Behind the Ivory Veil
9 Marriage
Thursday, 2 June 1955, Indianapolis, Indiana
NOT EVERYTHING went as smoothly as anticipated. Indiana required a blood test before a license would be issued and there was a three-day waiting period after they had a license. Rebecca broke out in tears when the county clerk refused to issue a license.
“We leave on our cruise on Saturday!” she protested.
“Have the ship’s captain marry you then,” the sympathetic clerk said. “You really should have thought about this before you decided to honeymoon.”
A visit to the travel agent Rebecca had used to book her passage to England confirmed that they could get passage together and upgrade to a double room rather than Rebecca’s single berth. But there were more problems.
“I was supposed to go to New York and Doc was making my travel arrangements from there,” Wesley said. “I don’t have enough money in my checking account to cover this ticket.”
At Rebecca’s urging, Wesley called Doc. Doc sent the funds to the travel agent via Western Union. Saturday morning, Wesley and Rebecca left by train to New York and Sunday afternoon they boarded the S.S. United States for Southampton, England. They were surprised to find that when Doc transferred the funds for Wesley’s passage, he had upgraded the two to first class. They watched from the deck as New York faded behind them. They were married at the Captain’s Table in international waters before dinner.
Rebecca’s menstruation had ended by the end of their second day at sea and for the duration of the four-day crossing, they spent more time in their cabin than on the deck.
Tuesday, 7 June 1955, SS United States at Sea
“You are so beautiful, my darling,” Wesley breathed. Rebecca blushed. It had been so daring—so naughty—to step out of the head and into their berth without a stitch of clothing on. For a moment, she thought Wesley would have another attack of hiccups.
“I feel terribly wicked, letting you see me naked,” she said. Gooseflesh had risen over her entire body and Wesley rushed to fold her in his arms before she could cover herself. “Am I a woman without morals?” she whispered.
“I am your husband,” Wesley breathed. “You are mine. And I declare this mode of dress to be acceptable in our marriage bed.”
“Then undress, my love. You are mine. And your wife wants to see you naked.”
Wesley blushed more deeply than Rebecca had as he slipped out of his pajamas. His erection wilted as his wife let her eyes rove over his body, but it quickly revived as she brought her naked body against his.
This, their second coupling, was easier than the first. Rebecca welcomed her husband into her body as he caressed and sucked on her breasts. Wesley enjoyed a slightly longer residence in her depths before he released his seed. He willingly held his wife in his arms for an hour after they rolled apart. She was happy that he neither rolled over and went to sleep, nor jumped out of bed to dress. She would gladly lie in his arms forever.
“How many children shall we have, Wesley, my love?” she whispered. Wesley sat straight up in bed.
“Children?”
“You do want children, don’t you?” Rebecca asked worriedly.
“Well yes, yes. Of course I do. I just… I hadn’t thought. Do you think you might be pregnant now?” he asked.
“I’ve never been very regular,” Rebecca said. “Still, I just finished my period, so biologically it is highly unlikely.”
“Wow! A baby in you. Here. In this beautiful tummy,” he said, holding her against him and stroking her abdomen. It felt heavenly. Rebecca could feel Wesley getting hard again behind her. “At least one. Not more than ten,” Wesley said. “Unless you want more.”
“Wesley, you are actually excited about putting a baby in me, aren’t you? I can feel you.”
“Oh dear. It’s you that excites me, Becc. Holding you. Being naked with you beneath our sheets. Making love to you,” he said as he kissed around her shoulders and up to her ear. His hand moved from her stomach up to her breasts and he caressed her tenderly. “And children. I could be a father.”
“Even though it is unlikely today, perhaps you should practice making me pregnant again.”
“Yes. Yes, perhaps I should.”
Thursday, 16 June 1955, Europe by Rail
It took five days and nights from Calais, France to Brindisi, Italy by train. Another twenty-four hours elapsed on the cruise ship to Patra, Greece, by way of Corfu. Wesley had been almost too tired to appreciate the beauty of the islands and the villages that hung from cliffs that the ship passed.
He’d changed trains in Paris and Geneva, not understanding a word that was spoken around him and little of what was on the limited signage. He’d nearly missed his connection in Paris, but the porter on the second train spoke passable English and pointed Wesley to the correct train in Geneva. He changed again in Milan and was thankful that his years of Latin helped him at least interpret signs in Italy. The trains, however, had been horrid. Doc had told him a joke when they connected by telephone—an extraordinary extravagance in Wesley’s mind.
“In Switzerland, the trains run according to the clock. In Italy, they run by the stomach.”
He’d had two more delays changing trains in Florence and Rome and was a day late for the ship he’d originally been scheduled on to Greece. This resulted in a shouted conversation at the ticket window that neither Wesley nor the ticket agent understood, but participated in with great vigor.
