Perfect
by Brian Biswas
All my life I have strived to be perfect. Every minute of every waking hour. Not that this is something so very remarkable in and of itself; countless others have tried, with varying degrees of success, to achieve perfection in their lives. Some have been content to seek perfection in a single event, such as a perfect meal or the construction of a perfect garden; others, a bit more ambitious, have sought to obtain perfection in a particular facet of their life, such as their marriage (the perfect spouse) or their career (the perfect employer). And then there are those, like me, who have sought perfection in every facet of their life. Of course, the failed attempts have greatly outnumbered the successful ones, with the greatest number of successes coming from the first category, only a few from the second, and none at all from the third.
Until I, like an unyielding mountain climber, scaled a mountain of despair and broken dreams, fervent hopes and false promises, to reach the dizzying heights of perfection on which I now find myself. And it is precisely this knowledge of my own perfection that brings a wondrous ecstasy to the passing of every moment. I write: "The man looked out the window," and even as the words flow onto the page the sentence is perfect. I toss a ball into the air and it makes a perfect arc. Even when I walk my gait is perfect.
But my journey has not been easy; the road to perfection is treacherous, false turns abound. Add to that the dangers created by the monsters of doom who are known to inhabit the road and you'll see why most people do not attempt the journey. That I did, and was successful, is simply a testament to my own perfection. Not that I never took a false turn or didn't come close to the edge of a precipice--I did. You see, I have not always been perfect. . . .
As a child I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, full of life and boyish enthusiasm, intensely curious. The words "perfection" and "imperfection" had no special meaning for me. I knew what they meant but beyond that I simply did not care. Nothing was "perfect" or "imperfect"; everything simply was. I went happily about the business of learning about life, disregarding any deeper interpretation I might have given the day's events.
But all that changed on a cool October day, leaves falling all around, when I was in the eighth year of my life. I was traveling in the back seat of my parent's car, my father at the wheel, my mother in the front passenger seat. We stopped at a light; pedestrians began to make their way in front of us. My mother was talking to my father about something or other, and though he pretended to listen, his eyes were fixed on a young woman who had started across the street. My father watched as she crossed in front of our car and fell laughing into the arms of a young man on the other side. The man kissed her on the cheek, twirled her around, then whisked her away. It was at that moment I saw my father sigh and a deep sadness filled his eyes and I realized that in his heart he had already been unfaithful to my mother. I realized he was not perfect. But I realized even more, for I saw that the episode was lost on my mother, she being too absorbed in her own conversation to notice my father's behavior. This lack of perspicacity, though less of an offense, was just as indicting. My mother was not perfect either.
You may quite rightly ask why it took me so long to realize that my parents were not perfect. What can I say? Youth is naive. But it is the lesson I learned that will amaze you: I did not--as one might have expected--become depressed or alarmed when I realized my parents, whom I had always held in the highest regard, were not perfect. No, my reaction was more inwardly directed. I realized that since I was the offspring of imperfect beings, I, too, was imperfect. And that I simply could not stand! I resolved then and there to do whatever was necessary to ameliorate my imperfections, quietly (I did not want others to accuse me of conceit), carefully (there could be no mistakes), and with great determination.
My first attempts took place at school. There I was constantly judged; there my degree of imperfection was measured. I studied incessantly; I shunned all social events. I was not, however, shunned by others. On the contrary, I was admired. My classmates marveled at my dedication, were so inspired, in fact, that they redoubled their efforts in the pursuit of their own, albeit simpler, goals.
I recall an event that occurred on the playground, when I was in elementary school, and that for me defines my early years. I had gotten into an argument with another boy who was a friend of mine. I no longer remember what the disagreement was about, but I do remember he was most upset and that he struck me across the face in anger. I raised not an arm to defend myself and this only infuriated him further. You see, to have done anything in my defense would have been to admit he was harming me, that I was capable of being harmed, that is, that I was not perfect. The incident ended with the boy bursting into tears and running away.
Several years later--I was in the eighth grade--an event occurred which was to abruptly change the course of my life. Every day at lunch a group of students--I was among them--gathered to play tetherball. As you might guess, it was my object to establish mastery of this game by winning the first game I played and every game thereafter. Unfortunately, I was never able to do so (I would usually win two or three games before losing). But the event which occurred on this day had nothing to do with winning or losing. I had just won my second game and was serving for game number three. I no longer remember who my opponent was, but I do remember that it was a close game, with the momentum shifting from one side to the other and that at one point my opponent got the upper hand and began wrapping the ball cleanly around the pole. I made a desperate stab at the ball, got caught up in my feet, and stumbled backwards into the crowd that had gathered around us. Instinctively, I reached out to break my fall--reaching for whatever I could hold onto. This turned out to be a breast of one of the more developed girls in the eighth-grade class. She jumped back, startled--and broke into a grin. "Sorry," I said. I blushed and she blushed and I continued blushing. I had discovered the nature of sexual arousal. My life would never be the same.
