Forget or return?
Ethel, youll be the centerpiece of my life, he said, confidence ringing in his voice.
My eyes widened.
Youre serious, George? I want to be your only one, not just another Are you married? Why am I only hearing this now, when Im flying to your home?
No, Im not married, but George faltered.
Finish it, I urged, desperate to hear the whole truth about English men.
You see, Ethel, my parents have already chosen a bride for me. I cant defy them. We could arrange a temporary marriage, but youd have to embrace my faith. Otherwise He turned his gaze to the airplane window, the clouds a silent audience.
I was four months pregnant, and his words drained the colour from my face. Why say this up in the sky? He had countless chances to warn me before boarding. I shut my eyes, tried to steady my breathing. I wasnt about to leap from a plane, truly. My relatives and colleagues had cautioned me:
Dont get involved, Ethel. Their world is differentreligion, mindset, attitudes toward women. Youll end up biting your elbows
I ignored them, never suspecting the trap.
I taught Russian at the language academy, guiding foreigners through the quirks of our tongue. In September a new cohort arrived, and among them was George, a striking young man from a small Yorkshire village. Tall, darkhaired, with a mischievous smile, he reminded me of an oldworld rogue.
George lived in a dorm, diligent in his studies, courteous without showing off. One day he approached me with an odd request.
Professor Ethel, how much do your extra lessons cost?
Nothing. Why do you ask? Youre doing well enough, I replied, unwittingly stepping into his carefully laid net.
May I invite you to a consultation? he asked, eyes flickering.
If you insist. Whats the topic? I answered, oblivious.
Relationships, he said bluntly.
That evening I went to his dorm room, where he waited with anticipation. The place looked as if it had survived a war: creaking, dented furniture, dirty windows that let in nothing, no hot water. Yet on a small table sat a fresh rose in a vase, a spotless plate of peeled fruit, and a bottle of red wine. Hes prepared, I thought, a hint of unease creeping in.
We talked about life, studies, his parents. It was all proper, until that night The following evenings and nights thundered past like wild horses across a moor. George and I fell into abyss, rose toward the sky, disappearing from the ground we knew. Ten years later I would never wish to relive that fevered romance. The fallout was heavy; the faculty knew of us, colleagues whispered, students sneaked glances, admiring the tangled affair.
Ethel, dont lose yourself. Stop while you can, warned a colleague, married to a man with a drinking problem. He has younger brides back home. In some villages girls marry at thirteen. Youre already twentyseven. Dont cling to the pink clouds.
Another, single, sighed, Oh, girls, Id love to taste that kind of passion
I lost myself. I was ready to chase George to the ends of the earth, not to Yorkshire, but beyond.
During the summer break we flew to his familys cottage. Midflight George began to speak of his plans: he wanted me to be the senior lady in his household, a kind of first wife among several. The notion terrified and strained me.
The plane touched down in Yorkshire. We were greeted by Georges friendsfairskinned, tanned, smiling as if straight out of a postcard. They escorted us to his parents home. The old couple welcomed me warmly, though they didnt understand my language; I spoke English with George. In a corner sat a girl of about fifteen, her eyes the only part I could see beneath the modest clothing.
Meet Ivy, Georges father introduced, as if introducing a new business partner. Our sons future wife.
I wanted the floor to open beneath me. Ivy was not a beauty; I wasa tall brunette with hourglass curves and flawless skin. Yet I was twentyseven; Ivy was just fifteen.
I returned from the trip despondent. There was no turning back; my child was on the way. Over time I swapped my bright wardrobe for drab dresses, dark skirts, modest coats, keeping only mascara and eyeliner, accentuating my eyes.
I agreed to a temporary marriage, embraced his faith, and devoted myself to George. I loved him and wanted to obey every wish.
Seven years later we, along with Ivy and our children, moved to London. I had three sons; Ivynow a motherhad two daughters. George provided for us all, but I felt like an aging lover, a foreigner in my own life. Jealousy gnawed at me whenever George looked at Ivy, his official wife; my heart swelled with unbearable pain. I couldnt accept it, wanted to flee this invented paradise, yet feared losing my boys. In a splitparental system, the children would stay with their father.
Finally I took a desperate step. I told George I wanted to return to my homeland.
What are you missing, Ethel? he asked, genuinely puzzled.
Sorry, George, youll never understand my soul. Let me go, I sobbed.
Alright, live with your family. The children and I will miss you. Remember us. Come back soon, he said, gently stroking my shoulder.
A month later I was on a flight home.
Two long years have passed since. I speak with my sons and George on the phone. Ivy has given birth to a son. My boys are growing, remembering me. I am torn, longing, crying, and yet nowhere to fly.
