Love is the sweetest thing. . . Part Three

Part One. Part Two.

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It was raining when I got to Montreal and I took a taxi up the hill to the residence. It was quiet. Most of my own classmates had already moved out. I had a couple more weeks to live there as I was making up the time I'd lost when I had my tonsillectomy.

The desk ladies were happy to see me. They were stern and strict but I suppose we knew on some level that they had our best interests at heart. They wanted to know how I was feeling after my surgery and if I felt strong enough to be back. Of course I said I was fine.

I asked if there were any messages for me — and yes, I really believed there would be messages. Or a message. There was nothing.

Over the next few days, I had to get back to work and do some planning to try and get my immediate future life in order but there came a day when I decided I had to try to get some answers.

I had practically nothing to go on. He had been living with "some people" and didn't feel comfortable taking a guest there so I had no idea who they were. I had no name or number. I tried Information, in case he had got his own place and now had a phone. Nothing there. After some difficulties, I managed to get through to a human at the YMCA. I spoke to a young woman who left me on the line for a few minutes. When she came back, she said, "I'm sorry, he no longer works here." I asked if he'd given any number or address, any way of reaching him. She said she had no forwarding information.

I called the tailor on Park Avenue and sure enough, my blazer was still there, awaiting pick-up.

And with that, I had reached the limit of my resources.

Over the next while, I functioned because I had to. On my time off, I would go for walks, walking on the same streets where we used to walk. I would drop into the same coffee shops or restaurants. Sometimes, I would sit on a park bench, imagining him suddenly reappearing.

I never saw him again.

As you've come this far with me, I wish I could offer you a more satisfactory conclusion. I apologize for this but I'm going to leave you with an open-ended story.

It was a long time ago but I presume my heart was broken.

In the years since his "disappearance" I've tried to imagine a few things that might have happened.

1. He was offered a job in another city that wanted him with no strings attached and he decided I was expendable.

2. He met someone whose charms overwhelmed him to the extent that he couldn't tell me he had fallen for someone else and he just ran away with her.

3. He agreed to swear Crown's evidence against the Mafia and got placed in a witness protection program.

4. He was married all along.

5. He was a spy.

6. Or dead.

In spite of the way the relationship ended — or didn't end — there were some nice memories: Tennyson's poems, the letters, Golde and Moishe.

There was also something that happened early in the relationship that could have raised a warning flag. One evening, after we'd been seeing each other for a couple of weeks, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and said he had something for me. It was a poem and he said he'd written it for me. I read it and I thanked him. Remember, I didn't know him very well. What I did know though was that he hadn't written that poem. I was familiar with the poem and the poet's other works so I knew. I let it go and I said nothing. Maybe he was testing me.

Okay, one more thing: his name was Bruce Allen.

I've often wondered if he went into the music business in Vancouver and managed the careers of Bryan Adams, Jann Arden, Michael Bublé, Anne Murray and many others. If he did, there should be some way I could get my $40.00 back. With interest.

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P.S. I don't really know why I used Love is the sweetest thing as my headline except when I started to write this, it was playing in my head. I guess this is a sweet story in some ways so maybe it's not inappropriate. Here is a lovely version. As I finished writing this story, I listened to it. I urge you, as you've finished reading it, to listen to it too.