The years that followed were not time spent searching for the perfect woman to complement my own perfection. How I wished it were so! However, I had to be certain a woman was perfect before I would issue an invitation; for to issue an invitation to an imperfect woman would have been a sign of my own imperfection. I could tell at a glance if a woman's hair was not the right shade of brown (it had to be brown; my own, perfect, hair was brown), her laugh too harsh, her complexion too plain, her knees too knobby. I was always finding fault and, therefore, I got nowhere with the opposite sex. By age seventeen I was a lonely young man, a lonely young man yearning for affection.
Thank God, it was not to be forever!
I came upon the woman of my dreams on a cold, crisp September day in my freshman year at college. I realized at once I wanted to spend every moment at her side. She was so beautiful I trembled whenever I thought of her. She was witty, charming, intelligent, graceful. In a word, perfect. I followed her everywhere she went; I discovered her likes and dislikes, what perfume she wore, what authors she preferred (Jules Verne was a favorite). Once I caught her skinny dipping in a local pond. I thought of seizing the moment and proclaiming my love then and there, but I realized it was not yet time.
I decided it best to take a more subtle approach. It so happens my beloved was a member of our dormitory cooking group. I signed up, too. I was hoping that a joint culinary assignment might give me an opportunity to express my love.
I'll say flat out that from the start my beloved acted rather cool towards me. Not that I expected her to throw herself at my feet. But not once did she laugh at my jokes, comment on my magnificent physical appearance, or marvel at my discourses on the state of the world, which I was fond of delivering after a meal. Why, once I even caught her rolling her eyes after a statement I made! One evening I decided I could wait no longer. We had been assigned dish washing duty and I was fumbling with the dishes, trying to decide how best to bring up the matter of my love. At one point she made a comment about how my feet "pointed at a peculiar angle." My first instinct was to reply that this resulted in the optimum position for cleaning dishes, but instead I decided that this was the moment to express my love. I dropped to my knees, took one of her hands in mine, and proposed marriage. Imagine my shock when I found myself rebuffed:
"I want nothing to do with you," she said. "You are nothing but an egotist. And I don't like egotists."
She threw her dish towel into the sink with disgust and left the room.
As it turned out, my grief was doubly compounded. Not only had I been scorned, but my beloved began taking up with every Tom, Dick, or Harry who came her way. My love for her became an obsession. How could she have rejected me--me, the perfect man? No, I reasoned, I had not been rejected. That was simply not within the realm of possibility. She was merely being cautious, trying to ascertain the dimensions of my love. And for that I could hardly blame her. In fact, it made me desire her even more.
Yes, you say, but what about all those other men? If she truly loved you, and was merely testing your love, she would never go to such extremes.
A good point and one I had already taken up. It became necessary to ascertain her true feelings towards these amorists. I sent her letters, asking questions, each of which was phrased in a casual, non-threatening way. I received not a single response. Instead of giving up, I redoubled my efforts; my letters took on a harder, shriller tone; still, no reply. My next series of letters demanded an explanation. These letters were returned unopened.
I became incensed. I went to her room to question her directly but was turned away at the door by a man I knew to be an imbecile. I said as much and straight to his face, but as the door was slammed shut I distinctly heard her giggle.
I seemed to see her everywhere now, laughing gayly, always with some new boyfriend on her arm. At the movies, at the library, at the grocery store, everywhere I went, there she was, with another--imperfect--man--a man of lesser stature, a man whose sole purpose in life was to torture me.
One day I went to the school counselor to tell him my troubles. I was told the counselor was busy with another student, but if I would please be seated he would see me shortly. I did, but he did not. Nearly an hour passed before the door to his office opened. And who should emerge but my beloved, laughing like some prepubescent schoolgirl, her skirt rumpled, her blouse unbuttoned. I watched in horror as a hairy arm emerged from the counselor's office and patted her gently on her behind. And then--if you can believe it--she twirled around and blew him a kiss. A kiss for all to see!
What could I do? Where could I turn for help? I found myself questioning the very foundation of our relationship. Perhaps she was not what I had taken her to be. Perhaps she was not perfect! How else to explain her behavior towards me? Not that I believed for a moment that she was far from attaining immortal status. Undoubtably some minor imperfection prevented her from becoming involved with me. I tried getting close to her girlfriends to learn what the problem might be. But even they would have nothing to do with me.
