White Perfume: A Twenty-First Century Love Story

By Kenneth Richard Markel

Peter DeRoyo meets Lindsay Dennis while a medical student at NYU. They have a hot romance, but break up over a misunderstanding. Peter becomes a respected doctor. Years go by...The fiery love they feel for each other is not extinguished. When Lindsay becomes ill, they reunite, both wondering if their love can survive. WHITE PERFUME is a powerful story weaving romance with reality, truth with desire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 20, 2009
• ISBN: 9781450080798

Kenneth Richard Markel

KENNETH MARKEL is a graduate of New York University and former editor at Magazine Management, a pulp fiction company publishing adventure magazines. His fiction and poetry has appeared in The American Bard, The Berkshire Review and The South Shore News. His play: The American Way was performed at The New School under the direction of Lee Strasberg. Markel holds a Master of Arts Degree in Creative Writing from Queens College. His thesis: Last Train To Munich, is a novel about a German family’s struggle to survive the 1923 inflation...when paper money was less valuable to the starving population than a bartered egg.

Book preview

WHITE PERFUME

A Twenty-First Century Love Story

poetica supp.jpg

Kenneth Richard Markel

Copyright © 2009 by Kenneth Richard Markel.

ISBN:          Softcover               978-1-4363-9773-5

                      Ebook                    978-1-4500-8079-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

56816

Contents

BOOK I

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

BOOK II

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

DEDICATION

For the Best: My Mother.

For the Youngest: Zade Alexandra.

For the Strongest: The Survivors.

For the Kushi Institute: May its dream of

One Peaceful World be realized.

 . . . So long as she remains obstinately in the dark, lifts not her veil, does not recognize her lover, and only knows the world dissociated from him, she serves as a handmaid here, where by right she might reign as a queen.

SADHANA by Rabindranath Tagore

Diseases desperate grown. By desperate appliances are relieved or not at all.

HAMLET by William Shakespeare

BOOK I

I

ON the warmest day of the summer, Dr. Peter DeRoyo sat at his desk in his office on the West Side drinking coffee, going over case histories. The CEO of a large munitions company had recently come to see him complaining of having trouble swallowing. In discussing the matter the man admitted he had a problem with alcohol . . . that he drank too much. Peter did a complete workup. The numbers told the story. The CEO, with plenty of money, who could dine at the finest restaurants in town, was suffering from malnutrition.

Peter was thinking about the symbolic nature of the case, the possibility that the man drank to make things go down easier, when the phone rang. It was John Dennis. Peter hadn’t spoken to his former anatomy professor in years . . . not since he broke up with his daughter, Lindsay. He asked Peter if he could meet him at the Central Park Zoo at noon.

What’s it about, John?

Be there if you can. If you’re not there I’ll understand.

Despite the cryptic reply, Peter went. Central Park was crowded. At the zoo, Peter watched the seals slither in and out of the water. It reminded him of basic training at Parris Island where he and other Marines practiced making war blackening their faces and slithering along the ground to search out the enemy.

He was startled by John Dennis’ appearance: unshaven, dressed in rumpled slacks and shirt. They exchanged polite hellos. Peter stood frozen in place like a raw recruit.

Let’s walk, shall we? Dr. Dennis suggested, adding, Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I thought there still wasn’t a strong attachment between you and Lindsay. John Dennis somberly looked down at his scuffed loafers.

"Did you know Lindsay studied acting with Uta Hagen? She’s a hell of an actress. I saw her do Miss Julie in a small theatre in the East Village. She was magnificent, a young Bette Davis. The talent agents were all over her."

Peter remembered the picture of Bette Davis in Lindsay’s bedroom, wondered what Dr. Dennis was getting at. What made her take up the law?

Lindsay is one of the best divorce attorneys in the country, Dr. Dennis said, deflecting Peter’s question Her mother and I are very proud . . . He stopped . . . He seemed under pressure, the kind not easily contained – even for him. He rambled on: I think one reason Lindsay fights so hard to keep people from giving up on their marriages is because Lee and I are separated.

Cross-country runners pounded by. One straggler hit a puddle and splattered mud over Peter’s clean pants. What’s going on? Is something the matter with Lindsay? Peter asked, oblivious to the mud.

Dr. Dennis pointed to a bench. They sat down. Peter felt the wooden bench slats give, as the two men put the full weight of their bodies into them. Dr. Dennis said: "I’ve taught anatomy more than thirty years. Thirty," he repeated, stuck like an insect in amber. He looked down at the ground, put his hand through thinning gray hair. Thirty is a word journalists use to signify the end of a story."

