It’s hard to say. Can anyone pinpoint that precise moment when love turns to hate? Everything ends, I know that. Especially happiness. Especially love.
Forgive me, I’ve become such a cynic. I used to be so idealistic when young—romantic, even. I used to believe that love lasted forever. Now, I don’t. Now, I know only this for sure—the first half of life is pure selfishness; the second half, all grief.
Indulge me for a moment, if you will—let me linger there and enjoy this last happy memory.
We ate dinner outside under the stars. We sat beneath the pergola, lit by candlelight and surrounded by sweet-smelling climbing jasmine.
We began with the salty sea urchins, freshly prepared by Agathi. Eaten raw with a sharp squeeze of lemon, they’ve never been to my taste—but if you close your eyes and swallow fast, you can pretend they’re oysters. Then the grilled sea bream, and sliced steak, various salads and garlic-tossed vegetables—and the pièce de résistance: Agathi’s deep-fried potatoes.
Kate didn’t have much of an appetite—so I ate for two, piling my plate high. I eulogized Agathi’s cooking; careful to tactfully praise Lana’s efforts also. But her healthy salads couldn’t compare to those decadent potatoes, grown in the red earth of Aura itself, golden and oozing oil. It was a perfect meal, that last supper.
Afterward, we sat by the firepit. I chatted to Lana, while Leo played a game of backgammon with Jason.
Then Kate suddenly demanded Agathi’s crystal. She went into the house to fetch it.
I must tell you about the crystal. It held near-mythical status within the family. A crude fortune-telling device, it had belonged to Agathi’s grandmother and supposedly had magical qualities.
It was a pendant—an opaque white crystal, in the shape of a small cone, like a baby pine cone, attached to a silver chain. You held the chain in your right hand, dangling the crystal over the open palm of your left hand. You asked a question—phrasing it so it could be answered with a yes or a no.
The crystal would swing in response. If it moved like a pendulum, in a straight line, the answer was no. If it swung in a circle, the answer was yes. Absurd in its simplicity—but with an unnerving tendency to give accurate results. People would consult it about their plans and intentions—Should I accept this job? Should I move to New York? Should I marry this man? The majority would unfailingly report back—months, sometimes years, later—that the crystal had been right in its prediction.
Kate passionately believed in the magic of the crystal, in that na?ve way she sometimes had, with a childlike faith. She was convinced it was the genuine article—a Greek oracle.
We all took turns on it that night—asking it our secret questions—apart from Jason, who wasn’t interested. He didn’t stay long. He lost his temper when Leo beat him at backgammon—and stormed into the house, in a sulk.
Once the four of us were alone, the atmosphere became more convivial. I rolled a joint. Lana never smoked weed, but tonight she broke a cardinal rule and had a drag; so did Kate.
Leo took out his guitar and played something he had written. A duet, for Lana and him. It was a pretty song; mother and son had sweet voices that complemented each other. But Lana was stoned, and she kept forgetting the words. Then she got the giggles, which Kate and I found hilarious—much to Leo’s irritation.
How annoying we must have been to him, this earnest seventeen-year-old boy; these silly, stoned adults behaving like teenagers. We couldn’t stop laughing, the three of us, clinging to one another, rocking back and forth with laughter.
I’m glad I have that memory. The three of us, laughing. I’m glad it’s untainted.
It’s hard to believe, in twenty-four hours, one of us would be dead.
12
Before I tell you about the murder, I have a question for you.
Which comes first—character or fate?
This is the central question in any tragedy. What takes precedence—free will or destiny? Were the terrible events of the next day inevitable, ordained by some malevolent god? Were we doomed—or was there hope of escape?
This question has haunted me over the years. Character or fate? What do you think? I’ll tell you what I think. Having deliberated long and hard, I believe that they are one and the same thing.
But don’t take my word for it. The Greek philosopher Heracleitus said:
“Character is fate.”
And if Heracleitus is right, then the tragedy that awaited us in a few hours was a direct consequence of our characters—of who we were. Correct? So, if who you are determines what happens to you, then the real question becomes:
What determines who you are?
What determines your character?
The answer, it seems to me, is that my entire personality—all my values, and opinions about how to get on in the world, succeed, or be happy, can be traced directly back to the shadowy, forgotten world of my childhood, where my character was forged by all the things I learned to conform to; or even rebel against—but was nonetheless defined by.
It took me a long time to realize this. When I was young, I resisted thinking about my childhood, or my character, for that matter. Perhaps that’s not surprising. My therapist once told me that all traumatized children, and the adults they become, tend to focus exclusively on the outside world. A kind of hypervigilance, I suppose. We look outward, not inward—scanning the world for danger signs—is it safe or not? We grow up so terrified of incurring anger, for instance, or contempt, that now, as adults, if we glimpse a stifled yawn while talking to someone, a look of boredom or irritation in their eyes, we feel a horrible, frightening disintegration inside—like a frayed fabric being ripped apart—and swiftly redouble our efforts to entertain and please.
The real tragedy is, of course, by always looking outward, by focusing so intently on the other person’s experience, we lose touch with our own. It’s as if we live our entire life pretending to be ourselves, as impostors impersonating ourselves, rather than feeling this is really me, this is who I am.
That’s why, these days, I repeatedly force myself to return to my own experience: not are they enjoying themselves? But am I? Not do they like me? But do I like them?
So in that spirit, I ask the question: Do I like you?
Of course, I do. You’re a little quiet—but a great listener. And we all love a good listener, don’t we? God knows, we spend our whole lives not being heard.
* * *
I started having therapy in my midthirties. By then, I felt that I had enough distance from my past for me to begin to safely glance at it; to squint at it through my fingers. I chose group therapy not just because it was cheaper but, truthfully, because I like watching people. I’ve been so bloody lonely my whole life; I enjoy being around others, and seeing them interact—in a safe space, I hasten to add.
My therapist was called Mariana. She had inquisitive dark eyes, long, wavy dark hair—I think she might have been Greek, or half-Greek. She was wise and very kind, for the most part. But she could be brutal, too.
I remember once she said something chilling—it messed up my head for a long time. Looking back, I think it changed my entire life.
“When we are young,” Mariana said, “and afraid—when we are shamed, and humiliated—something happens. Time stops. It freezes, in that moment. A version of us is trapped, at that age—forever.”
“Trapped where?” asked Liz, one of the group.
“Trapped here.” Mariana tapped the side of her head. “A frightened child is hiding in your mind—still unsafe; still unheard and unloved. And the sooner you get in touch with that child and learn to communicate with them, the more harmonious your life will be.”
I must have looked dubious because Mariana delivered the killer blow directly to me: