Beautiful Wild - Anna Godbersen Page 0,96

heap of money for her memoirs; a theater producer insisted her story must be brought to the stage. But when neither she, nor her parents, nor Nora, nor Camilla responded to these entreaties, or to the gathered crowds, the interest began to fizzle. Public attention returned instead to Fitzhugh, who was said to have been seen around town in the company of Adele Jones.

That did smart a little.

The Vida who liked to get what she set out for, who had gone to great lengths to win that which she was told she could not have, became alert again, did think over what she would have to do to take back her prize. But she went on a long walk and waited for her desire for a grand life to come again. It didn’t. Instead, some new desire led her to a bookstore on Broadway, where she purchased several travel guides to the Mediterranean region, as well as a history of the ancient world, and another one that told the stories of several prominent volcanoes.

On the day she set off Mother’s lip trembled, but she was brave and didn’t cry.

Father smiled—it was a sad smile, but mixed with a kind of grudging, adoring pride.

“I’ll write all the time,” Vida promised.

“Good,” her mother said, and held her close awhile. “I hope you will be very happy.”

“I think I will,” she said.

“I only ever wanted you to be happy,” Mother went on, not letting go. Vida had always thought her parents were a little silly, but they surprised her now—they seemed to understand that Vida was seeking something true, and to want that for their only daughter. “You always wanted so much. I thought getting you as much as possible would make you happy forever.”

“I thought so, too. But maybe what I wanted all that time was less.”

How much less was only really apparent in the simple cabin that she occupied by herself with the contents of her one trunk and the books that she had purchased on the long solitary walk that she had taken down the wilds of Broadway. But with less, she found, you can see and feel so much more.

With less, she might for instance find herself alone on the top deck of a steamer crossing the Atlantic at dawn and understand that one does not dwell in the busy cities of men, but on the great curve of the watery Earth. She might feel, in some deep and ancient corner of her mind, the true romance of the ocean. She might find in some dusty old books she had acquired almost by accident, on a day when she was looking for something else, clues to where she is going, and how she will search out what she truly wants.

She might discover, too, that journeys are always longer and more arduous than what one has carefully planned. That a girl will sometimes find herself in shabby port cities, with only second-rate hotels. That she will despair of ever finding the right port. She will be brought to tears over how difficult it is to order the right dinner in a language she doesn’t speak, and this will be made all the worse by the knowledge that she is being conspicuously ridiculous. But then she might also learn that second-rate hotels have their own charms, that there are far worse fates than being ridiculous, and that every port can teach a girl a little more how to be oneself in the world.

And as she travels she will acquire a kind of easy certainty.

She will begin to be sure, without knowing exactly how it will happen.

Maybe she will find Sal on his Mediterranean island, maybe she won’t.

Some deep confidence of the heart begins to tell her own story.

Epilogue

Maybe it happens like this . . .

Vida’s ferry arrives at dusk at a rather dusty port. Representatives from the little hotels in the village built into the high cliffs appear, enthusiastic in their pleas that she choose their establishment over the others. Donkeys decorated in colorful tassels and pom-poms carry her luggage up the steep path. She asks if there has been another American in the village, but the people at the port, unaccustomed to an accent like hers, shrug in confusion, evade the question. She looks around. No, there is no American in the crowd, no tall boy in plain clothing.

She thinks, as everyone on any voyage of true consequence thinks from time to time, that she has made a terrible mistake.