Kristopher Jansma - The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards

And for once I thought I knew exactly what was running through Julian’s mind. He was out of his mind, of course. But underneath that was something else. Something I’d never seen before, but that had always been there, whenever he’d looked at me, from the very first day: he pitied me. Not in the same snobby way that he pitied everyone and everything, but because I had no idea who I really was. He’d seen me all along, like a moth fluttering repeatedly against a windowpane. He’d grown attached to me, gotten to know the pattern of my wings against the glass. I’d always been on the other side of it, though. I’d been circling out there for so long that I’d forgotten.

I thought he would hit me again, or drag me away, but instead he let me go. He just began walking off the other way, toward the blazing, open sands and the red distant hills. Perhaps he wanted some space, or just to lick his wounds. Perhaps something had finally snapped inside him that would not be mended. I didn’t understand exactly. And I didn’t know then that I wouldn’t see or speak to Julian again for ten long years.

I hurried back to Evelyn’s wedding tent.

When I slipped my head back through the rear flap, I saw that she was not alone anymore. Avinash stood a few feet from her, dressed in magenta silks that leant him no aura of impressiveness at all. A shirtless man, whom I took to be the priest, was chanting and pressing a golden coin onto the untattooed void on Evelyn’s hand. There were no other people in the tent — no relatives or bridesmaids or elephants of any kind. This was the real wedding ceremony; everything that would happen out on the mandap in front of the others was technically just for show.

Evelyn could not see me. The little picture frame that she had taken from her bag earlier lay beside her makeup tray. I watched as the priest clasped her hand to Avinash’s and began to bind them together, with the gold coin pressed between them. I opened my mouth to speak, but only dry desert air came out.

There she stood, only a few feet away from me, but she looked like she looked on stage — completely real and yet entirely someone else. I’d never been so close to her while she was in character. When Julian or Avinash or any of the other men — and there had been many — came to see her, they sat in the front row, center. Only my eyes had the capacity to unravel her.

She gazed into Avinash’s heavily lashed eyes with a serene confidence. It was a gaze of expectations being firmly met. Of plans having at last come to fruition.

The priest’s voice reached a higher pitch as he knotted their hands together and reached for the fringe of her sari. I watched as he wove these tiny threads to Avinash’s dhoti . She breathed a little deeper, but she wasn’t really nervous. She was only playing the part.

I said nothing. I did nothing.

When the priest’s fingers parted from the knot, he concluded his prayer and it was done. Evelyn and Avinash were wed.

She never saw me. And when she moved away from Avinash, her face did not change at all. This character was permanent now. Evelyn had become someone new. In a few minutes they would go out to the mandap and revolve around the Agni , and they would make their traditional promises to each other in full view of their families and assembled international guests, but it was already done, so I took off to find the car. I couldn’t stand to stay and watch the rest. I knew how it all would go down.

Up on the mandap , Evelyn and Avinash would place strings of flowers around each other’s necks. They would circle the holy fire seven times and make their seven vows to each other. And as they stared into each other’s eyes, they would come to what was really my favorite part of the whole ceremony, when it came right down to it.

We are word and meaning, united.

You are thought and I am sound.

May the night be honey-sweet for us.

May the morning be honey-sweet for us.

May the earth be honey-sweet for us.

May the heavens be honey-sweet for us.

May the plants be honey-sweet for us.

May the sun be all honey for us.

May the cows yield us honey-sweet milk.

As the heavens are stable,

as the earth is stable,

as the mountains are stable,

as the whole universe is stable,

so may our union be permanently settled.

Whenever I made it back to the hotel, I would throw these details together and finish this article and get very drunk and catch the first flight out in the morning. Most of these holes could be patched together. Everything else was just the Grand Canyon.

As I drove off along the rim in the Shelby Cobra, I found it easier and easier to remind myself of how incredibly small I was, and how incredibly small everything about me, and my life, and my love, and my world, was, too.

Even with the full moon, it’s terribly dark out there tonight, isn’t it? That’s the desert for you. You should try the 51 cocktail here. It’s quite good. Are you in Dubai on business? Honeymooning? Oh, wonderful! I should leave you two alone then. You’re sure? Well, if you insist, then, of course, I’ll join you. Just for one drink — on me. Three 51’s, min fadlik. There we go. So, you two just arrived from—? Oh, lovely. I’m from New York, myself. Pleasure meeting you both. Call me Timothy Wallace. Professor Timothy Wallace, actually.

How did I wind up in Dubai? Well, it’s certainly an interesting story — one of my better ones. Unless, of course, you want the truth. The truth is only slightly less interesting than the story. But, then again, it’s the truth — so it has that unique quality. Of all the possible stories out there, from the fantastic to the mundane, only one of them qualifies as the truth. It’s OK! You can laugh. I won’t take any offense. Perhaps I’ve had one too many. It’s just, you see, I don’t usually tell the truth, as a rule. But every rule has exceptions. Maybe mine is that I can tell the truth only in strange bars to lovely couples, when the moon is full behind the Burj Al Arab and the night is especially dark. Fortunately for you both, tonight is just such a night. Ah! Here come our drinks.

Now, see, I’ve gone and made you a little nervous. That’s good. Will he tell us the truth? Or will it be a lie? How will we be able to tell, one way or the other? If I told you, for instance, that I lived for many years with the international bestselling author Jeffrey Oakes? If I told you that the woman I love is, today, Her Royal Highness, Princess of Luxembourg? No, no. Don’t apologize for laughing. Of course, you wouldn’t believe that. Tricky thing about the truth… that it is often stranger than fiction is only the beginning. But, I’m sorry — I’m lecturing already. It’s something of an occupational hazard. You fall a little bit in love with the sound of your own voice. You start chasing little threads and before long you’ve lost the point entirely.

Now, how did I come to Dubai? Well. I’ll begin at the middle, which is where all good truths begin.

• • •

One year ago, in May, I stood in front of a poorly ventilated room in Manhattan, packed with thirty-five jittery students, all just moments away from completing my course on New Journalism. Pacing back and forth in front of the blackboard, I swirled my hands through the dead air, bringing the final, trembling chords of my class to its crescendo. It went a little something like this: