As the author, I feel like André’s silent, watchful companion, and here I see him walking into a delusional situation. (see page 250)
Arnfrid Beier, author of LOVE LIES: A Journal
A few minutes later, Delilah followed me into the kitchen, bringing along the box with all the new crockery. She placed it carefully on the bench not far from the sink and took a step back, waiting for me to take over.
I shoved the box aside with my right forearm.
Delilah said nothing. She didn’t even move. I could sense, though, that she was watching me.
“So what have you been up to, Delilah?” I enquired into the silence, slowly turning round and looking at her.
“Well… I’ve been accepted as a development worker on a placement in India for three years,” she replied.
Now it was I who said nothing. I didn’t move, either, I couldn’t.
Delilah was standing in the doorway, a person I had never met before, a complete stranger.
“I hope you’ll come and visit me in India, André,” said the stranger in the doorway.
It wasn’t my lovely Delilah any more, my dear, lovely Delilah.
I felt as if I had a different head on. Where was the old one? What had she done with it?
“India,” I gulped, “did you say India?”
“I did, darling.” Delilah took a step towards me.
I raised my hands to my forehead. Delilah seemed to peer down a dark tunnel at me, with her figure strangely undulating and four arms growing out of each of her shoulders.
“Are you all right, love?” It sounded as if she was talking through a wall of water.
“Yes,” I mumbled feebly.
“What’s the matter, André?”
“I don’t know,” I groaned.
“Oh, my dear André.” Delilah gently placed her hand on my arm.
“It’ll pass, don’t worry, it’ll pass,” I reassured her.
She led me out of the kitchen to the bedroom and helped me out of my dressing gown.
“It’s a good job you’re already in your pyjamas,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s a good job,” I muttered.
“Come on, I’ll tuck you in, André, darling,” Delilah said and helped me into bed. Then she drew the curtains, switched off the lights and lay down by my side, on top of the bed cover.
We didn’t say anything for a while. And the building seemed very quiet, too. So quiet, I could only hear Delilah’s breathing.
Little by little, the haze began to clear away from my brain. The grey cells started to move about again.
Perhaps she won’t go to India, was my first thought; I could have misheard what she said, was my second thought. And that was where I got stuck, because I didn’t dare to ask her, for fear she might say yes after all. But I didn’t have to wait long for Delilah to break the silence. She had tuned into my wavelength.
“A penny for your thoughts,” she said out of the blue.
“I wasn’t thinking about anything,” I lied.
“Hmm,” she went on, “you sound a lot better now.”
“I am,” I lied again.
“What was the anxiety attack about, then?”
“It wasn’t an anxiety attack.”
“What was it, then?”
“A migraine.”
“André, you can’t pull the wool over my eyes, come on, what’s bothering you?”
I heaved a deep sigh.
“It’s about my going to India, isn’t it?”
“Do you have to go, Delilah?”
“I want to go.”
“What about me?”
“You’ll be able to stand on your own two feet now.”
“No, I won’t.”
“André, I am not your mother, and even if I were, you have to cut the umbilical cord, you can’t remain a baby forever.”
“I need you, Delilah.”
“You’ve done a lot of thinking and reflecting over the last few weeks and months. You are a great deal more aware of what’s going on in your mental and emotional worlds. Now is a good time to work with what you’ve learnt in a meaningful way and to continue on your journey of self-discovery.”
“My life is meaningless without you, Delilah.”
“Oh, André, don’t say that!”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“How can you leave me, if you love me?”
“Love is open and deep and unending, like the universe.”
“Words, words, words.”
“Love is not attachment.”
“More words.”
“André, listen to me!”
“I’m always listening to you.”
“Listen with an open mind.”
“I’m always listening to you with an open mind.”
“André, what I’m going to say to you now is very serious.”
“Like a death sentence, you mean.”
“You mustn’t allow yourself to be tied down by your mother fixation, it’ll kill you in the end, André, it’ll kill you.”
“Words, nothing but words.”
“Know thyself! That’s more than words, André. The old Socratic imperative, that’s more than words. For the likes of us, André, it is a clinical and ultimately a spiritual necessity.”
Delilah never lost her patience that evening. She talked in quiet, soothing tones, which made having to face up to the facts even more painful for me.
Most of the time, I didn’t take in what she said. I often stopped her in the middle of a sentence, because I couldn’t bear listening to her voice any more. I had a sense of sinking into darkness then, grasping at fading sunrays.
Sadly, I made things very difficult for Delilah. First I pleaded with her not to go to India. Then I accused her of betraying me. When that didn’t work I cried like a child. Finally I shouted abuse at her.
I cannot remember what I said or did in the end. When I came out of my black cloud, Delilah wasn’t there any more.
As I realised what I had done, tears began to roll down my cheeks, warm, heavy tears of sorrow and regret, but Delilah was gone.
Painfully ashamed of my behaviour, I didn’t dare to follow her in the car or even to telephone her.
As I stared into the dark abyss of my loss, my life felt suddenly so hollow, so empty.
The weekend went by, without Delilah. I hoped that she would get in touch with me. She didn’t.
Several days later, I plucked up enough courage to ring her at home, but the line was dead.
At the clinic they told me that she had left for India.
It was as if Delilah had died … died without a last farewell from me. A fare well! A blessing … a final letting go.
Every thought became a judge, every feeling an outcry from the jury, every emotion an executioner.
Oh Delilah, Delilah, where was I when you came to say goodbye to me?
