7 comments/ 14355 views/ 2 favorites The Lady on the Tower By: Sailor1 The view from the top of the tower that August was spectacular and refreshing. I had needed that for some time. Reluctantly, the way one does when it would be nice to just stay right where one is and not have to move, I turned away and leaned back against the railing. It was an effort to extend perhaps just a little longer the time there in the sun and with a magnificent vista all around me. I had not noticed that anyone else had come up. The access door to the upper level was creaky and wanted oil on its hinges, and I thought I would have noticed. Nevertheless, there she stood, some twenty feet away on the other side of the platform, gazing out towards the bay and the port and the mountains and forest beyond, enjoying apparently as I had been the panorama of the broad countryside spread out below. For me the scenery of interest suddenly became much more proximate, and my movement to depart was arrested altogether. She was a very attractive young lady. Her face was turned away from me, of course, but I took rapid inventory of what I could see... and then slowed my perusal, since I was now in no hurry whatever to move onward. Her auburn hair was long and flowing down off her shoulders, the light wind playing with loose tendrils. She wore a white linen short-sleeved blouse and a beautifully flowered skirt that reached to a bit below her knees. She was standing very still, maybe even tense, taking in the refreshing view in big gulps perhaps, as I had been, and finding it lifted her spirits to do so. Perhaps. It was pleasant to imagine that she was, anyway. As I watched she relaxed and leaned on her arms on the heavy railing, and shifted to one leg and, in a delightfully feminine way, slipped her one bare foot out of her Scandinavian clogs and wiggled her toes in the fresh air. Well, maybe she was seeking some relaxing get away and enjoyed the change of pace up here on the tower. After a few minutes enjoying the view myself, while she shifted again to allow the toes of her other foot some fresh air as well and the wind danced delightedly with her hair, I decided that there was nothing in my day that was so pressing. There was enough flexibility in my self-imposed schedule to allow an occasion to develop where I might meet this young lady. I had just UPS'd off the CD and hard copy print out of my book to the publisher and mailed the three bills that were demanding payment, and plans for exploring some of the waterfront were purely of my own making. There had been little interest in meeting another woman for several years now. The last one took her leave after years of togetherness and left me bereft of the softness and cheery companionship that had meant so much. Only in the process of bringing this book project to a conclusion was the confidence in self returning that allowed me to imagine I might successfully seek out the acquaintance of another. So far no suitable candidate had appeared on the horizon. The length of the interlude was mostly of my own creation, I supposed. Still, even casual friendships with women were selective efforts for me. Perhaps I was just picky, but it was important to me that the friendship have some substance and depth, and there was a dearth of opportunity to meet women of a comparable inclination not already otherwise involved. I turned away from the young lady beside the rail so that, should she turn around, it would not be quite so obvious that I had been staring; and I had been staring and for how long I was unsure. Something had happened to my senses and my awareness of the passage of time was interrupted by her having captured my attention. Even continuing to observe her with sidelong glances was sufficient to push easily other objects from view. Mid to late twenties, at the very most early thirties, I judged; no, probably less. Rather taller than many, about 5-10 or so; slender but not thin. Her legs, ankles and bare feet reflected her overall trim figure. Her long hair caught highlights from the sun and accented her delightful appearance. She was dazzling, and inside I could feel some sparks flitting here and there as circuit breakers began tripping off the line. I turned aside; for the first time in a long winter my heart was driving me to attempt to engineer some appropriate situation in which I could make her acquaintance. Earlier, I had decided that I would not appreciate a woman observing me from afar and then simply expecting me to fall like some ripe fruit into her hands, and that therefore the same criteria would apply in reverse should some lady catch my eye. This lady did catch my eye, and from my own resolution I determined that some overt approach to her was the only way in which I could expect at all to make a positive impression. Thus, determined and motivated, I moved at first closer and found a new position at the rail some respectful distance from her. "The view from up here is marvelous, don't you agree?" Hardly a debonair opening, but it was perhaps sufficiently inoffensive to open a conversation. She did not at first seem to respond, thinking perhaps that I was speaking to another. "That mountain peak on your right, with the snow cap, is sixty miles away. It certainly seems closer from up here, doesn't it? Amazing what a little perspective will do." It was immediately clear that I had put her in a real quandary. She did not say no, but more out of courtesy and being lady-like than anything else. There was no open indication that she was welcoming me into her life by any means. A sidelong glance and then, rather clipped and firm: "I do not make acquaintances so casually with men." That it was an attempt to deflect my attention was clear, but equally so, somehow, was that she simply did not function in this way... she was not a pick up. She meant the statement to push me away, but it revealed to me the quality of her person, and it made me all the more determined. "Thank you for making your position quite clear. Nor do I approach women in such a casual manner. Your graciousness speaks highly of you... and I recognize this is a very exceptional situation for you. It is for me as well." There had to be time to take a breath in there somewhere, and she had turned to look at me and for some reason my breathing had stopped. "Then why are you doing it now?" There was a note of challenge there somehow, as if I could not be who I claimed and be doing this. I turned to look out over the sun-drenched