FICTION

In the late summer of year 1993, I developed a peculiar fascination for the subject of Anthropology. I decided to enroll in an evening course called “Birth of Civilization”. Every Thursday evening from September of that year until the March of the following, saw me traipsing to one of the lecture halls in Magdalene College where I, alongside with forty or so other students, were given lectures on all things Mesopotamian. The average age of the students hovered around 70. Being a smidge or two below 33, and of Persian origin, made me a fascinating oddity. Suffice it to say that amidst the British septa- and octogenarian male population which constituted the majority of the attendees, there didn’t appear to be anything more exotic than a youngish Iranian female who would rather study cuneiform than chase some Oxford don. I had many admirers.

The teacher was a fascinating character who could bring alive the otherwise complex and rather dull subject, simply by the inflection in his voice. I fell in love with him and thus the Thursday evening classes became not only an exercise in learning but also of scheming as to how to ‘land’ this man. I learnt from him about Chogha Zanbil, Shush and Haft-Tapeh and their significance in the history of the region. I learnt that Persians were the first to tame wheat and horses alike. Quickly I became aware of my ‘value’ in his eyes in that I was in fact a Persian and represented the origin of civility. This unique brand of egotism lent further to my reverie about how things will one day be between me and the Professor. I imagined us venturing on exploratory trips to Iran as I would translate for both of us – never mind that he spoke better Persian than I, and knew the country like the back of his hand. Still, dreams are delicious and in them I spoke eloquent Persian as I bestowed the homeland with my presence and that of my perfectly polished English husband. In the state of delirium, reserved for females whose biological clocks are ticking a little too loudly, my wild imagination took a giant leap into the world of the arts as I envisaged my intended and I featured in several respectable publications on all matters thus relevant, while a brood of chubby cheeked cherubs completed the picture of familial bliss.

I was smitten – there was no denying it. Towards the latter part of 1993 two things became clear; studying Anthropology was hard work and my teacher was already married. The former gave me grief while the latter shattered hopes of nuptial union. Instantly the romance with this rather archaic academic subject was over. Alas the course was paid for in full and I felt obligated to make good the money I had parted with.

Heartbroken dejected lovers would do well to seek substitute therapy. And for me who had to come to terms with the Professor’s inconvenient marital status, there seemed to be no better salve than romance novels and alternate male company. The latter was proving to be hard to come by as I found myself at that ‘dodgy’ age of not being quite young enough to hold the attraction of the eligible bachelors in Oxford, and yet not old enough to be a candidate for the second time marry-go-rounders. With my head up in the sky half the time, I hardly considered myself, nor was considered by others, suitable step-mother material - something that almost every man I ran into was looking to secure in a new amour. Spinsterhood stared me in the face and what calamity that promised to be.

Not one to succumb to fate, I threw myself into the world of food – specifically that of preparing Persian sweets. Therefore, every Thursday evening saw me carrying a platter of my most recent culinary creation to the Anthropology class. It was my way of giving the Professor the ‘cold shoulder’. On the plus side, my admirers became vocal in their appreciation. Not only was I treated to longing gazes, but I started to receive nuggets of appreciation also.

Among the elderly populace, there was a gentleman – who by all accounts was the youngest of the bunch. I guessed him to be on the safe side of 65. He was of medium height, well built though not slim. He sported a full head of hair – mostly brown, sprinkled with grey unruly curls. An aquiline nose atop pencil thin lips afforded him the aristocratic appearance prevalent among the British gentry. The somberness of these features was broken by a pair of sparkly blue eyes which danced with joy every time a smile snuck up on his face – thus giving him an impish look of a mischievous English school boy. His face combined the old and the new and in this mixture afforded the observer a glimpse of a man, who was, if not half, but certainly three-quarters of his chronological age. He would arrive at each class impeccably attired; well-pressed gabardine trousers, a crisp cotton dress shirt adorned with a tasteful, yet, conservative tie. The tweed jacket with brown suede patches on the elbows was the final touch to an otherwise casually graceful look. He smelled faintly of rosemary and myrrh with a touch of cedar which betrayed the lining of his closet. He had the loveliest accent – a mixture of north and south – the r’s rolling, ever so slightly, just like the Cotswold Hills, giving his speech a sonorous ring above the guttural tone. A dusting of poverty enwrapped true nobility which, together with a dollop of humility, perfected the image – the English gentleman. His name was George Willoughby.

