One of the more consistent rituals in a marriage that is tanking is the reconciliation trip. The needier of the two parties’ reasons: If we can just be alone, away from here … A vaguely defined, low-grade miracle is expected. It never happens. In 1998 Barbara and I were going down like the Andrea Doria. I suggested Switzerland.
The first night in Bern set the tone for our trip. We climbed into the big, hard bed and I felt obligated to make an attempt at sex. At my touch she stiffened and stayed perfectly still, skin like ice. Neither of us spoke. To be honest, part of me was relieved that I did not have to play out the farce that was sex with Barbara. Adding to the ignominy of it, another couple began arguing in the hall just outside our room. Their timing was exquisite. They were a Greek chorus articulating the misery we were just then acting out. We couldn't understand a word of German but that didn't matter. The woman's voice vacillated from miserable sobs to bursts of outrage. The man's voice was harsh, sarcastic and hateful. It went on for what seemed hours. Then it stopped. Both of us retreated desperately into sleep without a word.
In the morning we decided to go our separate ways for the duration of our stay there. We decided without having to discuss it. "I'm taking the boat tour. I'll be on it all day," she said. "You can go to the museums. It’s passive enough; you'll like that."
I probably would have liked that. The rain and wind had stopped. It was a sunny, touristy morning. I unfolded the city map on a bus-stop bench, found the two biggest museums and headed in the opposite direction.
It was warm enough to eat out-doors; and I stopped for a coffee and croissant at one of the many cafes on the Viktoriastrasse. They served coffee in a bowl like the French. The pastry was warm, flaky and comforting in the mid-morning sun.
That was the high point of Switzerland for me, that morning, that croissant, watching the Swiss going about their lives. There was something mannerly, almost apologetic, in their attitude as they hurried by me. The men wore new, soft-shouldered raincoats and ties. Pretty young women strutted in their confident, cheery way. They wore black business suits or high-collared jackets with long, plaid skirts. "Life isn't so bad," their passing smiles seemed to say. "It can be happy. It can be good."
I began to wander the shops. There seemed to be hundreds of them all around the Viktoriaplatz. Some were old and dusty, others newly renovated, colorful and bright. I found myself gravitating to the bright ones. I was looking for some memento to take home, something that wasn’t generic. They had pictures of Switzerland, post cards and calendars and chocolates and mugs. In New York, I could buy the same calendars and chocolates and mugs. There had to be something unique, something that would make me remember that morning, those feelings, later on.
One shop, Andalusia’s, did have something, a man-high stack of them in fact, shining boldly in the center of an ancient wooden floor. They were cigars, packed into substantial, yellow-gold boxes. PRODUCTO DE CUBA. It was stamped in big, no nonsense, black letters across the top.
I saw myself opening that box with Rod and Bill in my office. I saw the three of us puffing on cigars liberated from Fidel's Communist stronghold. It was illicit, exotic and manly all at once. It seemed right. They were expensive but they made a statement. I wanted that scene to happen. It was a statement I needed to make, if only to myself.
I brought the box back to our room and made the mistake of sharing my find with Barbara. Her face froze into that mask of disgust that seemed to accompany whatever I found pleasing. "Those are illegal. Why the hell would you buy something like that?"
"I just wanted something different, something special that I could share with Rod and Bill."
"Ha! You hardly even smoke -- certainly not like they do." This was said as if she were denigrating the size of my biceps or penis. “Turn around and take them back where you got them.”
I was going into damage control mode now, looking for a way to defuse this one while I still could. I casually turned to slip the offending package into my own luggage and out of her sight as I answered. "Something like that’s only technically illegal." I was trying for soothing and authoritative in the same tone. "It's like copying a CD. Theoretically, you're not supposed to but we all do it. Right?"
"You can't take that on the plane."
"Oh, sure I can. It'll be fine."
"No, you can't!" The porcelain houses on the fake mantle rattled with the sound of her voice. It signaled escalation. She had a cause now. This was going to be like the bath towels she threatened to sue over in Montreal, like the seventy-eight cent over-charge for dinner in Myrtle Beach that turned into a shouting match with Barbara, two waitresses and the manager. There was nothing uglier than Barbara with a cause. Thank God, we were going back soon. Time to head home and watch our eight year marriage complete its death throes.
