A Slight Trick of the Mind

by Mitch Cullin

  They continued past irises, past chrysanthemums—one before the other—until, for a moment, he lost sight of her where the trail wound behind a tall hedgerow, seeing only the parasol, which floated above the foliage. Then her parasol dipped from view, and her footsteps on the gravel fell quiet. And when he rounded the corner, she was much closer than he expected her to be. Settling herself upon a bench which marked a fork in the trail, she placed the shut parasol across her lap and opened the book. Quite soon, he knew, the sun would angle below the park's walls, casting everything in darker hues. Now you must act, he told himself. Now, while light persists.

  Tucking in his ascot, he nervously approached her, saying, “Pardon me.” For he wanted to enquire about the volume she was holding, politely explaining that he was a collector of books, an avid reader, and was always interested to learn about what others were reading.

  “I've only just begun it,” she said, glancing at him warily when he sat down beside her.

  “How wonderful,” he said, speaking enthusiastically, as if to hide his own awkwardness. “It certainly is a pleasant location in which to enjoy something new, wouldn't you agree?”

  “It is,” she answered in a composed voice. Her eyebrows were very thick, almost bushy, giving her blue eyes a stern appearance. She seemed annoyed by something—was it the imposition of his presence, or simply the guarded reticence of a cautious, withdrawn woman?

  “If I may—” he said, nodding at the book. A reluctant moment transpired before she offered it to him, and, marking her page with his index finger, he looked at its spine. “Ah, Menshov's Autumn Vespers. Very good. I, too, have a fondness for Russian writers.”

  “I see,” said she.

  There was a long silence, broken only by the measured tapping of his fingertips upon the book's cover. “A fine edition—the binding is well stitched.” Her stare lingered on him as he gave her back the book, and he was struck by her odd, asymmetrical face—the cocked eyebrow, that forced half smile he had also seen in the photograph. Then she rose and reached for her parasol.

  “You will excuse me, sir, but I must be going.”

  She had found him unappealing—how else to explain her need to depart after having just arrived at the bench?

  “Forgive me. I have disturbed you.”

  “No, no,” said she, “not at all. But it's getting rather late, and I'm expected at home.”

  “Of course,” said he.

  There was something otherworldly in her blue eyes, and her pale skin, and her overall demeanour—the slow, meandering movements of her limbs as she left him, the way she drifted like an apparition on the trail. Yes, something aimless and poised and unknowable, he was sure, as she went away from him and moved back around the hedgerow. Now with dusk creeping over the grounds, he felt at a loss. It was not meant to end so suddenly; to her, he was supposed to have been interesting, unique—a kindred spirit, perhaps. So what was that inability, that lacking in himself? Why, when it seemed every molecule within him pulled towards her, had she been quick to leave him? And what was it, just then, that made him go after her on the trail, even while it appeared that she regarded him as a nuisance? He could not say, nor could he fathom why it was that his mind and body were, at that moment, in disagreement: One knew better than the other did, yet the more rational of the two remained less determined.

  Still, a chance of reprieval awaited him beyond the hedgerow, for she had not hurried on like he'd believed; instead, she was crouched beside the irises, the hem of her grey dress brushing against the gravel, and had set the book and parasol aside on the ground. Cupping one of the large showy flowers in her right hand, she was unaware of him coming near, nor, in the decreasing light, did she realise his shadow when it fell across her. And while standing over her, he watched intently as her fingers pressed gently against the linear leaves. Then as she withdrew her hand, he observed that a worker bee had strayed onto her glove. But she did not flinch, shaking the creature free, or crush it in her fist. A slight grin spread upon her face as she pondered the bee closely, doing so with apparent reverence, and for a while affectionate whispers were uttered. The worker bee, in turn, stayed upon her palm—not busying itself, or burying its stinger into her glove—as if regarding her the same. How unusual a communion, he thought, the likes of which he had never witnessed before. At last, she saw fit to release the creature, setting it loose on the very flower from whence it had come, and reached for the parasol and book.

