by Tim Lebbon
His front door opened and closed and so did the basement door, and people were excitedly discussing a WunderKar guerilla marketing campaign very close to where Howard was sitting now, but it was the un-sound from hours earlier that Howard concentrated upon. It vibrated through vessel, tissue, organ, and bone, starting at his fingertips. The un-sound wasn’t unpleasant this time. It had been improved, just as he was improved, just as we’ll all be improved.
THE HOUSE IN MY HEART
RACHEL AUTUMN DEERING
MARIE ISN’T HER REAL NAME but she haunts an antique shop in France and that much I can swear to be true. She haunts the world that lives in the blurred forms of my periphery and she haunts every corner of the little house in my heart. But she’s restless there and she never goes to bed and she’s always up, moving from room to room on those creaking floorboards and whispering something to the walls.
I can see her in the electric light that swims through the summer storm clouds and in all the drops of rain that make Kentucky green. I watch her fall from the sky and I wish I could be everywhere at once. I would catch her up and collect her in a pitcher and drink her in forever. Oh, Marie. She’s haunted everything I am since the day I met her and all I can seem to think about is how much I want to be a ghost too.
I’m dying while I wait.
I haven’t heard from her in more than three months. The irrepressible voice from the house in my heart whispers, I don’t love you. It is amplified by my insecurity and louder it screams, I never did. All logic and dignity having yielded to sentiment, here I am suspended miles above the formless Atlantic, gazing down into the black nothing and hoping Nietzsche was somehow wrong about the abyss. Has she forgotten me? Forgotten the summer? Those evenings spent in the heat of her tiny apartment over the antique shop, filling the space between us with so much longing. Filling the hours with our confessions, drawing out time and distorting it until morning became night and the names of the days lost their meaning. On that dusty black piano she would play away the sun and when the light of the moon washed the color out of the world and hushed man and beast into dreaming, we breathed life into one another and let our secrets die on the sheets.
‘I wish I were beautiful. More like you,’ she said.
She stood behind an ornate full-length mirror, only her head visible above it. My body was reflected in its surface and she looked down and smiled, her delicate fingers tracing the edge of the frame. ‘I have curves.’ She laughed a little, closed her eyes, and began to hum. Her beauty was endless. She crossed thin arms over a blanched chest, embracing herself, and danced away from the mirror. She swayed to the music in her mind and I could almost hear something of the soundtrack to her fantasy. I watched her and lost myself in the gentle rhythm of her padding feet on ancient floorboards and did all I could to keep from falling in love. It wasn’t enough.
In Paris, I trade wing for rail and make my way on to Puy-l’Évêque through the vast plains and bountiful vineyards that slope gently toward heaven. The hills that swell to mountains, kiss the cloudy skies, and fall off into glittering lakes. They all sweep by outside my window and I find their beauty lost to my unease, blown away by a sigh.
It doesn’t feel like the France I left behind.
I drink down what remains of a glass of yellow Chartreuse and whiskey and step off the train into the cold, especially thankful for the warmth in my throat. The antique shop is six blocks away but I find myself wishing it were farther. Somehow I know I’m not ready to see Marie. What could I say? What words could ever hold enough value that I might hope to buy even a moment of her time? Desperate for somewhere to be alone and think, I let myself wander between buildings painted by the time-muted tones of aged graffiti. I feel confused, like a rat in a maze, not sure what I’m looking for but certain I need to find it. My heels click on cobblestones and echo through alleys I never knew and I feel more alone than I ever did back home.
The sign on the door is hung by a string and it says open. The dappled light that filters through the towering junk piled inside the window is warm and yellow, but none of it feels welcoming as it once did. I want to turn away and hide my fear and shame but I push open the door and wince at the familiar chatter of the bells. I shut out the street behind me and shake off the cold of early French spring, crossing my arms one over the other and rubbing my hands up and down the length of my coat sleeves. Yvette is watching me from behind the counter.