“Perhaps I might be of assistance,” a voice behind Wesley said. Wesley froze at the sound of the British accent, his thoughts first turning to the vicious attack by Ryan McGuire. He turned, however, to find a short and somewhat stout gentleman in short pants and a pith helmet.
“I don’t know,” Wesley said. “My train was late and I missed my boat yesterday. I’m trying to get to Athens. I would appreciate any assistance you might offer.” The Englishman turned to the ticket agent and quickly explained the situation to him in Italian. When the situation was explained, the agent threw up his hands and nodded. In a few minutes, Wesley’s ticket had been changed and he joined his new companion as they walked calmly to embark on the ship.
“Here you are,” the Englishman said. “I’m Jeremy Percival, at your service. Had to learn Italian when I was stationed here during the war. Perhaps you would join me for dinner. The galley on this ship serves the best lasagna in the world. You can’t get better in Italy.”
“Wesley Allen. Pleased to meet you. I’ll be happy to join you. Shall we say seven?”
“Excellent.”
The two had a lively time at dinner. Wesley was not yet comfortable with telling ‘the lie’ as he referred to his cover story, but he plunged ahead.
“I’m a musician participating in a summer exchange workshop in Northern Greece,” he provided. In his mind, he carefully defined the words to mean the work that he would actually be doing. He would be exchanging musical information with his colleagues. Jeremy accepted the story at face value.
“I’m on holiday,” the Englishman said. “Here to Patra and then to Athens where I’ll board another ship to take me to Crete. I’ve three weeks there to do a walking tour of the island. I’ll fly back to London, from Athens, but on the way here I flew to Rome so I could have this crossing. Just for the lasagna.”
Wesley restrained himself from criticizing the amount his companion drank and thoroughly appreciated the lasagna. At least he was assured that there would be no alcohol on their expedition.
He and Jeremy boarded the same train to Athens. Wesley was surprised by the suspicion with which he was greeted on the train. Jeremy seemed not to be greeted with the same caution.
“Your spies were caught trying to fix the elections here,” Jeremy explained. “All Americans are viewed as spies first and tourists second. How about giving us a tune on that instrument you carry across your back? Music soothes the savage beast as they say.”
“I’m recovering from an arm injury,” Wesley said, “but if you think it will help I’ll certainly play.” He unstrapped the guitar case and began picking a few chords. His shoulder had mostly healed and he suffered only from lack of practice for the past two weeks. Once he began to play in earnest, however, the people in his car warmed quickly. A man pulled a small concertina from a case and joined Wesley. They made a good duet.
It was a sad occasion when they reached Athens and all parted to go their separate ways.
Friday, 17 June 1955, Athens, Greece
Wesley dragged his suitcase and guitar out of the train station in the glare of the Mediterranean sun. Greece! He was here at last. The Acropolis. Mars Hill. The footsteps of the Apostle Paul. All were waiting for him to see. He set his bag down on the step next to him and a man reached over to pick it up.
“I have it,” Wesley shouted, grabbing for his bag.
“It’s okay, Wesley,” Doc said from the other side. “This is Marcos, our driver.”
“Oh! Doc, you both startled me.”
“Good trip? Anything we should know about?” Doc asked.
“I don’t believe so. I didn’t see anything suspicious. Not that I would have understood anything that was said around me,” Wesley laughed. “Did you expect that I would be followed?”
“On a journey like this, I expect it at every turning,” Doc said. “Marcos, this is Wesley Allen, our colleague.”
“Happy to meet you, Mr. Allen,” Marcos said. They got into the taxi where Margaret was already waiting. “Do you want to see Athens before you get to the hotel? Just watch!”
The cab swung recklessly down street after street. Some, Wesley was certain were pedestrian walkways, but the cab simply bounced over the steps. Wesley exclaimed at each new vista that Doc, Margaret, or Marcos pointed out. Doc also explained that Marcos would drive them to the Metéora in the morning. Wesley sincerely hoped there were roads. As pleased as he was to see Athens, he was even more pleased at the prospect of a bed for the night and was surprised that the small hostelry where they were housed belonged to Marcos and his wife who greeted him.
Wesley was unable to keep himself awake, even through dinner, and excused himself to go to bed.
Music filled his head and he slept dreamlessly until roused early the next morning.
Saturday, 18 June 1955, Kastraki, Greece
Wesley looked once more toward the Acropolis as they loaded the Jeep for the trip to Metéora. He had stepped into the past. He would discover the very roots of civilization. Rome conquered the world. Greece civilized it.
As the Jeep rumbled along the open road, Wesley looked out at the foreign countryside. The crystal blue Aegean was just visible off to his right and rugged mountains rose on his left. At least Rebecca is in a country where they speak English, he mused. He imagined her in a verdant countryside as the land around him turned arid and desolate. Perhaps, after all, she was closer to civilized roots than he was. But wherever she was, he would be in one way or another. They were married and separated all too soon. The two nights they spent in London filled his mind and he smiled.
