The Other Side Of Midnight

by Georgia Le Carre

  He smiles. “Good. You must be hungry. Shall we eat?”

  I nod. I am hungry, but not for food. I move towards the chair and sit down. I slip a cherry tomato into my mouth and let it break between my teeth. Its juice, sharp and sweet, explodes on my tongue. I have never tasted a more delicious tomato in my life. It is the strangest thing, but every time I am around this man, all my senses become more alive and alert, and everything tastes, smells, looks, and feels like nothing I have experienced before.

  I chew and swallow. Then I look sideways and catch the Count looking at me. The beautiful man is cradling his goblet of red wine in his hand, the stem of the glass is between his third and fourth finger.

  And I remember something. Something that has been troubling me ever since it happened.

  Chapter 21

  Autumn

  “I met a lady the other day,” I tell him. “An incredibly beautiful, blonde lady in a long black car.”

  He goes incredibly still, like a statue. “What?”

  “Yeah, it was raining and I was waiting at the bus stop. She stopped the car and gave me an umbrella. Do you know—”

  The question is cut away by the scream that erupts from my mouth. The goblet he was holding has smashed in his hand. Blood and wine mix and spill on the white table cloth. For a split second, I see a jagged piece of glass sticking from his flesh. In the candle light his blood appears tinged with blue. Before I can even begin to react, he has already pulled the broken glass from his palm, and wrapped his hand in a napkin.

  “Oh, my God. That looks like a really deep wound,” I cry belatedly.

  “It’s nothing,” he says quietly. “Please excuse me, while I get a bandage on the cut.” He makes an old-fashioned bow and exits the room.

  I’m still staring at the spilled wine and blood on the immaculate tablecloth, when William comes in with two servants. One of them is carrying a table cloth and another is carrying a goblet wine glass. Silently, I stand and watch as they expertly change the tablecloth and put everything back on the table. William pours wine into the glass. Then he nods at me, and they leave.

  I look around the room and my eye is caught by a painting inside a glass case at the far end of the room. I walk towards it in sheer disbelief. Surely, not, but it is unmistakably, The Storm on the Sea of Galilee! Painted by Rembrandt in 1633, and stolen in 1990. No one has seen it since then. I have only seen photos of it, and it is more of a legend to me than an actual piece, but from the first moment I laid eyes on it, the energy and beauty of it struck and inspired me. And here it is now. As I stand staring at its incredible magic, I know without a doubt it is no replica I am looking at. It is the original, the real thing.

  I am in front of Rembrandt Van Rijn’s stolen masterpiece.

  His approach has been soundless, but I know he is standing behind me without turning around. The hairs on my neck are standing, my fingertips are tingling.

  “Where did you get the painting from?” I whisper.

  “Paris.”

  I turn to face him. “You knew it was stolen, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “But you wanted it.”

  He seems unrepentant. “Yes, I wanted it.”

  “So you reached out and took it?”

  “Yes.”

  I think of that library crammed with thousands of old books. He is a collector of things. But not an ordinary thing, rare and precious things. “I suppose you have other houses in other parts of the world full of beautiful stolen artworks?”

  He nods, and again I see that flash of despair in his eyes.

  “But none of it gives you joy?”

  “Nothing I own gives me joy… anymore.” There is a bitter twist to his lips. The air becomes thick and slow with the smell of candle wax, exotic flowers, wet grasses, and him. I breathe in the scent. It is intoxicating.

  I take a step towards him and reach for his hand. His fingers are long and thick, but his skin is cool and as smooth as a woman’s. Certainly, smoother than mine. No doubt he has never done a day’s work in his life. We are so close I can smell him. That sweet smell of grass, rain, and earth.

  My skin tingles as I turn his palm upwards. There is a bandage across it. A vague sensation of relief washes over me. I thought the wound was more serious than that. As the relief fades I feel a strong urge to run my hand up to his wrist and feel his heartbeat. Resisting the compulsion, I drop his hand.

