The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

Chapter twelve

Chapter twelve

“A penny for your thoughts, Melisande Bruno.”

“They’re worth a lot more than that, sir,” I replied, playing along.

He chuckled. “How greedy... You surprise me, Miss Holy...”

“I never claimed to be particularly devoted, sir,” I informed him. “We just have different ideas on the subject of forgiveness.”

“I smell holiness, Miss Bruno.” He challenged me with his gaze. His words hit me like fists, because they were filled with bitterness, anger and poison. I sought a valid argument against his cynicism. I was hard to find an effective one.

“Forgiving means opening up to the new, and perhaps the better,” I said uncertainly.

“An interesting theory, Miss.” He was obviously teasing me. “Is that what happened to you? Did you forgive your family and find something new and better? Are you referring to me?”

I felt the heat, treacherous and embarrassing, climbing to my cheeks, as he continued, undeterred. “Let me tell you a secret, Melisande. I'm not better than your sister, or your father.”

“You’re wrong,” I said impulsively. “You’re sensible, generous and friendly. Sometimes you’re insufferable, but overall you’re one of the best people I've ever met.”

“I can’t imagine what kind of people you’ve met so far,” he said, shaking his head. “I hate to disappoint you, Melisande, but you’re wrong about me. I’m one of the worst beings you could meet.”

“I don’t think so,” I replied stubbornly.

“Well, I warned you. I'm a wolf dressed as a lamb, ready to eat you in one bite. And I'm ironic enough to warn my prey, before I eat it.”

“You shouldn’t talk about yourself in such terms. Stop it immediately,” I implored him, demoralized by his triviality. I was trying to help him, to push him to open up, and he donned his usual protective armour. Oh well. I didn’t have the chance to win, with a person like him, anyhow.

“Everyone talks about me, Melisande. Why shouldn’t I?” He objected with a diabolical smile.

“I don’t know what happened in your past, but...”

“Exactly. You don’t know, so don’t interfere in issues that don’t concern you.” His tone was dry and furious, about to go up in flames.

I curled up in the chair, making myself small, as if it were enough to protect me from that destructive whirlwind. I tried to calm my heartbeat, and I didn’t say a word.

His gaze was lost in space, as if he had again withdrawn into his shell. Beyond the window the sun was hidden by dark clouds, in keeping with the man in front of me. I was wondering if I should leave him alone when he broke the silence.

“You can go, Melisande. Send me Kyle, as soon as possible. I would like to go to my room.”

He was so cold that in no time I was enfolded by his chill. I gave a slight nod of agreement, and I left the room. Kyle wasn’t around, and it took me long time to find him. He was in the garden, his eyes fixed on the roses that Mrs Mc Millian raised with so much love.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” He asked, without looking at me.

He seemed sober for once.

“Yes” I agreed. “They are beautiful.”

He turned his head toward me, and I could see that he was very pale. “I hate roses. They look beautiful and instead... Their thorns are deadly.”

“That's why they’re the most loved flowers” I considered calmly. “Because they protect themselves. They are inaccessible, in a way. They must be conquered.”

Kyle boldly looked at my breasts, emphasized by the tight t-shirt. “Nonsense. Roses are just flowers, after all. They aren’t any more special than others. They defend themselves needlessly.”

I crossed my arms on my chest, annoyed by his insolence. “Flowers aren’t all the same, Kyle, nor are people.”

“Undemocratic, huh?”

I didn’t answer. “Mr Mc Laine is waiting for you in his room. Immediately.”

“Why should I hurry?” He laughed giving me a knowing nod. “He’s not going anywhere...”

In the silence that followed we stared at each other, as if we were measuring the size of the opponent. Always with my arms folded, I went back to the house, aware of his eyes on my back. An aberrant being, I thought, welcoming the fresh shelter of the house with joy. I wouldn’t have missed him if Mr Mc Laine had found a replacement. His love problems didn’t justify his attitude. A boor, that's what he was.

