“I only saw her from semi-profile, but I think she had a rather triangular face, with a sharp chin and maybe also a sharp nose. She had remarkable eyes, big and very dark,” Clara continued, “and a cascade of blond, wavy hair.”
She supported her chin on Colin’s shoulder, while he began to hum something incomprehensible but pleasantly monotone, watching both the face that took shape on paper and also the artist's hands, with long, skilled fingers, which he used from time to time to create or blur shadows and contour effects, spreading delicately the pencil marks. Caught in a trance induced by the network of lines and shapes, she vaguely remembered stories of her father, with whom she used to spend hours watching him paint. He had once told her interesting things about some artists’ hands, about the extraordinary force of Leonardo Da Vinci, who could break a horseshoe with his bare hands, about Alexandre Dumas-père, who had a tremendous power in his fingers, and about the ambidextrous Michelangelo, who could draw well with both hands.
Lost in the intimate domesticity of those memories, Clara was restored to present by the suddenly installed silence, and focused on the sketch, on which Colin was making the finishing touches, rubbing the paper with his fingers to fill or shadow a contour. Born from coal and recollections, the image of the woman watched her with the deep eyes which reminded her of that strange night.
“It’s starting to look like her!” she exclaimed, animated. “The cheekbones a little fuller and the hair more... curly and thick.”
Carefully following her indications, adding from instinct and experience details she hadn’t seen in the dark, such as the eyebrows and the shape of her lips, Colin made a pretty accurate sketch of the nocturnal apparition.
“It’s her!” Clara declared, studying enthusiastically the portrait. “You have an extraordinary talent,” she said, theatrically applauding.
“Thanks, but it’s not that difficult when you’ve got someone to give you a detailed description.”
“I never thought you were modest,” she said laughing.
“Nor am I,” he answered, winking, a gesture that she’d come to anticipate and adore. “I don’t know the definition of the term.”
“Thought so...What do we do now?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but jerked defensively when a hairy golden sphere slid through his legs.
Morris jumped gracefully directly on the table, covering, with his impressive posterior and fluffy tail, the drawing made by his master.
Colin stretched his hand and scratched him behind the ears, receiving in exchange sounds like a powerful engine coming from the ecstatic cat.
“You’ve met, right?” he asked Clara, who was watching him indignantly.
“Yes, but I haven’t noticed he was so rude!” she exclaimed frowning.
He roared with laughter.
“Be my guest and attempt teaching him some manners,” he said ironically.
“You have to be firm and bossy, show him you are the superior being and he’s got to listen to you,” she said, with the air of a prickly teacher. She raised her index and told Morris, on an authoritarian tone, “You’re not allowed on the table, cat! Get down immediately!”
Morris stared at her sulking for a few seconds, then collapsed on one side, raised a golden paw in the air and meticulously began washing his testicles.
Colin bit his lower lip in a vain attempt to control laughter, while Clara darted him with a sour look, sending a clear message: Don’t you dare laugh!
He noisily cleared his throat, without managing to mask his amusement, and, taking her hand, rose.
“If you’re finished your good manners class,” he said, simulating seriousness, “let’s take a shower and get to work. Morris is a lost cause.”
***
Despite the strange circumstances, neither of them had ever been so happy, so fulfilled, so... complete. It felt like they had been a couple for a lifetime, communicating even only by gestures.
Mirror-spirits, thought Clara, looking at him, recalling a poem in which she had used the same metaphor, dedicated to a faceless entity, which was now standing right in front of her.
After taking a quick shower, while they dried and dressed, they put together the sketch of a plan. He said:
“We need to get to my office. One of my colleagues has open doors and connections everywhere. He could help us to obtain a list with the names of missing persons, let’s say, in this area, for starters.”
“Yeah, that could be a start, but in what length of time?” she replied, putting on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. “We don’t know anything about her, not even if she’s indeed missing, not when, where, if she’s alive or not...”
Only thinking of this last hypothesis provoked in her a cold shiver, like a shock wave.
“We should show the sketch to Rose. Maybe she recognizes her, or maybe she stayed here.
Otherwise, what reason could there be for her to appear... to manifest here?” she added.
“Yeah, this could be a first step...”
Colin hesitated.
“Who knows? We’ll do some research. Does she have internet connection here?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll find out.”
Downstairs was quiet. In the garden, Tony was chasing butterflies, under Morris’ aristocratic nose, who was watching him with cat-like superiority from the height of a window sash on which he sat perched.
After they made sure the beasts, as Clara called them, had everything they could possibly need, armed with the mystery woman’s sketch, they left the cottage, locking the door.
Rose was watering the flowers in front of the shop, chatting with Mr. Garcia, who was puffing from an antique-looking pipe, sending blue-grayish smoke rings into the already hot air. Clara recalled how Mr. Garcia had told her that the pipe, from which he never parted, he had carved himself, many years ago, from the wood of a cherry tree under which he and his lover – who had later become his wife – used to meet. An endless sadness shadowed the old man’s eyes every time he talked about the one who had been his life partner for too short of a time, one of the countless innocent victims lost in the horrors of war.
