfully crafted act as the charming, virtuous hostess; and she would be none other than that, no matter what circumstances she encountered. With a swift, deliberate movement, she dramatically flung open the door, hoping to immediately bedazzle and overwhelm her potential paramour with the exquisiteness of her long, lithe, supple body. Although her face was singularly unique and interesting, being long, lean, and angularly sculpted, it was her body, more often than not, that appealed to the men and immediately caused their blood to boil. So Caroline always gave it top billing during these evening interludes.

Well! Hello! Come on in, she whispered in a deep, velvety voice with perfect stage diction, the result of years of speech study at the renowned School of Dramatic Arts.

Hi, Caroline! Nice to meet you, her date replied as he blatantly surveyed her body from top to bottom.

And so their brief meeting commenced just like all the hundreds of others she had endured in the last several years. Unfortunately, Caroline, at a single glance, knew that Bob, although pleasing to the eye, young and built well, was not at all what she craved. He was clean-cut, corporate looking and handsome, but because Caroline had been immersed in the milieu of the ballet and the arts since she was a tiny tot, she had developed an affinity for the stereotypical artistic image: gaunt, sculpted face, full lips, high cheekbones, and thick medium-length hair—a Rudolf Nureyev, ballet dancer look. And when Caroline felt no strong, irresistible physical attraction, a romantic relationship was an utter impossibility. Power, prestige, money, education, sense of humor, personality, charm—all these were for naught if she could not desire a man physically, if she had no desire to be enfolded tight in his arms and to give herself to him for nights of passionate lovemaking and romance.

Although Bob was not the man for her, Caroline immediately sensed that it would probably make no difference since she was most likely not his type either. Over her many years of meeting men, she had developed an acute, intuitive ability to discern men’s reactions to her, and she was quite sure that Bob did not find her attractive. Nevertheless, by the way in which he ran his eyes over her body, she was sure that at least some part of her was acceptable to him. Men could always rave over her body, but she felt his acute discomfort as he observed her long, angular, gaunt face glowing with the heavy, excessive makeup she always wore.

Good, she thought to herself. I see that he really doesn’t like me. So we can spend a few minutes, and then he’ll leave. We’re both intelligent adults… we can admit to one another that it’s wrong. Why waste time?

Thus, as far as Caroline was concerned, date number 1 for the evening would be nothing more than the usual case: in for a brief hello and out as expeditiously as possible. Many of the men she met also recognized the futility of their meeting, but nevertheless, could still contemplate a radically different agenda. They came, saw that she was not really their cup of tea, but still, with a body such as hers, they figured they could at least attempt to obtain some reward for their evening’s effort: Why not? It can’t hurt to try… even though I’d never want to see this woman again. Caroline knew precisely what Bob’s modus operandi for the evening would be. Why waste the opportunity, would be his self-serving interpretation of the fortuitous situation. He was alone with an older woman who obviously had sexual desires for a young, handsome stud, so why not attempt to take advantage of the situation. The young men, the under-thirty group, viewed their time alone with her as the ideal opportunity to score two points for their sexual agendas—one, to sleep with an older woman, and two, to sleep with an ex-ballet dancer. And Caroline fit the bill on both counts, for it was apparent to all these handsome, young men who came to her each evening and marveled at her phenomenally lean, supple body that, even if no longer actively taking ballet classes, she had really been a dancer, she was still working out each day, and she was a sexy, provocative woman.

Caroline had, in fact, stopped her classes over twenty-three years ago, yet, each night for several hours, she continued to pull and strain her aging, stiffening bones and muscles—splits, backbends, stretching, jumping in place, stair-climbing, rope-skipping, weight-lifting. It was all necessary in order to remain toned, thin, and most importantly, youthful looking. Caroline, unbeknownst to most, was actually in her mid-fifties, far beyond the forty years that she advertised. This fact in itself put immense pressure on her to always look her best, act young, and hide, as much as possible, every sign of aging.

Can I get you a Coke, Bob? Caroline immediately offered as she gracefully sauntered toward the kitchen, her date following close behind.

No thanks… I’m fine for now, he replied in a low, blatantly provocative voice. Why don’t we just chat a while… and get totally, totally acquainted.

At that response, Caroline quickly turned to her date, effortlessly spun around as if she were pirouetting in ballet class. It was all an affectation to make her seem young, vital, and youthfully gay. As he lustfully gazed at her, he ran his tongue over his upper lip, and then, in a cocksure manner, slowly draped himself across Caroline’s bed, which unfortunately was prominently featured in the small, cluttered studio she had occupied since graduate school. His provocative comment and his choice of a resting place were in no way appreciated by Caroline. She knew exactly what he meant by getting totally, totally acquainted and why he had positioned himself comfortably on her bed and was inviting her to join him there. No doubt, it was going to be another attempt at a swift, expeditious, and decisive seduction. Caroline had been through this a myriad of times and saw it coming.

