The same question day after day has turned muggy like the weather. She feels dragged-down weary.

Assume the worst and move on, she thinks.

Say the question is: how?

Sure, she knows about the fifty ways to leave your lover, but the song doesn't mention children. She loves the song, though. Makes her think it needn't be so heavy.

Just step on the bus, Gus...

Anything rhyme with Oxanna? With a name like that, she'll never find a theme song. Oxanna to her is synonymous with thick braids and ankles and a tendency to nick herself on furniture. In reality the dark braids are long gone. And Roger says he adores thick ankles. But she's seen him glancing at slender ones. At the moment the thought is enough to make her eyes blur. Heavy tears, waiting. Let out one single one and they'd all follow suit and soon there'd be a flood. No way. She'll square her shoulders, lead the Crusade for the Happiness of the Children. Absorb the heaviness.

Eyelid throbbing, she gets her things together for work. A part-time job at a flower shop. Gets home at the same time as the children. For the first time, they both go to school full day.

Out the door, she almost collides with the mailman, who takes the opportunity to hand her the letter he was about to slip through the slot.

Something about the letter stops her from stuffing it into her bag where she'd discover it a month later. The envelope is a luminous blue, the blue of royalty. The lettering, in flickering gold, each letter a tiny work of art. It's the top left corner that attracts her. It appears to be written in some sort of hieroglyphics. But the name Cleopatra stands at the top boldly. The letters seem to vibrate with vitality. She holds the envelope at an angle wondering if they contain some sort of holograms that make them leap about like fire.

She's a winner, the letter states matter-of-factly. And what an unusual prize, so different from the ordinariness of her days.

So she won't work that day, she decides. Goes instead to the address indicated in the letter, this being the advised day to collect her prize.

Oxanna smiles to herself on the way to the bus-stop. In essence, she thinks herself to be a serious, practical person. Though lately she's noticed strong urges to be contrary. To not have dinner ready when Roger comes home. To not remember a cake for her mother-in-law's birthday. To take long drives to the botanical gardens, or wander through the zoo alone, with no explanation of where she's been. The first time Roger called her a willful bitch, she felt wounded, as if Roger had misunderstood her essence. But then, she had to admit she scarcely understood it herself. Could not understand the recklessness with which she drove the car.

When feeling the most restless, her mind turns to its newest discovery. Their small house in the suburbs has a tiny garden. But lately, and only sometimes, Oxanna finds a small opening in the fence which leads to the edge of a highway. Across the four-lane highway, the garden continues. Through some strange oversight, no one knows about this place, even though it 's at the very edge of an ocean. This small garden is bounded by crumbling stone archways on three sides. That is, on all but the ocean-side.

Whenever she finds this place, she sits on the wooden bench there and listens to the ocean. Or she examines the archways and the quality of the earth, and thinks up flowers she could plant there. At other times, to her surprise, it does ot diminish her enjoyment of the garden to know that it does not exist. She enjoys the sound of the ocean all the same. She plans the rose bushes and clematis and hydrangea vines all the same. She pays special attention to articles about plants thriving on salt air.

If asked to explain what most attracted her to this place, she would say without hesitation: the uninterrupted silence.

The kind of silence that permeates the mind as perfume permeates skin. In that silence she was in the presence of her own thoughts. As of yet, they had not taken form, but she had complete confidence that here she would some day work out her own Philosophy of Life. She thought of such things in capital letters partly because she believed they were important. Playful and mocking, the capitals were also a pre-emptive strike against any accusation of willfulness.

In the silence, she waits, and the thoughts that come to her, are her own.

One day, as she approaches this garden, through the archway, against the backdrop of the ocean, she sees a table all set as if waiting for people to arrive. Hesitantly she sits down at one end and looks around her, waiting. She waits for a long time, fingering the edges of the fine porcelaine plates and bowls and cups. She has never seen or imagined anything so beautiful. The edges are deep blue with gold woven through in intricate patterns which to Oxanna suggest all the stories known to man. The longer she waits, the more aware she becomes that she is inside a dream. The more she wishes she could go far away in search of real places where such atmosphere of peace and beauty exist.

Having known such an unusual set of dishes, she is determined that from now on, she would acquire things only of the finest quality. Or she would acquire nothing at all. So, Oxanna makes do with her chipped and fading dinnerware. She even refuses an offer of a gift from her mother-in-law of a twelve-serving set of English stoneware. This at the cost of being considered difficult.

She had forgotten her imaginary dishes until this morning when the letter arrived. Now the memory of them glows pleasantly, distracting her from her growing nervousness of meeting Cleopatra.

She wonders how to phrase the one question she's permitted to ask, according to the rules of the contest. Not a wish, the letter is careful to point out. A question.

The building is square and gray, the length of a block. And the hallways likewise are disappointing. She moves along the corridor cautiously, afraid to miss some clue as to where she's to turn next. But she's soon reassured. Outside one of the doors stands a statue as she had seen in the museum. Tutankhamen, she supposes, stiff, gold, with a black goatee strapped to his chin. His black eyes stare past her. Again the gold and blue, this time in his beautiful striped headdress.

