The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

Chapter two-2

“Zombie on the way,” I read loudly.

“It's the best one for starts. It's the least... how can I say it? Least frightening?” He laughed whole-heartedly, obviously at me, and at the uncomfortable awkwardness that transpired from every pore of my body.

“Why don’t you start reading it tonight? Just to prepare for your new job,” he suggested, his eyes laughing.

“Okay, I'll do it,” I said with little enthusiasm.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Miss Bruno,” he dismissed me, again with a serious expression. “Lock the door to your room; I wouldn’t want the spirits of the palace to visit you tonight, or some other dreadful night creature. You know what I mean...” He paused, with a flash of merriment in the darkness of his eyes. “As I said before, it’s difficult to find employees out here.”

I tried to smile, although I wasn’t very convincing.

“Good night, Mr Mc Laine.” Before closing the door I couldn’t help myself and I blurted “I don’t believe in spirits or night creatures.”

“Are you sure?”

“There is no proof of their existence, sir,” I answered involuntarily copying his previous statement.

“Nor that they don’t exist,” he replied. He turned his wheelchair and went back to his desk.

I closed the door gently, demoralized. Maybe he was right, and zombies did exist. For sure at that moment I felt like one of them. Dazed, my thoughts were fuzzy and I felt suspended in a limbo, where I no longer knew how to distinguish between real and unreal. It was worse than not being able to distinguish colours.

I dined listlessly in the company of Mrs Mc Millian: my mind was elsewhere, with someone else. I feared I wouldn’t recover my thoughts until the next morning, when I would return to where I had left them. Something told me that I had entrusted my gullible heart to the wrong person.

I remember very little of the conversation I had with the housekeeper that night. She was the only one who spoke, incessantly. She seemed to be in seventh heaven, for she finally had someone to talk to. Or rather, someone to listen to her. I was perfect for that. I was too polite to interrupt her, too respectful to show my disinterest, too busy to think of other things, therefore I didn’t feel the need to be alone. If I had been alone, all my thoughts would’ve certainly been focused on him.

In my room, an hour later, sitting comfortably in bed, with my head resting on the pillows, I opened the book and started reading. I was already terrified when I reached the second page, and foolishly so, considering it was just a book.

In spite of my common sense, of which, in theory, I was well-supplied, the atmosphere in the room became suffocating, and I felt the need to get a breath of fresh air.

I walked barefoot through the darkened room and opened the window. I sat on the windowsill, soaking in the warm, late summer night; the silence was broken only by the chirping of the crickets and by the call of an owl. It was pleasant to be far away from the frenzy of London, from its fast rhythms, always on the brink of hysteria. The night was a black quilt, apart from a few white stars here and there. I liked the night, and I idly thought that I would’ve liked to be a night creature. Darkness was my ally. Without light everything is black, and my genetic inability to

distinguish colours was meaningless. At night my eyes were the same as those of any another person. For a few hours I didn’t feel different. A temporary relief, of course, but it was as refreshing as cool water on warm skin.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of the alarm clock, and stayed in bed for a few minutes, bemused. Following my initial confusion, I remembered what happened the day before, and I recognized the room.

Once dressed, I went downstairs, almost frightened by the deep silence around me. The sight of Millicent Mc Millian, cheerful and loquacious as ever, dissolved the fog and brought peace to my turbulent mind.

“Did you sleep well, Miss Bruno?” She began.

“I’ve never slept better,” I said, surprised to realize that it was true. For years, I hadn’t abandoned myself so serenely to sleep; I had set aside my negative thoughts for at least a few hours.

“Do you want coffee or tea?”

“Tea, please,” I accepted, sitting at the kitchen table.

“Go to the living room, I'll serve it in there.”

“I'd rather have breakfast with you,” I said, stifling a yawn.

The woman seemed pleased and began to bustle around the stove. She resumed her usual chatter, and I was free to think of Monique. I wondered what she was doing at that hour. Had she already prepared breakfast? The thought of my sister again put the weight on my thin shoulders, and I gladly welcomed the arrival of my cup of tea.

“Thank you, Mrs Mc Millian.” I happily sipped the warm and pleasantly perfumed drink, while the housekeeper served toast and a series of little jars full of various inviting jams.

“Try the raspberry jam. It's fabulous.”

I reached towards the tray; my heart was already in fibrillation. My diversity came back to bury me. Why me? Were there others like me in the world? Or was I an isolated anomaly, a wacky joke of nature?

I randomly grabbed a jar, hoping that the old woman would be too busy to notice my mistake. There were five different jams, so I had a chance in five, two out of ten, twenty per cent to pick the right one at my first attempt.

She hurried to correct me, less distracted than I thought. “No, Miss. That's orange.” She smiled, not at all conscious of the agitation that was mounting in me, and of my sweaty forehead. She passed me a jar. “Here, it's easy to confuse it with the strawberry jam.”

