Reminiscences of a Reluctant Spy

By Roma Ravn

The biography is of Steven Kovacs, a Hungarian industrialist before WWII, who, in attempting to further his textile business, was pushed into being a spy for the government. He was given military status and had his own staff. The book documents not only his espionage activities but also his romantic assignations, of which there were many. He survived through several wives, many of whom were lost during the war, as well as hair-raising episodes of dirty dealings and espionage. He and his last wife escaped communism to hide in the outback of Australia, where he befriended many of the Aboriginal tribesmen and experienced the harsh realities of their way of life. He suffered dust storms and snakes, crocodile hunts and close friendships, and was an observer of the mysteries of our Australian outback at very close hand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543409383

Roma Ravn

Roma Ravn, a retired geologist, who shocked everyone by being the only and youngest girl to choose this profession, and which threw her into years of lonely isolation around Australia. It was primarily due to this isolation that she got into research of a variety of subjects which the medical profession knew little about, and also pyramid power, which no-one it seemed knew of, then onto the esoteric arts, yet she had no desire to use this knowledge she had gained and would calmly state she was accumulating it to have on hand when she was reincarnated next time and she would then appear wise. Born into a family of male dominance, she learned to live totally within herself until she married, a Dane (but definitely not a great one), this relationship failed and fortunately there were no children to hinder the separation. At 19 she wrote a book published under an assumed name, then a biography of an abused woman, then a cookbook - of which she is ashamed, as she cannot cook, and now this one, a biography of a Hungarian spy; it is a true account of his life, as dictated to his friend and neighbour - Roma.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Roma Ravn.

Library of Congress Control Number:              2018906216

ISBN:                  Hardcover                     978-1-5434-0940-6

                            Softcover                       978-1-5434-0939-0

                            eBook                            978-1-5434-0938-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The pages that follow include many descriptions of many ceremonies and events that, while true to the eyes that observed them, may also be abhorrent or distressing to those who have Australian Aboriginal connections. If this may disturb you, please do not read any further.

We will not be held responsible for however you react to these events.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/06/2018

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

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Contents

EUROPE

Author’s Note

Prologue

Preamble to Scarlet

Scarlet

Setting the Scene

The Fifth Year of Espionage

Jaroslavia

Angelica

Amelia

After Jaroslavia

Tondo’s Daughter and Rita

Operation Five

Agata

Monte Carlo

Musings of the Moment

Ruzak

Ruzak’s Marriage

Miriam’s Father

Zachoff’s Photo Album

The Loot

Two for the Price of One

The Results

Denis

The Ambush

The Lodge

Denis’s Death

Maria Kovary

Meat in the Sandwich

General Yoresek

The Last Fight

Guerrilla Headquarters

Eugenia

Klare

Gabriella

The Second World War

Tanya’s Story

The Final Finish

Metcalf

The Chief

Horak’s Last Meeting

The Revelations

Elizabeth

Josephine

Eva

Agi’s Story

Notes on the Credit Bureau

Seasons and Reasons

Thoughts

AUSTRALIA

Farewell, Past – Hello, Future

Initiation

The Solitary Grave

The Sunday Afternoon Drive

Home on the Pig’s Back

The Gibson Desert

Bush Lore

Kathie

The History of Skeleton Creek

Wauchope

Mad Ruski

The Mulga Brown

Lost

There’s Always a Way

Jervoise George

Azaria

Charlie and Jack

They Breed ’Em Tough

Croc Shooting in the NT

Dulce

The Apology

The Closing Chapter

Europe

Author’s Note

When I had first met Steve and Agi, eventually, our discussions expanded to the many subjects of living. I realised that the wisdom being imparted was not because of age alone but experience. Further enquiries proved that entrapped within this short agile eighty-three-year-old was a host of incidents ranging from artist, merchant, sportsman, spy, prospector, labourer, and five times husband.

This book then covers a period of sixty-five years; the stories are true, non-fictional, bizarre, often less than honourable, and, above all, not dressed in glib fantasies.

Steve had looked over his glasses at me and stated, ‘Many times, the mystique of life is sexuality or love, and the naked truth is so often stranger than fiction.’ He went on, ‘In the past, when chasing the bluebird of love, I lost sight of the real values of life. So many times, I have objectively raced into danger, not seeing the pitfalls, not wanting to see them until too late. Ah yes, love indeed is the universal motivator – and also hate.’ He had said thoughtfully, ‘But all of man’s passions require a sacrifice, and I have paid my fees.’

This then is not a story of love alone but one of life, wealth and poverty, joy and despair, friends, lovers and enemies, beauty and horror, treacheries and loyalties, and, more than anything, survival.

Prologue

Steve Kovacs was born into a wealthy Hungarian family ten years before the Russian Revolution, which, together with the sudden death of his father, not only affected Steve’s young life but also seeped into and changed the personal circumstances of Europe’s upper echelon.

