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Chapter 6, Excerpt 4

jelewis8 — Sat, 13 Sep 2003 19:09:55 +0000

She relaxed into the seat, reveling secretly in the warmth that now enveloped her. Soon it would be less bearable, the heat more pronounced. For now, though, she acquiesced to the laughing sun that fell across her bare hand.
She closed her eyes, imagining them at their picnic, wondering what it would have been like if her tongue had not betrayed her. They would be sitting together, somewhere overlooking the harbour, perhaps in the Old Town. It would be an ambiguously romantic locale, undoubtedly underneath a spreading elm or beech. Stuart would have imagined it was meant for him. Charles would have played the martyr and kept silent and quietly restrained. Poor Francis! She was such an outsider, still, and this would likely end that sad charade in which she had ensconced herself.
And how would she have felt? Not a little uncomfortable, to be sure. Having to play to both, one never knowing a thing and the other knowing everything. Or as close to everything as she had allowed him to know. It would have been maddening?no different really, than their last three months living together in that white house of bland emptiness.
?I hope you find what you are looking for,? she said to Charles, quietly, turning her head and narrowing her eyes.
?So do I. So do I,? he said. Now he was staring past her through the window and into the bank that solidly lined the entrance out of the city.
Despite how the gloomy events of the last half hour had clouded things, the spot in which they were parked was really beautiful. Tiny bluebells washed the green grass into a violet-blue haze, and the birch tree guarded the roadside like a faithful dog waiting for its master.
Lindsay didn?t know what to say. She had declared herself fully and finally and Charles had simply let her go. There was nothing more to say, nothing that would convince him of her impossible dream. She breathed deeply, feeling a rolling crest of sadness slowly approaching, welling up within her and emptying itself into her eyes and heart.
Charles saw it. With his little finger he wiped the tear falling down from the center of her eye, drew it to his mouth and kissed it, letting it linger on his lips. He closed his eyes tightly, straining to see something in the darkness behind them.
Lindsay quavered. It was as if this love was worthless. She felt angry; angry that all had come to ruin; angry that she had ever met Stuart; angry that she was born in Chicago; angry at her father for the horse she had never gotten; angry at love for failing her yet again. But on top of the anger was something even more sublime and strong. There was a peace about understanding the failure, as if it freed her to pursue other things that life could offer. What would those be? Would she be ready to face the world without the things with which she had built up around her? Charles and Stuart and France and all the great wide open sea lands, green grasses and small towns, crazy drunken gypsies and strange medallions?and those nights, oh those nights of cool and fog and pale ghost-like moonlight and the secret stealings, tiptoes across bare white wood and faint creaking of the outside shore, listening, listening, and finally floating to the bedroom of the man who had claimed her yet had no hold on her; the man who was to be her husband.
What had it all been worth? She was leaving in a week and a day and now that the full realization laid itself upon her, she felt helplessly attracted to all that had happened, and all that had not happened. That night in Charles?s bedroom when he had declared his love a truce and left her to the fate of Stuart Carnegie. That had been the moment of decision. She had decided then that she would leave, that she would buy a ticket for the first spring boat out of Calais. She would ride the waves back to her father and mother, deciding if she wanted to continue life with Stuart or if she would strike out on her own.
The latter presented only a dreary and cold end, likely devoid of any of her father?s wealth and certainly missing all the finer points of Stuart?s embrace which, as odious as it seemed to her at the time, offered far more in terms of material application than the former choice. She knew in her heart of hearts that there was really no decision to be made. She had given herself that other option as an illusion, a means to halfway convince herself that her decision to leave was correct.
?Charles, please listen to me.? He opened his eyes and gazed at her patiently. ?I love you. But I know what you must do. Your life is your own and you must make your way, just as I must do the same. I just want you to promise that you will never forget us.?
Charles nodded. He opened his mouth to speak but she interrupted him.
?No, let me finish,? she said. ?I would give a thousand trips across the Channel to be with you, but I know now that that is something you can never do. I understand, I think.?
?Lindsay,? Charles whispered.
She placed her hand upon his cheek and felt it tremble, and it was warm like the sun-soaked seat.
The two of them sat there, quiet and still, and the wind picked up and the scolding grasshoppers who had hatched from the early warmth and who would die when the weather grew cold again shrilled and flew away until all that was left buzzed and swarmed in anonymous insect life.