I conjure what might pass for a smile as I take a few small steps, glancing around me at the shelves of jewelry and clocks and dishes and dolls. The dresses—brocade and damask and jacquard—hang loose on mannequins that stand tottering at odd angles, bent with their years of silent service. The dim lamps and dramatic cherubs of statuary bronze with their rich umber patina on battered table tops, supported by uneven legs. And the black piano, dominating a corner softened by heavy wall drapes, every bit of it smothered under layers of dust and indifference. My brows twitch and the muscles in my neck tighten as my eyes crawl across the pell-mell arrangement of objects out of time. I scan, studying every detail with frantic haste, looking for some sign of the woman I love. Nothing in this room has moved and yet none of it is in place because the very concept of place could only ever exist as a point of reference for Marie. She anchored everything.
‘I wondered when you might come,’ she says.
‘I hope today is okay.’ I take a few more steps into the room. It still doesn’t feel right.
‘Could have been sooner.’ She reaches under the counter and retrieves a black rectangular something. My eyes fix on it and I don’t want to blink.
‘I’m sorry. Is she here?’
Yvette clears her throat and shoves the black thing across the counter at me. It’s a notebook with a thin, red ribbon bookmark. The edges of a few postcards stick out from between pages here and there and I recognize the cursive penwork as my own. My hand trembles almost imperceptibly as I reach for it and I feel stupid for letting my nerves show. I look up to Yvette, my eyes asking if she’s sure it’s okay. Her eyes are inscrutable and gray and they make me feel like nothing I have done has ever been okay. I look away and snatch the book off the counter, bringing it close to my chest. For a moment I think I can taste Marie on my lips, but then she’s gone. The trembling moves from my hand to my stomach and I feel the bomb blast of nausea moving through me in waves.
Where are you, Marie?
Yvette doesn’t protest when I walk to the back of the shop and start up the stairs to the little apartment. There’s a door at the top of the landing and it’s closed. I try not to picture what might be behind it, but my mind hurries ahead without me. I see myself stepping into the room and Marie is there, sitting on her bed wearing a familiar sad smile and a summer dress. She opens her arms to me and I do the same for her, but the distance between us is too great and we can’t make our fingers meet no matter how far we reach. I’m back in the stairway now and each tired step moans under the weight of my ascent, lamenting my journey, a warning against what’s to come.
The room is empty. No bed. No mirror. No Marie. Empty. I feel myself shrink away from the ceiling and I’m sitting with my legs folded under me in the middle of the room, taking in all the absence. There are four scuffs on the floor around me and I know I’m sitting where the bed used to be. Where we used to be. I feel like I’m sinking into the floor, suffocating in this space filled with nothing but air and memories and maybe the specter of something floral, powdery. Confusion floods my vision and washes everything white and I want to be as far from here as I can get.
I look down at the notebook laying open on my lap. The red ribbon bleeds between the pages and one of the postcards has slipped most of the way out. The side facing up offers Greetings from Kentucky: The Bluegrass State and a pair of horses silhouetted against a setting sun racing infinitum. I remember this day.
Marie,
There was a French film playing in the cinema downtown so I took the day out of work and caught an early showin
g. I wonder if you’ve seen it. It’s called Masculin Féminin. Hearing the actors speak, it felt like you were there beside me, even if I didn’t catch most of what they said. Anyway, the soundtrack is fantastic. I went by the bookstore after the film let out and bought an English-to-French dictionary. I plan to practice every night until the next time we’re together. I hope then that I might be able to understand when you tell me what I mean to you. I want to know.
Now that I see the open pages, I recognize the notebook is a journal. I consider for a moment whether or not I should read something so private, but then isn’t that what Yvette intended? I abandon doubt and let the text come into focus. The words are built of thoughtful letterforms from a steady hand. The entries bookmarked by my postcard read:
May 28
An American woman came today into the shop. I asked if she need help to find something for her or a gift for another but she looked away and I think she said to me to leave her alone, but I am not so sure. She was strange and shy but very beautiful. I wanted to give her privacy so I go to my piano and began to play some songs. I think my music made her calm. She listened to me playing for a long time and then she left. I wish I asked her name.