It became prudent to send Steve to live with his widowed grandmother in Slovakia, where he experienced the opposite end of the wealth barometer. With the closure of his late father’s businesses, it was left to Steve to choose a future for himself as he approached school-leaving age. The suggestion that he join the priesthood appealed to the young eyes that noticed how well dressed, robust, and rosy faced were the men of the cloth, but the idea flew rapidly out of the window when he discovered that all monies earned by them had to be directed back to Mother Church.

Steve was extremely talented in art, and despite his teachers telling him he had a future on that path, it was the sportsmen of the day who were earning the big money, and he decided to push himself from the present ‘above average’ to ‘par excellence’ in both soccer and tennis.

He had set his sights on reopening the family businesses. They were rightfully his, having been built by his grandfather, expanded and updated by his father, and now, although closed, still held all those large well-oiled machines that turned out textiles.

At seventeen, he had broken into the top ranks of tennis and was earning good money at coaching. He had won a trip to Paris as an art prize and had discovered and began nurturing a special friendship with one of his sporting opponents. Steve tended this friendship with painstaking care, eventually stating his ambition to him as he bemoaned the fact of ‘no funds’ and was overjoyed when the lad had offered to arrange a meeting with his uncle, the minister of finance.

As he explained that he wished to sell the small goods business to gain sufficient funds for the reopening of the textile factory and that he would need a substantial loan to begin operations, the minister listened to his forthright, open, and confident manner and then, suggesting that he take a partner with some business experience, offered to back him.

Within six months, the textile factory was operating, and Steve had huge orders for army uniforms. Business was booming, so much so that he had organised a form of cartel, and realising that these government contracts meant a champagne existence, he ensured that all orders were filled on time. But while this represented long and tedious hours for him, his sights had lifted to higher horizons despite the political changes.

Then came the culmination.

He was asked to be on ‘the board’. This meant that he could travel abroad to do his own purchasing and many doors would be opened that otherwise would have remained closed to him. He accepted, and suddenly, the price of success, he felt, had been paid with more before him.

The industrial minister, a subtle, experienced person, explained that now that Steve was a member of the ruling classes, it would be his job to check up on all the factories, shops, and all and any of the other business people to discover their political sympathies.

‘You’re in the ideal situation now,’ he said. ‘Your company needs raw materials, all imported. Right?’ He paused for effect. ‘And well, all imports require our governmental permission and full classification. You do understand, Steve.’

He did.

Communism had begun to seep through Europe, causing unrest and uncertainty for the future; the old stolid political circles were becoming unstable. This was a straw, and he needed to grab at it – do as ‘they’ wanted or no business. Suddenly, the thought of espionage seemed inviting; if he accepted, he would not have to affiliate with any party. He could do anything or everything.

He discussed everything with his partner, Tondo, including the possible ramifications before once more visiting the ministry and joining the Social Democratic Party. At Tondo’s suggestion, he asked for and received special documents which would cover him with the authorities and the Defence Department. They were even better than he had hoped, for they gave him civic power yet full protection from same if need be.

From that moment on, as he progressed from industrial to national espionage, his life took on different colours, some bright and clear but most drab, faded and others dirty.

***

Preamble to Scarlet

Sometimes the past comes up with the clearness of a spring morning and dazzles one with the beautiful colours of nature, and when this occurs, it brings with it the warm feelings which inevitably lead to memories, memories which recreate the pains and the longing, the joys and the laughter. I can still slip into these hypnotic moods and see quite clearly the events of over half a century ago. When pain follows our loves and our desires, I wonder if they evolve as does our consciousness; do the pains become more acute, the happiness more ecstatic, or do they dull and change the actual realness of the events?

Coming home was marvellous. My grandmother’s house had taken on a newness, one of lightness and brightness with the love and caring which showed in her welcome to me. Gone were the years of struggle, poverty, and fear. Oh, they had left their marks, but at nineteen, I didn’t see them. I was so full of my own successes that even the most natural things appeared to take on a special glow just for me. The flowers with their myriad of colours competing with one another for size, beauty, and perfume, the birds in their interminable talent quest, and the trees bursting with life – all seemed to pay homage to my youthful arrogance.

My grandmother had fitted out the spare room for me as a workshop. ‘A place where you can do your painting, Steve,’ she said warmly.

I had won the States Presidential Art Prize; the critics had almost turned cartwheels in their praise of my work, and I had been presented with a six-month art study in Paris. It too had been wonderful. I’d lived just behind the Eiffel Tower in the Latin Quarter; I had met the real artists, the bohemians who made a practice of enjoying life with and from nothing. They were all so poor, and yet I still feel there is no place in the whole world where one can learn to express true art more realistically than in this small busy sector.

After a few months there, I felt on top of the world. I had developed an arrogance, one that had me thinking that I could paint better than the masters, more colourful than Cezanne, the father of modern painting, and it was with this attitude that I returned home to Grandmother’s, laden with gifts.

Naturally, I was given a great deal of space in all the newspapers, with photos and tales of my exploits, and my moods were buoyant and self-confident.

