Swimming Upstream: A Memoir

Swimming Upstream

Constance Richardson

Copyright 2012 Constance Richardson

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Trace. "When you do something, you

should burn yourself completely, like a good bonfire,

leaving no trace of yourself."

Shunryu Suzuki

Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind

Chapter 1

Boys, men everywhere. Of course, there were females in the group, too, but it was the men I was drawn to, or they to me, and they seemed to materialize out of the shadows everywhere we went.

At eighteen I was the youngest member on the political science tour, which consisted of twenty-two people: graduate students, older citizens, and tour leader Dr. Louis Wasserman. We visited six countries in six weeks, often staying in government facilities.

In Holland we stayed in rooms adjacent to the royal palace, and in Bonn we spent the night in a monastery. Having broken a strap on my sandal, I found a cobbler near the monastery who would fix it. When I went to his shop the next day, there was a sign on the door saying it was closed. Realizing it was Sunday, I collapsed on a bench outside the shop. I had only one other pair of shoes—the ones I was wearing; they pinched and had already caused a painful blister. We were leaving this afternoon for Denmark. What to do? I lowered my head to my lap, clasped my arms around my knees, and considered options.

A young man about my age rolling a bicycle tire approached and sat down next to me. He had on a blue short-sleeve shirt and dirty shorts. His hands had grease stains, but he had a wide smile. Raising his eyebrows, he appeared concerned. I pointed at the closed cobbler’s shop next door, then at my right foot, then again at the shop. He said something in German that I didn’t understand.

My shoe! I wailed. We’re leaving in an hour.

"I’m sorry. My English is, um, not practice, ja?" he said.

I took off my right shoe and showed him the blister. Do you know the cobbler?

"Ja. He—how say?—fish?" he said, throwing an imaginary fishing line over his head.

"Fishing?

He nodded, Always Sunday.

Can you get him to open his shop? I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders but smiled hopefully.

I got up, explaining that I had to pack and get ready to leave. He stuck out his right hand.

I am Dieter.

Constance, I said, shaking his.

He walked beside me the several blocks to the monastery. Leaning the bicycle tire against the building, he said, I find your shoe.

Giving Dieter the tag for my shoe, I smiled encouragingly before turning to go inside, thinking I’d never see him—or my sandal—ever again.

Most of us had ascended and taken our seats in the bus that was taking us to the airport. The doors closed. From my window seat I spotted Dieter running toward us waving something over his head.

Halt, halt, he yelled.

I went forward and had the driver open the door, where a breathless Dieter handed me my shoe, its cobbler’s tag still attached.

Thank you, Dieter, I cried.

The pneumatic door closed. I waved at him through my window until we turned onto the highway. Nobody had done such a thoughtful thing for me without wanting something in return.

In Copenhagen on top of the hall tower, I met a tall Englishman with light brown hair lecturing to a group of students. Outgoing, he projected easy authority coupled with a sense of humor.

I faked a coughing fit to get his attention.

Are you going to be all right? he asked after thumping me on the back.

Sputtering a thank-you for his concern, I learned his name was Mark Flynn.

Mark joined us for lunch the next day and was introduced to everyone. Dr. Wasserman invited Mark to join us at General Field Marshal Montgomery’s house in England the following week.

After visiting Montgomery’s house and library, where Mark more or less conducted the presentation, he asked if I might leave the group for a day or two to visit London. Dr. Wasserman gave his blessing.

Mark took me to Harrow, a prestigious boys public school where he spent his elementary school years. I heard stories about English hazing, not unlike hazing in American preparatory schools. We visited Corpus Christi College at Oxford University, where he completed a baccalaureate degree; we also saw his former apartment. He knew so much history it made my head spin. Filled with admiration, I was also ashamed of my ignorance and wished we were on a more equal footing. For the first time, I wanted to go back to school. At my request, Mark bought several books by Evelyn Waugh to whet my appetite for satire.

When he invited me to Cornwall, England, for the weekend to meet his parents, I accepted and arranged to rejoin my group in London on Monday morning. I wondered about the invitation. Wasn’t it a sign that he was smitten? One didn’t invite just anyone home.

