Crossed Paths

He was rummaging around in the box, trying to find the piece of paper that contained her address. The box contained many possessions from a previous life, artifacts, pictures, memorabilia, left behind when they moved abroad. There was the uniform cap, scrap books of sojourns and travels, it was a time capsule of sorts. He found it, a scrap of paper with her address.

His Dad appeared at his side, stood beside him, and then asked, “What are you looking for?” Then he added, “What’s that?”, as he saw the scrap of paper take so much interest from his son.

“Nothing.” The son lied. “Nothing important.” He increased the lie; it was important to him.

He had met this girl in Germany. In another life, years before his marriage, before his wife’s recent death, and the subsequent chaos, the grief, the added responsibilities of a single parent, living abroad, without the support of a close family.

During his time in Germany, he had met a girl from Finland. A beautiful, funny girl, also studying and gaining her qualifications. It was a passing of ships in the night story. She was married, but her relationship was spiraling ever downwards. She worked in Germany, and he worked in London. They kept in touch, although her life changed earlier than his. Her relationship came to an end, and she moved back to Finland. The scrap of paper had her address in Finland, and he found it in the box that day, among all his past and memorabilia.

Clutching the scrap of paper in his hands, he wondered. It was so long ago, in a different era, but his Finnish friend and he had an instant rapport. Love? Unfortunately, time and the gods didn’t give them enough time to find out. But he knew in the short time their lives crossed, he felt an unfulfilled longing and potential, wanting more of her company. These feelings lingered in his memories, moments like that didn’t come into his life that often. The girl’s name was Jaana, and she lived in Finland in a place named Jyvaskyia. He decided to travel there, to find out if the crossed paths of a previous time could instead become a milestone.

He landed in Helsinki and took the train to Jyvaskyia. It was early June, and the summer was in full bloom. The air was fresh after the cold months of winter. Northern climates have summers that don’t last long but have a youthfulness and freshness about them. Nothing in comparison to a country in a sunny southern latitude. He arrived at his destination by train and found a small hotel near the station. It was late, but the June skies were still sunny and bright. He slept well that night, after the journey, but arose early, as the morning light filtered through the curtains. Clutching the scrap of paper, he asked the receptionist the whereabouts of the address. It wasn’t far from the hotel, so he walked. The square shaped buildings looked on with their mundane appearance, the train station was situated in the centre of the town, a busy motorway swept through the town centre in parallel to the railway tracks. He had seen so many lakes large and small as the train trundled to his destination. He found the address, all the dull uniformed buildings looked the same, the apartment block no different from the rest. He found the front door on the second floor. He rang the bell. He didn’t know what to expect. A woman, motherly looking, having lost some of her early girl-shaped figure some time ago, opened the door, and appeared in front of him. She didn’t speak a word of English. He showed the address, and he said “Jaana?”. She shook her head, and then disappeared inside the half-opened door. She came back with another scrap of paper, with another address. He left and went back to the hotel for some advice.

The receptionist said that Viitaniemi, which was scribbled on the note, was out near Toumiojarvi Lake, take the 4A bus, and then get off at the end stop; Viitaniemi. The bus took me past similar dull looking but tidy modern buildings, and he arrived at its destination. He showed the bus driver the address, as he disembarked. The driver pointed towards more apartment blocks with the same outward appearance. He found the apartment block, and then the apartment door. On ringing the bell, the door opened wide, and there was Jaana, but much had changed in her appearance since the girl he met ten years ago in Germany. She looked like the older version of the lady he had met before, and she was carrying in her arms a screaming baby. There was a shout from a room behind her, a man’s voice with a tone of enquiry. Her face showed shock, then surprise, then a smile, and then finally a frown. If she wasn’t carrying the baby, I’m sure she would have shrugged her shoulders. It was like a scene from a silent movie. There was nothing more to be said or done, he realized in an instant, the scene needed no words of exchange, life had moved on. It does that very quickly in our lives, and then it ends as quickly as it starts. He turned without any words and returned to the hotel.

On the bus journey back to the hotel, he pondered. Had he wasted his time? There were two coexisting thoughts, he felt a fool for the wasted journey, and another thought entered his head. No stone unturned, his adventurous spirit had been satisfied, he thought, we can’t live in a world of wondering what if? He knew that Jaana’s life had continued a separate course, just like his own.