Wesley was lost in his thoughts but gradually recognized Margaret smiling at him across the backseat. He realized he’d been humming and singing wordlessly to himself. He had no idea for how long. Margaret reached out to pat him maternally on the leg.
“It will be all right, Wesley,” she said. “She will be safe and waiting for you. And you will have gained a new perspective yourself.”
“Were my thoughts so obvious?” he asked.
“It seemed to come across in your musical musing,” she laughed. Wesley couldn’t protest against music communicating. He had simply not considered that it would communicate what he was thinking rather than being an interpretation of something that was written. “We want you to enjoy and learn from this adventure, Wesley,” Margaret continued. “Just as Rebecca will learn from hers. You will hear stories and music that you have never encountered before. Once you are exposed to the fullness and beauty of the people we are about to meet, you will allow the experience to be as mystic as your own unusual musical talents.”
Wesley looked at Margaret without responding. How could a decent American allow herself the fantasy of mystic pagan experiences? And to imply that his scientific studies were a mystical talent… It was apparent that he would be left to hold the important missionary activities on his own. He would not belabor the point to the extent of interrupting his work here of exploring music and language—music that could speak to the heart—the soul.
Margaret turned back toward the road ahead and left Wesley to his thoughts. Occasionally, Doc or Marcos would point out landmarks where some shrine or other marked an important event. Wesley’s mind, however, remained on the distant image of Rebecca.
His first glimpse of the Metéora was breathtaking. Nothing Doc had said or described prepared him adequately for the majesty of what he saw. Wesley had seen cliffs before, in Colorado and Wyoming. There was a wall in Wyoming that stretched for miles. Here, huge pillars of rock jutted up from the floor of the plain, turning their journey into one through canyons. They left Kalambaka, a small town with streets named after Christian saints and priests, and wound over a narrow pass into the village of Kastraki. There was little here. A church with a village well marked the center of the tiny town and there were a few small houses. Across from the well was a taverna.
The stone-paved street at the center of town ended near a walled villa.
“That’s St. Georgio’s Monastery,” Doc said. “It’s considerably younger than those on the peaks.” He pointed ahead and Wesley saw a building that seemed to grow from the top of the rock, nearly a thousand feet above them. Beyond it, on a pinnacle that was higher still, sat another monastery. “There are twenty or thirty of these monasteries in The Metéora. I’m not sure of the exact number as the war and life have taken their toll.”
The road turned into a dirt track. The Jeep bounced over ruts and through puddles, once even splashing through a stream, winding to a cluster of buildings too small to be called a village. Marcos pulled into the courtyard shared by the four little houses and their outbuildings.
A mass of children met the travelers at the gate, most passing all but the driver, calling out “Uncle Marcos! Uncle Marcos!” When a tall boy came out of the first house and went to meet the driver, it finally dawned on Wesley that their host of the previous night was related to the clan of heathens.
“Hello, Papa,” said Pol as he embraced Marcos. Next the boy turned to Doc Heinrich and they shook hands. An old man stood at the door of the first dwelling and beckoned for all to come inside. A meal was ready and it was apparent that the children had been made to wait for the guests to arrive before they could have lunch. There were too many people for one table and plates were balanced on knees as the eldest and the guests were seated at the table and the rest were left to find their own spots on the floor.
“Doctor Heinrich, it is a joy to renew our friendship over this meal,” the old man said.
“As we are friends, please call me Doc or Phillip. May I present my colleagues, Margaret Jacobson and Wesley Allen. Margaret, Wesley, this is the patriarch of the Pariskovopolis family, Andrew,” Doc said.
“You’re a patriarch now?” another old man said as Andrew shook hands with the guests. “What will Father Dimitri say about that?”
“This young goat is my brother Leo,” Andrew said. “He has left the taverna in the village in the care of his wife so he could greet our guests. And here is my sister Demi who has traveled farther, from Kalambaka. Some of the youngest generation are their grandchildren rather than mine. We will introduce everyone as the day goes on, but with my wife, Thea, and Marcos’s son Apollo, we have all that will immediately affect your trip here at the table.”
The afternoon was spent playing and singing. Wesley, Doc, and Margaret were caught up in circle games with the children as were even the oldest of the family. As soon as his guitar was unloaded from the jeep, Wesley became instantly popular with the children who sang with him as he played. He taught them songs in English and they taught him Greek folk songs. He quickly improvised new chords on the guitar, even changing the tuning to match the tonality of the local music. He sang gospel songs, which were well-received, much to his surprise. He began to doubt that he was being understood.
