Colin was watching her fascinated. Eventually, he said:
“You’re the most interesting woman I’ve ever met, a labyrinth in which I always discover new corridors.”
“And you are a poet, a magician of the metaphor,” she replied, smiling.
“If there’s anybody magic here, it’s you, princess! Speaking of poetry,” he resumed, starting the engine and slowly blending in the twilight’s heavy traffic, “I read something this morning. Two gorgeous stanzas, the author of which I presume you to be. I know it was wrong of me to trespass on your privacy. I only wanted to see what time it was, but a folder caught my attention and I opened it.”
He thought about the infinite nostalgia that transpired from those verses, at the hopelessness encrypted in words.
“They were the most beautiful verses I’ve ever read,” he went on, “but... why were you so sad when you wrote them?”
Her belated response seemed to come from another universe, not from the ordinary reality in which he was driving the car on streets where darkness was now banished by hundreds of lights coming from windows, street lamps, illuminated stores and chased headlights hurrying to be lost in the night.
“I don’t like talking about this, in fact it’s a somber-boring story I’ve repeated dozens of times.”
Clara was speaking in a slow voice, almost impersonally, gazing through the windshield. With a heavy resigned sigh, she continued:
“As you probably know, ever since high school I was seriously coquetting with a professional dancer status.”
“Yeah, I remember I’ve seen you in a few shows. You were a great dancer. I remember the dance teacher always complaining she couldn’t find you a good enough partner,” he replied, recalling the artist whose graceful and fluid movements emanated energy and talent, both on the stage and outside it.
Colin had watched her a few times while she was practicing with a couple of classmates in the gym, but the mind of the teenager he was then appreciated more the voluptuous and incitingly shaped curves of the girls rather than the quality and flawless execution of the choreography.
“Just after I finished high school,” she resumed, “a few days before I was supposed to take the admission exam to The Arts and Dance School, I had a stupid accident while practicing, with unexpectedly bad consequences. One of my spinal vertebrae was seriously damaged, and all the doctors I consulted told me I hadn’t the faintest chance to be a dancer. Furthermore, I had almost a month in which I barely could make a few steps, and those with the price of considerable pains. My dream had vanished overnight, replaced by four hospital walls, interminable physical therapy sessions and an infernally static life.”
Colin listened in silence, not wanting to interrupt, in any way, this moment of revelations, when she was exposing to him the most vulnerable and dark sides of her soul, an irrefutable proof of trust and love.
“After losing everything I believed was important, I fell into a strong, deep depression,” she went on in the same distant tone. “I can tell I crossed the blackest corridors of despair and I’ve literally known the meaning of the expression Hell on Earth. For months I felt my life was worthless, countless times I considered suicide.”
He held the wheel much tighter that was necessary, but she, lost in nightmare memories, didn’t notice. She continued, with a cynical smile:
“Nobody could understand what was in my heart. No doctor knew what to do for me. Shrinks and all others thought I was exaggerating, that depression deformed reality in my mind, making me see things more tragically than they really were. And maybe they were right. Eventually, I understood I somehow had to find the power to rise and get out of that dark gap of hopelessness. Then I started practicing yoga for beginners, inspired by a book, written by a certain N.C. Tufoi, a man who, with the help of yoga, had been cured of an illness all doctors had declared incurable, and had become a great master in this discipline. It wasn’t easy, each step, each crumb of progress required work, willpower, ambition, patience, tenacity, and, hardest of all, optimism. Dozens of times I regressed, falling again in depressive moods, then, with great efforts, I regained the lost ground. Finally, after almost eight years since the accident, I can say I have a very good health, which was my main objective in life... So far,” she concluded, smiling and looking at him, for the first time since she had begun this unpleasant quasi-confession.
Colin had remained silent, knowing she wouldn’t have appreciated any comment, much less pitying words or sterile encouragements. He recalled the girl full of vitality, trying without success to imagine all that vibrating charm suppressed under the oppressive tentacles of a disability. To some, he reflected, especially for the young people who had never suffered the effects of a serious illness, health represents a part of their being, something they take for granted.
Reading his thoughts, she said:
“All these things I got through had their good parts. I learned to appreciate every small thing, stuff I didn’t even see before. A ray of sunlight, a plant on the side of the street, the passive but unconditioned affection of a poor stray dog. I learned what compassion and selflessness mean. I’m a totally different person. I found out what really matters in life and that the Universe is a huge balance, where everything balances. Nothing is priceless, each objective achieved needs work and brings compensation,” she finished, and only then realized they had stopped, and parked the car on a well-illuminated street, in a clean, coquettish neighborhood, with a bohemian aspect, and old but well-kept buildings – pictures detached from the dusty pages of a history book.
She felt his gaze studying her and, turning to him, she found in those eyes, which in such short time had become the center of her universe, everything she had expected for so long: love, understanding, admiration and a tender compassion, which she didn’t think a man could be capable of offering without shadowing his masculinity.
In that moment charged with emotion, Clara loved this man even more, the only person to whom she had trusted and needed to open her soul.
