AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER
When I first saw this 1957 movie, as a very young man setting out on a lifetime quest for adventure, I thought I would like to experience a romance like that – when I was old enough to appreciate it. (Would also like to have either of the Riviera houses Cary Grant had in two movies.) One night on the shore of the Adriatic, below the ancient walled city of Dubrovnik, I found the romance, which is the story below. But, seeing the movie again this week, I realized that my story didn’t really have an ending. So, I’ve written a sequel – but you have to read the original first. The sequel in about a week. RFH
STARRY, STARRY NIGHT
Her soft, sinewy ballerina's body pressed close to mine as we danced to American
mood music, aware that all eyes in the Dubrovnik night club were upon us - the
blonde Russian girl and the American.
Heads
nodded approvingly, except for certain hard men from both countries, not quite
certain of the assurances that this was a budding romance between two strangers
who could not speak each other's language, but, to the delight of people at
adjacent tables, were communicating with pictographs and a smattering of French
and German.
Alissa
was the lead dancer in a Russian troupe who had come to Dubrovnik under a
contract with the hotel which owned the nightclub. I was there for a few days
vacation from the European drug wars. When I caught their act at dinner, I was
immediately smitten with the tall Nordic blonde with the icy blue eyes - her
mother came from Finland - and, emboldened by that instant infatuation,
approached the maitre and the group's manager. I asked the girl's name, assured
them I was an American diplomat on vacation, and asked if Alissa could come to
my table. When the show ended, and she had changed clothes, she walked - I think
she glided - to my table. Through pictographs and a few words in other than our
native languages, we knew neither was married, etc.
When we
danced that first time, I smelled a delightful fragrance - not the expensive
colognes and perfumes I detected on most European women - but good soap. Alissa
simply radiated freshness. As we danced, our differences no longer mattered. We
simply fit into each other's arms, her warm cheek next to mine; we understood
the reaction.
Alissa's troupe performed two more shows, and she hurried back to me after each
performance. Finally, at midnight, the Croation disc jockey played my favorite,
Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade. As Tex Beneke's sax closed out, I
kissed Alissa - and the club burst into applause. Then, Alissa kissed me - and
all the conventions about fraternizing with the Evil Empire, having affairs with
Russian women who might be spies, any consideration of what our futures would
hold, starting the next morning, were swept away by the torrent of emotions
unleashed by that kiss. The bonding in that embrace had nothing to do with
affairs of state, or even sex; improbably, we were in love.
We
walked outside, and Alissa broke away, running to the separate building where
performers and staff resided. My heart was crushed, but moments later, she
emerged with a blanket and a bottle of wine. We walked down to the Adriatic,
spread the blanket, and laying down, looked up at a brilliant, starry night,
much like what Vincent Van Gogh must have seen when he painted Starry, Starry
Night. And, then we kissed, softly at first, then the pounding in my heart
drowned out the sounds of the surf, and all the stars in the heavens twinkled in
her smiling eyes.
But,
I'm getting ahead of myself. A friend from the White House Office of Drug Abuse
Policy and I were travelling through Europe, monitoring the transhipments of
drugs and money, especially from the Middle East and France. Given that this was
the beginning of the sexual revolution in France, we were not hurting for female
companionship: twin doctors from Koln, Germany, whom we met along the Danube; an
Ivy League professor whose hair came down with the evening sun; a TV broadcaster
in Belgrade, who had interviewed me after I addressed an international conclave
(after the first night, I went to her mother's flat with a dozen red roses which
the mother seized and threw at me, the girl told me that in her mother's
village, the giving of red roses signified a relationship of a kind the mother
did not approve); partying with a Sabena air crew (most uninhibited people in
the world). (I met up with that same crew in Sweden; standing in line in a
crowded restaurant, with a wait time of one hour; I went to the back, pilfered a
waiter's jacket and put a towel over my arm, and promptly proceeded to show my
party to the next vacant table; the manager scolded but he let us keep the
table). These were good times, but, always just for laughs. Comes the dawn,
we'll be gone, that kind of thing.
