IN ELBA ABOVE OUR HEADS

by
Steven Gillis

We've come on this trip, my wife and I, to explore what the brochure calls, 'New Beginnings.' The phrase is a harmless sort of catch line meant to draw people in, and to that end sure, I suppose it's working.

My wife has planned the trip. "I can't wait," she says. "This is it." Alley's not afraid to issue ultimatums. "Just decide," she tells me. "Come on, Hank," a foot away, she goes soft again.

I can't make up my mind, even as I walk to the closet and get my bag. The van that meets us at the airport is yellow and blue, the lettering on the doors advertising, "Rolling Rivers Rejuvenative Resort." There are no rivers on the grounds, just a minor stream that cuts through the back acres on each of the three hiking trails and worms its way shallow enough on most days for us to see the stone mud bottom.

I tell my wife, "Rejuvenative's not a word," but she doesn't care and asks instead, "What does it matter?" The bit is old, the Ying and Yang stretched raw between us. I want to say how can you expect to fix what's damaged when the wording's flawed and the advertising's faulty? Instead, I sit on the end of our bed in the Sri Jnanadev Suite of the 4 R's Resort and remind my wife, "It matters because you fucked Bennie Wilson."

"Alright, Hank," my wife unpacks, shows me her new bikini. It seems an odd response, flaunting the goods at the heart of the matter. I've worn myself out trying to get through all this, have cried my share and drunk more than I'm used to. My wife says "Sorry." She says I should look at the bigger picture. A slice from the loaf. "What are we talking about really?"

I tap my chest, want to say, "How would you feel?" but this is a trap I refuse to fall into. "I didn't spread my legs," I tell her instead. "I didn't take it like a whore at Christmas."

The line causes my wife to laugh. "What exactly does that mean, Hank?"

I rephrase my answer.

At South Stevenson High School, I teach history to kids who see me, at thirty-four, as ancient. I tell them, "Those who ignore history," and nod my head when they pipe back, "Those who live in the past miss the moment." I've written a book on Napoleon which won a very minor award, and as part of the prize, will be published this spring. About Napoleon, Gulland said: "Oh, he was a scruffy guy, you know that everyone was embarrassed about him. He was so serious and he had no sense of humor and he was skinny. He was poorly clothed. His boots smelled. His hair was kind of hanging and he was unkempt. He was a sorry sight." Despite all this, with epilepsy and Brady cardia, socially inept and physically challenged, Napoleon still managed to become Empereur des Francais. Only love cut his legs out, made his life an unmitigated disaster. Even Marie-Josephe-Rose de Beauharais despised him at first and thought him a total mucker.

Our advisor at the Rolling Rivers Rejunenative Resort is named Brye Litte. It's Brye's job to help us with our schedule and get us from point A to point B. The workshops are diverse and include courses on everything from cooking to colonics, yoga seminars to primal scream therapy. There are hikes and horseback riding, couples counseling and karaoki. Before arriving each guest is sent a detailed questionnaire and a catalogue of workshops. The questionnaire is designed to give the staff insight. "Why are you here?" The first question appears in bold. There's a checklist beneath, the entire eleven pages conceived for marking boxes beside such choices as: In search of spiritual awakening; Looking for roses to smell; Hoping to learn Kshama. On the last page there's space provided to write a short essay. Mine was particularly concise. "My wife has cuckold me. I'm thinking about counter strikes and acts of reprisal."

We go for a swim in the Sadasiva Brahman Pool. The pool's Olympic size, with lap lanes and a diving well. In the shallow end non-swimmers stand about, drinking and talking. Others work on therapeutic exercises with notably tan instructors. I dive into the water, go to the bottom, hold my breath as long as I can then come up gasping. My wife is on the pool deck, walking around in search of the perfect chair to catch the sun. I watch while treading water. Alley has a seductive stride, not provocative but confident. Her figure's fuller than when we met, her hips and shoulders. There's a softness to her belly and hard edge to her jaw that occasionally turns her smile into a smirk. I'm sure the night she slept with Bennie my wife gave him the look, made him lay back on the bed and wonder.

