Sunday, 27 July 2014

Thirteen Crucifixions 24


                                                           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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