As she approaches him, the door opens a crack.

Come in for heaven's sake, says a voice from inside. It's light and gay. Childlike.

Entering the room is like entering the interior of a sea shell. Pink, lavender, gold, aqua shades glow all around her. Oxanna's eyes wander along the brocade drapes and gilt furniture until they reach the woman propped against a mound of satin pillows on a four-poster bed that reaches the centre of the room. The woman is smaller than she'd expected, but certainly as beautiful, as self-possessed, utterly in charge of anything, anyone who is within her sphere. Of the servant, for example: the young man in the simple ankle-length tunic on the other side of the room, between two tall windows that glow translucently. The man stands facing Oxanna, but his eyes are on the face of Cleopatra.

Oxanna stands at the doorway holding her breath, expecting a command. Cleo, in a turquoise satin negligee, is absorbed in a book. Without looking up, she motions with one hand for Oxanna to be seated. A straight-backed chair stands against the wall by the door where she has entered, and Oxanna sits down on it. It offers no comfort whatsoever, forcing her to sit stiffly, watchful that she won't slide off the the seat which seems to tilt forward.

She studies Cleopatra whose eyes fly across the pages of her book, totally oblivious to her guest. One knee is raised and it wiggles gleefully from side to side as she reads. Oxanna notices with some surprise how much she looks like Elizabeth Taylor. So, is this a hoax? Or is it a piece of luck? From what she's read, Cleopatra might be too immature to answer her one question. Elizabeth Taylor might be more experienced, especially concerning matters in the present century.

Her question, then. How should she phrase it? Was it better to begin with how? or when?

In a panic she realizes she has still not formed her thoughts. She's no longer even sure that she's unhappy with Roger. Perhaps she is happy, who could tell?

Perhaps that is the question: am I happy? No, no, better to stay in the area of Cleopatra's expertise. Say she is not happy. Say she had a dream that she could be happier, did that count? Say she knows the answer to that, what is the next question?

Roger's face comes to her in a flash. Handsome. Pouting. Her third child. Needing more time and comforting than the other two combined. You don't know how much I suffer, he'd say to her. So wretched. Her heart flies out to him. Her head is swimming, her eye twitching. Oh Roger! she thinks. If only you'd grow up! Should she wait? Maybe that is the question.

Immediately Roger's mother appears behind him and looks at her accusingly. Maybe the problem is not Roger. If only her mother-in-law...

Cleopatra reads on, undisturbed. The valet is beginning to tilt in her direction, gazing at her adoringly.

How does she do it? Oxanna wonders. All those husbands. All those lovers. How she envies her. Not her husbands, but the knowing. Knowing what she wants. Clarity. Leaving behind what she no longer wants.

Is that the true prerogative of Woman? This woman, this Cleopatra, or Elizabeth-- she feels hopelessly un-Womanly, muddled, next to her. She needs silence to think this through. There is never enough.

Suddenly the room fills with a peal of laughter. Gay, child-like laughter. Cleopatra slaps her thigh in delight and turns to Oxanna.

Listen to this, she says. Can you believe this! It says here you can kill a man by making him swallow his own tongue. This is absolutely unbelievable. Her words bounce like happy music. Look, here's a diagram. It's all in the way you kiss him.

She holds up the worn leather-bound book to Oxanna who nods her head, holding tight to the edge of her seat. She's not sure of the ettiquette in this room. Does she have permission to speak yet? Not yet, she figures.

Cleo flips back and forth between two pages, muttering to herself. Abruptly she yanks at the tassled cord just behind her head. The door beside the servant opens and another servant enters the room. He's naked to the waist, a turquoise and gold fabric wrapped around his slim hips. Oxanna gasps silently, thinking how much this man's torso resembles Roger's. Smooth and golden, subtly segmented.

Cleo waves her hand vaguely to her left and the servant promptly crosses the floor and draws open the heavy drapes. Behind is a glass door that opens to a patio. Oxanna gasps for the second time. There on the patio a table is set, just as in her own private garden, with the blue and gold plates and bowls and cups. The vast white atmosphere of her dreams hangs over the table. All at once she is aware of how uncomfortable she is. She longs to go outside and breathe in the fresh air, but she dares not cross the room.

The servant presents himself by Cleo's side and waits stiffly for her next command. An impish grin spreads across Cleo's face. It changes into a seductive smile, her lips parted, her eyes half-closed. Her index finger curls and she pulls the servant's attention towards her. He points incredulously to his own chest and she nods deliciously.

Slowly he approaches her bed until he stands above the mound of pillows and Cleo's dark head which is nestled there. She settles further down into the pillows, still beckoning, her thumb now tucked under her chin. He bends over her stiffly, as if bracing himself for being the the butt of a majestic joke.

She positions his head where she wants it and for a long while they embrace. Cleo draws him closer to her breast, the servant resisting less and less. Gradually his body yields, his hand touches her breast as if touching a hotplate and lightly moves down the satin of her gown.