What story?

Lindsay has cancer, a bone sarcoma. Can you accept that? Because if you can, you don’t love her as much as I do.

Peter’s heart sank. John Dennis got to his feet. He looked away and said, She knows she’s sick, but she doesn’t know how sick. She believes she can fight it and win.

He stood to face his former mentor. Who says she can’t?

No one, John Dennis replied, quickly adding, Peter, it’s amazing how little we as doctors really know.

Before parting, Dr. Dennis gave him a letter. Opening the envelope, he could smell the light scent of Lindsay’s perfume. He read: Dearest Peter, I dream of you every night while I lie in bed thinking of us together. Did you know that I’ve loved you from the first day I saw you? Dream of me – Lindsay

He sat down. Since starting his practice three years ago, he’d helped people, had even won some fame by way of reputation. It was 2007. The world was moving fast. He worked hard to keep pace. Yet, in spite of his dedication to his patients, he thought about Lindsay more often than he should . . . Sometimes, on chilly mornings . . . Sometimes, in dreams . . . Sometimes, for no reason at all.

II

IT rained that August afternoon in 1998. Carrying all his worldly possessions in a duffel bag and a well-traveled leather suitcase, Peter pushed the door open into New York University Medical School, bursting with pride, but also a little scared. He picked up his Federal loan money at the Bursar’s Office, took his acceptance letter to the registrar, a Mrs. Allen. She was a plump woman about fifty with fair skin and blue eyes.

As she was checking his paperwork she asked for his address. He told her he’d secured a room at The Bagley, a residential hotel not far from the university. Mrs. Allen said she knew The Bagley. She looked at him a bit closer, smiled tightly, made a little sound and said: It’s quite cosmopolitan.

Is something wrong?

Mrs. Allen cleared her throat. Not at all . . . that is, if you’re broad-minded. They do tend to favor minorities. Mrs. Allen smiled at him with the calm composure of someone who was about to offer to discreetly break a rule – their little secret – then said, Why don’t you let me see what I can do?

Don’t trouble yourself on my account.

You’re an ex-Marine. That should count for something.

So were a lot of other guys.

You’re not a guy. You’re a future doctor.

He wasn’t sure how to respond. I’m on a tight budget. Besides, I’m used to being around minorities . . . in the Corps.

Mrs. Allen handed him his class cards, a copy of the NYU Bulletin. She looked at him with a cool eye, reminded him to check his class cards for correct day, time and room number. He nodded, took the Bulletin and left.

The rain showers had stopped. The wind blew off the East River bringing the faint smell of coffee. He crossed Second Avenue and continued walking west along Thirtieth Street to The Bagley. It was an old, discolored brownstone with numerous chips in its façade.

He came into the lobby and looked around. The tapestry couch and chairs were worn thin, the heavy velvet drapes old and musty-smelling. An oriental carpet bore the scars of careless smokers. He stood there a moment, feeling the wetness of the street through the soles of his shoes, recognizing similar surroundings . . . the shabby, second-rate hotels that were his temporary home during his four year odyssey through the heartland of the country he served.

He went to the front desk, put his bags down. The desk clerk, a young Hispanic man with bulging eyes and prematurely gray hair, was reading a mystery magazine. He blandly asked if he could be of any help. Peter said he was checking in, gave him his name. Ah, yes, Mr. DeRoyo. We’ve been expecting you, he said, with practiced aplomb, sliding the register over for him to sign. He gave Peter his key.

As he walked to the elevator the desk clerk noticed his limp, called, Be glad to get the bellman to give you a hand. The elevator door opened. Peter waved he was okay.

The room was small, the air close. A heavy buildup of paint made it difficult to raise the window. He hit the sash of the window several times with the palm of his hand, got it to open. He leaned his head out. The high-rises stretched into the sky like glass ladders. Looking down toward the street, he saw two people doing the tango to music blasting from a car radio – guys! So this was New York City! The overall effect was jarring. And yet there was something in the air that made him feel very much at peace.

The room was warm. He sat down in a comfortable chair, lay his head back and fell quickly to sleep. It wasn’t long before he was dreaming the story his mother told him when he was twenty-one, how she and his father left a quarter of New Orleans where high yellow blacks like them had lived as far back as the eighteen hundreds, how they came north to seek a better life for themselves and their children.

He wanted to say to his mother: Don’t saddle me with new history when I haven’t learned the old. Rather than hang around he joined the Marines instead.

