Love is a Perfect Place

by Michael Graeme

  Love is a Perfect Place

  Michael Graeme

  Published: 1999

  Tag(s): "short story" romance speculative fantasy mystery

  Love is a Perfect Place

  by

  Michael Graeme

  Tom woke up that morning to find the bed he was in was not the one he remembered retiring to the night before. Worse, he realised the person sleeping beside him was not his wife, but a girl barely out of her teens - and she was stirring.Sleepily, she opened one eye and smiled as if she knew him, before realising she didn't.

  "Who the hell are you?" she said.

  Tom would have reacted quicker except he was sure she'd spoken French, a language he had not learned. Inexplicably though, he'd understood her. "I might ask you the same," he replied.

  But she wasn't listening and at once leaped out of bed cringing and clutching at her night-gown. "What have you done to me?"

  It was definitely French, he thought. "I haven't touched you," he said. "For pity's sake girl, I have daughters older than you."

  And she was puzzled, for likewise, although the sounds of his words were unfamiliar, their meaning seemed perfectly clear inside of her head.

  She noticed her hands then, as if for the first time. They were smooth and slender but her expression suggested to Tom they were not quite what she had expected. She turned to the dressing table and peered at her face in the mirror. Finally, her mouth agape, she stroked the smooth contours of her young brow and shook her head in bewilderment.

  "But I'm eighty six," she said.

  He looked at his own hands then. They were smaller than he remembered and less wrinkled. His arms and chest too seemed different - more muscular, and his undisciplined, middle aged gut was now flat and firm. Then he caught his own reflection in the mirror and was stunned. He'd turned fifty last month but now he appeared to be not a day over twenty five.

  "It's not me," he said weakly. But clearly it was him - only not on the outside.

  He tore from bed and threw open the curtain. Below was a large garden, a stunning jamboree of midsummer colour while beyond the land rose sharply, wild land, green, but with caps of craggy grey rock, where last night had been a familiar urban skyline.

  "Where am I? You must know something, girl. What's going on? Where's my wife?"

  She began to tremble. "I don't know," she wailed. "I don't know."

  He found some clothes in the wardrobe and dressed hurriedly. The clothes were old fashioned and the cloth felt coarse against his skin, but they smelled fresh and were pressed like new. Across the landing, he found two more bedrooms, both unoccupied, and a bathroom. The fittings looked antique, Victorian perhaps, but they sparkled in pristine perfection.

  Downstairs, there was a kitchen with the remains of a fire in the grate of a cast iron range. The air felt cold, so he opened the grille and poked at the embers, coaxing some life back into the fire. Then he gazed around, his eyes seeing but still not believing. It all bore that same antique look and also the same strange newness - a stout oak table without so much as a scratch and pans whose bottoms had never felt the heat of the stove.

  Eventually the girl ventured downstairs, her eyes wide with fear and astonishment. In the bolder light of the kitchen she looked no more than nineteen, yet she was moving with the slow, shuffling gait of an old lady. She had found a long tweed skirt and a blouse which, like his own clothes were of an old fashioned style, but perfect.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to be rude just now."

  "It's all right. It was,… understandable." He offered her his hand. "My name's Tom."

  She pressed it gently. "Yvette," she replied.

  "And you are French?"

  "Yes. And you are English?"

  "Yes. I come from Manchester - at least that's where I was last night - and I don't speak French."

  "Nor, I English," she replied. "Yet we seem to understand one another."

  Tom sank down at the table. "This is impossible, Yvette. There must be an explanation - but I can't imagine what."

  "I know."

  "Perhaps it's an hallucination."

  "If it's an hallucination," she said, "then one of us isn't real, yet you seem real to me." She was embarrassed now. "Tom?"

  "Yes?"

  "Don't take this the wrong way but I made love with someone last night."

  He shrugged. "No, not with me you didn't.You must have been with someone else when you went to bed."

  "I'm eighty six, remember? My only companion was a nurse at my bedside."

  "Then you're mistaken."

  "I admit it's been a while since I made love to anyone, but not so long I don't recognise the evidence of the morning after. How can you be certain it wasn't you?"

  "It's simply not possible, that's all."

  "But,… "

  "If you must know, I'm not able,… I haven't been for years." She was such a pretty girl he thought, at the very peak of her allure and he turned away, ashamed to be discussing such things with her.

  She gave him a sympathetic smile which he thought seemed genuine. "I'm sorry," she said. "But Tom, yesterday I could hardly walk. And if my disabilities no longer apply, then why should yours?"

  Tom considered the idea for a moment and shuddered. He found the notion disturbing at the deepest level of his psyche and he was about to tell her so when suddenly, they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Her name, she said, was Nancy and she bade them welcome. She was tall, ebony skinned and possessed of a beauty that was so startling neither of them felt it could possibly be real. There was an unsettling symmetry about her features and also an eerie familiarity in the way she looked at them.

  She wore a long frock-coat with a radiant white cravat at her throat which lent her an air of flamboyant elegance, and she spoke a language neither recognised though of course they understood her perfectly, as if her words were being translated inside their heads as she spoke.