Soon after, while I was chatting with Mrs Mc Millian in the kitchen, I heard him climbing the stairs. Lazily, with no hurry. Someone should put him in his place, I thought aggressively.

The housekeeper thoughtfully stopped in front of the window. “The mailman is about to ring the doorbell. Would you open it, Miss Bruno?”

The bell ringing confirmed her words. I ran to open, and I breathlessly greeted the mailman.

“Good morning Miss. There’s a telegram for you.”

“Thank you,” I exclaimed nervously. It wasn’t good news. It couldn’t be. It was possible that Monique, furious because I hadn’t answered her letters, had tried to reach me in another way. At that moment I regretted having accepted Mr Mc Laine's offer. Getting rid of my sister was a purely unattainable hope.

I grabbed the telegram with trembling hands, and I watched the postman get on his bicycle and head to the outer path. With a foggy mind, I went to close the gate behind him. Then, knowing I couldn’t put off the inevitable, I tore open the envelope. It was better for me to do it now, while I was alone. But Mrs Mc Millian was already looking at me worriedly from the door.

“Is everything alright, Miss Bruno?”

I gave her a little smile, to be polite. Then I started reading the telegram. The words danced before my eyes, as if I already knew the content, as if my mind had found its own response, led by supernatural forces.

Dad died two days ago stop heart attack stop regards stop Monique.

“Miss Bruno... What happened? Are you ill? Why are you crying?”

Mrs Mc Millian’s last question seemed absurd. I wasn’t crying. Yet, the taste of salt on my lips contradicted my belief. Tears fell on my hands, uncontrollable, and wet the paper of the telegram. I crumpled it up into a ball. I was overwhelmed by pain and I was unable to speak. I was surprised to find myself crying for the death of my father. I thought I had eradicated all the feelings for him from my heart long ago, and instead they were still alive.

I brought my hand to my mouth, shaking with sobs. Mrs Mc Millian embraced me spontaneously and I allowed her to do it, for I had no willpower. Another shred of flesh had been taken away from me; I thought I had been reduced to the bone years ago. My father was dead. He would never ask me to forgive him; I would never see him again. The hope of hearing words of love from him would forever be an unfulfilled wish.

I let her bring me inside, while the first raindrops hit our faces, mingling with my tears. The sky shouted its pain, its compassion for the meanness of mankind. I was no longer able to do it. Perhaps Sebastian Mc Laine was right, I thought, while I gratefully drank a cup a tea prepared by the older woman. Forgiving is useless, evil lasts forever and often summons more evil. I no longer felt free and serene for having forgiven my father. Not at all. I was suffering for his passing because it represented the end of any hope I had ever had on a possible reconciliation.

Suddenly, after a long time, my sobs ceased, and I was left panting and exhausted to stare at my empty cup without seeing it. Only when I looked out the window, I realized that the sky had also turned serene, welcoming, almost a symbol of a reawakening. My father would never ask for me, nor would he ask me to forgive him for all the evil he had done to me. I had to accept the fact that there would never be a happy ending. I had to go onward without hesitation, regrets or remorse.

The silence was solemn, and I had to break it, for Mrs Mc Millian’s sake, who was waiting for me to come back to reality.

“My father is dead,” I announced.

The tears had dried up on my cheeks, and they felt strangely hard, like cement.

The woman had tears in her eyes, sharing my pain, and I felt a surge of affection for her.

“Oh, my poor dear! I’m so sorry! I thought you didn’t have a family... You never mentioned anyone...”

“Disagreements... that we’ll never settle,” I whispered.

“Why don’t you take a few days off, dear?” She suggested slowly.

I let the anguish abandon my soul, like a foreign body being expelled and I was free again. As free as I had never been before.

“I feel better, thank you. I don’t want to think, I just want to keep my mind off this, and working with Mr Mc Laine is a way to accomplish that.” I bravely smiled at her, and she returned my smile, puzzled. She was probably wondering to what extent I was under control.

“Are you really sure?”

