by Неизвестный
“Hello. Anyone here?” The noise of her own voice doubled her already racing pulse and although she strained her ears for the slightest reply, the only sound audible to Cecilia was the pounding of her galloping heart. With faux courage she smiled and scolded herself: of course there is no one here. Does the place look as though it is inhabited? Compelled by a desperate need to feel the warmth of the sun on her face once more, Cecilia turned to make her exit. That was when the lightest echo of music drifted to her from above.
Debussy had always held a special place in Cecilia’s heart and she instantly recognised the light, playful melody that flowed down to her. The resonance within the tower was exceptionally fine and, with Prelude a l’Apres-Midi d’un Faune capturing her complete attention, she turned not to leave, but to search out the source from which the music came. Carefully she ascended the stone steps, one hand placed against the rough surface of the wall to steady her balance.
The first storey was as empty as the ground floor. Here, too, the sunlight struggled to fully illuminate the interior. Continuing upwards to the next floor, the apprehension that Cecilia had felt on entering the building dissipated as her desire to locate the origins of the music grew. This area was also deserted save for dust and cobwebs. That left just the highest level.
On climbing to the final floor, Cecilia found herself no longer alone inside the tower. This room, in complete contrast to the ones below, was cluttered with ancient furniture and alive with the sound of symphonic melodies. When she climbed off the stone steps her sudden weight caused creaking groans to escape from the old, wooden floor boards. The noise, however, did not startle the artist on the far side of the room, who was busy adding vibrant colours to an oil painting with easy strokes of his brush.
“Hello.” Cecilia’s voice, trembling with nervousness, sounded small and quiet. It drifted from her lips to be lost in the sombre piano notes that signalled the start of Debussy’s La Cathedrale Engloutie, now emanating from an antique gramophone at the far side of the room. “HELLO,” she repeated louder.
As Cecilia took a step closer to the artist, he suddenly flew into a rage, sending the paint brush clattering against the wall of the tower and issuing a loud curse that Cecilia was thankful she did not understand. Throwing his hands up to his face, the artist sobbed aloud, either unaware of, or unconcerned with, Cecilia’s presence.
At that moment Cecilia was unsure whether to approach the sorrowful man or make a hasty retreat back down the steps. Through compassion she decided on the former and moved to within a couple of feet of where he stood. From this position she could more clearly see the picture the artist had been working on. Her breath was stolen from her lungs by the beauty of the image and she reached out with an almost uncontrollable urge to touch the painting; to feel the brush strokes with her finger tips. Realising that the paint would still be wet however, she pulled her hand back quickly. She feared smudging and consequently ruining the incredible masterpiece.
“Please, go ahead.” The artist’s voice was deep and musical, each word weighted with a heavy accent. “Do not worry,” he continued, “I cannot go on with it.”
Cecilia looked up at the artist. He was young and very handsome, even though his face was damp and blotched red from the tears he had shed.
“It’s beautiful,” Cecilia announced, once more staring at the oil painting on the easel. The artist had captured the landscape from the large window perfectly. The sunlight was dappled and the brush strokes gave the impression that the trees where being gently stirred by a light, playful wind. In the foreground, the tower rose high into a clear ocean of blue sky, the windows reflecting the golden rays of the afternoon sun.
“It is not beautiful,” the artist replied, his voice tainted with an edge of anger. “It is flat. Lifeless and flat.”
***
Aunt Elise had not been aware that anyone had taken over the ownership of the tower. She recalled that the structure had been built hundreds of years before by the Comte D’Aquitaine as a monument to the love he held for his wife Lada. It was said, she told Cecilia, that the tower pointed towards heaven as the Comte was convinced that it was from there that Lada had been sent to him.
Eating to please her aunt rather than through hunger, Cecilia described her adventure earlier in the day. She told Elise about the artist and his despair over the oil painting. Sipping the fine Chardonnay her aunt had poured to go with the chicken casserole and potatoes, Cecilia’s mind was filled with beautiful images of the painting and the pleasing features of the young artist.
“Perhaps you could invite him for dinner tomorrow night,” Aunt Elise suggested, a knowing smile playing across her round, friendly face.
“Perhaps I will,” Cecilia replied, returning the smile.
***
“I love Debussy.” Cecilia was seated in an old wooden rocking chair listening to the music and watching Alain as he flicked and teased the canvas with his brush, adding highlights of colour to the landscape on the easel. “His music,” she thought for a moment. “His music moves me.” Looking over towards the working artist, she added, “Your painting moves me, too.”
Alain’s smile melted her heart and she felt a strong urge to rise from the chair and embrace him in her arms. Instead she simply asked, “Will you come to dine with my aunt and me tonight?” A slight flush of embarrassment rouged her cheeks, broadening the smile on Alain’s face.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure,” he replied.
***
Two hours after the suggested time of Alain’s arrival, Cecilia sat at the dining table alone. The food was ruined and Aunt Elise had retired to bed, the disappointment of not meeting “your young artist friend” etched on her face. The wine bottle was half empty and Cecilia, baffled by Alain’s rejection, poured herself another glass. He had seemed so pleased to be invited and yet she had not received any warning or apology for his absence.
