Holiday in Hell
Holiday in Hell
By Trisha Smith
Holiday in Hell
Trisha Smith
Copyright (c) 2011 by Trisha Smith.
Published by Asteroid Publishing at Smashwords
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including other means, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review to be printed or electronically published in a magazine or newspaper – without permission in writing from the publisher.
Please contact Asteroid Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 3, Richmond Hill, ON. Canada L4C 4X9
eISBN: 978-1-926720-00-5
Moved by being unable to charge her perpetrator of a brutal crime against her, a woman seeks an amendment to the Canadian Criminal Code 6(2). She reveals in her story her darkest moments, and some surprising twist of coincidences, which enable her to persevere in her quest for justice.
Because sentence against evil work is not executed speedily, therefore the heart of the sons of men is fully set in them to do evil.
Ecclesiastes 8:11
My gratitude could never cease...
To my family, even my two grandsons, who have been supportive and throughout this time have had faith that sooner or later justice will prevail!
To those who are my lifetime friends and those who became participants in the journey to bring this book to reality.
Many Thanks!
PROLOGUE
I’m awakened by the familiar screeching sound of rubber on tarmac. Instead of arriving home from a tropical holiday with a refreshed body, mind, and spirit, this time the sound irritates me and fills me with overwhelming anxiety.
Cathy touches my arm.
“Marisha, we’re home,” she whispers into my ear.
I’m the first to deplane. Standing up, pain cascades from my face to my toes. Painstakingly, I hold onto each seat I pass. Slowly, I move with my head bowed toward the stewardess walking ahead of me. Each passenger’s stare burns through my wounded face. I’m dazed and unable to see clearly through my unbandaged swollen eye. Cathy reminds me of what I must do officially.
“As soon as the captain hands him over to the police,” she reminds me, “you must point at him and speak as loudly as you can that you charge this man with assaulting you in Cuba.”
I gasp for air, desperate to get out of the aircraft to the place where I see a wheelchair. It is there; the stewardess helps me to ease myself down into it. Cathy and Randolph are still beside me, standing on each side. The stewardess requests them to leave with the remaining passengers. I ache with their parting from me. These two have become caring friends, even though they are only acquaintances who exchanged vacationers’ stories with me on the island. I beg them to stay; I want to keep their comfort around me. But the stewardess quickly pushes me in the opposite direction, down the ramp to another arrival hall, a darker one, and leaves.
I breathe a sigh of relief. There in a corner under what looks like a blue-white spotlight, I see him surrounded. I hope that the Canadian authorities already have arrested him.
I raise my trembling hand and wave in his direction.
“I charge Raffaele Grecci for assaulting me in Cuba! I charge him now in Canada!”
A deathly silence fills the hallway.
“You cannot charge this man in Canada for an assault in Cuba,” one of the many officers replies.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’m devastated! In this gut-wrenching moment, everything freezes.
“I . . . I . . . I can’t charge him?” I yell.
“No,” another police officer adds.
My heart palpitates; my breathing stops as I lift myself up a few agonizing inches off the wheelchair seat. The policewoman eases me back and hands me a Kleenex.
I wipe my bleeding nose and feel a prickle of pain in my mouth, especially now, when I yell.
“He attacked me! He almost killed me!”
I crumple back down into the wheelchair seat and feel myself beginning to black out as I see the man who had savagely beaten me swagger away. It’s as though prison bars are closing on me, instead of him.
What on earth is happening in my homeland? I carried out the instructions of the Cuban police!
“I–I–I was promised! H–h–he was going to be a–a–rrested!” I stutter.
No answer.
Anger and fear turn to panic; I can barely clear my throat. Am I not the victim?
“Why? Why? Why?” I yell.
“Sorry, we have no jurisdiction to act on a crime that occurred in Cuba,” another officer states.
“What do you mean, there’s no jurisdiction? He’s a Canadian citizen and so am I! This is ridiculous!”