Chapter 6, Excerpt 3

jelewis8 — Tue, 05 Aug 2003 18:08:19 +0000

She turned away, to the window and the outside world. The sea across her eyes shimmered and shrank away and she angrily wiped away the sudden tears. She looked back at Charles. He looked alone, alone and tired. She wanted for all the world to feel this way, now. Even in the midst of overwhelming sorrow, she knew that time had slowed for her to engage enough of what was left of his ever-receding heart.
?Did I ever tell you about my first love?? she asked him. He looked up, then, shook his head.
?I thought I was your first,? he said, and smiled sadly. He had a quiet wryness about him that she appreciated. It was the strongest indication that he was still with her, even if for a short time.
?It would have been you, if he hadn?t shown up first one Christmas in a red-wrapped gift,? she said. He looked pleased, and she felt like making him smile, so she took up the narrative.
?I was four, my father then a businessman beginning to accrue fortune. My wish that year had been for a pony. I loved ponies?yes, it?s trite, I know. Not every little girl gets one, but that?s another story for another rainy day.
?I begged my father for a month before my birthday, and then again on his birthday,? Lindsay laughed. ?How impertinent of me, and yet I didn?t really know better either.? She closed her fists quietly, remembering her past, and the bitter-sweetness of telling Charles on this, their first exposure to public light.
?He seemed irritated and told me I should be better off without a pony. ?Maybe next year? he would tell me, but it was no use. He wouldn?t convince me to stop and I wouldn?t convince him he needed to buy me a pony. That was the way it was between us.
?Later, after school had begun and winter had set in I drifted out of interest for the pony. I forgot about it until about a month before Christmas. I began to get excited again, and the prospect of what St. Nicholas would bring to me was hardly bearable. I reminded my father again that Christmas was the time of miracles, that Santa would be kind. My father always shrugged at me, the way Stuart sometimes does. I remember him sitting at coffee, sorting through the dispositions and property papers, turning ?round to me after I had told him about the pony Santa would bring me, happily for the fortieth time that week, and saying, ?Christmas won?t be the same after you stop asking about that pony.?
?Well, Christmas morning finally came around, and of course, I was absolutely convinced that I would find a pony downstairs waiting for me. At the very least, she would be outside, with a Christmas bell hung around her neck and a half-nibbled carrot on the snowy path. Imagine it! I, a little girl with half-draped curls and nightgown flowing like some samurai cape, running to meet my horse (I had already named her Blueberry). Discovering that among the gifts strewn about the tree, no pony to call my own! That, Charles, is the first moment of the first crisis of faith.
?My father saw my disappointment, but he saved his special gift for last. It was a large, square box, tied loosely with a ribbon, and I could see little holes in the top and side. Before I could pull the ribbon, the box bounded off and I was attacked by a tiny scrap of fur! My first animal, a tiny spaniel, and oh, I can remember how I simply melted away. I named him Dashes, after his funny running stops.?
Lindsay stopped, remembering, wondering if she would forget this someday. She had gotten lost in her memories, and Charles was respectfully silent.
?I can?t remember what my father looked like when I opened that box. I only remember him afterward, telling me I would show good responsibility and care for that dog. I wonder if he was smiling at me??
Charles shifted and his movement caused the car to settle. It was warm in there, she felt; the sun had heated the plush seat next to her hand and she wanted to stay there, peaceful and warm in that man-made cave of steel and wheels.
?Charles, what are you going to do?? she asked him, and he looked past her shoulder, to the side of the town. ?I mean, with Stuart part of this now, how will you manage??
Charles nodded. ?I knew this would happen. Sooner or later, he was bound to know at some point. I just wish?? he stopped and looked to her eyes. ?I just wish the sting was something less than it is. But that?s a fool?s errand there, looking for treasure in the dark places of the earth. Stuart will be all right. Don?t worry about me, either. I have a plan.?
?What is it? It?s no use going at it alone, if you mean to stand up to him. I want to be there with you,? Lindsay replied.
?No, you don?t understand. I will be leaving, as you are.?
?Back to Chicago!?
?No, to Paris. Or Rouen. Somewhere else. Just not the States.? Charles pursed his lips. ?I have something to find.?
Lindsay didn?t say anything. Her hopes had been raised then dashed as quickly, and somehow, she knew this was their last time together, the last confrontation, and come what may, they were destined to be distanced by oceans and lands and the boundless gaps of the unknown.

Chapter 6, Excerpt 2

jelewis8 — Mon, 23 Jun 2003 18:06:52 +0000

Lindsay sank into the sun-warmed leather seats and Charles hurried to the other side of the car and opened the door, quickly seating himself facing her. His face and eyes held a questioning look. She wondered at this, realizing (perhaps for the first time) that Charles was also caught up in the whirlwind, that he too would have to face Stuart and even his own duplicity. Knowing Charles, Lindsay began to understand that Charles was perhaps the most confused and frightened of any of them.
She was still shaking imperceptibly, and she drew in her breath with a quavering gasp that simultaneously betrayed her emotions (of this she was unconcerned) and seemed to further release her plunging heart, allowing her to slowly calm her heart and thoughts.
Charles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Only now she noticed he was wearing white?uncommon for him. He usually clad himself in dark. Now, his outfit seemed blaringly calamitous and inopportune.
?Things have changed, Charles, since you and I first met each other,? she began. She felt unsure of how to say what rippled just under the surface. Sometimes it was almost as if she was party to a secret knowledge, like the old alchemists in their dark laboratories. Yet how had they told the world? She felt even if she knew what to say, it would not matter because the rest of the world did not have what she had. The outside, the dark was the unknown and unknowing, and they could never learn her art, no matter how hard they tried, no matter how much she told them. She knew the secret arts and formulas and yet could only write them and speak them in a language of one, lost to the world and unable to be taught. She remembered her secret life inside, and continued.
?There?s more that Stuart doesn?t know; even you have no idea. I don?t know what you think about us, but I have never been more unsure of anything in my life. Charles, where do we go from here? How can we repair the great mistakes of our lives, our love??
Charles opened his mouth as if to speak but stopped himself. He let her continue.
?Have you ever stayed awake all night just to see the sunrise?? she asked, and felt tears welling up. Charles nodded his head. ?Do you know how many sunrises I have seen since arriving here?? She shook her head and brusquely wiped her eyes. ?My last night in Chicago, before Stuart picked me up, I stayed awake, knowing it would be my last in America for a while. I told myself stories of what I imagined life was like over here. I even prayed once, very quietly, thinking perhaps it couldn?t hurt. I was anxious, Charles, anxious and afraid of us. I haven?t been able to stop thinking of us. You changed my life when we met and then again when you left me.?
?We were never together Lin,? said Charles. ?It was always you and Stuart, you know this. Ever since you met it had been decided.?
?We had something,? Lindsay leaned forward, emphatic. ?You and I?we could have been something.?
?What else was there to do?? said Charles.
?Instead you let go. Were you too afraid? Were you ashamed??
?You know this, Lindsay. Don?t you remember that night you and I almost got caught? I told you my feelings then. It doesn?t matter what we once had, because it was only temporary, a shot in the dark. After that it was always inevitable. You blinded yourself if you can?t understand that.? Charles took Lindsay?s hand and held it gently.
?If you never give up, then you can never be forgiven.?
Lindsay stared down at her hand. She now knew that Charles? intentions were to disincline himself from any further engagements with her. She sighed and closed her eyes, clenching them against the light and tears that threatened to evacuate again. She felt wearied by the fighting, the constant battle to understand their history and future. Perhaps it was his ambiguity and mystery that both incited her to love him and provoked her fatigue. It was a constant tension between knowing the mind he allowed her to see and feeling the emptiness of the gulf?his deep.
?Charles, I have?there is something which I must tell you. I have delayed telling you because I also would have had to tell Stuart as well, and that wasn?t something I was in any condition to do. I have?? she stopped, hanging her head.
?Dear God, please don?t say what I think you?re going to say,? he drew back, dropping her hand.
?I am not pregnant,? Lindsay said, and burst into tears. He breathed thankfully, and she wished he had not been so callous. She felt the burden still upon her, yet knowing his mind, found her thoughts tending toward anger and violence. How easily he betrayed his own weaknesses, she thought, and wondered if she was wrong about him. No, she had not traded openness for secrets, had not despised fortune to adore a man who had no thought but for himself; she knew him better, but still that sting hurt, and she realized it was the first time she had truly felt injured by something he said.
?I must return to Chicago,? she finally said, tears partially obscuring her speech. ?I have purchased a return ticket from Calais to Dover.?
?What? You cannot be serious. Stuart will kill you, you know this!? he said.
?I have already made arrangements.?
?And when do you depart?? Charles asked, searching her face for some betraying glance.
?A week from tomorrow,? she looked longingly at his confused face, wishing he could understand what she felt in her heart. ?Come with me,? she said. ?We can begin again. There is nothing here but sadness and death.?
?Can you tell me why you would do this?? he asked. She remained quiet for a few moments, thinking, imagining her inner-self answering confidently something she would never know. Her quiet self shrank because she knew she was unsure in every respect.
?I need to feel alive again,? she said quietly.