Over that weekend I picked up funny vibes from his parents, which led me to believe they didn’t like one another. The animosity was ever so controlled underneath polite chitchat. I brought this up with Mark, who said his mother was eternally dissatisfied, no matter what. If, by this remark, Mark exhibited a certain callousness toward his mother, he showed only kindness and empathy toward his father. Mr. Flynn senior was headmaster of The Old Ride, an English public school in Buckinghamshire.

What I remember most about Cornwall was how much the terrain resembled the northern California coastline near my home, Green Gulch Ranch. Unadorned round, green hills, often kissed by fog or rain, rolled steeply to the sea. On my second and last night there, without any spoken intentions to see one another again, I crept into his bedroom, awakened him, and blurted out my feelings.

I can’t stand not ever seeing you again.

He mustn’t have known just what to do or say. Not wanting to diminish or crush such a tender spirit, he still must have weighed his words carefully. Holding me in his arms, he whispered, I’d be taking so much and giving so little.

What did he mean? Didn’t he realize I was still a virgin? What I meant was that never seeing him again was unthinkable. I burst into sobs and wiped my tears with his striped pajama sleeve. Finally I went back to my room and fell into the sleep of the young and innocent who believe in tomorrows.

The next morning I rejoined my tour group in London. From there, we boarded a train to Dover and then took a boat across the English Channel to Calais, then another train to Paris. We arrived at night on July 13 at the Gare du Nord and went by bus to a simple hotel on the Left Bank near the Arab quarter, our last leg of the trip before heading home.

The elevator broken, I climbed to the fourth floor to my small room and fell into bed, relieved to be going home but also sad that the trip was almost over.

The next morning a shaft of sunlight from the window struck my face. I tried to orient myself—my suitcase and raincoat on a chair, shoes nearby. A folding screen shielded a toilet and small sink in one corner. I glanced at my watch; it showed it was a bit before 8 a.m. Suddenly the telephone rang its hollow double French tone.

When I answered, a woman’s voice said, "Bonjour Mademoiselle, deux hommes sont ici pour vous."

Moi?

Oui

Merci.

I looked out the small window. Two young men, well dressed in three-piece suits, were standing in the street. One held flowers. I opened the window and leaned out.

Constance?

Yes.

We’re your cousins. I’m Arnaud. This is Patrick.

Hello.

We’re coming up!

I raced into some clothes, brushed my hair, and splashed cold water on my face, slicking my eyebrows with a finger.

Someone knocked. I opened the door. Arnaud thrust forth the bouquet of flowers, which I took and placed in the small sink. Arnaud had a naughty smile and dark hair, and his cologne smelled wonderful. Patrick was blond and seemed shy.

How are we cousins? I asked.

Your grandfather’s sister married our grandfather, Arnaud said.

Who?

"Aunt Constance married Count Odon de Lubersac. She’s our grandmother."

I let this sink in. I’m named after her.

We know, they said in unison.

I had heard the stories about my mother’s years in Europe, her escape from a horrid English boarding school and flight to Paris to her favorite aunt, Constance. I didn’t know I had actual relatives, though, but their children, who were my cousins now, stood right before me. I lucked out!

They explained that today, July 14, was a very special day in France. In 1789 a revolutionary mob stormed the Bastille, the king’s prison, marking the beginning of the French Revolution. On the first anniversary, people gathered to celebrate what became known as Bastille Day. Tonight there would be dancing in the streets and in the bistros all over Paris. They asked if I would join them later, telling me it might be dangerously full of drunk, wild people, fireworks and mobs. I’d need their protection.

Excitedly, I agreed and we arranged to meet just after 5 p.m. Then they were gone, leaving behind a sophisticated aroma of cologne and French Gauloises cigarettes.

Arnaud navigated a little Renault through many small streets in the Latin Quarter, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Patrick yelled "gauche," then droit, droit! as the car turned this way and that. Thrust first to the right, then the left, I held on to the back of the driver’s seat as Paris unfolded through the windows. We passed the Palais du Luxembourg, all lighted up, then the Boulevard Saint Michel, with cafés full of people. Several people stepped right in front of the car. Arnaud shouted, stepped on the break and peeled left around them. There were so many people laughing and gesturing everywhere.

In Montparnasse, Arnaud parked in an alley off the boulevard. I followed them into a crowded bistro, and we pushed to the brass-railed bar. Arnaud shouted an order to the bartender while Patrick escorted me to a small table in the back. Although it was so noisy I couldn’t hear what Patrick said, at least we could sit. Arnaud joined us with three glasses of beer and a menu, which they discussed in rapid-fire French.