“Why can’t you understand?” The older officer frowns. “There’s no law in Canada to charge him for a crime committed in Cuba.”
I’m trembling, devastated and stunned in disbelief.
“I–I–I need protection,” I stutter again, glaring at the silent wall of blue uniforms standing in front of me. It appears that he has gotten away scot-free, immune from punishment. With my last ounce of effort, I cry out, again,
“I’ve been—brutally—attacked! Can’t you see?! He almost killed me!!”
“I’m truly sorry,” the policewoman responds with almost genuine compassion, “but we don’t have the authority.”
My trepidation makes my heart pound so hard; I fear I’m on the verge of having a coronary. She hands me another Kleenex. I wipe my tears and blot my nose, the tissue revealing the warm red liquid that is still flowing.
“Can you please take me to the hospital?” I beg.
Instead, she wheels me out to the passenger pickup area.
“Are you taking me to the hospital?”
I feel frustrated, overcome by fatigue.
“Sorry, we cannot do that,” she answers. She points to a phone at the courtesy desk and then stomps away, shaking her head.
I’m alone—confused, embarrassed, and abandoned.
I wonder who to call.
I curse the day I met him.
Chapter I. Charming First Meeting
My psychologist in her navy suit comes across relaxed; she speaks in a quiet and soothing tone.
“To heal this terrible mental trauma, we have to understand how and why it occurred.” Her soft voice calms me a bit. She leans forward to continue. “I may ask you questions, some of which may seemingly not be related to the issue. You are welcome to interrupt me anytime for any explanation, discussion, or whatever.”
Her dark eyes and arched brow convey genuine compassion; the quiet ambience of her warmly decorated office is conducive to our frank discussion. I nod in agreement.
“You are a teacher, Marisha, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you like your profession?”
I pause, observing a photograph of her with her family.
“Passionately. I’m an artist, too. Teaching was a career change, but I do it, as everything else, with passion and love.”
“You must be a very successful teacher then? Am I right?”
“That’s how I think of myself. It’s important for me to enjoy my work,” I explain, and then add, “What I have just recounted to you makes me want to explode.”
She nods, showing an understanding of my feelings. I continue.
“Am I going to regain my good life back?”
“In a sense. You see,” the psychologist folds her palms, “as a teacher, you meet a lot of different people, kids and adults. A successful teacher quickly finds the right approach to all sorts of individuals, understands their abilities—the whole gamut of their idiosyncrasies.”
“True, but what does this has to do with . . . ?” I ask. It does not make any sense to me how I could have been assaulted like this—not only by the attacker, but even more so, by the Canadian justice system.
“I’m getting to that, Marisha. I want to understand how this happened to you, the person with such good insight into human nature. Didn’t you recognize in your former boyfriend his violent disposition? Was there any hint?”
“No. He treated me with respect.”
“If it isn’t too painful for you, can you tell me, at least briefly, how your romance—if we can call it that—commenced?”
My inner vision rolls in succession, like a movie, all scenes and images having crisp clarity. But because of my blurred memory, affected by the horrific assault, I couldn’t grasp exactly whether I was silently watching this movie or whether I was conveying the story to the psychologist sitting in her armchair across from me.
It was during the summer of 1998. I was meeting my friends for a bit of a celebration.
Hemingway’s in Yorkville at that time has survived the fickleness of changing trends over the past few decades. The multilevel, bustling neighbourhood pub was sandwiched between the Four Seasons Hotel on one side and an array of nouveaux chic boutiques on the other. All had transformed Cumberland Street into Rodeo Drive North.
Next to a large, open window overlooking the crowded patio, I’m seated with four other friends at the perfect table. Normally, we meet here and then move to Movenpick or Sassafraz for dinner; it’s our favourite spot. This time of year, the terraces are especially full of tourists, so we opt to keep this comfortable setting, for now. As it is, we are already indulging in our favourite pastime—people-watching and sipping wine.