Even though the hour was late, she decided to tread the stony track up to the tower and confront Alain. She was hurt and wanted to know why he had decided to stay away tonight.
***
Debussy’s La Mer echoed throughout the interior of the tower as Cecilia climbed the stone steps that led up through the floors to the upper level. The music washed over her, seeped into her mind and carried her upwards as though she was riding the crest of a wave. On the top level she paused to allow herself to be totally immersed by the tidal wave of musical notes that flowed over her.
“La Mer is beautiful.” Alain’s baritone voice cut through the symphony. “This,” he pointed towards his painting. “This is not.”
Cecilia saw the sorrow in Alain’s eyes and immediately the anger and hurt she had felt dissolved. She walked to his side and rested her hand on his arm. “It is more than beautiful,” she reassured him once more. “It is magnificent.”
“It could be,” he replied. “It just needs some energy, some vitality, injected into it.” He took hold of Cecilia’s hand, lifted it to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss on the back of it. “I am sorry, but I cannot leave here until it is finished,” he told her.
“Then finish it.” Cecilia stared into Alain’s eyes. Perhaps it was the music, or the place, or the situation, but she had never felt so much empathy or passion towards another person. It seemed as though her whole life had been leading up to this one moment in time.
“Will you help me?” Alain’s eyes pleaded with her and Cecilia was powerless to refuse; had no desire to disappoint.
“Of course,” she replied.
“Close your eyes, Cecilia. Let the music fill your mind. Forget the world outside.”
Alain led her to the wooden chair in the centre of the room and sat her down. Holding her hand at all times, his deep, rich voice mixed with Debussy’s symphony and enveloped Cecilia. She was lost on a sea of sounds and sensations, oblivious to anything else; she did not hear the wind rattling the old windows of the tower; she did not hear the creak of the old wooden floorboards; she did no
t feel the blade slice through the flesh of the wrist that was held tight by the artist’s hand.
The blood ran from the wound and Alain mixed the vital fluid with his oils. At last he could add life to his painting. At last he could leave the tower.
***
Aunt Elise laboured up the stony track towards the tall tower. She did not care that the view from the top of the climb was breathtaking. Her only concern was that Cecilia’s bed had not been slept in and there was no sign of her at home.
The formidable door stood ajar, but the gap was too small for Elise to push through. Weathered hinges screamed as she forced the heavy door back enough to squeeze into the interior of the tower. Dust devils stirred and dead leaves danced as the wild wind rushed in through the widened gap.
“Cecilia!” Elise’s voice echoed around the circular room, rising high into the building until it was lost in the upper regions of the structure. “CECILIA.” There was no reply, so Elise climbed the stone steps that led around and upwards.
All floors were deserted, all barren of life except the scurry of spiders and the patter of rodents. On each level an empty room looked out onto the verdant landscape of rolling hills and deep vales. Tired and aching from the climb, Elise, at last, gained entry to the top floor.
On the far side of the round room an antique gramophone was playing quietly. The lament issuing from the instrument was full of sorrow and love and desire, and although Elise was not able to put a name to the melody, a shiver ran through her as though the notes were icy fingers, able to penetrate her flesh and touch her soul.
There was, on this level of the tower, even more evidence of occupation. In the centre of the round room stood an artist’s easel and on it was mounted a large canvas. Elise, unable to totally overcome the cold, unpleasant sensation that ran through her, moved further into the room, enabling her to fully see the painting.
Up close the bold brush strokes concealed the details of the image that had been captured in paint, but as Elise stepped back from the painting, the picture sharpened and she was able to absorb every nuance within the oils.
The painting was beautiful; fantastic in its reality. The trees seemed to be teased by a light breeze, the dappled sunlight appeared to ebb and flow as the leaves of the bushes waved in the wind, the stonework of the high tower was rough and irregular. The whole painting called out to be appreciated by the eye and also by touch.
Stepping near to the canvas again, Elise studied the detail of the tower more closely. She placed her hand on the grey stones from which the building had been constructed, feeling the coolness of the rock, the rough surface from where it had been hand carved. The windows, four of them irregularly spaced above each other, were dark as though hiding malevolence within from the prying eyes of outsiders. She pulled back her hand, took one last look around the room and was about to start the descent to the lower floor, when something within the painting made her stop dead in her tracks.
As the gramophone wound down to a stop, Elise focused her attention on the upper window of the tower in the painting. A shadow could just be seen behind the dark, dirty glass. A familiar face, deathly pale and eyes wide open, looked out at the world beyond, the mouth frozen in a silent scream.
Elise, suddenly feeling weak and faint, emitted a piercing cry, shattering the silence of the peaceful day. Staring into the face of Cecilia, captured perfectly in oils on the artist’s canvas, Elise finally, willingly, released her fragile hold on consciousness as Cecilia’s painted lips began pleading for mercy.