seascape before us, and tried to sound relaxed and non-confrontational in response. No response came to mind. So much for planning and forethought. Then, without giving it a second thought, I said somewhat off handedly, "I agree that my action is quite out of character; it feels very out of character, even now. Nevertheless, I saw no other way to resolve my dilemma." She was quick to retort. "Dilemma? And what dilemma was that?" The hint of disbelief and challenge was still there in her tone... the conversation, however, was continuing and she was making a contribution, however unwittingly. "My day has already seen some tremendously rewarding steps forward for me, then too the sun is out, there is music and everywhere about the beauties of nature. Along my flower-strewn path I suddenly crossed trails with an exceptionally beautiful woman. It seemed a shame, even perhaps rude or ignorant, to ignore her. If I took no initiative, however, our trails would shortly 'diverge in a yellow wood,' as Mr. Frost once wrote in a poem... and I would never even have made her acquaintance. I judged that would be... a very great loss. And so, as you see, I ventured where I have never trodden before." She was silent for a long moment, perhaps contemplating whether my explanation held any hint of reason. I could feel her eyes boring into me, seeking out such answers as she could about who and what I might be for a man. At forty I felt still young and vigorous enough to match wits with many much younger, but wise enough to pick my battles. Mentally I was with it, more or less, and involved in things that kept me current and active. Appearance-wise I doubtless overlooked a number of deficiencies, but considered myself a reasonably high-grade specimen. The critical issue was whether she would concur. It felt uncomfortable at first, being a bug under the microscope, but then I had already done that with her and turn-about was, I supposed, fair play. Then it occurred to me that catching her attention was precisely that which I had hoped to achieve. Still, the inspection and perusal – the feelings came across very clearly – were sharp and thorough and uncompromising. "This is very exceptional for me, I assure you." Her tone had softened a bit; and she was talking to me. "Thank you for your assurance. It is obvious to me, now even more so than before, that this is out of the ordinary for you. Thank you for even considering making an exception." It was, nonetheless, not at all evident that she was, or would. She made no response, and I could sense that our conversation had essentially ended. She had listened to my pitch and weighed it on the scales of... well, weighed it and evidently found it wanting. She was too much a lady to simply walk away, which would be conclusive but very rude. It was not a brush off, not exactly, yet it was a zero-response that said essentially "Thank you, but no thank you." Nor would she deign to offer any more of herself that I could in any way interpret as suggestive of the slightest interest on her part in continuing. There was nothing more, it seemed, that I could do or say. I told myself to retain my composure and remain a gentleman and not push any more. That left little else but to withdraw. No man feels vanquished on the field of endeavor with a woman without something of a let down, and I was beginning to feel my day, for all the promise with which it had started out, going right down the drain. Withdrawing with honor and grace is possibly one of man's most difficult and demanding maneuvers, and none of us ever do so easily... most of us never manage it at all. I leaned on the railing as the silence between us drew out to unbearable lengths, trying to appear to enjoy the spectacular view before I faced my execution. Moving slowly away from the container terminal far below us was a large ship, loaded now and heading for the open sea. Another, also loaded, was just entering, all way off now and lying to waiting for tugs. The romance and adventure of the sea provided a welcome diversion from the indignity of my pending demise and I delayed for a moment for a last sip of refreshment before... before admitting to myself that it was... over. "Fascinating, is it not, one arriving from a distant port, the other setting out for another... who knows where their voyage will end up taking them?" I surprised myself at having said anything. "The red one," the incoming freighter had a dull, dirty-red-painted hull streaked with running rust from a long and stormy passage, "is arriving from Far Eastern ports with textiles and piece goods; the darker one is bound for Sydney, Port Elizabeth and Europe..." I added. "It will be in Rotterdam in eight weeks time." Why did I think she would be at all interested? The executioner's axe seemed to be falling. "The black one has a Norwegian flag. Why it is going to Rotterdam?" There was a delightful lilt in her voice, not quite an accent perhaps, but something indescribable and unique... and pleasant. I had not caught it before, but then the defensive, stand-offish tone was now rather muted as well. Like the prisoner's last minute reprieve, I felt a new lease on life and scrambled to find a good answer to her question. She had correctly picked out the Norwegian's colors and opened herself to further exchange. Possibly the axe was not falling after all. "She's engaged in liner service between the Pacific Rim and Europe, and Rotterdam is her listed destination. She'll be in Bergen after that for a while and then back here again in late winter." I could not focus on the ship and her business because the lady once again engaged my senses fully. I ventured a look at her again. Her profile was classic Nordic. The breezes continued to play with her hair and the highlights of sunshine there were magical; the effect was just striking. She was beautiful... more beautiful than any man has the ability to imagine in a woman and a thousand times that for which he has any right to hope. She turned and looked at me in response. Her eyes were sheltering behind her dark glasses, but her features were fine and delicate without being weak and fragile. I noticed the very pleasant hint of some light freckles in her cheeks, and there was just the slightest trace of a smile. I would have been naïve to presume her smile meant anything at all, but at least for the moment I could construe it as an invitation to continue. That alone was more than I had thought possible. "How is it that you know