Star Woman in Love (8 page)

The long beep of the interrupted line came on. Two swans were gliding on the river Clyde. There I was, on a bench, lonely without you and longing for you without knowing it. The sun started dancing on the water. A song emerged from my memory.

“I go to the Clyde and I mourn and weep for satisfied I never sleep...”
[2
]

But for whom was I singing?

Behind me stood someone who had traced my steps and followed me to the waterfront. You were now fifty yards away from my bench, observing me intently. You didn’t know how to approach me. You were very shy. But you took the plunge and walked towards me. The sun shone its most beautiful ray on your face. For a second we were in Shambhala, the City of Light. Do you remember?

“D’you mind if I sit here? Hi, I saw you in the café...”

The look you gave me was enough for me to fall. No introductions, no conversation. Physical proximity was all it took me to abandon my characteristic higher ground. In a second, I was sucked into your dream and into your life.

“Not at all... hi...”

Your charms were contagious. From the first second of our physical interaction, your priority was to take me the fourth dimension where our love belonged. And you used the quickest method that was available to you.

“Would you like to share a joint?”

“Yep”.

You started rolling. I played with my hair as I always did when I fancied the man I was talking to. Not a sound came from either of us for a couple of minutes.

“What’s your name?”, you said.

“Cassandra, like the prophetess.”

“Cassandra... Nice to meet you. I’m Oscar. Like my paternal grandfather.” 

You licked the side of the paper and presented me with the result. Your earlier nerves had eased now.

“Would you like to light up?” 

“Sure, thank you,” I said. “Do you have a lighter actually?”

You produced one from your back pocket.

“Here.” 

Your gaze was fixed on my face. I stared at you as I took my first drag. And a few more. I studied every detail of your lovely features. Your eyes twinkled. We were comfortable with silence from the beginning. The hash went first to my head and then to my heart. My consciousness expanded and encompassed the spirit of the river. I turned mellow as my blood ran sweet. I passed the cigarette to you. You held my hand for a long second when I did. Shivers through my bones: where did you start and where did I end? No boundaries between us. No separation from our surroundings either.

As you inhaled, you shut your eyes and leaned back on the bench. I copied your movements instinctively. By the time we had finished the joint, my head was resting on your shoulder and your arm was around me. In the simplicity of our first encounter, our souls merged with ease and innocence. It was one of the most peaceful moments in my life before transformation. I owe it to you.

Two perfect strangers on a bench. We could have kissed but we didn’t. I could have run my hand between your thighs to feel your throbbing virility. I wanted to. I could see you had an erection. But I preferred to keep my head on your shoulder, with my arms resting in my lap, and listen to the sound of your breath fuse with mine. The depths of your soul were in the rhythm of your breathing. We were synchronised. Home at last, that’s how I felt.

You could have let your hand slip under my cashmere dress through its v-neck, and feel the warmth of my skin, my firm breasts. I was feeling aroused. But you stopped your hand half-way to its intended target and let it rest on my fully-sleeved arm. You were shaking. So much energy was rolled up in your body. You weren’t ready to unleash it yet. I didn’t know how to help you unfold it either. Despite our awkwardness, neither of us wanted to break the magic of that moment. We had met only a quarter of an hour earlier and ended up in the sweetest embrace, as it if were the most natural thing for us. Now we didn’t seem to be able to part anymore. We didn’t want to let go of each other’s touch but didn’t quite know how to articulate what was going on between us. So we sat in silence for a while, I don’t know for how long. It felt like ages. It probably was ages.

I shook myself out of the daze: I kissed your cheek and squeezed out of your arms.

“Thank you,” I said, “great little trip.”

“Are you hungry now, Cassandra?”

“Well, yeah, I always get the munchies.”

You opened your bag and produced something which was wrapped up in a paper serviette.

“Guess this is yours?”, you said. The contents of your concealment were revealed: the scone I had left on the table when I stormed out of the “Soul Food” café.