  “Who is the blonde lady?” I ask, looking up into his mesmerizing eyes.

  “My sister.”

  I nod slowly as I digest this fact. Even though she was beautiful and blonde like him she did not share any similar features with him or have a similar energy signature so it never crossed my mind they could be brother and sister. The only reason I thought they were somehow connected was because they were both so obviously different from all the other folk in the town.

  “What does she want with me?”

  His face is still and unreadable. “I don’t know.”

  “So why were you so shocked that she approached me?”

  “Because I didn’t know she knew about you,” he answers quietly.

  I chew my bottom lip as an image of his beautiful sister rises into my mind. Something about her, I don’t exactly know what, makes me feel very wary. “I don’t want to be dragged into any family feud.”

  He smiles tightly. “Of course. I will tell her to keep away from you.”

  “Good.”

  “Shall we resume our meal?”

  I nod and we move towards the table.

  As soon as we are seated again, two waiters carrying plates come into the room. As they put the plates down in front of us, I see that it is exactly the same dish as before.

  “What a waste. Our food was almost untouched and perfectly good to eat,” I remark.

  “From the moment a living being dies, the fungus that has lived inside it all its life, begins the rotting process. If one must eat dead things then they must be freshly killed and consumed immediately.”

  I take a deep breath. I have never given the food I eat much thought. Everything I put into my mouth has been bought in a supermarket, café, or restaurant and I have never pondered where it has come from, let alone how freshly killed it is. In fact, I hate the idea that it was alive and happily living its little life only a little while ago, and it was killed just to feed me. I look down at the lobster flesh nestled amongst the green leaves. Oh dear!

  “Buon appetito,” Rocco murmurs.

  “I don’t think I can eat this,” I mutter.

  “Why not?”

  I look at him and he appears genuinely puzzled. “I know this is really hypocritical of me,” I begin, “but it makes me feel terrible to connect my food to living, breathing creatures. I’ve always bought my raw meat, poultry, or fish cut, cleaned and laid out on a polystyrene tray and wrapped in see-through plastic.”

  “And unrecognizable as an animal,” he finished.

  “Exactly”

  He leans back. “It is the nature of this world, Autumn. All living things are food to something else.”

  “If you don’t eat your lobster, one of the dogs will eat it, if dogs don’t, some wild creature searching the dustbins will, if they don’t get it, the maggots will. In the end, we are all maggot food anyway.”

  “Now, you’re really putting me off,” I mumble.

  “Have you ever seen a pride of lions bringing down a buffalo on TV?”

  “Yes, once. And I didn’t like it.”

  “I have seen it unfold in real life.”

  My eyes widen. “You have? What was it like”

  “More than once. It’s always a fierce battle, the very air fizzes with their adrenaline. The enormous buffalo in the prime of his life does not want to die. He fights back valiantly. He snorts and bucks when he feels the sharp claws of one of the lionesses tears into his rump. He shakes her off as blood pours down his hide. In desperation, he turns and gores one of the male lions in the face. The li
on falls to the dust with a thump, but with a growl of fury he springs back. Blood pouring from his wound, he grabs the bull by the neck, and sinks his teeth into his prey’s windpipe. The weight of the fully grown adult male lion forces the two-thousand-pound beast to his knees.

  “The other three lionesses circle the choking buffalo. The buffalo’s eyes are enormous and wild with terror. He already knows he does not stand a chance, but even then, the majestic beast does not go quietly. He kicks hard and tries his best to throw off the lion. The other younger lions start pouncing on him. Their combined weight brings him completely down.

  “The felled beast screams for its long dead mother, but his windpipe is obstructed and only a dull, sad moan comes out. The heartbreaking sound carries in the still night of the savannah. The other buffalo hear the awful gouts of sound from one of their own, but they can do nothing. They don’t see well in the dark. The herd moves restlessly away from the smell of the lions and the blood.

