International Romance And Lost Love

This story is personal, these are my parents. My dad would tell this almost word for word at family meals when we children begged him, mom's eye's always misted. Now that my parents have passed, The Broach still sits in the place of honor on my older brother's mantle.

"I wandered through the high quality but not quite name brand furniture store in a daze. It was an active but not busy day. I held a broach in my hand. The broach held my mind. Dodging between chairs and questions I passed two boys in their Sunday best darting between office chairs, I was aware of them, but did not see or care.

Held by the thumb and first two fingers of my right hand was a work of perfection, a copy in cheap material, perhaps coconut shell washed up on the beach at the camp. Every dimple making the bottom of three connected pieces look like replicas of a slice of a golf ball. It is the art of those who endured the occupation; here, not elsewhere fighting to get back here. I know the style of art, it would have sold for less than five cents at a local pawnshop. Someone who knew the broach had spent months and maybe the full occupation, first carving with improvised tools and carefully perfecting every detail, adding stars in important locations, and then carrying it. I will forfeit my life before I give it up.

When I reach the part of the store I claim as my own there is a sheet of paper on my desk, it is a typed copy of an ad I've run in the Hong Kong Press, everyday, for the last ten years. I see it beside the broach peripherally and know I must review it, I will have no voice until my emotions free my throat.

Slightly to the right of my desk sits my most important customer, She is saying something impatiently. I wave the two right fingers of my right hand at her, asking her two hold. As she tries again, I wave the fingers at her again and she sits back in the flower patterned, nicely upholstered with accompanying dark woods, Queen Anne's chair she has occupied many times before. It is a match of ones she has in her formal reception room at home.

Carefully transferring the broach to my left hand, I pick up the letter whose contents hold my soul, and look at the woman standing directly in front of me. Everything visible about her is scrubbed clean and perfectly tended. The broach is slowly sinking to my side. My grip has not lessened, but the broach no longer holds my full concentration.

Her face is round with light freckling, her dark brown hair is coiffed in the above shoulder length style of today. She displays no ornamentation, not even lipstick, but something glorious shines through and out of her thin, pale skin. Her arms are a healthy round, not bone thin and bruised as they must have been during internment. Her hands are clasped before her. Her still marvelous legs are visible below the hem of her modest print dress. her sandals have a low heel. She looks at me as I must have looked at the broach, but without the sense of ownership.

I glance at the ad, gaze back at her, then re-read something written as the first bombs dropped in the Pacific war. My head knew then that travel in the world was no longer possible. My only available response was to write. The ad has been published continuously, since the first day of Hong Kong English printing after VJ day. This is what I wept from my typewriter after hearing that ominous broadcast of declared war:


Wanted: a broach. I will pay 75 for information leading to my acquisition of a particular broach. It has three touching globes with the continents outlined in semiprecious stones, the cities where we traveled are signified by individual diamond settings. The gems themselves are not important, but if you have a jeweler remove them, warn him to be careful of the piece. I will pay twice Tiffany's retail market value if everything remains untouched. There are features only known to me and the woman I love, who said she never wants to see me again. I will always love her. I am off the island and unable to return, but the American Express office, after a check of authenticity, will issue the first 25 to anyone bearing this ad, a photograph or useful information, or the broach itself. American Express will appraise and escrow the broach until I can send payment. Payment will be swift. The owner will never see the holder again, but I'm sure she has no emotional attachment to the broach. She will haunt my days and bless my dreams forever.


Now I hold an even more important broach and behold the most desirable gem in any universe."

The story always finished with their eyes locked on each other.

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"Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being "in love" which any of us can convince ourselves we are.

Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two." - Louis De Bernieres



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