2: Agape
When I met Solveig, she appeared first as a doer of God's work. There was a rally against the war in Vietnam, and I went out of curiosity, still watchful for the meaning at its center. Solveig was one of half a dozen speakers on the dais; she had gone to South Vietnam as a medical doctor and worked in a children's clinic until the South Vietnamese government discovered her previous stint as a medical volunteer in North Vietnam and revoked her visa. She spoke in musical, Swedish-accented English about the damage the war was doing to Vietnamese children in the North and the South. The rally was outdoors. Her voice arrived out of phase with itself from several sets of loudspeakers. I pushed through the crowd and stood closer to the platform. She seemed as tall and blond as I was, and nearly as beautiful, as if God had set her apart. I felt sure that God meant us to be allies in the work of justifying His purpose in the war; I felt sure that Solveig would help me to see the parts of the mystery that so eluded me up to that time. And I was lonely.
Before I ever spoke to her, I had assigned a significance to Solveig that I saw later was more from myself than from God. She had the same name as the faithful woman in Ibsen's play. I had read Peer Gynt and knew the ending; I had seen as much adventure as I wanted. I thought: Maybe this is the woman I'm to come home to.
When the rally was over, I waited for the small crowd that had gathered on the platform to disperse, and then I approached her. She was crouching, collecting an assortment of books and papers from beneath a chair. Her hair was straight and blond, and it fell over the eye nearer to me as I stood at the right distance for speaking to her, but unsure of myself. She must have sensed my presence, because she pulled her hair aside and glanced up. Her eyes were of a limpid, unsaturated blue; they seemed to size me up faster than I could think to frame a greeting to her; she smiled at me before I could speak.
"Carry your books?" I blurted.
She laughed. And I realized with a thrilled sense of unearned intimacy, as if I were being admitted into a secret, that she was laughing in Swedish. It was a warm, musical, rising laugh. She stood up and handed me the books; "You are so nice to ask!" she said. The lilt of her laugh invested her speech.
She threw a purse strap over her shoulder and we began to walk. She was my height—nearly six feet—and wore a blue jersey a little lighter yet than her eyes, a denim miniskirt and leather sandals. It was spring; we were walking in the green campus of the university; her hair gave back golden highlights from the slowly northering sun. From the quietly charismatic presence I had first seen on the dais, she had become—effortlessly—my companion, walking at my side and waiting for me to speak. I told her my name and made one hand free from the books I was carrying so she could shake it. Her hand was as large as mine. She felt like an equal. Neither of us gripped.
On the street a block down from the campus gate we sat at a sidewalk cafe table and ordered croissants. It was a relief to unload Solveig's books onto the table top. It was an innocent pleasure to sit across that white surface from her and admire her smiling beauty glowing in the sun, all blues and yellows, the colors of her country's livery.
"Are you living in the States?" I asked her.
"For a few months only," she said. "I have to go back to Sweden for my work."
"What do you think is happening in Vietnam?"
Her smile became less dazzling but didn't entirely disappear. "Did you hear my speech?" she asked.
I nodded. "You talked about the effect on children. But is anything good happening there?"
"Some people are fighting for freedom," she said. "That might be good."
"Which are the people fighting for freedom?"
"The Viet Cong are fighting for freedom. They get help from the North and the Soviets, but they are fighting for freedom."
"But the Viet Cong are Communists. If they were to win, who would be free?"
"It's a good question." Her smile had still not disappeared. "What is your interest in the war?"
"That of a sponsor, I'm afraid."
"Then you like it."
"No. I hate it. But I pay for it. And I've voted for it."
"Time to repent," she said, and laughed again in Swedish. I was stunned. She seemed to know of my rebirth. She even seemed to be challenging me to find my vocation.
"What must I do?" I asked.
"Everyone must do what is right. I do whatever to help the little kids. Nobody can do everything."
Many years later, as I write down my best recollection of Solveig's words, they seem less than a clear call to a lifetime of privation, temporal failure and ultimate spiritual triumph. But the injunction to do right so resonated with the decision I had already made that I felt an alliance with her. I imagined us yoked together, animals of the same size and strength, preparing the ground for God's kingdom on earth. I even dared, there at the cafe table, to imagine us equally yoked in the sight of God, a couple in Christ, and myself no longer lonely. I felt powerfully moved and excited. I saw that her golden hands were bare of jewelry, as now were mine. So much matter for thought and process swelled in me that I was confused and knew that I needed to withdraw for a while.