so much about ships?" She was actually asking about me! Don't fumble this, silly, quiet down and just let the conversation develop on its own. "I've worked with them for many years, in the traffic management shop for the port authority and then with shipping brokers. Quite interesting actually, seeing all the goods moving hither and thither in gross lots and in thousands of tons... the ships' names are intriguing as well, long a fascination for me." With some trepidation I ventured a question of my own, seeking to find some opening to broader conversation. "Traveling and seeing the world is a great adventure. Have you had the chance to do some yourself?" There it was, the kicker. If she answered me at all, it would be an opening. I waited for her, almost forgetting to breathe. It was a conscious effort on her part, a step outside her normal pattern of dealing with people. "A little," she answered. OK, not exactly the breakthrough at Normandy, but at least she was talking to me. "My parents were both Danish, but we lived in Praha for many years when I was younger." Well, a rather marvelous introduction to whatever was next to come. On the other hand, it could hardly have been less obvious that she had just skipped over the last ten years at least, the last ten years during which she may have made some long term decisions in her world; a man in her life and marriage, for example. I had already checked her hand for a ring and she wore one, but it struck me as other than a wedding ring. Hard to be sure, and I couldn't get a good look. Of these nary a word passed the mystery lady's pretty lips. "Praha, what a marvelous city. It has been years since I was there and I could never stay long enough to savor the city worthy of its beauty and history." I thought it might spark a bit of mutual exchange of experiences in one of the world's most interesting cities, but she seemed not to hear me. I thought more about what she had said, and then about how she had said it. Her family was Danish, and the conclusion was logical that she was as well, and probably spoke the language. But she referred to the Czech city with its Czech name – Praha – and not as Prague, the German name used most commonly by speakers of Germanic languages, like Danish and English. I could guess thus that she had at least a working knowledge of conversational Czech and could think in the language. Intriguing. Not yet evident was how she came by her very smooth American English. There was a slight hint of an accent, as I mentioned, but it was muted and she passed easily for an American. Sadly, few American girls were in her class for physical beauty and basic courtesies; few girls anywhere from my experience. What was going on here anyway? Was I getting through to her at all? "Where is the ocean from here? I thought Seattle was on the sea coast." Her simple beauty held me transfixed as I took in her query and realized the implication was that she was new to the area and unfamiliar with the region. When I had not answered directly she turned to me and took off her glasses with a smooth and polished, but quite natural and unaffected movement. Our eyes met and the intensity of the meeting caused her to glance downward. She suddenly didn't know what to do with herself and opened and closed her dark glasses several times. "I'm sorry. Please excuse me for being so direct. I didn't mean to stare." I felt like I was stammering because I had embarrassed us both. "Surely I am not the first gentleman to compliment you on your extraordinary beauty. Please don't take offense; I mean it only as the most sincere compliment." She didn't look up at me at all. "Thank you. I take no offense." It seemed essential that I make some move to redirect our exchange and restore a bit of decorum. "The Pacific is just beyond the Olympic Mountains over there" motioning across the Sound to the west. The scenery on the coast is something to see." I had been out there several times and knew for myself how very splendid and impressive it was, and I think my enthusiasm carried over to her in my tone. She followed my gesture and I immediately noticed one of her own as she looked at the Olympics with her eyes but kept her face turned slightly in my direction. It was delightfully feminine how she tilted her head and now seemed, I thought... perhaps only imagined, to foster our conversation with this little welcoming mannerism. "May I be so forward as to ask your name? I am Richard Kensington... but my friends call me Dace. Please tell me your name, if you would." She paused a moment, deciding, I was sure, whether she wanted to take this plunge into the unknown. Her voice was gracious, but a little hesitant, "Karen Olesen." She pronounced it with a long "a" sound, not like an American would say it. She was very shy and once again I had the feeling that she was a very proper and conservative young lady. If she were putting up a front she was an exceptionally good actress and knew her role perfectly. I doubted any actress could pull that off quite so well. "And I guess my friends just call me Karen." There was a little smile adding some soft, gentle curves to her mouth. "Why do they call you Dace? I haven't heard that nickname before." Just marvelous! Was this a definite sign of progress or what? Then our pleasant exchange was rudely interrupted by a harsh command from behind me. Two young boys with open switch-blade knives threatened us from just a few feet away, glowering menacingly, demanding wallets, purses, jewelry and watches, and talking loud and tough. "Young boys" – well, middle to late teens; that was young to me. There were no others on the upper observation deck and the second, younger boy was intentionally blocking the access door. These were two street kids out playing at being muggers and probably thought they had us. My adrenaline was already up and pumping because of the thrill of making Karen's acquaintance. So I was primed; these two young scalawags happened upon us at the very least suitable moment for their purposes. They obviously assumed we were together, and I somewhat cavalierly enhanced that impression by reaching for Karen's hand and pulling her closer and somewhat behind me as I faced the kids. "Nice lookin' blade, son. What, about six inches, right?" It was not more than five, but he felt momentarily stronger that I should be impressed, and thus weaker because he showed himself susceptible to flattery. The blade danced in his hand, jabbing and waving it at me in