She didn’t notice my forced smile, and resumed telling me of her love story with a young Florentine who in the end left her for a South American girl.

I ate half-heartedly, still nervous because of the incident, and I already regretted not having accepted to eat alone. That way I would have had no problems. Avoiding potentially critical situations was my mantra. It always had been. I had to make sure that the delightful atmosphere of the house wouldn’t make me act recklessly and forget the necessary prudence. Mrs Mc Millian seemed to be a smart, intelligent and thoughtful woman, but she talked too much. I couldn’t count on her discretion.

She paused to drink her tea, and I decided to ask her some questions. “Have you been working for Mr Mc Laine for many years?”

She brightened, happy to be able to tell me new stories. “I've been here for fifteen years. I arrived a few months after Mr Mc Laine’s accident. The one in which... Well, you understand. All the previous servants had been sent away. It seems that Mr Mc Laine was a very cheerful man, who loved life and was always happy. Unfortunately, now things have changed.”

“How did it happen? I mean... The accident? That is... please forgive my curiosity, it’s inexcusable.” I bit my lip, fearful of being misunderstood.

She shook her head. “It's normal to ask questions; it's part of human nature. I don’t know exactly what happened. At the village I was told that Mr Mc Laine was to be married the day after the car accident and of course the wedding was called off. Some say he was drunk, but I think that it’s just an unsubstantiated rumour. What we know for sure is that he went off the road to avoid a child.”

My curiosity was aroused, fuelled by her words. “A Child? I read on the internet that the accident happened at night.”

She shrugged. “Right, it seems that it was the grocer’s son. He had run away from home because he decided to join the circus company which was on tour in the area.”

I dwelled on that news. This explained Mr Mc Laine’s sudden mood changes, his constant bad mood, and his unhappiness.

It was understandable. His world had crumbled, broken into pieces, as a result of a wretched fate. A young, wealthy, handsome man; a successful writer, about to fulfil his dream of love... And in a matter of seconds he had lost almost all he had. I would probably never experience such bad luck, but I could imagine it. You can’t miss what you don’t have. My only companion had always been Nothingness.

A quick glance at my wristwatch confirmed that it was time to go. It was my first day of work. My heart beat faster, and in a glimmer of rationality I wondered if it depended on the new job or on the mysterious master of that house.

I climbed the stairs two by two, irrationally afraid of being late. In the hallway I crossed Kyle, the nurse-handyman. “Good morning”.

I slowed down, embarrassed because he caught me rushing. He must have thought that I was insecure, or worse yet, rash.

“Good morning”.

“It’s Miss Bruno, isn’t it? Can I call you by your name? After all we’re in the same boat, at the mercy of a crazy lunatic.” The harsh and brutal ruthlessness of his words surprized me.

“I know, I'm disrespectful to my employer, and so on. You’ll soon learn to agree with me. What's your name?”

“Melisande”.

He bent in an awkward bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, red-haired Melisande. Your name is really unusual, it's not Scottish... Even though you look more Scottish than I do.”

I smiled politely, and tried to move past him, still fearing to be late. But he blocked my way, standing on the landing with his legs stretched out. The timely intervention of a third person cleared the situation.

“Miss Bruno! I won’t tolerate any delays!” The cry undoubtedly came from my new employer, and it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Kyle moved out of the way immediately, allowing me to pass. “Good luck, red-haired Melisande. You’ll need it.”

I gave him a fierce look, and ran to the door at the far end of the hallway. It was half closed, and a smoke ring was coming out of it.

Sebastian Mc Laine was sitting behind the desk, like the previous day, holding a cigar between his fingers, and his face was unyielding.

“Close the door, please. And then sit down. I've already wasted enough time while you socialized with the rest of the staff.” His tone was harsh and insulting.

An act of rebellion pushed me to answer, like a reckless lamb in front of a wolf.

“It was just normal courtesy. Or would you prefer a rude secretary? In that case I can leave. Immediately.”

My impulsive response took him by surprise. His face lit up with amazement, the same that probably was reflected on mine. I had never been so daring.

“And here I had already labelled you as a toothless dog... That was hasty of me... Really too hasty.”

I sat in front of him; my legs no longer supported me, regretting my irresponsible frankness. I was terrified of the potential explosive consequences.

My employer didn’t seem offended, indeed. He smiled. “What’s your name, Miss Bruno?”

“Melisande,” I replied automatically.

“Debussy, I guess. Did your parents love music? Maybe they were performers?”

“My dad was a miner,” I confessed reluctantly.

“Melisande... A pretentious name for the daughter of a miner,” he remarked, his voice vibrant with a restrained laugh. He was playing with me, and in spite of my decision of the day before, I wasn’t sure I wanted to let him do it. It would surely become his favourite diversion.