Music, however, was the groundwork for the festivities. When other people picked up instruments and began playing Greek music, the adults and even the children began dancing. Wesley was pulled into a circle and taught a dance. He blended well with the group and never imagined that heathens, as he still forced himself to consider them, could be so warm and friendly. Wesley was uncomfortable with the dancing, even when Doc and Margaret joined in. It wasn’t a couples’ dance, though, so he thought it might not be as sinful as he had been taught. He found himself inadvertently providing music for the dancing as well. A priest, or monk, by the name of Brother El dropped by and joined the festivities. Wesley knew that the Orthodox were accused of idolatry by some conservative Christians, but he considered himself liberal enough to believe in the decorative arts.
He thought of himself for an instant as succumbing to the lower nature that true Christians sought to rise above. A pang of guilt nearly overwhelmed him. Apollo, misinterpreting the sudden look of distress on Wesley’s face, brought him a glass of water and warned him that in this climate they must all drink a lot of water.
Food appeared after dark, though the music never really stopped, simply being passed from one person to another. But in the after-dinner glow, with many of the adults enjoying a drink, everyone settled down in the courtyard to listen to stories. Old Mr. Pariskovopolis started things off and told the story of the golden apple and Paris’s choice among the goddesses. It was a simple story from the myths and Wesley was vaguely familiar with this forerunner to The Iliad and the battle of Troy.
Dr. Jacobson was asked to tell a story. She recited the Norse legend of the death of Balder. Margaret was a captivating storyteller. Wesley was as fascinated as the rest of the tribe. He had not known that such feelings of despair existed in mythology. Doc deferred the honor of the next story, but asked if Wesley might have something he could share.
It was the opportunity that Wesley was waiting for and he used it far better than most men of missionary zeal might have. He pulled his New Testament from his pocket and opened it to the Gospel of John. He left the book in front of him and stared at the page, willing the words to come to life for him.
And then he began to play.
This music was unlike the songs and gospel hymns and folk tunes that had been played earlier. In fact, some might not even call it music. He let the notes and sounds he could coax from the guitar become the message, even retuning strings as he played. The strings, notes, chords, rapping on the instrument—none of this was enough. He added and changed rhythms, and with images of the age-old story playing in his mind, he added his voice.
He handled the guitar, the grandfather later said to Wesley’s embarrassment, like Apollo handled the lyre. Words emerged from his vocalizations, but so did pops, clicks low vocal growls, and near howls.
He pulled the entire clan with him into the story. He wrapped his mental arms around them and made them a part of it. They shared his vision of destiny. He ended his music before it became anticlimactic or tiresome. His audience was silent. He raised his eyes to see them staring at him. Tears were in the eyes of the old man, the driver Marcos, and the young Apollo. He saw tears, too, shed by the monk.
“A kindred spirit,” said the old man at last. “Welcome to our home. Welcome to our mountain. You are well-brought by these people. Pol, you will answer this man’s invitation, will you not?”
Pol stood beside his grandfather and father. For a moment, Wesley thought that he was about to receive a new confession of faith. Instead, Pol answered Wesley’s song in as clear and fresh a musical language as his own. Using only his voice, he captured many of the nuances Wesley had achieved with the guitar. It brought something different to the mind of each listener, but Wesley absorbed it. The music spoke to something deep within him. The music was all that existed.
Music had always been special to Wesley. He had mastered the piano and organ in his teens and progressed to stringed instruments—first through the violin family and then the guitar family. In college, he had studied voice and had learned conducting and musicology. Music filled his head and he knew he sometimes sang without realizing it. Perhaps it was the habit of Rebecca to also hum and sing when she was working that attracted the two. Music breathed in him.
Pol’s story was sung to his ears alone. Wesley lost himself in the music.
As heartrending as his own music had been, the boy’s was peaceful and warm. It flowed with promise. The pitches rose and fell with the swell of mystical tides flooding in upon him. Wesley could see Rebecca in his mind’s eye, a windswept beach spread before her, a pen and paper in her hand. He saw himself standing before a painted screen on which Rebecca, like an animation, moved. He saw himself reaching to her as she approached him, reaching also toward him. He tried to reach out—into the painting, but could not quite reach her. He discovered that he could not quite focus upon her face. He looked with all his heart into the painting and could not bring to his eye the features that should be so familiar. The features of his wife! Had he never really looked at her? The features blended and molded into something very much like her, but not her at all. His heart shook as Pol’s music broke the barrier between himself and the painting and the figure that was not Rebecca rushed into his arms and was Rebecca.
And then the music faded, and Wesley found himself to be part of the painting, gazing out of the screen at the world beyond himself. Alone.
People were moving toward their beds before Wesley stirred after the singing of Pol’s song. It had spoken clearly to him of things he could not understand, but yearned for. It had been in his language—the language that he would bring to the world. He went to sleep with the music still in his head.
Comments
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
