by Gregory Colt
“Are you cold, madam?” the man said, standing in the hall behind me holding a small candle.
“No,” I screeched, startled. It was Djimon. “Maybe,” I recovered, remembering the chill in the house and trying to sound polite.
“Please,” he motioned me to follow. We walked back down the hall and into the front room again. The candle he held showed how large the wooden staircase was. It dominated the front room, which was larger than I had thought. He gestured for me to continue through an open set of French doors on the right, through what once was a large study, down a short hall wide enough to be a room in its own right, and into a large high-ceilinged formal sitting room. I assumed I was in the heart of the first floor, given what I’d seen of the layout, and with the many doors going from this room to wherever they may.
He gestured for me to sit, and I did so in one of the many carved wooden armchairs with velvet cushions, while he turned to light an oil lamp set on the black marble mantle of a massive carved stone fireplace that occupied the center half of one wall.
Once lit, he kneeled and put the small candle under a prepared stack of firewood already inside.
“There,” he said, standing. “That will be going soon. We will get you warm and drive away this darkness. Are you hungry? Would like something to eat?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Thank you, I’m fine.”
He walked around until he found the chair he wanted, an old velvet Ottoman, and carried it over near me and the growing fire, setting it down and sitting.
“Adrian tells me you may be injured and asks that I take a look at you,” he said, taking my hands one at a time, checking my pulse, and looking at various scrapes and cuts from the elevator fall. He looked into my eyes for a full minute before nodding. “Obviously there is much I cannot tell, but you do not appear in any discomfort from physical pain, and I do not believe you suffer a concussion.”
Oh. I hadn’t even thought of that yet. Was I injured?
“My name is Djimon Adeyemo,” he tilted his head and bowed.
“Claire,” I said, extending my hand at the same time the house shook from a thunderbolt. He leaned forward to shake hands and sat back down.
“Spurling, correct?”
I nodded.
“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Spurling. Truly. We do not get many visitors here. None actually. You are the first,” he smiled.
I needed to work on controlling my facial expressions I guess because I must have given him a quizzical look.
“Solitude suits us, I guess you could say,” he said.
Us? Obviously he was referring to himself and Adrian, but did that imply more?
“So, you and Adrian. I mean to say he’s never mentioned anything about his personal life.”
“Friends,” Djimon said, trying not to laugh. “Adrian and I are friends.”
“Yes, of course. I just meant…how is he?” I asked. “I mean, I know he’s not okay. But, how seriously is he injured?”
“He has many injuries,” he said.
I closed my eyes expecting the worst.
“A concussion, though it appears most of the blood loss was superficial due to the glass. There were so many fine shards of it still in his hair that I am positive they caused the tiny lacerations on his head. I believe that is also the main cause of the majority of his other external wounds, though he says some are a couple of hours older. His hands are swollen and bruised from fighting, and he may have fractured a rib or two, but none seem too bad,” he said.
“So he’ll be okay then? What’s this about another fight earlier? What about his behavior in the car?” I asked, leaning forward.
“His body will heal. Quickly, I have come to learn. I dare say that boy is accustomed at having to do so,” Djimon said with a sigh. “I do not know about this other fight. It is difficult speaking to him when this happens.”
“What do you mean, happens? I thought maybe he had started to lose it after we escaped, or maybe the concussion had done significant damage,” I said.
“He would not want me speaking of it,” he started.
I objected, but Djimon raised his hands.
“But I shall. I shall. Because you are here and that changes a great many things. And, since I assume you will be seeing this through to the end, and because I know he will, you will continue working together and that means there are things you need to know, whether he likes it or not,” he said.
“I will tell for your sake. And his. But please understand it is a long story that, out of respect for my friend, and in honor of others long past, you will only get a small fraction of,” he said.
“I understand,” I said nodding. I didn’t. At all. His tone, his entire demeanor, had shifted from formal and polite, to solemn and reverential. Whatever it was, he was only scratching the surface of it. Long shadows crept along the floor and up the walls in the growing firelight as the seriousness and sincerity in Djimon’s eyes grew tangible.
“Adrian has had a lifetime of experiences, more than one lifetime, of experiences most only see at a great distance, if at all. I have seen men, strong men, take their own lives over such things. Experiences horrific and wicked. Cruel. Evil. And, to his everlasting shame, some he returned in kind. Forgive me for being vague, but there is much to tell,” he said.
“You mean in the war? There was an album. A photo album in Nick Roarke’s office. There were pictures of him and Adrian. A younger man and a woman in the oldest ones. Many more of camps and vehicles and soldiers. I didn’t understand any of it,” I said.
“Yes. The Second Congo War. Adrian and Nick were there. Please do not ask about it. It is for him to say, if he wishes. Besides, I did not meet him until several years into the conflict,” he said.
“Are you saying his experiences in the war did this to him? The things he did? The guilt?” I asked.