My friendship with Mr. Willoughby started after the tasting of one of my creations which had proven to be especially scrumptious. This clearly was the cue he required to offer a gracious compliment. After the pleasantries he approached the delicate subject of asking me for a date. “Lady Solo, I was wondering the other day, to myself, whether, by any stroke of luck, you may be interested in an outing of sorts. I say, might I have the pleasure of your company on Sunday next? I should very much like to take you for a drive through the country to a delightful little tea room which my late wife and I used to frequent. It would be awfully good of you to join me.” Well, I was flattered, surprised and pleased at the same time. I must say being asked out by a sixty-some year old gentleman when I had not even celebrated my 35th birthday was not exactly what I had in mind when I had prayed to the Almighty for male company. But then I quickly remembered that since I had not specified the age in my prayers, the good Lord had sent me the most likely and available candidate. I needed to be grateful and of course I was. “Mr. Willoughby. The pleasure is all mine. Pray Sir, when and where shall we meet?” “My dear Madam. What could you possibly mean? For of course, I shall pick you up from your home – that is if you would afford me your address.” This was something out of a dusty English novel. I had to chuckle. The man was worried about asking for my address. He was going to pick me up. I was not just told to meet him at some pub where he would chug back beer and throw darts with the lads while I sipped my G&T. I was thrilled, utterly taken by this magnificent display of manners and charm.

And so it was that the following Sunday and several Sundays after, Mr. Willoughby would arrive at my maisonette off Headington Road, get out of his chauffeur driven automobile, ring the bell, present me with a small gift – a posy or a small box of truffles - before taking me on an outing, here, there and everywhere.

They say the best teacher is time spent with an older person – listening. Mr. Willoughby had much to say and of course I had much to learn. It was he who took me for my first guided tour of the Oxford colleges, describing to me the historic significance of each building. He treated me to a particularly memorable visit to Blenheim Palace – a place which I had avoided due to its behemoth appearance. We took long drives down narrow country lanes to small tea rooms and cozy inns tucked away in the nooks and crannies of the English countryside. He reacquainted me with the world of small wonders – the single daisy peeking out of a split rock, a narrow creek dripping its goods into a tiny moss-covered pool, a robin teetering on a twig, the sway of a willow tree, the smell of rain, dusk on a clear day. All these wonders existed in the world before Mr. Willoughby entered mine but with him pointing them out they took on more significance and certainly were cherished anew.

My education did not stop at architecture and wonders of nature. As our relationship progressed Mr. Willoughby, whom I had secretly taken to calling Georgie - to myself of course, felt bold enough to invite me to go up to London with him to visit a gallery or two. And so it was that we ventured outside of what Oxford had to offer an ill-suited pair to the anonymity and diversity of the big city.

I had never heard nor seen the Rosetta Stone. The Middle East Section of the British Museum was a mystery to me. The Tate was just a name. All of these Mr. Willoughby brought alive for me with patient guidance, articulate discourse and just enough dry humor to render the subject matter entertaining. I was mesmerized by all this information; in awe of a man who knew so much – one who could be spending his time in much more productive affairs and yet took pains to explain, educate and share with me the arts and treasures of the Capital. He was the perfect teacher.

He conducted these outings with the utmost consideration. Never a harsh word passed his lips even when he caught me hiding a yawn through one of his particularly detailed lectures on a portrait or a painting. He was the most attentive companion, always asking after my well being, making sure that I was well rested, adequately fed and had enough tea - always tea. He never engaged in an untoward gesture, nor a mean word did he ever utter. His manners were simply above reproach. We enjoyed each other’s company – tremendously. I found in him the father I never had and he in me, I assumed, the daughter he always wanted.

The relationship became closer as we shared history and beliefs; opinions and memories and thus a bond was forged upon which we relied for comfort and companionship. The fascination remained firmly in the intellect – for me his diverse knowledge, and for him, the exotic nature of my origin - my unconventional upbringing – my accent. We had one passion in common also and that was love of poetry. In time he shared with me the wonders of Blake, Chaucer and Keats and I returned the favor with Khayyam, Khayyam and more Khayyam. There was an additional shared interest – music - though we differed considerably in our tastes. His veered towards choral and church music for he was a pious man, and mine more toward anything but. Still he was a good sport about it and would patiently subject himself to renditions of Genesis, David Bowie and ZZ Top.