***

Scarlet

In my small town, the river ran through the central area before splitting into two smaller streams and creating an island of sand which was used constantly by the townspeople. It was always popular, and on weekends, I would wander down along the riverbanks, my sketch pad and satchel slung over my shoulder. Sometimes I would simply sit and watch the colours of people blending together. Nothing had come from it, and yet I continued to go every Sunday in that wild hope for inspiration, that special something to capture on canvas which would catapult me to fame.

This morning in particular, there was a different feeling in the air. People waved and smiled at me. Some even asked how my art was going, and I would shrug, but my heart wasn’t in it at all. I was restless, sitting for ten minutes or so, looking around and then getting up to wander further along the bank before sitting again. There was no reason for it either. The day was brilliant, children were playing boisterously, dogs were barking, and all the colours were alive and vibrant, but I just could not settle. I was conscious of the action around me, the fluid feeling that is ideal for the artist, and yet I could not feel the tingle, the itch, the need to make a capture.

The old willow tree, bright green with new growth, hanging its foliage right over the bank and into the water, reaching down its fingertips, straining to catch the crest of the odd ripple on the surface, caught my attention. I stared at it, wondering why the gnarled branches preferred to grow out over the water. I saw a face. Down on the river’s surface was a face. I stared again and then looked up into the tree, and a strange pang of relief hit me.

A girl – no, not a girl but a woman – was sitting on the branch, leaning forward and combing her long blond hair using the river as a mirror, her bare legs swinging rhythmically. The feeling surged over me. This was just what I had been waiting for; here at last was the harmony, the colour, and the beauty.

‘Hi!’ I called, feeling inadequate.

She turned around, smiling, and began to climb down.

‘No!’ I almost shouted at her, raising my hand to stop her. ‘No, please, don’t get down. Please stay exactly where you are.’

She paused momentarily but then continued to walk gracefully along the branch and jumped lightly to her feet just in front of me. My mouth seemed so full of words; I couldn’t get them out.

‘I am Steven Kovacs,’ I bumbled and went on about just being back from Paris. ‘I am an artist.’

I was trying so hard to get all the information out that the sentence came out like bullets, one after the other, as I felt the sudden need to explain myself. She just stood looking at me with a half-smile, and I, fool that I was, kept rattling on.

‘This setting is so balanced. It is so beautiful, natural, er …’ I paused. ‘You make it more beautiful, and I would like to sketch you. Up there,’ I added.

I felt so foolish, so inept; I looked up and met her eyes, full of kind amusement.

‘Oh, how nice.’ She smiled broadly at me. ‘But I am not a model and have never done anything like that.’ Suddenly, it seemed as if she too had the need to explain. ‘I’m married, you know. I have two children, and I would have to get permission from my husband, but …’ She broke off. She saw my eyes sweep the background and shook her head, the blond hair cascading around her shoulders with the movement.

‘May I come then meet your husband and ask his permission?’

‘Well, you could ask.’

I remember the surge of future fame as we made the arrangements for the following Saturday. She burned in my mind for the remainder of the week. She wasn’t beautiful in the classic Greek style – no, more like a woodland nymph, I told myself, of course a little older, I guessed, about twenty-two.

They lived in an old yet imposing stone building, one that seemed to command respect and silence. I paused to read the nameplate. A judge? She was married to a judge, and it threw me temporarily, but then I heard her laughter in the garden, and she walked over to me.

‘Are you happy living here?’ I asked her. ‘It looks so sombre.’

She grinned. ‘Of course. Why not? I have two beautiful children and a good husband. Yes, I am happy here.’

We approached the door, and I realised I didn’t even know her name.

‘Scarlet,’ she breathed.

‘Mrs Scarlet,’ I interrupted. ‘Yes, I know your surname. It’s on the gate.’

The interior of the house was warm, clean, and comfortable, and yet even inside, there was nothing of this young woman, no brightness or gaiety. Her husband was seated in a big armchair, reading, and he slowly raised his eyes as she introduced us. He nodded briefly, and his eyes bore into mine with cold disinterest. I felt uncomfortable. He was looking into my soul, reading the thoughts I had held there since meeting his wife. I coughed.

‘Sir, your wife has told you?’

He raised a finger in assent, still staring. My sixth sense was screaming at me to leave, to forget the challenge, but instead, I became defensive.

‘Sir, I don’t need you to think it out. The whole thing is quite simple. Your wife is beautiful, and I feel that I could do justice to her on canvas.’

His eyes widened slightly, and he was about to speak, but at that moment, two children ran noisily into the room and stood directly in front of me.

‘Mama, is this the man who will paint us? Is this the river man?’

I smiled.

Totally unconscious of the tension in the room, the smallest girl picked up a piece of paper and, rummaging for a pencil in the desk, handed them to me and commanded, ‘Draw me something!’

I quickly sketched a monkey and a kitten, handing it back to the girl.

The older one, serious but with traces of her mother’s beauty, asked, ‘Do you have a monkey?’

