The Past is a Foreign Country

It’s 1933. I sit on a slick, black leather car seat. The city lights and star-spangled sky above blur across my vision. My eyes are wide and absorbing. Wind pulses through my hair and dances across my bare arms, erecting tiny goose bumps with its light touch. My suitor, a tall man, with strong facial features, stares ahead into the night. His hair is smoothed over to one side and his classic tuxedo remains creaseless. His hands grip the steering wheel at the suggested 10 and 2 positioning. He is clean, serious and inescapably boring.

I let out a frustrated sigh before darting my hand towards the dial and flicking on the radio. After a few waves of static, I impatiently cross my fingers. As if by magic, I am surrounded by rhythmic jazz music. I giggle with excitement. It takes but a few moments before I am standing, arms raised skyward. The peacock feather on my silver headband quivers in the passing breeze. My navy dress accentuated by rows of thin silk strands, ripples against my animated movements.

I look down at my driver; he now wears a large smile across his face. I don’t hesitate to reciprocate, spreading red-stained lips to reveal smiling teeth. I feel completely free in this moment. The darkness of the night cloaks us in a mysterious nostalgia. The factories and industrial works, which are visible during daylight, are now hidden as we pass them by.

The Mercedes rolls beneath us, swallowing the road at a growing speed. I feel wild, like there are no limits to my existence. – “Darling, do sit down,” he demands in a steady voice. But I do not. Who is he to tell me not to have fun? I shut my eyes and my body drifts from side to side, my white-gloved hands dancing on the continuous stream of air. I am startled suddenly, when my headband is ripped from my head. Loose strands of hair fall into my face and tickle my ears. I calmly sit, careful to avoid his gaze. I pout, my fun is over. I hit the dial and we ride again in silence. – “That’s better, you’ll be safer now. Oh, how you worry me dear,” his tone is soft but it grates at my ears. The silence grows heavier.

I snap my head to glare at him, but I am no longer looking at my well-dressed escort. – “You’ll be safer here,” a motherly voice invades my thoughts. I’m stood, gazing up at a couple. The woman, my mother, has tear-stained cheeks. Her eyes are locked on me. The man beside my mother, my father, stands straight with his arms tightly crossed. His face is emotionless. I look down briefly. My small right hand grips the handle of a square, brown-leather suitcase. Its metallic clasps glisten under the morning sun. My mother whimpers. I turn to find her kneeling beside me. Her face, just mere inches from mine, is contorted with grief. She holds me close for a few moments before standing. She brushes out the creases in her long, emerald skirt. She offers me a low wave of her hand before nodding gently to my father, her eyes are closed. I bite my lip to subdue the tears as I watch them turn slowly to leave. I wish to run after them, but my feet refuse to move. I stay, planted on the doormat on which I’ve been standing. Behind me, large old-style oak doors loom high, their presence intimidating. I hear a car door slam. My father starts the engine. They never look back.

The year was 1915, I think to myself. I was four.

…

I blink furiously. My right hand touches my cheek as I discretely hide a tear that has escaped. I dare not look at him. I know he watches me now, through side-ways glances. I will not be the subject of his pity. I feel an aching loneliness and a deep chill seeps into my chest. He has no idea of my reverie. He is not to ever know. For, if he knew of my family and where I am truly from, he would be ashamed to be in my company. Due to the prejudices I have experienced, I have learnt to guide my own destiny and speak not of the past. My past is haunted with memories of pain and abandonment. The present is where my life now lies and I intend to relish in every fleeting moment of it.