Prelude…Together

This was so beyond ridiculous, but I couldn't stop watching. I could not make myself walk away.

I first saw them walking hand in hand into the Woodlands Cemetery just southwest of the campus when I was meant to be heading toward the library to get all my considerable work done before the weekend. The older woman, the one with blond hair streaked in silver, was all in white—white shirt and white jeans, but for a brown leather bag slung across her shoulders. The younger one was a teenager, I think, maybe sixteen or so, carrying a picnic basket, light brown hair cascading down her back, all long arms and coltish legs stretching out from her white dress embroidered with flowers, pale pink Converse sneakers and matching sweater tied around her waist. They both carried an armload of flowers—the girl's bursting out of the basket lid. It wasn't just that they seemed to exist apart from everyone else I passed on these Philadelphia streets, or that they embodied this spring day, all hope and renewal, or that they seemed to be walking into the cemetery for a picnic, which I found odd. It wasn't even that they were beautiful; I never got close enough to make out their features, although their beauty was beyond apparent. It wasn't any of that on its own.

It was that they carried their own light. It emanated from them, rather than fell on them. It triggered a distant memory, I just didn't know of what.

I couldn't stop myself. Homework, special lecture later this afternoon, papers due next week, heavy schedule this term, the plan to graduate early in two years with a double major, maybe an MBA after that…all forgotten. All inconsequential to this moment. To these two women.

I followed them. Of course I did.

I followed them into the cemetery as they visited particular graves to lay down their flowers—maybe not a picnic then?—one of the few times they unclasped their hands from each other, both so radiant and alive in this old resting place of the dead. I didn't see the names on the graves they visited because I was afraid to get too close. I didn't want to disturb their space; I didn't want to defile their light. There was one moment when the girl seemed to sense someone—me—watching. I could swear I saw, or maybe felt her shiver before she looked around, toward where I was standing behind a weathered statue of an angel. I went as still as it, the stone wings shielding me from view.

Before they left the final gravesite, the girl took one of her flowers and fixed it in the older woman's hair with a red ribbon, laughing. Then the older woman did the same to the younger. I found myself smiling while watching them. Mother and daughter? No. Grandmother and granddaughter seems more likely. Either way, their love and comfort with each other was palpable.

I followed them as they strolled from Woodlands through the Bio Pond, again staying a good ways back. They stopped a few times to exclaim over an azalea bush in bloom, a turtle, a frog, maybe, I don't know.

It wasn't until they stood in front of the metal peace sign sculpture just outside the library I should be in—should've been in for the last couple hours instead of following them—that I even remembered I had my great-uncle's old Leica camera in my backpack, next to the lap top I should be pounding away on right now. I scrambled it out and set it up quickly. I had but a handful of pictures left in the film and no backup with me, but I got a perfect shot of them from the back with the peace sign between them before they turned to parade further into the college green.

They stopped on a stretch of grass and the girl pulled a flowered quilt from the basket. They spread it out together, smoothing the folds and wrinkles out. The woman took out something small from her leather bag, but I was too far away to see what it was. I moved in a periphery around them, looking for the best shots as they sat back to back, propping each other up, brighter than the sunshine that surrounded them. I sat cloistered in some trees, unable to look away. I put down my camera and just watched. Time was no more.

I felt a presence on my right, someone watching me. I tore my eyes away from the two women to see the man who will be teaching the special workshop I'm set to attend later this afternoon, my fourth one of his since I started at Penn two years ago. He's not really a professor, or even part of this college, but is brought in for lectures and seminars on a variety of subjects here and at other universities around the country. Admittedly, his events are oddly-themed, very singular, sponsored by disparate departments—psychology, business, international relations, political science, sociology, African studies, foreign languages, anthropology. I'd looked him up on the internet once and couldn't find much on his five decades as a diplomat and translator. My guess is both that he remained low key and behind-the-scenes during his career, and that it mostly took place in the days before the internet. But I had found that now, in retirement, he was a popular draw at all of his college stops. It was always standing room only, with waiting lists, faculty and students of all years clamoring for a spot. The events are certainly different than anything I've ever experienced, but I left each one seeing some aspect of the world from a slightly different point of view—elevated somehow, expanded. I'd gotten friendly with him by staying over after each event, waiting out everyone else to talk to him. He seemed to take a liking to me. He invited me out to the gatherings held at local restaurants or bars that always followed his events. I've never been a particularly effusive or social person; that was the milieu of my closest friend and roommate, but I always said yes to any invitation he extended, even opened up to him a little. As much as I was able. Mostly, though, in those big groups he included me in, I watched and listened. This man, though, for reasons unbeknownst to me, seemed to find me as fascinating as I found him. In his case, the fascination was warranted. The stories he told, and the wisdom and understanding that had evolved out of his experiences were so grounded in insight and intelligence as to be practically insane.