Before dinner Brye brings us inside to meet the director of Rolling Rivers. We're greeted by a tall man with bushy grey hair cut at odd lengths and combed to stand up like wild wheat. His name is Everest Sloane but he says, "You should call me Uncle." The introduction's standard for all new guests. Everest asks about the comfort of our room, our flight in and first impressions. He comments about the weather, explains briefly the philosophy behind the 4 R's Resort, reminds us several times of the charity and hospitality Rolling Rivers has to offer and how, "If you'd like to make a further contribution," he nods his head and rubs the tips of his fingers together.

My wife crosses her legs at the knees. She's wearing a short teri-cloth robe over her swimsuit. We've been married now eleven years and have two children - Katie and Josh - who are spending the week with my in-laws. Everest leans toward me and whispers, "We should talk later," then says louder, "If you need anything, anything at all," and extends both hands to my wife.

Dinner is served in an enormous banquet hall with tables set in long rows and covered by crisp white linen. The foods are first-rate and there's an open bar with drinks charged to our room. The other guests are between the ages of thirty and fifty. Everyone is friendly, or seems to be. Having arrived together at the 4 R's, we share a sense of commonality, smile with false rapport. At some point in each conversation the question comes up, "What brings you here?" I avert my eyes while my wife answers, "Fine tuning."

There are eleven workshops to choose from that first night, including lectures and crafts, ballroom dancing and card playing, yoga and Shiatsu massage. Brye has spoken with Alley, has reviewed our file and recommends we join a couples pottery class where we can work together, "Creating whatever you like." We wet and knead a bag of clay, form first a vase then crush it and produce a bowl. Our hands touch. Each time this happens I pull back. In the five months since my wife fucked Bennie we've not had sex. Whatever passes between us does not include anything physical. I've blue balls and masturbate more than I have in years. When I play with myself I try not to think of my wife, picture instead other women, real and imagined. The fantasy is not as pleasant as it once was. I come angrily and cursing, use my foot to rub jism into the bathroom rug.

Six additional couples attend the workshop. We each have a table, a spinning wheel, a bowl of water and a bag of clay. Alley searches for my fingers when I'm deepest in the mess. I try and escape, but the clay slows my withdrawal. Our instructor is a woman named Sun Palasse. Sun shows us how to work the clay and the wheel, is less interested in the things we produce than the process we use to get there. I clench my fists inside the clay, look around the room at the other men, wonder if any are in the same boat as me. The first time Napoleon met Josephine, she was the mistress of Paul Barras. Born Rose Tascher, a widow with two children, several years Napoleon's senior, Rose spent much of the revolution sleeping with men willing to support her family. Barras was looking to end their affair, eager to take on a new mistress, and knowing Napoleon was anxious to marry, he threatened to cut Rose off financially if she didn't entertain "the little corporal." Awkward with women, Napoleon fell quickly in love and soon proposed. He disliked the name Rose and called his new wife Josephine. A week after their wedding Napoleon went to Italy to take command of the army. Josephine remained in Paris and resumed her old affairs.

Sun plays music on a portable stereo, Norah Jones, with sweet almost plaintive love songs. There are large windows in the rear of the room, the view of the lawn framed by floodlights as the evening turns dark. Alley searches for my hands, pouts when I pull back, says "Hank," and waits for me to relax. Instead I get up, stick my fingers in the water, wipe them on my pants and go to the rear of the room.

I stand for a minute looking outside at the stretch of lawn that runs to the stream. I think of what Bennie said when I found him with Alley, how he ducked down and tried to hide. Naked, he scrambled and danced, a round bellied stick, his arms flailing as I grabbed his shoulders. Alley had the sheet drawn up, covering herself obscenely. "What are you doing?" I shouted, a foolish thing. "What the fuck?" Again, not so brilliant.

A man comes into view outside the window, crosses the lawn, the floodlights reaching him more completely about fifty feet from where I'm standing. The man's wearing basketball shorts, the kind that sag below the knee. His feet are bare and he's carrying his shoes and shirt. His upper body's scrawny, his arms and chest nearly flat. I can't remember if I've seen him before, at dinner or during our initial tour. When he reaches the cement patio just outside the window, he stops and stares back at me, brushes sand from his arms and chest, pulls his shirt over his head and disappears inside.

Alley's finished our bowl and leaves it for Sun to put in the kiln. She comes over and touches the small of my back. I say, "Ok," and walk into the hall. Everest sees me and comes from his office, places an arm on my shoulder. On the walls of the common area at the 4 R's Resort are plaques identifying dozens of famous Yogis and Gurus. Everest points out Sri Trilinga Swami of Menares who was said to have lived 280 years and could spend up to six months at a time in the Ganges River. "Trilinga moved to Benares as a young man, bought a shop and gave free milk to the poor," Everest tells me. "This was part of his Tapas, his austerity, his fiery discipline."