Clara fostered compassion and an affectionate sympathy to this kind, gentle old man, a living relic of a bygone era replaced by a society without any scruples or moral and ethical standards.
The old man’s eyes illuminated when the two youngsters approached. With his specific gallantry, Mr. Garcia kissed Clara’s hand and politely shook Colin’s when the introductions were made.
“Rose,” Clara addressed the old lady, who was speculatively studying Colin, “do you have internet connection here? I didn’t think to ask you until now.”
Rose watched her over the top of her eyeglasses.
“This might surprise you,” she answered sarcastically, “but I ain’t senile, nor am I broken from reality. I know how to send an e-mail,” she continued with faked arrogance. “And,” she went on, winking at Colin, “I regularly surf dating sites.” Colin’s jaw went slack, and Clara dropped the sketch. Mr. Garcia coughed noisily, not managing to disguise his amusement.
Rose laughed until tears actually came into her eyes, then she took off her glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief.
“I guess that answers my question,” said Clara smiling widely. “Um... we have another question,” she added, recovering the fallen sketch. “Do you by chance know a woman who resembles this one?” she asked, showing her the drawing.
Rose studied the image carefully, while the young woman watched her expression. Nothing but concentration. Her gaze moved to Mr. Garcia, who quickly looked away from the woman’s drawing. Clara thought, for a fraction of a second, that she noticed a change in the old man’s eyes. Recognition? Fear? The change had been so rapid and subtle she wondered if it wasn’t just a mistake, an inaccurate perception. The old man was puffing on, gazing absently – or so it seemed – to the lake.
Rose interrupted her reverie of speculation.
“I might,” she said. “The
figure looks familiar, she has something unique... I’m not absolutely sure, but I think maybe she had stayed here some time ago. Maybe a little more time. If you could show me a photo, I could give a more definite answer.”
She looked at her with incisive curiosity.
“Who is this woman? And why are you asking me about her?”
Clara hesitated a fraction of a second, but Colin intervened in the discussion.
“Clara thinks she saw here someone who looked approximately like that,” he said, indicating the coal-made image, “about two days ago. We thought it could be an ex-tenant,” he added, on a deliberately indifferent tone.
“Did you make this?” the old lady asked him.
“Yes.”
“You’re good. Very good,” she remarked, continuing to analyze the drawing. “She seems familiar,” she repeated, “but what would anyone do here without my knowing?”
“Good question,” he replied.
“Rose,” said Clara, “if I’d ask you to give me a list with your tenants in the last...” She stopped, putting a hand to her forehead, as if remembering something. “How long have you had this place?”
“For about three years, since my man had the nerve to die, leaving me all alone.”
Despite the inadequate joke, for a moment, the old woman’s eyes darkened with traces of unspilled tears and painful memories. Blinking rapidly, she refocused her attention on the youths, regaining her brisk tone:
“What about that list? Why do you need it?”
“We still don’t know if we need it...”
Suddenly, Clara’s face brightened.
“If you have an internet connection, it means you’ve got a computer upstairs, right?” she said, and after Rose nodded, continued, “Don’t you also have a computerized database with the tenants list?” Clara asked hopefully, thinking of the huge register book in which she herself had scrawled her signature only three days before. “It would ease our searches a lot.”
“There’s nothing safer than paper, especially since some things could be erased by accidentally pressing some keys,” answered Rose, still watching her above the eyeglasses with amused suspicion.
“You still haven’t told me why you need my tenants list.”
Clara gazed at her meditatively, then consulted her watch.
“I’ll tell you when we get back,” she said and, taking Colin’s hand, headed to the parking lot, on the run, saluting Mr. Garcia, who had remained withdrawn and silent.
They got into Colin’s car and started toward the city.
“Do you think it’s wise to tell Rose about it?” he asked.
“I don’t see what harm it could do. Besides, there’s no other way we can obtain that list. By the way, what the hell do we do next?”
He smiled.
“For now, we’re going to the newspaper where I work. With a bit of luck, we might still find Nicholas. He’s one of my colleagues, who has long-time connections in every important institution, including the men of the law. He could get us a list with the missing persons in this area in the last period. Let’s say, three years, since Rose has bought the cottages. Then we compare the names on Rose’s list with the ones on the list Nick gives us and we see if there’s a common one.”
Clara muttered:
“Do you realize what this means?! There probably are hundreds of names and if there aren’t any which coincide, we’re digging in vain,” she said, gesturing with the sketch in her hand.
Colin seemed extremely calm, at least judging by the tone of his voice.
“Small steps, my love. Even a ten thousand miles road begins with the first step.”
***
Although it was almost four o’clock, the office was buzzing with activity. Desks covered with papers, the monotonous purring of computers, the sounds of printers, and editors, who were spinning among all this, formed a charming and perfectly lucrative disarray.
“A journalist’s work never ends,” Colin told his lover, who was looking around interested and curious, while they were sliding, hand in hand, through the desks, casting greetings and cordial remarks.
“Is Nick still here?” Colin addressed a voluptuous redhead who was typing something with lightning speed.
“At his place,” the woman answered, without taking her eyes off the monitor.