‘No.’ I laughed. ‘But I do have a kitten, just like that one.’ I noted the wistfulness. ‘Do you have a cat?’

They shook their heads in unison.

Scarlet said softly, ‘We have been meaning to get them a kitten, but …’ She didn’t finish.

‘I could bring you a pussycat, not immediately but in a few weeks if you would like one.’

‘Two! Two! You must bring two, one for each of us!’

My glance caught the father’s look; he nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘Then I shall do it,’ I said to the girls.

The tension had eased a little. The smallest girl spotted my briefcase and, without hesitation, opened it to find the large eraser and handed it to me. I placed it on my wrist, and then flexing my muscles, I made it jump nervously up my arm while the children screamed in delight, and we were instant friends.

Scarlet frowned at them. ‘The girls want to show me something in their room. Come on, girls,’ she said distinctly. ‘Steve and Father have something to discuss.’

I walked over to the mantelpiece, looking at the photos. Her husband sat silent, watching me, knowing that I would speak first again.

‘May I have your permission? I give my word that I will treat her correctly, and by this, I mean I would not place her into any unfair situations or circumstances.’

He said nothing.

‘If you require more information, it is a simple matter to check me out.’ I suddenly felt the need to explain. ‘I don’t mix with bad company. I spend my time learning different things like medicine, furthering my art, philosophy, sport, and although my grandmother would like me to enter the priesthood, I shall not do so.’

He raised his eyebrows slightly, and I hurried to explain further.

‘For then I would not be able to assist her in any way, and she would be entirely alone. My past, sir, is an open book, and naturally, my future is entirely unknown.’

He offered his hand and smiled, although it did not reach his eyes. ‘You have my permission, with your promise.’

I didn’t know it then, but with this simple gesture, I had stepped into a sphere of influence that would have some devastating effects in the future.

The next few weeks saw us back at the river, trying to recapture the moment, but always, something was wrong. It could have been the crowds, the noise, or the light; I didn’t know, but I couldn’t get my concentration into place, and I couldn’t settle down to the actual sketching. I just wanted to talk, to discover the many facets of Scarlet’s bubbling nature, and not once did she ask when I would begin, and it got to the stage when every time one of us would say, ‘Well, we had better get into position,’ the other would find something to say, and we would finish exploring incidences of the past, feelings, moments of joy or pain.

Her moods were mercurial and infectious, and it seemed we would never find a separate time of concentration sufficiently unencumbered to sketch. We discussed it but did nothing about it until the judge enquired about the progress, when we decided to change the entire concept and work in my studio.

She rested on the lounge, against a blood-red velvet drape. Some emerald-green georgette had been thrown beside her to add contrast, and she had donned a gown of blue silk. The whole effect was stunning; it enhanced the satiny glow of that flawless skin.

Something changed; the air became electric, and I found myself gasping for breath. Small shadows danced across the room, thrown by the sunlight darting between the grapevine leaves, which grew up and around my window. As the breeze tickled the plant, the light burst in, only to be shut out again, causing a play of delicate shadows to touch her flesh and dance away. It was almost as if they were taunting and teasing that white satin, and yet maybe they were uncertain of resting on that expanse of marble-like perfection. A new emotion welled up in me; my ideas for a simple painting dissolved, and an urge for a new concept arose. It buzzed around in my head, not settling, giving me glimpses, taunting. I knew, but I didn’t have the courage to admit it to myself.

I wanted to show the world emotions, feelings that flowed between man and woman, not girl and boy. I wanted sensual innuendoes of joy and longing, of expectation. I wondered, were these feelings mine or hers?

‘Why don’t you lie full length along the couch?’

She looked a little surprised at the suggestion but immediately began to arrange herself.

I turned by back and walked over to the door as if to check perspective but, in reality, covering my own emotions.

‘Do you want me naked?’

Her question was like a thump between my shoulder blades. I stared at her, not trusting myself. I breathed in, long and hard and silently, my mind boggling, yet trying to appear calm and professional, with my imagination leaping into unknown quarters.

‘Hm, sure, why not? There’s little difference between a gown and a flimsy veil, which reveals form but without intrusion. Yes, naked. Perfect.’

‘There is a lot of difference, Steve.’

I prayed silently that my voice wouldn’t croak as she began to unbutton her blouse, slowly yet determinedly.

‘Nonsense, Scarlet, there is no need to be frightened.’

She slipped the covering backwards, exposing the hand-worked camisole, her eyes never leaving mine.

I couldn’t look, yet I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the lace snuggling against the warm flesh. I gasped, seemingly unable to breathe; I was choking as if giant hands had taken hold of my throat, his hands, her husband’s, the judge’s – I could feel them.

I coughed. ‘It’s OK. Remember, we both promised, and I keep my vows.’ I felt the guilt rise like a thief in the night. Liar! my mind was shouting at me. ‘Do hurry, or we will lose the light.’

She pouted slightly but said nothing more. Instead, she rose, pulling up the blouse as she did so, and, gathering her handbag, walked out.

