A man called Christo’ Clarke remains fresh in my memory as if I saw him yesterday.
Somewhere in the USA is this Librian (the sign of the scales of justice), who became a Muslim and changed his name to Mohammad El Gharbu.
He was my best friend when I studied my Law degree, and he had completed the same course and was in the year above. Like most relationships we lost touch with each other so invisibly that it happened without my realising it. A couple of years after completing his degree, he sent me a picture of his new son, enclosed in a letter saying, words to the effect, "... don't fall off your chair, you may need to be sitting down, I know I haven't written since the honeymoon, but I have news for you, I enclose a picture of our son..."
I did sit down; then I burst out laughing aloud; a bonny beautiful boy: an extraordinary likeness to the man who for 4 years until his visa forced him back to the States had without exception been my best friend. He had lived up to his religious beliefs and saved himself for his wedding day, quite unusual for any man, and I couldn't help but admire his resolution, conviction and his commitment to his new found Muslim faith. He had never spoken of love or romance when we were Friends, because a far more exigent event had overtaken his path whereby Friendships rather than romances had enveloped him.
The way that I met him was quite usual, and then again, perhaps it wasn't.
I love perfume, cologne, and aftershave and can discriminate between a past love's aftershave and any other person in the universe. This comes from years of being around a brother and father who did not allow a day to pass without splashing it on.
I have always sprayed my linen with rose, but my mother's dressing table had beautiful glass vials, and bottles of scents... in fact she became an aromatherapist after retiring. When we were little she would spray Eau d'cologne, its lemony fresh fragrance would make us feel finished. Then thanks to Avon, there were all those unusual names and flowery scents, from Lilly of the Valley, to Charisma, and Peach for little girls.
Well, I was walking down a corridor with the bright November cold sunlight pouring into the hall and as I approached the three steps to where the classrooms for my seminar were, I decided to trot down the wooden ramp, in precarious high heel boots, that was placed there for wheelchairs. My heels grinded down the ramp, and I steadied myself on the banister, whilst reading my mail, just picked up from my pigeon-hole.
I was half-listening with my attractive, tall friend Sarbjit (an Asian girl who would secretively marry an older businessman in Canada within 2 years and have a beautiful family of I think 4 children at the last count), to another student, prettier than the pair of us, (we were unsympathetic, faking interest) whining about the latest drama in her unrequited romance with a typical college 'jock/heel'; a long line in succession for her... and all of a sudden I smelt it.
An aftershave that set off my wheel-spin on a heel, half-swivel and with nose upturned I walked back up the stairs next to the small ramp and almost in a dream state, said very clearly to my girl friends, "Wow, what was that scent, it is gorgeous, where is he - the owner?"
I had to know what it was, and I had to ask the person who wore it!
Just as quickly the scent disappeared and left me standing looking foolish. Sarbjit caught up with me, and asked what happened.
I shrugged, and I followed her down the hall she was about three rooms away from mine, she was studying Social Work. She pointed vaguely in the direction of the canteen, but we had no choice but to get to our classes.
The scent stayed in my mind, for about half an hour.
The morning passed uneventfully, and I became waylaid from my fellow students eventually realising that I was alone in the library. The corridors heavily silent, and even the study areas were unusually quiet; I thought how dark everything seemed.
I could see my own reflection in the windows as I walked down a long corridor where one side was all glass. Unlike everyone else, I never did jeans, I wore forties style suits, with different berets, or felt hats or twenties style frocks, silky slips, for the evening, with little fur stoles: just a phase for me. I wore gloves with everything, whatever the season.
The black night outside was poorly lit, and every so often someone well wrapped would pass the other side hurriedly trying to get into the warmth.
Grimshaw's meloncholy and moody... View of London's Heath Street by Night, 1882...I remember to this day that I had an eerie feeling of something unusual about to happen: call it premonition.
