Triumph of the Will

The sky was a brilliant ultramarine blue. As his eyes traveled higher above the horizon the blue grew deep like a Prussian blue, like a blue black sprinkled with silver dust. He craned his neck and searched the pole star. The spin of the earth was not visible to the naked eye as he watched the brilliant diamonds above gleam in their firmament. He felt like he was floating and weightless. Once the sun drifted behind the shadow of the earth the brutally cold wind died down. He was surrounded by silence. The only sign of life was his breath as he walked towards the road cloaked in the bison robe. Steam rose off of Michelangelo’s back. Mr. Watkins and Richard had somehow maneuvered the large beast through the giant drifts of snow.

“This is where the carriage left off.” Mr. Watkins said in the stillness. The vertical drop from the surface of the snow to the actual earth was about ten to twelve feet. It was like trying to get a horse off the roof.

“What shall we do Henry? It’s too cold for us to be outside much longer.” Mrs. Hopkins said worried.

“We’ll follow the perimeter of the cleared road and perhaps there might be a slope for Michelangelo to get down.” Mr. Watkins answered.

“Or we leave her here and continue walking.” Richard suggested,

“We’ve come this far. We can’t leave her.” Victoria said adamantly. The light of the lantern cast a buttery glow across the snow covered fields. It seemed like a gestative moment. That quiet, pensive stillness when an idea or thought takes root and the magic of its very conception cloaks one’s entire perception with hope. ANSA. It was the name or word or incantation that seemed to take over Richard’s mind. It was the alchemical key to a profound theory that would change the way he moved through the world. He had been introduced the year before to a young man that was interested in social reform and became quite good friends with Victoria through the Fabien Society and William Morris. He would spend afternoons at tea in deep discussion with her about the changes needed so that society would no longer suffer and injustice be rectified. Victoria found him fascinating and since he was a blooming artist she suggested he spend a little time with Richard. The two or three times they met in Richard’s studio the conversation quickly veered away from art and painting to science and philosophical discussions. This young man had truly innovative and provocative ideas that resonated with Richard for quite some time. It was their last meeting when Mr. Wells confided he was working on a story, a manuscript, that he hoped Victoria might help him publish, called “When the Sleeper Wakes”. About a man who sleeps for hundreds of years at a time and wakes up in different time periods with skyscrapers, automobiles, aircraft, calculators and a machine that works like the human brain. His bank accounts remained intact and because of the interest accrued he wakes up the richest man in the world. The idea of time travel had always fascinated Richard and he wondered what the spiritual ramifications would be if it was truly possible. His recent illness and the vivid dreams made him question whether they were hallucinations and idle musings or if he had, indeed, been someplace else. Chelsea’s business card was some sort of proof. There was no explanation for it. The name ANSA and the Indian woman with the white hair felt more real than his actual existence and so as they trudged in the cold silence he committed himself to the idea that he had indeed left his own body and traveled through time and space. It was the only clarification he had for his fervent pleas to keep Victoria alive during this little month of death.

Finally there was a break in the steep line of the snow drifts and Michelangelo was able to slowly and methodically plod her way down to the solid ground of terra firma.

“’Tis about a half mile to the next carriage house or even the next property. Mrs. Rhys, you should ride.” Mr. Watkins suggested as he stretched out his hand to help her mount sideways.

“Mr. Rhys is not at all well.” She said with a hint of worry.

“I’ll be all right.” Richard replied. “Mrs. Hopkins should ride,”

“No, no, no. I am not comfortable on horses. I insist on walking.” She said as she backed away nervously from Michelangelo. Mr. Watkins threaded his fingers to make a human stirrup and Victoria pushed her way up the side of the animal and found her balance in the curve of its back. She motioned for Richard to join her.

“Please.” She cooed softly. Richard nodded.

“Do you mind terribly, sir?” He asked as Mr. Watkins threaded his fingers again.

