by Daniel Caet
When she managed to calm down, she dressed and went downstairs with the intention of finding the kitchen. She needed a coffee urgently. She reached the entrance when she realised she had no idea which way to go. One of the doors next to the stairs was ajar and she could hear voices, so she opted for that path. She entered a very low ceiling corridor painted white that led to an old wooden door. Voices came from the room behind that door and she could recognise them.
“Good morning sweetheart!” Charice said with all her joy when she saw her enter. A look at her face and Charice's tone changed completely. “Good Lord, honey, have you seen your face? It seems you've spent the whole night awake. You're good?”
“Yes, I'm fine,” Becca replied with the best smile she could compose, “But the truth is that I would kill for a really dark coffee.”
“I'll get it ready in a second, ma’am,” said a voice behind her.
“Becca, this is Charlotte, your kitchen lady. And the one in the back is Matthieu, your cook,” Charice said, pointing to a tall blond man at the back of the big kitchen.
“At your service, ma’am!” the two answered in unison.
Matthieu and Charlotte turned out to be a lovely couple. They had met when the two started working at Duncan Hall ten years earlier and, because of the hours spent together in the kitchen, love had flourished and a son who was now six years had completed their family. Both were delighted to have new guests in the house and hoped that it would mean they could soon cook a feast like the ones they knew had been served in the house many years before. Nothing could be further from Becca's intention, but she kept it quiet.
After breakfast, Becca took Charice to her room and told her what had happened the night before. Charice looked at her with sorrow.
“Oh, poor thing, that's why you have that face! It's a horrible nightmare, you've probably missed your bed,” she said, dismissing it.
“Charice, you do not understand. I'm telling you that I do not think it was a nightmare, I think it was very real.”
“Becca, for goodness sake, let's face it. You're talking to me about a good-looking guy who gives himself nightly baths in other people's fountains, two twin women who hum and a light that takes the macho away in seconds. Honey, this is an X files episode, what else is this going to be other than a dream?”
Becca knew that she had lost the battle. Charice's arguments were logical, hers too strange to consider them true. But Becca could not tell her about the image of her mother, about that inner feeling that told her that everything was true, as she had never told anyone about what happened at school, about the flames and the rage. She knew that she would have to keep it inside her, in the same section where she kept locked everything she could not understand about her life. And it was a lot.
“It's better you dress appropriately. Today your lawyer comes to see you, remember? Today you are going to be a millionaire, sweetheart!”
It was true. Mr. Mason would arrive at the house in just one hour to make the transfer of property stipulated in her mother's will effective. There was nothing she could be looking forward to less than that. But like many other things in her life, she had to do it.
The lawyer arrived punctually, and Eustace took him to one of the reception rooms where Becca was waiting for him. The room was quite austere for what she expected from the house. It was clear that the furniture had history, but the room was not as overloaded as she expected. There were not too many pieces of furniture, just a sofa and two matching chairs with a marble coffee table in the center. Over the mantel piece, a huge painting with a hunting scene. To Becca, the meeting seemed eternal. Mr. Mason insisted on reading her mother's testament in its entirety, which contained the complete list of possessions she was about to inherit. Becca stopped listening after ten minutes, too much to remember. What was clear was that her inheritance was not a mere few millions, it was a small empire. The man made her sign what seemed to Becca like hundreds of documents until he finally looked at her.
“Very well, Miss Engels, I think that's all! You are officially the heir of your family's fortune. Congratulations.” Becca did not know what to answer but neither was it necessary. “I suppose you'll want to find someone to manage your possessions as soon as possible. Until you have identified that person, my partners and I are happy to offer you our services in this regard if you wish so,” said the man with a Hollywood actor's smile.
Becca expected something like that but decided to accept it because, for her it was probably the best option given that her knowledge of business administration was simply null. The man was obviously pleased to keep her and her fortune in the client portfolio.
“Before leaving you, we have that other little thing to talk about.”
Becca had wanted to forget about that part, but that man was willing to do the full service at all costs.
“Yes, I remember it, the package.”
“Exactly, Miss Engels. About a month ago Mr. Daniel McGregor got in touch with us, well I should use the right title, Lord Daniel McGregor.” Becca did not know whether to laugh or cry. The guy was Lord. “Mr. McGregor was interested in hiring our services so that we could give you a package from him, exactly on this date. To our surprise, Mr. McGregor seemed to be knowledgeable about the terms in your mother's will and the need for you to move to Duncan Hall to take possession of this estate and insisted that we delivered the package to you at that very moment.”
The man took a small package from his briefcase and handed it to her. It was wrapped in brown paper and it did not weigh too much. Becca could not avoid a small tremor of hands upon receiving it. The man stared at her expecting no doubt that she open it, but Becca simply put it aside. The man took the hint.
“Well, if you do not need anything else from me, Miss Engels, I'm afraid I should leave. I remain at your service for anything you may need,” he said, handing her his card.