I smell a mix of cigarettes and petiole on Everest's clothes, notice the moose in his hair has dried at the roots. When he leans into me I can feel his weight. "About your questionnaire," he mentions my essay, looks around for my wife, has a hold of my elbow and applies a certain amount of pressure. "Kshama," he wants to make sure I understand. "Control anger. When anger's controlled it's transmuted into an energy you can move the whole world with. Otherwise," he grips me harder. "There's not going to be any trouble, is there?"

I respect his concern. He has a business to run and can't afford notoriety. If it's fiery discipline he wants, "Not to worry." I return to my room, click on the tv, do not look at my wife as she begins to undress. That night I sleep on the floor. The next morning we ride horses, then go to a lecture on Yogi Bhusunda. We learn about Santi and Jnana, how Yogi Bhusanda could shut out all elements of the world through absolute concentration. "Yogi Bhusunda had full knowledge of the five Dharanas. He was desireless. When the twelve Adityas scorched the world with burning rays, he rose above and reached Akasa."

I sit for thirty minutes and try to follow the thread. Alley taps my wrist, pulls at my sleeve. I think about concentrating so hard that all desire falls away. After Alley fucked Bennie, she told me, "It has nothing to do with how I feel about you." She admitted only to a lapse of judgement, said "We were drinking. We were all flirting."

"So?"

"So, I didn't say you shouldn't be hurt," she conceded no more than this. "Come on, Hank," I was asked to be adult, to show her how secure I was in my own skin, modern and open minded. I told her, "This isn't the sort of thing I feel very liberal about," and Alley laughed as if I made a joke, offered then as consolation, "But Hank, I'm not even attracted to Bennie."

We finish our day with a Qigong class, a sort of yoga at half speed, with slow dance motions and breathing exercises allowing energy - called 'qi' - to rise and flow freely through us. That night at dinner, I spot the man I saw yesterday outside the window. He's sitting at a table, in a corner chair, his head tipped forward, concentrating on the slices of chicken and fruit on his plate. I look at the woman sitting next to him, wonder if they're together. The woman has a large head of hair, is quite attractively slender, her arms smooth and bare. She's animated in her chatter with the others, laughs and listens, talks and laughs again. When she leans over and whispers something to the man I watch with interest. The woman waits for the man's response. He says nothing. Her smile changes just a bit and then she's off again, chatting up the other guests while the man finishes his fruit.

Alley has us scheduled for counselling tonight. The workshop is titled: 'Cooperative Connections.' We're brought into a room with a single table covered with several dozen sticks of different sizes. Beside the sticks is a bottle of glue with which we're told to build a bridge. The metaphor's ridiculous and I say as much. As we work with the sticks, a man named Emerson asks us questions, wants to know how we met, what inspired and continues to inspire our love. "At what hour of the day do you communicate best?" By then our bridge is shaky, the sticks we've put in place not holding with the glue. I tell Emerson, "My wife likes to connect in the early evening. You should give her a go."

After our session, I leave Alley and walk down the hall, head out the side doors and across the lawn that leads to the first hiking trail. The night's warm and I keep a steady pace to the stream. Along the way, I think of Napoleon and what he might have done in my shoes. During the Italian Campaign in 1796, as rumors reached him of Josephine's infidelity, a heartsick Napoleon threatened to come home. So much for his inimitable concentration, his having developed the Ekagrata of a Yogi and the strength to focus his every thought through to fruition. Afraid of losing her husband's financial support, Josephine agreed to come to Mantua. They returned together to Paris briefly in 1798 before Napoleon took his army to Egypt. No sooner did he reach Cairo, then Josephine began partying with her old lovers. Learning of this, Napoleon sailed home more devastated than ever.

A few hundred yards past the stream the grass gives way to dirt and then to sand. The absence of any large body of water makes the sands an anomaly, more dunes than beach. The peaks rise twelve feet in the air. I walk to the edge of the sand where I take off my shoes, carry them out to the first large hill which I climb with some difficulty. Up top I spot the man I saw last night, there between the dunes, his body buried deep in the sand, his arms tucked against his sides, disappearing to the elbow. As the wind shifts, more sand drifts from the dunes, blows another layer over him until his chest and arms are covered.