“Absolutely, Mrs Mc Millian.”

For a few minutes she kept insisting, worried about me. I could imagine my pallor and my appearance after all the tears I shed. I won, by making use of the patience I had acquired in so many years of swallowing bitter pills.

I went to the office, and started sorting out the overdue mail. There were so many invitations to be declined, so many interviews to reject, so many letters to be tossed away, and I did it with total dedication. It was five o’clock when I felt someone watching me. I turned around, and I saw Mr Mc Laine on his wheelchair, his face hidden in the shadows. Behind him there was an impassive Kyle.

“Already at work, Miss Bruno?”

“I had some work to catch up on,” I explained, turning around.

“You can go, Kyle. See you this evening.”

The nurse grumbled and left the room, leaving us alone. I avoided looking at him, fearing he would read the traces of what had happened on my face, but I had been foolish to underestimate Mrs Mc Millian's anxiety.

“Millicent told me everything,” he began, coming to my side, the noise of the wheels amplified by the lack of carpets. He had them removed a week earlier, tired of finding obstacles on his way.

“She didn’t waste time” I mumbled aggressively. I didn’t want to talk, and it annoyed me that he wanted to force me to do so. Him of all people, who was so secretive.

“She did it for your good. She hoped to convince me to be... kinder to you.” The sweetness of his tone didn’t please me, because it weakened my defences, already feeble in the face of the magic charm of his gaze.

“That’s not a small feat,” I said dryly.

He frowned. “Have I never been kind to you, Melisande Bruno? I believed you to be more honest.”

I didn’t want to argue with him, and I tried to abandon the battlefield. I stood up. “I'm tired. Perhaps Mrs Mc Millian is right. I should take a day off.”

He gave me a friendly smile. “Sit down, Melisande. I don’t mean to play cat and mouse with you. I just want to offer you my complete solidarity.”

“But you don’t allow me to do the same with you,” I said, indelicately.

He raised an eyebrow with a questioning air. “Are you trying to quarrel with me, to vent your anger, because you can no longer take it out on your father? Go ahead, but let me tell you that I won’t be silent.”

Like a balloon deflated by a needle, I slumped and sat back down.

“I don’t want to talk about my Dad. It’s useless.”

“What will your sister do now?”

I looked at him, astonished. “I don’t know. She’ll probably enjoy the money you sent to care for my Dad.” I added, dismayed. “Do you want it back? I doubt that Monique... but I could try to get it back.”

“Your sister is a poisonous snake... And very capable of killing your father so she could enjoy the money and take care of herself.”

I jumped off the chair, as if I had been stung with a pin. “How dare you insinuate...? You don’t even know her!”

“Neither do you, apparently,” was his quick reply.

“Definitely better than you do.” I was angry, and I realized it was doing me good.

“If you have to fight with me, do it for serious reasons, Melisande, not to support the indefensible.”

I thrust myself against him, like a bull dog. "I was wrong to confide in you. Now you've come to the conclusion that my sister is some kind of a walking serial killer…”

Sebastian smiled faintly. “Come on, Melisande... She's a selfish woman, you know it too. Do you want to fight? Let’s find different arguments than your sister.”

“Like what?” I challenged him with a furious glance.

“For example, my stubborn refusal to confide in you. Or my moodiness... Or my attempts to close in on you... You choose... There are tons of reasons, without needing to invent one.”

His gaze was tender, as in my dreams, and it touched me deeply. To protect myself from delusions, I chose to be ironic. “I haven’t invented anything... Do you deny that you made infamous suppositions on Monique?”

“How did you father die, Melisande?”

The question surprised me, and I answered without thinking. “Of a heart attack. What does it matter?”

He handed me a newspaper that he had hidden under his arm up to that moment. “Really? These journalists tend to write a bunch of lies, don’t you think?”

I grabbed it with my heart in my throat. His finger pointed to an article, and I read it, full of apprehension.

