Forget or Return?
Clara, youll be the starfish in my aquarium, he declared, confidence spilling from his mouth like a fountain.
My eyes widened, round as full moons.
Youre serious, James? I want to be your only starfish, not just one of a school Are you married? Why am I only hearing this now, as I fly to your hometown?
No, Im not married, but James hesitated, the words trembling on his tongue.
Finish it, I urged, hungry for the whole truth about English gentlemen.
You see, Clara, my parents have already chosen a bride. I cant argue with them. We could arrange a temporary marriage, but youd have to become Anglican. Otherwise He turned his face toward the airplane window, staring at the clouds as if they might swallow his secrets.
I was four months pregnant, and his suggestion drained the colour from my skin.
Why choose the sky to drop this bomb? He could have warned me on the ground, over tea, before we boarded.
I closed my eyes, tried to steady my breath. I wasnt about to leap out of a plane, not really. My relatives and colleagues had warned me:
Dont dive into a world that isnt yours, Clara. Their faith, their mindset, their view of women itll bite you good.
I ignored them, blind to the trap.
I taught at the language academy, guiding overseas students through the maze of English. I treated them all like any other pupil.
In September a new cohort arrived, and among them was James, a lanky, darkhaired lad from a small Yorkshire village. He was tidy, polite, and possessed that roguish sparkle that made my pulse flicker.
James lived in the dormitory, studied earnestly, and never put on a show of manners. One day he approached me with a shy request:
Miss Clara, how much for extra tutoring?
Nothing, I said, surprised. Why do you ask? Youre doing fine. From that moment I found myself tangled in a net he wove with deft fingers.
May I invite you for a consultation? he asked, eyes darting like a sparrow.
If you insist, whats the topic? I replied, unaware of the currents beneath his smile.
Relationships, he said shortly.
That evening I entered the dorms little lounge, where James waited, his gaze fixed on me. The room looked as if it had survived the Great Depression: creaky furniture, stained windows that let in only smudged light, a leaky tap that never produced hot water. Yet on a coffee table a fresh rose floated in a vase, a plate gleamed with washed fruit, and a bottle of red wine stood proudly.
Someones been preparing, I thought, a flicker of hope rising.
We talked about study, family, and the mundane. It felt proper, respectable. But that night opened a gate.
The following evenings and nights spiraled like wild horses across an endless plain. James and I fell into abysses, rose to the heavens, vanished from the earth. Ten years later, I would not wish to relive the dizzying ride.
The consequences of that feverish romance weighed like stone. The whole department knew of us; colleagues whispered behind their hands, students stared, halfamused, at our tangled saga.
Clara, dont lose your mind. Stop while you still can, warned one colleague, her husband a chronic drunk. James has younger brides back home. In Yorkshire lads can be betrothed at thirteen. Youre twentyseven. Too many men, too few options. Come down from those pink clouds.
Another, forever single, sighed, Oh, the passions we could taste!
And I, lost in my own reflection, thought I could chase James to the ends of the earth, not even to Yorkshire.
During the summer holidays we booked a flight to his familys cottage. Midair, James began to speak of strange things. He said he would make me the starfish, the chief wife in his household not exactly a harem, but certainly not the only one. The notion tightened my chest.
The plane touched down on a mistcloaked English moor. Friends of James greeted us, all sunkissed and freckled, smiling like the countryside itself. They escorted us to his parents stonebuilt house. I was welcomed kindly; James served as interpreter.
His mother and father spoke in a thick Yorkshire accent, not understanding my tongue. I and James conversed in English. In the corner sat a girl, about fifteen, her eyes the only visible part beneath a bundle of heavy shawls.
Meet Eleanor, Jamess father announced, as if introducing a prize pig, the future wife of our son.
I felt the ground crumble beneath me. Eleanor was not a beauty queen, but I wasa tall brunette with an hourglass figure and flawless skin. Still, I was twentyseven; Eleanor was merely a fledgling fifteenyearold.
I returned home, heavyhearted and gloomy. There was no turning back; a child would soon arrive. Over time I swapped my bright wardrobe for drab, black coats, a veil, and modest shoes. I kept only mascara and eyeliner, letting my eyes speak.
I consented to a temporary marriage, embraced Anglicanism, and devoted myself to James with every fibre of my being. I loved him, yearning to obey his every wish.
Seven years slipped by. James, Eleanor, our children moved to London. I gave birth to three boys; Eleanor bore two daughters. James supported us all respectablely. Yet a nausea settled deep inside me. I felt like an aged lover, an outsider in a foreign home.
Jealousy of the young Eleanor ignited like tinder. She was the official wife; whenever James glanced at her, my heart throbbed with unbearable pain.
I could not bear it. I wanted to flee the imagined paradise without looking back, yet feared losing my sons. In England, when a marriage ends, children usually stay with the father.
At last I took a desperate step. I sat opposite James, the tea steaming between us.
What are you missing, Clara? he asked, genuinely puzzled.
Forgive me, James, youll never understand my soul. Let me go, I whispered, tears choking me.
Very well, return to your family. The children and I will miss you. Remember us. Come back soon, he said, his hand brushing my shoulder.
A month later I was on a plane back to my own town.
Two long years have now passed. I speak with my sons and James on the phone. Eleanor has given birth to a son. My boys grow, remembering their mother. I am adrift, yearning, weeping, and yet nowhere to fly.