Chameleon
Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?
~ Obsession, Animotion
The more we were together, the more I began to imagine that Isabel thought me gay, that she had somehow seen me with Ivo and decided I was safe to be around, that she was – no, dear God – a "fag hag". Ivo had explained the type to me though he himself was closest to other gay males and was baffled by women who wanted to hang around queers.
Perhaps it was the look she gave me when I recited poetry or discussed literature. Perhaps it was because I was too interested in things like clothing and furnishings, as Emily had once said. Whatever the case, I suddenly wished I were more manly – that I didn't read Jane Austen and the Brontes and Les Fleurs du Mal. I wished I played a sport and liked classic rock rather than classical music. I wished I liked cars and football and other things that men were supposed to like. I stared at myself in the mirror, wondering if I "looked gay". I didn't want to be gay! I wanted to be whatever Isabel wanted me to be! I craved her approval, her undivided attention. I wanted her to look up to me, to respect and need me. I wanted her to desire me as I desired her, enough to abandon her husband and follow me away.
She was with me when I was first handed my letters from Ivo at the front desk. She raised her eyebrows inquisitively and I told a little white lie, about being responsible for my brother (one I did not have) as well. My hands shook as I shoved the damning evidence to the contrary into my pocket and took her arm to walk up the stairs to our respective rooms. I felt that Ivo's letters – love letters – were blowing my cover, emasculating me before her very eyes. I was desperate that she never ever know that I had been with a man. And so I invented a second lie, about my ex-girlfriend still hounding me even with 4500 miles between us. She looked at me, half-smiling half-inquiring.
Ivo's letters kept arriving daily and I cringed in embarrassment and fear that she might learn the truth of who and what he and I were had been. From that point on one small lie led easily to another until I had fabricated an existence so convoluted in its detail, I had difficulty remembering what I had said, where I'd been, who I was. Worse, she seemed to be cooling toward me as if sensing the enormity of the subterfuge, as if growing distrustful of me.
Years later, when she came to me in Aldeburgh to take me back to him, she told me, "It is better to be hated for who you are than to be loved for someone you are not." And then she took me in her arms and kissed my hair and said, "But know I do love you – have always loved you - for who and what you are, and do not resent you for the things you have done."
I couldn't imagine why she said it. But I was very grateful she did.