He took her hand into his and kissed it, a simple gesture, but so sweet that his touch invaded her entire being with light, heat, peace and a feeling of euphoria – the absolute conviction that this communication beyond words proved their spirits complete compatibility.
Still holding her hand, he said:
“They say that when you reveal to someone unpleasant facts or memories you begin to forget them yourself and get free of them. Thank you for sharing this burden with me. If I could, I would take everything upon me, I would never want you to have a single moment of pain and suffering in your life. But I want you to know I’ll always be by your side, for whatever you need, you can talk to me like to your own soul.”
Clara smiled and, deeply moved, replied:
“You are my soul, Colin.”
He kissed her, conveying with this act all the feelings and emotions invading his heart, defined by humanity through a banal word called love.
***
Hand in hand, they walked on the deserted street, partially hidden from the traffic noise, to the building where Colin’s apartment was located.
Clara walked lazily, looking at the sky sprinkled with an early celestial brilliance.
“How romantic,” she said dreamily. “Very rarely I’ve seen so many stars in the sky, and never in an urban area.”
He stopped and, taking her in his arms, he kissed her tenderly, than asked with a smile:
“What exactly does being romantic mean to you?”
She thought it out for a moment then answered:
“I think being romantic is the capacity to turn an ordinary moment in something dream-like.”
They gazed at one another intensely, then, realizing they were in the middle of the sidewalk, resumed their walking on the empty street.
His apartment was located in an old but well-preserved building, which still seemed to exude an obsolete aristocratic elegance.
They climbed the two long rows of steps in pale li
ght of some crafted lanterns and Clara admired the curtains ornamenting the stairwell windows and the artisanal pots populated with decorative plants.
“I guess you’ve got great neighbors,” she remarked while he was unlocking the door.
“Yeah. Make yourself at home,” he invited and passed from room to room turning on the lights.
The apartment was unpretentious and typically masculine, with basic furniture, an enormous TV screen, audio system, computer and other electronic toys with which women were always, in Clara’s opinion, competing for men’s attention.
She sat down on a big brown leather couch, studying an IT magazine, which brought her in mind a joke that was very popular among women.
“Honey, I really have to tell you this joke.”
Colin reappeared from the bedroom, holding a rucksack in one hand, a laptop bag in the other and a few clothing articles on his shoulders.
“You look like a walking hanger,” she chuckled watching him.
He smiled.
“What joke do you want to tell me?”
“A woman goes to a perfumery. She says to the clerk: Madam, I want my husband to grant me more attention; do you have a perfume that smells like a computer?”
Colin roared with laughter and almost dropped the backpack.
“That was a good one,” he said finally, “thank God it isn’t our case. Go and take a look at the fridge, see if you are inspired to bring something along.”
The kitchen was surprisingly clean – Probably unused, she thought sarcastically – and the refrigerator massive but almost empty, except for some milk boxes, frozen pizza and an ice-cream cake, which she promptly grabbed.
“How can you look so good eating all this crap?” she shouted.
“I’ve got a neighbor who cooks and cleans for me twice or three times a week, for a fee, of course. And, as you well-know, the secret of a pleasant physique is sport. I often go to the gym. If not, I do pushups, squats, crunches and other stuff at home, very effective. And thanks for the compliment, by the way. My neighbor cooks very healthy, fat-free.”
“Hmm…” she said suspiciously, coming back, clutching the ice-cream possessively against her chest. “What neighbor?”
Colin, who had finished packing, rose smiling.
“She’s blonde, green eyes. She’s sixty and has three children older than me,” he went on, laughing, noticing her circumspect expression. “And that’s not crap?” he asked, indicating the ice-cream.
“No, that’s dessert,” she replied, holding it with both hands. “Ready?”
“Yeah, let’s go,” he said, taking the bags, a box of cat food and what looked like a hairbrush.
“What are you doing with that?”
“It’s Morris’ brush. Persian cats are very pretentious creatures,” he explained locking the door. “I have to brush his fur daily, or else, if he’s not properly taken care of, he could get sick. And if I don’t grant him enough attention, if I don’t spoil him like hell, he becomes depressed. It’s a pain in the ass, but... I’m stuck with the little bastard,” he joked.
“Hmm... I knew part of these things,” she said while they were descending the stairs. “I would like to adopt a cat. I was afraid it wouldn’t get along with Tony, but ... looks like everything’s OK, when the cat rules!”
They got in the car, Clara still holding the ice-cream cake.
“You know, speaking of food, there’s an old oriental proverb which says the man digs his grave with his own teeth. Smart observation,” she went on, lustily contemplating the chocolate ornaments, delicious-looking, that were presented on the dessert’s wrapping.
“Yeah. Obesity is a great problem in our days. I see daily dozens of people, young, especially children that are overweight, it’s completely alarming... Not to mention that, for too many, sport is just a word in the dictionary.”