As the semester drew to a close, I prepared for the final showdown. I would confront my love directly; I would force an explanation from her lips. But, as she had been doing for months, she was able to elude my grasp once more: the day before my last final, she flew off to Europe. She was to be an exchange student the following semester, the Registrar's Office told me. I did not believe that for an instant.
I sold my schoolbooks, emptied my saving's account, bought a plane ticket, and flew off in pursuit. I was delirious with the fever of my love.
I traced her to the palace of a prince in Portugal, the dungeon of a duke in Denmark, the castle of a count in Constantinople, and the bastille of a baron in Barcelona. But she always managed to slip away unnoticed just as I was preparing to burst in upon the scene and steal her away.
From Barcelona she went to France, on the arms of a burly Frenchman. I caught up with them in Paris as they shopped on the Boulevard des Revers. How stealthily I stalked them as they went from store to store, emerging from each laden with packages, the price of her love, no doubt. And it was on that boulevard where I decided to make my move. The Frenchman was standing in front of Jacqueline's Jewelry Store, unable to enter for he was weighed down with a mountain of packages. I laughed out loud as he handed her a fistful of bills with which to make any further purchases herself. I watched the Frenchman put down the packages, slowly, carefully, so that nothing was disturbed. Then he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. He was red in the face from his exertions. Little did he know that his real exertion was about to begin.
I approached nonchalantly and asked what had brought him to such a state. He replied animatedly about this jewel of a woman he had discovered while vacationing in Barcelona, of the marvelous gifts she had brought to the table of his love, and how, after having been with her merely a weekend, he could not imagine being with another. He pulled his handkerchief out and dabbed at his eyes, which were filled with tears.
"She sounds like a remarkable woman," I said, as he finished his peroration. "Indeed, you are a lucky man."
He sighed with self-satisfaction and grinned from ear to ear.
"But I fear there may be a false note in this lovely duet," I continued. "Only several blocks back I passed an alleyway and--I swear--I saw a woman meeting your lover's description satisfying most directly the desires of another man." I pointed in the direction from which I had come.
"That's impossible!" he cried. "I saw her go into this store. I've been waiting here the entire time."
"It would be easy for her to slip away unnoticed. Only look at this mountain of packages which surrounds you. Why, you cannot even see the storefront."
He turned around and saw that this was true.
"How long have you been waiting?" I asked.
He looked at his watch. "Five, perhaps ten, minutes."
I shook my head sadly. "That would have given her just enough time."
"How dare she do this! I who bought her all you see before you." He pointed at the packages.
"You know how women are," I said. I paused, then inflicted my final wound: "I am afraid, sir, that she has made of you an ass."
The man jumped to his feet and cried:
"Le Guillotine! Le Guillotine!" and ran off in the direction I had pointed, leaving me free to confront my beloved.
I took a deep breath, opened the door to Jacqueline's Jewelry Store, and walked inside.
I saw my beloved leaning over a counter near the front of the store, examining a string of pearls. I went up to the counter and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and her mouth dropped open in amazement.
"Well, I'll be," she said. "Look who's here!"
Extending a long arm, I reached behind the counter, scooped up the pearls, placed them around her neck, and once again proposed marriage.
She giggled--not the violent reaction I'd expected--chewed on her thumbnail for nearly a minute and, finally, answered:
"I won't marry you, Jonathan. But I shall go off with you on an adventure!"
And laughing like the wily seductress that she was, she took one of my hands and pulled me towards the door.
"Consider them a gift to the goddess of Love," I said to the store clerk who, pointing at the pearls, vainly tried to block our exit.
* * *
Mount Hipurtya is a ten-thousand-foot peak located in the Andes Mountains in Central Peru. Famous for the verticality of its slopes, the depth of its chasms, the spontaneity of its avalanches, it was so far unscaled by mankind. A climb to the top was not exactly the adventure I had in mind, but I would be with my beloved, nothing else mattered.
Louis Mecharde was to be our guide. My beloved told me she had found him while vacationing in the south of France. He was known the world over for his skill as a mountain climber, she said, and had led expeditions to various peaks in the Andes. If I'd paid attention to the gleam that came into her eyes when she spoke of Louis, I might have thought twice about what we were about to embark upon, but I did not notice.
My beloved told me she had unfinished business to attend to in Norway and sent me on ahead. She arrived in Lima two weeks later and we were joined by Louis the week after that. Lima was a wonderful place, full of energy, song, and dance--a never-ending carnival. I will forever treasure the memories of me and my beloved parading through the center of town, dancing until dawn, kissing in a park like two youths introducing themselves to the pleasures of love. We became known throughout Lima as "that lovely young couple" in the week before we began our upward journey. I, in turn, found the residents of Lima both gracious and hospitable. The perfect hosts to entertain the perfect guests.