Chapter 6, Excerpt 1

jelewis8 — Mon, 23 Jun 2003 10:06:17 +0000

She could only close her eyes and the tears would fall as sorrowful rain; she knew it the instant he looked at her that her life was shattered. From that moment all things good and familiar were dashed heartlessly to the ground and something new built up, a wall, cold, hard, impenetrable.
He stared hard. His breath had grown shallow; everyone could hear him as he rattled mercilessly in his throat. His eyes were hard, glassy and barely concealed absolute horror and a furious anger that threatened to spill out from the edge. His jaw set on edge and he had grown imperceptibly taller.
?What did you say?? he said with a dull anger, quietly. Lindsay could feel her heart, and the surrounding noises of nature were curiously intrusive now, as if by design they now prevented her from thinking rationally. The blackbird, one of the first, perhaps, shook its head at her and raised its voice in mawkish judgment. The few insects out raised their alarm at her misspoken admission; a June bug buzzed its unwelcome displeasure in her wrongdoing, and signaled to its mate which sawed loudly in contempt. Even the wind had sensed the critical moment and had ceased to blow, listening carefully at the measured nuances of Stuart?s dangerous quietude.
She sensed all this in the breakneck speed of a thought; the very pungent quickening of her defenses came alive and she cast her eyes down and shrank imperceptibly.
?What in God?s name did you just say?? Stuart said, this time taking a small step forward. Lindsay responded in kind, retreating from his suddenly frightening frame. She had feared this moment above all others, never allowing herself to imagine the heights to which Stuart?s anger might rise. She had only briefly guessed at the sorrow her admission might bring, but that even she limited herself to thinking?it was inevitable, she knew; she had known from the beginning, yet somehow had convinced herself it would not expose itself, or if it did, only in the capacity of comfort and innocuousness, leaving her protected and unhurt.
Though the initial moment of sheer terror had passed, she still feared inwardly, and shrank further. Charles said something, but she had possessed herself, ignoring the outside world and taking stock of her heart. She felt its great energy and heat, arising from the increased excitement and consequential motion. Inside that, she knew, a rupture unseen, a thin cut had suddenly exploded into a massive fault. It was as if a dam had broken and now the stored emotion from the months of hiding was awash in a terrible flood.
Stuart was close to her now, but his face and hands seemed veiled in mist. Everything around him was gray and vague, and he was growing cloudy. She knew it was the end. The sound had ceased, except the pounding in her breast and the strange volume of the silence in her head that overwhelmed all; she remained bent slightly, cowering almost, yet upright as no defensive animal would allow; remorseful yet strong. She felt this, and then, as if it had never happened, Stuart turned sharply and walked quickly toward the gate of the village.
The moment had passed, and now her entire body cried for release. Restrained no more, she relinquished and sank into herself. Wave upon wave of sadness and regret converted into tears as she covered her eyes and cried.
?Oh?my God?Charles?? she wept. She felt arms encircle her and she knew instantly that Charles was upholding her. How she longed for sleep! In the confusion and fear she had suddenly experienced something she felt few people ever know. It was strange. A part of her was separate from all of this. It was keeping very quiet and still, but observant. Stranger still, her self that thought of this other part knew she was watching her. She beheld herself in this manner, seeing the weight of time and a shadow of some unseen thing, like a mountain or great door; her face was darkened with its presence, and her quiet self saw this and saw the beads of light that were sweeping around her. She saw them too, and wondered what it was, wishing she knew what her other self knew.
She felt herself being guided by Charles? hands and strong embrace. Charles shook his head gently. Lindsay heard Francis say ?What?? Charles replied that Francis should go seek out Stuart.
She straightened then, felt a strength returning to her legs and face. She opened her eyes and swept her hair back from her face. Strands had begun to stick from her tears, and she said quietly, ?I think he will want to be alone right now,? but she no longer understood how she spoke or cared. She only wished she were alone, and wondered where her life would end. Nothing mattered anymore. What had become of all those times of triumph? There was a time when she thought they had somehow evaded the rules, escaping judgment. The light times, the times of happiness and pleasure. Intermixed with the dread of Stuart, they were magical, wondrous, heavenly. Now, nothing had changed. The end of the world could come and it would not mean anything more than what had just taken place.
Suddenly, just before she forgot why or even that she had thought it, Lindsay knew that God did not exist.
She looked around her and heard Charles and Francis; mumbling it seemed to her, and she turned and faced the empty sky behind, and below it, the empty sea. The two empties, she thought, and I?m bigger than either. What is there to do now that all is done? What does it mean that I am no longer alive?
Francis shuffled off in the direction Stuart had taken. She knew this because it was what Charles would have her do, and because she knew Charles so well she could tell him what they must do, and he would agree.
She faced him now, and he turned toward her, a sad look in his eye, and she said quietly, ?Let?s talk about what to do.? He nodded and they got in the car, leaving the doors open.

