—Albert Camus
Head in the Clouds
He went from lecturing at university to teaching at Devon Academy, a private school for daughters of the elite in an upscale part of Toronto.
In terms of career, he'd be classed as a downward moving mobile—his weaknesses bringing him to this impasse.
But he'd begin again, he told himself—start over and establish a name within the ranks of the rich and powerful and any past indiscretions would be forgotten.
He'd make a fresh start and fulfill the promise he showed at the beginning.
He'd be the Phoenix in the Greek myth and rise from the ashes.
It was a good plan—unfortunately, he lied.
She was young—too young for love—but she had seen through the window the dome of the moon and desired a lover.
Her head was in the clouds.
I was a sinful wish—one she promptly disavowed.
But having been uttered, either aloud or in the head, her words found a way to take on flesh—they would reproduce after their kind.
After all, words are things, her teacher told her. And that is why she desired him.
He was older—just turned forty—she was seventeen.
Her name was Aubrey—a warm, mellow, coffee-sounding sobriquet. It suited her.
Her hair a cloudy mist encircling her face—tresses black as trees of night that moved upon the sky.
Her hands soft as willows longing to soothe and move upon his older, rougher hands.
Her eyes silent midnight prayers rising from her bed.
He lay awake, restless himself, somewhere in the checkered window squares and thought of her—her dark hair—her dark mouth and her purity.
He hated himself but longed for her like a wolf drawn to the moon and stared at stars trying to decipher his fate.
He was in love with an underage girl and was sorting it out in raging moonlight.
The stars of his youth so far so high, were receding and would soon be out of sight.
And he had no right to be lying here dreaming about her beauty.
She closed her eyes and dreamed the dream—the one he had mentioned one day in class.
“Have you a favourite dream, Mr. Lee?”
“Yes,” and that far-off look in his eyes.
“Could you describe it?” her friend Dolores asked.
He thought it impertinent, but could scarcely breathe. He was hushed and so too was the class.
Twenty-four young girls in kilts and white blouses, hung on his every word.
“It’s foolish,” he said.
Oh no, go on, they all think in their heads.
“I have this ritual before I sleep. I must have the curtains open to the night. I love to lie and watch the moon and the stars.”
How romantic, twenty-four brains were thinking, though there was scarcely a noise—not a scraping chair.
“Anyway, I find myself hiking and lost in the woods. Night is approaching and I must seek shelter—but none is to be found.”
Each of them picture themselves alone with him in the darkening woods.
“As I say, night is coming on, so I gather armfuls of branches and make a huge pile. Next, I gather fir boughs and build a lean-to against a hill. I bring the branches into the shelter to keep them dry and build a fire.”
His face is shining, lit by the ruddy flames. The darkness impenetrable all around.
“It begins to rain—at first a few drops—and then a violent storm rolls in. I am protected, however, within my shelter, safe and snug from lightning and wind.”
He stops—face abstracted—lost in the reverie of his private storm.
They sit transfixed—all eyes upon him—imagining themselves sheltering as well.
Later that night in his bed, he dreams the dream again.
He’s lost on a school outing—he goes in search of Aubrey and finds her, but now they’re turned around and neither is sure of the way back.
It begins to thunder and they must take shelter. She gathers branches and he gathers fir boughs. She tends the fire—he builds the house.
The rains come and threaten them, but they’re safe from all storms.
She’s trembling and he takes off his coat and they snuggle beneath it to keep warm.
She awakes in the morning and her hair is damp—her skin smells of smoke—her eyes smart.
He awakes and rolls out of bed—her hair is stuck to his lips—her perfume fills his nostrils.
They both shower in separate worlds and let warm water cleanse their souls.
That morning, he glimpses her in the hall and smiles.
But that afternoon in class, he's flustered and shy.
She stays behind in the library to work on her lessons.
He presides over the study period and gazes at her loveliness.
He drives home alone, seeing her eyes along the road.
She walks home solitary, dreaming of the softness of his voice.
Neither can wait for night to fall.
How long will this go on? they both wonder.
Can it last forever, or only a while—until one tires or the other takes a lover?
It’s unspoken, hidden and beyond the pale of what could ever be shared in polite society.
He feels it's surreal.
She wonders where the world is hiding him.
But it all seems very real at 3 a.m.
It’s time for bed and she crawls beneath the covers—white curtains billow and float on the breeze.
He lies awake in a vast forest of sounds, hearing the rain and imagining her face.
A crooked arm of lightning shakes its fist.
He reaches out to comfort her.
She turns in bed and snuggles close.
The rain pours down heavily now. Lightning turns to moonlight, filling the room.
He catches glimpses of her on the pillow beside him.
She sees his face and hair backlit by the storm’s bright flare.
“Does it seem strange I should come to you?” he whispers.
“Not really. It was meant to be,” she smiles
.
They spend the night, conjoined, mystically entwined in each other’s thoughts.
Then one day it happens. Her diary is read. Her mother is disconsolate—her father incensed.
There’s an inquiry—a flurry of harsh words and accusations. Mr. Lee is dismissed on grounds of becoming too intimate with his private thoughts.
Twenty-three girls attest to his indiscreet confessions.
There is no crime, no overt act—only suggestions—but definitely imprudent.
“He’s in a position of authority,” the headmaster avers.
“Even a hint of impropriety would sully the school’s reputation,” the board members agree.
Thomas Lee is terminated for unprofessional conduct and given three months severance pay.
Two months later, Aubrey hikes in the woods. The sky overcast and threatening. She veers from the path and becomes lost. It begins to rain.
She recognizes the hill and nearby firs. She finds a deserted lean-to with branches piled inside to keep them dry.
She lights a fire and as darkness falls, she lies on her side and stares into the flames.
After midnight, her lover finds her, sheltered beneath the glistening firs.
He kisses her, takes her into his arms and soothes her fears.
They make love to force away the darkness. The storm clears and the moon comes out.
The stars above them, young and risen sleep—sleep the lust of rainfall, sleep the endless passion of dreams.