I called after her, ‘Next Wednesday then?’ It was a question, and she made no reply.

The next few days were a fantasy for me; I would see myself lying with her, exploring her body, feeling her warmth, running my hands through her hair, kissing her gently until the passion built – a week of dreams and terror, for at each moment of consummation, I would feel those hands once again around my throat.

I rose early, doing odd jobs, trivia. I was nervous, and my mind kept asking if she would come, and it was late in the afternoon when my St Bernard warned me by his friendly barks that she had arrived. I raced over to the windows to see him lolloping around her and then busied myself in one corner, feigning concentration as she entered.

I frowned at her. ‘Why have you come?’

She smiled, and I melted.

‘If for no other reason than to satisfy myself that I am not ugly.’ She sat heavily.

‘It’s too late to begin work, so would you care for a coffee?’

She nodded and held her hands out to me. ‘Don’t be angry, Steve. I would like us to be friends. Good friends. Please forgive my bad temper, at least by next Monday when I shall come for work as promised.’

The two kittens I had for the children suddenly exploded around her ankles.

‘Are these the ones?’ she asked, and I nodded. ‘When will you bring them?’

I hesitated. ‘I am not sure, but I will phone first to make sure you are all at home.’ I noticed that I had emphasised the all and I wondered why. She had noticed it.

I began to assess my feelings and was surprised to discover that I felt more animosity towards her rather than the warmth of love or desire. We stared at each other, and I realised that she felt the same. She looked hurt and, picking up her things, walked to the doorway.

‘Next time, Steven, everything will be fine, just fine.’

I was angry with myself and with her as I stood outside in the night, staring up at the stars. I found myself searching the heavens for a sign. I didn’t know why, but I felt our destinies were written up there – a childish superstition, I realised, as I looked for our stars.

One, a small but brilliant light, winked at me. It appeared to move towards me and away again. It paused momentarily before drifting to the left. Mentally, I assigned it to her, Scarlet, and I stared mentally while my imagination caressed her, my hands moving over her, following the curves of her body, committing them to memory to be reproduced on canvas some time later.

Quite suddenly, a small ugly black cloud scudded between us, covering the twinkling eye in the heavens, and a cold wind wrapped itself around my shoulders. Was it an omen? I shivered and went inside. I felt as if there were threads tying us together, loosely as yet, but they were there just the same. I could even feel the tension as I mentally tested them, and I knew that they would eventually tighten. To embrace? To ensnare, perhaps? I hoped so.

But then reasoning snapped at me, Do you, Steve? Do you hope? This lady is married. I brushed the thought to the very edge of my consciousness; I couldn’t quite tip it over, for it clung there, refusing to be totally banished, so I covered it with other thoughts. What was she doing at this precise moment? Had she too looked up at the stars? Was she thinking of me? I had heard somewhere that with great concentration, one person could send messages to another – oh well, maybe not real messages, I thought, but feelings. Or had I read it somewhere? I tried to bring the subject into focus. What did it say? Something about the mind having no restrictions, no limitations of time and space. Would it work? Could it work? And I knew I would try it even as I asked the questions.

Lying on the couch I found it so easy to build her in my mind, I could feel my temperature rising, my nerves beginning to tingle. Obviously the cloud that had covered the star had moved away, for moonlight crawled across the window and flooded the room with silver.

Then I saw her. She was dressed in a blue veil and coming towards me slowly. I reached for her, and my arms seemed to extend out forever. There was no substance, but the apparition continued to approach, and I could feel the coolness of the soft material floating around her. I watched it flutter softly down, and as I lifted my eyes, a cold wind rushed in through the window, picking up the veil not yet settled, and threw it into my face. I heard her voice, silken, smooth, and inviting, and I felt the fear.

This was not at all what I had expected. Fear? Dread? It was crazy. Noise from the outside traffic suddenly became deafening, engulfing me. I felt the need to escape, and the air in the room was heavy and choking. I sat up and made for the door, reefing it open. I charged frantically through it and collided with a figure.

It was Scarlet.

I was speechless.

She moved first, past me and into the room. I followed without a word, and when she stopped, I placed my arms around her and became conscious of the violent trembling running through my body. She did not move but stood still as a statue for minutes before twisting and extricating herself free from my arms.

‘My husband has gone to the city, so I decided to come back. Not immediately,’ she added. ‘I was lying down, and I dreamed of you and a lovely blue dress in the softest material. It sort of floated every time I moved. And you, Steve – you were there, in the room, in our house. I knew that was impossible, so I decided to come to you.’

This was some sort of miracle. I began to jumble my words in the haste to explain that I too had had the same dream. I moved over to her, pulling her close to me, and we stood like that for ages, slowly merging into each other as if we shared the same life blood, the same heartbeat. It wasn’t sexual; it was greater than that, a oneness, completeness.