“The atrocities of war take their toll on each of us in their own way, but none leave the same as they were before. And, ultimately yes, the conflict itself was the beginning of it all. Though I have wondered if it would have turned out the same anyway,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“It’s nothing,” he said, waving it away.
“You said ‘the beginning of it all’. What did you mean? The beginning of what?” I asked.
“The forging of a man. And the unmaking of another,” he paused, listening for a moment before continuing. “I am being vague again. Forgive me. You see, Adrian and his younger brother, Michael, likely the young man you saw in the older photos, went to Africa to find their sister. You cannot ask me about it. Please do not. But, to know Adrian, that is as good a beginning as any, and maybe the only one that matters,” his voice broke before he finished.
I was beginning to realize that not only did I know nothing of Adrian, but it seemed as though no one really did. Djimon was being ambiguous and I had a difficult time making sense of it. Nevertheless, its telling was enchanting me, though I feared I knew where it was going.
“What happened to her?”
“He finally found her several years later near a nameless backwater on the last day of… He found her… moments before…” Djimon stopped speaking. His eyes were glassy as he turned to the fire, closing them, and taking deep breaths.
I waited for him without moving. I don’t know if I could have if I’d wanted to.
Several moments passed before he turned back to me.
“The English language does not have the words to describe the things done to the girl. Not in a ghastly moment, or minutes of horror, but unending through years,” he said, taking another moment.
“She died in his arms. Right there on the bank. I never believed it was her death that did it, or even the years of evil inflicted upon her, but rather that he found her alive. Her having lived all those years he searched, and not to have found her dead, but to hold her and hear her voice for the first time in half a decade, and that be the last he ever would. To know he had failed
at the only reason he had to live, every second of every day, and to have missed by one single moment. Five years, and he was less than five minutes too late. It broke him,” he said
My lips trembled and my eyes burned. I looked at the ceiling I could now see fully with the fire roaring bright. Right at Adrian above through the chipped panels of angels in flight.
“We found him there, Nick and I, on the bank. He was still holding her, screaming she was alive, and would not let us separate them, though she had died hours earlier,” he finished.
My body shook internalizing a cry.
“And that’s why he… When he started to…?” I couldn’t finish, but Djimon knew my meaning.
“No. It was watching his brother, Michael, die in the days following that shattered him beyond reckoning. Burned alive,” he said.
My God. Adrian.
“Soon after, he was captured and imprisoned for months. No word of him until the camp was liberated, in no small part, thanks to Nick and Irish,” Djimon said.
My emotions had ridden a rollercoaster all day. Jerked and twisted, rolled and spun, in different conflicting directions. Some people go blank because they are empty and have nothing more to say. There was so much going on inside of me that I was blank because of pure emotional whiteout.
“So that’s what he hears? Who he talks to? His brother and sister?” I whispered.
“He sees them. He hears them. In the worst times, it is full-blown hallucinations, reliving those memories of his brother and sister. Sometimes it is one or two other memories. It doesn’t happen often any more. I haven’t seen it this bad in a couple of years, in fact. Normally it is small things, sights and sounds, smells he may recognize, but he forces himself through it,” Djimon said.
“When he was rocking in the car he was…I mean he really thought he was back on the bank of the river?” I asked.
“Yes. I admit I was frightened when I saw it. In his mind, he was holding her as she died all over again. But, he knows it isn’t real and tries to fight it. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it…did you seem him wiping his hands when he got out of the car? Even after he had started to calm down and knew where he was?” he asked.
“Maybe. I thought he was wiping the mist off or he was bleeding again,” I said.
“He rubbed them on his jeans. Then brushed off his knees. He was dusting off the sand he saw there from the river bank,” he said.
“My god. How can he stand it? How does he live with that?” I said.
“It isn’t always this bad. But, you’re right, it is always with him. He manages because he has a purpose. When he isn’t managing so well, that is part of the reason I have stayed with him. I am valet, castellan, chamberlain, steward, trainer, instructor, sounding board, confidant, friend, and surrogate father from time to time, to retired Capitaine Adrian Knight,” he said with formality and a grin towards the end. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“It’s good that he has you,” I said.
He nodded. “Yes, it is. But now, Dr. Spurling, it is your turn to tell me a tale.”
Chapter Twelve
Djimon and I spoke more than an hour on the day’s events. Later it shifted to my training with Henry and my first job in the field, unmitigated disaster it was. We talked about my experiences in Latin America and how I had recently returned.
He asked about the gala, about the events that followed, and the phone calls I made that afternoon. He asked me to repeat everything twice when I got to the attack at the office. He wanted details. How they moved, what were they focused on, and lots of questions that made little sense to me.
He nodded when I described certain things happening to Adrian, like something snapped into place and made perfect sense. Probably relating to injuries he had tended.
The only reaction from Djimon during the telling was when I mentioned the elevator fall. It surprised him, and he looked at the ceiling considering for a moment before staring at me. He gave a half-chuckle, satisfied with whatever he had found.