“Not at all, sir.” He replied. Richard straddled the animal and sat behind Victoria. He pulled the heavy bison robe around him so that it covered Victoria as well. His arms encircled her waist and rested there near her pregnant belly. She leaned into him as if breathing a sigh of relief. And somehow he felt complete. Everything was in its proper place. Manhattan seemed like it was a million miles away and the cold made it feel ever farther. As they walked through the silent snowy fields the moon cast an ethereal glow over the entire landscape. Richard looked up and let his mind wander. The Christmas tale infused his spirit and he wondered what it might have felt like for that iconic first family to trek across the wintry desert into Egypt. They were perfectly warm and content on the back of Michelangelo. Victoria closed her eyes and all worry and concerned drained quickly from her being. Richard could feel the warmth of his progeny moving slightly within her. And his emotions spiked and he could feel his eyes water and a sense of intense gratitude move through him like an engine. He could not wait for his child to be born. His excitement and anticipation drew him ever closer to her. The rhythm of the horse's gate became hypnotic and Richard let his thoughts drift. He gazed up at the pole star directly overhead and he imagined that there was an exquisitely thin silver string that connected him to that far away light. And maybe that thin silvery string was really a railway of sorts with stops in different times and dimensions and perhaps even planets. He had wondered what life on the moon might be like. He had read Jules Verne’s From the Earth to the Moon and from that moment had always been intrigued with space and science. He had read in an article that scientists were trying to devise an elevator similar to the one in the Cooper Union building to reach to the moon. He noticed that Victoria had fallen into a slight sleep and he wrapped himself ever tighter about her. He gazed at the expanse of the heavens and he questioned that if he concentrated hard enough he might be able to throw himself into a different time and place. He might just be able to project his being just like in his dreams. So he closed his eyes and he held the image of Chelsea in his mind for a moment. He drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment and then connected it to a slow deflation from his lungs. Suddenly he found himself in the Savoy Theatre in London. He had been there many times before and had actually performed in one of Gilbert and Sullivan’s light operas. He walked down the corridor and found people scantily clad in half trousers, half shirts with no ties or coats and dark spectacles. They were a strange sort and spoke an unfamiliar dialect of English. The décor of the place had been stripped to the minimum. The theatre space had vanished and as he gazed out of the windows he beheld Mr. Wells’ glass skyscrapers and horseless carriages. He was in the future. It wasn’t a dream. He moved down the corridor as people turned to stare at him and through what looked like a futuristic dining hall. There at the window he saw her. Chelsea sat with a young man in intimate conversation and she was vivid and alive. By the looks of their conversation he grew increasingly deflated and decided it inappropriate to interrupt her. So he moved quickly past and wandered into the grand foyer of the building.

“May I help you?” The concierge asked cheerfully.

“No, thank you. I’m on my way out.” Richard replied and he tipped his hat kindly as he dashed off into the London street.

Ashley stood across the main road that ran in front of the historic hotel. She held the Indian soup in her hands and noticed Chelsea sitting with a man at a table in the restaurant. Something seemed peculiar so instead of crossing with the walk signal she stood sentinel studying the intimate conversation the two were having. Something inside her broke. She was confused and perhaps jealous, possessive and angry. She thought that Chelsea was into her. She certainly acted like a girl in love. She even said so more than once. So why was Ashley having these feelings that she was somewhat ashamed of, she wondered. They never talked about exclusivity so perhaps Ashley misunderstood the natural evolution of their budding relationship. She felt like a fool for a moment. What was the real purpose for their trip to London? Was she just a passing fancy? She began to question her own judgment and her ability to see reality. She was starving and the soup smelled delicious even though it was the Fourth of July weekend and London proved to be just as hot and humid as New York. She couldn’t go to the room because she didn’t have a key card and she didn’t even know what room they were in. Maybe she should find a park bench and eat her lunch there. On second thought it was too hot so she decided that she’d wait in the lobby of the hotel. She crossed and entered and as she walked past the elevator bank she saw a man dressed in Victorian clothing holding a top hat. He was extremely handsome and as their eyes met briefly in their passing a shot of recognition and a jolt of energy like two magnetic bodies engulfed Richard and Ashley. They could not break each other’s gaze and the moment was infused with a kinetic spiritual revelation that momentarily took their breaths away. She watched as his presence disintegrated into thin air and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was no ghost. He was real flesh and blood and he was made of the same spiraling fluid as she. As he faded from view Ashley turned and saw Chelsea standing there in the hallway wearing an expression of disbelief. Ashley just stood there holding the medicinal in her hands and before she knew what was happening Chelsea stepped towards her and kissed her. She was stunned. Tourists and business people passed by them in their amorous embrace mumbling under their breaths, ‘I thought gay pride was last month.’

“Who do you think I am?” Ashley asked innocently when their lips finally parted. Chelsea was speechless, unable to answer for some time. “I don’t mean it in a judgmental way at all. I’m just curious and I want to make sure I’m not mistaking what it is we are together.” She said awkwardly.