In my case, the seeming interest he had in me was inexplicable. I'm a teenage college student from the wrong side of the proverbial tracks of a small Massachusetts town who got himself to Penn through one grand stroke of luck and sheer will. But this teacher always included me in the conversations and made a special point to ask about my life. He even extended our time together the last time he was here by inviting me for a late night coffee after the restaurant stop—just him and me. In all of his interactions, with me or with the others, he seemed to see right through you, right to your soul. It was kind of disconcerting.

I'd come to think of this man as the wisest person I knew.

And right now, he was leaning against a tree, smiling down at me.

He didn't speak immediately, just smiled benevolently. Finally, he broke the silence. "You might be wearing the most dichotomous expression that ever was. Or maybe mutable or mercurial is more apt. Either way, it's enchanting. One moment you look forlorn, the next wondrous, followed by peaceful, and then awestruck. Pray tell this old man why there seems to be a kaleidoscope of emotions playing across your young face."

I smiled to myself because, once again, this teacher seemed to see beyond the mask I usually wore, or maybe it's just that these two women had somehow ripped it away. I waited a beat, deciding whether to share the vision on the grass with him—I'm not even sure I would reveal this to my best friend, were he here. But this wise man might've been the only person in the world I would share this with. I think he would understand. Before I could reply though, amidst creaking bones and much huffing, he sat down next to me, facing out from the trees toward that patch of grass on the green.

"Ahh…" he said. "I do believe I can now fathom your vacillating countenance."

My eyes followed his, back toward the two women on the blanket. In the few moments we'd been talking, the girl was now lying down with her head in the lap of the older. I felt almost bereft that in turning away to talk to my favorite teacher, I missed some interaction of theirs, some movement. Some shifting play of their light.

I opened up to him. "I've been meditating on this sight…sort of…mesmerized, I guess. Wondering why it's so peaceful. I…I just can't seem to stop myself." We watched. "Have you ever seen such pure beauty? Such presence?"

He was quiet for a long time before answering. "By all rights, paintings should be painted of them, all bright dappled sunlight and flowers. Epic poetry and sonnets should be written. Harps and lyres played by cherubs."

I glanced over at him to see he was serious. His face looked like how he described mine—all mutable expressions. He understood.

More quiet.

I broke the silence this time. "I've been imagining what it would be like to just walk up to them. What it might feel like to see their faces alight and welcoming. To sit down on that blanket with them. Be included somehow in the…in the light that's surrounding them."

"There is no time like the present!" he exclaimed. "I'll try if you will." He made it sound like a dare. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him turn toward me. "Come on, let's go talk to them! I'll even take the lead. This old man still has some game left in him." I smiled, but shook my head. "Oh, come now, what is life if not risk? Besides, from what I've seen and heard, you're not known for being shy with the ladies."

Now he was joking and I was almost embarrassed, wondering just what he'd seen and heard. But he seemed kind-hearted about it, not mocking. Well…not really. "But they're different aren't they, these two? Somehow? I wouldn't dream of actually approaching them." Hopefully, he hadn't noticed the warmth that crept up my cheeks.

"But you just said you have dreamt of it, haven't you? You have imagined it." He chuckled before adding, "You're blushing." Did he not miss anything?

"No I'm not. It's just this clear spring sun on my fair Norse skin," I deadpan.

"No one who isn't blind would ever call your coloring fair, dear boy, and you've told me before you're of Cape Verdean descent and only part Norse. A small part, I think." I shot him a look, trying to hide my smile. "But if that's the story we're going with, then yes, this bright sunlight is indeed overwhelming your very tender skin. Of course it is." He was definitely mocking then—his eyes were practically sparkling—but I didn't mind in the least. We sat in silence again, watching.

"It's impossible to say which of these two is the more beautiful, isn't it? The older or the younger," I said.

"But that's not the point, is it."

"No it's not at all. It's something…I don't know…Something…other."

"Yes. You are quite right. But I believe I know what it is." He paused. "It's what they are together." He had put into perfect words the vague concept my mind hadn't wholly coalesced. It's what they are together. "And if I didn't have to lead this workshop in half an hour, I would be quite content to stay right here with you to drink in this beauty for the rest of eternity. I've seen very few people who are quite so radiant and…shiny." He was looking at me now, not the women on the grass. "It's heartening to see a young man who understands that kind of love."

It's what they are together.