a manner he thought would frighten me into submission, all the time repeating his demands amid gratuitous, free-flowing vulgarities. "Look, fellas, you come up here and show me what weapons you got and tell me what I gotta do. You guys gotta do better homework. You don't know me from nobody; no idea what weapons I many be carrying, and what I can do." Slowly, now, leaving them plenty of time to absorb what I'm saying. "Pal, that ain't so smart." The Lady on the Tower One thing I simply refused to do was crumple at their childish threatening. They ordered my hands in the air; I kept them at my sides. They became irate and anxious; I remained calm and steadfast. They demanded I drop my weapons and meet their demands. Karen was immobile with fear and almost hiding behind me. I don't mind a minute admitting that the idea of her safety depending on my defense sparked a major discharge of adrenaline into my system and I had not felt myself so keyed up for action since our field operations in the jungle years before. "Think about it, kid," my tone was distant now, and a little aloof, "to use your blade you've got to come to me." I made as if to beckon him forward with one hand. "You come much closer and I'm gonna break both your arms before you know what hit you. When I show you my weapons, kid, I'm gonna show you both hurt! I'm gonna show you both down on the deck!" After a slight pause, but with more strength for emphasis, "I'm gonna show you both dead!" This they clearly had not anticipated; and from the changing expressions on their faces they were now neither one all that sure of themselves. I took a small step forward, closing the distance between us. Victims were supposed to be submissive. They had been unready for their intended targets to show any kind of resistance. They tried to overcome their indecision, but were wavering. "Is this getting through to you? You hearin' my signal, pal?!" My tone was gruff now, louder, even overbearing. "I ain't gonna say it twice!" I took another step forward. The older boy was vacillating now, which meant he was already defeated in a battle of nerves. Part of it was the tone of voice, part of it the direct eye contact, part the difference in age and experience. I could read his position pretty well. He had no idea of where I had been and what dangers I had faced and dealt with before. "You've got about two breaths left, kid... pack up that toothpick you call a blade and beat it, both o' ya! Get outta here!" I waved them away coarsely with my arm. The younger boy at the door broke and the squeaking of the door told the front man that he had no back up. His courage collapsed and he bolted. Just as suddenly as they had come we were alone again. My body was bristling with energy and nerves, but as I turned back to Karen to apologize for the intrusion her eyes were filled with thankfulness and even awe at what I had done. Those emotions alone, as richly evident as they were in her expression, were a treasure to me well beyond anything I could have hoped to achieve. Then she started to tremble as the realization of what had happened overcame her. When I extended my arms she hesitated a brief moment, as a lady properly would in such a situation, and then with some reservation stepped lightly into my embrace and for a while at least the fear incited by our visitors was much greater than her dwindling fear of me, and she seemed to welcome my arms around her. I, for one, welcomed the opportunity to comfort her. Glib comments aside, however, she had been genuinely terrified. Despite the upsetting experience our acquaintance did manage to take a giant step forward. I held my handkerchief to the corner of her eyes and wicked away the moisture there. As she regained her composure it embarrassed her that she had been so afraid. Then, considering what had transpired, she looked at me strangely. "What have you seen and done in your life that makes you not afraid of such things?" I thought it a brave thing for her to ask; but not that my actions had been particularly brave. There was no way to answer her. I never have been able to tell anyone about those times. Somehow I managed just a short reply, something to the effect that some of our fellows didn't come back and those of us who did were stronger for the experience, but a little brittle around the edges. She seemed to understand me. She didn't say anything. It was just a feeling; but in her face, in the compassion and respect in her eyes, there was an unspoken message of understanding and appreciation. It helped me a great deal to feel her acceptance, because as the adrenaline rush passed my knees began to wobble, and just leaning on the rail and talking together helped me get past the exhaustion and relax a little. She picked up our earlier train of thought and asked me again why my friends called me Dace. I told her that the Dace was a species of fish, and the Navy named submarines after fish and... and then I got stuck. She caught on quickly. She could read the distress on my face probably, she was very keen that way, and within just a few seconds of my silence she did a very kind and intimate thing. She touched my lips with her finger and said: "Don't say any more. You don't have to tell me." I felt such relief I almost cried. I turned to look out once again at the view, trying to get my emotions under control and she stood beside me quietly. Then she put her arm through mine and we just stood there together enjoying the vista for a long time. The breeze shifted at one point and some of her hair blew across my face. The sensation was just delightful and that did a lot to calm me down. Then she realized her hair was in my face and reached over lightly and with one sweep of her hand gathered it all back around her neck and held it for a moment. She looked at me with the softest blue eyes and a little smile on her lips that just sent my heart into virtual orbit! "Besides being very beautiful, Karen, I think I see as well a very genuine and caring and sensitive young lady inside you. I want to know more about you. Please tell me a little something special." There was a demur hesitation, and a bit of disorientation, I thought. "Well, for one I am not so young any more." "Not so young is a bit nebulous, and young is, after all, a relative measure. I'll guess you are not a day over, I'll say twenty-six." My guess was intentionally a little under, I thought, the more to emphasize that I was trying to be light hearted. She looked at me