“I have no idea. Whenever he decides to bring it back.” Big mistake—I had forgotten to grovel. The reaction was immediate.
“You’d better get in touch with your husband right away,” the dark-haired cop said. He was looking at the baby bottle on the coffee table. “If the owner doesn’t get his enlarger back by the end of the week, we’ll take your baby from you.”
I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. For a moment I thought I would pass out. “You can’t do that, you have no right.”
“We can and we do. We just get a court order. And next time we won’t bother to knock. We’ll just break the door down.”
Having achieved what they came for, they got up and left.
Carolina stayed to look after China, and I went straight to Grand Central to catch the next train to Poughkeepsie, the nearest station to Millbrook. It was the only way to get word to Mario, who had always refused to give me the Millbrook number.
It was after eight when I arrived. I jumped into a cab in front of the station. The driver, giving me a knowing look, said yes, he knew the way to the Hitchcock estate.
Half an hour later we passed the gatehouse, a gothic structure straight out of an Isak Dinesen tale, and followed an endless winding driveway lined with dark pine trees that swayed against an orange sky. At last we came to a stop in front of a dark and mysterious Victorian mansion with high turrets at each corner. I asked the driver to wait, and went up the steps that led to an imposing front door.
I found myself standing in a vast entrance hall carpeted with frayed Persian rugs, its walls covered with psychedelic frescoes. There was a strangely disturbing silence. A young woman came down the sweeping staircase. She was wearing jeans and a black Grateful Dead t-shirt. Dark hair framed a lovely face with hazel eyes that were looking at me warily. I explained who I was and said I had to speak to Mario urgently. She looked surprised, said her name was Delphine, and led me through a labyrinth of rooms with mandalas on the walls and gold-painted ceilings. There was hardly any furniture. We passed through a richly paneled drawing room where a grand piano was sitting on its side next to a Victorian table with its legs sawed off. In one corner was a shrine to Shiva with offerings of fruit and flowers and burning incense. A Great Dane was sleeping on a Tibetan tiger rug in front of an enormous stone fireplace.
Finally we came to a spacious white-tiled kitchen. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was refreshingly normal. The wooden floors were highly polished, the sink empty of dishes, the industrial size refrigerator spotless.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?” she asked opening the refrigerator, where I expected to see shelves laden with magic mushrooms. Instead, it was filled with yogurt and fruits and vegetables. How odd, I thought, feeling slightly annoyed that they should eat so sensibly. There was more fruit in a ceramic bowl on the long wooden table in the center of the room. I sat down on a chair next to the table, suddenly exhausted, and feeling out of place.
“No, thanks. But could you tell Mario that I’m here.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
Indian music came floating softly from an upper floor. Someone had left a copy of Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf on the table. I started to read, but the words swam before my eyes. After a few minutes the door opened, and a man entered. He was wearing a light blue button down shirt and khaki pants. Behind his rimless glasses his eyes were gentle. He introduced himself as Ralph Metzner, and sat down.
“My husband is having an affair with your wife,” I blurted out. “Why don’t you do something about it?” I was revealing myself to this complete stranger, but I didn’t care. And he seemed to think it was perfectly normal.
“I have accepted it, just as you should,” he said calmly. “I think of Susan as a sister, and you should think of Mario as your brother.”
“Look, I have a three-month old baby,” I said. “I need a husband, not a brother.”
I started to cry. It was all too much. The invisible Mario, Susan, the enlarger, the cops, and now this WASP Harvard professor, calm and self-assured, rationalizing an impossible situation.
“We are experimenting with consciousness here,” he said, ignoring my tears. He smiled. “We teach the science of a higher ecstasy. It’s a very creative moment. You should meet Tim Leary, he will change your life. He might even persuade you to join us.”
“You don’t seem to understand,” I said. “While you’re having your creative moment, my life is falling apart. And now, on top of everything, I have the cops practically breaking my door down, threatening to take my baby from me. All because Mario borrowed an enlarger from someone who wants it back. Not next week, not next month, but now.”
There was nothing more to say. Suddenly Mario was of no importance. He was somewhere in that huge house, but it no longer mattered. All I wanted now was to get out of there, get back to my daughter, and get on with my life.
The taxi was waiting outside the house. Night had fallen. The first hint of the end of summer was in the air. As we drove down the driveway I took one last look at the big house. It was dark and remote. There were no lights in any of what seemed like hundreds of windows, but I knew that behind one of them was Mario, silently watching me disappear.
Bookmark/Search this post with:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
