Candlelight and Wine Part 1

Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us the glimpse
of an eternity we should like to stretch out over the whole of time.
― Albert Camus

Nathalie Abbot

Nathalie Abbot is as unobtainable as the Moon, elusive as a silver drachma gleaming in the Aegean Sea—indifferent to men and oblivious of me.

She’s a mystery—I have no idea where she goes, or what she likes—I yearn to ask my fellow lecturer Aline, but I’m afraid she’ll find out I’m infatuated with her friend.

Ivy Gordon is another colleague who goes with Nathalie to coffee houses and art galleries, but other than a few stray comments from conversations, I really know nothing of Nathalie’s hidden life.

I do know she often comes in Saturdays to prepare her lecture notes for the week—she’s in her office and occasionally has lunch at Hart House and though I conspire to arrange a chance encounter, it never happens.

Still, I drag myself out of bed every Saturday and drive down to the university in the hope that this might be the day

Lately, I’ve been hearing through snippets of gossip that many of the female professors consider Nathalie quite spiritual—I take it that is in some way related to her practice of yoga—but I think all that stretching simply makes her more lithe and graceful.

She has honey colored hair and huge brown eyes that stare and leave me desolate.

But this weekend, I’m in a quandary. There’s a freak early snowfall. It’s still October but the weather forecast is calling for near-blizzard conditions.

I’m tempted to forego the trek to the university, but in the end, even the remote possibility that she’ll be there is enough to lure me into going.

I have no trouble finding a parking space in the near-deserted lot and thankfully notice Nathalie’s red sports car is there and already snowed-in. I deliberately park close to the street so I can easily exit the lot.

I find myself already fantasizing a scenario where Nathalie’s car is snowbound and I offer her a lift home. Even I recognize that’s improbable thinking, and so I try to shake off the daydream and get back to reality.

I walk through silent hallways that are gloomy and somber. The leaded windows in the gothic building are splattered with snow—their corners hold sculpted drifts and myriad flakes are dancing in clear spots in the windowpanes.

I see a yellow light under Nathalie’s closed door and hear muted strains of Rachmaninoff.

My heart aches for her, but I’m terrified to knock on her door and disturb her.

I continue walking past two more doors to my office, turn on the light and leave the door ajar, as I do every Saturday as a subtle invitation—a signal that anyone, especially Nathalie, is free to knock or come in. But she never drops by and never comes in.

It’s hopeless really.

My life is a lucid dream I’m struggling to control—or better yet, a novel completely out of control—and totally unpredictable because of a strong female character with a will of her own.

And in this flawed romance, that headstrong heroine is none other than Nathalie Abbot.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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