  Tom felt Yvette's hand curling around his arm in solidarity and he drew an unexpected comfort from it.

  "Do you know us?" he asked.

  Nancy smiled. "Of course."

  "Then who are we?"

  "Who would you like to be?"

  "The people we were yesterday," Tom said.

  Nancy smiled evasively. "May I come in?"

  She sat at the table, spreading her coat tails and arranging herself in a queenly fashion. Then she gazed around approvingly. "These imaginings are very fine indeed," she said.

  "Imaginings?"

  "All of this," she said, "is woven by your imagination, including me. Think of me as a manifestation of your unconscious minds. Thus, I can know only what you know yourselves, though are perhaps unaware of - which may be more than you think."

  "Then explain how I can get back to my wife," said Tom.

  "You can't," said Nancy. She sighed, then placed a warm hand on top of his. "This will be hard for you to understand, but believe me when I say a part of you woke up this morning beside your wife as normal. How can I put this? Your existence has,… bifurcated."

  Tom could not help himself. He laughed. "Bifurcated?"

  "Yes Tom. You see, in your previous form it was necessary for your mind to make copies of itself. The physics of the vessel that contained you was imperfect, allowing parts of your consciousness to become dysfunctional from time to time. But the copies were always there, ready to take over, ready to guarantee the apparent continuity of your existence through to the end of your vessel's life span. Periodically, the copies are released and fresh ones made."

  Tom drew back in growing disbelief. "Released?"

  "Consciousness is like energy," she went on. "There are principles of conservation to be obeye
d. It cannot be created nor destroyed, but merely changed from one form into another. And if it cannot be destroyed, then it must be released from the host vessel. Do you understand?"

  Yvette nodded, seeming less horrified than Tom. "Go on," she said.

  "There is a misconception about consciousness," said Nancy. "A belief that a vessel of suitable complexity must exist before consciousness can come into being. But in fact it is the other way around. It is consciousness which forms for itself a vessel and an environment in which to explore and grow. All of what you see and what you are has been spun from the fabric of the universe, to a design from the deeps of your own mind."

  Tom remained dazed and unbelieving. "I'm just a copy?"

  "More than a copy, Tom. Think of yourself as having moved on. You exist on a higher plane than you did before. These new vessels will not wear out as did your previous ones. Here your consciousness can live to its true potential - such fine vessels, too. You will take great pleasure in one another, I'm sure."

  Yvette looked away. "It appears we already have," she said.

  Nancy smiled. "Don't be alarmed. You are what each of you has been searching for, all your many lives thus far. Over the coming days, you will realise the truth of this. You will develop feelings for one another - these are natural. Do not be ashamed to express them."

  "But I'm married," said Tom. "I have a wife, children,… they need me."

  Nancy shook her head. "Remember, you are still with them, Tom. Your previous life goes on unchanged. You are merely unaware of it now. This part of you is free to pursue another course."

  "But I don't want to be free," he said. "I want to go home."

  She looked at him, her eyelids drooping in sympathy. "These feelings will pass," she said.

  "But there has to be some way back," he said and he looked to Yvette for support but she glanced away, unable to meet his gaze.

  Nancy shook her head slowly. "You must understand, Tom, there is no need to return, because you are already there." She rose to leave. "You need time to adjust to all this strangeness. I shall come again. For now, remember, you will find everything you require here. You need only think of it, and it shall be,… "

  When she had gone, Tom ventured alone into the garden. The colours were bright and the air felt clean upon his tongue, but there was a profound stillness over the land, so that he could hear only the sound of his own breath and the anxious pounding of his heart. Finally, in a daze, he crouched and ran the soil through his fingers. It was good soil, a fine sandy loam and it gave life to the healthiest of blooms. Perfect! Everything was so,… perfect!

  After a while, the front door opened and Yvette appeared. She was not aware of him, still crouching among the tall flowers. She moved cautiously at first, unused to such freedom of movement. Gradually though, she gained confidence and eventually he saw her throw up her arms, her face lit with delight, and then she skipped the length of the garden, her skirt dancing, her hair wild and loose. He knew then she had been won over by the prospect of life anew, that he was alone in his horror.

  She stopped when she saw him, then knelt and placed a hand on his arm. "Tom?"

  He gave her a smile but she could see he was deeply afraid and lonely so she laid her head upon his shoulder and wrapped him in the comfort an embrace. Gradually then, through the numbness of his stunned senses, he became aware of her warmth and her closeness.

  "Let me comfort you," she said.

  It might have been the sweetest solace, except he belonged to someone else and for him Yvette's mere proximity carried with it the hint of a betrayal.

  He untangled himself at once. "No," he said. "We should see what else there is. We'll need food. There's a path of sorts beyond the gate. Perhaps we could wander down the valley a little,… there might be others."

  Yvette stood back, surprised and not a little disappointed. "All right," she said and for a moment the fear in her returned. She had not thought there might be others. Indeed, she hoped there were not.

  She hoped with all her heart that she and Tom were alone - just the two of them, in this perfect place.

  They set out along the unmade track beyond the gate. It was a beautiful valley with high peaks on either side, and a stream lending an oddly subdued voice to the serenity of the ever changing vista before them. It was as if the beauty were unable to express itself from beneath the weight of an inexplicable sadness.

