3-1（在线收听）

part 3 captain of my soul

1.

I was sitting around Nott Cott, scrolling through Instagram. In my feed I saw a video: My friendViolet. And a young woman.

They were playing with a new app that put silly filters on your photos. Violet and the womanhad dog ears, dog noses, long red dog tongues hanging out.

Despite the canine cartoon overlay, I sat up straighter.

This woman with Violet…my God.

I watched the video several times, then forced myself to put down the phone.

Then picked it up again, watched the video again.

I’d traveled the world, from top to bottom, literally. I’d hopscotched the continents. I’d methundreds of thousands of people, I’d crossed paths with a ludicrously large cross-section of theplanet’s seven billion residents. For thirty-two years I’d watched a conveyor-belt of faces pass byand only a handful ever made me look twice. This woman stopped the conveyor-belt. This womansmashed the conveyor-belt to bits.

I’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

Why should beauty feel like a punch in the throat? Does it have something to do with ourinnate human longing for order? Isn’t that what scientists say? And artists? That beauty issymmetry and therefore represents a relief from the chaos? Certainly my life to that point had beenchaotic. I can’t deny hungering for order, can’t deny seeking a bit of beauty. I’d just come backfrom a trip with Pa, Willy and Kate to France, where we’d marked the anniversary of the Battle ofthe Somme, honored the British dead, and I’d read a haunting poem, “Before Action.” It waspublished by a soldier two days before he’d died in action. It ended: Help me to die, O Lord.

Reading it out, I realized I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live.

A fairly staggering revelation for me just then.

But this woman’s beauty, and my response to it, wasn’t based merely on symmetry. There wasan energy about her, a wild joy and playfulness. There was something in the way she smiled, theway she interacted with Violet, the way she gazed into the camera. Confident. Free. She believedlife was one grand adventure, I could see that. What a privilege it would be, I thought, to join heron that journey.

I got all of that from her face. Her luminous, angelic face. I’d never had a firm opinion on thatburning question: Is there just one person on this earth for each of us? But in that moment I feltthere might be only one face for me.

This one.

I sent Violet a message. Who…is…this…woman?

She answered straightaway. Yeah, I’ve had six other guys ask me.

Great, I thought.

Who is she, Violet?

Actress. She’s in a TV show called Suits.

It was a drama about lawyers; the woman played a young paralegal.

American?

Yeah.

What’s she doing in London?

Here for the tennis.

What’s she doing at Ralph Lauren?

Violet worked for Ralph Lauren.

She’s doing a fitting. I can connect you guys, if you like.

Um, yes. Please?

Violet asked if it would be all right to give the young woman, the American, my Instagramhandle.

Of course.

It was Friday, July 1. I was due to leave London the next morning, heading to the home of SirKeith Mills. I was to take part in a sailing race on Sir Keith’s yacht, around the Isle of Wight. Justas I was stuffing the last few things into my overnight bag I glanced at my phone.

A message on Instagram.

From the woman.

The American.

Hello!

She said she’d got my info from Violet. She complimented my Instagram page. Beautifulphotographs.

Thank you.

It was mostly photos of Africa. I knew she’d been there, because I’d studied her Instagrampage too; I’d seen photos of her hanging out with gorillas in Rwanda.

She said she’d done some aid work there as well. With children. We shared thoughts aboutAfrica, photography, travel.

Eventually we exchanged phone numbers, and migrated the conversation over to text, goinglate into the night. In the morning I moved from Nott Cott to the car, without a pause in thetexting. I texted with her throughout the long drive to Sir Keith’s place, continued through SirKeith’s hall—How you doing, Sir Keith?—and up the stairs and into his guestroom, where Ilocked the door and remained holed up, texting. I sat on the bed texting like a teenager until it wastime to have dinner with Sir Keith and his family. Then, after dessert, I quickly returned to theguestroom and resumed texting.

I couldn’t type fast enough. My thumbs were cramping. There was so much to say, we had somuch in common, though we came from such different worlds. She was American, I was British.

She was well-educated, I was decidedly not. She was free as a bird, I was in a gilded cage. And yetnone of these differences felt disqualifying or even important. On the contrary, they felt organic,energizing. The contradictions created a sense of:

Hey…I know you.

But also: I need to know you.

Hey, I’ve known you forever.

But also: I’ve been searching for you forever.

Hey, thank God you’ve arrived.

But also: What took you so long?

Sir Keith’s guestroom looked out onto an estuary. Many times, mid-text, I’d walk over to thewindow and gaze out. The view made me think of the Okavango. It made me think also of destiny,and serendipity. That convergence of river and sea, land and sky reinforced a vague sense of bigthings coming together.

It occurred to me how uncanny, how surreal, how bizarre, that this marathon conversationshould have begun on July 1, 2016.

My mother’s fifty-fifth birthday.

Late into the night, while waiting for her next text, I’d tap the American’s name into Google.

Hundreds of photos, each more dazzling. I wondered if she was googling me too. I hoped not.

Before turning out the light I asked how long she was going to be in London. Damn—she wasleaving soon. She had to get back to Canada to resume filming her show.

I asked if I could see her before she left.

I watched the phone, waiting for the answer, staring at the endlessly fluttering ellipsis.

…

Then: Sure!

Great. Now: Where to meet?

I suggested my place.

Your place? On a first date! I don’t think so.

No, I didn’t mean it like that.

She didn’t realize that being royal meant being radioactive, that I was unable to just meet at acoffee shop or pub. Reluctant to give her a full explanation, I tried to explain obliquely about therisk of being seen. I didn’t do a good job.

She suggested an alternative. Soho House at 76 Dean Street. It was her headquarters whenevershe came to London. She’d reserve us a table in a quiet room.

No one else would be around.

The table would be under her name.

Meghan Markle.