oddly, unsure of what to say. Clearly she thought herself much older than that and wasn't sure how to respond to me. "Karen, you could be well into your thirties and I, from the exalted and glorious age of forty, would still call you a young lady, and properly so." I nudged her shoulder lightly to keep things easy going and she smiled at me and said she was had turned twenty-eight on her last birthday. Now, Friend, my experience with women – mothers, wives, daughters, friends – is that any time you can get a girl over twenty-one to tell you her age you have established a close relationship of trust. "I am a teacher...." It was a statement more of hope and intent, it seemed to me, than of fact. There was some concern in her voice that cast a doubt as to whether she was really teaching. "Geography and world history..." she began. The strength and tone in her voice were dropping almost as if she were slumping against a wall with a couple of slugs in her and she was going down for the last time. Anxiety drove me to look at her again as she faded. Then she continued, "... is what I teach... but I don't feel like I know very much. The world is so huge and full of things to learn about." Did I hear a little tinge of being overwhelmed? I did feel a surge of relief that she had not expired on me and still drew a breath. "Do you know what I mean?" She looked at me more with her body than her eyes. Her eyes were in any case hidden behind her dark glasses again, a good thing because the sun was bright, but a bad thing too, since I thought her eyes were one of her best features, very expressive and alive. But what I mean is that, even while she continued to look outward to the vastness around us, she turned toward me slightly. It felt like a gesture of, if not friendship, at least a willingness to associate. Yes, I did know what she meant, I thought, and I needed to formulate a reasonably intelligent response if this conversation was going to go anywhere at all. I found it difficult, however, to stay with the conversation when her physical beauty was so very captivating. She stood tall and erect, excellent posture, one bare foot now again waving her toes absentmindedly in the fresh air behind her, and the sunshine and the breeze playing in her hair was just magical. But, yes, I did know, and before she turned I knew I had to say something rather than be caught looking at her again like a love struck kid. "World history?" I scrambled for a chance to catch up. "You certainly have a broad field to draw on there. High school? University?" It would add considerably to my fund of knowledge about her if she answered that one in any great detail. Either she didn't hear me or she was considering her answer very carefully. The pause lengthened and I could not discern her mood at all. She held herself very reserved. For perhaps no other reason than simple desperation I struck off on a different tack, reaching back for her earlier comment. "Questioning oneself, Karen, and recognizing that there is still much to learn seem like requisites of the teachable and inquiring mind, the person who has come to treasure learning." I paused and looked out over the vista with her for a moment. "One of the greatest things a teacher can do for her students is be an example of the idea that to learn is life's most engaging... most engaging and rewarding adventure. I'll bet your students pick up on that and love to be in your classes." As I think back now, she could easily have interpreted my comment as simple flattery, and that would certainly have turned her off. "It sounds like perhaps you do some teaching and learning yourself, Dace." Hearing her use my name was a rush and almost derailed my thinking. "Well, yes, I have." How much does one blurt out and how much does one hold back in telling about oneself? Never a definitive answer there. I felt she was waiting for me to go on, so I did. "Naval and maritime history, some economics, some related subjects. It's fun, actually, isn't it; teaching and working with ideas and concepts?" I wanted to get a response from her; almost anything would tell me more about how her mind was working. "That's where the ships come in, isn't it?" She turned to me now, and I had the fleeting impression she was uncomfortable somehow. It seemed she had suddenly had enough of the bright sun on her face, and turned her back to the railing. Shielding her face with one hand, taking off her glasses and looking at me, and waiting for my answer. I followed her around, and with a hand gesture suggested we cross to the opposite side where we would again have a view but without the sun. We moved across in no great hurry, and I tried to appear casual as I leaned on the railing. "Yup, that's where the ships come in. The Port of Seattle / Tacoma is in a major, long term competition with Los Angeles / Long Beach for Pacific Rim traffic in international ocean shipping. And I have had some involvement there for a while." She seemed to take that in but did not respond. After a moment I pointed out Mount Adams in the distance, snow-capped, and impressive, and mentioned that that was the next volcano scheduled to erupt, and that inside information from the seismology lab at the University of Washington calculated that sometime in the coming summer, probably in June – early June – that mountain would blow like Mount Saint Helen's had a few years before. She mulled that over for a moment, and then turned to me sharply, looking a little doubtful. I could not help but smile broadly at the whimsical inanity of my statement, and she saw through me immediately, and we both chuckled together. As it turned out, that was a very apropos selection of topics upon which to attempt an ice breaker with her. She had said that geography was one of her subjects, and so volcanoes touched a responsive chord. She had been to Mount Etna and Stromboli in the Mediterranean and wanted to know if I had been down to St Helen's to see the area, and I asked her if she knew anything about Crater Lake in Oregon. On this simple matter of mountains then our conversation opened suddenly onto a much more pleasant and easy going meadow of casual and even animated exchange. The topic excited her very much, mountains which had blown their tops off or promised to do so. I mentioned that I had passed both Etna and Stromboli while aboard ship in the Mediterranean, and asked what it was like to actually be ashore. She seemed pleased that I would ask and, feeling something of my