I felt the shudder of a draught that caught my breath as I walked passed an open window in an area where the air-conditioning was irregularly closeted, and stuffy. Then I wandered down a dark corridor towards my next seminar, where some of the strobe lights were flickering. Already winter was making each evening shorter and at 4 o'clock, it was jet black outside, like harbour lights, old style street lamps lit the pathways as students fumbled their way in the darkness.
I was about 20 minutes early to the room I was due to have a seminar in, and wished I didn't live so far away. I couldn't slip home to an old mansion that was being converted into luxury condos but some of the rooms including an old cottage attached to it were being rented to students. It was almost 10 miles away, north of Hoddesdon, Herts. Most of the other first year freshmen could slip across the field into their student lodgings or halls of residence, but I was a last minute entry, choosing the place for it's visual value rather than it's scholastic history, and I had slept on a friend's floor the first term, she delighted in locking me out or leaving unexpectedly for the weekend and purposely not telling me.
I walked into the room, and then I noticed a tall man, around 6ft 4", he was the twin double of
Marc Singer (noted for 'V' the sci-fi series, "V: The Second Generation” currently in production).
A tall cool blonde, with a thoughtful philosophical aura about him, I felt the second I laid eyes on him that he was an inspired discovery.
His opalescent quality was that despite how graceful he was he had strong sinewy muscles from hours of basketball practice in the hall on his own. I would know his walk anywhere, anytime.
Suddenly, meditative memories subtle but a puzzle coming together in your mind, I now recalled him. He played for the seniors and left the hall just moments before I arrived to practice with the (male) freshmen. My game plan better suited the boys, so most of my sports were around them, rather than the girls. I remembered I used to smell the same scent then but with a dozen young men leaving together it was difficult to detect the source. Only once before had I really smelt him so vividly, and clearly, even then we did not look into each other’s eyes. He was dribbling a ball, then as he came close towards me with his buddies, he quickly snatched it up, so that it did not hit me, he appeared so tall and distinctive, and yet apart; even in that crowd.
I recalled that many times when I was alone in the library so was he, usually he was seated at right angles to where I sat, the tables were placed rather irregularly, and angles made a difference to your vantage point of observation. At college, romance is a driver that ensures everyone wants to see who is around and where. I would be aware that he watched me but didn’t move his head, walk between the aisles but that as he was so deeply restrained and appeared so cool and distant, I never tried to catch his eyes.
If anything I was remotely distancing myself from coming anywhere near his space. Something made me feel he needed his territory, and I had always tiptoed around ‘it’, shyly as if there were a minefield around him.
I am sure everyone has known someone like him - that elusive man in the corner, watchful without appearing imposing or harsh. He always appeared to look indifferent to me, nonchalant and laid back. Someone that intrigues you because calculative intensity is burning icily in their eyes but they have no agenda.
I remembered him clearly now he always had a basketball with him or was spinning a tennis ball on his index finger. Sometimes in the canteen I would hear his laughter, a deep voice, his head thrown back, and an easy gaze. He would always be sat open legged a way back from the table, just resting his elbow on the corner edge, being tall, as many men with his height do, finding that the furniture was too low and his legs too long for it.
He looked up, and smiled softly, a half-smile, that matched mine, when I told him I had a class there, and asked if it was okay if I sat down and waited. He said it was fine, in an American accent, which was languid and easy on the ear. I shuffled between the closely placed chairs past him (to sit a little way behind him feeling rather self-conscious) clutching my books in front of me, and twisting myself between the spaces. As I did, my shoulder bag caught his open book and knocked it off the swing-table attached to the chair, and it fell, I turned and we both reached for it. For the first time ever, both of our eyes caught each other soul deep.
In that one second, I saw my new Friend.
He reached the book before I did, and said, "That is okay, I got it".
Then I smelt him; I went to sit down waited a moment then summed up the courage to speak to him. I asked slowly, if he had walked past the ramp at such and such a time that very morning. He paused, without looking around at me, he instead looked up towards the ceiling and said, "Yep, my-lady, I did, and I saw you too".