* * * *

We found her at last. She was sitting on a bench with Oscar at her side. They looked comfortable. Their auras had merged and turned to gold. Some dark patches were still visible but the Light emanating from their bodies was mostly glowing. Their Core signatures had synchronised and were resonating to the sound of the Ancient Tune. It was a pretty picture, and one which brought us relief. It would have been impossible not to detect her now that she was being true to herself. Cassandra and Oscar mirrored each other’s aspirations and better selves in their embrace. They also echoed their fears and recent ego-generated pasts in this encounter. Love and hate in unison. Light and darkness in gestalt. She reflected his full being like no one else could. Like the Moon, she shone Light on his past. Like the Earth, she encompassed his present. Like the Morning Star, she pointed to his future, the future from where she came.

Oscar wanted to belong with her, in her, like any man in his prime. He had surprised us with his poise and the courage he displayed in pursuing the woman who had caught his full attention. Let’s bear in mind that he is not the kind of human being who can be called predictable. He’s an artist: a man of emotion. And he has been bipolar from a young age. His ability to slip in and out of the Dreamtime, the realm of potentiality, as a shaman was far from accomplished at the time he met Cassandra. He had been imparted ancient secret knowledge by the keepers of the Earth, that’s true, and was initiated in Australia just a few months previously. His existence on three levels as medium, artist and angel was far from balanced. More often than not, he would actually become connected to the wrong dimension at the most unfortunate of times. And to make things even worse, there was a wounded child, the child he had been who was still unhealed and held captive in the darkest recesses of his mind. But that day, so far, he’d excelled himself. It was he, and not Cassandra, who seemed to be the most enlightened.

We kept close watch on them until they reached Cassandra’s hotel. We didn’t trust them yet, especially given the way how she had vanished from our focus – and the Plan - only an hour earlier.

* * * *

Polly was shocked when she saw me arrive with you in tow. Her initial shyness turned to genuine fondness of your down-to-earth ways as the hours went by. In the evening, we took a taxi together and went to the opening of the art exhibition that had brought you to Glasgow. The guest speaker was late. You ran to the microphone and launched into your introductory speech. It did not make much sense but people expected you to be esoteric. The crowd responded with a standing ovation. You were the art messiah of the world, and despite your idiosyncrasies no other artist could dethrone you. Even when you were making no sense whatsoever, even to yourself. On top of your normal quirkiness, you had fallen in love only hours beforehand, and love made an endearing fool of you. I had eyes only for you, and that gave you power.

You left the podium and grabbed me by the hand. In turn, I took Polly’s hand. We walked together around the gallery to admire the work of emerging Scottish artists. There were some interesting installations and unusual sound-and-visual productions. The oddest piece on display was a cage in a large glass-case where beautiful butterflies had been left to die. The darkest cloud hung over and around the piece. At this junction in our story, past and present would soon exchange the baton, and the latter would wipe the former into oblivion.

Polly couldn’t bite her tongue. “That’s horrible!  And I don’t say it just because I know who its author is.”

The piece played with the idea of death: the death of beauty for that matter. A lot of cruelty had been poured into that atrocity. Large colourful butterflies lay dead at the bottom of the glass-case, their wings dried up in their afterlife like scrunched up paper. Meanwhile smaller ones were stuck on the walls, exhaling their final agonising breaths. You looked offended and put your hand on your heart. I tried to send positive energy to the poor creatures that were passing on before our eyes. When they’d all be dead, another one-hundred and forty-four living butterflies would be fed into the cage to meet their gloomy fate.

“I know how they feel,” you said. “I almost died twice when I was very young...” 

I didn’t want to probe into your past yet. I kept my eyes on the poor butterflies. I couldn’t understand why someone would want to cause so much pain and sorrow, and place it under the banner of art. Then strong dark energy crept in, followed by a squeaky voice from behind us.

