The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (6 page)

I had lost all composure and found myself shouting at the top

of my lungs. At my husband. To my regret. But oh, Dear Diary,

the story does not stop there. For I swear it is true that upon

mention of the word “hell” did the gas lights in that stateroom

dim, and the bedroom door blow open. Behind this door came a

wind that lifted my nightgown from the ?oor and blew my hair

straight back off my shoulders—and yet John moved not a hair.

His handkerchief did not wave. The curtains did not ruf?e. As

my heartbeat did subside, so too did this wind lessen. John and I

stood perfectly still, a silence between us. The air crisp and

smelling as it does after an electric storm, both bitter and sweet

all at once.

My husband said not a word, a stunned, apoplectic expression

overtaking him. His eyes narrowed, boring into me. He turned

and left me then, partly because there was nothing left to say,

partly out of fear, if I read him right. I have never seen John

Rimbauer seeming anything less than absolutely certain. Stoic,

even.

Until now, that is. This evening the tables turned.

I attended dinner without a shawl, just to spite him. And I

laughed as never before.

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for the sake of expediency, and due to any diary’s

repetitious nature, the editor chose to omit various

diary entries. ellen rimbauer’s full diary is

archived in the winslow library of letters and

memoirs, seattle, washington, a copy of which

resides along with other materials in the joyce

reardon collection: observed paranormal activities,

1982–1999, which resides in the wirmser

library, beaumont university, seattle, washington.

—joyce reardon

38

15 december 1907—the south pacifIc islands

I don’t know why they bother giving these islands any name but

Paradise. Certainly one is no different than the other, a crust of

sand rising from the deep, palms clinging by shallow roots, wind

and bright sky and the bluest, clearest water on the face of the

earth. The cinnamon-skinned women, as bare-breasted as the

National Geographic Society would have us believe, welcoming

white strangers with wide smiles and, I fear, open arms. The sun

beats hot as we enter the part of their seasons that coincides with

spring and summer, despite it being fall and early winter at

home. Our world is quite literally turned upside down.

I lock your pages closed each night, Dear Diary, and then, in

turn, lock you away in my steamer where I keep my underclothes

and my toilet, con?dent my husband would never violate that

sanctity. I scarcely know what would become of me if he ever did.

And so it is, with beating heart and a certain amount of timidity,

that I once again turn to you as my confessor.

It began more than a week ago now, during a nighttime celebration

as the Ocean Star crossed the equator. There was music,

much drink, a proclamation by the captain, dancing and a gay

atmosphere on board. John and I, for all our con?icts, rose from

our beds in the morning as if we had not a care in the world.

We had taken breakfast together on the balcony, a peaceful,

enchanting hour. I do believe that John has adopted a different

attitude toward me, and that this is re?ected both in our breakfast

and in the fact that we followed breakfast with a stroll on the deck,

an extremely social activity where certainly my absence has been

noticed. We lunched together, in a smaller dining room I’d not

seen before, but one where all the waiters knew John quite well,

addressing him as “Mr. Rimbauer,” instead of the “sir” and

“madam” used on guests less well known. After high tea with several

new friends, we retired to our stateroom and “rested”—

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John’s new term for our husband and wife activities, which falls

desperately short of the truth of that time spent together; it is

anything but restful!—and prepared for a late dinner at the captain’s

table and the equator celebration scheduled to follow.

It was sometime during that fabulous celebration, the warm

tropical night winds playing over the Ocean Star’s rail, the champagne

playing with my head, the delicious chocolate mousse still

lingering in my taste buds, that the following events occurred.

John, I believe, was dancing with a matronly woman named

Danforth, Danvers—I have a devil of a time with all the names!—

leaving me to the company of Mr. Dan . . . I can’t possibly

remember! . . . who rather quickly excused himself to the toilet,

one brandy over his limit, if I might say.

“Truf?es, Madame?” A creamy warm voice over my shoulder,

as welcome as that tropical wind. A woman’s voice. Deep and

soothing.

I turned, perhaps too quickly for our proximity, and found

myself eye-to-eye with a Negro of nut brown skin and enormous

olive-shaped eyes. Her face was a perfect oval, her lips thick and

sensuous. I felt myself stir in a way no woman should stir for

another woman. I am certain I made a fool of myself, the way my

voice caught, with the blush I must have revealed.

A waitress, she was dressed in a black costume appropriate to

her service, with a white apron and a ?rmly pressed white collar

buttoned nearly to choking. She had a tiny, wasp waist, full hips

and strong legs, widely set. The shoes they had put her in were

easily a size too large. She had feet more my size. What an idiot I

was, just staring into her eyes as I did.

“Madame?” she inquired a second time.

“Well, yes,” I answered, having no desire to consume any

more food. But I picked one off the silver tray nonetheless, and

bid her to remain in my company a moment longer.

What I felt is unspeakable, but I push my fountain pen to write

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it here in these pages: I wanted to kiss her. To touch that soft

skin. Mind you, I did not want to be kissed back—Heaven forbid!

—nor touched in any way, shape or manner. But I did want to

undress her and see her God-given body in all its glory, to run

my hands over her skin and feel it respond to my woman’s touch.