Good friends, good conversation, and a great venue. Everyone is bubbling with laughter. Summer is soon approaching, and for us it’s holiday time!
Monica is married to a wonderful, hardworking businessman. Both of them are blonds, fairer than most Northern Italians. Sometimes, Monica and I are mistaken for sisters. It’s our blue eyes; her Italian appearance is more like my Slavic look. Monica’s marriage produced three healthy, beautiful—and now grown—children. I had met her in college when we both were slowly but surely working toward our degree on a part-time basis. Through the university work, we had become professional colleagues.
This evening must now be the third end-of-the-school-year celebration that we have enjoyed so far together. Dana, on the other side of the table is also in her late thirties. Her dark, Romanian, slightly slanted brown eyes and skin contrast with her short-trimmed blond locks. I have met her only recently through attending a spiritual conference. During breaks, we would talk about being single, good dining, dancing, and relationships. Now Dana and I do more than talk on the telephone; we meet with our friends, just as we’re doing now. Dana’s close friend Samantha is sitting beside me, across from Dana. Sam, as Dana calls her, has a melodic accent with a distinguished South American look. Her education is in international business law, and she now has a great job at Canadian Tourism. Her downtown office is just around the corner, just as is my friend Ruth’s. This is what made it convenient for us to meet here. Ruth—well, I call her “Ruthie” most of the time—works on King Street. Sometimes she’s forced to work late. This is why she has just arrived and sat down beside Dana, across from me. Her shining dark eyes piercing through her curly hair and especially her laughter bring joy to our group. Everyone greets each other; our table tallies five.
Everyone is speaking at the same time, eager to share plans for the summer. Monica is off to Europe with her husband. Dana will be teaching in Rome. Ruth is longing for weekends in Muskokas. Samantha has Montreal and the Grand Prix at the top of her activities list. What a wonderful life!
Me, I don’t care, I’m glad not to have any. The world is coming to me. I have two exchange students, one from Osaka and another from Hong Kong.
Dinner draws to a close on a common note—summer was long overdue.
We exit Hemingway’s as twilight slowly yields tonight. Outside, the imitation gas lanterns in black iron seem to light up instantly.
“We’re already late!” Samantha announces.
The temptation to include window-shopping today is out of the question. Instead, we take the shortcut on the old stone alleyway, which crosses both streets of Cumberland and Yorkville. We navigate slowly through a gauntlet of street buskers on our way to join other friends, who are awaiting us at Club Centra.
From a half-block away, we spot the six-foot three-inch Michael, who’s towering over Crystal, waving to us. They’re both dressed in all-white loose clothing and Brian, as usual, is outfitted in a standard charcoal Versace suit. We wave back and agree to quicken our pace.
Michael’s brown wavy hair is longer now; his dark skin is shining, and he’s heavier than I remember him being. He greets us with Crystal by his side; she has become part of his everyday life. When we do our usual hug, it’s Michael and Crystal squeezing each other and sandwiching me. Then there’s Brian, who’s a bit shy; his type of hello is a short wave of his hand and a bright smile.
Our greetings are interrupted; Michael is introducing to us an unfamiliar face.
“Everyone, this is Ralph. Ralph, this is everyone.”
Jeff, the enormously muscled doorman, smiles, lifts the burgundy rope and signals Brian, as we pass the long line-up. The heavy iron and glass doors open; another bouncer steers us to a table close to the dance floor. Before we sit down, Ruth whispers over the music,
“What do you think of him?”
“Who?” I respond, knowing exactly who she’s talking about.
“You know,” she says and then energetically touches my arm.
I smile with approval, seeing that he’s also eyeing me from across the table.
“Marisha, he can’t take his eyes off you,” Ruth whispers and then giggles.
I’m taken by his magnificent dark eyes. I’m mesmerized, no doubt. But I don’t want to be obvious about it. I ask Ruth,
“Let’s go get some sushi.”
