1986
Barbara
saw him again. This time he was standing
across the street, looking at her as she left her apartment building. He had made not one single attempt to
communicate with her, nor did he conceal that he was indeed looking at
her. But it had become clear,
unmistakably clear to Barbara that Rafael Alfonsin was following her. She felt menaced. Three times this month already, and June was
not even half over, she had seen him here at this spot, usually at this time of
day. Surely he must be observing
her. Surely he must be. He had made not one single effort to communicate with
her, for which she was thankful. But he
wanted something, he surely must be after her soul again. With Hans her ex-husband he had come close to
destroying her. It was Rafael who had
discovered Barbara at that dinner party less than ten years ago. Not having in those days formal dinner attire
she had improvised with a shimmering swathe of deep blue cotton fabric from
Afghanistan that she managed to drape just so over her body, Grecian
style. At the party she was told that
she appeared to have just stepped off the Elgin Marbles. Rafael, sinisterly
handsome in a black jacket and shirt, could not stop fingering the soft fabric
Barbara was wearing. “Yes, that is beautiful,
just beautiful. You will do, you will do
very nicely, indeed.” They were in a
mansion near Craigdarroch Castle in Victoria.
Barbara, suddenly drowsy, asked if she could lie down somewhere, and was
conducted to a large darkened room somewhere off in a remote wing of the
house. The brown blanket with which she
covered herself transformed into a heap of damp, cold earth under which she was
buried. She awoke again and the entire
room was lit up with black candles everywhere and naked bodies belonging to
persons she had been chatting with at the party downstairs copulating around
her in a full range of positions and varieties of genders. Rafael introduced her to Hans, whom she
later married, and to the modeling career that launched her into some international
renown. The nightmare repeated itself
throughout her sojourn in Europe, until Barbara finally escaped in Amsterdam
with the help of a visiting British Catholic priest who found her refuge in a
London convent.
Almost
she called to him. Perhaps she
ought. She had only walked less than a
half block. Turning around, there he was
still standing there, as though anchored to the pavement. Barbara slowly retraced her steps, then she
crossed over to where Rafael was standing.
He seemed unaware of her approach, he looked more like a wax figure than
a human being.
“Hello
Rafael”, she said.
“Hi.”
He glanced at her. Was he frightened?
“How
are you? I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Fine.” He sounded anxious, truly frightened, like a
child. Surely he was faking it.
“Are you living
in Vancouver?” she asked inanely.
“For a while”,
he whispered.
“Are you all
right, Rafael?”
“Fine”,
he said in a near-squeak.
“No,
tell me please, if there’s anything wrong.”
He
started trembling. Tears were rolling
down his face. He fell to a sitting
position on the grass, and began rocking back and forth with his face buried in
his lap, softly moaning and shaking.
“What’s
wrong, Rafael? Is there anything I can
do?” She had never seen him like
this. He said nothing, and continued to
weep.
“Rafael,
don’t move. I’m coming right back. I’m
going to get help.”
When
she returned he was still sitting on the grass.
Even though the rocking had stopped she could see that he was still
weeping. She sat down on the grass next
to him, daring not to touch him, while waiting for the paramedics to arrive.
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