Rhea and I visited her family in Poland two years into our marriage. We journeyed to her homeland in 1987.
I met her younger sister, Malina, and her mother, Ana. They greeted us warmly. We stayed in the apartment where Rhea spent her youth. It was an inner-city second-floor residence in Gdańsk, near the central railway station.
The older part of the city filled my architect's mind as Rhea accommodated a series of open-ended strolls. I marvelled at the famous town hall, the rococo-style Neptune's fountain and landmark churches. Our walks filled in missing pieces of the jigsaw of her earlier life.
We paused outside her primary school—a line of tall grey buildings. Rhea spun and gave me a tight hug.
"I loved school from the start."
She stopped and held the fence rails, "It was tougher at home growing up without a dad."
Farther into her neighbourhood, we visited her favourite bakery. I saw endless golden delights showcased behind the tall glass cases. The yeasty scent of fresh-baked bread wafted. We divvied up a fragrant apple pie between us, the kind Rhea and her sister used to break in half and share. Rhea munched on the warm pastry nested on a bench with me.
Her mother, Ana, prepared a hearty welcoming dinner, Bigos. I savoured its seasoned flavours and texture. I recall a mixture of cabbage, sausage meat, and prunes. The latter added a sweetness. A dark homemade rye bread accompanied the meal.
Ana opened her home in a genial and generous manner. A latticed network of wrinkles covered her face. Her husband had tragically died in a mining accident. Rhea lit her first candle in a church when she was five years old in memory of her father.
I perused the family portrait wall while waiting for our first home dinner. The photos showed Rhea as a child and youth. Her now straight bobbed fair hair in earlier snaps was once teenage long. Malina, her sister, while taller, had similar hair. In photographs, I saw the sister's closeness, arm in arm. This bond had been stretched by Rhea choosing Australia.
Some families endure unfair doses of pain. One of the portraits sadly highlighted that fact. Before the fatal coal shaft collapse, Rhea's father, Karol, was a handsome, muscular man kitted in hiking gear.
Rhea couldn't tell me much about him because of her young age when he passed away. She recalled her mother's wailed mourning at the funeral. Tears splashed on her shiny black flats. Everyone was dressed in black, including herself. She wore everything new: shoes, stockings, a dress and a hat. The hole in the ground appeared endlessly deep as they lowered the coffin.
Beyond that, she liked a photo of her dad holding her, aged four, on his knees. She remembered her dad 'as best one can inside a child's memories.'
Rhea and I built memories during the daytime by wandering the city and hearing the stories of her life in the city. She took me to her former workplace one morning. A grey block of concrete sat beneath the blue sky. It was soulless architecture, chunky and stale, the product of an imposed government.
Rhea skirted politics as a depressing conversation. However, like her friends, she was heartened as the regime in Poland crumbled. Some old ways need the boot; we left it at that.
We entered the sizeable smoke-grey building. The lobby presented continual space. Endless dull tiled emptiness until a security reception desk broke it at the far end. Rhea exchanged friendly banter with security and gained permission to proceed upstairs.
There were no elevators, so we hiked up broad stone staircases to the third floor. I heard typewriters clattering before I saw them. Behind a glass partition, the whole floor consisted of a typing pool.
After completing a secondary security clearance, we entered the open workspace. Following mutual waves, three young women ceased their task and surrounded Rhea. Close friends, I assumed. They all chatted in Polish and hugged.
Two had creamy blonde hair, the other fawn. Their locks were styled busy working girl short, and their fingers had no engagement or wedding rings. Rhea's girlfriends were very cordial to me. I passed their inspection test. I could tell by their whispers in my wife's ear and her glances at me. Rhea's cheeks blossomed pink.
As her friends resumed work, Rhea explained they would join us for a girlfriend lunch. In the early afternoon, we noshed at a local café. The girl's gossip flew over me as I glanced at the delightful rustic hanging lamps. The girls kept me in the loop, glancing and offering savouries, especially the fawn-haired girl with a cute mole below her lip. I heartily ate dumplings with a delicious stewed meat filling.
After lunch and rushing goodbyes to her friends, Rhea apologised to me for speaking in Polish. Except for snatches of English, she quipped to me to share bits and pieces of the conversation.
I reassured her, "I liked the sound of your voice in Polish. You should speak it every chance you get."
She locked my arm and nestled close as we walked to a park.