It was towards the end of March when Mr. Willoughby called to invite me out for the evening. “There is a concert I should like to take you to, my dear Solo. It is a bit of a surprise I have cooked up you see. Shall I pick you up at 5?” I liked surprises and of course I was going to be ready for our rendezvous. We ventured to the local concert hall whereupon Mr. Willoughby asked me to close my eyes on the way in and only open them when I was seated in the box. To my utter delight I found out that I was at a performance of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. I had told him about the “Thousand and One Night Stories” and the classical piece by the Russian composer. He knew this to be one of my most favorite pieces. It touched me so to learn that he had gone through the trouble of making this such a special event. The evening progressed smoothly as we left the concert hall for the warmth of a charming Country Inn for a late supper.

At the dinner table, I sensed Mr. Willoughby’s anxiety but could not quite understand why this should be. He was not himself. He was avoiding eye contact, playing with his napkin and making silly sounds opening and closing his mouth. I chalked it down to ecstasy from the concert. Classical music can have the most profound effect on the psyche, I figured. Once coffee arrived, Mr. Willoughby cleared his throat, summoning my attention to himself. I felt uneasy and was convinced that he was going to give me some very bad news. Perhaps he was taken ill or something may have happened to the son who was stationed overseas, or, heaven-forbid, the grandchildren. “Is everything all right?” I asked. He nodded sheepishly, his head bowed over the demitasse. “Solo Darling, I am afraid I am not very good at this sort of thing. My late wife did all the leg work in our 40 year marriage you see and I was fortunate never to have to make speeches or decisions. But there you have it, she is gone and I am lost for words. This probably sounds awfully clumsy and gauche. An old man such as I, feeling the way I do, about a blossom such as you. “I was getting the gist of where this conversation was going and I was suitably alarmed. I was desperately resisting a deep blush concentrating instead on the fine stitches of the napkin on my lap, the creases on my hand and, by now my parched mouth. Mr. Willoughby continued with his monologue as my heart continued to pound against my rib cage waiting for the guillotine to drop. I willed myself to remain still, to hear him out to the end and NOT to jump to conclusions – prematurely. He reached into his pocket and extracted from it a small box, which, to my horror, I found, as he popped it open, contained a magnificent antique diamond ring. He continued: “So it is with this one single ardent request that I ask for your hand in marriage. Do please accept and make me the happiest man alive.”

My immediate reaction was silence as I willed to slow down my heartbeat and my hands from shaking, trying ever so carefully to take in exactly what had just occurred. It so appeared, without a doubt, that I had been proposed to by a gentleman twice my age. On all accounts I should have been appalled. The cheek of it – an old man – having lived the best part of his life doing all sorts of things that men do - and now coming full circle – to a woman, who, while no blossom, still had never been married, was childless, exotic and by all accounts well-accomplished – proposing marriage. What could he possibly be thinking? Given all the facts that I was painfully aware of – I still failed to be offended by the offer. I was merely saddened – nay, disappointed, not because he was old but because I was young. I did not consider Mr. Willoughby rude, audacious or insolent. The only transgression was his chronological age which loomed so far beyond mine so as to make the potential union comical.

It is my firm belief that proposals to marriage must be responded to on the spot. As such there is nothing quite as insensitive as dithering, or worse still suggesting the taking of a ‘rain-check’. The answer must be simply a yes or a no. In the case of the former sheer delight, tears, laughter and a hug are in order – and in the case of the latter - a polite, thoughtful and kind explanation is a must. I needed to stay true and admittedly, as much as I was flattered by Mr. Willoughby’s proposal, there was no way on God’s green earth – not for all the tea in China - that I could accept. Now in order to deliver the response I required gentle words of diplomacy, compassion and understanding.