Eleven Minutes, Forty-Seven Seconds
by John McAllister
In spite of what his friends said, Tom thought she looked normal. Skinny, but normal. The dark hair was cut well and the nails manicured, so she took some care of herself.
“You’d make a great pair,” said one friend.
“Two amnesiacs,” said the other and laughed. “You’d throw the baby out with the bathwater and never notice.”
“Ha,” said Tom, and carried his tray to a table well away from his alleged new girlfriend. He grabbed the wall seat from where he could watch her.
“Kalahari Kate,” said the first friend. “You must remember the hoo-ha when she turned up?”
“Nope,” said Tom brightly. “June tenth to June tenth is a complete blank.”
Kate, he saw, was deep into a textbook, the food forgotten, a forkful held poised between plate and mouth.
The restaurant was an echo chamber of tin, plastic and stone flooring. Students kept coming and going, blocking his view. Tom concentrated on his own spaghetti in tomato sauce. For some reason he was now into pastas and good food. That had happened sometime during his year out on work experience.
If only I could remember what work? What experience?
Not labouring, his hands were still soft. Every so often he stripped and checked himself in the mirror, not believing his muscle tone. He had done the treadmill exercise at the hospital and taken it right off the scale, even though he hated running with a passion. Hospital tests showed no alcohol intake for at least six months, he now enjoyed studying – sort of – and wasn’t into late nights.
And they tell me I hit all the right buttons? That I haven’t changed?
Kate had pushed her plate aside and, still reading, was groping for her satchel with her spare hand. He excused himself from his friends and went over to her, glad that the general hubbub of the place muted their laughter and the shout. “Don’t forget the baby.”
He sat across from her, retrieved the untasted forkful of food and held it to her lips. Uncertainty at what he was doing made his hand shake.
“Eat.”
She looked up in surprise. “I’ve had enough.”
“You’ve hardly touched your lunch. Eat.”
She opened her mouth to say something and he shoved the food in. She chewed and made a face.
“It’s cold.”
“The more you talk the colder it gets. It’s a quaint law of science.”
“Physics, to be precise,” she said through the second mouthful, and checked her watch. “I’ve got two minutes and thirty seconds of lunchtime left.”
“Have you now?”
She took the fork off him and started to eat properly herself.
Tom said, “Tom Hadden, Business Studies.”
“I know. You had amnesia as well. A head injury or something.”
“Have you heard the one about the baby and the bathwater?”
“It’s doing the rounds.”
She had stopped eating to talk. He pointed at the plate and she took another mouthful.
“You’re a dreadful bully,” she said.
“Yeah.”
It was a pleasure to watch her eat. Once started, she enjoyed every mouthful and scraped up the last of the sauce before putting the fork down with a sigh.
She looked at her watch. “You’ve made me one minute, nine seconds late.”
“Lunchtime is for eating, not for reading chick lit.” He took the book off her and turned it round so that he could see the title. Orders of Magnitude in Quark Gluon Plasmas.
“Definitely bird of paradise,” he said.
“What?”
“Exotic.”
“Not really. It’s an extension of Einstein’s theorems on relativity. My hypothesis is that physical space, this room for instance, is variable in both size and function. When you consider....”
His hands came up in mock surrender. “Business studies. Remember?”
She laughed. The sound rippled between them.
Still holding the book, he asked. “And this is your idea of relaxing over lunch?”
“I’m just reading round the subject. I’m not allowed to talk about my actual PhD thesis or bring the papers outside the lab. She looked uncomfortable even as she rose and gathered her things. “They’ve made it very hush-hush. Sometimes I think I’m an official secret myself.”
“You’re the worst kept secret on the campus.”
He ignor
ed the throwing-the-bathwater motions of his friends and walked out of the restaurant with her. They hesitated on the doorstep.
She said, “I’ve got to get back. You’ve made me four minutes, twenty seconds late already.”
He tried not to snatch a glance at his own watch and failed. Lectures called and he had a serious playboy reputation to live down. All the same he wanted to stay with her. The sun struggling through the October clouds lit up her face and the wind played with her short strands of hair. Even looking at her eased the ache of the damaged lobe in his brain.
They walked on together. She kept giving him little puzzled glances; she’d being doing that since he’d sat across from her. He reached for her satchel and she let him carry it. It was made of coloured woven grass with an African design. He remembered the “Kalahari” bit and thought she should have a better tan.
“Are you getting proper exercise, I mean regularly?” he asked.
“I’ve been busy.”
They came to the science block and walked upstairs and through echoing corridors until they came to a heavy door with keypad access. A security camera on the wall was angled to image their faces. She looked at him, embarrassed.
He shrugged. “I’ll be here at four o’clock.”
“I work until...”
“Four! Exercise time.”
“I love running.”
“Bloody hell!”
***
At four o’clock the door swung open and she stood there in singlet and shorts, and legs that rose up forever.
He was still in his jeans and tee shirt but had left off the anorak. “I was thinking of once round the rose garden.”
“Wimp.”
At the front door she took off in a big loose stride. Two miles up the road she sighed in relief.