Near the Jungle by Peter Pogany

The shrill ring of the telephone ripped Bernard from deep sleep late in the afternoon. He reached toward the sound in the darkened room with eyes closed, cursing the world. “Oh yeah, I took a bunch of sleeping pills,” he remembered: “Danielle is gone!”

The call was from her. She was at Dulles Airport near Washington, DC.

She just wanted to let him know that the recipes for his favorite dishes were on slips of paper in the back of the French cookbook on the second narrow shelf to the right of the stove.

He intended to say thanks, wish her “bon voyage” or something but she hung up with a stifled sob.

She was gone. The marriage had lasted eight months. A relief. What choice did he have? Now he could go on with his life, find someone new. Maybe not on this cold rainy day but when spring comes or the summer. He was sadly mistaken. His “bon vivant” self never recovered. He had to grow old before he could develop a perspective on what happened; get rid of what he called “the loop.”

It all began in 1979.

Bernard, in his mid-forties at the time, was divorced. The two children from the dissolved marriage, a boy and a girl, lived with his ex, a lawyer by profession who managed to sting him comatose with the “division of assets” and a stiff child support.

He worked for a large export-import company, traveled around the world. That year took him to Abidjan in the Ivory Coast. The deal he negotiated had to be quite significant because it involved different governments in the region and the World Bank. Bernard was well chosen for the job. He spoke good French and loved Africa.

He stayed at the town’s most prestigious hotel, sitting under a beach umbrella on the patio during the two-hour siesta, sipping orange juice, reading newspapers, going over business papers.

That’s where he spotted Danielle, swimming in the pool all by herself.

“She looked like a beautiful swan,” he liked to say when confronted with the recurring question in social settings: “So, tell us how the two of you had met?”

She was about ten years younger, French-born, also divorced; a 12-year old son living in Strasbourg (with her parents, I presume) — and beautiful, indeed.

Bernard, a former marine, was no slouch himself. Tall and distinguished-looking — grey strands around the temples — he had a great deal of confidence around the ladies. He looked at Danielle with admiration and she gave him an understanding little smile as she dried her hair with a towel, head tilted.

They went out for drinks the next night and a pleasant friendship evolved. Bernard was a gentleman and she was grateful for not being pressured.

They told each other their life stories. She got married and divorced in West Africa, living alternately in Abidjan and Dakar. Her husband was Belgian, the regional director of a large processed food distribution company. Since the divorce she worked as an administrator in a doctor’s office. She has just quit and was ready to move back to France for good.

Three days before flying back to Washington — his home base — Bernard walked Danielle to her apartment building. They were reluctant to say good-bye and finally, when they ran out of formalities, they fell into each other’s arms.

The surge of erotic delights and blissful emotions that engulfed them began to gravitate toward a commitment.

“Another cheap novel!” you might say. Yes, so it appears, but never to the one who is featured in it. What’s so ordinary, after all, about being caught up in a life-altering passion, remembered forever in all its lovely and disturbing detail, making one marvel in old age with proud disbelief: “Did I really do all that?”

On the eve of their parting, they went to a seafood restaurant a few miles from Abidjan on the Atlantic coast. Its thatched-roof look was misleadingly modest. The lobster, prepared over open fires “was out of this world,” as they would often say later in Washington.

After parking his rented car in the sand, Bernard stretched and looked around. Just a few feet from the narrow road, the jungle began. Weird nocturnal ululations from the black velvet wall of tall trees, moving gently in the wind, mixed with the sound of lazy waves breaking in complete obscurity from the opposite direction.

They agreed during dinner that they were meant to be together for life. Then, brightened by the magic of a sweeping new vista on life, and a few drinks, they kicked off their shoes and strolled barefoot on the sandy beach. The light bulbs of the restaurant flickered for a while and then they were in complete darkness except for the stars.

They became a prehistoric couple for an hour; bare souls pitched against the blurry torrent of the present without a clear sense of the past or ideas about the future. A hunter and a gatherer knew no romance or private property; even regrets and hopes were communal.

He picked her up and as they looked into each other’s eyes, the hold of Danielle’s arm around his neck became cramp-like, almost violent. She was his — completely — he knew.

Bernard returned to Washington and, with the help of his lawyer, in about three months after Danielle stepped on U.S. soil, the two of them were married. By that time she became enrolled in some institute to study fashion design and intended to take courses in merchandising at George Washington University. Becoming a “buyer” for retailers in the DC area was the idea.

While married to the well-to-do Belgian businessman, Danielle lived in luxury. No wonder she was somewhat taken aback when she saw Bernard’s rundown, almost empty, two-level condominium in upper Georgetown. The first wife took almost all the furniture and valuables.

She looked around and determined to change things for the better.

Bernard’s job continued to demand travel. Three weeks in Singapore, two weeks in London, then another in Hamburg. Danielle assured him that he had no reason for concern.  She reminded him of what she had told him in Abidjan when he asked whether she had a lover.

“Danielle has only friends,” she said, using the quaint rhetorical flourish of the third person; “She is very independent and never afraid of being alone.”

Her French high school English improved quickly. Soon she had her own car. Bernard found all this reassuring. Nevertheless, every time before going away, he asked an elderly friend and some of his trusted colleagues to call on her from time to time to see if she was doing OK. He had no family in the area other than the two children living with their mother. His aging parents and three brothers all lived on the West Coast.

About six months into the marriage he returned from one of his trips to find a big surprise: brand new, expensive furniture.

How? What?

Danielle told him that through someone at the institute she had made contact with a group of people who imported fashion items from France for resale to local department stores. They badly needed a native French speaker, knowledgeable about women’s clothing. They offered to pay her well. She accepted and had already opened her own bank account.