Tonight however, she was in no mood to allow the scene to advance and then be compelled to bring it to an equally swift and disappointing conclusion in which she would politely decline her date’s advances and show him the door. She had played the role too many times, and it bored and disgusted her. After the hundreds and hundreds of blind dates she had endured over the last three years, she was convinced that she had seen and experienced all there was to see and experience in this arena. Caroline always felt that she was in control—she always was—and if she didn’t want some man touching and fondling her, he would not succeed, that is, unless he dared to use physical force. But so far, this had never happened, probably because the men that Caroline met were usually highly educated, cultured, and most importantly, sane. They would persist for some amount of time in attempts to persuade her to relax and have a good time, since we’re both here in the moment, and then, realizing that she was adamant in her determination to be left alone, they would give up in disappointment and take their leave.

Come sit next to me, Caroline, her date drawled and patted the bed as if she were his pet pussycat which he felt the immediate urge to cuddle and stroke.

Unfortunately for Bob, Caroline was already somewhat peeved by her date’s overbearing and condescending attitude and had decided not to entertain his nonsense, but clip their meeting short. Why go through all the idle motions, the chit-chat and the cat-and-mouse maneuvers, lead him on to believe that the prize was his just for the asking when nothing could be further from the truth? You know, Bob, she replied to his seductive overture in a no-nonsense manner, I really don’t think you’re my type. You’re very handsome but just not to my taste. And… I’m really sorry…

But he wouldn’t let her finish, so impatient was he for his pinch of evening pleasure. Really, Caroline? How do you know I’m not the type of man you want? You haven’t even seen me; we’ve hardly spoken ten sentences tonight, and you’re ready to call an end to… us. Come on… relax, sweetheart. Give it a chance.

Caroline uneasily shifted her footing as she stood rooted to the spot, refusing to even sit down. Her attention was focused on a phrase he had just used that always raised her ire: You haven’t even seen me. She knew exactly to what he referred. Why, she contemplated, did men think that once a woman saw that certain part of a man’s body, the battle would be won. Nothing could be further from the truth—at least for Caroline. Perhaps other women were constructed differently, but Caroline couldn’t have cared less about a man’s stark-naked body and his penis. For sure, she had seen enough of Bob and nothing would change her mind. No, Bob. I’m old enough to know who appeals to me and who does not. You are good-looking, no doubt about that, but it does nothing for me. It just wouldn’t work… on any level. I’m sorry.

She was being somewhat testy with him—not her typical style and demeanor. Usually, she treated her blind dates exceedingly courteously, but tonight she made an exception. Bob was so handsome, and because she had just complimented him several times, she simply assumed that he had an impervious, large ego that could easily withstand her insignificant rejection based only on her own personal preference. But to her dismay, he was not about to abandon his cause.

Sure… OK… I see your point. Maybe it wouldn’t work long term, but we’re both here… now… and you want passion from a young guy, and I can give it to you. I can give you a lot of passion, Caroline. You’re a very provocative… hot woman… and with a vicious body. Hell! Look what you’re doing to me… and I’m just looking at you. He reached down, and through his loose Dockers pants, began blatantly pleasuring himself.

Now, if she hadn’t been a lady and if she weren’t afraid of being alone and in danger with a belligerent man in her apartment, Caroline would have lambasted him—verbally trounced him. She detested his reprehensible suggestions, treating her like a whore; and how dare he, a guest in her apartment, lie there and shamelessly masturbate simply to entice her into action. What a nitwit he was to think she had the slightest interest in what he was doing!

Mentally, she castigated him. You can give me a lot of passion! You mean sex, don’t you? Do you think I have any interest in your cheap, animal sex? Do you think I care what you’re doing there? Do you think that it excites me? It sickens and disgusts me! I loathe what you’re doing, and I find this whole scene demeaning and degrading. I detest men of your ilk. Now get out of here, you uncivilized ass!

But Caroline said nothing like this, not a single inflammatory word. After all, she was alone with him and dared not trust his reaction if she were to anger and taunt him.

No, I think you misunderstand me, Bob, she calmly and courteously replied. I’m looking for a romance… something real… with some feelings attached… not a purely physical amusement. Sex… just to be doing sex… just for some fun… well… that actually turns me off. I thought that what I was looking for was clear when we spoke on the phone. I’m sorry if I misled you… but I kind of thought we understood one another. Didn’t we?

How weary she was of this worn-out, overplayed scene. In her sleep, she could have recited all the arguments he would offer for their having a quick sexual romp on the spot. She’d heard them all at one time or another and could counter each and every one of them. But such was not her intention this evening; she had not the patience. Her objective was to move him out as soon as possible—no arguments and no pleading.

