M
Spring in Toronto is like nowhere else—Maple-lined streets lost in lime green haze—air smelling like lemons and sidewalks dark with rain.
It was a late drizzly Friday afternoon and I didn’t want to go home. Harry Towne had waved me goodbye and took his cab back to Watermark Press, but I stayed on because I drank too much wine, inked a new book deal, and was reminiscing about Emme.
Emme was a woman I met five years ago—a chance occurrence outside an art gallery. I foolishly thought Fate brought us together until I discovered she was an escort—a high-priced call girl.
But I was willing to overlook her occupation in the hope that meeting me might lead her to break with her past. Of course, that was incredibly naïve of me to think and even suggesting it brought out the hardness in her.
We exchanged angry words and parted. I was prepared to put the incident behind me and forget her. But each night, when the lights were out, my soul relented to unguarded whispers and breathed life into her again.
She lit up my dreams with florid fancies. And sometimes, when wind and rain conspired, I swore she whispered back—storms being the ether for both our souls to speak.
So, here I was again in the mellow light of the Blue Hour, walking down Yorkville in the rain, past bleary windows and chestnut sellers, thinking of her and what might have been.
I had almost left the street before a familiar voice called out, “Paul—is it really you?”
My heart leapt with joy as I responded to her voice. “Emme!”
She hugged me and I felt her lips softly brush my cheek. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Serendipity,” I smiled.
“Or Fate,” she whispered, staring into my eyes.
“Can we go somewhere and talk?” I asked.
She laughed, “There’s a small pub just up the street.” I smiled wryly at the allusion.
My mind flashed back to a November day five years before. It was an icy, silvery afternoon and I had elected to walk.
It was in this same trendy neighborhood I strayed—window shopping on a street lined with chic shops, exclusive boutiques and a smattering of small, private art galleries. It was then I saw her—a beautiful woman dressed elegantly in an ebony Cossack hat and matching wool maxi coat. I paused to let her pass, but her boot slipped on the glassy sidewalk and she fell awkwardly, twisting her ankle.
I immediately rushed to help.
“Are you able to stand?” I asked.
She was in obvious pain, and momentarily speechless.
“Maybe, I should go back inside the gallery and call for paramedics,” I suggested.
“Don’t do that,” she whispered, “maybe you can help me up.”
She tilted her face to me and when our eyes met, hers took my breath away. She was flawlessly beautiful—lovely honey hair, transparent skin and huge dark brown eyes that completely captivated me.
“Do you want me to help you inside?” I asked, nodding toward the gallery she had just left.
A look of panic crossed her face, “Oh no, please just help me down the street a ways—there’s a small pub on the corner.”
Against my better instincts, I complied. We took several minutes navigating the icy sidewalk, hobbling and pausing, until we finally made it into the pub and I helped her to a window seat.
That was five years ago. I came out of my reverie to see her somber eyes again, once more staring into mine.
But when she saw my slight hesitation, she took it that I was reconsidering my invitation.
“I know it’s been a long time, Paul, and if you’d rather not, I understand.”
“No, no,” I reassured her, “ it was just recalling our first meeting. I got lost in thinking about it.”
“You still sure you want to talk?”
Looking into her lovely face, I was the one off-balance this time—in danger of falling into her sadness and never being able to climb back out again.
“I’m sure,” I said, and took her arm, and as years before, together we walked down the rainy street to the pub.
She chose the same window seat, and we ordered the same drinks, but I resolved not to make the same mistakes.
“I missed you Emme,” I whispered.
“Actually, my name is Mara,” she said bleakly.
It never occurred to me she’d use the initial of her name to remain anonymous, to protect her identity from prying clients. It was another reminder of the gulf between us.
Her eyes were filled with pain and I felt her soul straining, like a pair of anxious hands, reaching out furtively trying to grasp mine.
“It wasn’t personal, Paul—I didn’t want to deceive you. It was necessary.”
But that was just the point—it was personal and the fact of it smacked me in the face.
Knowing her real name changed an icon inside me and my mind was furtively rearranging fragments of her I knew. But I felt a fool—because I didn’t really know her at all.
She was reading my thoughts. “I wanted to tell you my real name when we met—I just didn’t get a chance.”