It was a bright sunny day, and although his search had ended, he didn’t necessarily feel devastated, quite the opposite, after the recent traumas of his wife’s death, the journey was cathartic. He found a small café, with chairs and tables outside on the sunny street in the older part of town. Sat down and ordered a coffee. The sun shone brightly onto his upturned face, as he watched the pedestrian traffic as it passed by, and wondered how life was in Jyvaskyia. Across the street, appeared a young girl pushing a pram, her hair shone in the bright sun, and she had an interesting gait, she skipped along. She came to a nearby table, parked the pram, and called the waiter to order. His first impression of the girl was of natural stunning beauty, and although she wore loose flowing clothes, her body was slight but firm. Maybe, because he was starring, she looked up, and gave off a radiant friendly smile.

Without thinking, he said hello in English. The girl spoke with a stilted English accent, and invitingly said “Hello, come and join me.” He joined her at the small table and sat opposite the vision of beauty; she was much younger than he; he observed. She spoke inquiringly “Are you English? We don’t get many foreigners in Jyvaskyia, my name is Ira, and I’m from Moscow.”

They started to exchange introductions, and both fell into easy conversation. Both started to tell each other about their lives, and circumstances, without any embarrassment, very honest and truthful. Ira was from Moscow, recently married to a Finnish man from Jyvaskyia, she moved to Finland to be married, and she became pregnant. It was her first time away from her family, from her city of birth, and she felt lonely. The marriage broke down, worst the man wanted a divorce, and custody of the child, with Ira out of his life. Ira was now fighting the man and his family in court, stubbornly wanting to stay in Finland to bring up the child but on her terms. She divulged her sad tale, sometimes with the flaying of her arms, as she became animated with her emotions, but he noticed the broken smile on her face, and the sad eyes conveyed all the disappointment of her current circumstances. The man thought he had never seen such blue intelligent eyes like hers in his entire life. She had an elfin shaped face, those sad eyes, and long glistening hair that shone gold in the bright sunlight. They sat together in deep conversation, as good friends do, without awareness of the people passing by nor the fellow customers. It was as though the man and girl had known each other intimately in previous lives, or a parallel existence.

It was time for her to leave, the baby needed feeding. They both got up, he paid. She gave her thanks, and then turned to push the pram towards her home. They never exchanged contacts. But, as he watched her disappear along the street, she looked back in his direction and waved. The man felt uplifted with the meeting, and the conversation with the stranger felt warm and lingered in his mind. He had a feeling that the journey was not to meet Jaana, but to know that Ira was living in this world. It was a strange and mystical feeling. He had crossed paths with someone of significance.

He strangely thought “The heavens have decided not today, maybe we will meet later in life or in another lifetime, when it is more appropriate, when we are more worldly and wise.”

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 As the passing traffic with gusts of velocity tucked at his black baseball cap, and sometimes lifted his sunglasses perched on his nose, he continued his progress to the immigration office, his laptop bag flapping against his suntanned body dressed only in shorts, T-shirt, and flip flops. The traffic was busy as he entered the town, and drove down to the habour, parked the scooter, and started walking to the immigration office for his interview. He had all the documents and attachments in a plastic folder and was prepared for an interview with the Turkish official, stumbling to understand his Turkish words and instructions.

He found the office. It was old, old desks, old chairs untidily placed for the interviewees. He approached the elderly looking male officer, he seemed to be the senior of two other girls seated in opposite corners of the office. Each desk stacked up high with files, and paperwork, each officer’s attention was on the screen of the computers perched on each desk. He sat down beside the man with a faint white moustache, and waited to get his attention, which was continually being challenged by the computer screen. The man finally looked up and took the file of papers from his hands. He thumped the keyboard with his plump fingers, and studied the on-screen details, his online submission. Finally, the official scribbled on a template like form, and handed it to the man. The man looked back at the official with complete ignorance of the Turkish writing on the form, with pleading eyes, and a mouth drawn downward in an expression of hopelessness.

It was a painful and tedious day as he struggled with the lengthy process. He remained a dumb, helpless, and ignorant bystander, sometimes getting guidance in English, as inch by inch he made progress in the world of Turkish officialdom.

It was on the busy street that he caught sight of her, across the road in the crowd. She was distinctive, in one of those flowing dresses with a high bodice, green motives stood out against a pure white background, the dress looked expensive, he thought. It was her bright blond French style cut that caught his imagination and created a photograph in the mind. She looked interesting. It wasn’t just her stunning looks, it wasn’t just her easy skipping but purposeful striding gait, there was something holistically that was intriguing. She was someone that stood out in the crowded streets that day, as they passed each other on the opposite side of the street.