Just as it reaches her thigh, his head jerks back and he lets out a violent sound like an animal being slaughtered. He falls to his knees, stands up, falls back on his knees away from the bed, clutching at his throat. His face turn red, then purple. Oxanna gets up from her chair, sits down again, gets up again, not knowing what to do.

The man falls to the floor and lies there motionlessly.

I know CPR, Oxanna says quietly, but finds she cannot move. She looks hopefully to the other servant, but he seems preoccupied, blinking up at the ceiling. He looks wounded, like he's about to cry.

Cleopatra leans over the bed, looks closely at the toppled man's face. She takes an oval mirror from under her pillows and holds it under the man's nose.

Hmmh, she says to herself with an air of accomplishment. I think it works. It really works. Hmmh.

She picks up her book and soon becomes absorbed again, seeming to forget the servant and Oxanna.

The body, thinks Oxanna. There is a body. Why isn't she worried?

Oxanna tiptoes to where she can see the fallen man. He's on his side, almost in the foetal position, his head thrown back, arms pressed against his chest, hands at his throat. His sandalled feet are neatly together. His figure, except for the upturned eyes looked almost tidy, ready to be lifted gently and put to bed. Just slip off his sandals. Jesus sandals like the ones Roger sometimes wore.

Oxanna is overcome by horror and pity. She looks at Cleo's face and is struck by its utter peacefulness. The body, she wants to scream. How can you not worry about the body?

Cleo looks up briefly and smiles. Whether at her or at what had been done, Oxanna couldn't be sure. It's also a smile of dismissal as she calmly continues reading her book.The encounter is over.

It isn't until she's at the bus-stop that Oxanna realizes she has asked her question.

                       *          *          *          *          *

So borrow them. Rent them.

That's not the point, says Oxanna. But in a way itis the point. She's been allowing Roger to make too many decisions. Nothing ever seems a big enough deal to argue over and it's simpler to do things his way. But for once, she wanted to do something that reflected her own style. Especially if he was going to surprise her like this. If he was going to invite so many strange people to their home, she wanted, yes, willfully, to put her stamp on the evening.

Ask my mother, offers Roger.

I hate her dishes, says Oxanna. They're heavy and they're ugly.

What's the big deal? You can eat off them.

That night Oxanna dreams that it's the day of the party. A big carton arrives at her doorstep and inside are the beautiful blue and gold dishes. A blue so intense it seems to leap about like flames.

For days Oxanna feels happy, as if she were in close proximity to her precious silence. Even as she arranges flowers, helps her son and daughter with their drawings and arithmetic, cooks, cleans, shops, her precious space is nearby. The ocean waves roll in rhythmically.

The real day of the party arrives. Roger has stopped questioning Oxanna about dishes. She seems to have it under control. You'll see, she says with a mysterious smile.

All day she cooks happily, while Roger vacuums and cleans the toilet bowls and tub and sets everything on the table except the dishes.

Don't worry, says Oxanna, sensing his anxiety. It's going to be perfect. Every half hour or so she goes to the front window to see if the package has arrived.

Six o'clock comes and she herself grows worried. The cooking done, she sits down on the front steps and looks up at the sky. It's a clear blue summer day, not a cloud, nothing, in the sky. At seven o'clock she sits there again. The sky is deeper, more turquoise, coral tones gathering above the tree line. How could she have been so stupid, she wonders, as to expect anything to arrive from nowhere.

Sadly she goes inside, fixes her hair, puts on a dress, checks on the children in their rooms. She sits on the edge of her bed in the dim light. In half an hour the first guests would arrive. Roger would be furious, of course. Slowly, defeated, she goes down the stairs.

Passing the front window, from the corner of her eye, she sees the large carton on the front porch. Jubilantly she calls to Roger and together they carry in the heavy box.

She rips off the tape and opens the flaps. Her heart falls. Inside are her mother-in-law's stone dishes, heavy and ugly. Neither of them says a word as they unpack them and set them on the table. Oxanna's cheeks burn with humiliation.

Just be yourself, says Roger. They'll love you. He speaks to her more kindly that night than he'd ever done before.

Oxanna pulls herself through the party. She makes many visits to the childrens' rooms and talks to them about their friends, their teachers, about the war they had seen on television, about the roses and how high they might climb someday. Each time she kisses them good-night and squeezes their small hands as if testing their readiness.

After the last guest has left, she and Roger sit outside on the front steps for a long time without saying a word.

It's nice when it's quiet, isn't it? she says. His long toes are tapping inside his sandals, up and down. She holds her breath, sensing the turbulence.

So where do we go from here, he says without looking at her.

I don't know, she says.

You don't have to ...to...What I mean, Oggie, he says, and he turns to look her in the eyes, I'm going to survive. It's the way he says it, chills her inside. Like it's a threat. But there is worry in his eyes.

She's already at the edge of the highway. It's different now. Wider. Growing darker. The archway to the garden is not visible yet. She might not reach it by nightfall. The two small hands feel warm in hers.

....................................................................Copyright 1993 Merike Lugus

e-mail us:...merike@rodmer.com

Last updated August 15, 1996

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