But it was not to be so simple. Her date lay there on the bed gently stroking himself through his still zipped-up pants. Caroline saw that he was more than ready and could have taken her right then and there without even a single embrace or kiss. It frightened her and made her extremely nervous each time this happened despite the fact that she had survived it many times before. She could never be sure that this was not to be her unlucky day, and that tomorrow she would be a three-inch headline in the Post and the first gory murder or rape story on the eleven o’clock news.

Please, Bob, unfortunately, she continued unyieldingly and attempting to be rational about the situation, I’d like to end this date. It’s no use really… and I’m kind of tired. Rough day at work, you know. And… do remember, Bob, that I am an older woman and know myself quite well. I do know exactly what I like in men.

Despite her logical speech and suggestions, he paid not the slightest bit of attention, but slowly got off the bed and stood opposite her. His face had changed to a bright crimson color, beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead, and he was breathing heavily—barely able to get his words out. His right hand, busy at work, was placed firmly between his legs. Caroline refused even to take notice as he unzipped his pants, dropped them, and held out his precious gem to bedazzle her into submission. Let me show it to you, my darling, he whispered in a raspy, barely audible voice. Look… it’s long and thick… beautiful and… ready… just for you. I know it’s what you want. I’m young… I can go forever… and… just looking at you has got me going.

Caroline sighed. Even this drivel she’d heard before. It was par for the challenging but hazardous course she was playing; she had to expect these foul-tasting scenes, and she did. But she also had to defuse them safely. Look Bob… I’m sorry, she replied firmly and coldly, I’m not interested. You’ll have to leave. Now! Please! She had intended to be affable and end it graciously, but tonight it seemed as if her patience with the usual and customary nonsense was exhausted.

Her date, truly a handsome, young man, stood there in the middle of the room, slowly coming to the realization that he was not with a fatuous twenty-one year old girl, but a mature woman who was going to take the upper hand from him. With a young girl, he might have had his way, but not with her—unless he were going to take her by force.

But… is this it? Is this… all? he mumbled disconcertedly. Look… I can’t go out like this… look at me, sweetheart, he pleaded, moving closer to her. He reached out to take her hand.

Caroline quickly backed away, refusing even to glance down at his exposed penis. Her eyes were glaring with a white-hot wrath. I told you… I am not interested! I’ve seen men like you a hundred times before… a thousand times before! It does nothing for me. Please… just leave. Now!

Indeed, it was true that she had seen every type of inspired male penis—straight ones, thick ones, curved ones, short ones, immense ones—and it meant nothing to her and in no way aroused or even amused her. Why, she wondered, were men such asses as to think that she could desire a man simply because of his penis? Show a woman your penis, and you were in! How ludicrous! Caroline had never been wired in this way. What got her fancy was a highly seasoned stew of facial features, body type, demeanor, and other qualities far too complex for cataloging. So although she truly regretted the scene that was being played out, she had to be icily firm or her young date would continue his pleading and coaxing.

So many of the young fellows she had met came with the same old modus operandi: always attempting a hit and run with her. When she had first begun her quest for a lover, she had been conned many times by various clever stratagems. Initially, she had hated to disappoint and would, many times, give in to an innocent kiss just to please. But one thing would lead to another, and soon she would find herself completely nude and too entangled to withdraw. But those times were no more. Now, she recognized and understood the psyche of these young fellows who came to her and could match them, blow for blow. No one got his way with her anymore unless she wanted it to happen. And that was a rare occasion indeed.

Still, despite her feigned harshness, her date persisted. Please, Caroline… just help me out. Then I’ll leave. Touch me. Just put your hand on it.

Bob… I said no! And that’s final!

But… it’s a shame to lose it all, Caroline. If you’d just relax and give in to the moment… it could be so good.

Good for you, she retorted mockingly, but not for me. I’m not in the moment! Her caustic reply finally convinced him that it was pointless to go on arguing with her. She was not a silly college girl.

Well, he sheepishly asked, can I use your bathroom… to… ah…

Caroline unconcernedly pointed the way, and as her date, holding up his pants, hobbled into the bathroom to do whatever he felt was necessary to relieve his situation, Caroline strode angrily into the kitchen to be away from the unsavory, irksome scene that was transpiring. Bob, still selling, had left the bathroom door wide open for her listening pleasure in case she changed her mind and decided to wander in and see what he might be doing in there with all the moaning and sighing. But even this little sideshow she had witnessed numerous times—the relieve yourself in the bathroom scene. It was far from the first time that a young man had pulled this gross stunt in the hopes of enticing her and spurring her to action. The first few times it had happened, she had been upset—deeply disturbed—and had, for days, felt debased and cheap as if she herself had been sullied. But by now, she simply waited it out. Yet, how she detested the sordidness of it all! If only someone could grasp what it was she sought. Certainly, it was not what she had encountered with this, her first date of the evening. She wanted him gone—as soon as possible!