Chapter 5, Excerpt 5

jelewis8 — Fri, 06 Jun 2003 08:06:19 +0000

They stood there together, facing the window, each lost in reflection. He had left the window open and the night air had sufficiently cooled the room, and now Lindsay was shivering. He guided her with his hand, turning her around to face the door, saying, ?Let?s get you back to your room.?
It was at that precise moment of their turning that he saw Stuart standing in the door, shirtless, his hair disheveled. Behind him Charles could see Francis in her nightgown and robe.
?She was sleepwalking,? Charles gestured to Lindsay. She seemed indifferent to their presence. ?Why she came to my room is anyone?s guess.?
Stuart looked confused, but his face had brightened considerably at the announcement. Charles led Lindsay to him saying, ?Here, why don?t you take her,? and relinquished her into his indecisive hands.
?Will she be??? Stuart began.
?She?ll be fine in the morning,? Charles answered. ?Sleepwalkers sometimes act like this. Their brains are still lost in dream world. Take her to her room, and make sure she lies down and returns to sleep.?
Charles wanted to forget the last hour. It had begun strangely and had grown progressively more surreal. He barely remembered their tryst; it seemed to have happened many years ago.
Stuart turned, leading Lindsay slowly down the hallway. Lindsay, for her part, was either truly entranced in her vision of the phantom gypsy woman or had excelled in her playacting class and was now making use of her training. Charles thought, too late, that she seemed sedate, docile, almost comatose, and he wondered if she really would be fine in the morning. Francis remained behind for a moment longer, looking at Charles with a kind of incredulity, or perhaps simply magnified concern. He could not distinguish anything anymore. His mind told him that what had just happened was a definitive ending to their prolonged escapade (for that was all it was), and then he remembered the softness of her touch, how closely she had held him, how desperately she had accepted his searching hands.
He stood hesitantly, alone now (Francis had silently returned to her room as he contemplated the events of the evening), wondering if he would ever sleep that night. It was clear that things were not as they should have been. He had not properly dealt with Lindsay, and in underestimating her desire for him and contempt for Stuart, only enlarged the gaping hole of their affair. He saw now that he had failed to adequately end it with her, and he considered that, at the time, he had not really wanted to. Even now, he wondered if he truly desired an end to their relationship. It was not as if he had resisted her advance this evening. Whatever his feeling, he knew, if only from a purely intellectual standpoint, that the noose was drawing closer, through no active engagement by either he and Lindsay or Stuart; lies, he knew, catch up eventually, and would expose themselves to the light of day despite their best efforts, despite their work thus far.
He closed his door and sank into the bed. The world was turning to gray, and he felt nothing. What was he to do? Running from one world only to slowly sink and drown in the mire that was self-created, self-inflicted; he knew, or rather had the subtle feeling that he was meant to die young, and his whole body ached knowing this. He felt tears welling in his eyes and the burning in his nostrils that accompany unknown sadness. He felt this occasionally, as if a spirit of impulsive melancholy would suddenly descend upon him and imbue him with all his past tears. It was not a weight or burden of sadness, such as he imagined Christ felt, nor was it a passing kind of dreariness that exhibited itself upon him in the form of mock sympathy?rather, it was the sadness of a tuberculosis patient who, knowing the end is certain, that it will cut short their pitiful lives, realizes that there is so much he will miss. Even though he never cared about these things, they suddenly become precious in a way even treasured things cannot be appreciated, because they are the shadows of things that, for him, will never be.
Charles knew this well. He was acquainted with it from his birth, and he wondered if much of it was connected with his mother. With her death he had forgotten how to laugh. She didn?t have a face anymore, and this saddened him even more, because her countenance was the only thing that brightened his life. He blinked, and the brimming cup of salty tears overwhelmed the twin shining orbs that had seen so much and yet was no closer to knowing truth and reality than he was when he had first breathed air. He wanted to feel this pain, a part of him said; it made him dwell upon it, looking for an answer, a way out. Or perhaps a way to stay locked in. He turned over onto his stomach and pushed his face into the pillow.
A knock sounded on his door, and he quickly rolled back over, wiping his face and composing himself. Stuart cracked the door open, leaning his head in and said softly, ?She?s asleep now. I thought you?d like to know. I asked her why she had wandered into your room. She said something funny.?
?What was it?? Charles answered.
?She said that in her dream you were in love and she had come to say goodbye, for she was going on a long journey. She said she dreamed you had spurned her, and then sent her off to live in the city by herself where she lived aimlessly until she died. That?s when she wandered into your room and you woke her up. What do you make of that?? Stuart had opened the door entirely now, and he and Charles now stood apace from each other. Stuart looked concerned.
Charles grasped the door handle gently and said, ?I think I?m too tired for dream interpretation tonight. Maybe in the morning.? He closed the door without waiting to hear Stuart?s reply and returned to his bed. He inhaled deeply, imbibing the chill air, wishing he could forget her. Before he had finished, his eyes closed and he sank into the dark oblivion of sleep.

