That brand new orange VW Polo in front of him kept driving at thirty-five on a forty-mile road, occasionally at thirty-seven, but then would suddenly drop to an annoying thirty-three. Can people just drive up to the speed limit? Why are there so many novice drivers on the road these days? His frown deepened.
Suddenly, the Polo jerked violently, changed direction, and slid onto the muddy field to its left. Immediately, he braked, honked to alert vehicles behind him, and pulled over. Despite every wish to race back on, the gentleman in him forced him to open the door, put out the emergency triangle behind his car, and to walk towards to the orange Polo stranded in the mud, itself now a part of the muddiness.
Before he was even able to put on a concerned look, a young woman bounded out of the driver’s door and stormed towards him with the most furious face he had ever seen.
“Why did you keep so close to me? You gave me so much pressure that I drove into this mud! What’s your problem?” If words had weight, they would have battered him by now.
Dumbstruck, he opened his mouth in an effort to defend, yet only to find himself utterly devoid of words. Women’s logic! Again and again in his life, he had been overwhelmed by the way women approached things. Ways that were, to him, absolutely ridiculous. Yet, extremely hard to refute. With no logic behind their reasoning in the first place, how would he be able to tear down their arguments, starting from the assumptions, zooming in on the causality, in the same way he taught his undergraduates to write their argumentative essays?
The woman’s fury seemed a little subdued. She looked back at her Polo, quite sunk in the mud now, and asked, “What do I do now?”
“Is this the first time?” He tried not to sound sarcastic, swallowing hard the latter half of the sentence – “you have done something so stupid as this” – so that it might sound more like “Is this the first time you need to call roadside assistance”.
“Apparently!” was the reply, not without another shot of blame.
“Well,” he sighed, “you need to call roadside assistance. Usually, your car insurance company would have its own roadside assistance partner. So I would suggest you contact them.”
To his surprise, she turned meek as she confessed, “Actually, I left my phone at work today. Can I borrow yours?”
He was already getting ready to go and he almost jumped at the question. “Ahh! I mean, you can use my phone to call them, but I can’t wait here with you. It often takes them two to three hours to arrive, if you see what I mean…”
Yet there was a mixture of misery and incredulity in her eyes that somehow relented him. Reluctantly, he unlocked his phone and handed it over to her.
Twenty minutes later, after a frantic search in her email box for her car insurer’s name, and a few calls to the insurer and then the roadside assistance agent, she finally returned his phone.
“Thank you,” she said, this time with relief, “they said they will text you when they are close by.”
“Sure. I will keep an eye on it and let you know.” He said.
Silence fell as they stood in the field near the Polo, watching the cars driving past.
“You know, ever since I got my driving license this January, I always found people driving very close to me. Why did you keep so close to me? Were you in a hurry?” When she finally broke the silence, she asked.
Slightly taken back, he said, “Well, I was just trying to … get home.”
It was true. Twenty-six miles away from the university where he teaches philosophy was this detached four-bed house that he used to call home. Driving at the top of various speed limits of thirty, forty, and seventy, it would normally take him just thirty minutes. Though apparently not that day.
Traffic became heavier on the highway. He turned towards her this time, “What about yourself? Why did you keep changing speeds?”
“I did not! It was just my normal way of driving. Slowing down when the road situation was complex, and speeding up when things were more straightforward.” As she spoke, the defensiveness in her voice melted away. She chuckled, as if also sensing the funniness in what she said.
“Sorry if I made you feel rushed.” He said, this time in earnest. She shook her head, “Don’t worry.” If only all arguments could be resolved so easily, he mused.
At that moment, a text message appeared on his phone, showing that roadside assistance was arriving in two hours’ time. Having shown her the message, he took a deep breath of the evening air. It smelled of honeysuckle. He must have frowned again, for she started to study his face, and asked, “Are you really in a hurry?” He nodded. It was 6.30 pm. He needed to be home by 7 pm to see if Linda was back. If she was, then he would be happy, at least for another few days. If not…
“What if you take me with you to wherever you need to go, do whatever you need to do, and drop me back here when the people are about to arrive?” She suddenly suggested.
His eyes widened at first. What a strange idea! But then he thought it was not actually that bad. After all, he was not in a hurry to be home. He only needed to check a fact, to form an argument, and to reach a conclusion. “Hop onboard then,” he said, walking towards his car.
As they fastened their safety belts, it occurred to him that it might as well be a good thing to have someone by his side for this journey, so that it might feel less … agonizing. “I haven’t asked your name. I am Isabella,” she said.