Within minutes, Bob emerged from the bathroom, zipped up his pants and tucked in his shirt. He had successfully relieved his stressful situation and headed as quickly as possible for the door. Just as he opened it, Caroline emerged from the kitchen, Coke in hand. He turned, looking red-faced and disheveled.

So long, babe… have a nice evening, he sarcastically shouted back to her, slamming the door behind him.

And so the dates came and went, hour after hour, night after night, year after year—one disappointment after the next. Yet Caroline remained tenacious in her pursuit. She would never give it up! It was vital that she succeed in this, perhaps her last romantic quest. And no one—no one at all—could understand what she was seeking and why she was so frantically driven to succeed. Would anyone ever understand the complexity of her quest—how it was completely entangled in her life philosophy, her dreams and goals of a lifetime? With Caroline, it could never be as simple as finding some hot sex with a young stud. Yet that was all anyone ever saw: simple ideas for simple minds. But Caroline was exceptionally complex and a profound thinker, and unless she could find her silver chalice, her next decades through life would be greatly imperiled.

CHAPTER 2

CAROLINE’S DILEMMA

Caroline, despite her deliberately deceiving appearance and mannerisms, had already turned fifty—was well into that pre-senior-citizen decade of her life and swiftly consuming it at a pace which alarmed her. She could vividly recollect those many decades ago when she was a young, twenty-year-old girl, and it seemed like only yesterday. And it might as well have been yesterday, for regrettably, Caroline harbored a distorted, immensely compressed sense of time: passing years were like days, passing days were as the snap of a finger. And with such uncustomary far-sighted vision always at the forefront of her thinking and planning, she could, in large chunks, view her past, and frighteningly, in equally large chunks, look ahead to her future.

As she stood there in the small, cluttered studio apartment she had occupied since her university days, at a single glance, she could easily survey and review the last thirty-five years of her life. At any moment of the day or night, whenever the impulse struck, she could reach for a volume—Diary 1965, Diary 1974, Diary 1999, Diary 2003—open it to any page, and recall in precise, vivid detail exactly what was happening on that day, what she was feeling, what she was thinking, who was in her life, what seemingly insoluble problems were confronting her, and what heartaches and emotional traumas were ravishing her body and soul.

There, dusty and deteriorating on crumbling, yellowed pages, sat thirty-five years of her life, occupying less than one small bookcase shelf. There, all neatly lined up in perfect numerical order, were three and a half feet of aging, rotting volumes—her diaries that, no doubt, upon her death, would simply be tossed into the rubbish or incinerator as if they and she had never existed. Nevertheless, it was her life, and as unsettling to her as it now might be, as each day had been eagerly devoured, she had sat and spent hour upon hour meticulously recording it, each trifling event, each trivial feeling. Even now, she was still obsessed with the thankless, useless task.

And it was at times like these when she felt melancholy and unhappy that she would delve into some year, the same day as the present perhaps, and see what she had done on that day ten years ago, or eighteen years ago, or thirty years ago. It was a dismal and morose activity, yet she was often drawn to her volumes to indulge her memory and view in grand perspective how her life had imperceptibly dwindled away into nothingness. She saw too clearly that there was very little of it remaining for her to take and mold into some grand monument to her existence.

Surely, she had not begun her compulsive journal writing so that decades later she could more easily brood over the failure that was her life. The now-ingrained habit of writing had begun innocently during her first year at the university, the year that she had silently and discreetly suffered a fervent, passionate lovesickness for one of her mathematics professors. This secret infatuation had blazed intensely for two semesters and then gradually, as is usual with such schoolgirl crushes, the flames had diminished and gone out. It had amounted to absolutely nothing; yet even now, perusing the pages of her diary, she could clearly envision Professor Burrow scrawling barely legible complex mathematical proofs over every inch of blackboard. From out of the pages of her writings came his gaunt look, the sound of his voice, the way he moved about the lecture hall and how he joked about his constantly screeching chalk. Ah! What a beautiful man he was—haggard, but artistic, the type who played the leading role in all of Caroline’s romantic dreams. Back then, every night before falling asleep, she would fantasize over him, and three days a week in his linear algebra class, she yearned for him to approach her romantically. Every time she entered his lecture hall, her emotions were whipped into an uncontrollable frenzy. So thrilling were these moments that she never wanted to let go of them or forget how she felt about this man. She wanted to remember… for a lifetime.