The immigration system still didn’t have the update of the details. He went back to the top of the town, to get a reference number that would confirm the transfer was completed in this bureaucratic nightmare. The dreaded hour of five pm struck, but at least he clutched in his sweaty palm the scribbled number, but the final immigration submission had eluded him. At least for that day. Inch by tiny inch he thought in his conciliary mind.

The mental and physical stress was evaporating with the cooling temperatures of the early evening, as his slower walking pace took him down the street in the direction of his parked scooter. He stood under the shade of a tree at the crossroads, waiting for the pedestrian lights to change to green, and then a voice came out of the hubbub of street noise.

“Which way to the habour?”

It was such a sweet soft voice that would always uplift his heart to this day.

He looked down, and there was the vision of beauty. She looked harassed. Close up the instance impression was of sparkling blue eyes, like two crystal glass orbs of blue, with flecks of light blue that radiated out to a darker blue circular halo edge, piercing, intelligent, confident, wondering innocent eyes. It shocked him, in that heartfelt moment of wonder and awe. Closer; she was even more beautiful. She had an open face, there was laughter, and seriousness, behind those laser blue eyes.

“Yes, I’m headed there, I can show you, if you want.” He offered.

They walked together down the sloping hill to the habour, the conversation came so naturally, she was an open book about her day, staying in Torba, taking the bus to town, problems changing money, problems with her credit card, her day, no detail, or emotion was spared from his listening ears. After the stressful turmoil of his day, it was comforting to listen, and he felt lightened by her company. There was a feeling of both being in a mutual bubble as they strode down the crowded street.

“Shall we go for a glass of wine?” He inquired.

“Yes, sure.” It was so natural, the reply from his desiree.

“There’s some wine bars near the marina, let’s go there.” He suggested.

He felt the closeness of her warm body, she was lean and fit under that loose flowing dress, she felt so at ease in his company, his inhibitions subsided, he wanted her, it felt natural. They found a small wine bar and sat on the high stools and high tables on the decking in front of the pedestrian traffic. The evening sun beamed down, on that early October day, and their conversation was rich and plentiful, as they started to learn about each other, not just today, but the broad strokes of their lives. Her life in Finland, Russia. His wandering life. Talking with freedom, open, no pretense, no falseness. He was still wearing his black baseball cap, and dark glasses, she asked him to remove both, as the Chardonnay’s appeared, softly weeping from their appearance into the warmth of the evening.

She stared long and hard into his face, and was silent for a moment, and then she said.

“I have met you in another life!” 

“Can’t you remember?” She kept staring into his eyes.

“No, not really.” He admitted with surprise to her searching, her eyes were not just searching his face, they seemed to be internalizing something in her mind, trying to remember a distant memory.

“Yes, we were married, in the days of ancient Rome, you were a doctor, and we had a son. Can’t you remember the bedroom, the curtains?” She continued.

“There was a tragedy, I was outspoken, and our son, and I were killed.”

He laughed in embarrassment, but she continued.

“I believe in spirituality, and you and I come from the same planet, and we have already lived many lifetimes, and like a never-ending book or play, we come into and out of each other’s lives.” She said this with conviction. This was her belief, and she wanted to share this with him. It was a private intimate confession.

He didn’t think her doctrine was totally strange, he always kept an open mind, but she was so sincere, she made it all seem credible.

She smoked. He didn’t, but the mixture of wine, and the heady atmosphere of her company made him hunger for a cigarette. The bubble that they had created in minutes, was the stuff of dreams, time was standing still, as the world was spinning, people were moving in the periphery of his vision, but he felt like he was in a bubble with her, it was a strange feeling, a feeling of finding someone unique, it was the start of him falling in love with this stranger.

They both became light-headed not only with the glasses of Chardonnay, but the conversation was potent, a conversation of discovery, of bonding. The essence of her words still lingered on, graphically painting a picture in his head of ancient Rome, he had the emotional feeling that they were two reincarnated souls having found each other in this moment, this life, their lives. It was incomprehensible, but there was a feeling in his heart and head, in his intuition, and it all made sense.

Is it possible the lines of our lives are marked by crossed paths that come, and go without our knowledge or consciousness, only to be hidden under a miscellaneous file in the subconscious. Is it by fate or by chance these crossed paths appear in our lifetime, possibly many lifetimes, or are we the captains and heroes of our own destiny, forever forward with never a glance to port or starboard.