  They walked into the afternoon before Yvette drew a halt, her hand checking his arm. "There's nothing, Tom. We can see for miles and there's nothing. We are alone. Truly we are."

  He squinted at the sun. It was slipping lower, the shadows lengthening, hinting at the evening to come. There would be darkness to follow and the thought filled him with a renewed terror.

  "You're right. We'd better turn back," he said. "Are you hungry yet?"

  She shook her head.

  "Me neither." Nor was he thirsty, even though he had walked for hours beneath the hot sun. He crossed to the stream and found a rocky pool, deep and clear, into which a white ribbon of water tumbled. He scooped some water up and drank. It astonished him. It tasted like he imagined the most perfect water should taste, but it was a sensation spoiled by the mere fact that he wasn't at all thirsty.

  "Perhaps we don't need food,… or water," he said. "Only when it pleases us."

  He looked around then at the land and he felt a chill. What manner of place was this? And what manner of being had he become?

  On the way back, Yvette took his hand and they held on to one another like frightened children, until the cottage came once more into view. It comforted them to see it, their spirits lifting at the warm colours of its quarried stone and at the welcoming perfumes of its garden. There, they sat on a bench by an emerald lawn, resting and sipping tea, while the sun sank lower and the shadows reached clear across the valley.

  Eventually, Yvette turned to him. "Tom," she said. "Aren't you even a little excited? Aren't you pleased with that handsome body?"

  He looked at her, not knowing what to say. Earlier, he had washed in the privacy of the bathroom and out of curiosity, had undressed before the long mirror to examine the perfection of his new form. It had been difficult not to be impressed. But then before his eyes, as his mind had filled with the memory of the warm press of Yvette's hand, the creature at his loins, so long dormant, had begun to waken.

  Tom had always been faithful to his wife, but secretly he'd been distracted from afar by pretty girls throughout his married years. And since, for him, girls were at their most physically captivating in their teens and early twenties, it was a distraction that had seemed to grow more tiresome and more ridiculous, the older he had become. So he had not mourned the passing of his virility. Why should he? It had been a torment to him. But now, what possible point could there be in such an astonishing renewal?

  It seemed almost cruel!

  He shivered at the memory as he faced Yvette. "It's just that this is a very young body," he said. "There are processes going on in it that I'm not used to. In fact I wonder how I ever coped with such intensity, when I was younger."

  Yvette hugged herself. "I know, isn't it wonderful?"

  As the evening grew late, Tom became increasingly nervous about lingering outdoors. "Would it please you to eat?" he asked, and Yvette, just as nervous, replied that it would.

  Once inside, she searched the larder.

  "That's odd," she said. "I looked in here this morning for marmalade."

  "I don't think there is any," he replied.

  She emerged holding a jar of freshly made preserve. "Well there is now, and there's more bread."

  "We must have overlooked it," he said, but then he remembered Nancy's words about finding everything they needed here, that they had only to think of something, or desire it, to make it happen. He'd not supposed she'd meant it literally. But if they could truly spin a physical reality by merely thinking then what else could be made to happen?

  Gradually, throughout their me
al, he noticed the way Yvette was sitting,… the curve of her hips, the press of her bosom against her blouse, and suddenly, as in days of old, he felt himself momentarily given over to the pleasure of a most delicious distraction. He caught himself then and snatched his eyes away.

  "Tom?"

  "It's nothing," he said. But it was something, only he dared not say, for now it seemed his fancies could no longer be considered harmless. If it were true, even thinking about her could make it happen. Then, as if intent on making things even more difficult, Yvette came to him and placed a hand upon his shoulder. He felt it, soft and warm.

  "Tom," she said. "Will you lie with me tonight?"

  He recoiled. "I can't," he said, disturbed as much by her request as by his own pleasure at the idea of it. "Please, you've got to understand, Yvette - inside my head, I'm still the man I was yesterday. In thirty years of marriage, I've never been with another woman."

  She looked at him as if she had been shot through, but she understood and respected him for it. "It's just that I'm afraid," she said. "I only want to have you near me in the darkness. I don't want to sleep alone."

  Yes, she was afraid, he thought - afraid if she slept alone, she risked somehow breaking the mysterious spell of this place and waking tomorrow to find it had all been dream. Tom knew this because he felt it too, only he was afraid of the opposite, that by lying with her might somehow perpetuate the nightmare.

  Darkness came slowly to the old house and Yvette withdrew silently upstairs to undress. Tom followed shortly, his way lighted by the amber glow from an oil lamp. He took one of the spare bedrooms, and lay down fully clothed upon the bed. Then he turned out the lamp and was plunged instantly into total blackness.

  He slept, eventually, the blind hours of his confinement being disturbed only by fleeting ghosts from his former life. He was woken by the dawn and as he opened his eyes, he felt a glimmer of optimism, but then he realised the room was the same and he was alone. With a heavy heart, he slipped out onto the landing and peered into Yvette's room. She was stirring. She opened her eyes and he saw in them a flicker of doubt before she realised she was still there, still young,… and then she smiled.