May 31
Yvette said an American lady came today. She ask about buying the piano but Yvette said she cannot sell it because it is mine. I think maybe it is the same woman. I hope she will come again. I will continue to write these in English because some day I might show her.
Another postcard. A snowman hangs from the end of a noose of multi-colored lights, bits of coal suggesting ex’d out eyes. Tis the Season arcs across the top in ornate script. The only sense of humor I ever had was purchased in a drugstore.
Marie,
Joyeux Noël! My parents asked what I wanted for Christmas this year and I suggested they could buy a plane ticket for you. They said we will talk about it again when the weather is better. I hope they are serious. I am. It’s all I want. If they get me any other gifts, I will simply refuse to open them. Maybe that will show them how much I care for you. I want to hear all about your gifts! Please write back soon. Oh, and give Berja a treat from me!
June 16
Finally she kissed me! She is in the toilets now but I wanted to make sure I record this moment for the future. For our future, maybe.
June 25
I am sorry I don’t make so much time to write here these days. I am happy. Very happy. She accept me just as I am and makes no criticism. I accept her too. I know she has concern that her mental state will make me afraid, but I think I can keep her calm. Keep her present. I will not let her feel shame for her mind. She told me my music is good for her and I think it must be true we need each other.
I Prefer Girls. The cover neatly cut away from the book and fashioned into a postcard. I thought it was clever at the time. Exciting. Two women reaching for one another, dark hair and red lips laying on a bed with an open blouse and a pencil skirt, the other standing above her in a tight red dress with one strap slipping down her shoulder. The author’s name was not her own, which I found symbolic in some way. I never explained any of this to Marie.
Dearest Marie,
My parents don’t understand us. They’ve cancelled our vacation to France this year because they’re afraid I might run away with you. They’re right, though. I would. I will. I have asked my boss to increase my hours at work so that I can get an apartment in the city and begin saving for your plane ticket. They tell me I could never make it on my own with my breakdowns, but they don’t know how you take care of me. Please hold on a little longer. I am trying.
The final entry.
January 7
I am afraid. She will not love me if she knows the truth. I feel so ugly now, more than ever before. All the hands on my skin and none touch me like she did. So much bad breath and it make me feel sick but I smile for them so they do not stop. So they will pay me. They do not care who I am or what I am. In the dark they can make me anything they imagine. They only care that their wives do not know. Still, Puy-l’Évêque is a small town and I know some of them like to brag. It is only a matter of time before the wrong person will hear what I do for the men. But I think I will afford a ticket to America soon and I will not be here to face their judgment. I will tell her I sold my piano to make the money. I do not like to lie but I will do anything to protect her from this truth. Yvette knows what I do. And why. The divorce is final this week.
A slip of thin paper folded into quarters falls from the notebook. Blue ink bleeds through, teasing at the reverse side. Straight, tidy lines and precisely placed symbols and words written backward and I know what it is. It’s the promise of music, begging to be played, and I wish it would sing itself off the page and make me feel whole again but I can’t bring myself give in to it. Not now. I tuck the secret song back in place, close the journal, and slip it into a deep pocket on the inside of my coat.
I lay on the floor for some time and drift in and out of some terrible version of sleep. I see them touching her in the dark. I see her smile. I recall the summer and how she smiled at me. I check my breath. Chartreuse and time, not particularly pleasant. How long have I been lost to reverie? I can’t be sure. The sun is down and the air in the room feels cold and damp. The skin around my eyes is tight and swollen and sore from the tears that had pooled and dried there.