Alissa
was different, the most unforgettable woman I ever met. I can still see her as
the dawn broke over the Adriatic, a freshening breeze softly twirling her long
blonde hair, the sun warming that golden body, a radiant look on her smiling
face, enhanced by the morning lights dancing in those blue eyes, all our
differences suffused by luxuriant contentment.
I was
scheduled to fly to Paris that afternoon, but knew I must stay in that old
walled city, for her troupe had two more nights to play before returning to
Russia. She made a wafting motion with her hand, signifying a flight, and I
shook my head, no. Alissa smiled, picked up her blanket, and we walked up the
road to the terrace, confident of our love. There was no need, indeed no way, to
voice our doubts about the future. A final kiss, and we went to our separate
buildings.
My first reaction, when I saw the man sitting on the balcony outside my room (the hotel slopes down from the road to the sea), was curiosity: how did he get into my room and why? The answer came immediately: "Hello, tiger, did you and the Russian girl have a good time down on the beach?" My second reaction was incredulity: he and others had watched us, most or all of the night. I was too stunned to speak, and the man read me wrong; he thought I was worried about my career; I was worried about Alissa. (They were actually there to watch someone else.)
"I could report you for having an affair with a Russian," the man said. "But, I
won't. We checked; she has no political connections. However, for both your
sake, she is already on her way out of Yugoslavia, back to Russia, and you can't
go after her. And you are getting aboard that plane to Paris." If I had the
connections in Russia then that I had in later years, I think I would have gone
after Alissa, but, at that time, I was too junior and knew I would never find
her.
The man
asked, "By the way, some of us are curious. We know you two don't speak the
other's language. How in the hell did you two have an affair without talking?" I
told him, without remembering where I had heard the line, "Love does not need
vocal expression." I was not about to diminish a beautiful experience by
describing it in the locker room terms he would delight in sharing with his
colleagues.
The man
paused in the doorway, and informed me that the other side also had hard men in
the club, who had also watched us. "For what it's worth, Rayburn, I talked to
them after they interviewed her this morning. They said she cared deeply about
you. I guess it really was nothing more than a sexual attraction." Nothing more;
my God, it was so much more. It was romance.
Years
later, at a party in St. Petersburg, I met a woman of about Alissa's age, who
had connections in the artistic world. She got back to me with a rumor that a
former dancer had gotten into some political trouble many years before for
allegedly having a romance outside Russia with an American; that girl had
supposedly married and gone back to Finland with her Mother’s people. She wasn't
certain of the name but thought it might have been.
Thirty
years ago this month, and still, when I find myself under a very starry night, I
look up and I see Alissa, standing there that morning, a blonde Goddess looking
out to sea; once again I share her laughter and her love - a woman who did not
know or understand what I did, or care; a woman who wanted nothing from me
except to love her boundlessly as a woman. There have been times of anger, when
the Balkan wars erupted into that beautiful old city and tore the hell out of
it. I know a young woman from Croatia, also tall, blonde, blue-eyed; I listen to
she and her parents talk about Balkan politics, but my mind keeps drifting back
to Alissa when I look at her.
There is a song, which in French is different from the Sinatra version, and goes in part: but, if you stay, I'll make you a night like no night has been or will be again; we'll sail on the moon and ride on the stars….Every man and woman should have at least one night like that in their lives. The night lives on. RFH
PS: The Sinatra version
If you go
away on this summer day
Then you might as well take the sun away
All the birds that flew in the summer sky
When our love was new and our hearts were high
When the day was young and the night was long
And the moon stood still for the night bird's song
If you go away, if you go away
If you go away, if you go away
But if you stay, I'll make you a day
Like no day has been, or will be again
We'll sail the sun, we'll ride on the rain
We'll talk to the trees and worship the wind
Then if you go, I'll understand
Leave me just enough love to fill up my hand
If you go away, if you go away
If you go away, if you go away
If you go away, as I know you must
There'll be nothing left in the world to trust
Just an empty room, full of empty space
Like the empty look I see on your face
I'd have been the shadow of your dog
If I thought it might have kept me by your side
If you go away, if you go away
If you go away, please don't go away
end