Chapter 5, Excerpt 3

jelewis8 — Mon, 02 Jun 2003 08:06:50 +0000

She turned her eyes down, and he, lost in the moment, brought his hand up to her chin. He felt a great burden, as if she had suddenly unloaded everything in her tepid and torrid life onto his shoulders. He didn?t want it, didn?t need that pain, that torture. He had enough of his own.
The picture of his dead mother, faceless, a misty apparition, suddenly flashed in his head, and he directed Lindsay?s face upward. Her eyes, glistening in the foxfire of their sudden encounter, were steady pools of black and white, and she looked at him without shame. She pulled back from his touch, lightly, and yet intensely, as if in her mind some great debate had just been settled.
Charles felt something had happened between them, yet could not name it, or even corner it in the farther reaches of his mind. The distance between them seemed smaller, filled with the tiniest space, and now, to his consternation, she grabbed behind his neck, wrapping her hands sensuously around his collar; his spine stiffened, and she drew power from his reaction. He heard her breathing now, and somehow, though before the room had seemed warm, his neck and face were chilled with a strange sensation, between them, in the closer regions of their bodies, a growing heat.
?What are you doing?? he asked, yet almost wishing he hadn?t asked. His mind felt strangely detached, and he wondered casually if it wouldn?t be such a bad idea to remove his jacket. Her eyes closed, and she was now on her knees on the bed, while he was still standing on the side. She had drawn herself up so her face was now composed with his lower chest, and he now had to look down to her. Her eyes fluttered, closed again, and he fought for balance as a wave of dizziness consumed him.
His mind was reeling, and a small part of him felt a great terror, for his limbs no longer obeyed him, and his mind cursed the weakness of his flesh, so great it was and prone to being shattered. He thought his skin waxen and doll-like, too imitated and reproduced in a factory to be real. The essence of his body felt like wood, and like a tree in the forest succumbing to the rigors of the axe-man, he fell, falling into the willing arms of her.
Her! She was everything he was not. She had enticed him from their first day when Stuart had introduced them. They met at the Bellevue theatre; it was Stuart?s night of big revelations. Always an awkward moment in Charles? mind, he stepped out of the taxicab and saw her standing next to Stuart. Their backs were turned to the street, and Charles took the private moment to gather his impressions. She was handsome with a barebacked dress, white, and high-topped shoes that brought her nearly to Stuart?s height.
Stuart surprised him by turning around suddenly. Noticing Charles? gaze, he commented drily, ?Ready for the feature, aye Chas.? Charles started and Lindsay turned; Charles caught his breath gently. Her hair was blond, shoulder length, and ended in a gentle wave that was popular with the girls at the parties Stuart attended on an almost daily basis. Her eyes were soulful, icy, he thought later, and held his gaze for a moment. The rest of her face would only arrive in bits as the evening wore on. At that moment, he was transfixed; he knew it, and moreover, he realized she knew it as well.
This was one of her gifts, as he came to find out.
He thought the world of her, Stuart did, but Charles wondered if Stuart had been seduced by the same eyes as he saw that night. By the end of the evening, Charles was fully captivated by her charms, pledging inwardly to her private devotion and outwardly he grew tough. Some might have mistaken it for a show of bravado or even machismo; it would seem as if to impress, or to intimidate; unknown even to Charles on anything but a visceral level, this shell was to shield him from her wiles and perhaps, rejection.
He and Lindsay had been going steady for three months, Stuart had told Charles later when they were alone, and planned to marry her by the summer. Charles secretly felt lost.
What now could he do? Lindsay held him in her lap; his body was sunken onto the sheets and lay twisted so that his shoulders, neck, and head rested in her arms. Not so delicate and fragile as he had first thought, these arms, those hands. She hovered over him, her face catching the spare glint off the fields, the curtains thrust aside and open with the abandon that he now felt inside, building, building into hope. He contrived to raise himself by resisting the seemingly primal urge to rest, calling upon his reserve strength and fighting. She pushed him back down, and somehow, he had simply lost all muscles. He was a rag doll, jointless and movable only at her will. She bent closer, and he could see the opening of her d?colletage growing wider as she approached. He had missed her untying the white satin ribbon.
?What are you doing?? he asked again, and it seemed as though an age had passed since the first time. He heard the creak at the window, and realized the coolness was the outside making its way into his room; the window must have blown open.
?I can?t, Lindsay,? he whispered, but he didn?t believe himself, and she didn?t listen. Their lips touched, and the warmth that had grown between them blossomed. He found his strength was back, and his arms, with his feeling hands, found their way to her body. Somehow within the wild mixture of movement and aggression, Charles felt that something had changed. Before, their visits had seemed to be moments of rebellion and militant rejection of party dogma, the kind of thing his father would have heartily and roundly rejected. Somehow, with his doubts confessed, the air had shifted, and the new road led inexorably toward ultimate destruction. Even as he searched and caressed, his mind could only fear annihilation.