I burst out loud, said, "Oh no, I didn't see you, I smelt you, what have you got on, it simply took my breath away!"
He turned and smiled, paused and then replied, "Ahem, today, it’s Kouros!"
I said, "I knew it, but it smells different on everyone else but you! AND you know what, I am having a deja vu!"
He now turned himself around and we introduced ourselves, and realised that we had similar interests. Eventually people started drifting into the class, and I introduced him to the ones that I was already close to. We arranged to meet an hour later and spend the evening together with two friends in tow. By his feet next to his rucksack was his basketball.
Who doesn't have magical friendships, or meetings that direct the course of one's life, sometimes when he spoke I was keenly conscious that he was speaking to me but I was simply in awe of him, and dimly aware that I was nodding, but not understanding, it felt as if I was absorbed by the rapturous glimpse into his soulful depths.
One thing for sure the way that you meet friends at school or college cannot be duplicated in real life or at work. I think it is because first of all, work relationships can be fraught with social and moral issues, such as the fact that you may be a manager and therefore it can be a sensitive issue, or maybe the man is married and he is weak and over sensitive about others talking, so he appears furtive if he takes you a female to lunch. I mean there are so many issues at stake.
At school, or at college it is perfectly natural to wander around in groups or couples whatever your intimacy it is a normal social convention. Past those times and any platonic friendship may be open to scrutiny in a way that is more about the person judging it than the friends within it's healthy boundaries.
Chris and I would speak to each other daily, 'He would start with, 'what can I do for you today, milady?’ I would giggle, then we would rearrange our lives around each other’s seminars and lectures, whilst he was around, and I felt on top of the world. I actually had for the first time in my life someone I could look up to as my big brother, something I had never experienced because I was the eldest child in my family, and I pretty much adopted him and assured him of that place.
I felt like a puppy around him, I looked up to him and I adored him. He listened intently to me and without judging me he would arrange to pick me up at the drop of a hat and make sure I got home safely, or he would help me to move when my search for a newer place led me to another old manor in Bengeo, that was beautiful, and its residents treated me as one of their own, they were the Savorys. The lady of the manor was one of the last original Debutantes, she bowed to the 'Queen Anne or was it Charlotte' cake. She was a stunning blonde voluptuous beauty from New Zealand that had to have sheep roaming her beautiful grounds, so she could feel her old farmland roots.
Whenever together Chris, the king of one-liners would quip something quite cool, "don't just eavesdrop Sapphire - contribute to the conversation!"
Or, when I wrote in my by now infamous gothic scrawl, on a notice board, 'Nothing works!' below it, he took my pen and finished it thus->
"If nothing works - do nothing!"Chris had five close friends, all were Muslims, and they had been at school together at the American School in London; for around 7 years they are hung out together. Most of them were the bluebloods of Arab society; one of them had parents who owned hotels in swanky London's most affluent corners.
The year after I met him, he was supposed to go up north with the others to one of the guy's female cousin's weddings. He mentioned it to me, but it was so close to exams for us, that we had decided against it. They had decided to drive up together but at the last moment Chris and one of his friends had stayed behind, because of term papers.
Fate led a drunk driver: snaking carelessly in the inside lane to swing over to hit the boot of Chris's friends car, sending it careering across the lanes into a disastrous collision with other vehicles. All four young men in the car would as a result of that fatal accident, either at the time or within days of it be gone.
Chris withdrew, and I assumed he was inconsolable and grief stricken. No-one knew but for about 3 weeks I couldn't find him.
One night, he turned up at my home, he pulled on the stringy nylon rope that I had dropped from my window (I was on the 4th floor of this old manor), and the small bell on the end of the rope chimed. I leapt up, opened my window and looked down across the turrets. It was dark around 11ish, and I strained to see Chris leaning back and just in the small old type lantern I could see his new beard.