interest, I think, tried to tell me in detail. In doing so, relating her experience with these two volcanoes, she told me a great deal about herself; probably much more than she realized. Her English was very good, yet it showed that she had learned the language as an adult because the many little nuances that we all bring with us from childhood and which continue to make themselves evident in the native language find themselves blocked and unavailable when a person works in a language learned first as an adult. Yet, her expression was very colorful and friendly and flowing. She struggled a little with vocabulary and syntax when describing her experiences, wanting to say it properly in English and in the main doing so. She was not afraid to ask me, either outright or as one does when working in a foreign language, simply pausing a second or motioning to one's companion for assistance in finding the right word or phrase. She seemed relieved to have managed the explanation as well as she had, and apologized for her inability to do better. I accepted with a casual gesture and complimented her on doing so well. "It sounds to me that English is at least your third language and possibly more than that. My compliments; you do extremely well." What was very intriguing was the particular twist she put on the pronunciation of some words. Accents are in the main unique to the person, and while they can be disconcerting and confusing; hers was neither, but was very feminine, very engaging, and added something very special to her personality, and to her beauty. Though I thought I saw some excitement dancing in her eyes as she spoke of the volcanoes, she remained quite reserved in her actions and expression. There was no lounging about and superfluous movement and such that seems to occupy many young women. This girl retained her composure and posture like a princess. These were not mindless exercises and restrictions imposed by her elders, but the easy, natural expressions of the real her. "So naval and maritime things are your subject area. Very professional." She sought to turn the conversation back to me, probably to ease her own anxieties. It sounded like she was impressed, maybe just a little. "More or less, yes, I've spent some time there." I wanted that to sound casual and sort of non-specific, and she picked up on non-specific part. "What is your primary focus, then?" She was very inquisitive for a young lady that minutes before would not have given me the time of day. "Cultural linguistics and ethnology; Germanic and Slavic Languages." That is a mouthful, but she had asked and that is the fact of the matter. She looked surprised, and turned to me, and after a pause, "Sie können deutsch?" It flowed from her lips like honey, and I could sense immediately that she was at home in German. "Ja, sicher! Ich kann deutsch. Mir klingt es als ob Sie selbst in der Sprache wie zu hause sind." This could get to be delightful. „Nein, nicht so sehr. Auf der Uni ging das zwar gut, aber nachher nicht mehr so." OK, she had at least studied German at the university and worked up a better than fair skill, but it sounded very much like her first language was elsewhere. "Ihnen viel lieber sind wohl Dänisch und Tschechisch, oder? Sie können die beiden eben so gut, nicht wahr?" Laying a couple of my cards on the table I guessed that she was more at home in Danish and Czech, and hoped she would confirm that. I had drawn to an inside strait! She came back with two or three sentences in very fluid Czech. Well, it had to be Czech because I could tell it wasn't Danish, and from my Russian and little bit of Polish and Czech I could pick out most of the words and the general meaning. She loved Czech and the Czech people and felt like that was her first language, Danish her second, which their family had spoken at home. She had learned Czech in school and spoken it daily until she was about sixteen and her family returned to Danmark. Then she asked me if I could understand her, half afraid she had been rude. I assured her, in Russian, that I had understood her, and that I was delighted she loved Czech so, and I was sorry my Czech was weak, that my Russian was much better, and did she understand me по Русски? "Да! да! Конечна понимаю." Yes, she did, as I suspected, since the Slavic languages are sufficiently close that a very high degree of cross-over is possible for one even passingly familiar with the other. Then too, I knew that having gone to school in Czechoslovakia before the break up she must have studied some Russian in school as well, since in those years it was required. But then we agreed that English would serve us both just as well for the present. "You are an exceptionally interesting young lady. My own plans for this afternoon were for an early dinner at a nice seafood restaurant along the waterfront to celebrate the conclusion of my big project. I would like to invite you to join me... and would find it very pleasant if you were to consent, and accept my invitation, and... were you to decline it would be for me... a very great disappointment." Now were the lines drawn in the sand. I had forced the matter by attempting to move our encounter beyond the present circumstances. Should she accept she was opening herself to further encroachments into her life. Now much more so than any time later it would be simple enough to beg off graciously that, for example, other obligations, appointments, etc., precluded her accepting and so and so. It had been nice to meet me, and... and good bye. Having once extended the invitation it would not do to ramble on mindlessly. I had to leave her the opportunity to respond; so I stopped. My halting was somewhat artless, I feared, and waiting for her... even hoping desperately for her positive response... was, at least it seemed to me, so patently obvious she could hardly have missed my boyish enthusiasm. I was once again... had brought myself to the very edge of the cliff and looking over the edge was terrifying. Her pause was probably not long at all; my own anxiety stretched each second to the limit and it seemed only a lifetime or two before she responded. "Thank you very much for the invitation, Dace. I accept. Dinner together would be very pleasant." How did she manage that? Her words, in her fourth or fifth language, poured forth from her like warm honey from a stone krug, golden and sweet and smooth. I was deeply impressed and openly appreciative of her acceptance and how she had responded. