I do not think that they will sing to me.
—T.S. Eliot
We're at Victor's lodge and things aren't going well. It's frustrating.
Sylvia’s disappeared and Victor hasn’t yet made his appearance.
I’m left with my colleague, Tom Barron and Tess—we’re sitting on deck chairs watching the full moon rise over the lake.
I’m beginning to think my dreams of Sylvia are merely night fantasies that serve only to help me fall asleep.
A familiar baritone voice stirs me out of my reverie.
“Well, you made it, my boy.”
Victor warmly claps me on the back as I stare up into his smiling face.
“You’re all here,” he smiles broadly, “everyone is here!” He sweeps his hand to include the rest of his guests, and then pauses to shake hands with Tom and bows to brush Tess’s cheek with his lips.
It’s a chaste, affectionate kiss.
“You look marvellous, Victor,” Tess tells him. “You’re bronzed by the sun.”
Her warmth and candour seem to catch him off guard, but he quickly recovers.
“Well, I don’t have any obligations now, so I’m afraid I spend a fair bit of time out in the sun, sailing on the lake.”
“Looks good on you,” Tom agrees. “Speaking of sailing, that’s an impressive yacht you have moored at the dock.”
Tom casts an appreciative gaze at a huge white craft, sails furled, placidly rocking in the waves.
“Not a yacht, Tom—a schooner, but it sails beautifully and serves me well.”
Sylvia reappears from out of darkness. “I love being on the water—it’s so peaceful.”
I’m surprised, not only by her sudden epiphany, but the whispered remark. I was beginning to think nothing stirred this princess.
“Perhaps we’ll all go out for a sail tomorrow,“ Victor says cheerily, “The forecast calls for sun and a good stiff breeze.”
A look of disappointment crosses Sylvia's face. Did she actually expect Victor to desert his party to take her sailing?
Frankly, I’m fascinated by Sylvia’s sense of entitlement. Victor, however, seems oblivious.
I watch as she slowly drifts away from the group and begins wandering aimlessly along the dock. I see my chance to be alone with her and hasten to take advantage.
“I didn’t know you sailed,” I remark, as I catch up to her.
“I don’t. I just like being out on the water.”
“I don’t sail either, but I can handle a motor launch.” I smile conspiratorially, and nod toward a Mercury outboard boat tied up at the end of the dock.
Her mischievous grin stirs my blood.
Moments later, we’re on the lake, alone with the Moon and stars.
“Motor down the shore,” She suggests and I oblige.
We ride in silence for about ten minutes until we approach a narrow peninsula jutting out into the waves.
“Drop anchor here,” she says. Again, I comply.
“Check the depth, there might be rocks.”
I figure Victor’s boat is equipped with sonar, and of course, it is.
The display says were fine for depth, but when I return to tell her, she’s gone. Her clothes, carefully folded in a neat pile are where she left them— strapless white tube top, jean shorts, and white ankle socks, tucked neatly into her white canvas sneakers.
I sit back, mystified, unsure of what to do.
Black waves slap at the side of the boat, and the Moon is a glittering track of diamonds. It’s romantic, adrift in the night.
So beautiful, silent and lonely.
But I've been deserted again.
For all I know, she's gone under the waves and drowned.
I feel like Prufrock, afraid to disturb the universe, and unable to hear a mermaid call.
Thank you!
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