It seemed to me that we stood just like that for hours, not speaking, not even thinking, simply breathing with one breath, and then suddenly, the merging was done. It was over, and she drew back from me and walked out, yet I did not feel one bit diminished by her going, rather the opposite; I was high, high on the recent memories. I felt that I had walked on a golden path in a golden land, one so beautiful, so serene, so completely at one with the creator that it transcended physical contentment.

From that time onwards, we had no sad thoughts at all; we were always happy, drawing closer and closer to each other until our days were simply filled to overflowing with the thoughts and memories of each other. I would ask her if she would like a coffee, would put the milk on the stove, and we would stand gazing into each other’s eyes, living within each other’s soul, soaking up the essence, and when the room filled with the smoke of the burning milk, we would simply throw ourselves together and collapse with laughter. It went on, day after day.

It is difficult to explain why we were so happy. There doesn’t appear to be any one reason. It was just that with her; every movement, every blink, every sound either one of us would utter would bring such joy and elation to the other. This indeed was magic, a potent invocation to each other, one that drew each one of us inwards so that either one of us could move a little finger and stir up the contents of the other’s soul.

It was magic – but indeed a dangerous one. I knew it, she knew it, and yet we were wallowing in the sublimity of it.

Our senses became so highly attuned, delicate yet intricately matched that they became like violin strings, taut and ready to issue the most beautiful sounds. I couldn’t even begin to consider an end to this happiness. Every word was new, every movement was poetry, in motion and every kiss like manna from heaven to feed me, to fill me with abounding joy.

Even the outside world was different, the colours more vibrant; the strolling people took on a vigorous intent, and I could watch it all from my exalted position of several feet above the ground. It was music, enervating and vital and yet haunting, and because this was so, we were vulnerable. Maybe it was madness, for beauty washed over everything, ugliness ceased to exist, unhappiness, despair, deprivation became non-words to us.

Or to me at least.

Sketches of her were lying everywhere, each one different, each one created from a distinct moment in time, all intrinsically Scarlet in the myriad of her moods. I had prepared several canvasses, and it was during the quiet times when I began transferring the pencil work onto them that I became aware of another ‘me’, always present, always standing just a few feet away with a cynical grin on his face and usually waggling a warning finger.

In love, I think you try and reach a peak, and once there, you automatically try to expand the area, but in effect, this pinnacle is but a tiny pinpoint hanging in mid-air with no solidarity. There is nothing from which you can build or extend, nothing but the most fragile wisp of imaginative hope, and if you don’t step down, you must fall.

We both wanted to stay up there yet knew it was impossible, and it became so that we made a conscious effort to cling to that peak. I knew that I could only save myself from slipping by making some innovative move to stimulate Scarlet’s sense of feeling, and each time, she responded, it gave me a sense of brutal power. I realise now that it was the thing of which sadism is born, and I would deliberately ignore that waggling, warning finger in my mind.

There were even times when I would tell myself to come down to a lower level, one where I could view both sides of the equation at the same time, but I didn’t want to listen, and yet when I made the feeble attempt at looking down, all I would see were my own two feet. I thought of Kant, the psychologist, and his clear brain thinking. He would have been proud of my reasoning but saddened that I could not – no, would not – take my own advice. Had I known, had I heeded the words of that keen critic, I could have had all the answers, could have continued down the road leading to happiness and understanding, but …

I wondered if others had felt this way, experiencing the ecstasies but knowing that underlying them is a deepening sadness, a futuristic omen, and when these moods hit us, I would leave the canvasses alone. I didn’t want to transmit my fears to the world, and it became increasingly difficult to lift the brushes when she was not with me. Alone, I would crave for her, rather like a man in the desert being consumed by the need for water. Her power over me was total; it completely dominated my feelings, and I was being slowly destroyed. I remember likening it to an iron filing beside a magnet, being pulled and pushed at the same time.

But it wasn’t just me. It was both of us. We were consuming each other, eaten up by unfulfilled passion. Our needs had brought out all the old superstitions in us; we saw everything as an omen so that when we saw the old gypsy fortune teller’s tent, without thought, we went in.

The crone appeared to be about a hundred years old. She had a thick woollen shawl drawn around her shoulders, and although it was springtime, there was a fire, yet it seemed to give off no heat, no warmth, but instead issued a thick blue smoke which clung to the sides of the old canvas tent.

Scarlet sat directly in front of her. The old woman stretched out her dark and wrinkled arm to take the slender white hand in hers, and before closing her eyes, she motioned me to sit in the corner. I obeyed instantly and became aware of her breathing shortening into rasping gasps.

The smoke seemed to gather itself around the two women until it looked as if they had ceased to exist and instead had left two disembodied hands suspended over the table.

The old woman turned over the pale hand and stared for less than a minute into the palm. She said suddenly and with a touch of urgency, ‘Stand up fast. Go back to your children. Be very kind to them. Treat them with great love, a love that will be remembered for all their lives. I command you to give them that special magical love that only a mother can give. Now go! And don’t come back.’

I stepped forward, questions pouring from my lips, but the woman had closed her face and set her mouth into a determined line which forbade further comment. She turned Scarlet around and pushed her from the tent.