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful! From the Space Needle we strolled back to her hotel together. I left her at the door and we agreed I would call for her at 5:30 for dinner. Our conversation that evening was just delightful and free-flowing and, together with her quite exceptional beauty, the evening was just magnificent. The following day we spent together seeing some of the sights and continuing our far ranging chat. I learned some things about her that were very impressive, and in the process probably revealed some things about myself that at least did not discourage her. She had worked for a trading company in Copenhagen and when a brief liaison with a man seemed not to be working out she took a transfer to a small branch office in the USA. She glossed over the matter of the man at first, but then came back to him as we became better acquainted. He had turned out to be a very crude and demanding man, and when she resisted his... she referred to them simply as 'demands' but the implication seemed much deeper and intimate... he became ugly, and accused her of some ugly things. Karen wanted to leave it at that. The Lady on the Tower Was she rebounding now? Was I simply the salve to a wounded heart, without enduring value of my own? At the moment there was no way to tell. I would have to evaluate that on the basis of data yet to be gathered in our on-going acquaintance. Saturday our vacation time together was concluded. I went with her to the airport and saw her off for her return flight east. School was starting and she was involved. She thanked me for a delightful time together, expressing her appreciation for my companionship and generosity, and also for my patience with her... as if that had been a burden. I responded to her, quite truthfully, that she had been not the slightest burden at all, but had in fact lifted my spirits by her sweetness and friendship. A little bit shy, I am sure, she hefted her little carry-on bag and reached up and kissed me daintily on the cheek whispering her thankfulness to me, and then we said our good byes and she turned for her flight, waving again before she was gone from view. For probably another hour I sat in a momentarily vacant section of the airport waiting area just mulling over to myself what had transpired in three incredible days with Karen. It was fashionable in that day, at least according to the literature and social wisdom, that a 'successful' relationship would have included an intimate, sexual encounter. I found myself at odds with the world in this way and applied other criteria. The data gathered... I'm sorry, but as a long time naval intelligence analyst I still faced such perplexing matters with a perhaps too clinical approach, and sought immediately to sort and categorize bits and pieces into various groups... was mind boggling. A man's relationship with a young girl... OK, she was twenty-eight, but her cheerfulness and vivaciousness with me, especially on that Friday afternoon and evening at the salmon run at the locks, at the doll museum in Bellevue and then a delicious seafood dinner at Chandler's on Lake Union was magnificent. Then there was our relaxing stroll along the waterfront, and altogether the day stripped from both of us the loading of several years and we were like a couple of kids, laughing and playing and teasing together. Saying good night to her at the door to her room at the hotel was the dreaded end to a marvelous day. I asked her for a kiss and gave my very best; she accepted, and returned with one of hers. Had she wanted more... expected me to press her to come in? It didn't seem so, and that was, in any event, not my style. Now she was gone. She had given me her address and phone on the east coast, and that was nice as a means of staying in contact. But she was gone, and my Saturday was suddenly gutted of all that gave it meaning and color and spice and life. Of course, in matters of the heart all of those precise and calculating tools of the analyst's trade seem to be totally ineffective and even anachronistic. My unavoidable conclusion was that the young lady on the tower had somehow captured and taken with her a piece of my heart. Hearts have this inclination – have you noticed? – to function in ways that defy reason and normalcy and any kind of planned activity or objectivity. They show on occasion a degree of malleability, open to some shaping and direction, but more often than not when the heart makes itself heard, whether in soft whispers or perhaps a frightful clamoring, the hapless victim is left with only two options. One can always fight it... and heartbreak is sure to follow, a tragedy that has laid low legions with but a wave of the wand. Almost always more productive, and certainly more adventurous and demanding, is to follow where the heart leads... following, of course, with eyes open and – where one can be – discerning. Yet for all our wisdom and caution Cupid seems to script events to his own criteria and love irresistibly demands a gift of self that is unabashed, unmeasured, and unrelenting. If on the one hand it appears that love demands all be laid upon the altar and gives nothing in return, however, such is certainly an overly narrow perception. From my earlier experience I knew that the love and companionship of a beautiful, interesting and creative young lady was a treasure of the first magnitude and a joy to the heart with quite literally no peer in the entire universe. Might it be, I mused to myself with a bit of reservation, that the young lady on the tower... this sweet girl to whom I had just bid a light and airy farewell... might it be that she could become such a loving companion for the future years? Well, perhaps. Just perhaps. Let's see how things develop. How very little did I know then. Nevertheless, I told myself, water the flowers or they don't grow. Flowers! Like a bolt of lightning out of the blue the recollection hit me! Constantly and at nearly every occasion during our time together she had noticed the flowers about... in tended beds and vacant lots, in pots and planters, at entryways and hanging baskets. She loved the beauty and color of flowers. So, send her some from you, I thought to myself. She's got eight hours on the plane ahead of her, get some florist in Philadelphia to have some roses waiting for her at her apartment when she gets there. My most immediate need was a telephone. There was a European-style florist on Third Avenue and a call had the matter