“He must like you,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I have seen him throw his pride and honor away as an unstoppable pragmatic force, even his principles, and yet surprised at the times he makes great sacrifices for the most idealistic of reasons. I do not always understand why he does the things he does. Sometimes I’m not sure he understands them himself. He had no way of knowing if he would live when the elevator fell. Whatever chance there was, he gave to you. He must not die. His work is not finished yet. He knows this. Forgive me, Dr. Spurling, my heart rejoices that you escaped unharmed, and all the more for this brief time we have spent together, but that boy cannot die,” he said.
“You really care about him don’t you?”
“I wasn’t kidding when I said surrogate father,” he smiled.
“Surrogate mother is more like it,” came a low voice opposite the fireplace.
Djimon stood as I turned to look. Adrian leaned in one of the doorways neither of us had heard open, wearing a long-sleeved cashmere robe the color of charcoal . It looked like he had bathed, his hair still damp. That must have felt nice.
“What are you doing up? You need to be lying down in bed. At least for a full night’s rest,” Djimon said.
“See what I mean?” Adrian said, winking at me.
I laughed out loud.
Adrian turned to address Djimon.
“Would you please escort Miss Spurling to the south wing bath, then meet me in the Lady’s Chamber.”
Djimon stood attentive, listening and smiling at the name of the room.
“Sahib,” he nodded.
Adrian turned and walked away before I could say I was fine, or that I could crash on the couch.
“Doctor,” Djimon said, lifting the oil lamp from the mantle and motioning me to follow.
Adrian had looked, I don’t know, different. Maybe it was just me, or maybe Djimon’s story. Maybe it was just this day, but it was something.
I followed Djimon back through the house and up the grand staircase in the front room to the second floor.
A bath sounded wonderful, but that feeling was being overwhelmed with worry thinking about it. I admit, the state of the old house concerned me about the condition of the bathroom, but I’d been naked in far stranger and more uncomfortable places than this.
I slowed for a moment realizing what I had just thought. Was I comfortable here? A thousand reasons why I shouldn’t be jumped to the forefront of my reasoning, but they didn’t change anything.
Vulnerable was the word I was looking for. That’s what was bothering me about the bath. Could I relax? And, if I did, would I break down again?
“The south wing ma’am,” Djimon announced, moving a folded ladder out of the way and holding back a sheet of plastic hanging from the ceiling.
I stepped through into an even bigger mess. The rest of the hallway, and several rooms to the sides, were stripped to the skeleton of the house and, from what I could see, all in a different state of renovation. An invisible draft gently rippled along the plastic coverings hanging from the walls bringing with it the scent of sawdust as it moved through the dark.
At the end of the hall was another, going off to the right. How large was this place?
I could see light coming from beneath a door at the end of the second hall; the bathroom I presumed. Djimon stopped short as we reached it.
“It locks from the inside. Everything you require should be available. We have not used this room yet, but please feel free to move things around to your liking. I will knock at the door in twenty minutes, but you may stay as long as you wish,” he said.
Never used? I didn’t like the sound of that at all, but I thanked him anyway as he left to join Adrian.
I opened the door and oh…my…god. I was going to bathe in the light of Heaven itself. Heaven, as it existed in 1890. A dozen large candles sat around the room, dominated by a massive two person, freestanding, copper bathtub with the
faintest steam rising from it. The flickering flames threw reflections of light off the bath and lacquered floors, blending into warm colors I didn’t have names for.
The tub faced a window covered in brand new thick velvet curtains. New windows muted the storm outside. On the opposite wall was a massive mirror above a large lacquered vanity with a marble top and matching washbasin below. A matching pitcher of water sat beside the basin. The copper tub didn’t have any pipes coming or going from it either. No running water?
On the wall beside the copper bathtub were wooden cabinets carved to match the vanity and floors. One of the doors was open and had two fresh towels on a middle shelf with a brand new mesh bath sponge on top. It still had the price tag on it. Beside them was an unopened box of Irish Spring—my second favorite soap—and on the door hung a long silk robe and matching pants that looked like they might actually fit, if I tied them tight. There was a half-used bottle of shampoo, which seemed out of place with everything else being new. Adrian had tried, and that made me laugh.
Between the steaming water and my aching body, twenty minutes may not cut it. I slipped off my clothes, taking a moment to check myself over in the mirror for injuries, before grabbing what I would need from the shelves and setting them on the matching stand next to the copper tub.
“Mmmmmmm,” I sighed in ecstasy, sliding into the still steamy water.
There was a knock at the door ten seconds later. Well, okay, it wasn’t ten seconds, but it felt like it when Djimon called my name. I wanted to lie there forever, but my fingers had already begun to shrivel.
I told him I would be a moment, and set about drying off, slipping on the silk robes, and gathering my things before I opened the door.