Arnaud kept eyeing a woman dressed in a tight skirt and top standing near our table. She had frizzy black hair, an incredibly long neck, and small, tight breasts. It was obvious she wore no bra, because her breasts jiggled when she laughed. Within earshot, Arnaud and Patrick discussed her in English.

"Mon vieux, she’s a whore.

No, she’s a model.

Two hundred francs she’s a whore.

Three hundred francs she isn’t.

Arnaud tapped her on the shoulder and asked her something in French, which was later translated to me as My brother says you are a movie star. Are you?

Her boyfriend told Arnaud to go fuck himself, at which point we ordered more beers and food from a middle-aged waiter with a white napkin slung over his arm. As we sipped our beers, the couple moved away from us.

Arnaud told me this place was a hotbed for political demonstrations by students. Our waiter arrived carrying a tray with a basket of bread, butter and assorted cold cuts, brie, and a small dish of fruit. He left and reappeared with plates, mustard, forks, and knives. I was famished. We all were.

It was good to be eating in this Paris bistro with these French cousins-by-marriage, whom I hadn’t known existed until that morning. We got another round of beer. Suddenly the room burst into La Marseillaise. People sang Allons enfants de la patrie, to the accompaniment of an accordion. I’d heard the song but didn’t know the words, so I hummed the melody. It was impossible not to join in.

Soon people were forming a conga line through the bistro and out into the street, kicking alternating feet out every sixth beat. Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. I lost sight of Arnaud, whom I last saw holding on to the waist of the dark-haired woman with the skin-tight clothes. Patrick was ahead of me. A tall man over six feet tall was holding on to me. I felt his breath on my shoulder. He whispered something in guttural French that I didn’t understand, then something I did, Très jeune.

I said, Je ne parle pas Francais.

Everyone was dancing a conga line down the middle of the street. There must have been fifty or sixty people, all dancing and singing to the beat: ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. I felt rivulets of sweat on my neck and bodice. Now hot, I felt tired.

Slowly, the conga line wound down and then dissipated. I bent over in an effort to get blood to my brain. The man behind me touched my shoulder. I straightened up, sucking in my breath. He wiped a large hand across his sweaty mouth and jaw and smiled. We both laughed. He was lanky and well built, with small hips, broad shoulders, and long legs. His muscles rippled. Soft yellow hairs on his forearms caught the light. The hair on his head was wavy, light brown, thick. He looked the way a man should; he was also a complete stranger. Suddenly, he reached out with one hand and flipped my hair up and away from my neck. I liked his touch. Next, he took a matchbook from his pocket. He wrote on the inside cover and pressed the matchbook into my right palm as he stroked it with his finger. I jerked my hand from his and ran back into the lighted bistro. Finding our old table, I crumpled into a chair.

Why did I run away? I looked at the matchbook. Inside was written a strange name, an address, and telephone number. I shoved it into my dress pocket before Arnaud and Patrick returned. Later, in the back seat of the Renault on our way to the hotel, I felt the matchbook in my pocket and wondered who he was.

Saturday brought glorious weather: clear blue sky with occasional fluffy clouds. Dr. Wasserman and the group were going to visit a museum, and I watched them consult maps as they prepared to navigate the Parisian Metro system.

Arnaud arrived before noon to bring me to a luncheon at Aunt Jackie’s, Arnaud and Patrick’s stepmother, who is married to their father, Uncle Jacques. He arrived early to take me to a special place before the lunch. He wouldn’t tell me where. He said, Wait and see, a beautiful surprise.

I jumped into the Renault and we headed south toward the Seine river and, beyond it, the Right Bank. We crossed a beautiful bridge to an island called Ile de la Cité right in the heart of Paris. Parking the car, we walked past the Notre Dame Cathedral and its flying buttresses, through the park and out to where the island ended in a point in the Seine. We sat on a bench under a tree. A barge drifted lazily by with laundry drying on the wheelhouse, then another with a cat and a deck filled with junk. A man fished from the quai in front of us. The air was permeated with smells of newly cut grass mixed with the Seine’s unique essence and occasional whiffs of cigarette smoke from passersby. Arnaud bought me a gift, Le Grand Bal du Printemps, by Jacques Prévert, a booklong poem about springtime in Paris with photographs. He took my hand in his as we looked at the book together, he translating the French into English and explaining where the photographs were taken. He put an arm around my shoulder, which felt romantic.