I was so excited and worried, I felt a sickly feeling, I wasn't sure how he would be, and I was an emotional coward when it came to handling other people grieving, or suffering, back then I wanted to avoid such painful recollections with every ounce of my tactical manoeuvres for flight.
I ran down, I was in my pyjamas, it was a cold fresh Spring night, and I had fuchsia pink marabou feathered mules (slippers) on, and a dressing gown that was fluffy, which made me feel like a Hollywood Starlet. This coat was very long and went passed my ankles and it was a stunning aqua shade. My hair had been cut into a bob, a style I favour every 10 years of having very long hair: and I quickly put a turban/towel around it as I had just washed it.
When I saw him I gave him a huge hug, he looked tired and gaunt and he looked as if he had hardly slept, his chin had a slightly styled beard and his blonde hair looked freshly washed too, but then he always looked fresh and he always smelt wonderful...
He asked if I would like to come for a drive, I said "Wait, give me a moment". He came inside and quickly, I went through the same routine that I had followed from when I first met him, I put together a hot flask of cocoa, and grabbed some cookies, wrapped in a napkin.
We avoided each other’s eyes, as if spontaneous self-expression may have exposed the most painful wound, so control was vital.
“Oh this is for you”. He smelt comfortingly familiar that evening. He handed me a strangely unusual handmade mug, (I collect tea cups and saucers particularly ancient ones)...I quickly re-potted a small cacti inside it, that I had been given for Xmas; I have it to this day, with the same cacti.
"Okay, I am ready". I left the damp towel, and slipped on a bright cherry red beret. We went out, me: just as I was, no key as there was one hidden in the plant pot. I have repeated this scenario ever since with friends, to me going out in my pyjamas is perfectly acceptable. I do not consider it strange, if anything it is fun, if the events call for it, and as long as I have a dressing gown over the top and slippers, I think I feel adequately garbed.
If a friend called me out on a mercy mission at night, I would go out just like that, if I felt like it, it started back then with Chris.
We walked over to his car, the chocolate cookies melting in my napkin. He opened the door, he always did that, and the music that was playing was his favourite 'REO SPEEDWAGON'. I watched him walk around to the back of the car, and take out a tartan blanket from the boot and bring it over to put across my knees, "The car hasn't sufficiently warmed up' he said.
I started chatting to him, I knew he didn't want to talk that he was an insomniac and had been for many years, that he just wanted the company, and that his soul was infinitely alone.
He never once questioned my stream-consciousness dialogue, he never one asked me to pause or chose to interject, he had the infinite patience of all truly lonely souls.
He was what I imagined Hermes, to look like, the God of communication and charm.
Where I like to develop themes, ideas, and creatively pursue a point that has interested me, he liked to make simply constructed thoughtful stunningly crafted statements. The power and precision in his support for a friend were immediate, like many Librians that I have known he liked balance, calm and tranquil endeavours. He loved beauty and he was composed with an air of polished possessed serenity. I always considered that he had the charming look of an elegant, regal stag.
I just talked, drying my hair as we drove along in his dashboard heat; and his jaw appeared tense, his eyes fixed on the lane ahead. His grief was frozen in self-imposed silence. Eventually he stopped by a small gas station, he filled up, his breath smoky, creating a mist around his face, and he went in and came back out with a chocolate 'walnut whip' for me. As he closed the door behind him, I shuddered as he brought in the cold with him, and I could feel the cold around his body, even as I sat about a foot away. I shuddered, and pulled up my knees, so that my socks were off the car floor and I was curled on the seat. He reached over and covered my toes with the end of the blanket.
Albert Bierstadt Painted the Beautiful Forest 'Dogwood, USA'."Oh, I have cookies too", I said, "Okay", he replied, it was the first time I had a chance to really look at him. Three weeks had changed him, it was subtle, and his face appeared lined with grief, his eyes looked bright and urgent, and his shoulders seemed heavy with the enormity of his personal comprehension of loss.