As odd as it might now seem to the modern, enlightened woman of the day, at the age of twenty, Caroline was still a virgin and had never been with a man romantically or in any other way. And this inconsequential mental escapade regarding her professor represented Caroline’s first love affair, played out, of course, purely in her overly active and creative imagination. In those long past days of her innocence, men were a subject about which she knew absolutely nothing. The ballet had been a jealous mistress, and her ballet classes had consumed every moment left free after her university studies; it had left her no time for anything else. With the ballet in her life, she had felt emotionally fulfilled and happy. Yet, Professor Burrow had left an indelible mark upon her.

These exquisite feelings, these electrifying moments, she had thought, way back those thirty years ago as a young infatuated woman, when I’m alone with Professor Burrow after class discussing various points of his lecture… they simply must be preserved. I never want to forget a single moment of this time… like last Friday after class when he discussed with me the theorem that I’d proved in such a unique, clever way. He was so warm… so tender when he told me how impressed he was… and that I had a talent for mathematics. Every word, every glance between us… I must bottle it all up like sweet-smelling French perfume. I want to remember his words, his looks, these feelings… for as long as I live… these days of luscious rapture… when I am so in love and so very happy.

There could be no doubt that, even back then, Caroline was a romantic, was in love, and was radiantly glowing in her imaginary world. With her professor, she was a fatuous, love-starved, young woman. The rapturous feelings that this man, her professor, had aroused within her, drove her to begin writing. She felt obliged to express in writing what she had never before experienced, found so soul-stirring, and wanted to preserve forever.

So that year, she bought herself a diary and began capturing significant moments of her life. Those were good days, hopeful times, and Caroline was exceedingly blissful and optimistic. She was at the university working toward her degree, studying ballet at the most prestigious and renowned schools in the world and still hoping to become a famous ballerina. Men, dating, and romance, other than her professor, were of no consequence; she had far more important matters in her life. The future stretched before her, timeless and indeterminate, but she was full of ambition and confident that she would achieve her goals.

Now, three decades later, Caroline stood there in her cluttered room calmly and curiously browsing through the pages of various volumes which she picked up at random. The diaries were bound in somber black and shades of dark, dismal brown and were all dusty, with pages cracked, yellowed by age, and falling out. In contrast to these crumbling, dreary-looking books which held so much interest for her, Caroline stood tall and stately, quite youthful looking, and wearing her favorite bright colors of red and purple. She still felt young, looked young, at least much younger than her years, and could not believe that over three decades had passed since she first arrived in New York City to study and pursue her dreams.

Well look here, she spoke to herself, ten years ago, I had a very bad cold on this very day. Oh! I remember that one so well… thought I had pneumonia and was dying! Why else would a simple cold have made it into these pages! I’ve always feared death… and I was really having trouble breathing, she laughed aloud.

She placed that volume away after perusing it for several moments and picked out another—almost the very first in the bookcase. Ah! Here I was bitterly complaining about dorm life. I certainly hated living in the dorm; I was so upset with my noisy roommate. I remember that girl… what was her name… Doreen… always having her friends over and blah-blah all evening long. I always had to leave and go to the study hall! I never did get along with women! After that miserable experience, daddy allowed me to move out and find my own apartment… which he kindly paid for! How lucky I was to find this place. I guess I never suspected I’d be here for the rest of my life.

Caroline closed the volume gently, pushing in a torn page that had slipped out, and reached for yet another volume. Her unwholesome, grim need to understand where her life had so swiftly gone still remained unsatisfied. Opening yet another volume, she carefully turned through the fragile pages. And look here. What a wretched, miserable day that was. That was the day I auditioned for Mr. Balanchine at the New York City Ballet. That was the beginning of the end, she uncomfortably admitted to herself.

Yes, even now, Caroline could still feel the movements coursing through her body—pirouetting, stretching, bending, and leaping across the studio with splendid, perfect technique. As she held the aged volume in one hand, she grasped on to her bookcase and gracefully raised her leg back into an arabesque. How good it felt—her muscles working and gripping under her control, the feeling that she had so loved. She could still do some of the exercises; her body, after twenty intense years of study, had not forgotten. But she was stiff and tight, and her back and buttock muscles ached as they pulled her leg upward. Back then, she had been a technically perfect dancer; every one of her teachers had pronounced her technique to be superb, almost flawless. Yet they said she had no artistry and moved like an automaton, devoid of emotion. So what if she had had perfect technique; she had not been good enough for Mr. Balanchine. And there, her dreams had ended.