So horri?ed was I by this response that I left the celebration early,

feigning a headache, and I returned to prayer in our stateroom,

kneeling at the side of that bed where my husband and I perform

acts of increasing indecency, praying for salvation from wherever

it is my mind seems destined to take me. Is this what marriage

brings on in women: a heightened curiosity of the forms that

pleasure takes? If there were only someone to whom I could bare

my soul! The ship’s priest comes to mind, but he is a rheumyeyed

man with a proclivity for drink. My one great fear now is

that in all my isolation of the forthcoming year I will not ?nd

answers, not ?nd release for such sinful thought. For the better

part of three weeks I have been shuttered in our stateroom. I am

currently ensconced in a ?ve-room suite in the only decent hotel

for a thousand miles. Laughter rolls up from the hotel bar,

spilling out into the street and then rising like hot air to the

room’s high ceilings.

Dare I confess this? Earlier this morning a chambermaid

entered to service our rooms, to change the sheets that my husband

and I have soiled with our activities. (I dare not ask where

John has learned all that he is “teaching” me—his term.) She

couldn’t have been over ?fteen, if she’s a day. Petite, and fairskinned

with black eyes and a strong back. Oh, yes, I studied every

inch of her as she worked. She saw me watching and seemed to

take great pleasure in it. Giggling. Provocative. She knows not

what she does to me! I had a kink in my neck that I tried to work

out—there are no pillows here to speak of, only ?rm square mats

with cotton slipcovers. I sleep ?tfully, if at all—in part because

John’s appetites are insatiable (he drinks heavily into the night

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and then arrives to our rooms in a desirous state). Our maid took

note of my efforts and indicated that I should turn around. She

touched my neck with her small, warm hands and I jumped, a

source of great amusement on her part. Then, for the better part

of a quarter of an hour or more, she kneaded my tight, knotted

muscle and sculpted it, restoring it to a state of complete relaxation.

I am told this form of massage is Asian, Japanese or

Chinese in origin, and spilled down the archipelago over the

thousands of years of commerce that has come and gone in this

remote area of the world. I was quite taken by the magic of her

hands, and I tipped her generously, which she clearly enjoyed.

But listen, Dear Diary, there’s more! This young beauty then

indicated that I should lie down on the bed. In her unfamiliar

tongue and sign language, she ?rst locked the door and then

motioned for me to disrobe. (I am certain this was the meaning.

It needed no translation.) She indicated with her hands that she

would continue her work, the Asian massage with which she had

soothed me. She appreciated my generosity, no doubt, and saw

clear to the idea that she might expand on that gratuity by

increasing the canvas, if I may adopt an art analogy. I declined, of

course, thanking her profusely, which I’m sure she understood,

and getting out of it as best I could. I suppose she meant for me

to remove my dress, and only my dress, so that she could continue

her work through my undergarments, but given the level of

undress these natives undertake, my thoughts went elsewhere. I

had visions of disrobing, becoming naked in front of this young

girl.

Even now, many hours past, I ?nd myself excited at the

prospect. Dare I confess this? To be touched by another woman,

someone of my own sex, who would know the aches and pains of a

woman, where to touch, where to relieve the back pain that comes

of the corsets, the foot and leg pain that comes from the shoes.

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Nothing more than this, you understand! And yet, even this

seems a sinful act. One woman with another, one in full undress.

The bright-eyed young girl had such a problem accepting no

from me, either being driven by the desire for another tip or

being culturally unfamiliar with such a refusal. This island and its

simple people are so very foreign to me.

I am troubled by my desires. There, I wrote it down. Perhaps

that will help to purge me of them. Perhaps if John included me

more, allowed me out more often, my mind would have elsewhere

to go other than to the physical pleasures that have entered my

life for the ?rst time in these past few weeks. The dark secrets of

satisfying a man that John continues to reveal to me. But my days

are just this: food and carnal pleasure. The honeymoon is for me

more a horrormoon. I have prayed—to both sides—for release

from this depravity of thought, for increased independence from

my husband, for the freedom to walk the sands and visit the markets.

I have prayed for his drinking to temper, for his earlier

return to our suite, as some nights he does not return until three

or four in the morning, sweating, smelling of liquor and cigars—

and—dare I say it, for I am not absolutely certain?—other women.

He snores as I cry. He snores as I long for home, and most of

all my dear mother. Her guidance. Her advice. Oh, the ache in

my heart this loss causes me. The terror with which I face another

day here, for I know it is but one of many that will combine to

make up this year of travel.

There is talk of a European war. John believes the need for

petroleum will increase dramatically, and with it our fortunes.

But what good is fortune without love? And if John loves me,

what strange ways he chooses to display it. Is love at the heart of

our sweaty embrace? I once felt this—it seems like months ago

now. But since our arrival here at the islands, it is bestiality that

my husband brings to bed, not love. He takes me, he does not

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make love to me. It is carnal and awful, and I give myself to him

only reluctantly and with great displeasure for fear of suffering

badly should I do otherwise.

I know not what I’ve gotten myself into.

And all I want is out.

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19 april 1908—kenya, africa

Africa. The dark continent. A man’s place. Primitive and

intriguing. The birthplace of mankind, they say. Eden, they say.

Skin so black it’s blue. Wild animals in numbers that stagger the

imagination. Oh, to have a motion picture camera record this!

John and I, and three other couples, two from Britain, one

from Cleveland (ironically he and John share some business

acquaintances there), are escorted into the bush by nearly thirty

natives, an Australian guide named Charles Hammer and a Negro

gun-bearer named Hipshoo—at least that’s how we all pronounce

it. About ten of the thirty are women, two of whom are assigned

to me, one named Sukeena, the other Marishpa. They tend to me

like court-appointed maids, at my side the moment I need them.

Bright-eyed and ?lled with laughter, they have greatly elevated my