Nick’s place was a small desk, covered with papers, pens, clips, boxes, ashtrays, and half a donut, placed exactly on the laptop’s keyboard, dripping oil and sugar.
Carefully slaloming through tens of miles of cable, Colin and Clara finally reached their destination. Nick, a solid, blond, blue-eyed guy, an Arian prototype, was reading something from a stack of papers. Clara, used to analyzing people from one look, quickly contoured a preliminary profile: Early thirties, very attractive, probably unmarried, obviously a smoker, efficient, dedicated. She almost smiled to herself at her own objective, calculated description.
Nick looked up from the pages, his face lightening at their sight.
“Rara avis, Colin, my friend,” he said, and rose to shake hands. “What’s with you at work? I rephrase: what is it that you need?” he teased smilingly, and then focused his gaze on Clara, raising an eyebrow.
Colin made the introductions without too much elaboration then cut right to the chase.
“As you already guessed, Nick, I need a favor. I want a list of the missing persons in the last three years here, in the city, and in a surrounding area of, let’s say, fifty miles,” he said, looking at Clara, who confirmed, inclining her head.
Nick noted the pertinent information on a sheet that had miraculously remained white and clean. His personal policy, considered by everyone as a great plus, was not to ask questions when his interlocutor preferred discretion.
“It’s a little late now,” he said, consulting his watch, “but you’ll have it tomorrow.”
“I owe you one,” replied Colin smiling. “At what time tomorrow?”
Nick returned his smile, agilely shifting a pencil through his fingers.
“I’ll make sure you pay your debt. Around 11 o’clock, I think I’ll get you that list.”
Colin turned to Clara, who was vigorously digging into the enormous bag from which she rarely parted.
Dodging makeup kits, pills, wallet, tissues, tampons, chewing gum and other numerous articles, she got out, one by one, with a triumphant sound, three mini-bars of chocolate, which she shared with the two men.
“Mm!” exclaimed Nick with his mouth full. “So that’s what women keep in those suitcases.”
“You have no idea how much stuff she’s got in there,” said Colin unwrapping the chocolate. “A woman’s purse hides as many mysteries as the Amazonian jungle,” he added, grinning and receiving a poke in the ribs from Clara.
After they exchanged a few more words, Colin took his lover’s hand, getting ready to go.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Nick, and thanks for the favor!”
“I thank you for the dessert, sugar,” Nick told the young woman, winking. “After you get rid of my buddy here, I’ll take you out for a coffee,” he teased her smiling.
Clara smiled back, not at all offended.
“It was nice meeting you! Bye!”
While they were heading hand in hand to the car, she remarked, “Nice guy! He didn’t ask any questions. It would be Heaven on Earth if all people could be so diplomatic.”
“Nick is a reliable friend. He also has experience in paranormal stuff,” Colin said seriously.
“Really?” she asked, eyes wide with amazement.
“Yeah. He interviewed people who claimed they have been kidnapped by aliens, a woman who thought she was haunted by Marilyn Monroe’s ghost. Oh, and there’s Mrs. Grey, who frequently calls him to report that her husband, who’s been dead for ten years, overturns her dishes in the cupboards and pantry.”
Clara punched him lightly in the shoulder, roaring with laughter.
“Are you kidding me?!”
“Nope,” he replied
soberly. “Mrs. Grey is annoying, persistent and completely nuts. A lethal combination. Unfortunately, not to her,” he added dryly, provoking another giggling fit. “But poor Mr. Grey could have certified that.”
Chuckling with amusement, they made their way through the crowded parking lot.
“What do we do now?” she asked, after settling comfortably on the passenger seat, which she always left down in the back, like a sun lounger.
To her great surprise, for the first time since she knew him, a shadow of uncertainty passed over his handsome features.
He moved his fingers on his chin, covered with tiny dark spikes that had emerged in the twenty-four hours he hadn’t shaved. Clara had noticed that this gesture marked a state of reflection or nervousness. She said, “As long as we’re in... detecting partnership, I think we should stick together as much as possible. I mean... I don’t have anything against your spending a few days with me at the cottage.”
Then, crossed by a thought, she added quickly:
“Of course, that is…if you don’t have other plans or...”
She left the phrase hanging, not wanting to resemble a stressful, nagging female, who tried to mess with his business or constrain him with a possessive and unsure attitude.
However, Colin took her hand into his and she saw the charming humor coming back into his eyes.
“How is it that you can read my mind?” he demanded.
Although the question was probably rhetorical, Clara answered, very serious:
“Telepathy. Or so my father says. Ever since I was a kid, I had moments when I could know, actually intuit, what someone thought.
Generally, only persons close to me. This capacity amplified after I started practicing yoga.”
He listened alert and somewhat intrigued.
“Yoga? You mean things with meditations, levitations, strange postures and other stuff?” he asked mystified. “Is that why you have such mobility and energy?” he continued, on an insinuating, evocative tone.
Clara laughed, frankly amused.
“Hardly... I haven’t reached the levitation level, only very high masters reach those performances. I only practice Hatha Yoga and Pranayama. Those are the first steps, some postures and breathing exercises, which help maintain the physical and mental health, the interior equilibrium, so to speak.”
Rendezvous with Hymera Page 6
