A Veil of Glass and Rain

by Petra F. Bagnardi

  As soon as we step into the apartment, Eagan leaves me behind. I don't blame him; he needs someone to make him feel calm and secure, and that person is certainly not me.

  The maid who takes my jacket is dressed in white. When I enter the living room, so huge it is almost a ballroom, I notice that they hired a catering service, and that the waiters and waitresses are all wearing white outfits. It is kind of creepy.

  There's also a string quartet. The musicians all wear black and they all seem quiet young. I immediately recognize their stiff and nervous demeanor, for it was also my posture when I attended music school. I feel a rush of sympathy for them.

  Then my gaze finds the baby-grand piano; it's black, shiny and lonely. In this immense white place we all seem fastidious stains; my peach-pink dress, the musicians' dim clothes, the inky shell of the grand piano.

  A familiar laughter makes me turn toward the party. I see colorful and elegant dresses, and I spot Eagan with his dark clothes and bright eyes, eating, drinking and chatting with his colleagues. Sara is with him. She's not touching him, but she's standing very close to him. She smiles and she makes his life easy.

  It hurts me to know that I can't be like her. What really makes me feel like I'm suffocating, though, is watching Eagan surrounded by people that really seem to care about him. They're not just co-workers, they're friends. Eagan has a new family and he has new dreams in his heart.

  I clutch my purse closer to my body. I'm glad it's small, for it appears to be an integral part of the dress; the maid who took my jacket didn't even notice it. With numb fingers I reach inside and I graze my phone and my car keys. I'm not going to run away, as I can't afford to disappoint Eagan. But the familiar objects grant me a sense of comfort.

  I should really try participate and socialize, because I'm beginning to feel like a misplaced piece of furniture.

  I focus on the music and let it soothe me. The musicians are not playing classical pieces, but modern melodies easily recognizable.

  Classical and modern, a stark new apartment inside and old building, huge windows that open to the eternal city; all these elements clash and mingle into a strange blend.

  And then trouble finds me. It has a voluptuous figure, dark hair, and a seductive voice. And it's holding a sharp knife.

  Sara needs my assistance to cut the pie that she baked. She doesn't ask the waiters or waitresses for help because, while I cut her pie, she wants to be sure I hear everything about her time spent working with Eagan. It is an epic story about a new and unbreakable bond. Each cut into the crusty pie is a wound in my tender heart.

  Then I feel Eagan's warmth beside me. And I see his hand moving toward Sara's hand. “How are my two favorite girls doing?” He demands.

  Then I'm not cutting the pie anymore, I'm slicing Eagan's vulnerable palm.

  I hear the screams. I see the blood. I drop the knife.

  12.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Eagan locks us in the wide white bathroom. From behind the closed door I can hear the startled murmurs of the other guests.

  Eagan shoves his wounded hand under the faucet, letting cold water wash away his blood. Pink rivulets stain the pristine sink. Meanwhile, his left hand yanks the doors of the various cabinets open and then slaps them shut.

  “This house looks like a fucking hospital, but there isn't a damn first-aid kit,” Eagan mutters.

  Through a veil of tears I observe the pink water spinning and disappearing inside the drain. All of a sudden Eagan wraps his fingers around my nape; this time it's not an arousing gesture, it is meant to bring me back to reality. His angry blue eyes pierce and slice my heart.

  “Don't you dare cry over this, Brina. Just help me fix it.” He shakes me, almost roughly.

  I nod and kneel on the cold and polished marble floor. I open the cabinet under the sink and I groan, for all I find are white towels and fluffy toilet paper.

  I glance up at Eagan and I lick my dry lips, tasting the salt of my tears and a hint of lipstick. “Pharmacy. Now.”

  As he gazes down at me, fury fades away from Eagan's expression, and a shady intensity replaces it. He parts his lips, but he doesn't utter any sound. Eventually, he nods.

  In the pharmacy I fall into pieces again.

  The young pharmacist, who's bravely working the night shift, stares at me with compassion mingled with fear. His eyes dart repeatedly from my face to the door.

  My tale is a messy tangle of sobs and words. “He hates me. I know he does. Of course he does. There's really something wrong with me. I'm a very dangerous person!”

  Then I just weep, while the confused pharmacist keeps looking at me and then at the door. Luckily I appear to be his only costumer tonight. At length, I manage to calm down and I ask for the medical supplies I need.

  Eagan is sitting on a bench right outside the pharmacy.

  I sit beside him, then I gently take his injured hand and place it in my lap. As I medicate the wound and I wrap it with gauze, Eagan's lips brush along my naked shoulder.

  “Have you been crying again?” His warm breath teases my skin.

  I shrug. “A little. I'm sorry, Eagan. About everything.”

  I lift his now-bandaged hand and I bring it to my mouth, so that I can kiss each one of his fingertips.

  Eagan heaves a shaky sigh.

  “Don't hate me,” I beg him, as I cradle his hand in my lap again.

  “I don't hate you, Brina,” he says softly.

  I run my fingers over the gauze. “But you hate my driving.”

