Chapter eleven-1
2012 Words
Chapter eleven
Life resumed, calmly. And my admiration for Sebastian grew, although I tried every possible way to repress such inadequate feelings that could only cause me pain. He was a charming man, rich, persevering and determined. Only his physical impairment had drawn us close, because it was in step with my anomaly, my diversity, my curse. After sending her the check, Monique had swamped me with letters filled with curious envy. Who was my employer? Why did he so generously give me so much money in advance? I didn’t reply, annoyed the my sister had ignored the part of the enclosed letter in which I asked her to no longer get in touch with me. Evidently dazzled by the money, she had ignored my request. I wasn’t so naïve as to believe that I had gotten rid of her. When she realized that I wasn’t answering her letters, she sent other ones, this time more aggressive and hostile. No longer tempered by the money, she reminded me of the immense sacrifices it took for her to take care of our father and of her total and complete dedication as I travelled around the world, searching for a good catch, or taking advantage of gullible men. The letters kept on being delivered, more and more hostile and malicious; so much that I ended up not opening them anymore. I locked them in my drawers, still sealed, and tried in vain to forget about them.
One night, when I thought it wouldn’t happen again, I dreamed of Sebastian. Like the previous times, I was sleeping in my room. His voice woke me up and he invited me to get up and dance with him. It was almost painful to touch him, hold him tight, knowing deep down in my mind that it was only a dream. Dreams are more real than reality, I thought, touching his hair with my fingertips.
“I love you,” he said suddenly, possessively.
I escaped his grip, as if he had thrown a bucket of ice water on me.
“What’s the matter, Melisande?” He asked, surprised.
“I hate dreaming,” I replied in a broken voice.
“Why is that, darling?” his voice was as sweet as nectar, like ambrosia.
“Because at some point I’ll have to wake up,” I said, escaping his gaze.
He hugged me again, ignoring my attempts to escape from his arms. “You might not wake up this time,” he said enigmatically.
“But I want to wake up,” I said, surprizing him.
“What?”
“A dream is beautiful if you think it's real, but if you know it's not... and that you're just dreaming... well, then I'd rather wake up,” I said stubbornly.
He sighed as he followed the contour of my lips with a finger. “You're so sensible, Melisande.”
“That’s the way I am, Sebastian,” I said softly. “Even in my dreams.”
“And what if I never let you wake up again?” He asked. “Against your will?”
“You would never do that,” I said confidently.
His eyes thinned, and his jaw hardened. I was surprised, because in my dream he never lost his sweetness, his mood never changed, unlike during the day. Because it was my heart that had created him as it wished he could be.
“And if I were to ignore your will, and decide in your place?”
“It would be selfish on your part,” I replied, defensively.
“It's just one of my many faults,” he said, harshly.
I started feeling cold. I didn’t like the dream anymore. It was hopelessly escaping my control.
“Now I'm going back to bed, and I’ll wake up,” I said, stubbornly, almost childishly.
He didn’t stop hugging me, despite my frantic attempts to break away.
“Let me go,” I said weakly, almost overwhelmed by his willpower.
When I thought he would never do it, he abruptly let me go. I stepped back, almost falling to the ground. His face was a mask of fury and passion.
“Do you want to stay away from me, Melisande? Then make sure there are ten oceans between us, or I'll find you again.”
“There aren’t ten oceans,” I said dully.
“Exactly.”
Quickly, before I could change my mind, I ran to him, put my arms
around his neck, and covered him with kisses. “No, I will never leave you.”
“Maybe you will, Melisande,” he said bitterly, caressing my hair. “You're stronger than you think. And more stubborn than I am.”
He disappeared like the other times, and always dreaming, I went back to bed. I wrapped myself in the blankets, as if it could help me bring back that enchantment, that unreal bewitchment, that magic dance.
“Did you sleep well, Mrs Mc Millian?”
We were in the kitchen, eating breakfast, and I was looking for a way to change the subject. The woman started speaking of her distant relatives, and she seemed determined to want to know more about my own.
My question, seemingly simple, seemed to take her aback. “I confess that I’m not sure, Miss Bruno.”
I raised my head when I heard that answer.
“What do you mean?”
She lowered her voice, in a conspiratorial tone. “I heard noises all night. First in the house, then in the garden.” She resumed buttering the slices of toast, and then spread them generously with a colourless jam. “In the house, it was certainly Kyle. He always comes home late, and is often drunk.”
“And in the garden?” I asked quietly.
“Deer, I think.” For a while, she stopped talking, busy eating. I reflected on her words at length. Deer? So close to the house? It was possible, of course. The forest was a stone's throw away, but... Kyle was another thing. I didn’t trust him at all. He was often insolent, frustrated and insinuating. His eyes stripped me every time he met me on the stairs or in the corridor. I tried to avoid him as much as possible, and in this I was helped by Mr Mc Laine himself, who seemed to dislike the idea of an affair between me and the burly nurse.
I was about to climb up the stairs when the doorbell rang firmly. Knowing that Mrs Mc Millian was cleaning, I went to open the door. People rarely dared venture to Midnight Rose. The whole town was aware of the owner's hostility for unannounced visitors, and I thought that some stranger had gotten lost. I opened the door and jumped when I saw a pastor standing in front of me in the act of ringing the bell again. He was young, about forty years old, tall, and he had a strangely familiar face.