I whipped my head toward him, but I didn't see him. My eyes had gone murky. Somehow, at these last words, something buried deep in my psyche shifted, revealing something I couldn't quite make out, and I felt adrift. Sick, even. Waves of darkness crashed down on me, engulfed me. I was sinking. I couldn't breathe. Time stopped and started again. Wavered. Gulping air, I sought anything to grasp onto to pull me out of the dimness. I found something familiar—anger.

The man was now standing, looking at me, but this time in alarm. I didn't see him get up. "What?" I didn't care that it came out snappish.

"I think you…uh…lost some time there. You seemed to…drift for a moment."

I practically glared at him, even knowing he was not the source of my enmity; I wasn't sure what was.

"What might I do to help?" The kindness on his face was too much. I felt exposed.

I didn't answer him immediately, but instead raked my eyes across my watch. Merda! It's after four-thirty already. I'd wasted the entire day. Wasted. That anger turned inward and suddenly I was furious with myself. I was not that guy! Not the frivolous guy to get mesmerized and smiley, for god's sakes, at white dresses, and wicker baskets with flowers, and legs with pink tennis shoes and…all damn day! It had only seemed like minutes but it was all damn day I wasted on this foolishness. On them. I hadn't felt so undisciplined in a long time. I usually had more control.

"Nothing!" I barked out. "I just realized I've wasted my entire day and I've got…work to do." I wished he would stop looking at me with that discerning stare of his.

"Hmm…" He paused for a long moment. "I'm truly sorry that I must leave now to prepare for this lecture, rather than staying to perhaps puzzle out this distressing transformation in you." I wouldn't look at him. "But let me extend an invitation to you. My family and I are attending a reception tomorrow night at the Japanese tea house up the way. It's sort of a last remnant of the cherry blossom festival that just ended. Why don't you join us?"

I had to admit that I'd wondered what his wife was like, what his family was like. I knew he was married—he wore a wedding ring—but he spent so much time asking about your life, that he didn't end up talking much about his own. But right now I just couldn't think about that, I just wanted him gone.

"I'm not really a tea house and flowers kind of guy," I smirked. "But thank you anyway."

"What kind of guy are you?" He was completely serious.

"One who is going to be master of the universe," I replied, challengingly. "One who is going to rule the world." Not one who practically stalked two strangers because of their light, for god sakes!

"Myself, I wouldn't care to rule any world that doesn't have flowers in it." He nodded toward the women. "That doesn't have beauty in it."

Well, that's you and not me, I wanted to say, but didn't.

"If you change your mind, it's tomorrow at seven at the Shofuso Tea House. I'll leave your name at the door just in case."

I should've said don't bother. But even if I was inclined to, I couldn't have told him what I already had planned for tomorrow night. He was a peaceful man—his whole life seemed dedicated to it—he wouldn't approve. He was watching me again.

"Don't be late to the lecture," he said before turning to walk away. I didn't even care that he seemed a little sad—resigned, even.

I started to get up myself, before I realized there was no point now, so I stayed seated. By the time I would've gotten to the library to do the work I should've done this whole day, I'd just have to turn around and leave to get to the lecture.

"Merda! Merda, merda, merda!" I uttered under my breath.

Instead I turned back toward the two women. The older one seemed to be taking some photos of the scenery with a camera—that must've been what she'd gotten out of her bag earlier. She put it away and pulled out a phone, answering it. After a minute, she ended the call and said something to the girl. They laughed and began gathering their things.

I followed them, once again. Why the hell not, I told myself; it wasn't as if I could accomplish anything else before the lecture anyway. It wasn't because looking at them dissipated this too familiar black anger or anything. It wasn't because I almost longed for, craved even, their…their…something other...Not at all. A glance at my camera showed I had two photos left on my film. Might as well finish the roll.

I ended up only getting one more shot of the two women as they walked hand in hand through the college green, a different way than they'd come. I was nearer than I'd been to them before. One of them dropped something and I jogged closer to pick it up. I was kneeling to scoop up the flower and the red ribbon used to affix it to one or the other of their hair—I couldn't tell which one—when I saw the girl shiver again and I knew, I just knew she was going to turn around. She did, but not before I lifted the camera in front of my face and snapped a picture. I stood and immediately veered off on another path after that because I didn't want to alarm her. It was bad enough that I followed them half the day.

I contemplated skipping the afternoon workshop to make up for the wasted day, but writing a paper on it would garner me extra credit in my international business class. Instead, I came in a few minutes late, something that I didn't normally do. Ever. This teacher almost seemed to be waiting for me. When he saw me enter the packed amphitheater room, he waved me to a reserved seat near the front. I had planned on standing in the back.