“You saw me having tea with Scott.” Chelsea said. Ashley nodded.

“Why did you bring me here?” She asked and she couldn’t help feeling a little helpless.

“Because I thought it would be good for you.” Chelsea replied.

“Good for me in what way?” Ashley pursued.

“For your art.” Chelsea said innocently. Ashley nodded half-heartedly and began to turn away.

“It’s not what you think.” Chelsea said.

“That sounds so trite.” Ashley quipped. “How do you know what it is I think, and how can you condescend to know what is good for my art.”

The words stung. Chelsea was wounded to the core. She never expected such a turn of events and now she found herself in the middle of some melodramatic situation for which she had no adequate explanation.

“Can we go upstairs and have our soup in private.” Chelsea asked.

“I would like my key card, please.” Ashley said emotionless.

“There are things that I did not realize until today---until just a few minutes ago that are forcing me to reevaluate---“ Chelsea began to explain. Ashley took her key card and handed the soup to her friend and began to walk away.

“Please don’t go. Please don’t. Just hear me out. I don’t expect you to understand. Just hear the facts and then go.” Chelsea said and her eyes welled up.

They rode the elevator in steely silence. Chelsea unlocked their suite and set the take-out on the table. Ashley stood near the door with her arms crossed.

“Why did you kiss me just then?” Ashley asked coldly.

“Because I wanted to…Because you kissed me in front of all those people outside before and I wanted to make it up to you.” Chelsea explained weakly.

“It’s pretty clear you don’t feel as strongly about me as I do about you.” Ashley said defeated.

“And how strongly do you feel?” Chelsea asked.

“I thought you knew.” Ashley replied. “My bad. Never assume. Even when the actions seem to fall into place. My mother always said ‘when you assume you make and ass out of u and me’.”

“I love you.” Chelsea said bravely. “I will always love you.”

“Why?” Ashley asked.

“Because you make me feel unlike anyone else. You make me feel nervous and vulnerable and ecstatic and loved. You make me feel attractive when I don’t quite measure up. You give me butterflies. You excite me and inspire me. When you’re gone I miss you so much it hurts--- more than anyone else I’ve ever known.” She said and her chin quivered with the unavoidable tears she would begin to shed. Ashley softened. She couldn’t be mad at her no matter how hurt and betrayed she felt.

“I’m pregnant.” Chelsea confided suddenly. The words exploded like a bomb and shattered everything Ashley had built up in her heart and mind until now. The rosy illusions of love broke into a million pieces and the weighty soulful reality of flesh punctured their circle of intimacy. Ashley sat down slowly on the bed.

“Him?” She stated. Chelsea just nodded.

“It was a while ago --- before I got to know you. Before I fell for you.” She tried to explain. “I didn’t even remember it happening. We were at a party together and one too many drinks led to a forgotten night of drunken sex.” Chelsea tried to explain. Ashley felt like she was in some Judd Apatow film. She felt strangely generic and culturally devoid of value. She had been caught like a fly in the web of mediocrity and predictability. She felt inescapably bourgeois.

“I don’t know what to do.” Chelsea said through a flood of tears.

“Well what do you want to do.” Ashley said softly. “Take me out of the picture for a moment.” She never made eye contact. She felt like a cuckold.

“I want to be with you.” Chelsea said calmly and she held out a fist of British money. Ashley looked up for a moment and then realized that Chelsea was willing to have a procedure in order to rectify her life.

“How do you know for sure?” Ashley asked concerned. Chelsea disappeared into the bathroom for a moment then reappeared with two home pregnancy tests that glowed positive blue crosses, a strange irony in the midst of confusion.

“Maybe you should see a doctor.” Ashley suggested. “Those things aren’t necessarily accurate.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Chelsea said as she dissolved into tears again.

“Of course you didn’t.” Ashley said tenderly. She moved Chelsea’s hair from her eyes and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“You should eat something…I’m totally famished.” Ashley said as she pulled the soup with a slight coconut aroma from its paper bag. As she uncovered the plastic bowl the soup was infused with actual light. Ashley seemed astounded and confused because it was bright white like winter sunlight on freshly fallen snow.

“Are you sure we should eat this?” Chelsea asked nervously.

“Yes.” Ashley said definitively. “Absolutely.”