Chapter 5, Excerpt 4

jelewis8 — Mon, 02 Jun 2003 08:06:46 +0000

The affair had been short, until he had broken it off with a violence that surprised even him; at the end of it she had sought for comfort in Stuart?s arms, his remonstrations over their transactions was so great. Thinking back, Charles was sure his anger and violence was related to the inequities of their relationship. He felt the attrition of their actions full, and seemed to bear the brunt of shame for double-timing Stuart, while she, secure in her frustrations over their pending engagement, must have reveled in each encounter, stocking their illicitness for the day when she would either face him, flee, or, as Charles thought more likely, submit meekly to the marriage that was, for all intents, arranged by their two families.
He was lying completely supine upon the white bed, and the room had definitely taken on a tint that matched both sheets and Lindsay?s night dress; he could see, from the corner of his eye, the blurred shadows that nevertheless accented each corner and ridge of the room, from the folds upon the bed, the chair, upon which his next day?s clothing was set, the bureau, its four sculpted posts that wound their way sinuously up to the mirror that hung between, the mirror itself, crusted with age and ornate flattery, its edges guilded once, but stained by time and air into a rich golden-brown?set against this weird light, only its dips and craters and valleys seemed dark, while the rest of its surface seemed to ring with energy.
Lindsay kneeled above him now, still on her knees, but bent over him as a nurse would her patient, and she offered herself to him, parting her dress from her neck. Charles felt sure his body would only move if he commanded it, that it would only respond to pure will. His eyes searched, not above him to the treasures of her body, but through the spaces her positioning created. With a dim recollection of some notice of import, he realized that his door was wide open, and that blackness rolled back from its dark and menacing entrance into a wide expanse of empty.
At the same instant, Lindsay shrieked suddenly, once, and leapt up in consternation and fear, drawing her dress back tight against her breast. Her whole body now braced as if prepared to receive a blow. She fell back to the far edge of the bed, her eyes riveted upon the window.
Charles saw all this as if in a dream. His connection with the door was just as quickly forgotten by her scream, and he quickly sat up and brought his hand to her mouth, nearly missing her nose in the sudden pall that had fallen upon the room. Somewhere he told himself the glow was gone.
She sat upon the bed, quietly fixated, though no longer anguished, and he, seeing her still, rose and shut the door with fearful aplomb, taking a moment to put his ear to the frame. He had not yet processed what had just occurred, and it seemed the worst place and time to investigate; nevertheless, his aroused curiosity and passions demanded satisfaction. He returned to the bed, sitting quietly, facing the black door.
?What?? he began, but his voice was too loud, and adjusting, started again.
?What just happened??
Lindsay was quiet, turned her head slowly to face him. ?The most remarkable vision.? Her eyes dropped. ?It was terrifying. I don?t know how I saw it. It was as if I could see around what we were doing.? She sighed, as if she had just confessed some lie. ?I was enamoured of you, but I could also see out of that window, just as I?m looking at it now,? she said. ?I swear to you if nothing else is true, I saw the woman from Cap! I saw that old gypsy who gave me this!? At this statement she drew up her left hand, and hanging loosely from her wrist was the bracelet he had noticed the moment she entered his room that evening.
Charles bent forward and pulled her hand gently toward him, taking the slack in the bracelet between two fingers. It was an oddly manufactured piece of jewelry, one almost certainly handmade, and seemed very old. In the dim light, he could make out a fleur-de-lis, one leaf broken.
?Are you quite sure it was her?? he asked, and released her hand.
?It was all so strange,? she said, a somewhat detached. ?How could she have found me here??
?Well, what I mean is, it?s rather odd to be stumbling outside of one?s house at this hour, even more so if it?s someone else?s house. Maybe it was a trick of the light,? he said, and at this, bounded from his seat and circled the bed to the window. It had, he remembered, silently opened itself by process of wind or spirit, and now he stuck his head through, peering out into the night and swishing his head this way and that.
He ascertained that if she had indeed seen someone, they were no longer on that side of the house; certainly it was quiet enough outside, and he would have heard footsteps or any local movement. He secretly felt that Lindsay had simply fallen to the playful imaginings of the winter air; evidently her encounter with that old woman had given her more than just a passing jolt. He was more concerned with their current crisis, the one that, until her strange vision, had been on the verge of consummation. This was a serious event, he felt, and realized that with its subsequent interruption, the two of them had reached a nexus, and that anything to follow would hinge upon this very strange evening.
?Do you want to talk about it?? he asked, and she nodded, ?No.? He was glad, for that would have meant increased risk of slow desaturation of feelings and emotions attached to their particular circumstances, something he was unprepared for at the moment. He walked to her side and placed his arm under hers, steadying it and nudging her. She complied, and they stood, her mind far away, and his too close for his comfort.