The stairs are somber and silent and drowning in shadow as I make my way back down to the shop. A single light above the front door grabs hold of me and drags me through the muted room, the dishes and dolls and dresses all heap their sympathies upon me. I pass by the piano and drag the tip of my finger through the dust. Two quick swipes, mirror images, the shape of a heart. If the bells are still hanging there above the entrance, I don’t hear them as the door sweeps open and shut. A spring wind cuts through me from somewhere off in the night and forces a rude sort of sobriety. I’m present.
Yvette leans against the window, taking long draws from a short cigarette. No filter, hand-rolled, exceedingly French, and why do I care? The cherry is reflected in her dark eyes and I know she hates me, but I have to ask for the sake of what stability I have left.
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Oui.’ An overlong stream of smoke passes between her lips. She crushes the ember between her thumb and forefinger and lets the few remaining bits of tobacco fall to the pavement at her side. I wonder if her lungs are as black as her heart. The thought seems funny and maybe I should laugh, but I don’t. Later, maybe.
‘Should I even bother to ask?’
She slips a rolled up newspaper from the back pocket of her jeans and leans into the smudge of yellow electric light, offering it to me. ‘If you’re sure you want to know. Je vous en prie.’
The date is visible. February 6, 1967. Nearly two months old.
A headline: Prostituée Assassinée; Le suspect n’a pas encore été arrêté.
(Prostitute Murdered: The suspect has not yet been arrested.)
The details: Un Francaise de 28 ans avait été retrouvé mort au fond d’un puits à Puy-l’Évêque, près de Duravel, hier soir, plus de 3 journées après avoir disparu. Sa voisine, le meurtrier présumé…
(The only woman who ever dared to love me is gone.)
I decide I won’t give Yvette the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I tuck the newspaper into my jacket pocket and bring out the journal. I flip to a blank page.
‘You were divorced,’ I say.
‘Yes. Finally.’ She locks the door and checks the handle. I hear the bells this time and my mind catches on a line from a poem. It tolls for thee.
I write my name at the top of the blank page. ‘What did you do with her belongings?’
‘In the dump. At the edge of the town.’ She stuffs her keys into her pocket and cranes her neck awkwardly to see what I have written. Her brow is knitted, her lips pursed.
‘Not all of it,’ I say.
‘Yes, all of it,’ she insists.
‘The first day we met. You refused to
sell that piano to me because you said it was hers. It’s still here.’ She remembers. I can see it in the way she shifts her weight.
Her left eyebrow arches dramatically. ‘So what? You still want to buy it?’
‘No. I want you to use the money you took from her room—the money she had saved, the money she died for—and ship it to me. To my home.’ I finish writing my address and tear the page from the notebook.
‘I don’t—’ She hesitates. I bury my address in her palm and squeeze her hand.
‘Don’t argue. Please.’ I turn to face the street and try to visualize the route to the hotel my parents always book for us. Green shutters. On the river.
‘Fine. It’s better with you. I cannot stand the sight of it.’ She curses me under her breath.
I arrive back home on a Tuesday. The piano is delivered on a rainy afternoon, two Thursdays after. Par avion. Three men bring it in through the double doors in the study and though it’s far too large for the room, I won’t have it moved. That will be the last time anyone else ever touches what’s left of Marie. I make a mental note of it. The curves of the heart are still there where I left them and all the dust that surrounds it and I think that must mean something. I close my eyes and press down on a few of the keys. The notes sound sweet and familiar and I begin to shake. The thought of playing the same notes Marie once played is overwhelming in this moment so I draw my hands back to me and let them rest on my lap.
A clock ticks on the wall.
I unfold the song for the first time and gently, methodically smooth out the wrinkles. Every mark on the paper is deliberate and it smells vaguely floral, powdery. There’s a title written across the top in all capital letters: LA REVOIR. It means, TO SEE HER AGAIN. I don’t speak music yet, but I plan to practice every night until the next time we’re together. I hope then that I might be able to understand when she tells me what I mean to her. I want to know.