She was right—our last meeting went badly. I understood—a high-end call girl—not that I cared, but she thought I did.
And yes, I grew angry to think she’d class me alongside her johns. Of course, when I confronted her , something clicked inside her. A switch turned off, along with any hope she might have had about us.
And although she asked me to leave then, I’ve been carrying her inside me ever since.
I blinked away the pain. The scene in my head cleared as I heard her ask, “Are you going to answer?”
“Sorry, Emme—I mean, Mara—it’s a lot to take in.”
She lowered her head and whispered, “I know—but that was my point, Paul, five long years ago.”
Again, a silence fell between us. But I was determined this time not to let it end the same way.
I reached across the table and cupped her hand. She looked up startled, but didn’t pull away as I feared.
“Look, Mara—back then you asked me what kind of life I wanted. I’m asking you that same question now. What do you want, Mara?”
She averted her gaze and stared out the window. I waited, giving her time.
“If you’re asking if I still want to live in a painting—the answer is yes. God, I must be a romantic—ever since that day I thought of nothing else.”
I shook my head sadly, “I know. Ever since that day, despite telling myself I never cared for you, I’ve thought of little else.”
“We’re a sad pair,” she smiled bitterly.
“We are. I suppose we’re writ together in misfortune’s book.”
She looked at me curiously.
“It’s Shakespeare,” I explained.
“I know.”
I arched an eyebrow in surprise, “You mean, you read Shakespeare?”
“I have a Fine Arts degree from the University of Toronto, Paul. I took undergrad courses in Shakespeare.”
“I never guessed.” It was clear I knew very little about her.
“You thought I was simply a hooker.”
I colored, but didn’t deny the remark. I felt miserable.
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Paul. I’m working for a small art gallery now and doing some painting of my own—nothing spectacular, but it makes me happy.”
“I—I don’t know what to say—I’m glad, Mara.”
I hesitated, and then asked softly, “Do you think I might get to see some of your work?”
“Someday, perhaps,” she said dreamily, a far-off look in her eyes.
“I guess I’m like my painting—a work in progress.”
She hesitated, as if weighing whether or not to confide more, and then seemed to come to a decision.
“I’m in therapy too, Paul—working through some of my issues—with men, and other things related to my past.”
“I see.”
“It’s going to take some time and my therapist thinks I’m not ready for a relationship just yet.”
I nodded, trying to hide the disappointment I felt.
“But she says I’m making good progress, and she’s hopeful in time I can recover and live a normal life.”
She paused again and stared at me with sad brown eyes. She was waiting, watching how I’d react.
“Any idea how long this might take?” I asked.
“Six months—a year perhaps. She says, take it slowly and build my life.”
Another long silence fell between us, and in the interval I weighed the consequences of parting against continuing on—the improbability of her and me and the implications of what could be.
In the end, my decision was inevitable—I couldn’t foresee parting.
“I’d like to be part of your life, Mara. I’ll wait for you—if you want, as long as it takes.”
A fleeting smile crossed her face, and she surprised me, by reaching out and putting her other hand over mine.
“I’d like you to be part of me too, Paul.”
Her eyes grew moist. “But you have to admit—I did warn you about buying a whole lot of heartache.”
I nodded grimly.
“You did warn me, but I I’ve been feeling heartache every day for the past five years. I’ve been miserable and don’t see how having a little hope could make things any worse.”
The tears shining in her eyes showed me she felt the same way too.
Later, when we said goodbye outside the pub, we hugged briefly, and again, her lips lightly brushed my cheek.
She never kissed, she told me—never showed affection—and never had anyone, even her mother, tell her they loved her. Not once—not even once in her entire life.
So I told her. “I love you, Emme.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
I believe her. I can’t even begin to understand the kind of life she’s led.
“We’ll meet again in the fall,” she promised.
I gave her my number.
Her eyes brightened. “Maybe, I can write you sometimes —let you know how I am.”
It’s good. Letters are good.
Improbabilities held us together this long—that and Fate and elementals—serendipity and weather gods.
Maybe next time it will rain too. Until then, I’ll lie awake nights, especially when there’s rain and wind. It seems storms are the ether for our souls to speak.
It also seems now that hope is the color of our dreams.