I have been wandering my villa like a ghost, reliving the past and narrating my loves to empty rooms. Writing this has seemed like recording the memories of a woman who no longer exists, like a desperate attempt to prove I was ever here at all. The pages of this manuscript have consumed me in recent weeks. I realize that I have been slowly removing myself from my own memories, keeping them at a distance as though they are just stories that don't matter.
Even in my own mind and heart, I am often an observer of my own life, a narrator and performer. I have so often performed the art of loving, given and received the gift of passion for its own sake, wondering frequently whether it is enough, what holds it all together, what makes it
my
story. Sometimes it seems that my experiences are not a life but a dream, one which has reached its end, leaving me frightened, confused, and alone.
I guess it is fitting that my memories, much like my life, should become so much about those I have enjoyed and learned from and so little about myself. Over the years, I have often struggled with insecurity and discontent; while I have loved my work, the adventures my body has taken me on, I have not always been easy in spirit. I have feared what my life would become with age, when I might no longer be found beautiful and worthy of the passionate desire so often taken for granted. I wonder whether the life I chose is a young person's life, one impossible to sustain. For these last months I have been hiding, fearing my life was already over. The endless hours of near-perfect solitude have given me too much time with my own doubts, too much time to pass judgment on myself, to accuse myself for the failure of past loves, to avoid figuring out what comes next.
The irony of trying to create something permanent to attest to a life of transient moments colored my thinking, encouraged me to doubt every past decision rather than continue to embrace the moment and the unknown future. I accepted Lottie's invitation to visit her in San Francisco months ago, before I started this complicated narration. I have since second-guessed my decision to return to the States many times, driving poor Suzette nearly to distraction by calling upon her to revise, cancel, and reinstate my travel plans on an almost daily basis. Only reading over these pages finally convinced me to go; the bittersweet nostalgia I see here frightens me more than any of my doubts or suspicions about my chosen path. I must seek out others before I disappear into words and memories, before I accept my life as a work completed. This is what I told myself as I settled in for take-off, and what I was still telling myself when I landed in San Francisco only a few weeks ago.
#
Although I haven't spent much time with Lottie in years, I feel a bond to her, one even stronger than the lingering ties I feel to my contracted lovers. When I met her, many years ago, she was still Carlotta, the prima ballerina of a small company in Florence. She was also the wife of my contract at the time, an expatriate American painter making a minor splash in European art circles. I had seen dozens of his evocative paintings of her before I ever saw the woman herself, nude studies of her body in motion, like Degas' dancers if they were unclothed and free. In those paintings, her skin seemed to glow from within, the muscles under the skin corded and taut, but graceful and feminine in an indefinable way. In my favorite of Kenneth's paintings, she dances before a mirror, the auburn evidence of her Sicilian blood flowing to the floor as she sways back from the barre in a fainting pose which looks physically impossible to sustain. One leg and hand remain fixed to barre as the rest of her pours in a backward arc, the muscles stretched in her stomach, her naked and opened sex reflected in the mirror, forming the center of the painting. I was smitten with her in the abstract, the picture of body as art, the gifted wife and muse of a talented artist.
I told myself that I didn't give much thought to the fact that Kenneth was married. Over the years, many of my lovers have had others, in all of the many forms those other relationships can take. I had grown accustomed even then to the fact that many of the wealthy had wives and mistresses, husbands and lovers. I no longer felt that I was an intruder in these relationships. I was, however, still unprepared for the reality of her presence, for her knowledge of me, for the complexity of our relationship to each other.
When I received an invitation to a private recital, I rushed to open it, expecting Kenneth's familiar writing. Inside the expensively embossed folds was a quick note from the lady herself. "Please join us, Erica. Do not be afraid. Here, there is only love." It was signed 'Carlotta Revelle' in thick black script. Because she only used her married name, Revelle, in her private life, the note felt particularly personal, even intimate. Until I saw the word, I hadn't realized that I was afraid, but there it was. I had never been confronted with a contract's spouse, and I didn't know what to do.#
When did this happen? When did the world around me become so constantly steeped in memories? It seems that everything I see or do reminds me of another time, a life experience already enjoyed and filed away for later review. Lottie noticed my bouts of introversion, and tried to draw me out. While I didn't mean to, I resisted her attempts to talk to me about something more than current events and art.
I was afraid she may give up on my less-than-impressive companionship skills, but she surprised me by secretly slipping an envelope onto my bed table while I slept. Intrigued, I opened it to be greeted by the familiar scent of vanilla musk, and my nipples hardened despite my mental distraction. But the mystery of what I found kept me in the present moment, rather than sliding back into the past for another physical memory of previous lovers. Inside, I found an invitation to a private residence, accompanied by a brief note. "Please join us, Lady Erica. Lottie tells me we may be able to help each other." It was signed 'Jeremy Williams' in decisive strokes of a blue fountain pen. I searched my memory, but the only Jeremy Williams I could think of was a concert pianist turned conductor, a man I had never met but knew of only through others.
I dressed hurriedly and headed downstairs to ask Lottie about the invitation and the
ignoto