  “Iris means ‘rainbow,'” he stammered, yet she was not startled to discover him there. As she rose up, assessing him with a dispassionate stare, he heard the waver of desperation in his voice but could not prevent himself from speaking. “It's easy to understand why, as they grow in so many colours—blues and purples, whites and yellows—like these—and pinks and oranges, browns and reds, even blacks. It is a resilient flower, you know. With enough light, they will grow in desert regions, or in the cold of the far north.”

  Her absent expression turned into one of permissiveness, and, going forth, she left space for him to stroll alongside her, listening as he told her everything he knew about the flower. Iris was the Greek goddess of the rainbow, the messenger of Zeus and Hera, whose duty it was to lead the souls of dead women to the Elysian fields. As a result, the Greeks planted purple irises on the graves of women; ancient Egyptians adorned sceptres with an iris, which represented faith, wisdom, and valour; the Romans honoured the Goddess Juno with the flower, and used it during purification ceremonies. “Perhaps you are already aware that the Iris Florentina—Il Giaggiolo—is the official flower of Florence. And if you have ever visited Tuscany, you have no doubt also inhaled the purple irises which are cultivated amongst the many olive trees there—a scent very much like that of violets.”

  Glancing at him, she was now attentive and fascinated, as if this sudden encounter had highlighted an uneventful afternoon. “It does sound rather pleasing, the way you describe it,” said she. “But, no, I haven't visited Tuscany—or Italy, for that matter.”

  “Oh, you must, my dear, you really must. There is no place better than its Hill Country.”

  Then, in that instant, he could think of nothing else to say. The words, he feared, had all dried up, and there was little else for him to impart. She looked away, staring ahead. He hoped that she would offer something, yet he was sure that she would not. So it was as though, out of frustration or out of pure impatience with himself, he decided to dispense with the endless weighing of his own thoughts and, instead, speak without first considering the actual meaning of what would be said.

  “I wonder—might I ask—what attracts you to such a thing as an iris?”

  She drew a deep breath of temperate spring air and, for no clear reason, shook her head. “What attracts me to such a thing as an iris? It is something I have never really examined.” She breathed deeply again and smiled to herself, finally saying, “I suppose a flower thrives during even the worst of times, does it not? And an iris endures: After it has withered, there comes another just like it to take its place. In that regard, flowers are short-lived yet persistent, so I suspect they are less affected by all which is great or awful around them. Does that answer your question?”

  “Somewhat, yes.”

  They had reached the point where the trail verged with the main pathway. He slowed his steps, glancing at her, and when he stopped walking, she did, too. But what was it he wanted to tell her, then, as he searched her face? What was it, in the faint glow at dusk, which stirred his desperation once more? She gazed up into his unblinking eyes, waiting for him to continue.

  “I possess a gift,” he heard himself tell her. “I would like to share it with you, if you will allow me.”

  “A gift?”

  “More of a hobby, really, although one which has proven rather beneficial for others. You see, I am somewhat of an amateur palmist.”

  “I don't understand.”

  He extended an arm towards her, showing her his palm: “From this, I can
discern future events with a fair degree of accuracy.” He could gaze upon any stranger's hand, he explained, and decipher the course of his or her life—the potential for true love, for a happy marriage, the ultimate number of offspring, various spiritual concerns, and whether one might expect a long life. “So if you can spare me a moment, I would very much like to give you a taste of my talent.”

  How despicable he felt, how manoeuvring he must have seemed to her. And the puzzled expression which she displayed made him confident that a polite rebuke was forthcoming; except—while the expression remained upon her—she knelt instead, depositing the parasol and book at her feet, then stood again to face him. Without a trace of hesitation, she tugged off the right glove and, fixing her eyes upon him, presented her bare hand, palm up.

  “Show me,” said she.

  “Very well.”