Yesterday, the father of the former top model Monique Bruno died in a terrible fire in their home on Cross Ander Street. The man had been ill for a long time and was a chronic alcoholic. Fortunately, the woman was not at home at the time of his death. - I'm distraught - she said. - My Dad had become careless, and forgot a cigarette on the table. The house, entirely made of wood, caught fire. Monique Bruno was one of the most famous models of the nineties, and retired to private life, following a mysterious accident. – Soon I'll return to the world of fashion - she said -I'm about to launch my own fashion line, and I intend to be part of the haute couture. I've been away for too long.

Sebastian's smile was not one of derision, but of understanding, and I cleared my throat before speaking.

“It doesn’t mean anything... I don’t know why my sister lied... Maybe she thought I was out of the world and that I wouldn’t read the newspapers...”

He made a slight unbelieving whistle. “Is that all? Come on, Melisande... Tell me what you really think...”

I couldn’t find an adequate answer, except for the shocking truth, which was pushing behind my mouth, anxious to come out. In its devastating crudity.

“My dad never smoked in his life. He only lived for alcohol. He couldn’t stand cigarettes... In fact, he chided Monique for smoking too much, and forbade her to do it in the house...” I searched for a loophole, anything to reject the horror that was about to overwhelm me. “Maybe he started smoking after my departure... Who knows... It's possible, isn’t it?”

Mc Laine's dark eyes sparkled with pity, and I felt choked by the other possible explanations, much more atrocious. Did Monique really kill our father to use the money for his treatment? Had that godsend that had come out of the blue - or more likely from the underworld - seemed too good an opportunity to share with a hopeless alcoholic, destined to die in a few years?

I had no answers, and I was glad that I didn’t. The suppositions were enough to kill me, like so many poisoned darts.

Mr Mc Laine's answer was somewhat abrupt, as he tried to avoid other questions. “Forget it, Melisande. Whatever the truth, you’ll never know for sure... So... You should think of a way of closing up any relationship with your sister. Definitely. Don’t answer her. Never again.”

My lips trembled with anger. “How can you suggest that I forget everything and avoid asking Monique explanations about her unnecessary lie? I can’t.”

“Forgive, Melisande. Isn’t that what you wisely suggested yourself before?” He smiled sweetly, and he had never seemed so irritating to me. I was always the helpless mouse, trapped in his cat teeth.

“I can’t forgive what I ignore,” I said, trying to control myself.

“Your sister won’t tell you the truth. She could even accuse you of organizing the fire. She’s capable of shedding the blame on others.”

I sighed at his observation. “That’s not funny. After all I have an alibi... I'm here to bear you, and believe me, it takes a lot of patience.”

His familiar laughter entered my brain, making my doubts and my unanswered questions seem silly. That man was amazing. First he had put the doubts in my mind, like so many hot nails and then had pulled them out with pincers, as if they had never existed. He was totally mad. Or maybe I was the crazy one, for I loved him.

“I have to answer her telegram,” I murmured.

“Don’t you dare do that. Monique would feel entitled to contact you again. Let your ways part. It's best for you, trust me.” I liked his bossy tone, because that order, given so carelessly, gave me the illusion that he was interested in me, my happiness and my future.

I put a hand on my forehead. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Maybe you already are. I mean crazy” he said candidly.

It was shocking that such a lively and passionate man was confined to that wheelchair, I thought with sudden sadness. His immobility was a constant pain, similar to that of a wounded bird, condemned to living without its wings. What’s the point in living when you can’t fly anymore?

“It's nice being crazy at your side, sir,” I said impulsively.

His slender hands stretched out towards my face. Sitting next to each other, we were alike, with no differences or limitations. With a joyous spirit, I felt the warm touch of his fingers on my cheek. We didn’t speak, we just gazed at each other. His eyes locked with mine; they were gentle, tender, and as soft as a promise.

The silence cradled us like a lover's arm, and we got lost in it, without hesitation or indecision. Together.

Two ghosts who discover that they are still alive, because they exist in each other’s gaze.