Each Friday night, Club Centra offers sushi—it’s a treat I can’t resist. I spot him still looking at me. I guess we are both attracted.
“Look, Marisha! He’s a really good-looking guy.”
“Stop it, Ruthie.” I laughingly respond to her teasing me, as my eyes still focus in his way—observing that he’s dressed immaculately in a nice green suit with an open-collar polo shirt. Then, I look away toward the swaying bodies on the dance floor as the DJ spins a mixed of reggae, Euro, and now salsa; Ralph follows my every move and smiles at me. Michael and Crystal are busy dancing away. Dana and Monica are talking to some people who just sat down beside them, and Brian is chatting with Ralph. Ralph is still looking at me.
Ruth and I continue eating sushi, spin occasionally on the barstools toward the crowd, and chat about her weekends up north; I’m thinking about him. Every time I meet his eyes, he’s still smiling. Ruth gently touches my hand, as if she’s trying to wake me from a trance.
“Come on Marisha, Dana and Sam want to dance” Ruth calls joyfully. Dana smiles and nods; then Samantha, a huge smile on her beautiful Peruvian face, gets up as we approach them and says to me, “Let’s strut our Latino stuff!”
Everyone joins Michael and Crystal on the dance floor, including the people with whom Dana and Sam were talking, and without exception Ralph and Brian are here dancing beside me. More kaleidoscope strobe lights rhythmically pulsate to the music around us.
In the glare of the lights, his curly dark hair and face appear even more handsome, right now as he dancers toward me. His lips pour out some words amidst the heavy bass lines; the music drowns out any chance to start a decent conversation. Samantha, Dana, and Ruth retreat to our spot. I follow them, sensing that Ralph is not far behind me. He stops beside my chair and leans down.
“Can I sit here, next to you?”
He speaks with an air of confidence, but not conceit. I nod, “Sure,” and smile,
“Would you ladies like a drink?” he asks and quickly gestures toward the waiter passing by.
Across the table, Ruth and Michael beam with the air of successful matchmakers. The waiter returns with drinks.
“Cheers!” I offer Ralph a smile.
“Cheers!” everyone replies.
“Wouldn’t it be great to try it out?” he turns to me and asks when the conversation around the table is about some salsa dance classes held here at Club Centra. I don’t get a chance to respond. Everyone already agrees, “Sounds like it would be fun.”
“Boy, is it ever hot in here,” Ralph says, wiping a few beads of sweat from his forehead.
“Maybe the air-conditioning isn’t working,” Ruth says as she comes to sit beside me; I nod.
“Let’s go to the restroom, Marisha,” she whispers, and we excuse ourselves, leaving Ralph alone at the table. Everyone is doing their own thing, except for Michael and Crystal, who are chatting on a circular sofa, beside the open windows.
Two steps inside the washroom, Ruth turns to me.
“So what do you think of him? He seems nice, Marisha.”
Raising an eyebrow, she nudges me, again. “Well, what do you think?”
“He seems very nice,” I smile and add, “It’s hard to tell until I have a chance to get to know him.”
After a quick check in the mirror, we leave the washroom. We return to our table. Ralph stands up quickly and brushes his hair back with both hands. This time, one hand supports my back and the other points to the seat next to him.
“I’ve kept this seat for you.” He lets out another smile.
I slide down beside him. Samantha, Ruth, and Monica are now sitting on the other side. Monica strikes up a conversation. Without hesitation, Ralph leans toward her and tells a joke. Everyone reels with laughter. Michael and Crystal now join us and fan themselves with the cocktail menus.
“It’s so stifling in here.” I fan myself with my hand.
“Is anyone up for moving to the patio?” Michael, holding Crystal close, suggests.
On the terrace, the night’s cool breeze relieves the summer’s humid stickiness. Jokes and one-liners continue to fly between us. Ralph edges closer to me. Without a doubt, I conclude that he’s definitely going to ask me for a real date.