  “You drive like a crazy person. And my best friend died in a car accident. I don't want to lose you in the same way, or in any other way.” His tone is empty and emotionless, despite that his words seep through my skin and turn my blood into an icy stream.

  I stare up at him. “What?” I gasp.

  “David died.”

  “I know that.”

  “But you didn't know how he died.”

  I shake my head.

  It all happened a few months after the concert and the stolen kiss in the park. When Bea called to tell me about David's death, I didn't ask questions. Bea didn't give me many details, because she wanted me to talk to Eagan. I didn't contact him though, because I still felt too ashamed. I just ran away.

  “I'm a coward. And I'm an awful friend,” I tell him.

  I search his face for disappointment and anger, but I don't find them. I don't find anything, and that scares me even more.

  Eagan gives me a small and sad smile. “No, you're not. You just live a lot inside your own head. But I need you in the real world. With me. I really do, Brina.”

  I bury my face into the hollow of his neck and I wind my arms around his broad shoulders.

  Eagan links his left arm around my waist.

  “I'm so sorry, Eagan,” I murmur against his skin.

  “I know,” he whispers into my hair.

  Our embrace lasts for a long time. I feel the coldness and sorrow melt away from my skin. I never want this closeness to end, but it has to, for there's something else I have to fix tonight.

  The silence before a performance. It is one of the numerous reasons why I left music school.

  It is a particular kind of silence, for it is filled with anticipation. The audience expects you to be amusing, surprising, memorable. But if you aren't, you're presented with another kind of silence, which is full of tedium, disappointment, and resolve to forget about you.

  The audience I'm about to meet is quiet and already upset. That's because they're Eagan's friends and colleagues, and they've all seen me hurting him and arguing with him.

  I don't have only the brief music school experience with me, I also have Ivan and Alessio's teachings. The twins are very talented composers and musicians, but more importantly they are entertainers. They know how to please a crowd, even a difficult one.

  I have to make sure each one of my spectators feels personally involved in my show. In this specific situation my aud
ience is physically very close to me; hopefully, I can turn this proximity into an advantage.

  With only the sound of my footsteps and the wild beating of my heart as accompaniment, I approach the baby-grand piano and sit on the stool. As soon as my fingers stroke the black and white keyboard and give life to the first song, the string quartet joins me.

  I play and sing well known English and Italian tunes for a while, then I look up at the people around me and I smile. They smile back. I play with just my right hand, and with the left hand I motion for them to come closer and to be part of the show. Some of them accept the invitation, others hesitate.

  Then I hear Enrico's distinctive voice. When I glance at Eagan's portly friend, he winks and begins to sing.

  Finally, everyone joins the performance, even Sara.

  I don't see Eagan, but I can feel his eyes on me; his gaze is a comforting caress along the back of my neck.

  When I sense that my audience needs some kind of turning point, I kneel on the stool, as gracefully as possible, then I reach inside the soundboard to pinch and pluck the strings with my fingers, while I keep singing. The unexpected move pleases the spectators; they laugh and they applaud.

  I sit back on the stool. I conclude the song. I take a small bow.

  Afterward, along with the quartet, I keep playing a soft accompaniment for Eagan and Sara's presentation. The other guests are gathered around them. I listen to Eagan's familiar voice, but I don't really follow his speech, I just pay attention to his sure and controlled tone.

  When he finishes, and his colleagues show their appreciation with words and an applause, I end my piece and lift my fingers off the keyboard.

  Then I glance behind me. Eagan, hands in the pockets of his slacks, walks toward me with a serious expression on his face. I stand and meet him halfway. For a moment we stare at each other without saying anything, then I give him a tentative smile.

  “How did it go?” I demand.

  “Very well. Thank you for your music. It really improved the mood,” he says, but his expression remains somber.

  “I love you. You know that, right? I mean, you're my family. And I love you,” I blurt out.

  Eagan's jaw tightens. “You should go home.”

  “What?” Suddenly, I feel like I'm suffocating.

  “Go home, Brina.” He walks away from me to join his friends.

  I do as he asks. I leave.

  13.

  In the story of Eagan and me two lonely kids reach out for one another from across the ocean. They give each other trust and love. They use kind words and simple gestures to make each other happy.

  When I fell in love with Eagan, I ruined everything, because all of a sudden I didn't know how to be his friend any longer. The moment I walked away from him I wasn't protecting our friendship, I was shielding my weak heart. I behaved like a coward. I should have stayed and I should have told him the truth. Eagan would have understood, and he would have even helped me deal with my complicated feelings. And then, I would have been there for him when he was in pain, after David's death.

  Fear is another hideous dress to wear. It is stained with mistakes and wrong choices. It is so ugly, Eagan can barely look at me.

  Eagan doesn't love me anymore. The painful thought keeps pulsing inside my head, and the grief is making me numb.

  After parking my yellow car in the reserved spot in front of my building, I kill the engine and I rest my forehead against the steering wheel.

  The scent of cinnamon still lingers, and I want to lose myself in it before it fades away.

  I've been crying a lot tonight, but I don't intend to do it anymore. I'll let the ache choke me, but then I'll catch my breath again and I'll try to find a way to make everything good again. I'll be resilient, for Eagan deserves a strong friend.