  “It takes at least ten minutes for the great beast to die. His eyes fill with an incoherent, mad appeal. As it dies the crazy animal tries to reason with its hungry enemy, to beg silently for mercy. But there is no pity. No, no pity at all. The last minutes of his life sees the lions begin to feast on him while he is still alive.

  “They always start with the belly. Tearing it open and eating its smoking innards. The buffalo surrenders and dies, but his death is not a gift to the lions, but to his own kind and the land itself. It is the chase and the battle that breaks open the hard earth so when the rains come they absorb into the soil and allow the grasses to grow so his sons and grandsons can feed on it. In the distance, hyenas are already beginning to gather. Their teeth are big and very white because they are used for crunching bones.”

  Rocco stops and takes a sip of his wine.

  “If the big cats, the hyena, the wild dogs, and the crocodiles do not eat because like you, they pity their prey, not only will they perish, but the whole Savannah will become a dustbowl, and all those wonderful iconic animals will die of starvation.

  “That lobster on your plate lived in a hydroponic pond as part of a natural system. It led as happy a life as any lobster can. It died swiftly to feed you.”

  For a moment I hesitate, then I push my fork into a piece of lobster meat and put it on my tongue. There is no revulsion because it is buttery and delicious.

  Chapter 22

  Rocco

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swq_X9VQ744

  -Stairway To Heaven-

  I watch her as she speaks of her art. Bright, vital, boiling with life, and utterly secure of her place in the world. There is no mourning or regret in her. She lives in the present only. Like fire. No care for the past or the future. No holding back for fear of what will happen when all the wood has been consumed. Just burning brightly.

  And that wild freedom is indescribably beautiful to me.

  Fiercely, I note her every tiny corporeal detail. The sweep of her silky eyelashes, the way the flickering light hits the curve of her cheek, the strands of hair that have come loose from their moorings and sway gently when she turns her head.

  At the edges of fascination, a thought gnaws. I push it away. This moment is too precious to ruin. Later. Later, I will deal with the fact that the enemy knows. Isadora knows about Autumn. Do my parents know too? Isadora is greedy… but not stupid. She would have told them. That is the reason my mother turned up here a few days ago. They are gathering, as elusive as shadows. Just as she represents life and innocence, they represent death, but I cannot give them what they want. If she dies I die with her.

  “What about you?” Autumn breaks into my dark thoughts. “What do you think about modern art?”

  I lift my glass and swirl the old wine in it. In the candlelight, it looks like blood. “I’m afraid I’m not a fan.”

  “We sell a lot of it at the gallery. What is it that you don’t approve of?”

  “I find it hard to be a fan of a red dot pointed on a white canvas, or a calf cut in half and displayed in a glass case filled with brine, or the display of a particularly slutty, unmade bed.”

  “Ah, that. It’s moved on since then”

  I take a sip of wine. “Glad to hear of it.”

  She leans forward, and the light makes her appear like an angel. A conjuring trick. “I’m going to change your mind. What do you look for in a piece of art?”

  “Show me something that I can lose myself in.”

  She is as tense as a catapult on full stretch. Then she nods. “You’re on.”

  “Hmmm.”

  She’s about to say something else, when she stops herself, and looks down at her plate. The peach flavored crepe is gone, and all that’s left is a bit of chocolate sauce. I have stood in the woods and watched her lick her plate when she didn’t know I was there. She wants to do it now. It is only my presence that stops her.

  I want her to forget I am next to her. I stay very still and clear my mind of all thoughts. I allow precisely nothing to be in my head. I don’t move a muscle. I don’t even allow myself to breathe. I become as unthreatening as a piece of crushed flower, or a flat black and white photo. It is something I have done all my life. Watching, without being seen.

  Then… I will her to do what she wants.

  She presses her finger on her plate, collects some sauce on it and puts her finger in her mouth. As suddenly as she forgot my presence, she realizes where she is, and pulls her finger quickly out of her mouth. Hot color rushes up her neck and into her cheeks.