We return to dance for few more songs, and then Ralph asks, “Would you please call me?” He hands me his business card. I can smell his Giorgio Armani cologne. He seems to be a true gentleman.
My psychologist sighs, returning me to the reality of her small office—my physical and emotional anguish overrides any good memory of him or any joy of ever having known him.
“You asked me if there was any indication of his violent character. I’m struggling for an answer. I hope to address this at our next session, if you don’t mind.”
Chapter 2. Documenting Pain
Painful and boring matters are priorities in my life, with no time for anything else. Otherwise, anxiety sets in all the more. My health is fragile; I have to see my family doctor, very soon.
In a room full of patients, the welcoming smile on my doctor’s face vanishes. I’m relieved that he’s speechless and quickly gestures for me to come into the examination room.
He peels off the bandages and notes my injuries: the heavy bruising on my face, neck, and arms; the swelling throughout my upper torso; the scratches, abrasions, and deep cut under my right eye; my fractured nose; and the bite mark on my right shoulder. He records them silently on his clipboard and calls for his assistant to bring a camera. He’s more concerned about the cut under my right eye, right now.
“It’s infected,” he says. “We need to get rid of the infection before I can take any of the stitches out.” He dabs some cream under my eyes. “Apply the antibiotic cream a few times a day. The bruising will mend; however, for the broken nose you’ll have to see a specialist. I’ll order an MRI for your spine.”
This kind of prognosis is not what I want to hear, but I am thankful for the doctor’s thoroughness.
“Ask your dentist to take X-rays of your teeth. In the long run, who knows how these injuries could affect your gums and then your teeth.”
“Morty, my head is pounding. And, for the last few days, I’ve been more on the toilet than off.”
“Keep drinking your herbal remedies and the green tea,” he says, as he knows my healthy ways, and then adds, “Perhaps you can tell me briefly what happened? If, of course, it’s not too . . .”
“It’s okay, doctor. It happened in Cuba, where I was on trip—a holiday in hell.”
I don’t remember exactly how I told him the story, but I vividly remember every bit of the trauma.
It is the last night in the resort. Ralph has just brought me back to my room, after an embarrassing conversation with other vacationers. Once we enter the suite, I say,
“I need some sleep. It’s only a few hours until we leave for the airport.”
I lie down, watching a brilliant moonbeam flickering through the sheer curtains. I’m mesmerized by the bright reflection dancing on my tanned legs and pearl-coloured toenails. Ralph is having his last cigarette out on the balcony. I call to him to rest and watch the moonlight’s glow with me, as I’m already falling into a deep sleep.
Before long, I wake up in terror, gasping for air and screaming uncontrollably. I’m in pain, horrified, yelling for help. Shocked! I see dark stains on the sheets; it’s my own blood, dripping.
“No! No! Stop it!” I scream, waking up.
The moonlight casting its bright light through the tall balcony window allows me to see my own blood gushing into the sheets and pillows. I hope to free myself from the grip of my attacker, but one of his hands holds me down, the other pounds my face.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” he yells, over again and again.
I flail my arms and twist my head to get free, but I’m yanked back on the bed, my head swinging back and forth with the impact of each blow.
“God help me! God help me! Let me go!”
Like a mad animal, my attacker keeps pummelling me. With each blow to my face and head, he becomes more violent.
“Please let me go, please let me go!” I’m trying to get my breath. The feel of the blood gets thicker and thicker. I can’t see.
“Why? Why, are you doing this? Please let me go!” I gasp.
He does not stop hitting me. My face streams with blood. My vision blurs—I start losing consciousness, but inside I’m screaming for my life.
“Let me go!!!”
Despair and fear of imminent death give me one last ounce of strength. I free myself, finally, and slide off the bed onto all fours on the hard floor, then quickly push myself to crawl toward the exit, grabbing a robe lying nearby. I slide across the marble floor made slippery by my blood.
He is getting closer. “Now, I’m going to jail for sure.” His voice terrifies me: I know it like I know my own.
