The Blue Hour

Again for Christine

Run up the sail, my heartsick comrades;

Let each horizon tilt and lurch—

You know the worst: your wills are fickle,

Your values blurred, your hearts impure

And your past life a ruined church—

But let your poison be your cure.

—Louis MacNeice, “Thalassa”

FIRST LIGHT. AND
I didn't know where I was anymore.

The sky outside: was it a curved rotunda of emerging blue? The world was still blurred at its edges. I tried to piece together my whereabouts, the exact geographic location within which I found myself. A sliver of emerging clarity. Or maybe just a few basic facts.

I was on a plane. A plane that had just flown all night across the Atlantic. A plane bound for a corner of North Africa. A country which, when viewed cartographically, looks like a skullcap abreast a continent. According to the flight progress monitor illuminating the back-of-the-seat screen facing me, we were still seventy-three minutes and 842 kilometers (I was flying into a metric world) from our destination. This journey hadn't been my idea. Rather I'd allowed myself to be romanced into it by the man whose oversize frame (as in six foot four) was scrunched into the tiny seat next to mine. The middle seat in this horror movie of an aircraft. No legroom, no wiggle room, every seat taken, at least six screaming babies, a husband and wife fighting in hissed Arabic, bad ventilation, bad air-conditioning, one-hour line for the bathroom after the plastic meal they served us, the rising aroma of collective night sweats hanging over this hellhole of a cabin. Thank God I had made Paul pack his zopiclone. Those pills induce sleep in even the most sleep-impossible conditions. I had put aside all my concerns about pharmaceuticals and asked him for one. It gave me three hours' respite from this high-altitude sweatbox confinement.

Paul. My husband. It was a new marriage—just three years old. Truth be told, we loved each other. We were passionate about each other. We often said we were beyond fortunate to have found each other. And I truly believed that. Never mind that the day before we legalized our relationship and committed to each other for the rest of our lives, I was silently convincing myself that I could change some of Paul's worrying inclinations; that, in time, things would tick upward, stabilize. Especially since we had decided that the moment was right to become parents.

Out of nowhere, Paul suddenly began to mumble something in his sleep, its incoherency growing in volume, indicating serious subconscious agitation. When it reached a decibel level that woke our neighbor—an elderly man sleeping in his gray-tinted glasses—I touched my husband's arm, trying to rouse him out of his nightmare. It took several further unnerving moments of shouting before he snapped awake, looking at me as if he had no idea who I was.

“What . . . where . . . I don't . . . ?”

His wide-eyed bemusement was suddenly replaced by the look of a bewildered little boy. “Am I lost?” he asked.

“Hardly,” I said, taking his hand. “You just had a bad dream.”

“Where are we?”

“Up in the air.”

“And where are we going?”

“Casablanca.”

He appeared surprised at this news.

“And why are we doing that, Robin?”

I kissed him on the lips. And posed a question:

“Adventure?”

FATE IS BOUND
up in the music of chance. A random encounter, a choice impulsively made . . . and fate suddenly has its own interesting momentum.

And fate had certainly brought us to Casablanca.

The fasten-seat-belts sign was now illuminated. All tray tables stored away. All seats upright. The change in cabin pressure was wreaking havoc with the eardrums of all the babies around us. Two of the mothers—their faces veiled—tried to calm their children without success, one of the babies staring wide-eyed at the cloaked face in front of him, his anguish growing. Imagine not being able to see your mother's face in public. Or does it just become a part of a child's everyday décor: mother is visible at home, but in the world beyond, all that can be seen is a slittish hint of eyes and lips. For an infant jolted awake by a change in cabin pressure, it's even more reason to cry without limits.

“Little charmers,” Paul whispered, rolling his eyes.

I entwined my hand with his. “We'll be down on the ground in just a few minutes.”

Paul suddenly put his arms around me. “Am I still your love?”

I clutched his hand more tightly, knowing how much reassurance he craves and needs.

“Of course you are,” I said.

From the moment he walked into my office three years ago I knew it was love. What do the French call it? A
coup de foudre
. The overwhelming, instantaneous sense that you have met the love of your life; the individual who will change your entire trajectory because you know . . .