"Let us begin," he told the whole room through his lectern microphone. The crowd instantly quieted.

He briefly and humbly introduced himself. He had mentioned to me previously why he did that. He'd said that he got too big of a head if he let someone from the college introduce him. The inevitable veneration bothered him and put too much of a separation between the audience and himself.

Then, "Just a short time ago, I was inspired to change, to adjust today's theme. Only a little. It's still in keeping with our stated title, 'Forging Connections: Getting To The Core Of What They Want In Negotiations.' Rather a wordy theme, but as those who've come to know me will understand, I do love my words!" The simpering crowd tittered at this, but not me; I was not in the mood. "But how can you understand what they want—they, being your foreign diplomats, your potential business partners, your employees, your trade unions, your investors, your local regulatory authorities, your tribal leaders, your CEO's, whomever—if you don't know what you want. Who you are."

I went stock still in my seat.

"So…if it's okay with the department chair who has kindly sponsored this event, we're going to focus on this instead. Before we start on the exercises I will assign—because you know there are always exercises in my workshops…" He put his hand on a stack of papers as the crowd laughed. "…Luckily, these handouts will still suffice…I will tell you a story of mine to illustrate this concept. This was a negotiation early in my State Department career where I buried the best part of myself and instead operated under a much lesser aspect. In order to cover up what I perceived to be a weakness in myself, I put on a sort of cloak, a mask, if you will. Therefore, I could not see past it to be able to engage the best part of the people sitting at the table opposite me. I did not know the core of myself, so I could not possibly begin to know the core of anyone else. Need I tell you that it was all an epic fail?" More laughter.

"This perceived weakness was in fact my greatest strength, but it took me years to fully comprehend that. I do not wish that lapse for you. The world is changing fast, accelerating, and you young people no longer have the option, the luxury, to spend time dilly-dallying as did I—mired in silly and pointless endeavors such as shoring up your defenses, cloaking yourselves in something less than you are at your very core. And that is precisely why I am here speaking with you today. As I said, I do not wish that for you.

"Now let me find that department chair." He scanned the crowd, his eyes resting on someone near the top back of the room. "Do I have your okay?" After a moment, he smiled and made a gesture between a nod and a bow. He said something in a foreign language that I certainly didn't know, but this teacher spoke an untold number of them. When anyone asked him, as I'd done before, he laughingly claimed not to know the actual count. What he'd said sounded something like, "Hoowa mocktoob."

"So, let's start where we are." He now fixed his hawkish stare on me. "Our new, adjusted theme will be…Know Thyself."

The very last photo taken from my roll of film was at a bar that night, of a dozen or so students and faculty sitting at a table with the teacher at the center. Later, I sent that photo to this teacher. Tracking down his address was no easy feat either. Apparently he was doing an entire summer series at Stanford, so I sent it care of one of the sponsoring department chairs. I don't know if he even got it, I didn't include a card or anything with it, just the photo in a plain frame.

I'm not altogether sure why I did it.

Possibly I sent it because he sought me out after the workshop, insisting I accompany him to the bar afterwards and sit opposite him at the table. I gave my camera to the waitress to take the shot. Right before I went home with her. I was still, I think, trying to prove that I was not that guy. A pointless endeavor, one of many in my life.

Maybe I sent it because, in the bar photo, he seemed to exude his own light, much like those women. And that light seemed as if it was spilling out onto me. It was a beautiful effect, even though it was probably just a vagary of that old vintage camera.
I did see this teacher again the following year, when he held another seminar at Penn. It did not end well. After the lecture, another undergrad—a jackass I knew from around campus—"let slip" to him exactly what I did to fund my time here at school. The teacher waited for me outside the restaurant as I was heading in to join the post-lecture gathering and confronted me about my extra-curricular activities. I ended up yelling at him before stalking away.

Before it all went to hell, though, before the gossiping jackass, I was so excited that this man had come back to campus. I couldn't wait to share with him some things that he might appreciate. That he might understand. Mostly, I guess, I wanted to thank him in person for his impact on me; tell him I understood what he'd been trying to convey. But I never got the chance.

Later that night, after I'd yelled at this wise old man, I was stalking through the city, angry at my childish behavior. Before I could come up with a way to fix it all, I happened upon that jackass outside a different bar. I punched him right in the face. Broke his nose.