“Thank you very much,” Becca answered as formally as she could, “of course we'll be in touch shortly.”
The man said goodbye and Eustace accompanied him to the entrance. Becca was left alone in the living room looking at the package and thinking how ridiculous her existence was. The father who had not existed for twenty-five years appeared suddenly and the only thing she received from him was that small package. Becca opened it, hoping to find an explanation, an excuse for his absence, for having ignored her during all that time, something that would fill that void she had had since childhood, but there was nothing like that. Instead she found only one book. An old book, bound in dark leather, without any title or the name of any author on the front or on the spine. Becca could not believe what she saw. She opened it without knowing what she hoped to find inside but no doubt hoping to find something. Nothing. The book was completely blank. The half-yellowed pages of the interior did not contain a single letter. Nothing. It was empty. As empty as her life. Becca could not contain her anger and threw it against the door of the room with all her strength. The book flew like an arrow and went to stamp against the face of Eustace who had just opened the door.
“Oh god, I'm so sorry Eustace. Are you okay?” Becca asked, running to the man who was leaning against the door, touching his nose, bruised by the blow.
“Yes...I think so,” he stammered as he stood up with Becca's help. “Although I think I should ask that question to ma’am, if you'll allow me.”
“Excuse me,” Becca said, turning red as scarlet. “I'm afraid I'm a bit frustrated and I made the book pay for it.”
“Well, for the sake of the book and the inhabitants of the house it might be better if we put it in the library if ma’am thinks it's right,” said the butler, making her smile.
“Yes, I think it will be for the best,” Becca said, laughing for the first time in days. “One second, do we have a library?”
“Yes, we do, ma’am. In fact, I think it's worth it to accompany me and see it for yourself.”
Eustace led her to the west wing of the house through corridors that seemed en
dless and that, like the rest of the mansion, were full of pictures of all possible styles. Finally, they came to double doors, carved with flowers like those in their room but much larger. The butler opened the doors and Becca thought she had died and ascended to heaven.
Throughout her life, books had been almost her only friends and, of course, the only refuge for her inner loneliness and her fears. Upon her arrival in New York she had discovered the metropolitan library and immediately felt at home. That was the effect that the books had on her, to make her feel safe and protected. Each story, each character, had become the family she had not had and had helped her survive, going on. Behind those doors Becca found a blinding amount of light. When her eyes adjusted to the brightness and she was able to focus again, she found the largest room she had ever seen. It had been built to occupy the four levels of that part of the house and the entire width of the house wing. It was like entering a cathedral’s nave. A cathedral full of books. The wall to the left was full of shelves, filled with volumes and had a staircase that ran the various levels to the top. The wall to the right was identical except for the central part that was occupied by dozens of portraits that occupied the four levels of the room. The portraits had been arranged in what looked like the branches of a tree painted on the wall and they were of all sizes imaginable and, as far as Becca could see from the bottom, in all possible styles, as if they had been painted in separate times. On the wall in front of the door, a large window covered all four levels and let in the light from the garden that flooded everything. The stained-glass windows were tinted like those of the churches and seemed to represent a scene with hundreds of characters. The center of the room was occupied by several tables of solid wood and sofas and armchairs that invited you to sit and read. It seemed to Becca the most wonderful room she had ever seen, and that was reflected on her face.
“It is incredible!”
“I supposed ma’am would like it,” he said as he put the book on one of the tables. “It was her mother's favourite room.”
A part of Becca felt a pang of joy knowing that she and her mother had in common the love for something so beautiful.
“Your mother spent a lot of time here. I remember that when I was a little boy, when I used to do mischief, I always hid in here and your mother, who was just another girl, helped me to hide from mine until her anger was gone. I think my mother always knew what was happening, but she loved your mother so much that she tolerated everything.”
Becca's face darkened slightly.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I did not want to bring bad memories to you.”
“I'm afraid, Eustace, it is just the opposite. It is difficult to see how the people around you have memories of your mother that you cannot share because you simply do not have any. My mother is a stranger to me and although, somehow, I can live it through the memories of others, I would give anything for those memories to be mine, even the sad ones.”
Eustace bowed his head and said nothing more. Becca felt immediately sorry for the man who had only been kind to her since she arrived at that house. Suddenly, an idea crossed her mind.
“Eustace, do you know where my mother is buried?”
“Yes, ma’am, her remains rest in the family vault, near the lake.”
“Would it be possible to visit her grave?”
“Of course, ma'am. I can organise a car that brings you to the cemetery, it's only ten minutes away”
“I would prefer to drive myself, if you do not mind. If you tell me the way I should be able to get there without problems.”
“As you like, ma’am. When do you want to go?”
“Would it be very difficult to organise it for this afternoon?”