From where I'm standing he can't possibly see me. I wait until he's buried up to his shoulders, then watch him wiggle and wrench himself back and forth, freeing his arms and digging himself out. I slide down the opposite side, make my way to the trail, return to the main building and have a drink in the bar. My wife's there, sitting with Everest and another couple. She sees me come in, considers what to do, then looks away.

I finish my drink and go up to our room. Twenty minutes later Alley returns, finds the remote and clicks off the tv. I have the pillow behind my head. Alley looks at me and waits. She has on a yellow sundress. Her hair's pulled back and the features of her face are drawn tight. "You embarrassed me, Hank, saying what you did."

I consider the charge, lay my hands across my chest. Alley takes the remote and tosses it on the bed. She sits beside me, puts her fingers close enough where I can touch her if I want. "Why?" she wants to know.

"Why?"

"Why?"

The question's been looped in my head for so long I almost think she's joking. "You're asking me?"

"I mean why are you here?"

"Because you wanted. Because I wasn't ready not to come." I say, "I'm here to learn Shuddhi, the purification of Self, enduring pain and torture with patience and contentment."

Alley looks tired. I can see it in her eyes. "So you're a martyr now?"

"I'm not anything."

She frowns. "Enduring's bullshit."

"If you're impatient," I turn away, then back again. Alley forces a smile, makes a face and hopes I'll laugh. The effort's lost. "What am I supposed to do when you don't even take what you did seriously?"

She leans back, hesitates a moment, seems to be searching for the right response, then settles for, "When you decide what you want, you let me know."

"Fair enough," I agree, and for the second time that night get up and leave.

Down in the lobby I stop by the plaques, wait and see if Alley will come after me. A minute later I go outside, walk around to the trail again, retrace my steps until I reach the stream and beyond. The hike takes twenty minutes. It's late now and the moon has past its peak and is sliding down. I take off my shoes, rinse my feet in the stream and continue barefoot. Five months ago Alley and Bennie had gone to our house for more bottles of wine. The rest of us, four families including wives and husbands and kids, were six houses down at the Ambruse's, in the backyard, drinking and talking after the barbecue. My son, Josh, wanted to get his glow-in-the-dark frisbee from our garage. Instead of calling Alley, I walked home. I don't why. I went inside and upstairs as Bennie and Alley weren't in the kitchen. In our bedroom, Bennie tried to pull on his pants, jumped around, dodging the books and jewelry box I threw at him, twice shouting, "It's not what you think, Hank."

"Fuck Bennie, what isn't?"

"Everything."

About this, he was right. I wrestled him down the stairs and out the door, made him run naked up the block. I then went to the garage and got Josh's frisbee.

The sand at night is cool and only slightly moist beneath. I leave my shoes on top of the first dune and walk to the other side. From what I could tell, there seemed something purgative, restorative and absolving in the process of the man burying himself, and curious, I finish my hole, cover my legs, settle my hands down firm and wait. When Napoleon returned from Egypt, he locked himself away in a room at the rear of his house in Paris, refused to come out and speak with Josephine until his step-daughter, Hourtense, interceded. The exchange was ruinous. While Josephine at long last and sincerely professed her love, Napoleon beat his chest with his fists, said "You've killed my heart," and swore he could never love again. They divorced a year later, the first such annulment under the Napoleonic Code. Disconsolate, both on their deaths whispered the other's name.

I can see the moon white in a sky flecked with stars. Above me there's somehow both stillness and motion. My feet are deep in the sand, nearly numb yet comfortable. The wind shifts more sands down, covering me further. I begin to wiggle, try moving my legs, roll my hips to give me space and struggle to raise my arms, only the wind changes again suddenly. My effort creates fissures which the blowing sand fills and covers fast.

The night we were drinking in the Ambruse's yard, I remember watching Helen Ambruse bend and how her breasts inside her shirt moved soft against the material. I noticed her hips as she walked by, imagined and laughed. We were friends and often flirted. The dune spills more now. I've planted myself too close to the edge. Mountains of sand come down. "What are you doing?" Alley called as I walked from the room. At the time I couldn't answer, but here in the soft rolling rivers heavy around me, the question synthesizes. I say what I meant to, squirm more then stop.

© Steven Gillis
Reproduced with permission