Bernard thanked her profusely. He admitted that the house had been much too bare before.

More pieces of furniture, carpets, and decorations followed, including an antique, cabriole-legged Louis XV armchair. She just shook her head when Bernard inquired about the price.

“You are my king, mon amour, and a king needs a throne,” she answered. Later they exchanged loving words about how the tiny stars needle-pointed into the upholstery reminded them of that memorable evening on the shore, near the Jungle.

Then came expensive suits, dresses, and accessories. She cooked every day and dazzled guests with gourmet dishes.

Once I had the privilege of being invited. Danielle ran between the kitchen and the dining room, trying to please everybody. Eventually, the female guests overrode her protests, helping to serve and clear the table. The men were also impressed. Someone told Bernard in a voice loud enough that Danielle could hear it from the kitchen:

“Catherine Deneuve as your housewife. Old man, you got lucky.”

She came back all smiles, pointing at Bernard.

“You call this an old man? I can hardly keep up whiz him.”

Comparisons to Catherine Deneuve were quite frequent.

Everybody adored her, but pleasant as things appeared on the surface, Bernard began to look weary. He complained to friends about Danielle coming home in the middle of night, tired, telling him about long business meetings. He called the institute where she was supposedly taking courses. They had not seen her for months.

Someone gave him the advice that no spouse ever wants to hear:  “Why not a private detective — just to be on the safe side!”

Bernard followed up and ten days after hiring the best known private surveillance agency in the capital — “specialists in marital affairs” — he got a call.

“We have results. Please make an appointment to come to the office.”

The detective sat behind the desk.

“I regret to say we have bad news for you,“ he told Bernard while exchanging glances with another man who leaned against the filing cabinet, arms folded: “Your wife has engaged in prostitution.”

“Prostitution? That’s a very serious charge. Are you sure?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Apparently, she had been hired by a high-price “escort service.” The general manager of a large convention hotel provided proof that, on multiple occasions, she entered the hotel in the evening and left in the middle of the night. There were photos.

When Bernard expressed hope for some exonerating explanation, the detective assured him that most people faced with a similar situation react the same way.

“My recommendation is always to confront the implicated party with the evidence and get a direct confession.”

He further advised Bernard that, as soon as he had eliminated all doubt, he should initiate a separation.

“We, of course, do not report privileged client information to the police,” he said. ”But remember, prostitution is illegal in the District of Columbia. If she is arrested while you are married to her, you can get into trouble too. You may face criminal charges as an accessory and willing intermediary. Contact your attorney today!”

Bernard was angry most of all with himself. How could a man of his age be so imprudent? Such a fool!

He confronted Danielle that evening.

Pale and teary, she admitted everything.

“You must leave,” Bernard told her.

“I know, I know,” she said as hands crossed over her chest she paced the room, expecting — no doubt — a change of mind or a less harsh verdict.

But Bernard remained implacable and she moved out the next day. No one knew where.

His lawyer agreed with the detective: divorce without delay. If Danielle was caught, she would be deported and Bernard could face felony charges by Federal authorities on grounds of arranging for her immigration with criminal intent.

Danielle, who by this time had money, contacts, and friends, also hired a lawyer.

“Lying, infidelity, yes; prostitution, no!” was the line of defense.

By furnishing the shared residence, she had legitimate claims, her lawyer wrote to his lawyer; and, heeding the old principle of attack being the best defense, advised Danielle to sue.

Three days after moving out, Danielle asked permission to collect the remainder of her belongings. Bernard agreed, of course, even offering to carry her suitcases to the waiting taxi. She approached him with a very straight back and, looking intently into his eyes, expressed genuine surprise that he did not know what she was.

“The whole town knew, employees at the hotel knew,” she blurted out and then switched to French with mordant sarcasm:

“You, the suave international traveler and broker of major business deals didn’t have enough savoir-faire to make inquiries during the month before I arrived?”

Bernard answered with two simple questions:

“How come you didn’t solicit me in Abidjan? And, if you assumed that I knew it here, why all the lies?”

The tears came flooding. She did what she did because he was so poor. It was a sacrifice. She hated every minute of it; she felt so infinitely distanced from her clients that she never considered her acts cheating on the one and only love she ever had. She lied to make things easier for him; she meant to tell him the truth but kept postponing the day. If he wanted she would quit the escort service right away and would never ever “work” again.

“Please, Bernard, don’t send me away. If you do my life is no longer worth living — Bernard, please!”

He shook his head once. His mind was made up.

The legal standoff lasted for two weeks. Then suddenly, without anyone knowing why, she abandoned everything and flew back to France. The last time Bernard heard from her was when she called from Dulles Airport on that heart-wrenching late winter afternoon.

As soon as she left, he felt pity for the lost bond. The pity turned into mad desire, which was followed by anger and then relief — then back to pity. This was “the loop.” It whirled in his head year after year until it finally settled into pity.

Danielle became a tragic figure.

She had become so thoroughly accustomed to the way she provided for herself that she didn’t understand why it could not be forgiven by someone who loved her. She followed the mirage of a normal man accepting the courtesan as the doting wife and had badly misled herself.

Such thoughts tormented Bernard for at least two decades.

He retired in 2000 and moved to Southern California.

I have recently learned that, at 75, he is doing well in San Diego. The proud owner of a 26-foot “Seafarer,” he cruises the bay and spends some nights on the water alone.

“Waves splash against the hull in the dark,” he says. “Some bring regret, some hope.”

He still has the Louis XV armchair — the throne he refused to occupy.