Chapter 5, Excerpt 2

jelewis8 — Tue, 15 Apr 2003 08:04:49 +0000

Charles opened his window that looked out into the field. On the boys? side of the house, Stuart had gotten the ocean view, and he had green fields. There was only the wind and the sound of the ocean that reminded him he was far from home. He pushed open the shutters and breathed deeply, and the night responded with a silent pause, running deep within the current of his blood and seeping out into the woodwork. The emptiness of that place ached, at that moment he longed desperately for his mother, his mother who had lost him so many years ago; this night his mother had been taken from him. After that, it was only guesswork, and how much could he know her through patches of intimations?
Outside was clear, and cool, like winter?s waning days. The moon was out, but he could not see it. Beyond the sloping grass he could see the small village of Cap Blanche Nez, and just to the south, the tiny port city Calais. Boulogne lay just west and beyond the cliffs that led gently down into the harbour where they had alighted three months ago. It seemed that moment was no different than this, where nothing happened.
A distant boom broke him from his mesmerized gaze, and he thought about the war. It had opened this country up and divided it like crepe paper. The whole world had seen the new face of warfare when troops died in droves, dying young men who fought as if the machine gun had never been invented, as if there was no such thing as mustard gas. They didn?t know about the new aeroplanes that dropped steel and death from the air, and they died, not knowing that the world had changed around them. It seemed as if no one knew. Yet here they were, barely two years since the Armistice, and he was looking at sodden darkness, outside of the window in the house that had been the silent witness for thousands of British troops marching past. The chaos and destruction was unparalleled. How was he here? Why?
He wrapped his hand around his wrist, holding it, feeling the emptiness between his thumb and forefinger. He was not well built as a child, and even now lacked in a convincing frame. He was tall and lanky, pale, a wealthy child of a wealthy man, destined from birth to be a playboy, yet somehow escaped and become something else. A fugitive, he thought, or a relic. Opening his mouth, he breathed in slowly, opening his pores and branching paths that pulled in the darkness, and then exhaling, closed the window.
Something stirred behind him, and he turned quickly. It was Lindsay, dressed in a white satin night shirt, decorated with gently waving blossoms of sheen and thread. Her d?colletage fell peacefully down to a ribbon tied loosely at the top, and above the fabric rested a small cross that hung from a thin wire of gold. She looked demure, vulnerable even, and in the weird dimness of the faded room, seemed to float. She had closed the door behind her entrance, and even now put her finger to her lips, a quiet reminder of their proximity to Stuart. She stood across from him, on the other side of his bed.
?What are you doing here?? he asked. She shook her head, pursing her lips and taking a half-step toward him. She brushed her hair back, a strand of which had fallen across her face. He saw on her wrist a bracelet, but unlike any she would normally wear. He motioned her to the bed, to sit. He matched her movement as she sat, pressing gently into the sheets; the illusion of oneness.
?I don?t think it?s?? Lindsay cut him off with a wave of her hand.
?Charles, be honest,? she whispered. He nodded.
?Of course.?
?Do you love me??
The question. And he had almost convinced himself it had never happened.
Charles often thought that rationalization was the Renaissance?s finest contribution to the modern world. It is one of the clever nuances of that famous age, and Charles felt a tiny stab of pride in having discovered this fact. He had heard of no book, no scholar who had provided a study into the underbelly of the change in the world that occurred after the blooming of Italy and England in the 1500?s. As important as art and music were, Charles was more interested in how people thought, their thinking that changed as a result of the explosion that was the Renaissance. Not only had thinking changed, but the way people thought about thinking had also changed.
One of the biggest, the most profound alterations in the fabric of social thought was the new emphasis on individualism. The world had always been selfish, and people had always looked to their own interests above any others, but with the beginnings of the slow death of the authority of the Church, people began to think out loud, and more often. The new economy, capitalism, was just beginning to rear its head in England, and all across Europe, society slowly transformed from a ramshackle collection of loosely connected villages and cities into places of trade and commerce. Industry began to thrive.
?Do you love me?? she asked again, and put her hand on his, looking at it and then slowly moving her eyes up to his. He felt he had to get this weight off his mind. He struggled with the way to speak, and he was still rooting around in his head about the importance of capitalism and its influence on the way people, as a society, thought and spoke.
?I did, once. Now I just don?t know. With Stuart here, and this whole experience,? he waved his hand around the room. ?I just don?t know anything anymore. Do you,? he paused, searching for the right words. ?Do you at all regret having?? he could not imagine himself saying these words five months ago. ?I cannot betray my friend,? he finally said with effort.
?You cannot say his name. Stuart.? Lindsay smiled in the darkness, and she withdrew her hand.
?I am ashamed. I betrayed Stuart,? he said. ?Do you feel no such guilt for having done the same?? He got up quickly from the bed, and she quieted his movement with a stern look and closed lips.
?Stuart and I were not, are not meant for each other, despite what he may think,? she said. ?Despite what my parents think. I am unhappy, and further, I think he knows it. I have tried so hard to please him, and to give him all his needs. I can do no less, considering what he will go through once he learns of us.?
?Were you ever in love with him?? Charles asked, hunching over the bed and leaning down to look her in the eyes. She looked at him, trying to maintain contact, and failing, fell to her wrist. She wrapped her fingers around the bracelet, and sighed.
?We met a woman in Cap the other day. The day you and Francis found the body. She said something to me, and though it was Italian, I felt like she knew me and was telling me something, that only I would understand. Stuart was oblivious, thought she was drunk. But I felt in my heart, that somehow, this woman knew I was?not faithful. Not just to Stuart.? She stopped, and Charles saw she was quivering. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she reached out to his face. He remained there, bent and submissive to her touch.
?I was so frightened of her, Charles. I thought, ?Certainly she knows!? I wasn?t afraid of Stuart finding out. Oh, he must know sooner or later. But it was as if I was failing my own mother or father. I didn?t want her to know, and she a complete stranger.?

Chapter 5, Excerpt 1

jelewis8 — Tue, 15 Apr 2003 00:46:06 +0000

He was more in doubt now than any time in his life, that he could remember. There were times when his head felt enlarged, like a melon, so full it was of confusion and fright. How he ran from those thoughts (he doesn’t love you, he doesn’t even want you!) when they came looming at him from beyond his periphery, like gulls that seemed to fly in from nowhere. He wanted it to be the way it was, when he was young and the world looked well upon his kind. That world had seemingly left him behind, or thrust him forward into a space of dubious import. Now, faced with the cruelty of life, he could only silently cry out and ache for better days.
It wasn’t that he was angry. He’d had the world, or was it the world had had him? He felt so old and now he didn’t care. Was he just a forlorn soul in need of new eyes? He would close them now, and opening, see things new, a new light, a new dawn. And when he awoke, it would be as though he never was.
When his mother had died, Charles remembered thinking that the only thing left in the world worth keeping intact was his memory of her. He hardly remembered her now; what did that mean? Had he relinquished the last thing he cared about? What did it say about him? Charles wondered if Stuart remembered his mother. He couldn’t relieve himself of this shadow that hung precariously over him, a winged demon that cast parity on everything. To strangers, it appeared as disdain, or less severely, disinterest. They saw a young man with a scarred but neutral face, upon which the world cast its gaze and who, upon its observance, merely shrugged and went along his way; perhaps those with keener gaze caught sight of a more cynical aspect that seemed to think upon each as aggrievance and lacking in true substance. His friends saw through, like an onion, to deeper levels, where his person became a melancholic and dismayed hermit, intellectually towering but troubled through with a weight of inconstancy and the burden of personal dissatisfaction. He was, to them, a carefully subdued man, sometimes (at his worst) priest of lugubriousness.
He didn’t know what to make of the incident with the body. It was all rather surreal, especially Stuart’s reaction. Lindsay, understandably upset by the discovery, was insistent upon reporting it to the Boulogne authorities. Stuart had remarked that since the prevailing tides were from the north, that should any report be submitted, it should be to the Calais police. Even that was foolish, though, he had insisted, since in all likelihood she was a transient, and wouldn’t be missed.
“That’s horrible!” Francis said. “Of course we must report it. She could have been murdered.”
“Was she shot? Stabbed? Strangled? Likely she was drunk and fell off a boat. It happens all the time,” said Stuart.
Really, that was his reasoning? Charles couldn’t understand how he had missed Stuart’s disregard for basic humanity. He felt unable to respond, though he wanted to put Stuart on the chair for being an ass. In what world did he live?
“I’ll go into Calais tomorrow morning,” said Charles. “I won’t tell them about this little debate.” He looked narrowly at Stuart. He noticed Lindsay was glancing back and forth between the two of them, guaging the emotional distance. When she looked at him, her eyes hardened for a moment, glinting as if to say, “Don’t overstep yourself.”
He understood, and slightly panicked said, ?Stu, I understand what you?re saying, but it?s the right thing to do to go to the police. If what you say is true, the worst that can happen is they?ll ask some questions and inquest the body, check for records, that sort of thing. You?re probably right about her.?
The discovery of the body had been the most puzzling thing of all. Or rather, the strangeness of discovering the body, mixed with the debilitating weather and lack of real intrigue seemed to twist what should have been a more notable event into a lazy and turgid affair. Charles felt oddly lackadaisical about it, and he held himself to be a conscientious human, even allowing for the bite of callousness that seemed to evidence itself on every scrap of human nature. He told himself he was tired, that it was everything that contributed to the air around the house; the landscape, the flat scrape of rain against the roof and shutters over the windows, the grey skies forever moving and roiling with bouts of winter sickness. Even inside, the white carpets seemed to signify the isolation he felt, and served to increase his negative complacency.
There was more to it than that. Even with spring finally beginning to emerge, spreading from the coast to the inland, the air was sotted with a grimy emptiness of spirit. That was it, he thought. This place is so empty. It reminded him of his father?s office. He had always known loneliness, in an afterthought, rich child?s way, surrounded by toys and games and money and all good things that it can buy, yet never knowing the joy of companionship or camaraderie.
This gave him pause. What he had at home in Chicago was a subterfuge, a kind of escapists? dream, yet so far removed from the mill of life, that he had, in a way, never lived. He had existed, and even now he existed in a form not so different from his childhood. Here, he was surrounded by fewer material possessions, but the emotions, the physicality of the place was also a factor. Here, the isolation was physical; as a child, it was emotional.
He felt he was beginning to understand something. He felt a stab of regret, wishing for some way of deflecting the past into a kind of useful venture, a means to produce present happiness. That is vain, he thought, and remembered why he had chosen to come across the water in the first place.