  He took her hand into his hand, yet it was difficult to see anything in the evening light. Bending for a closer look, he could only make out the whiteness of her flesh—the pale skin muted by shadows, obscured at the day's end. Nothing distinguished its surface—no obvious lines, no deep-set grooves. It was nothing but a smooth, pure layer; all he could perceive about her palm, then, was its lack of depth. It was unblemished beyond measuring, and devoid of the telltale marks of existence, as if, in fact, she had not been born at all. A trick of the light, he reasoned. A trick of vision. But still came a voice from within himself which troubled his thoughts: This is someone who will never grow into an old woman, who will never become wrinkled or dodder from one room into the next.

  Even so, there was another kind of clarity revealed upon her palm, and it contained both the past and the future. “Your parents are gone,” said he. “Your father when you were but an infant, your mother rather recently.” She did not move, nor did she reply. He spoke of her unborn, her husband's concerns for her. He told her that she was loved, that she would regain hope, and that, in time, she would find great happiness in her life. “You are correct to believe you are part of something larger,” he said, “something benevolent, like God.”

  And there, in the shade of gardens and parks, was the affirmation she sought. There she was free, sheltered from the busy lanes where carriage after carriage rolled by, where the potential for death was always lurking, and where men swaggered about, throwing their long, dubious shadows behind them. Yes, he could see it upon her skin: She felt alive and intact when sequestered with nature.

  “I cannot say any more, as it is getting too dark. But I would be more than willing to resume on some other day.”

  Her hand had begun trembling, and, shaking her head with consternation, she unexpectedly retracted it as if flames grazed her fingers. “No, I'm sorry” was her flustered reply, spoken while she knelt to collect her belongings. “I must be going, I really must. Thank you.”

  Then, as if he were not standing beside her, she promptly turned and hurried along the main pathway. Yet the warmth of her hand lingered; the fragrance she wore persevered. He did not attempt to call after her, or try to leave the grounds in her company. It was only right that she should go without him. It was foolish expecting anything else from her on that evening. Surely it is for the best, he thought, watching her drift onwards, her body receding from his. What happened next, however, was scarcely to be believed; he would, later on, insist that it had not occurred as it was remembered, and yet he would envision it so: For before his eyes, she vanished upon the pathway, dissolving within a cloud of whitest ether. But what remained—fluttering down at that instant like a leaf—was the glove which had held the bee. In astonishment, he ran to the spot where she had disappeared, stooping for the glove. Again, when returning to Baker Street, he questioned the accuracy of his memory, even while he was sure that the glove had moved farther away from him, like a mirage—until it, too, slipped beyond his grasp and was no more.

  And soon, just like Mrs. Keller and the glove, Stefan Peterson would also swiftly dematerialise, forever lost with the shifting of limbs, the change of facial characteristics, the unbuttoning and folding of clothing. Once his removal was complete, an immense burden felt taken from my shoulders. Yet I was not fully satisfied, for there was much about the woman which continued to engage me. When a preoccupation stayed upon my mind, I would often go for days without sleep, mulling the evidence over and considering it from every angle. So with Mrs. Keller loitering in my thoughts, I realised that any kind of rest would elude me for a while.

  That night, I wandered about in my large blue dressing gown, gathering pillows from my bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. In the drawing room, then, I fashioned a makeshift Eastern divan, upon which I placed myself, along with a fresh supply of cigarettes, a box of matches, and the woman's photograph. By the flickering of the lamp, I eventually saw her there; coming through the veil of blue smoke, her hands reached for me, her eyes locked upon mine, and I sat motionless, cigarette fuming between my lips, as the light shone over her softly defined features. Then it was as if her appearance resolved whatever intricacies were plaguing me; she had come, she had touched my skin, and, in her presence, I was lulled easily into a restful slumber. Sometime thereafter, I awoke, to discover the spring sun illuminating the room. The cigarettes were all consumed, and the tobacco haze still floated at the ceiling—but there was no lingering trace of her to be found, other than that remote, pensive face sealed behind a veneer of glass.

  17

  MORNING CAME.