  I stare at her.

  Yes, for a moment, for a fraction of a moment, she forgot her natural wariness of me. She forgot I was even there. It was only a moment, but it’s enough. It is the first time she has crossed that vast, vast gulf between us, and began to accept me.

  The thrill is savage and dark. My cock throbs and lengthens. The desire for her is more than I can bear.

  “What is it?” she whispers. Her innocence is child-like. She doesn’t even understand a man’s desire for her. The need to taste her is incredible.

  I stand. “William will show you to your room, and tomorrow morning Raoul will take you back down the mountain. Perhaps I will see you tomorrow evening in the library?”

  She looks up at me, her eyes are confused. “Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

  “Goodnight, Autumn.”

  “Goodnight, Rocco.”

  I turn and as I reach the doorway, I see William walking towards me.

  “Goodnight, My Lord,” he murmurs.

  I walk towards my office. I pick up the phone and dial.

  “Hello, Rocco,” Isadora purrs.

  “Stay away from her,” I growl.

  “She doesn’t just belong to you. She belongs to all of us,” she replies sweetly.

  My hands clench with frustration and anger. “How did you find her?”

  “Ah, that. You did it the old-fashioned way. We hit pay dirt with ancestry.com.”

  “Don’t make me choose between her and you,” I warn.

  She laughs, a careless, mirthless, soulless laughter. “Don’t be a spoilsport, little brother. May the best man… or woman win.”

  The severed connection whirls in my ear. I lay the receiver back into its cradle, and walk towards the front door. I open it and a gust of cold wet wind rushes into my face. I walk out into the relentless rain. It soaks my clothes and steams my breath. I pass through the gates and follow the little path into the forest. Under the canopy of the trees I pause. The storm rages on and rain drips from the leaves.

  I need to think.

  And I think best when I’m hunting.

  Chapter 23

  Autumn

  “You will find everything you need on the bed and in the bathroom, but should you require anything else please do not hesitate to ring that bell over there.” He points towards a bell next to a massive dark wood, four poster bed.

  “Thanks,” I say, gripping my candlestick.

  “Will you be having breakfas
t in the morning?”

  “Er… no. I have to get to work.”

  “Ah. What time would you like to leave tomorrow?”

  “Well, I have to be at work by nine o’clock.”

  “In that case please come down by eight o’clock and Raoul will take you down the mountain.”

  “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

  “Good night, Miss Delaney.”

  “Good night, William.”

  After he leaves, I look around the large room. There are three candelabras placed around it, but the edges of the room are full shadows. There is a vague sensation I have gone back in time. A large tapestry hangs on one wall and the curtains, which are all drawn shut, look thick and costly. An open door leads off the en-suite bathroom.

  I walk over to the bed where one end has been turned up. There is a small silver tray with two silver foil wrapped chocolates on it. The linen looks very white and crisp and smells of lavender. I touch it, and am surprised by how smooth and opulent it feels. Almost silky. I think of my cheap, scratchy sheets back in my caravan. How wonderful it must be to sleep in a bed like this every day.

  I sit on the bed. The mattress is luxuriously thick and bouncy. Unwrapping the chocolate, I pop it into my mouth. As it melts on my tongue, I run my fingers down the intricately patterned silver and dusky-green, brocade canopy hanging from the four posters of the bed.

  Truly, a bed fit for a Princess.

  I eat the second chocolate before I venture out into the bathroom. I find some neatly folded clothes laid out on a cream and blue armchair. When I whisk the first one open, I find, to my delight, it is an old-fashioned, full sleeved, nightgown made of cotton and lace. Underneath it is a fluffy towel. A magnificent bath with gold taps and clawed feet stands on a pink marble plinth. The idea of having a bath in such sumptuous surroundings is alluring. Especially, since I haven’t had a bath in years. It’s always a quick shower in my tiny plastic cubicle.