‘Go,’ she said once more, ‘both of you.’

We stood outside, stunned. Scarlet began to cry softly, her shoulders shaking gently, and the cry became a long drawn-out moan. I moved away to re-enter the tent, but she grabbed my arm

‘No,’ she commanded strongly. ‘I am crying for what she didn’t tell me, my love.’

We walked away. Scarlet didn’t want to come to my place, so we just wandered along, our minds filled with foreboding.

‘Take me home, Steve.’

I didn’t argue. Once at her gate, she didn’t invite me inside. She simply walked through the door and closed it quietly behind her without even a backward glance.

I felt devastated. Then the anger rose. It choked me as I thought of the gypsy woman. It had transferred itself to Scarlet and then back to me. Round and round it went.

That’s it, I decided. This is all wrong anyway. We both knew it, and nothing can come of it, ever. That’s it, I said to myself again. I won’t even see her again. But like all lovers, even as I said the words out loud, I knew I would relent, and within seconds, I was assuring myself that when she did come, I would never mention the fortune teller again.

The following day lapsed into the next and the next. She didn’t come, and she didn’t phone. My nerves were in shreds. My rages would rise, consume me, and then settle into stupid forgiveness. I couldn’t eat or drink. I couldn’t organise my time. I simply sat and waited and moped and worried and remembered. It was as if I was waiting for the light of the world to come on again. Even my dog felt I was suffering; he would sidle over to me and force his nose under my limp hands until I scratched his ears.

Five days, I waited – or was it five eternities? – living in this limbo, and then on the sixth evening, in the blue darkness of the night, a spectre fluttered. I wanted to move forward, but my lethargy had me pinned into the chair. The dog leapt forward and, with a few short welcoming barks, began making frantic circles around her. I heard her laugh, and I too bounded outside to her. All recriminations forgotten, we hugged and laughed and jumped around. We chattered, making no sense at all.

I could even see the picture we must be making to someone else across the street. There seemed to be arms and legs clasping, grasping here and there, with the huge St. Bernard pushing his way in, moving out and running around us and then once more forcing his great body between us. We both saw the silliness of it and laughingly ran into the house, where we stood, my arms encircling Scarlet, feeling her essence soak into my wounded soul, healing it, fulfilling it, and revitalising it.

As usual though, she cleverly extricated herself, and I felt the bitterness rising and the warmth dissipate. But her eyes were glowing when I heard the door open and Grandmother’s voice.

‘Scarlet, my dear, how wonderful to see you. It’s been so long,’ she said as she wrapped gentle arms around her.

My world suddenly completed itself. The furniture took on that extra glow. The drapes lit up the room with new and brighter colours that, only hours before, were sad and faded. Even the floor coverings sent out their vibrations of love and welcome.

Had those five days really existed?

She fitted in so well, I thought, as I watched her answering Grandmother’s questions, and I wondered if she could feel the love I was sending to her. I wondered if she knew that if you wished long enough, hard enough, things will come to you.

Now at least I knew that Scarlet needed me not because I was the exact opposite of her husband but because we were one being. She had never spoken of him, not once, but I knew. Oh, I knew that he didn’t show his feelings, that he didn’t have her exuberance for life. I knew without doubt that he simply could never love her as I did. These things, I knew deep within my soul, and when that other ‘me’ suddenly appeared with that maddening waggling finger, I banished him quickly.

I know what you are thinking, but I could justify my reasoning. Being a judge brought great responsibilities, I told myself, and Scarlet was young, attractive, virile, fun loving, and these things cannot blossom without careful and tender attention.

In my mind, he would take his case histories to bed with him, while Scarlet lay alongside, silently pleading to be touched, waiting for him to tell her how lovely she was. I knew. I’d seen it a dozen times in my mind, and I had told myself that it was bound to happen eventually that she would, with her boundless zest for living, break the stodgy bonds that held her and give expression to herself and her nature.

In my mind, I could feel her yearning for a kiss, a gentle touch, a few soft promises, and sympathy flowed from me, and then as it flowed, it built into a tangible thing, threatening to overwhelm me, and I wondered, was there no bottom to this pit? But yes, there it was, and lying like a tiger ready to spring was this new emotion. It was awesome, stronger than any moral emotion, and I could feel my brain fogging, unable to receive clear instructions. I know that cosmic laws guide us into a form of evolution through movement, and I know that it is essential. It motivates everything and results in growth.

I knew then that I was feeling its great power, not something soft, gently sensuous, but raw, urging, brutal sexuality. I recognised it and, in so doing, gave it strength. I looked at Scarlet, at her large eyes rounded in shock as she too gave credence to the monster.

My grandmother’s constant presence prevented us from consummating these new feelings. Or maybe she saved us, I don’t know, and for the next week or so, something always stepped in just in time to save us from the final act, and we slowly slipped back into the old routine.