The truth was far too harsh I concluded. I could not bring myself to confess that I considered him more of a father than a husband-to-be. Honesty stings – and I cared for this man – deeply. So I sought solace in a lie - a very big white lie, one that had enough possibility of truth in it so as to render it believable. I decided to tell Mr. Willoughby about my culture and its rites of passage into marriage. I told him about how girls were ‘promised’ to suitors before puberty and sometimes even soon after birth. I told him that families were indeed in charge of young love – the kind of love that joined fortunes and yielded offspring to pass it on to. I told him that at birth I had been betrothed to a second cousin-twice-removed. He was studying in America and once he completed his education, he was to marry me. I told him that I had never laid eyes on this cousin because it was against my family tradition but that he and I had our destinies tied. Therefore, I related to him in the calmest, warmest manner possible, that while I was honored by his proposal, alas I was not free to entertain it, for I was, most definitely and undeniably, spoken for.

The drive back to my home was conducted in silence. Indeed what is there to say when two souls which have touched each other so intimately are separated not by mere distance, culture or religion but by age? In my desperation to wrap my mind around the cruelty of it all I willed myself to age twenty or so years. Oh would that I miraculously turn 55 in a blink of an eye and accept this man’s love and to return that love for the rest of my days? We arrived at destination and as it was always his habit, Mr. Willoughby got out of the vehicle, walked over to my side, opened the door to allow me to get out. Our hands had not touched until that night. He escorted me to the door, turned and faced me for a moment. In the glow of the orange street lamp, I caught a glimpse of the 35 year old man I knew he once had been and wished that he were, right then. If only he could have left three decades at the doorstep, then he could have secured the rite of passage into my living room. Alas, life is cruel and fate a jest. He reached for my right hand, lifted it to his face, just as he held my gaze and placed one light kiss on top of the middle knuckle – holding the gaze still as he lowered my hand and let go. He turned on his heel and left.

I never saw him again.

In the latter part of year 1994 my life took many turns – none planned and all a surprise. It seemed, in the face of the huge lie I had delivered to Mr. Willoughby, the Almighty was determined to make an honest woman out of me and, in doing so, assure my pardon and ease my conscience. In the middle of a cold November night I received a call from a stranger, who introduced himself as a distant relative from the paternal side of the family. He related to me that he had just returned from the homeland and since his flight was cancelled, he was stuck in London. One thing led to another. Before I knew it he bolted into my life, ransacked my heart and turned everything topsy-turvy. Within a span of a few months he whisked me away from my beloved England to his America. In a flash I went from a vagabond to a safely secured wife in a respectable brownstone a mere stone’s throw from Central Park, baking Persian delicacies for the local elegant Iranian ladies, sipping tea from crystal tumblers slightly bigger than thimbles. With the arrival of the first baby, life moved into a new phase of joy, mayhem and sleepless nights. Thoughts of George Willoughby faded slowly at first, and then at break neck speed once the family expanded. My May-December romance became a distant memory well before the twins were out of diapers.

And then

The doorbell rang. It was the postman delivering a package for which I had to provide a signature. The British stamp on the top right hand corner betrayed the origin of the parcel. I was intrigued.

I opened the parcel to find the following cover letter from Willis & Willis, Chancery Lane, London WC1.

Dear Madam Solo,

We hereby wish to inform you of the passing of one of our most treasured and beloved clients, Mr. George Willoughby. Mr. Willoughby appointed this office for the execution of his will. In said document we noted a gift which he bequeathed to you. With the advent of the Internet and world-wide searches one of our colleagues was able to finally locate your current whereabouts. It is therefore our pleasure to forward to you the item which has been in our care for the past 10 years. We regret the tardy delivery but feel fortunate to complete our client’s wishes.

Should you have any queries, please do not hesitate to contact me at the above address.

Yours etc.

James Willis, Esq.

My hands were trembling as I opened the article wrapped in a handkerchief, which smelled faintly of rosemary and myrrh, with a touch of cedar. Inside I found Mr. Willoughby’s dog-eared second edition Fitzgerald translation of Khayyam’s Quatrains. There was a sealed note tucked into a page whose many creases and folds spoke of frequent viewings.

I opened the note to reveal Mr. Willoughby’s handwriting. I could barely see the words of the quatrain as they started swimming in the tears which, by now, were falling from my eyes.

Ah, Love! Could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

“Sweet Solo, In the winter of life, you were my ray of sunshine, so thank you.” Affectionately, G

I wept for that unrequited love – a love so untainted and yet so impossible. On that day, I came to humbly accept that truly in the matters of the heart, age is but a number.

* George Willoughby is a fictitious character. Any resemblance to a person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.