  His pen was nearly out of ink. The clean sheets of writing paper had been exhausted, and the desk was blanketed with Holmes's feverish nocturnal endeavor. Though as opposed to the mindless jotting of notes, it was a more focused undertaking that had spurred his hand until dawn—that continuation of the story regarding a woman he'd met once decades ago, and who, for some apart reason, had compelled herself into his thoughts during the nighttime, coming to him as a vivid, fully formed specter while he rested at his desk, thumbs pressed against his closed eyelids: “You haven't forgotten me, have you?” said the long-dead Mrs. Keller.

  “No,” he whispered.

  “Nor I you.”

  “Is that so?” he asked, raising his head. “How can that be?”

  She, too, like young Roger, had walked alongside him among flowers and on gravel pathways, often saying very little (her attention roving here and there, to the curious objects she encountered upon her way)—and, like the boy, her existence in his life was an ephemeral one, leaving him quietly distraught and senseless after their parting. Of course, she never knew anything factual regarding his true self, had no idea he was a renowned investigator following her in disguise; instead, she forever knew him as a timid book collector, a shy man sharing an equal love for flora and Russian literature—a stranger met in the park one day, but a kind soul all the same, nervously approaching her as she sat on a bench, inquiring politely about the novel she was reading: “Pardon me—I couldn't help noticing—is that Menshov's Autumn Vespers you've got there?”

  “It is,” she said in a composed voice.

  “The writing is remarkable, wouldn't you agree?” he continued, speaking enthusiastically, as if to hide his own contrived awkwardness. “Not without its flaws—except in a translation, the mistakes are expected and, I suppose, somewhat forgivable.”

  “I haven't seen any. Actually, I've only just begun—”

  “Still, you must have,” he said. “Possibly you didn't realize it—they're easy to miss.”

  She glanced at him warily when he sat down beside her. Her dark eyebrows were very thick, almost bushy, giving her blue eyes a stern appearance. She seemed annoyed by something—was it the imposition of his presence, or simply the guarded reticence of a cautious, withdrawn woman?

  “If I may—” he said, nodding at the book in her hands. After a silent moment, she gave it to him, and, marking the page with his index finger, he searched toward the front of the book, eventually saying, “See, here for example: Early in the story the gymnasium students were shirtless, for M
enshov wrote: ‘The imposing man stood the bare-chested boys in a line, and Vladimir, feeling exposed with Andrei and Sergei, hung his long arms at his side.' Later, however—on the next page—he writes: ‘Upon hearing the man was a general, Vladimir discreetly fastened his cuffs behind his back, then straightened his narrow shoulders.' You can find many instances of this sort of thing in Menshov's writing—or at least in the translations of his writing.”

  Yet in his account of her, Holmes had failed to recall the exact conversation that had prompted their acquaintance, noting only that he'd asked about the book and that he had then been struck by the lingering stare she gave him (the odd, asymmetrical allure of her face—the one cocked eyebrow, that reluctant half smile he'd first studied in a photograph—was of the impassive-heroine type). There was something otherworldly in her blue eyes, and her pale skin, and her overall demeanor—the slow, meandering movements of her limbs, the way she drifted like a ghost on the garden pathways. Something aimless and poised and unknowable—something resigned and fatalistic, apparently.

  Setting his pen aside, Holmes returned to the sharp reality of his study. Since dawn, he'd been ignoring his physical needs, but now he'd go from the attic (however much he dreaded the idea) and empty his bladder, and drink water, and, prior to stomaching a meal, investigate the apiary in the light of day. Carefully, he gathered up the pages on his desk, sorting them, organizing them into a stack. Afterward, he yawned, arching his spine. His skin and clothes smelled of cigar smoke, musty and pungent, and he felt light-headed from having worked through the night, his head and shoulders bent over the desktop. With canes in place, he pushed himself off the seat, gradually coming to his feet. Pivoting around, he began inching toward the door, oblivious to the popping of leg bones, the gentle cracking of joints put in motion.