My little American cousin, don’t ever change. Promise? he said.

"I won’t change. I promise."

Then Arnaud kissed me. His mouth was soft and warm, his lips enveloping mine. When our lips parted he whispered, Ne change pas, ma petite.

With one kiss, he made me feel so special.

No. 199 Avenue Victor Hugo was a handsome building. We ascended the elevator to the fourth floor and entered to see many people standing in a receiving line. They all seemed honored that I had come.

Arnaud presented me to Great Aunt Constance, a tall, thin patrician woman who resembled her brother, my grandfather. She had a lovely smile and beautiful white hair.

Next I was introduced to Jackie, then to Jacques, Mimi and Raoul, and finally to a line of children of various ages and heights and their governess, Mlle. Bouchard. Everyone’s English was perfect. We were ushered to the dining room, to a table set with an elaborate array of utensils and glassware. I was seated to the right of Uncle Jacques in the place of honor. Aunt Constance was on Jacques’ left. A butler served the first course: jellied consommé with a poached egg in the middle and a slice of lemon on a large soup plate. I wondered how in the world did the poached egg get into the middle. I watched to see who would start first. When everyone had been served, Jackie lifted a spoonful to her lips, which was the signal for everyone to follow. The soup spoon was incredibly heavy. I wondered if it could be some sort of serving implement. I noticed that Aunt Constance, who sat directly opposite me, had a spoon the same size.

When the first course was finished, the soup plates were removed and clean plates were put in front of each of us. The butler served each person fish, new potatoes, and peas from a large platter. Then he poured white wine. All the while, the conversation was directed toward me.

My dear, tell us all about your mother and George and the ranch.

I related news about George’s latest range cattle and the Australian grasses he was trying to establish to make permanent pastures where we had brush. I was repeating an automatic script I’d heard many times so I could concentrate on not making a gaffe in my table manners. I told them my mother loved teaching illiterates how to read and write and adored her vegetable garden. Uncle Raoul seemed surprised.

You mean your mother, Hopie, is digging in a garden? he said.

It’s mostly Andrew, the gardener.

Ahh.

The children at the other end of the table smiled sweetly.

When lunch was finished, we adjourned to the living room for coffee and tea, which Aunt Jackie served from a gigantic silver service. The children passed the coffee and tea. Everyone was terribly polite, which I found exhausting. I was asked about the tour. What countries had we visited, who were the other group members, who was leading it? Suddenly I heard myself say, Dr. Wasserman teaches political science. The House Un-American Activities Committee accused him of being a Communist, which led to his losing that job. But now he teaches at San Francisco State and he’s a really good friend of Mom’s.

There was sudden silence. I shouldn’t have mentioned anything about the House Un-American Activities Committee or Communists. But I did. Anyway, it was true.

Suddenly Uncle Raoul abruptly stood and said, Well, your mother was quite something.

He recounted the time she ran away from her dreadful English boarding school to their house.

She hid under a large bed and rolled from one side to the other as the chauffeur tried to pull her out.

Really? I asked. How old was she?

My age. We were about sixteen or seventeen. Hopie wouldn’t come out until they promised her she wouldn’t have to go back to England.

I loved hearing these stories about when mom was young because she sounded so human, like me.

After lunch it was decided I’d go with Great-At Constance, Uncle Raoul and Aunt Mimi to No. 1 rue Charles-Lamoureux, just a few blocks away. They wanted to show me their apartment and introduce me to Guy and Chantal, Raoul and Mimi’s son and daughter-in-law. We would telephone Arnaud when the visit was concluded, and he’d take me back to the Left Bank.

No. 1 rue Charles-Lamoureux sat on the corner of the block long street. Aunt Constance lived on the first floor, and Raoul and Mimi lived on the fourth. We all got into the small elevator, a polished brass cage encased in glass, which slowly ascended. (The first floor in France is really the floor above the ground floor.) We deposited Great-Aunt Constance at her front door. Everyone kissed everyone on both cheeks before parting.