  And he deserves the truth. I'll tell him everything. I hope he will forgive me.

  As I force myself to abandon my yellow cocoon, the television set crashes down onto the sidewalk.

  The story of Clémentine and Marco is about a Canadian girl, who moved to Rome to study performing arts. Then she met a sweet Italian guy and she fell in love.

  But then the girl found another love: Theater. This new love took almost all her time and her heart, making the Italian boy feel neglected.

  Marco, in a clumsy attempt to regain Clém's attention, began to flirt with Virginie, one of his girl's best friends.

  Clémentine found out in the most hurtful way; she saw them in a moment of uncontrolled lust. So Clém returned to her apartment and threw the television set out of the window, because it was a gift from her disloyal boyfriend. She also threw away her love and her trust.

  Curled up in bed with Clém, I stroke her hair until she falls asleep.

  Then I quietly leave her room to call Ivan.

  “What can we do?” He asks me.

  “Come over tomorrow. Keep her company. Cheer her up,” I answer.

  “Sure. We can have a resurrection party. What about you?”

  “There's something I have to take care of. Then I'll get junk food for our party. A lot of junk food.”

  “Sweet. We'll bring wine.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Fine. We'll bring beer.”

  After the phone-call I begin to tremble. It is a sort of coldness that blooms within my core, then it unfurls and crawls underneath my skin

  I'm unable to dispel it. I take a hot shower, I wear my warmest sweats, I hide under a mountain of blankets, but nothing works.

  The ice bites my heart and marks it with hurtful words.

  He doesn't love me anymore.

  As soon as I emerge from the darkness of the subway, the sun blinds me and I shield my eyes with my hand. I stand for several moments in a semi-blind status, drowning in the crowd and in the bright light.

  I don't feel anything.

  In truth, I haven't really felt anything in a long time. I've been walking on numb feet since the day I stole the kiss from Eagan, and I ran away.

  I'm crumbling; food tastes like ash, there's the constant feeling of icy fingers worming under my skin, and my love for music is fading away. Without Eagan in my life I am a frozen pond reflecting the sun, but never absorbing its heat.

  I drop my hand and I stare up at the Colosseum; my resilient giant, with its numerous arched windows open to the world and all that comes with it: Sorrow, pain, joy. And still it stands.

  I find a grassy spot, where I can sit. I dig my phone out of the front pocket of my jeans and I send a message to Eagan, asking him to join me for lunch.

  I want the Colosseum to witness my small act of courage. I'm going to be honest with Eagan. I hope he'll understand. I hope I can save our friendship.

  Eagan's answer arrives almost immediately. He's coming right away. I check the time on my phone screen; it's the middle of the day.

  The turf is humid. My legs are cold. My jeans don't seem to offer any protection. I'm wearing a black T-shirt, but it appears to deflect the warmth of the spring sun, instead of holding it in.

  I need a distraction. I look around and focus my attention on the tourists. They're speaking, their lips move, but I can't hear them. The rush of blood in my ears muffles the sounds.

  And the colors seem clouded.

  Then my skin begins to tingle, and my senses slowly awaken. The reason is walking toward me.

  I'm not the only one who notices Eagan's approach. Eagan is vital. When he walks, his feet don't merely touch the ground, but they receive energy from it. I've seen the water lapping lovingly at his muscles, and now I stare at the sun stroking Eagan's skin with its light, like a possessive lover.

  Eagan doesn't just glance at the people around him, he captures them with his greedy gaze.

  My best friend doesn't live life, he devours it.

  As he reaches me, I stand on wobbly legs, I whisper his name, then I fall down on my knees. Immediately, Eagan kneels in front of me and grabs my shoulders.

  “Brina?” His voice is wo
rried.

  I try to smile, while I drink him in. His blue eyes are dusky. The beard stubble shadowing his face gives him an older and more dangerous appearance.

  I want to reach out and trail my fingers over his soft lips.

  He repeats my name. My eyes move away from his face and settle on my hands, clasped in my lap.

  “I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you after David died, please forgive me,” I manage to utter.

  Eagan squeezes my shoulders. “I forgive you.”

  “I disappeared. I avoided you because four years ago something happened. I was in love with you and I stole a kiss. It was after my concert. You were sleeping. You looked so lovely. I couldn't resist. I had to kiss you. But afterward I was ashamed. We were friends and I felt like I had betrayed our bond. I ran away because I could not face you. I was a coward. I know now.”

  Eagan strokes his hands across my shoulders, and along the column of my neck, then he cups my face in his palms and tilts it upward to meet his gentle gaze. The band-aid on his right hand scratches my skin. As his forehead touches mine, I close my eyes, for I'm afraid.

  Eagan's thumbs caress my cheeks.

  “Don't cry,” he says.

  “I'm not.”

  He chuckles. “Yes you are, kitty-cat.”

  “I can't even feel my own tears. Damn it, Eagan! I'm a mess without you, and I'm a mess with you. I don't know what to do.” Then a painful sob escapes from my throat, then another and another.