During his four years in the Marine Corps he pretended to be white while trying to feel black. If he liked the sound of the music he’d tune in. If words got in the way he’d tune out. It wasn’t a very good plan. Whenever people said what was really on their minds he felt their anger. It made him angry. He’d look at his face in the mirror and try to see himself through other people’s eyes. That’s when he became two Peter DeRoyos: one who was willing to pay the price for acceptance in a white man’s world . . . the other who wasn’t.

It seemed as though he’d just put his head down on the pillow when the alarm went off. It was seven-thirty A.M. He washed his face and hands, dressed, bolted out the door. Running like a maniac, he got to his anatomy lab class on time. He caught his breath and looked around. The room was filled with students – some in anxious anticipation, others more relaxed. He found a seat, rubbed the tension out of his left calf and listened carefully to a Dr. Cairo present an overview of the course of study. Dr. Cairo told them what books were required and generally what would be expected of them. He referred to specific areas where their best efforts would not be wasted. His private smile seemed to suggest he knew something they didn’t know.

Dr. Cairo was slight of build, with short-cropped red hair and a precise way of speaking that reminded Peter of his drill sergeant in boot camp. He held a rubber-tipped pointer, strutted as he spoke and made good use of the blackboard. He spent the rest of the morning meticulously going over what he expected the class to accomplish over the next nine months. One of the women students whispered: It’s like being pregnant.

The following day they divided up. There were four students to each cadaver. Peter worked alongside Sal Magieri, who lived in Brooklyn, Carol Fischer from Michigan and someone named Armenthal, who fainted when he saw that the cadaver, a black woman, had painted nails. He was transferred, on request, to a male.

His group decided to call their cadaver: Whoopi, because of the dreadlocks and skin tone. Though the face was constantly there for them to see, they wouldn’t get to dissect it for some time. It was a face he sometimes saw in his dreams, a face clearer than the one he’d seen in dreams since he was a child – the fuzzy one of his father.

While Dr. Cairo was all-business, Dr. Dennis took a less formal approach. Still, his lectures in anatomy were deep, and there was no questioning his passion for the subject matter. Whatever he said held Peter’s interest. In fact, Dr. Dennis’ lectures became the focal point of his medical education, what he looked forward to most – the words of a man whose knowledge, energy and experience seemed boundless.

Whenever he wasn’t in class, Dr. Dennis’ ideas played inside his head until he knew them so well, he felt as though they’d become part of him, which of course they had. Gray-haired, blue-eyed and ruddy-complexioned, Dr. Dennis looked more like a police detective than a college professor. Yet, he was like no other professor Peter had ever known. For one thing, he had the most curious habit of referring to the body as the human temple and to God as the Master Architect.

He spoke about the human anatomy with such reverence Peter began looking at his own anatomy differently. Perhaps, the two most remarkable things he said were,

"Although the human temple was six thousand years old . . . had been marred by tempest and fire, by sin and sickness, by ignorance and superstition . . . though it had weathered raging storms of passion and disease, it managed to survive. It stood as a monument of beauty to the Master Architect who created it."

And, The human body was designed to be the temple of the living God. The body was not to be worshipped, but neither should it be treated badly, that a dead body was held in reverence, even by uncivilized tribes and it was against the law of nations to mutilate a body slain in battle. The respect paid to a living body, which throbbed with life and intelligence should not be overlooked. As the diamond was crystallized carbon – pure and beautiful, so the body was composed of dust of the earth, organized by creative power, given life from the Master Architect. It was composed of elements that at some past time served other forms of life, but stayed with us for awhile. Dust, sunlight and air were made into brain, bone, blood and muscle. He, who took carbon and made a diamond, took dust, molded and fashioned it, breathed into it and produced a being who was a candidate for immortality.

Toward the end of his first lecture Dr. Dennis told everyone, You’re here because you want to be doctors. Doctors are special. They must do things beyond the ability of mortal man, be able to leap tall buildings at a single bound . . . Laughter had begun. Not the big guy in the cape. There was more laughter. "I’ll do my best to challenge you in every way I can. Good day, gentlemen. I look forward to our next meeting. I suggest you buy a copy of Grant’s Atlas of Anatomy. Begin by reading the first fifty pages."

The following day, Dr. Dennis continued the idea of the body being a human temple. He said something so memorable Peter wrote it down word for word. He said, The human smile cannot be imitated or duplicated. The human hand, with its flexibility, adaptability, gracefulness, compactness, strength and dexterity, is beyond compare. The human foot is a masterpiece of creation. But, that a body possessed of such rare beauty, power and design evolved to its present state from lower organisms over a long period of time, is a colossal deception.

