Have You Ever Paid the Ferryman?

When he reached the couch, he sat adjacent to me, spreading out a piece of black velvet-like a magician ready to read cards. He put the case carefully between us, turning it a few times and then unzipping it to reveal over twenty-six canvas storyboards painted in watercolor. I gasped! There, before my eyes, was the opening scene of the film in masterful one-of-a-kind paintings.

The artist’s hand was reminiscent of the great Egon Schiele, and he’d painted the characters into being capturing the subtle nuances of the wide-eyed boy innocently flirting with the fair-faced ingenue, invoking a romantic surrealism that stole my heart. I nearly wept.

I looked up at my teacher to be in the moment with him, but he was not looking at me. Instead, he was staring into the paintings, crouching over them like a protective animal, getting lost in their preciousness. I marveled over them a bit more, and then excused myself and left. I knew that even though he was the only person I knew in the city; I could never see him again.

In those last weeks of visiting with him, I noticed something rather peculiar that filmmakers call “dropout.”  Dropout happens when frames of film are left blank, with no image or sound to be projected. When film is slowed down to twenty-four or twenty-five frames per second depending, the editor can splice them, and insert a visual effect to make the story seamless. They are virtually undetectable to the human eye; however, a good editor can often sense the discontinuity, and I was becoming she.

I started seeing the dropouts and hearing the missteps when I was with him, until one day, I made the (un)fortunate mistake of turning around and caught him in a moment unawares. My stomach seized with dread, and I knew with all of myself that I was with the most dangerous person I’d ever known.

I took to settling into the city alone, but I wasn’t sad or upset. On the contrary, I felt vividly alive with a sense of freedom and liberation. I wanted to celebrate with someone and imagined myself clinking elegant, long-stemmed, wine glasses in a toast with friends, but alas, I knew no one.

Once my performing arts classes began, I immersed myself in them with a vision to rebuild my life. It didn’t take long before I was making new friends and feeling a deep sense of acceptance. The city that I had once been so intimidated by, turned out to be a magical place of great gifts, providing a way for me to explore my deepest desires. It was as if the city was permission to grow and play.

For some reason, while so many exciting new things were evolving in my life, I couldn’t shake the grief of losing my teacher. I simply couldn’t move on, so I asked him in my mind to meet me in a dream. When I fell asleep, I landed in a film lab with a fly-on-the-wall view of him strolling confidently back and forth, instructing young students in front of computer terminals. A letter magically appeared in my hands and although his back was to me, he began to narrate it as I simultaneously read it.

The melody of his voice soothed my soul like a baby, and I cooed, nursing at the intersection of our celestial pabulum. My heart and soul were fed by his presence and as I reached the end of the letter, I could see a darkness setting in and woke myself up before his nature turned.

He reached out to me once more, in waking time, and I did my best to navigate his trickery. I wanted him to know how much he hurt me, and that I knew I was partly responsible. I made one last attempt at asking for my money back or at least half the paintings but he refused, dismissing me with a cackle, and saying the deal was done.

Five years would pass from that day without me seeing him again. Five glorious years of living and flourishing as a dancer and performer in the city! In those wonderful years, I sucked the marrow out of the richness of my experiences, dancing and performing my heart out, and winning a contract with two companies I adored. I lived, worked, and played with smart, creative, talented groups of artists and musicians who became dear friends. I lived a glamorous life with my tribe, stretching my passions and curiosities to the edges, and learning and growing until I self-actualized.

With that full sense of completion, like the proverbial snake eating its own tail, I started preparing to move out of the city and onto a new chapter of my life.

A few days before I left, I received an invitation from the artist who had painted all those wonderfully brilliant storyboards five years earlier. He, too, had grown exponentially in that time and was commissioned by a famous auction house abroad. He was reaching out to invite me to his farewell party at his last exhibit and hoped that I would attend.

A shiver of fear shot through me because something in my bones told me that I would see my teacher there. I looked down, gently twisting my lip with my fingers, wondering if I should go after evading his presence all that time. But when the day of the party came, I felt a sudden sense of valor looking at my reflection in the mirror at the powerful woman I had become and decided to go. I laughed a bit as I browsed my shoes and jewelry selecting the ones that I knew he and I would like best.

I threw on a white lace shawl and headed out, crossing town on the above-ground trains, and jumping off at my stop. I stepped over rusty tracks towards a crowd of trendy people streaming in and out of the art studio. There in the distance, I saw the artist waving and calling after me. “Over here,” he motioned with a smile and a wave. The sun lit up the sidewalk and we hugged happily in the moment. “How are you?” he said. “You look great! Here, here. Come here and sit down next to me.”

There, sitting across from me, was my teacher.

He guided me over to a circle of folding chairs set out onto the blocked-off street and sat me down in the only empty chair beaming a happy smile and twisting himself towards me as if we were the only ones there. I was flattered by his gestures and as we started to catch up, I could feel someone searing a hole through the circle at me. There, sitting across from me, was my teacher. I tried to resist looking at him and could see he was annoyed at the undivided attention I was getting. But soon, he became distracted by what I was wearing, and I saw his restless annoyance shift to focused calm as he studied my shoes and then followed his eyes up my leg up to my hand to study my jewelry. He smiled.

In our time of platonic amour, he had never known me as the single stylish woman I once was. He made my acquaintance after all the fun and fashion was drained out of me; when I wore baggy clothes to hide the shame of losing my sense of self. This was the first time that he was seeing me restored, and I watched in my periphery as he continued to admire my transformation.

I eventually left the circle, excusing myself and making my way into the exhibit. As I stood among the mob, trying to get close to the paintings, I felt my teacher making his way through the dark sea of people to the back of the gallery where I stood. His eyes shone like brilliant lights of cosmic blue and when he finally reached me, he stood close because of the deafening crowds. He said loudly into my ear, “I’m going to get going,” and then backed away to stare gently into me. “I wanted to come and say goodbye to you,” he said and then leaned in to whisper something in my ear. “You look great. Really great.”

Without any expression, I looked at him and threw my arms around him in a spontaneous hug. He let out a “humph!” and his body deflated and collapsed into mine as I saw a blinding image of a bright red heart full and beating suspended inside a brightly lit clay chest with a fire radiantly blazing behind it. I could swear I saw a thin vine of golden thorns wrapped around the top of it.

And then, as if recharged by an electric surge, he regained his strength, and we parted in slow motion. Our cheeks delicately grazed one another, and he gave me a kiss there. It felt paternal. My eyelids fell and I stepped back blushing. When I looked up, he stood before me with his head bowed and his hands folded in front of him. He had come to pay his respects.

I breathed in grace and breathed out triumph.

I made it!