“But you know what leads to this?” she said, continuing without waiting for an answer. “Food disorder, lack of discipline, ignorance, violence and all these out of control phenomena are an outgrowth of society. This is what society offers to young people through television, internet, movies, games and other stuff, washing their already underdeveloped brains with subliminal messages, one more abject that the other.”
“I perfectly agree with you. The conspiracy theory isn’t just an abstract subject of controversy, scandal and SF movies. Only that, unfortunately, no one knows who and with what purpose manages this carousel that, as far as things look, it’s going to a slow auto-destruction of human kind.”
“Even if someone would know, they wouldn’t dare or they wouldn’t have the chance to make themselves heard. And who would believe them? Most people would rather go on with their tedious existence in their tight little circle of indifference...”
They sank into silence the rest of the way until, through the nocturnal horizon of sleepy vegetation, they glimpsed the cottages lights.
When they reached the small parking lot, Clara consulted her watch, surprisingly discovering it was past nine p.m. Although here and there a light sparkled through the windows of the occupied buildings, they didn’t detect any movement.
In the still lake, a giant moon scattered fluid bundles of pale silver rays, and the night’s murmur and whispers of darkness completed the surreal atmosphere. Breathing deeply the fragrant air, the two silhouettes made their way through this land of Morpheus.
The path was dimly lighted by the bi-colored sign of Rose’s shop. Once they got in front of the third cottage, Clara fished in her pocket for her keys, absently looking at the decorative flower pots arranged on a sort of shelf near the front door. Suddenly, she turned to Colin, smiling widely.
“Look what we have here!” she said with satisfaction in her voice.
In a corner, partially hidden through perfumed petals and colorful leaves, was Rose’s register book.
***
“Rose is a darling! How glad I am she left us the register without asking for more specific explanations.”
So saying, Clara took off her shoes and, comfortably seated on the sofa, stretched her toes voluptuously.
“Darling, we don’t have concrete explanations, remember?” answered Colin and joined her with a ruffled, sleepy Morris in his arms.
When they had arrived, they had been greeted by a peaceful, domestic scene: Tony was sprawled in the center of the room, on the bear fur, snoring, his tongue hanging out, and Morris, always at height, was sleeping curled on the sofa’s backrest.
Presently, the cat arched languorously and, as a sign of satisfaction, began to sharpen his paws on his master’s trousers.
“I’m hungry,” she said, scratching Tony’s ears; the devoted quadruped had laid at her feet, and promptly fell asleep again.
“Let me fix something quick and light.”
So saying, Colin headed toward the fridge.
With the cat in her lap and the dog under her feet, she meditatively began to browse the book. The last signature in a few dozens of pages was hers, along with her ID data.
She absently reviewed the names on the previous pages, stopping abruptly when something caught her attention. Colin’s name who, according to the information, had occupied cottage number five a few months before, accompanied by a certain Celia Martin.
Clara, who considered herself a modern, reasonable person, and profoundly despised excessively jealous and possessive women, saw red and felt the tips of her ears on fire.
She breathed deeply several times, closing her eyes, but immediately opened them to banish the lascivious treacherous image in which Colin and a faceless form, but with an impressive bust, were tangled between the sheets.
Morris let out a sharp meow and jumped out of her arms, leaving her with a small ball of fur in her fist, which she had unconsciously tightened in the poor cat’s fur.
She cleared her voice and, trying to adopt a neutral tone, she asked with simulated indifference:
“Um... Who’s Celia Martin?”
He, who was
just coming with a tray loaded with sandwiches and two big mugs of cocoa, looked at her in surprise, then, eyeing the register, smiled imperceptibly.
“An ex-... girlfriend,” he answered.
“Oh...”
“Jealous?” he asked, grinning widely, invaded by an absurd feeling of satisfaction.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Do I have any reason to be? Only if the ex isn’t precisely an ex.”
Colin, putting the tray on the table, sat next to her and, cupping her face between his palms, said:
“You are my ONLY love. The rest doesn’t matter. It’s like it belongs in another lifetime. Understood?”
Clara felt lost in the dark depths of his eyes. She nodded slowly.
“Same goes,” she whispered, kissing him and embracing him tightly.
“Anyway,” he replied winking, “I adore you when you’re jealous. You look like one of those cartoon characters, your eyes and ears get all red and you look ready to breathe fire!”
“Careful, you might get burned!” she jokingly threatened. “Let’s see what kind of cook you are.”
While eating, Colin took out his laptop, turning it on and positioning it on his knees.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I want to look for some stuff. Research about our little... investigation.”
They munched for a while without speaking, the only sound being that of the keys.
“Hm...” he said gazing thoughtfully at the monitor. “There’s a lot of stuff that could be connected to the phenomena we’re dealing with, but most of these things are only speculations and aberrations of the ignorant, nothing relevant.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, for example, I found a thing called The Christian Esotericism. The title itself is a contradictory composition, because, as far as I know, Christianity doesn’t recognize or even condemns the esoteric. The author muddles here some ideas and concepts taken from all religions and cultures, resulting in a jumble, without head or tail. Above all, he’s a professor or something like that.
Rendezvous with Hymera Page 7