“Help me! Someone, please help me!” Screaming, I manage to get outside.
Confronted, now, by the stairs, I’m afraid of falling down—afraid of dying on display, stretched out in a bloody puddle. I don’t want to die like this. I don’t know how I half run, half stagger, scrambling down the stairs.
Somehow, I reach the bottom, careening against the walls like a wounded animal running for its life. Behind me, his footsteps get louder, like a threatening drumbeat. My fingers scrape on the walls, groping for a door.
“Someone, help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Please someone, help!”
Beads of perspiration stand on my face, as the doctor says, “Take it easy!” I cough, and stop talking. The doctor nods.
“I’m going to prescribe Paxil.”
“What’s that?” I stutter and cough, trying to clear my throat.
“It’s a mild antidepressant to ease your anxiety. I’m also prescribing Ciprofloxacin, a painkiller, and Relafen, an anti-inflammatory. Make sure you follow the instructions. And, if the infection under the eye is still there tomorrow, please call my office.”
The prescriptions go into my purse; I’m upset that I have to take all this medication. Halfway out the door, I remember that I still have a profession.
“Oh, doctor, could you please write me a sick-leave notice for the school board?”
“Certainly,” he says, pauses, and then further advises me. “You know that for your protection, you must get a restraining order against him, immediately. You’ll not heal over night, and the last thing you need is for that idiot to be anywhere near you. Don’t forget to call the crisis unit at York Central, and I suggest that you also contact the Yellow Brick House for counseling. They assist with trauma counseling and legal matters.”
I watch my doctor write the information down for me.
“Their head office is in Aurora, but they have a location nearby, on Yonge Street. Julia, the counselor, is excellent.”
He hands me his paperwork and reminds me, “You need to see me once a week, and come back in a few days to have the stitches removed.”
I hate going out in public—the exposure embarrasses me; I can’t handle the constant “what happened to you?” let alone the staring.
“See you, in a few days, for those stitches.”
Back at home, I collapse on the bed, exhausted by pain and humiliated by everyone’s attention to my face. The newly prescribed mixture of medication and my own natural remedies upset my stomach. I feel like I’m going to blow up.
More than that, the question of my psychologist haunts me whenever I am alone. I analyze each day of that relationship: Was there any sign? What did I miss? Even now, as much as I hate and despise this man, I admit that our romance was beautiful from the very first day I met him. That day was at the end of grading exams for another school year.
I reflect on that Saturday night: Should I call him? The weekend is almost here. Why not?
I dial the number from his business card, only to hear the familiar voice on the answering machine. Perhaps I should leave him my phone number? No. I’d rather get him later.
About an hour later I redial. This time, when the machine comes on, I leave a message, “Hi Ralph. It’s Marisha. We met last Saturday. Here’s my phone number. Call me when you have a chance.”
“Mom, are you ready?” Katrina, my daughter, eager for our shopping venture, hollers from her room upstairs as the phone rings. It’s Ralph, for sure. I run to the kitchen. My intuition serves me well.
“I’m fine,” I say to him while trying to control my excitement.
“I was worried that you’d never call,” he lets me know, and waits.
“Well, here I am, Ralph.”
“Are you free this weekend?”
“I still have some exams to correct.”
“When would you be finished?”
“Actually, tonight is good for me.”
“Well, how about dinner?”
“That sounds nice.”
“What time?”
“I’m just on my way out the door to go shopping with my daughter.” I put Ralph on hold because Katrina is calling in the background.
“Mom, are you ready?”
“Sure, honey. I’m waiting for you downstairs.”
I get back to Ralph, and we arrange the date.
“So, seven o’clock?” he asks.
“Sure, Ralph.”
“Great. Should I pick you up at your home or should we meet somewhere?”
“How about somewhere in Yorkville?”
He suggests Mabella’s patio.
“All right! Then I’ll see you at Mabella’s, sevenish,” I reply.
“Hey, mom! Is this a date tonight?” Katrina asks from the hallway.