“Oh, sorry! William.” He replied, turning on the engine. Joining the traffic, his silver Mercedes picked up speed. Twenty-four miles remaining, showed the Sat Nav. Twenty-two minutes until home. It would only take Linda an hour to get home from work, so if everything was normal she should have been home by half past six. He allowed her a margin of thirty minutes. Then she should have been home by seven in any case. Unless…
How long had it been since he became so obsessed about getting home by seven? He barely remembered. Three months? Or had it been four? He never knew that he could be so neurotic, almost irrational, against all his training in logic and philosophy. But somehow, everything came to rely on this. All his happiness depended on Linda’s presence, at home, by seven.
“Speeding.” Isabella commented.
That was when he saw the speedometer showing 78, already eight miles above national speed limit. Feeling cold sweat on his back, he braked, slowed down to 70, and drove on. He rarely broke the speed limit, although he knew he would not be fined even if he went up to 77. A ten percent margin was allowed. Yet he preferred to leave those margins intact. A cautious man he had always been. This day, however, for some reason, he felt his heart beating faster than usual and his blood boiling. It must have been the weather. Spring was almost past and summer arrived early this year. The heat made him jumpy.
She was observing him. “I thought you are a seasoned driver,” she chuckled, but seeing his face, quickly checked herself. “Sorry. I did not mean to be rude. But you seem to have something on your mind,” She said tentatively, apparently hoping for an answer.
“You see, I am just not used to driving with a stranger by my side,” he defended himself by putting the blame on her. Something he had learned from this “stranger” early on.
To his surprise, she did not retort back. She took a deep breath and assumed a dignified, taciturn look. Secretively, he felt grateful for that silence. He really had no intention to do small talk. Dark green bushes quickly receded as the silver Mercedes raced on, passing many slower cars on its left. There was a time in his life when he was much more gentlemanly, much more patient, and so much happier. That time had receded into the dark abyss people called “the Past”, like all the sceneries on the two sides of the motorway on which his car raged. Before he was even able to have a good look at their mesmerising beauty, on this early summer evening, the scenery flew by, like the life he had shared with Linda. Like their love.
“Almost touching.” Isabella commented again.
“Holy crap!” He cursed and braked hard. The Mercedes almost crashed into the Tiguan in front of him, which slowed down all of a sudden.
“Sorry,” he blushed as he apologised. He almost never cursed. But neither did he ever encounter such dangers on the motorway before.
Isabella sighed, “I should probably have stayed with my car. Shouldn’t I?”
“Don’t worry. We are five minutes away now.” He took his gaze off the Sat Nav.
When the Mercedes pulled into the driveway, he saw that the lights were out. There was no sign of life inside the house.
“Can you wait in the car? Just need to grab something.” He fought hard to steady his voice and left the car before Isabella could respond.
The house key dropped onto the grey slate that made the doorstep. He quickly picked it up, yet it took him a century to insert the key into the keyhole. Turning the light on, he looked around the house. He went upstairs, into the bedrooms, downstairs, into the living room, the kitchen, the study. There was no trace of her.
At the end of the hallway, a golden frame eternalised their happiness as they beamed in front of the camera on the beach of Bournemouth, his arm on her shoulder. At their feet, giant letters read, “William and Linda: love forever”. Who invented the idea of etching the lovers’ oath on sand?
How long had it been since he last saw that beaming smile on her face? She had grown reluctant to talk with him. When she did, she never went deep. Yet there was this number that kept calling her, someone with the initial of “I.C.” – he saw it the other day when she was showering. Surely she had things to say to “I.C.”? Things that she did not want to say to him?
He slumped down on the lowest step of the carpeted staircase and covered his face with his hands.
It might as well have been a light year that he sat there, then someone knocked on the door. He jumped, and for a split second he thought it was her, coming back after all. But it was Isabella.
“Sorry to interrupt you, but I just remembered that I need to see a client this evening. I almost forgot about it, without the reminder on my phone, and with all this hassle about the car. Do you mind dropping me to my office? It’s not far from where I left my car.” She asked apologetically.
He stood up, somewhat shakily, and nodded. But when he was about to open his car door, he hesitated, “Can you drive? You see, I am afraid I should not drive really, not at this moment.”
Isabella looked flabbergasted. “Me? I can’t drive any car other than the VW Polo. No, I can’t drive any car other than my VW Polo.”
Now studying his face carefully, she added, “Would a coffee help? I actually know a café near here that is really good. We can walk there.”
Five minutes later, he found himself seated in a well-lit café, so close to his home but he had never known of it. Isabella went off to get him a latte, and herself a hot chocolate. No coffee for herself after 6 pm. That was what she said. The café was unusually busy for this time of the day. The fact that it was still open at 7 pm was somewhat peculiar for cafés in this country. People were talking energetically, in clusters or pairs.