Caroline quickly glanced through all the lamentations she had so despairingly expressed on that wretched day and for weeks following, and finding it just too painful, placed the volume back on the shelf. Still, she hadn’t finished, for she had a need to torture herself by examining each and every failure and misery in her life. Sadly, there was little else documented, for she saw herself as being unhappy and unsuccessful. Of course, there had been bright patches here and there where this or that joyous event had occurred, but overall, she acknowledged that she had failed in life, obtained nothing that she had ever really wanted. This was the year that the pains began… those mysterious joint pains that came into my hips, elbow, knees, fingers… all over my body… yet no doctor could explain what it was. It was such a hopeless situation… I danced for the next ten years racked by lacerating, merciless pain in every joint.

Even now, she had bouts of the enigmatic pain, but it came and went infrequently and caused her little trouble. However, back then, when she was seriously pursuing her career as a ballet dancer, it was a relentless nightmare. For over ten years, she danced with constant, excruciating pain, often attempting to eliminate her daily physical activities to save her body for her two daily classes. But the pains increased in intensity and eventually beat her down to a screaming bundle of inhuman, unbearable agony. Here, no doubt, were Caroline’s most tormenting memories, for at the age of only twenty-two, she saw the beginning of the end, and a decade later, in abject despair, she gave up her one dream in life, torn from her by lacerating pain and dire, ominous doctor’s warning that she would cripple herself if she continued. The ballet was at an end, and Caroline was stripped bare, left without the driving force of her existence.

Today, she murmured to herself, closing the black diary and placing it gently back on the shelf, I’m only resurrecting the most bitter, disagreeable memories. I think I’ve had enough! It’s so unhealthy… mentally unhealthy for me to be doing this!

Certainly, it terrorized Caroline to think that she probably had not even as many years left as those volumes sitting on the dusty shelf. Maybe another foot more of shelf space, and it would all be at an end. This thought, which she at all times attempted to banish from surfacing, immediately precipitated a panic attack—a pounding, racing heart, an inability to get a breath of air, and a general body weakness sending her instantly to bed to endure the most horrendous physical and mental tortures. Caroline was quite aware that by contemplating her own deterioration and demise, she would set off these dreadfully frightening attacks; it had been that way for many years now. However, after having experienced the terrifying symptoms mimicking feelings of impending doom and learning from her doctor what they were, she soon learned how to control them. It was a simple solution but next to impossible to always execute successfully: suppress the morbid, tormenting ideas that precipitated each attack—keep the thoughts from consciousness. But when she failed and they surfaced, or when she deliberately dwelled on the forbidden thoughts for a few moments, then she knew that she had better quickly submerge them again, stop the attack’s advance and move on in her mind’s eye to some delightful events that had happened that day.

So reaching for her green leather jacket, Caroline slipped it over her shoulders to warm up, bring her back from the past to reality and the present moment. Instinctively, she moved away from the books on the shelf in an effort to forget. Walking across the small room crammed full with all the possessions she had accumulated over her life, she was drawn toward the full length mirror attached to the closet door and there, she painstakingly contemplated her image—body and face. Like all ballet dancers, she was excessively narcissistic and completely involved with herself, especially her physical appearance. Was her body still in shape? Was it still as lithe and limber as it had once been? Were deepening wrinkles beginning to appear around her eyes? Were the spider veins becoming visible on her upper chest? Were the narrow creases in her neck deepening? Was her deep auburn hair in need of a touch-up to cover the gray seeping out at the roots?

Caroline feared her approaching old age and deterioration. She mournfully pondered, inwardly and silently grieved that she had not yet really lived, that she had not yet accomplished even a single goal of her youth. Her life, as she perceived it, was a dismal failure in every aspect. And yet, in the eyes of most people, what reason had she to be unhappy? She had her health; looked youthful for her age; had saved enough money to live comfortably without working; still had a challenging career, not her chosen one, but one that was interesting and gratifying; had a devoted boyfriend; had a beautiful Park Avenue apartment in New York City and… well… what else could one want?

Yes. That was the question. What did Caroline want now? What was she lacking that she could still attain in the time remaining to her?

Surely, she was still not brooding over the decades of ballet study that had amounted to absolutely nothing. It had been many years now since she had been forced to accept the fact that she would never dance professionally with a ballet company. The twenty-five-year dream, twenty-five years of daily classes, five hours a day, seven days a week, never a break, never a lapse in her schedule, the grueling work, the many sustained injuries, the physical ecstasy of working and forcing her body to the limit, the strains of Chopin and Tchaikovsky echoing through her mind, the delicious feelings of a tired aching body, the many failed auditions; in fact, the most glorious, impassioned days of her life had vanished.

As so many striving, young artists, she also had stumbled, fallen by the wayside with all the other failures and eventually given up. In the world of ballet, no matter what, one must eventually stop. The almost inhuman demands on the body cannot go on indefinitely. If one is beyond the age of twenty and not on the stage dancing professionally, then it’s finished and utterly hopeless. Caroline had always known that one day she would stop dancing. However, she never thought it would come to her so early in life because of her failing, weak body which could not withstand the beating it was taking day after day.