The following day, I started preparing a second photo from that original roll of film to send to this teacher. I ordered one of them to be enlarged into an 8x10. It was of the two women standing in front of the peace sign outside the library. The frame I had specially made by an elderly craftsman in town. It had hand carved flowers on its wood frame. Cherry blossoms. The card I got also featured cherry blossoms. In it I wrote, "It's what they are together. -To one shared moment of peace on May 2, 2008." That date was the day the photo was taken, the day of his workshop nearly a year ago. I had to look it up to make sure I got it right.

That peace photo and that card were a stand-in for all the things I wanted to tell that wise old man, when he came back, but never did. I was foolishly and childishly hurt that the teacher admonished me. I think the last words I said to him were, "You don't know everything old man." Something ridiculous like that. So, yeah, it was an apology, too.

But the funny thing was, even after all my careful preparations—the handcrafted frame, the perfect pink matting, the card—I never sent it. I got distracted by what came in the weeks after punching that other student. It changed everything and I never sent it.

I think back on all that now…What is it?...Three years after I last saw that wise old teacher and punched the student? Four years after the date I wrote on that card?...as I pack up my room in the apartment I've shared with my best friend for nearly all our college years. We will both graduate soon and are moving to New York to start our plans in motion.

I'm almost grateful to the jackass now—the jackass that I will be seeing a lot more of in the coming months—for mouthing off. I certainly don't regret punching him. He's done a lot worse things since then, when he deserved much more than a punch. I could've gotten expelled for that, putting a stop to everything I'd worked so hard for. Luckily, he ended up dropping all charges, even claiming he was mistaken and it wasn't me who hit him. His two idiot friends did the same.

Mostly I don't regret it because that whole incident ultimately unveiled a huge revelation of its own; one that set me on this altered course, an accelerated course. It even, conversely, ended up securing me another full scholarship to go on and complete my MBA, as well as a job that's waiting for me in New York. This revelation was unrelated to anything to do with that teacher, but still could fall under the heading of Know Thyself, or even Cycles Repeating—the main theme of his last lecture.

I pull out the brown parcel containing the enlarged peace photo from the closet where it's stayed all this time. I've never opened it. It's still ready to mail, but for want of an address on the outside. I carefully place it in one of the moving boxes.

I never saw my favorite teacher again; as far as I know he never came back to this university. I wonder sometimes if he even remembers me. Now, if I were to talk to him, I might just tell him that I've grown up and have more discipline and control. I would never dream of sharing all those breathless realizations with him that I'd planned to, with anyone, really. Not anymore. I did tell my friend a piece of it. Enough for him to agree to alter our plans. I will need to step very carefully now, keep everything inside—close to the vest, as the saying goes.

That said, I will always be grateful to him for a realization he brought about in me. It had started with his words on the campus green that day. It's what they are together. Then, during those insightful written exercises he had us do in that Know Thyself workshop, I understood a little more of what he had been trying to say. But it was only after I got those photos developed that I fully realized. I knew who those women reminded me of and why I followed them. They reminded me of someone from my childhood who embodied the best part of me, who seemed to emanate light, too, like they did, like the teacher did, and it spilled onto me. It's what we were together. I understood. That's what I'd wanted to tell my wise old friend, but I know I never would now, even if I got the chance.

But, no matter…I shake off the memories. That part of me is dead and gone. It's the past and I'm focused on the future. Nothing or no one could stop me from the course I've plotted. It's full-steam ahead. Yes, I do plan on being master of the universe—ruling the world. A world in which I will need to keep any lingering remnants of the best part of me tucked tightly away. But at least I know what it is now because of that teacher. Or what it was.

From the nightstand, I pull out that envelope of photos taken in the heart of The City of Brotherly Love, ironically, and quickly rifle through them to find my favorite. Over these last years, I would take it out from time to time just to stare at it when I've been reminded of what I've lost; when the darkness washes ashore and I feel like I could drown in it. This picture is like air and sunlight to me. Beauty and flowers. I'd never show it to anyone—it is mine only.

But it's time to put down childish things.

I place the envelope of photos, along with the ribbon and faded flower in the moving box on top of the brown parcel and pad it all with an old Penn sweatshirt. Then I tape the box firmly shut.

Later that night, the last night I will spend in this apartment, after everything is packed up and ready to go, I shut my eyes and can perfectly envision my favorite picture, now packed away. It's the final one I took of the two women, right before I picked up the flower and ribbon. Right before I veered off on another path.

It's a bit blurry—almost like an Impressionist painting—either because I took it hurriedly when the girl turned around or it's just a vagary of that old camera. That campus Love sculpture is in the shot as they walk past it. Surrounding the sculpture are pink cherry blossom trees. The trees seem to be raining their petals on the two women. And it's probably just my imagination, since I can't even make out her features, but the girl's expression seems as if it is filled with wonder.