quickly in hand. Yes, she said, she had a professional acquaintance in Philly that would handle it expeditiously, even late on a Saturday afternoon. I made a selection and dictated a note for the card and left them to do my bidding. Well, the story can be telescoped here for the sake of some brevity. We corresponded through the fall, spent an afternoon and evening together in Philly when I spent a few days after the Christmas holidays on some research at the National Archives in DC. At the Easter week break she split her time with her parents and me, two days in Seattle if I promised to take her up on Mount Rainier. I did, and it was a wonderful time together. I met her the next morning for breakfast in the hotel dining room, and on her plate – just as I had arranged with the maitre ď – was a little card with a black velvet box for her. She clasped her hands to her mouth to stifle a cry. She was stunned and just looked at me at a complete loss. It suddenly occurred to me that she might feel better in private, and I suggested we adjourn to her room. She nodded gratefully, and I tipped the maitre ď, thanking him for his assistance and asking him to send our breakfast order to her room. She said yes to my proposal and I took her then in my arms for the first time and kissed her like I thought she deserved to be kissed, and she responded to my kiss with appreciation and love and hope. From that very moment we knew a warm and intimate relationship between two loving hearts. I knew she had to make her flight, and the minutes were too short. I helped her with her baggage and drove her to the airport and for the third time we said good bye... this time, however, with a promise to each other that we would be together again and soon. When the school year was concluded we were married, her parents in attendance. We had decided, just the two of us, that Seattle was where we wanted to make our home and so we packed up most of her things for shipment, stowed some of them in the suburban, and set out across country at a leisurely pace with a beautiful springtime adventure before us and the nearest obligation being a month downstream. It is worth mentioning that the matter of the earlier man in her life came up only once. We had stayed one night in visiting officer quarters at Francis Warren Air Force Base in Cheyenne as we drove west, and I saw it in her eyes the next morning when we made love again. I had made a comment about how she made me supremely satisfied like I had never imagined could be and she looked at me vacantly, remembering evidently what he had said about her. The recollection shocked her, I think, and it showed, and shattered the moment between us. Sensing that it was important, I encouraged her gently to talk and finally, after hesitating, she opened to me... meek and like a little lost kitten. He had pressed more than once for her sexual favors and she had resisted him, and in a rage he had cursed at her and told her crudely that she obviously didn't know how to satisfy a man and never would. The rough and baseless accusation, made with such vehemence and venom, had scalded and crushed her self-confidence as a woman. As she recounted the man's words her voice was fragile like fine porcelain, fringed with anxiety, and barely audible. She was laying in my arms with her beautiful bare breasts pushing against my chest, the sheet over our legs and her face still flushed and roses in her cheeks from our encounter. She looked up to me, those pretty eyes full of tears, her countenance now overwhelmed with fear at her deeply hurtful memory, not knowing now what else to do or say. "I pity the man..." I said softly after a pause, and then with greater strength, "who can make such a grievous error in judgment. The poor man will never know how terribly, totally wrong he was..." and I delayed a moment to emphasize my point, looking into her eyes, "about you!" In the soft and poignant moments that followed there came presently, to take the place of her fearfulness and self-doubt, and I was thrilled to watch the transition, a very sweet and feminine smile to grace her lips, and a thankfulness in her eyes. After a time she looked up at me again and I think I witnessed her resurgence of spirit. To her appreciation and love the twinkle in her eyes now added a little glint of playfulness, even sauciness. That simple exchange that morning seemed to close the matter for her and it never arose between us again. She was a very beautiful and, as it proved, passionate and loving girl. Our years together were full and bright with delightful times together, more so than any man has a right to hope for... and certainly more so than simple words can express. She bore me two of the most precious daughters any man has ever enjoyed in his home and heart. She and our daughters together made our home a warm and cheerful place to be, and a haven from a challenging world. Then came another late August day, like that one earlier on the tower. My life was once again confronted with challenge and change. Both the girls had married that Spring, and soon the medicine no longer had a dampening effect and the cancer quickly overwhelmed her. Like that August long ago, I was alone again. Both the girls were preparing a nice dinner for us at the one's home, but I had to find a way somehow to reestablish my equilibrium at her passing and loss. The services had been appropriate and comments of our many friends gratifying and comforting; but I felt myself badly out of balance and needed a quiet moment alone. From my one daughter's home I took a taxi to the Space Needle and the elevator to the upper observation platform. It was a sunny day, and there were ships in the harbor coming and going, and Mount Adams in the distance wore a cap of snow. Mount Rainier was lovely and majestic and recalled a fun day together. It was like a dream, as if I could go back the intervening twenty-some-odd years and re-start the story again. I had known and savored a rich and most satisfying relationship with a beautiful and creative young lady... and that was a treasure of reality that would reside ever in my heart. It helped a lot to recall and relive that day years before as I remembered it, and cherished the memory. After a soul-soothing interlude enjoying the seascape I turned about, half-anticipating that I might see her again standing there, long hair dancing in the breeze and one cute little bare foot savoring the fresh air.... But there was no one. I was alone.