"I want to think about what you've said today," I told her. "May I call you? This stuff seems very important to me."
She tore a scrap of paper from a sheet among the pile of books and wrote her name and a telephone number on it. I folded the scrap and put it in the breast pocket of my coat. I put down money for the croissants. I stood and took Solveig's hand in both of mine, shook it again, and thanked her for her company. "I'll call you," I said, and hurried away to my apartment.
I spent the next couple of days in considerable agitation. I had a vivid dream in which Solveig and I were traveling in an unfamiliar country. She walked ahead of me, although I tried to keep abreast. Her straight, blond hair lofted from her shoulders, and I had a quartering view of her face—and then only the cheekbone and forehead. I realized I didn't remember what she looked like. I hurried to catch up, but my feet dragged and my body felt heavy. The land was gray and featureless and the sky overcast. In the far distance, crepuscular rays penetrated the cloud cover and picked out something on the ground. I understood that the war was there and we were going to find it. Solveig stretched a hand back to me. "It's God," she said. "We've got to hurry." I reached for her hand. I awoke in my bed.
I spent much of each workday in my office with the door shut, preoccupied. For the first time since my initial employment out of college, I felt sure that I had missed my vocation. I suffered in nervous anticipation of phoning Solveig. It seemed to me that I had reached another of many recent crises in my life. If I were to call Solveig, it would have to be for reasons of the Holy Spirit working in me, and I would have to dedicate myself entirely to whatever project He, through her, might reveal to me. I foresaw that I would have to resign my job. After much struggle, I girded my loins for spiritual battle and phoned the number on the scrap of paper.
Her voice when she answered was even more musical than I recalled, and her accent more pronounced. I identified myself. She remembered me and sounded pleased that I'd phoned. Rather keyed up, I proposed to meet her sometime in the course of the following weekend to talk about her work.
"Oh, I so sorry I can't," she said. I was simultaneously stung with disappointment and bemused by her childlike ellipsis. "I going away for the weekend with my friend. We're going car-racing."
"Your friend."
"Ya. He's one of your nice American guys."
I felt cold and foolish. A moment later I was ashamed of my feelings. I had not called Solveig as a prospective lover, but as an aspiring ally and co-worker, and I believed that the spiritual importance of my relationship with her could not be jeopardized by a relationship of whatever description with some other person.
"Well. What a disappointment," I said as cheerfully as I could. "Maybe we could meet sometime next week."
"There is anti-war group Monday at seven p.m. We could meet there and talk afterwards." She gave me the address and I hung up with my morale a little tattered, but unswerving in my purpose.
I went home that evening from work, kept to my tiny apartment, and prayed at length for guidance in the next part of my life. God seemed to be requiring me to give up my job. The thought gave me great anxiety and I prayed harder. I had a good income, much of which went to support Beth and my children. I knew, if God had a plan for me that entailed quitting my job, that He would provide. I knelt on the floor at the edge of my bed, squeezed my eyes tight shut and prayed aloud, hoping to see Him. I grew tired and fell asleep. I awoke sometime later, stiff and still kneeling, the right side of my face hot against the bedspread. He had not spoken yet, and I felt as far as ever from seeing His face. I crawled onto the bed and continued to pray. Late in the evening I got up, undressed, brushed my teeth, put on pajamas and got into bed for the night . I prayed then for patience. God granted me patience and I fell asleep.
The next day God answered me with a sign. In my mail at work there was a letter from Beth telling me of her plans to remarry. It was formal and somewhat cold, but it meant I would be released from alimony payments. The balance of disbursements allocable to child support was small. God had begun to show me how He would provide. I asked the receptionist to hold my calls, closed the door of my office, fell on my knees and prayed silently beside my desk. My fear evaporated. I thanked God, climbed back into my swivel chair and spent the rest of the morning composing my letter of resignation.
The weekend was a trial. I found myself thinking of Solveig, away somewhere with her friend, engaged in something she had called "car-racing". All I knew of this subject was that it existed and could be seen from time to time on television. My impression, based on very little exposure, was that it was a blood sport and obscenely dangerous. Except when something went spectacularly wrong, the activity seemed boring and idiotic, a parade of impractically loud vehicles jostling one another for what—judging by the space allotted in the television listings—must have been hours at a stretch. I tried to imagine Solveig's interest in so unedifying and irresponsible a sport, but I couldn't. Even less could I imagine her in the company of what I visualized the devotees of "car-racing" to be: hulking troglodytes with defective hearing and a degraded sense of the sanctity of human life. But I shamed myself and—I'm sure—disappointed God with these uncharitable judgments of people I hadn't even met. It occurred to me that the secret underlying my confusion might be charity itself—Solveig's charity, which I knew to be great, at the service of worthy sufferers. I imagined her volunteering medical assistance to the battered survivors of the frequent crashes. But the cheer in her voice on the phone had not suggested any such dolorous scenario. And then I realized that I didn't know if she had gone racing as a spectator or as a participant. Could she herself, strapping blonde that she was, be a driver?