So at the age of thirty, Caroline painfully had to close that chapter of her life and attempt to find happiness elsewhere. Despite the devastating loss of that single driving force in her life, she went on always believing that to live with an obsessive, overwhelming and unquenchable desire, to strive and achieve, to hold long range, demanding goals, to be aflame with a dream and to wake every morning with that single goal in mind is the most sublime way of life. It was, for Caroline, the only way to be happy. And at thirty, she had lost that way of life.

With this bitter acknowledgment, after a natural mourning period, Caroline gradually began the search for a substitute, some other complex endeavor in which she might engage and become ardently involved so as to reestablish the lost passion in her life. The seven years in which she attempted oil painting—studying on her own—were relaxing and calming, but failed to stimulate her emotionally. Painting she experienced only as a dead, lifeless, lonely activity; it could never bring her the rush and exuberance of the ballet studios which she had previously frequented five hours every single day. She thought that it had nothing comparable to what she had lost: the many admiring spectators eagerly peering in at the ballet studio door, a demanding Russian ballet-master stomping about, shouting criticisms and compliments, the always-skilled pianist filling the studio with the sensual, crying melodies of Chopin or Rachmaninoff, and one’s fellow dancers, spinning and leaping through the air—straining, sweating, scrutinizing one another and vying to perform the exercises better than their classmates. Each class was almost like a performance.

Yes, those were the most thrilling and impassioned days of my whole life, Caroline thought to herself as she did a slow elegant port de bras movement before the mirror and studied carefully her neck and the line of her arm. She recalled that class in which she had accidentally lightly struck the famous Nureyev on the cheek as she marked a combination in a very crowded class. There were always such very famous dancers in Caroline’s classes, and that in itself added a level of glamour. As she reminisced alone before the mirror, her light green eyes glimmered and a smile flickered across her face. She couldn’t help noticing the almost imperceptible creases forming around her mouth and eyes. Every line, every wrinkle on her face, she had, at one time or another, examined to seek its source. Smiling, she had discovered years ago, cut ugly lines all over the face and prematurely aged one’s skin. So Caroline smiled little, and the current smile was deliberately suppressed even though the reminiscing forged onward. All those intoxicating, thrilling classes when so many professional, company dancers piled into class… the animation and vitality of everyone multiplied tenfold. And how about all those frightening auditions… at each one, my career hanging in the balance. There was that Canadian company from Montreal… the audition… immediately en pointe… and then asking for thirty-two fouettes… how heartless of them!

After seven years of struggling with canvas and oils, Caroline had finally abandoned her futile attempts to find a surge of emotion in painting and turned to the piano. Because her mother had studied to be a concert pianist, Caroline had grown up with a love of classical piano music. As a child, she had gone about whistling Bach’s Two and Three Part Inventions and humming the Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concerto. Without ballet in her life and having now abandoned her painting, she began to consider that perhaps, just perhaps, her love of dance had been rooted in her love of classical music. She considered that when she had gone to her ballet class and discovered that the class pianist would be absent for the day, she would choose not to take class; she could not take class without music. So now, decades later, she had to consider whether she had loved the music more than the ballet—that music which had caused her flesh to tingle and had moved her to such great heights of emotional euphoria.

And so Caroline bought a small piano, found herself a teacher, and began taking lessons. Again, she found that playing scales at home in her apartment was a lonely, arduous, mental challenge and did not inspire her in the least. It was extremely difficult work, and she lacked any talent whatsoever, making it an even more impossible task at her mature age. For several years, she plodded on, pounding away daily at her scales and abridged classical pieces. It was tedious and stupefying; there was no thrill or glamour at all. Caroline sat alone in the quiet of her apartment and made a mess of each piece she tackled! Eventually this too she abandoned. It seemed that nothing could take the place of the ballet, those years in her youth when she had hope and existed totally in the glamorous world of the theater and the arts. Now, in her fifties, even if she found some interest to which she could wholly devote her life, how much could she achieve? Time was at a premium.

My daily life is such a bore… so banal… so inconsequential. I’m so totally insignificant, she mused as she stood gazing at herself in the mirror. When I lived only for the ballet, nothing else mattered… and yet… life mattered. I couldn’t wait for the next day to begin, to make further progress in my career, to dance, to perfect my technique, to advance nearer my goal… to the only thing I wanted in life. Yes! That’s the only way to live! Without such a driving force, without great drama and great dreams for the future, life is so dark, colorless… I have nothing to which I can look forward. I’m inspired by absolutely nothing! And I don’t want to live this way!

