A Thousand First Meetings

12 October 2024

Dear Natasha,

Yes, it’s me. Again.

Well, I can finally admit it, spill to you the secret I’ve kept buried like a chest of gold for, well, as long as my memory could trace seconds. I should tell you that I keep all the faces I put on to meet you in large, crystal jars of lapis lazuli and lush, brilliant greens, the collection stacked on shelves in an ivory-painted cupboard that almost reaches the ceiling. Each one of them, every perfectly moulded mask of flesh and keratin is labelled in thick crimson card and my chicken scratch penmanship in thick felt tip pen with the date and place I smiled at you. It all bears inscriptions of the very moment your deep amber eyes twinkled as your mellifluous, dewdrop voice spouted out the same question that makes my heart leap every single time: Have we met before?

I know. It sounds strange, doesn’t it? You know sometimes, I wonder what you would think if you stumbled upon my rows of glittering receptacles. Would you scream and bolt out of the room if you saw Marc, the Swiss skier you spent a night in a cabin with in the Swinging Sixties, floating in preservative solution? Would you beam upon reacquainting yourself with Kadek, your translator when you were delivering hard-hitting news from Bali? I have no idea, to be honest.

What I’m certain about, though, is that whenever the forward marching of time rips us apart like a tsunami crashing through a sleepy coastal town and leaving nothing in its wake, I had to find you again. Natasha, if I had to paddle across the Pacific with a teaspoon to coat myself in the honey of your laughter, I would do it. If only to hear you query me with “Have we met before?”

When I shook your hand this morning as the museum curator you were due to interview, you asked me “Have we met before?” I ordered my muscles to stride over to you, the tailored tweed suit and Bulgari Acqua Homme camouflaging the network of nerves carrying a thousand volts of electricity. However, all that anxiety melted away in the golden lakes you stared at me with. As I sat down next to you, our hands brushed, releasing neon-coloured fireworks in my vision. You must have observed them too because next thing I knew, a rose flushed on your sculpted cheeks. We went through that tête-à-tête smooth as silk, and yet at the back of my mind, all I wanted then was to deftly lean over to you comb your long wavy hair back and plant a soft kiss on your mulberry lips. If only…

When you walked over to my military cot and I shakingly waved my hand, you asked me “Have we met before?” Of course, back in 1944, I was blonde Marshall from San Francisco, and you were beauteous Bostonian Alice. Still, just one look at me and you dropped your metal tray with a clang and froze at my bandaged body lying amongst the thin white sheets. You bit your lip and whispered that you’re coming back to my bedside. Well, you kept your promise; the air was filled with your sweet manner of speaking and my all-too-loud guffaws for two hours. However, all I wanted then was to bolt up, remove the layers of gauze trapping my jaw, and let out the dam inside me, flowing with affection. If only…

When you sang from your balcony and I tipped my stovepipe hat at the ethereal vision of your butterfly-sleeved presence, you asked me “Have we met before?” Yes, we were thrown into the end of the Spanish occupation in the Philippines, and we bore the names Rodolfo and Estrella. However, not even the bronzed complexion and onyx hair could distract you from recognising me. You ran down the steps of your grey brick house towards me, your sandals clacking on the cobblestones. Your milky, delicate hand smelling of young jasmine in mine, we glided our way to a marble bench by a placid, sapphire lake. A string quartet was playing Vivaldi’s Concerto in G Minor in the distance and you flashed me a smile that could have melted the snow caps of the Alps. I desired more, though. All I wanted then was to twirl you in my arms, gaze at your delicate face, and never let you go. If only…

All of these first meetings, though, are but sequels to the very moment you walked into my life and changed the ebb and flow of my days, to the day that might have left your consciousness but is etched into my heart.

How could I forget you being led through the doors of a French château, your head held elegantly high before the halls of the castle? Your ornate gold silk gown and the sparkling emerald parure made you resemble an entire galaxy. To me, --- the court’s lute player Simon Guillaume--- though, you --- the Countess Lucie de Cailles --- became my entire universe, even from the first glance across the throne room. Of course, the wall that separated our stations was even more imposing than those of that gilt palace, so I thought I had to content myself to furtive, longing looks at your beauty. Imagine my surprise when, as I was strolling around the garden and admiring the violets, I heard your crystalline voice. In the thirty minutes we spent chatting, a warmth enveloped us both, the undeniable blanket of love.

We both knew that for any chance of that first meeting turning into a lifetime of bliss we had to run away together. And so, on the night of a ball in your honour, you had excused yourself to get some fresh air. Little did the bejewelled guests know that by the wrought iron statue of a cherub and his harp, I was waiting. We crept out of the gates as the guard disappeared to relieve himself. The very next day, we’d sneak off to Paris where a kindly friar would marry us. God, you looked so resplendent in the white, brocaded gown you managed to stow away for our fugue, but that was but a preview of how angelic you would always look --- when you were strolling in the city streets with me, your warm body pressed to mine, holding and kissing our two children, right by my side in bed. It was bliss.

How were we to know that fate was watching us safely ensconced in our bubble, scowled, and thought to burst it in the next lifetimes?

Yes, Natasha, we did manage to escape your betrothed, the Dauphin, as we dashed to the Hexagon’s capital, but for the next first hellos between us, it would seem like I’ve been cursed to have a thousand first meetings with you without even a chance to make you mine. If only Alfonso didn’t come looking for you at the lakeside, his neatly pressed suit not even wrinkling as he shook the hand of “your friend”. If only Frank didn’t come barrelling down the street in his shiny black car to pick you up at the hospital after work. If only Travis didn’t tap you on the shoulder, hand you a bouquet of plump red roses, and gave you a long smooch. If only I didn’t have to stare at the glimmer of a gold band on your left hand every time I come back to you.

Perhaps, one day, we could cheat the inscriptions chance had carved out in the monolith of time. You know I will keep trying until that happens. I will savour these introductory encounters for as long as it takes for me to be caressing your face, to be your partner in life, to say hello and never have to say goodbye. I promise you that for many iterations of me to come.

Holding out hope at every “Nice to meet you”,

Tristan

**

12 October 2024

Dear Diary,

I saw Tristan again today. I had to pretend I had no idea he existed, had to ask “Have we met before”, of course. I knew it was him, though; how could I forget the twinkle in those eyes?

Why, just why, do I have to be pressured to marry just months before him swinging back into my life? Again?