Our ascent began on a cool, crisp June day. Half of Lima followed us to the mountain's base to give us a merry send-off. A brass band played, jugglers juggled, young girls danced. And as we started up, with Louis leading the way, me and my beloved arm in arm, a thousand balloons were released into the air—red, purple, green, and white—it was a magnificent occasion!
The climb proceeded effortlessly. Louis was a master guide. One-thousand, two-thousand, three-thousand feet. We pitched our tents for the night. Four-thousand, five-thousand, six-thousand feet. The view was stupendous, the air rarefied and pure. I saw animals I had never seen before: strange antelope-like creatures with half a dozen horns protruding from their heads and weasels that darted to and fro and I saw birds which sang to me in strange tongues. Such a wonderful, marvelous adventure which would only have been better if my beloved had let me make love to her. But still she would not. Indeed, she slept now in Louis's tent. To protect herself, she teased, from me and my animal desires.
Seven-thousand, eight-thousand feet. I was at peace with myself. I saw no more animals, heard not a single avian. All was silent around me, an eerie, eternal silence such as I had never experienced. (Louis and my beloved were rarely with me now; indeed, they seemed to disappear for hours on end.)
Nine-thousand feet. A wide assortment of flora covered the mountainside, magnificent flowers that filled the scene with beauty. Red Peruvian sundew and purple lupine. Orange cactus thistle and yellow dandelion nestled amongst swaying grass. Acres and acres of mountain fern and--most wondrous of all--rare Pichu bamboo with its long slender branches and delicate leaves. I wondered if I was climbing not a mountain but a stairway to the gates of Heaven so wondrous had my journey become.
Ten-thousand feet. I reached the peak at last! And there I saw my beloved, on Louis's arm, laughing as if she were inebriated, though of course she was only intoxicated by the incredible sights and sounds around her.
And then! And then! And then! My beloved came to me one night; I was alone in my tent. She snuggled up to me; I stroked her cheeks; her skin was soft, smooth, supple. We made love then, a love so passionate you could have heard the angels sing. I nearly died of happiness at that moment, for the ambitions of a lifetime were fulfilled. And when we finished, many hours after we had begun, I drifted off into a blissful sleep, the sleep of a newborn child after it has suckled at its mother's breast.
I awoke the next morning to find myself alone. I burst into tears, realizing it had been but a dream. My beloved had run off with Louis, apparently, for they were nowhere to be found. But where had they gone? To enjoy the magnificent mountaintop view? To dance through a field of flowers? To bathe in a nearby stream? It was then I noticed a piece of paper taped to the side of my tent. As I expected, it was a message from my beloved:
My dearest Jonathon:
Louis has asked me to accompany him on a safari in Central Africa and I have accepted. I am so excited. Can you picture me at a watering hole with the elephants, rhinos, and gazelles? It will be the adventure of a lifetime!
Thanks for coming with me on this little journey and thanks for all the kind words you have bestowed upon me. I am perfect? No, I am far from perfect. But neither do I wish to be perfect; for I realize that a life fully lived is a life filled with imperfections, a life of continually overcoming imperfection. . . .
Your far-from-perfect-but-ever-adventurous-friend,
Marie
The sarcasm literally dripped off the paper, the hatred, the anger, the venom! I cursed her aloud, crumpled the note into a ball, and threw it to the ground. Enraged like a wounded bull I howled to the heavens, "Oh cruel, cruel world how can she treat me this way, I who loved her as no man ever loved before?" I saw in her the perfect lover? It was quite the opposite: I had offered to her the perfect love. Yet now, as I considered her behavior, I saw that she was hardly beyond reproach. Her own faults were many. But nothing--nothing--was more telling than this: men the world over had admired her, fallen for her, pursued her, even tasted her love, but it was me and me alone who realized she was not the perfect woman. Had none of my previous actions indicated my perfection this one certainly did.
In a word, my beloved was a tart, not worthy of my attention. The perfect love I had so desperately sought was still out there, waiting to be found. But my own perfection was not in question; indeed, I held myself in higher regard than ever before.
I packed up my tent and started down the mountain, comforted by these latest revelations, and a week later came upon our base camp. In appearance I was hungry, shivering, alone, but inwardly I was filled with the warmth that the knowledge of my own sainthood had given me. I was greeted by the roaring applause and thunderous ovations of the residents of Lima who, realizing my return was imminent, had gathered at the foot of the mountain to welcome me back to society, to welcome me back as a god descending from the mountaintop, a god who, kindly and with overwhelming compassion, would greet his followers waiting patiently below.