On the plane, only fits of angry sleep punctuated her twenty-four hour filibuster on the cigars. “Does doing things like that make you feel like a man?” The question was becoming a mantra for her. “My mother was right. You have no life force.” She dragged down her carryall from the luggage compartment and perched it on the armrest between us, precluding any possibility of physical contact or even quiet discussion. The fight to come up with new material finally exhausted her. Her head fell against the darkened window and she slept across the Western half of the Atlantic.
Barbara only fully awoke when the plane's gear squeaked onto the runway at LaGuardia. She opened her eyes innocently for the briefest of instants. Then she remembered her mission and the eyes again went black, shark-like. She grabbed her bag as if it was a life jacket and we were ditching in the ocean, then made a noisy point of clambering over my knees and into the aisle. It was important that she put some passengers between us. I followed meekly at a distance as she barreled past the others and down the concourse. The stream of passengers came to a sluggish halt at the customs gate. I saw her make a final surge, passing three more couples then dodging back into line, nearly knocking down a white-haired woman in a pink sweat suit.
Ahead of us, I could see the customs agents, three of them. I watched how each of them checked incoming bags as they came through the metal detector. Was Barbara right? Were the cigars illegal? Were there serious consequences for someone trying to bring them into the country? I didn't know; and at that point I really didn't care. The searches seemed to be totally random. They were patting, weighing, unzipping or ignoring bags with no particular method that I could see. They were doing it fast, trying to alleviate a backup.
I was headed for the leftmost agent. He seemed the most serious of the three, making checks and notes on a small clipboard as he finished with each passenger. I wondered how he’d react to my bag.
He ignored it. He ignored me, not even looking up from his clipboard. I almost felt slighted as I brushed past the turnstile and grabbed up the black bag without even an acknowledgement of my existence. My pace quickened a little. Mentally, I chided myself for the devilish exhilaration building in my gut.
I found Barbara outside at the curb, smoking a cigarette as she waited for a cab to stop. Her face turned into the mask of disgust when she saw me still free. I’d share one last cab ride with her. And with true thanksgiving I’d begin to count down the lasts from here on.
"I wouldn't have bailed you out,” she said at last. “You pathetic asshole, if they'd found those cigars you would have been rotting here for days."
"No," I said, pulling down the zipper on her carryall just enough to expose one corner of the gaudy, gold box, "You would have."
Glad Jean directed me here, Larry. This is a marvellous story, comes totally alive and real. I so loved the ending and hope he left Barbara the next day. What a boring woman. He had wit and imagination. I'll marry the guy and he can smoke his cuban cigars every day.
Larry, I felt like I was there with you. I loved the ending, much like me with a toothpaste cap. It's so funny sometimes how we end misery. I love your style.
Reviewed by Dawn Wilson
12/3/2007
Larry...I absolutley loved this. It played out in my mind like a movie from start to finish...and I have to say that even though it was about a marriage falling apart...I loved the ending! Excellent!
This story is exceptional. There is no doubt in my mind that it is, at least in part, true. If not for you, then for someone very close to you. Having been through a failed marriage myself, I could relate so well to these characters and their situation; the reconcilliation trip that didn't work, indeed, only made things worse, the mask of disgust his partner wears at anything that brings him pleasure. Absolutley perfect. You certainly know how to get inside a character's head and make their stories belong to your readers. Bravo!
Jean
This is very engaging from start to finish; it seems very real and perhaps it is not fiction. In any case, in my humble opinion, you write very well and I thank you for sharing this. Love and peace to you,
Strong writing. Such caustic interplay I found actually funny in parts. If this is autobiographical, I'm sure you found it in no way amusing as it happened. Nevertheless, again, your writing is strong. Your style -- fluid, energetic, smart. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Jerelyn
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One of the more consistent rituals in a marriage that is tanking is the reconciliation trip. The needier of the two parties’ reasons: If we can just be alone, away from here … A vaguely defined, low-grade miracle is expected. It never happens. In 1998 Barbara and I were going down like the Andrea Doria. I suggested Switzerland.