"Of course, ma’am,” said the man, and left the room, leaving her alone in that sea of light. Becca sat on one of the sofas wishing that this strange move would reconcile her with herself and finally could feel pain, grief, sadness for the loss and stop feeling sorry for herself.
After lunch with Charice, Eustace told her that the car was ready. She went up to her room to take her coat and when she went down to the entrance, Eustace was waiting for her with a bouquet of flowers. The man knew his job very well.
“They are very pretty, thanks Eustace, you are on top of everything.”
“They are blood lilies, they are the emblem of ma'am’s family. I thought they would be appropriate for this occasion.”
“Thank you again,” she replied with a smile.
Eustace had prepared the car with a GPS so that it would be easy to find the way to the lake inside the immense property. Becca put the flowers in the passenger seat and started the car. The trip was simple following the indications of the sat nav and, as Eustace had told her, in about fifteen minutes she arrived at the cemetery. To her surprise, there was no church. She was not used to seeing a cemetery without the corresponding church or at least a chapel, but there was no shadow of anything like it there. The cemetery was on top of a small hill so the views of the lake from there were spectacular and the sun reflecting in the water was blinding. Becca put on her sunglasses and buttoned her coat. She picked up the flowers from the car and entered the cemetery through rusted metal doors ready to search for her mother's grave. And it was not a simple job. The number of graves in the cemetery was tremendous. Some were so old that the names and dates of the tombstones had been eroded by wind and rain. Finally, she found it, a gravestone in grey marble with gold letters. And there she was, in the place where she expected to feel something, whatever it was but something, but only the cold of the absence of emotion bristled her skin. Her mother was still the same stranger she had been all her life, a name without a face, a tombstone without a photograph and a heart without pain.
The cold became even more intense as the sun began to descend and it was pretty clear to Becca that she was wasting her time standing there so she turned around and made her way to the exit. She could not think of anything; the disappointment was so great that it did not let her think about anything else. She drove to the house almost in auto pilot and remained in that state for the rest of the afternoon until dinner. Charice's uncomplicated conversation usually encouraged her but this time it did not help, and even though she tried to concentrate on everything she said, she did not get it and her voice was only a background noise during dinner.
Charice went to bed right after, probably discouraged by Becca's obvious lack of interest, so she decided to go to the library and, hopefully, find a book to help her sleep. Upon entering the library, she noticed that the atmosphere was very warm and pleasant. She noticed that there were two twin fireplaces in the back of the room, next to the door that she had not seen the first time she entered, and they were on. She was beginning to think that Eustace could read her thoughts. She reached the center of the room and sat on one of the sofas. In front of her was a table with several bottles of liquors and some crystal glasses.
“Definitely, he reads my thoughts,” she muttered. She got up and put a glass of something that smelled like Whiskey. It was probably obscenely expensive but, what the hell, now she was a millionaire. She took the glass back to the sofa and when she sat down she saw that the book that the lawyer had given her in the morning was on the sofa.
“Daddy's amazing gift,” she said loudly and sarcastically.
When she picked it up and opened the first page, she cut her finger with the paper. The cut was ridiculously deep, and a few drops of blood fell on the page.
“Shit!” she thought, leaving the cup on the side table.
To her surprise, the blood was not immediately absorbed by the paper but remained on it for a couple of seconds and then the drops moved to merge into one. Then, from the drop began to emerge a line of blood that spread through the paper occupying everything and was eventually absorbed while familiar forms were formed little by little. Becca understood that what was appearing on the paper were letters. A single word appeared before her eyes. Suddenly, the two chimneys were blown out as if by a huge current
of air that could not come from anywhere and the noise was like a great whisper. Becca ran out of the library in panic and went up to lock herself in her room with the book clutched in her arms.
Stories
Becca woke up in bed completely frozen. The book was next to her. She remembered walking into her room shaking with fear and locking the door. She was not used to the noises of the house and each creak accentuated her panic over what happened in the library. She did not remember when she had fallen asleep, but it had undoubtedly been out of pure exhaustion. She had a headache. She went to her bedside table and looked at the time, a quarter past eight. She sat on the bed looking at the book until she finally found the courage to open it. Her mind wanted to believe that it had all been a dream, a bad nightmare, but she knew it was not so.
She looked at her finger. The cut was still there, she had not dreamed it. The pages of the book remained blank, all except the first one where a single word had appeared in the center of the page. Family. The word echoed in her head like the sound of thunder. She struggled to organise her thoughts. The images of what happened in the garden fountain and the events of the previous night were mixed to a meaningless gibberish. She thought maybe she was going crazy, maybe that was the reason for all this. And who could blame her? The shitty life she had to live had to take its toll sooner or later. It was common in psychologically traumatised children to show the consequences of what they had lived, not during childhood, but in their adult life. That could be the explanation. But a part of herself shouted that she was wrong, that there was no explanation for everything she was living but that did not make it less real.