“How could you tell?”
“Look at you! You’re smiling like a Cheshire cat.”
We laugh as we head out to the car.
“So, what’s up with your big date, Mom?”
“Did I mention Ralph? I met him last Saturday. This evening, he’s invited me to dinner.”
“Nice!”
“It’s just a dinner date, Katrina.” She smiles lovingly. I continue, “We’ll see. So, what are you up to this evening?”
“Dan and I are going with a few friends to see a movie.”
“Looks like for a change we’ll both be out tonight!” I nudge Katrina with my elbow.
This time our shopping is done in record time.
“Mom, get ready! It’s already 6:15,” Katrina encourages me.
“Thanks, Katrina!” I give her a quick peck on the cheek, “You’re wonderful!”
Then I disappear to my room upstairs. The radio plays another top-twenty hit. My image in the mirror moves to the rhythm as I brush my hair, crack a smile of approval, and head down the stairs.
“Katrina, I’m r-e-a-d-y!”
In harmony with the world, if not the song, in the car I sing at the top of my lungs, “It’s a beau-ti-ful day.”
It’s not hard to pick Ralph out of the swarm at Mabella’s: He’s waiting for me, leaning against the entrance. His hair glistens; his face is very handsome. He sees me, straightens himself up quickly, and walks toward me, his eyes on me. Now face-to-face, I like how he takes my hand in his and kisses it, gently squeezing it.
“Hey, Marisha, you look great.”
“Thank you.” I want to return the compliment, but decide to do it later.
He leads me to the table at the far end of the patio. Two white chairs are sitting across from each other; he has obviously reserved it. He asks me to sit across from him, where I look away from the crowd, facing only him.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks and gestures to the headwaiter.
I notice his voice is hoarse, not the same as last Saturday. I think, perhaps, he smokes cigarettes. I’ll find out later. He looks good tonight; not only is his sense of style put together just right, but he also has a new, styled haircut.
“I’m happy that we were able to meet today,” he says. I nod.
“I hope you don’t mind ordering dinner a bit later?” Ralph suggests, and then continues, “Well, here we are!” He cheers with the glass of sparking water, smiles, and smoothes his hair. I give him a nod of approval. “You look very handsome, Ralph!”
He smiles easily and assures me, “I’m glad to see you again, Marisha.”
I’m becoming used to him taking my hand in his and kissing it as he looks into my eyes.
“I’m privileged to have you sitting here with me,” he continues, and caresses my hand.
I feel a bit overwhelmed by his actions and words. Such a romantic beginning! The only thing I can think of to say to him is, “You’re so sweet! Thank you.”
He talks about himself: his business, where his office is, where he lives, and other things so necessary to know for developing trust and understanding.
“How long have you lived in that area?” I ask.
“Well.” He stops, and I can see a faint flush come over his cheeks. He finally responds, “I live with my parents for now.” He pauses again, then resumes, “Well, until I find a place of my own.”
“So, you moved back in with your parents?”
Seemingly irritated by my question, he reveals, “After my divorce . . .” He pauses. “Well, I was forced to.” He clears his throat.
“Aha.” I try to help him with a meaningless exclamation.
Our conversation feels overburdened with Ralph’s life—I hear the sounds of the alto cello strings playing harshly over the newfound sweet romantic violins. I want to keep the talk light, and quickly change the topic. I ask him if his work involves traveling outside the country.
“Most of my business is done in the office, making long-distance calls. However, I love to travel, for pleasure.” Nonchalantly he continues to mention scenes from some of his favorite tropical places. His last exotic destination had been just a few months ago, a holiday in Mexico.
I’ve trekked quite a bit on foreign soil myself, so I share with him my previous experiences living and traveling in different countries. He says how he visits his parents’ vacation place in Europe and loves reconnecting with family there. Then I tell him, jokingly, how I managed to survive in Italy by flipping quickly through A Rough Guide to Italian.