What exactly?

Now there's a major speculative question: How and why do you fall in love? What triggers the realization: he's the one? Even if, some weeks or months down the line, the reality of the other person (and of all the needs and desires you have projected onto him), makes you begin to wonder . . .

Was it really love that made me swoon? I certainly thought so at the time.

Let me restate that. Honestly.

I fell in love with Paul Leuen immediately. And he told me later, much to his surprise, he too fell in love on the spot . . . with the woman he'd been sent to in order to make sense of his messy financial affairs.

That's right, I'm an accountant. A numbers cruncher. The person you call to form a barrier between yourself and our friends at the Internal Revenue Service. Accountants are usually grouped with dentists as purveyors of a profession that they privately loathe. Now, I happen to know quite a few fellow Certified Public Accountants. The majority of them—from the gray bookkeepers to the corporate high-flyers—tend to like their work.

I like the work too—and I speak as someone who came to the numbers-and-tax game in her thirties. No one grows up proclaiming, “I want to be an accountant.” It's a bit like driving down an open road, then veering into a cul-de-sac that, from a distance, looks staid and humdrum. But then, much to your surprise, you find it has its own intriguing allure; its own singular sense of human narrative. Money is that fault line along which we pirouette. Show me an individual's numerical sum total and I can develop a portrait of their immense complexities: their dreams and aspirations, their demons and terrors.

“When you look at my financial records,” Paul asked me, “what do they tell you about me?”

Such directness. A flirtatious directness, even though—when the question was posed—we were several weeks off from becoming intimate. He was still just a prospective client—with wildly disorganized books. Paul's tax problems were considerable, but not insurmountable. His salary at the state university had been taxed at source. His problem was when it came to sales of his artwork, he'd frequently been paid cash and had never thought much about paying taxes on this income, which was reasonably modest—maybe fifteen thousand dollars per year. But, stretched over a ten-year period, it became not so insignificant to a sharp-eyed IRS inspector who now wanted it declared and paid for. Paul was being audited—and the local mom-and-pop bookkeeper who'd been handling things for him for the past ten years ran scared once the IRS started knocking on Paul's door. He told his client that he needed someone who was skilled at negotiating with the tax man. And he recommended me.

Paul's financial problems, however, weren't limited to undisclosed income. His spending habits had landed him in severe cash flow difficulties. Wine and books were his principal vices. A part of me privately admired someone who had such an apparently unfazed approach to life that he thought nothing of spending $185 on a bottle of Pomerol 1989, yet was being chased by the electricity company for forgetting to pay his quarterly bill, and also that he chose only the finest French-made charcoals, pencil leads, and other materials for his etchings. These art supplies alone accounted for another six thousand dollars in annual outlay. And when he went off to the South of France for an annual vacation, though he would stay in a friend's guest cottage outside the medieval village of Èze—which cost him nothing—he would easily rack up another ten grand's worth of gastronomical indulgences.

So, the first impression I had of Paul Leuen was someone who—unlike the rest of us members of the workaday world—had somehow managed to avoid all the pitfalls of routine life. And I had always wanted to fall in love with an artist.

We are often attracted to that which runs contrary to our nature.

Did I see in Paul—this rail-thin, six-foot-four-inch artist, with long gray hair, his black leather jacket and black jeans, his black hoodie, his Converse high-top sneakers—the possibility of change; a way out of the humdrum that so much of my life had become?

During our first professional meeting Paul made a joke about his financial affairs being somewhat akin to a Jackson Pollock painting, and then said that he was the living embodiment of the French word
bordélique
—which I looked up after our meeting and discovered meant “like a brothel” and “all over the place.” Then there was the way he was almost apologetic about his “financial absurdities,” and how he needed someone to take him in hand and “turn me into a proper functioning grown-up.”

“The books will tell all,” I said.

What the books did tell me was that Paul Leuen was accruing serious debt. I was direct with him: “You like to show yourself a good time. The fact is, your income from the state university leaves you—after state and federal taxes—with around fifty thousand a year to live on. Your house has been mortgaged twice. You could be facing a tax bill of sixty thousand plus penalties if the IRS has its way. And since you have virtually no savings . . .”