What a sorry state. Caroline wanted the rapture, enchantment and passions of her former life, but where… where was she to discover it? While her acquaintances and contemporaries were settled in their chosen careers, falling in and out of love, getting married, getting divorced, having babies and busying themselves with family and home life, Caroline was still unsettled, striving, hoping for fame, yearning to be a someone in the world. How, she pondered, could she ever have been content with a simple, comfortable but banal and dull life of marriage, babies, family, friends, and hobbies? No! It was just too lackluster and flat. Those around her seemed to have grown old and become grounded in life, uncomplaining, but she, restless, brooding, unhappy and at the age of fifty-four, was still searching. What could deliver the excitement, passion, and energy of her former life now that she was growing old, had had her life’s dream shattered, and had found no new dream to inspire her?

This day, like so many others, Caroline stood before her diaries and her mirror and looked back over her bleak life of failure. She had to solve this dilemma facing her—this dead end street on which she found herself—or her days would eventually become unbearable. She had to have a purpose, she had to be on the trail of fame and achievement, and she required a daily dose of melodrama and rapture.

It took heaps of self-analysis and heaps of solitary introspection for Caroline to stumble upon the idea that completely unlocked and explained the mysteries of herself… to herself. Oddly, she found only one solution—an elucidation that seemed at least viable, taking into consideration her age and all the various constraining circumstances. It was, to be sure, a variation or distortion of the desires that had always propelled her through life—driven her compulsively and given her life that touch of franticness. Yet now that she saw it, it seemed so simple.

Caroline had always desired fame, significant and consequential, mind-boggling fame. She had always told herself that nothing less than world-class fame and recognition would ever satisfy her and permit her to acknowledge her life as having been a success. She craved the applause, the prize, the tributes, the bouquets, the praise, the crown, and the winning cup; she wanted future generations the world over to remember her, know her name and admire her contributions to the world. To be a Picasso, a Vladimir Horowitz, a President Jefferson, a Lawrence Olivier, a Ghandi, or a Bill Gates—that was her unquenchable, grandiose desire.

Oh yes, surely you know Caroline Windsor, the famous writer. Why her last novel will surely be a classic for the ages—a modern Madame Bovary. You simply must read it.

Yes, last night I heard Caroline Windsor play with the Philharmonic. No one can play that Rachmaninoff third like she can. I was literally in tears! She’s almost equal to Horowitz!

This is a Windsor. I’d know her paintings anywhere. Her work is so unique. What a fantastic imagination that woman has!

Windsor just contributed twenty million dollars to my school. Her company is doing fantastically well… the concept is just so unique… sales tripled… and she’s such a great philanthropist. Thank god for people like her.

I just saw Caroline Windsor in the remake of Doctor Zhivago. She’s such a great actress. She was perfect for the part of Laura.

These were Caroline’s dreams, and whatever might be the field of endeavor, she really cared little as long as she could be among the greats. To die unknown was anathema and completely unacceptable; she could not bear the thought that her name would be wiped from the face of the earth at her passing. But now, already in her fifties, it seemed unlikely that she could ever attain fame and stardom, the objective that had frenetically driven her every waking minute of her life. With that goal brutally eradicated from her life at the age of twenty-three, her life had become pointless and dull, thus her interminable state of ennui and restlessness as she moved from one pursuit to another.

I just have no great talent, she lamented year after year as she approached various artistic endeavors hoping to discover where her special talent might lie buried. Everything she attempted ended in failure. She had no talent for the piano, was a quite unimaginative writer and a completely uncreative painter in oils. There just seemed to be no exceptional talent lurking anywhere in her genes. Of that, Caroline, at this juncture of her life, was almost positive. I’m just nothing special, she admitted to herself, as each year, some artistic undertaking was abandoned and another begun. Indeed, it seemed quite futile. How could she attain fame and recognition without an exceptional talent? Some of her friends had even jokingly suggested that she perpetrate a horrendous crime and so become a notorious criminal. There was some truth in the fact that murderers and assassins went down in history and had movies made about them, but this was never an option which Caroline could consider. It was a positive contribution that she wanted to make.

For years and years, with such thoughts and in-depth self-analysis continually buzzing about in her head, Caroline finally arrived at a most strange plan of how she might yet achieve just a tiny portion of her dream until fame came knocking at her door—if it ever did. There was an alternative, admittedly a poor substitute, but it offered something consoling nonetheless.

The stratagem, as Caroline worked it out, seemed to make sense. She realized that her recognition-fame goal had three main components. First, one had to have some immeasurable talent with which to make a great contribution to society. Then, it had to be recognized and acknowledged. And lastly, there arrived fame and a life filled with significant events. Certainly, Caroline wanted to make her contribution, but it was the concomitant high drama, glamour, and celebrity that enticed her—always had and always would. And as she was struggling to achieve her prominence, she could at least find the praise, the adoration, the worship,