Chapter 4, Excerpt 5

jelewis8 — Tue, 01 Apr 2003 19:04:55 +0000

?I am Rimbald. Pietr Rimbald. What is it you seek, my dear?? he said, and he took her hand, bending to kiss it with aplomb. She returned his kiss with a small curtsy, and he turned, leading her away from the men and women who were now walking away and laughing amongst themselves.
?I could not but help noticing you at our performance,? he said, smiling gently, his teeth showing, a wide gap between the top front ones, but otherwise, flawlessly displayed in a marketable arena; a Hollywood smile. He had an accent, if not quite distinguishable, which disarmed her, and she nodded politely.
?What is your name?? he asked.
?I am Francis Delaney,? she answered.
?Welcome to Boulogne,? he said. They had stopped walking and were now standing underneath the spreading branches of an hoary oak. Its roots were rapturously entangled with an old wall entrance, engaged in a millennial struggle for supremacy over the ground and its manmade interloper. Stretching along the length of the street similar trees grew, ancient and dominant. Inside the shadow of this grandfather, Francis felt a cold chill, and held herself to rein in the warmth.
?Am I correct in thinking you are unfamiliar with these grounds?? Pietr asked. ?The only reason I ask is because I too am a newcomer. There are only a handful of men and women here who can speak? parare con una variet? di lingue, and I am always thankful for the opportunity to express myself in a more preferred tongue. You, my dear, seem frightfully at odds with your surroundings, if you don?t mind me saying so. Where are you from??
?I lived in Chicago. I am having some trouble locating my friend, who I thought perhaps was in your theatre. He was the man in front, attempting to keep order, though why he would be there, I can?t imagine.? Francis sighed and lowered her head. She felt an order of frustration and fatigue creep across her neck and on the undersides of her feet, and the urge to sit washed over her.
Pietr seemed to have a preternatural recognition of her needs, for he said, ?You are tired, and I have not even offered to help you. Please forgive me.? He bowed, and offered his hand to her. She accepted it with a tired smile, and together they slowly ambled up the empty street.
As they walked, Pietr?s easy manner and sensibility induced Francis to talk. She had some concern that her vociferousness and woodenness would distract him and place him ill-at-ease, but he responded graciously, politely asking her questions and laughing at the appropriate moments, seeming to be genuinely interested in her oratory. By the time they had traversed the length of Rue de Cygne and approached the entrance to the Old Town, she had recounted her most recent activities, from their arrival in Boulogne in November. She held in reserve, however, her discovery of the body of the woman in the bay, not fully knowing why.
?One thing you have not mentioned?why is your friend missing? And where are your other two friends?? Pietr asked, wiping his hand across his brow as if trying to divine her thoughts before their utterance.
Francis thought for a moment, giving herself a chance to ask herself the same question. Why was Stuart missing? Besides the awful scene that had unfortunately befallen all of them at the entrance to the city, what power had consumed her and commanded her to roam this foreign base in search of a man who, more than any of them, could blend into the natural environment and stay hidden if he so desired? Indeed, now that she considered it, the entire exercise would have been futile even had she known the language or the people. Nevertheless, she knew she would have gone in search of Stuart even knowing at the outset its uselessness.
Where Charles and Lindsay were at this point, she could not say, and only hoped they had sufficiently recovered and were now on their own search of sorts.
?Stuart had a?a bit of a disagreement with Lindsay when we arrived here, and he stormed off. Charles sent me after him to make sure he didn?t get too far, while he stayed behind to talk with Lin. I guess Stuart?s the kind of man who doesn?t want to tarry when he feels he?s been slighted. He does have a bit of a temper.? Francis looked at Pietr, unsure of his response.
For his part, Pietr simply laughed, saying, ?It is a rare man that chains himself to civility at all times. A little boiled water makes a great tea, yes?? Francis agreed this was true.
They turned into an enclosed alley that led up around the outer wall of the Old Town. The old walls were covered in stringy vines, early spring leaves just beginning to sprout; in the summer they promised to hurl themselves across and over the alley in a vibrant show of organic prowess and architectural growth. Now, however, the skeletal strands branched in vertebral formations, struggling to receive what heat and light they could in the short, early spring days. The sun rose, while they climbed up to the Notre Dame Cathedral, and Francis began to feel, for the first time since Stuart?s disappearance, delighted in Boulogne.