We drove to a small lake that was close to our college, and we just sat there with the car switched off, and I poured the cocoa, around us were couples or friends just like us. Students just sitting around listening to music or treating it as a safe haven for romance, it was a known watering hole day or night for hanging out. Mainly due the gas station next to it, that was open all night.
We both grinned at each other, (in my case nervously, because I was unsure of the words that one used to comfort such a loss) as most of the cars surrounding the lake were misty. We could hear different music in the surrounding cars, and it made it even more eerie, almost ghostly being there. Across the lake the stunning building was well lit and looked like a large wedding cake.
Then he talked, he told me what had happened and the shock of losing everyone in one go. How he felt guilty that he was alive when they were not, and that he couldn't believe that part of his life had simply vanished, and that he wasn't able to do a thing a bout it. His father was one of Washington's most senior officials at a prestigious bank, so Chris had wanted for nothing; his affluent life had been one of comparative ease.
I asked him if he wanted a hug, and he said nothing, his shoulders appeared slumped forward. He looked so sad, forlorn and alone, and his eyes appeared far off, and I felt for the first time since I had known him to be with someone I cared for who was out of reach.
I put my arm around his broad shoulders, and felt him relax; and then I hugged him for a few moments. Then I sat back, broke off the walnut from my walnut whip and I handed it to him. This is a big thing for me to do, as I usually try to steal these from anyone else's. Honestly, I don’t have that great a fascination with food, but every so often I have a favourite and my most possessive side, wishes to safeguard it!
He suddenly looked at it, then he looked at me, and then as if it was the most single important expression in his life, he popped it into my mouth and laughed, I think he saw the pain with which I selflessly was prepared to give it up, (reluctantly). He said, "I will never forget you!"
I felt a sharp knife struck pain of recognition, I knew I felt the same about him. Sometimes it takes a human tragedy for you to recognise the generosity of love others have for you, when they reveal it. Something that suburban comfort takes its time to expose, but more often then not maintains in contrived sobriety.
Then he held my hand and we just sat there and watched the dark shadows and car lights play on the lake.
We talked for a while longer, his infallible grief and cognitive slow withdrawal from superficial relationships complete. Then he drove me home, Chris liked to think and drive, he liked the windy roads of English lanes and we talked about how the roots below ground and the trees branches above ground girdled and touched and wrapped around each other inseparable despite man's efforts to cut his way through the forest to create the journey.
Whenever I had a crush on someone he was the person I confided in, and all those precious moments I had cherished appeared in that second to fade into insignificance.
I long to find him, (I lost touch when my diary was stolen), and recover him, I miss the drives, along long windy lanes, the seasons a scenic backdrop for our dialogue; just chatting and how magical he made my days, the fact that he was the one in control for a change, and that he made events happen without my being the initiator, and usually the one with the plans.
I miss how he would suddenly call me in the middle of the night and say, he needed to talk and then when we were together actually he wanted to listen, because he would always start by saying, "No, you talk, I want to just listen to you, I missed you - you know". He was an exciting person to be around, because he was unpredictable, and he could surprise you anytime, so he left you with the same trepidation that the first stirrings of spring create.
To be told a person has missed you is always such a flattering remark, and when he eventually said what had been on his mind it was always something just like him, about feeling infinitely lonely, and about his spiritual search (not for love) but for himself. I can only pray he found both!
I found his face illuminated by a blaze of inner majesty, where he had this inner burn that just made him appear like a movie god. He was like the head boy that you look up to or if you had a favourite idol then that was he! He told me once that I was attracted to lonely souls because I was not, that I was complete within myself and therefore, what attracted me was the fact that truly lonely souls can never be fulfilled, nor can their psyche's be resolved, and therefore, I felt free around them, uneeded.
A friend of mine called Beth in Bethesda, Maryland, Christo's home town, said to me once, 'Send your messages to the Universe... '
I can only send this message to the Universe, wherever he is now, and whatever he is doing, I always think of him and miss him.
Grimshaw View of the Thames, London by Night 1882-4