“It’s got you thinking, hasn’t it? You must admit it’s a powerful piece, Oscar, whether people like it or not.”

A blonde woman in her thirties was shaking her champagne flute almost in your face. She had long hair and was wearing a tacky flowery dress which was far too short for her chunky figure. I knew who she was straight away. You looked puzzled.

“I’m Linda Fobbes, we met yesterday at the artists’ dinner. And this is my famous, or should I say infamous, piece, butterflies in a cage.” 

Polly’s face turned to stone. “Every piece of art is the window to its maker’s soul,” she said.

Tension was building up like a volcano before eruption. I decided to cut the crap and offered my hand.

“Cassandra Morgante. I believe we have a common friend in Gordon Steward.”

She knew who I was. Pictures of me and Gordon had been published in a number of papers when we were dating. What had he seen in her? I couldn’t quite figure out what the connection was between me, an ethereal spiritual presence, and her, a horrid butterfly-killer.

“I see...,” you said.

Gordon himself appeared. He was wearing a tweed jacket and a cap: every inch the country gent and golfing star, even when it was totally inappropriate.

I hugged him. “Congratulations on your baby.” Then I introduced my present to my past: “Oscar O’Leary, Gordon Stewart.”

Your studied him from under your long fringe, which you had parted slightly to one side. As you two stood face to face, my choice became obvious. Next to you, my ex looked diminished, uncouth and almost thuggish. You looked elegant, graceful and disarmingly open. You held my hand. We could ease into displays of affection even as new friends, just like the consumed lovers we were to become. I appreciated your thoughtfulness and how you wanted to protect me from the pain of being reminded of my past relationship. Love was in your grip, and I felt it: straight to my heart, right to the lock, protecting the Secret. You were the shield to my inner sanctum. When you touched me, the Key began to turn.

Linda was talking to Polly about Edinburgh. She had lived there while she was at college. The conversation amounted to insignificant chit-chat. Gordon was putting on a male-bonding show, telling you how lucky you were to have met me, complimenting you – and not me! – on the way I looked and the dress I was wearing.

His final remark was beyond a joke. “I miss her friendship,” he said.

I had had enough of that nonsense. “Shut up, yours is just a farce,” I said.

I stormed off without much of a goodbye or an explanation. Airs and graces would have been wasted on that idiot and his second-class lover. You and Polly followed me a couple of minutes later. You grabbed a bottle of champagne and three glass flutes on the way: a perfect escape.

I sat on the entrance steps and looked at the sky. The moon was mesmerising in its fullness, just like the day when I was born. You sat behind me and caressed my head for a few seconds. Polly found her space a couple of steps below us. She had told you the details of my break-up with Gordon, including the fact that the sleaze-bag had been cheating on me with Linda. You had already guessed as much by yourself. You pulled a funny face at me and proposed a toast to forgetting the past.

An hour later, we flagged a taxi and went back to the hotel in great spirits. You took us to the main door where we said goodbye. It was more of a ‘see you soon’ so I wasn’t sad. We arranged to meet up three days later in Edinburgh, on the film set of Joan of Arc. Your friend Layla was the protagonist. Some battle scenes were to be shot at Greyfriars’ Cemetery, a Templars’ place I wanted to show you. After a quick peck on each other’s cheeks, it was time to part. It was harder in the end than I’d expected. We hugged for a very long time. The taxi driver who was waiting for you looked bemused. When we let go of each other with strained smiles, you jumped into the cab and rolled down the window, pointing at the sky: “Look up: the moon is amazing!” I did: the moon was there and you were gone.

I dashed up to the room. Polly’s smirk was like the Cheshire Cat’s.

“Didn’t I tell you something was going to happen with Oscar O’Leary?”, she said.

I wasn’t quite sure if what had happened between you and me was that ‘something’ she had in mind. I kept talking about you that night. At least if I talked about you, it was as if you were still there with me. From the first day we spent together, I realised that the space between us was just an illusion.