After class, Peter found his way to the cafeteria, got on line. He was hungry, but couldn’t afford more than a cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee. Looking around for a table, he caught sight of Sal waving his grinder.

He came over and sat down. Sal seemed glad for the company. There was a distinct resemblance between them, both darkly complexioned with brown eyes, Roman features and clear skin. Peter was taller, the color of his skin a shade lighter.

What do you think of Dennis? Sal asked.

Peter said he was impressed. Sal, his mouth full of meat, saw Peter’s thin cheese sandwich and said, Want a bite? Peter shook his head.

Meanwhile, over the next few days Sal’s appetite increased. He brought two grinders instead of one. The smell drove Peter crazy. Sal could tell and offered him some. Peter declined. Seeing Sal cast an eye toward the refuse basket, he weakened. From then on there were no hunger pains.

The next day after anatomy class, while he went over his notes, he felt Sal’s eyes on him. He tensed, not sure what was coming. Sal merely wanted to know how old he was, to which he replied, I’m twenty-nine.

I’m twenty-two, Sal said, wrinkling his forehead. I don’t trust you. You’re too old.

For some reason he found humor in his own remark. He kept laughing until he hit Peter’s shoulder with his fist, pulling his punch so Peter hardly felt it. On their way out, Sal asked, So tell me how goes it, old timer?

Peter shook his head from side to side, as though the work was giving him trouble, which it was. Then, he said, It’s rough on us older guys.

Sal laughed so hard Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever stop. Dr. DeRoyo wanted in surgery, Sal coughed as they shuffled down the steps to the street. They looked back at the school as if it was responsible for their depleted energy, the white and violet NYU flag whipped by the wind. In truth it was they who were whipped. It was just the beginning.

III

DR. DENNIS stopped Peter as he was leaving the classroom, asked if he’d care to join him in his office. Peter nodded. The office was filled with trophies of football players: gleaming gold replicas of men posed as punters, passers or running backs. Dr. Dennis sat down behind his desk, put his feet up. He filled his pipe from a fresh tin of tobacco and lighted it. He puffed vigorously, motioning for Peter to sit down.

Is something bothering you, Mr. DeRoyo? Getting no answer, he said, This might be a good time to get it off your chest.

The aroma was pungent. Peter peered through the overcast. Were you in the service? Peter nodded. Dr. Dennis puffed. Peter peered. Dr. Dennis waited for a response. There wasn’t any. He asked whether he had any recollection of World War II. Peter said he was born in l969.

I know it’s before your time. I’m often reminded by the younger members of my family that I live in the past.

There was a coffeepot on a small stove in the corner. Dr. Dennis got up and lighted one of the burners, handed him an empty cup and sat down. It’s Wanda’s day off.

Who’s Wanda?

My secretary. He told Peter it wasn’t until his four years were up that he began to spend a good deal of time thinking about friends who’d been killed or seriously wounded. It was then the idea of becoming a physician took hold. Coffee’s ready, he said. He got the pot and poured, asked him where he came from and who had been his inspiration.

Cummings, Massachusetts, Peter said, adding, It’s a small, rural town with a lumber mill, a milk plant and not much else. As for inspiration, he told him about another Doc – Doc Gillis, the only doctor in town . . . a man who always seemed to be around at the right time. He didn’t realize how much Doc meant to him until then. Dr. Dennis pulled something out of him that he hadn’t thought about. He wasn’t even sure if Doc was alive.

From time to time, Dr. Dennis would look at him thoughtfully. By now, he’d finished his coffee. Dr. Dennis asked if he’d like to continue their conversation another time. He said he would.

They met the following day. Wanda, a bouncy middle-aged woman, got the coffee. Even before they sat down he found himself thinking about the difficulty he was having concentrating. Do you think I’m too old to be here? he asked. It had been on his mind since Sal’s crack. I’m not even sure how I got here.

"You scored extremely high on your Med Cat exam, Dr. Dennis said, that’s how you got here, Mr. DeRoyo."

He was floored.

Yesterday, when I asked about your hometown you didn’t seem enthusiastic, he continued, Any particular reason?

Peter thought of the distance his parents traveled to get to Cummings, the hardships they endured. Did I mention that my parents are from New Orleans?

I thought you said you came from Massachusetts.

Yes . . . Cummings. I never understood why they traveled so far.

Maybe, they saw something better up ahead.

My father liked something. Unfortunately, he died before he could tell me what it was.

Too bad, Dr. Dennis said, then, again it does widen the road.

All of a sudden, Peter felt edgy. Maybe, it was the coffee. "Why don’t you tell me about