I got my answer on Monday night at the anti-war gathering, convened in the basement of a Unitarian church near the university. Solveig appeared with her friend in tow, and oddly transformed since our first meeting. From her Swedish blue and yellow she had become--American?--red, white and blue. She was sunburned, as was her friend, and the sun seemed to have bleached her hair. The eyes were still dramatically blue, and she was wearing red slacks and a white blouse. I had not noticed before how white her teeth were. She smiled happily when she saw me, took my hand and introduced her friend.
"This is Bartley," she said, and she told Bartley my name.
"Bartley," I said, shaking the hand he offered. "Bartley what?"
"Rob Bartley, actually," he said. "Most people call me by my last name."
"Why is that?"
"I have no idea." He smiled inconsequentially.
It seemed we might be about to run out of conversation, but Solveig provided a dynamic by taking Bartley's arm in hers and squeezing him to her side. She tilted her head and bumped it lightly against his; they turned their faces to each other and exchanged a kind of loopy grin; they behaved as if they were in love.
I inspected Bartley, trying to apprehend the nature of their attraction. He was a little shorter than Solveig; he had nondescript brown hair, slightly receding; his face was open and pleasant but not handsome. Watching their body language, I realized all at once that they had just come from bed. I was desperate to change the subject.
"What's this racing you were doing on the weekend?" I asked neither of them.
"Bartley has a sports car," Solveig said.
Bartley told me the name of his sports car, but it was just a series of letters and meant nothing to me. "We drove it in time trials upstate," he said. "Solveig's pretty good." Solveig smiled happily.
I was riven by disappointment at this hint that Solveig might be capable of frivolity. The evening was starting badly. I thought of excusing myself and going home to my apartment to be spared whatever pain might be in the offing, but my dedication stayed me. As I hesitated over how and where to steer this unsatisfactory conversation, the meeting was called to order and the three of us settled onto folding chairs near the front of the room, with Bartley and me proprietary at Solveig's flanks.
The chairperson of the meeting—or chairman, as he was still known in those days—was a young, bearded academic of some sort. Because there were only about two dozen people present, the chairman proposed to have each of us stand, identify himself and give a précis of his position on the war. Considering that no one at all stood to defend the American policy, there was a remarkable divergence of opinion as to what was wrong with it. Some thought Vietnam a just war with the United States on the wrong side. Some thought the war was simply unwinnable. Some thought that all American government declarations were lies, and that America was therefore under a moral obligation to fail. A pudgy fellow with a lower-middle-class accent and a look of paranoia had to be cut short before he was well begun on a Marxian analysis of war in general. Bartley, when his turn came, cited the so-called "domino theory" of Communist expansion from country to country through Southeast Asia as the only rationale he'd been offered for the American war in Vietnam, and he rejected it as not equal to the occasion. Solveig stood next, beautiful and impressive again, and offered the opinion that no political program justified the killing of children. Then all eyes turned to me and I stood, perhaps beautiful, said my name, and then heard only a silence echoing in my head. I looked down at Solveig. Her eyes were turned up to me; she smiled expectantly. I couldn't meet her gaze. I raised my eyes and looked past the attentive faces of strangers to the far wall, gripped by stage-fright. The silence grew louder. And then I said to the wall: "I have no opinion about this war. I don't understand the first thing about it. It's a mystery to me. I hate it." There was applause, the first I'd heard. I sat down. Solveig kissed me on the cheek.
The rounds of the audience continued, but my mind was no longer on what was being said. I had expressed what was in my heart, without knowing in advance what I would say; I had moved an audience and Solveig had kissed me. All at once it seemed that I might be called to preach. I closed my eyes, bowed my head and prayed silently. After several minutes, when I had finished praying and felt encouraged by God, I opened my eyes and glanced at Solveig, who must have been watching me. She nodded. She smiled. For the first time I knew my vocation.
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