When Scarlet was not with me, my vitality drained. I couldn’t paint, and I didn’t care. It was not only my mental strength that would be depleted but my physical attitudes as well. Without her, I was less than a person, and then when she came, she would inject me with energies, new vitality, and with it would come the need for physical release. However, her swiftness at leaving or unrolling herself out of my arms had always nipped these sexual uprisings, or there would be the inconvenient and unexpected interruptions. But even the anticipation of her arrival would unleash the emotions, and I found myself battling my moral judgements in the useless, senseless war that I knew I couldn’t win.

A few days later, with a heavy sky looming overhead, she came, and that day, we both knew. Today would be the day. She stood just inside the door, her eyes locked with mine, and instead of the happiness, the room felt suddenly as if it was loaded with menace, dark and threatening. I wondered if the judge had sent his ‘overself’ to witness the act of betrayal.

I turned away to prepare the easel and suggested she lie on the couch. Thunder rolled around, building into a crescendo of sound. Lightning whitened the window and sent reflective shafts into the room, revealing the alabaster whiteness of her naked body. Casually, I threw her the blood-red velvet and moved over to her as she drew it up around her throat. I pulled it down a little to expose those flawless shoulders, and she grabbed the edge and, smiling, whipped it up again, almost over her head. We had a tug of war, giggling foolishly, nervously, yet the moment was tense as if pregnant with doom and danger. She suddenly extended her arms, and, wrapping them around my neck, pulled me hard down. Explosions occurred in my bloodstream. Bliss!

Then of all things, I heard my grandmother’s voice. ‘Steve, whatever else you do in life, wherever you go, stay honest and always honour your promises.’ I could even hear again the short discourse she had given me. ‘Promises are not just words. They are arrows from the heart. They can be wonderful, creative, but they can also be poisoned and lethal. Once airborne, a broken promise can carve out a path of everlasting destruction for you.’

I paused, prepared to shrug off the memories, but Scarlet had caught the hesitation and gripped me tighter, squirming beneath me, taunting, and then the judge’s face loomed up at me, his eyes not sombre or solemn, not angry or accusing, but unbelievably saddened by what he was about to witness.

Guilt washed over me. I grabbed her arms, breaking the grip, and I saw her eyes widen in shock, disbelief, and I wanted to hurt her.

‘Don’t you remember the promise we made to your husband? We both made it. Remember?’ I emphasised.

‘But Steve …’ her voice wheedled.

I jumped up. She pouted sulkily. I threw some savage words at her, shouting out of control. I remember saying that she had played with my emotions, accusing and then telling her that I had fought and won, like some spoiled child. I couldn’t believe that I was saying these things.

‘Get up, get dressed, and get out. I don’t care if I never see you again.’ My wounded pride was wound up and displaying its viciousness.

She moved quickly, opening the door even as she finished dressing, and then glancing over her shoulder, she screamed at me, ‘And you never will!’

The sky gods gave us an ovation at that moment, such that had we been together, we would have snuggled up and fed on each other’s apprehension and found solace out of our fears. I was surprised that the depression didn’t hit me immediately, and for the following days, I could still muster up enough rage to keep it at bay.

Friday afternoon, I went into town, greeting the known faces with false chatter. I noticed one or two people ahead of me stop and read the notice, and when I finally got abreast of it, I saw that it was an obituary.

I read it. And reread it. Then read it again and again. Something heavy, a ten-ton weight descended on top of me, and a searing flame rose up from the concrete, up my legs and thighs. These two massive and malevolent monsters met in my chest, drew their swords, and entered battle. The pain was excruciating. My heart was being crushed between these two giant warring factions. I couldn’t breathe, and the pain roared upwards into my temples. I leaned against the wall. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

I don’t know how long I stood there or got home, but suddenly, I could see her face in all the sketches. The canvasses mocked me everywhere I turned. I looked away only to see her again, her lovely body draped seductively, her eyes challenging mine, and her mouth inviting. They moved, and I heard the words ‘And you never will, never will’. Her eyes turned to hard glitter and again, accusingly, ‘And you never …’

‘No!’ I shouted ‘I don’t want to!’

The faces mocked, and I could feel the control draining away. I grabbed the palette knife and began hacking the paintings, screaming, shouting absurdities. I smashed the easel, throwing paint onto every wall. I dashed madly around, collecting the sketches, tearing at them violently, hating, hurting, feeling the guilt.

Hands grabbed at me. ‘What are you doing, boy?’ Her voice was strident as my grandmother surveyed the wreckage.

‘She’s dead, Grandma. She’s dead.’

Maybe she hit me. Maybe I fainted. I don’t know.

Next morning, I felt my consciousness returning slowly, dragging its feet, stepping cautiously, testing each step warily until it flooded my mind. I rose like an old and decrepit man, weary beyond words.

‘Dear God, how can you let this happen?’ I said to the empty sky.

My dog leaned against me, pulling my shirt, demanding attention, and I ruffled his ears thoughtlessly.

Scarlet’s maid was coldly competent at my enquiry. I don’t know if she knew, but she said blandly, ‘Well, she came in one evening, kissed the children,