Near him, a toddler started to cry. She must have a lollipop. Must have it here and now. The young mother, at first trying to pacify her but to no avail, stopped her persuasion. The toddler saw that there was nothing her mother could do to her and found her chance. Rather than standing by and dragging her mother’s leg, she now lay completely flat on the café floor, squirming vehemently, and screaming at the top of her voice.
Alarmed and embarrassed, he could not help but stare at the young mother, who looked all miserable but made not the slightest effort to drag the toddler from the floor. She just stared at the toddler throwing her tantrum, waiting for it to pass.
A latte was laid down on the table in front of him. As he turned back he was met with Isabella’s face, so close she almost bumped into him.
“Are you shocked that the mum just let people watch her in her misery?” Isabella whispered.
He nodded, “Isn’t this too… embarrassing?”
“PDV,” she said quietly.
“What is that?” He could not think of anything that had this acronym.
“Public Display of Vulnerability.” Isabella said, word by word, as if to nail this phrase into his brain.
“Why?” He had never heard of it before.
Isabella said in a low voice, “What can she do? Drag the child up and give her the lollipop? Talk her into reason? There is no point. The best thing to do at this moment is to let it be, let people see her vulnerability. No one will blame her. People either sympathise or don’t care. Mostly, they sympathise.”
“This is a healing café with PDV being its theme. Look around you,” she suggested. As he started to look around the café, for the first time, he noticed that quite a few people were tearful. There was an old man wiping his eyes while his white-haired peers listened to him. A middle-aged woman was patting the shoulders of a woman in her twenties. A college student was angrily denouncing someone as her tearful friend nodded with zeal.
He turned back to Isabella, shocked. Isabella smiled knowingly, said nothing, and patted him on the shoulder.
Something shattered inside him.
It was then that he realised that in his life, he had never displayed his vulnerabilities to anyone, let alone in public. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. All this time, these past three, four months, he had been holding and hiding this burden alone. Never told any family or friends. Never showed a trace of weariness at work. Did not even talk about it with her.
But he knew all too well things were changed between them. She complained that he did not understand her feelings when all he wanted to do was to solve her problems. And with good logic, evidence, arguments, and all. Yet she never seemed to appreciate it. The more he tried to help her, the more unhappy she seemed. That was when it started. At first, she came home late once a week. Eventually, twice. Nowadays, three times. Where did she go? What did they do? He dared not even to think about it, let alone ask her. What if she confessed truths that crushed him?
A pack of tissue was handed to him. He knew it was Isabella. Gratefully he took out one and dried his eyes. He let out a deep breath.
Somehow, the burden in his heart was lifted.
“Better?” She asked him, genuine concern in her eyes.
“Very much so. Thank you for the tissue,” he said to Isabella, “and for bringing me here.”
Isabella looked at him in the eye, “You know, I have always found men and women to be so different. Men want to solve problems, but it’s just so hard for them to do justice to feelings, their own or someone else’s. Often, all that a woman wants is for someone to understand her feelings, to hear her out.”
He smiled and eyed the white-haired man, “Apparently, you are already proven wrong.”
She nodded. “That’s the right way. Let our feelings out. It’s OK to be vulnerable. We are just humans. When I see my client tonight, my office will function just like this café where she can cry, confide, and recover.”
“You are a therapist?”
“Yes. Welcome to my world.” Isabella grinned.
“I am very lucky to have met you today.” He said to her, slowly, with great solemnity. She beamed quietly, almost knowingly.
“Now let’s get you to your client,” he offered. They finished their drinks and stood up. When they reached the car, he felt again his usual sureness with driving. Before starting the car, he had another look at his phone. The roadside rescue was delayed again, this time for another two hours.
“That’s just right. I will have finished meeting my client by then and I am sure she will give me a lift to my car.” Isabella said.
Half an hour later, when they arrived at the grey and yellow building where Isabella worked, he saw the lit-up signage that read, “Isabella Counselling”. Like lightning, the initials on his wife’s phone flashed across his mind. “I.C.”…
Someone opened the door to reception for Isabella.
There, dressed in her workday outfit, ever so gentle and sweet, if with a trace of weariness in her eyes, was no one else but his wife Linda.//
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Qian Liu is associate professor of Translation and Chinese Studies at the University of Warwick. She has a DPhil in Oriental Studies at the University of Oxford and she has published in English and Chinese on comparative literature and translation studies. She is the author of Transcultural Lyricism (Brill, 2017), among others. She writes fictional and non-fictional works in English and Chinese.
About the Author