Rhea's sister and mother worked in aged care support. It meant we spent considerable time by ourselves. We shared evening meals or breakfast if her mother and sister worked the night shift.
A warm day progressed to hot in midsummer as we returned to the apartment one afternoon, the place to ourselves. Her mother and sister insisted we occupy the smaller second bedroom as a married couple. Malina temporarily slept in her mother's room while we visited.
When I realised the sleeping arrangement, I asked Rhea, "Have we taken your sister's room?"
Rhea acknowledged, "Yes, but she wanted to give us privacy. She's happy for us both. We used to share this room."
"Were you close with her growing up?"
I knew this from how the sisters greeted each other at the airport when we first arrived. I witnessed their mutual pulling of each other in, the squeeze and hold of their tight embrace.
"Yes," she bubbled, "and I liked the afternoon sun in this room."
I asked her, "Is Malina happy in Gdańsk?"
"Mmm, she has a steady boyfriend. She hopes to marry him within a couple of years."
What I previously never sought from Rhea, I asked, "Why did you respond to my first letter?"
She ran her fingers through my hair.
"Your eyes, well, they were a start!"
I held my hands on both sides of her face, and we kissed. Having returned from a circuitous walk, we needed to change into lighter, fresh clothes. Rhea planned to take me to the historic port area. She knew of my eager interest in old buildings. I saw the port the next day because love intervened this afternoon.
Rhea commenced undoing her blouse. My fingers postponed her. Fingertips caressed tips—the yen to give enchanted me. I leisurely undid the next button on her white blouse. Her open hands moved to my chest while her eyes followed my fingers.
Rhea unfastened my second shirt button and my third. The first was undone - minus a tie. We seduced each other, button by button. A shirt and blouse twisted and crumpled like lovers on the floor. A bra unclasped; a singlet tugged. Her flesh was alluring; I stroked it generously.
I drew her jeans from her body in intimate tenderness. I felt an irresistible thrill as she lowered my jeans. My passion peeled her knickers. Her radiant joy dropped my boxers. Her skin was sinuous to my skin. Arms wrapped, our bodies pressed together.
Outside our usual approach to seduction, we embraced it. Dazzling light defined us as human nude. No shadows were present to hide our bodies. Our mouths found each other's, spawning from dry lips to wet excitement.
Rhea's body hemmed against the bedroom wall. I knelt and buried my face between her legs. Her thighs quivered. I recall the fullness of her womanhood—a young woman in her twenties—Rhea embraced the carnal extravagance. Amorous and ardent, we were in this moment. I set free a sincere devotion to maximising pleasure for the woman who desired me above all men.
Here inside her old bedroom, I joined Rhea on a new journey. Her yearned quest was marriage as embracive and encompassing.
Her body responded, in turn, intensely and dreamily romantic. Rapt and captivated by her man, she absorbed her giving lover. She writhed in pleasure as I held my face to her mound. Her legs trembled, her arms encircling and holding my head. She squirmed in delight as her plateau elevated to unbearable waves.
She stowed her intoxication for us before she gasped. Urging me up, she shared her rapture with her lover in a kiss. The ever-generous Rhea then gave head fondly to her man, her love, her life. We consummated our sexual selves and bequeathed sensual hearts: self-transparent to another translucent self.
I found that miracles do occur in life. My favourite bible miracle as a youth was the marriage at Cana, where the water was turned into wine. Yet, as a woman of composed purpose, Rhea crafted the crucial one in my life.
Harnessing her calm love and steadfast desire, she transformed a man's affection into love. Here transpired my life's wonder. In an apartment room in Gdańsk, she ignited the romance of soulmates. Rhea fruited her cherished romance. I made a promise to myself: to be worthy of her.
To never stop trying to match her.
Our marriage vows included the traditional verses from Corinthians. The words were the words of my marriage. I heard them. I liked them. To comprehend beyond the surface required opening my heart. The words became a skeining bonding troth in a near-empty bedroom with two suitcases and a mattress. Two lives were framed together in an afternoon.
Our trip to Poland began as a visit to her family; after our marriage in Australia, Rhea, beside me as my wife. The real journey led forward, enfolding our hearts as true vowed lovers. I joined Rhea's trek of love's partnership.
We rested entangled.
Rhea traced two heart shapes using her index finger pressing to my chest.