“Good morning, Miss... Bruno, right? Nice to meet you.”
“How did you get in, with the gate...”
My gaze went past him, to stop on the wide open gate.
“It was open. A sign of welcome, for once. Don’t you think so, too?” He smiled, despite a little coldness in his protruding eyes.
“Surely it's a rare thing,” I admitted without smiling. “And you are..?”
“Father Alan, Miss Bruno. The local parish priest.” He looked at me reproachfully. “But you would have known if you had ever come to Mass.”
I felt the senseless instinct to justify myself. “You’re right, but I...”
“Father Alan! What a pleasure, sir!”
Mrs Mc Millian suddenly materialized at my side, smiling.
“Hello, Millicent. Can I come in? Am I still welcome in this house?”
The woman wrung her hands nervously, desperately regretful. “I’ll be happy to offer you tea, Father. But I doubt that Mr Mc Laine...”
“Hello, Alan”
Our eyes ran in unison to the top of the stairs. He was there, extraordinarily handsome and unreachable, on his wheelchair.
“Hello, Sebastian. Can I come in? Can you grant me audience?” The priest's tone was joking, but he masked an unusual uncertainty, as if he were used to denials.
“Come in, Alan. Let me look at you. You have aged, haven’t you?”
“Earthly hardships, Sebastian,” the other proudly said. “The ones you deliberately excluded, those from which you are now immune.”
“What would you have done in my place?” Sebastian replied fiercely.
“Now come on, Sebastian...” The priest smiled pleasantly. “Forget the past, move forward. Like the rest of the world does.”
“I'm not the rest of the world.” Mr Mc Laine didn’t hide his bad mood for education; it was palpable in that dark lobby.
The pastor came in decisively, elegantly moving past us. Only then did I understand who he vaguely looked like. He looked like Mr Mc Laine. Oh, he didn’t have his disturbing beauty, of course. His was ascetic and dignified, and the resemblance was evident in the straight nose, in the shape of the eyes and in the line of the mouth.
“It takes a strong man to forgive. A weak man is stagnant in his hatred,” he said, smiling.
“He who forgives, is destined to be trampled on a second time. And then a third, a fourth, a fifth. A strong man isn’t he who forgives, but he who demands respect.”
“I'll go make some tea,” Mrs Mc Millian said softly, and hurried toward the kitchen.
I stood still, petrified by amazement and anxious to understand something of that mysterious conversation.
“Your ideas are antichrist, cousin.” The priest made the sign of the cross.
Cousin! That explained their physical resemblance. For the rest, they were as different as day and night. Alan’s emotions were cold and repressed, and Sebastian’s were passionate and exposed.
“You're the usual hypocrite, Alan. There is very little of Christ in you,” My boss said, with sharp irony.
The priest gave me an impersonal, quick glance. “Can we speak in private?”
“Absolutely not,” he refused uninterested. “I'm very busy with my work, and furthermore, there's nothing that you haven’t already told me.”
“I'd like you to see an exorcist, Sebastian,” his cousin continued, untouched by his cousin’s attitude. “I think you have been possessed by the devil.”
A shiver ran through my spine, while Mr Mc Laine burst out in his mocking laugh.
“Wow... I'm honoured! The devil wastes his time with a paralytic... And what use would he have for my soul? I sold it a long ago.”
“That is blasphemy, Sebastian...” Alan said, sadly. “I’m afraid you're really lost. I'll come visit you soon. You need God’s comfort more than ever.”
“You represent the Lord?” Sebastian couldn’t stop laughing. “Then we're really in good hands... My soul... Or rather what little is left of it, is really in good hands...”
“Sebastian! You should be ashamed of yourself! You're past redemption, I'm afraid.” That being said, the pastor turned to me. “Miss Bruno, if you need spiritual help, you know where you can find me. I'm genuinely sorry for you... My cousin has lost his faith, you mustn’t do the same.” With a last greeting, he left.
Mr Mc Laine and I looked at each other silently. I broke the silence, moved by curiosity and by the need to understand.
“Why do you refuse your cousin’s help? I mean... Don’t you feel the need to...” The words escaped me before I could stop them.
“To open my soul to my holy cousin? No, Melisande, there are no saints on earth.”
I gazed at him severely. “The world has had so many saints, Mr Mc Laine. Maybe today we’re more materialistic, but in the past...”
Perplexed, I watched him shake his head violently. “Melisande... you’re so naive... Do you know that even some clergy nuns have been declared saints, and their only contribution to humanity was fasting and self-flagellation? They were just anorexics and visionaries, not holy. They didn’t save lives nor sacrifice anything to the world. On the contrary, they escaped from the world. Exactly as I do.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spied my reaction. “Yet I’m considered an unbeliever, and they are considered saints.”
I closed the gap between us, slowly climbing the steps. The desire to see the real colour of his eyes was as strong as that of seeing a rainbow.
I stopped in front of him, and I stared at him, lost in confusion. There was sorrow on his face, not serenity.
“Why don’t you confide in me, sir?” I asked recklessly, “You always push me to confide in you, but you don’t do it with me. It seems to me that we have a problem of trust. You’re the one who doesn’t trust me, not the other way around.”
“You’re the one who’s stuck in the past, Melisande, not me,” he said seriously.
- Writer