Julie, the maid, opened the door and explained to Mimi that Madame la Comtesse and Monsieur le Comte were not in. I was aware that she addressed Aunt Mimi with Madame and referred to Guy and Chantal by their full titles. It was such a foreign and strange custom that I felt as if I’d arrived on a movie set.

The apartment was vast, wrapping 360 degrees around a courtyard. The living room was sumptuously furnished with matching velvet sofas, upholstered period chairs, lacquered inlaid tables with marble tops, and hand-carved and gilded framed paintings on wood-paneled walls. Over each of the double doors leading to a small balcony above rue Charles-Lamoureux were floor-length brocade curtains with roped and tasseled tiebacks.

I’d never been in anything as fine except a museum. Our two-story California ranch house had linoleum and cork floors, and the windows had no curtains. Our dining area was an eight-foot-long wooden table with backless benches for seating in the kitchen.

A mini tour of the apartment with Mimi revealed two smaller bedrooms and an adjoining bath on one side of the living room, and the master bedroom, sitting room, and double bathroom on the other. Each of the bathrooms had a bidet.

Raoul teases me for having over eight meters of closet space, she said, indicating the hallway outside the master suite with floor-to-ceiling storage. She smiled and checked my reaction.

I had no idea how to respond. She and I came from different worlds. I’d never heard of the Paris Collections or her favorite design house, Balmain. I didn’t know what was so amusing about eight meters of closet space. Perhaps it was only her way of trying to be friendly. I was a girl who has driven cattle through brush in cold, damp fog during spring roundup. I could churn butter and yodel like hell, but I didn’t know a thing about French culture or the subtleties of this kind of conversation.

We completed the tour by passing through the storage hall and servants staircase, the kitchen, and the dining room. Meanwhile, Raoul, who spoke American English with no trace of an accent, dug up some old photographs of my mother. There was something familiar about Raoul, which made it seem I’d always known him. It dawned on me then that he must have been 6-foot-4. My mother, aunt, great-aunt, and grandfather are all over six feet tall, and they all have the same bone structure: large, even features, square jaws, and naturally curly hair, although Raoul’s was receding.

He patted the arm of his chair and I perched on it as we looked at the black and white snapshots. In one, my mother was standing in front of a French country house. About my age, she wore jodhpurs and a white shirt and held a riding crop, her golden hair catching the light. Her body’s stance said, Ta-da, here I am! My mother was quite shy even though she was beautiful. Another showed her standing next to my father, who wore a beret and held a small white dog. They looked so dapper in Bohemian 1930s outfits.

This was taken in the garden off Rue Notre Dames des Champs, where they lived, he said. I figured it must have been taken in 1931 or ’32, just before my older brother, Turo, was born.

We liked Arthur very much, said Raoul. He had actually known my beloved father! This cemented our bond.

Suddenly, we heard the front door opening and closing, followed by high heels clicking on the parquet. A heavy male footstep followed. A high-pitched voice rang out. Cheri, nous sommes ici finalement! Chantal, a large, pregnant, dark-haired woman wearing bright red lipstick and lacquered nails swept in and planted a kiss on Mimi’s cheek, then on Raoul’s, and finally on mine. Guy, who looked like a younger version of his father, carried two armfuls of packages and crossed the living room to shake my hand.

Hello, Constance. Nice to meet you. Sorry we’re late. We lost the time.

He sat on a sofa and dropped the bundles onto the carpet. Chantal plopped next to him and began to speak in rapid-fire French while pulling items from the packages, holding them up and passing them to Mimi. This must be a first grandchild. Mimi’s eyes lighted up as Chantal, like a magician, reached into a bag and pulled out an adorable yellow and white outfit, then a crib blanket with embroidery, then a baby’s hat, a tiny sweater and soft white booties.

Here, Consie. Chantal handed me the hat and tiny sweater. I felt like a giant holding such small articles of clothing. All the packages were now empty and their contents proudly displayed on laps, the tips of chairs, and sofas. Chantal’s English was minimal, but her warmth needed no translation.

Raoul picked up the telephone and dialed. I heard a short exchange in French and deduced that Arnaud was on his way, so I began polite rounds of thank-yous and goodbyes. Ten minutes later when the doorbell buzzed, I kissed everyone on each cheek and took the stairs down, a safer alternative to the antique elevator. Arnaud was waiting outside, smoking a cigarette. He opened the passenger door of the