Lost love Historical romance

by Adele B.

  Livia watched him carefully. She knew all the service by heart; she had seen and heard it all many times in her father’s small village church. She could repeat all the words. The wedding service was drawing to an end now. The priest had not missed a word, and he had a magnificent, deep masculine voice. Its power made her shiver and she suddenly wanted to cry; this seemed more like a funeral than a wedding. A funeral for her heart and for her lost love.

  After the service, the priest delivered a short sermon. He had seen the sadness in the bride’s eyes, the noticeable absence of parents on both sides, so he avoided talking about the happiness of spending the rest of their lives together, as he would have usually done, were this a normal wedding and a normal couple.

  Livia understood perfectly well and she smiled gratefully.

  After signing the papers, she hurried towards the door. She felt she needed light and fresh air.

  Helga, who had followed the ceremony from a corner of the church, followed her at a distance.

  Seeing the carriage in front of the church Livia headed towards it and climbed inside, waiting patiently for Helga to rejoin her.

  “I wish to go home now” she said in a faint voice when the woman sat herself next to her.

  “Home!” Helga ordered the coachman.

  Chapter 8

  In Sibiu, proud Baroque city surrounded by snowy mountain peaks, time was seemingly frozen on the deserted streets, caught in the trap of endless and wondrous cool mornings, sleepy afternoons, and melancholy-filled evenings. The rich and powerful were either abroad or visiting the numerous estates they owned, in search of fresh air and coolness, as it happened every summer. The servants, with nothing much to do, idly loitered hidden in the dark cool houses. From time to time, a brisk summer storm would put a little life in the unchanging stillness which made the city and the far-away mountains seem parts of an immense painting hanging from the deep blue sky.

  In the pink house where Livia, the young wife without a husband, resignedly lived out her days, time passed without hope, for she already knew autumn was not going to bring any change in her life. She had not seen Petros again since the church wedding. The next day she had received a letter from him, informing her he was leaving for the Orient, thus giving her time to get used to the house and the town.

  Not wishing for anything, not desiring anything, not hoping for anything anymore, Livia was wasting her hours between Ildiko’s indifferent “nem tudom”s and Helga’s impenetrable expression.

  Her only company was the sad, melancholy-filled music which could be heard from time to time from the house across the street. It floated through the opened windows and scattered on the deserted streets, light as gauzy strands, penetrating everywhere, resting on the sun-warmed roofs.

  She listened, entranced and bewitched, from behind the curtains; she would have liked to know who played the violin and the piano in such a heart-rending, troubling manner. But no one ever appeared from the blue, ivy-covered house – except for a hurried servant girl with a basket on her arm.

  Leaning beside the opened windows with curtains slowly floating in the evening breeze Livia was sadly appraising the cobbled street below. The distance would be just right if she ever found the strength to jump; one second of courage, just one – and it could all end. Just like Elisabeta, Vlad Dracul’s wife, who had ended her days crushed upon the rocky crags; she could have just thrown herself from the first-floor window on this wonderfully fragrant summer evening, the piano and violin providing sad accompanying music. She imagined a few persons out for a walk, seeing her lie there with her head crushed, eyes exorbited, blood gushing and staining her clothes. She could almost hear their cries of horror. Disgusted, shivering, she drew back from the window.

  # # #

  August passed, and half of September also. Asleep for more than two months, the city awakened to new, frenetic life. The nobility had returned and was filling the cafes and parks with the tumultuous, frenetic rhythms of a life of leisure. They had felt uncomfortable in the long drowsy days of summer spent in the country manors or in the anonymity of foreign spas; now they hurried to make up for lost time, arranging balls and engagements, business and gossip.

  Theatres were advertising their new shows with big, garishly-coloured posters; and the city administration was holding meetings in which the town notabilities vowed to give the utmost importance to the collective good and the city’s assets.

  In the neighbouring villages the atmosphere was hot too. Happy songs filled the fields. It was the time of vineyards and maize- harvesting, of new wine and love. Weddings were planned. Love had started budding in winter, with timid glances during the village gatherings; it had blossomed in spring, with so-called random meetings, in the evening, on the village paths; and had grown lustful and impetuous in summer, with guilty encounters in secret meadows and forests. In autumn, love was advertised to everyone else in the village, as long, happy and noisy wedding processions crossed the apple and grape-fragrant roads. All of this, just so that the next spring would see new souls being brought into the world. It was an age-old ritual, repeated year after year; furtive glances, stolen encounters, weddings, then children.

  While Livia was now living suspended between these two worlds, belonging to neither of them, seeming a ghost in the luxurious pink house, Petros was still on his Oriental voyage. Every year he undertook these trips on land and sea, travelling through dusty plains or rocky mountain crags, stopping in poor houses or rich palaces. He knew that even the most dilapidated house could hide something valuable, a just-finished rug or a piece of delicate silk, seemingly woven by divine hands. He was always on the lookout for fine silks, porcelain, silverware, precious rugs and carpets ready to add beauty and warmth to the houses of rich Transylvanians. The harsh Transylvanian winters were an unending source of wealth for him. He measured with his eyes and he weighed with his hands, he haggled trying to get the best price, not caring if he robbed the poor family whose painstaking year of labour had produced the carpet or the few yards of silk. But he had no scruples, otherwise he would not have been able to amass such a fortune. He saluted and left, taking with him the precious carpet, as the tricked vendor muttered curses through his clenched teeth. He packed, tagged and weighed everything up with the care one would give to a newborn baby, and then sent it all to Sibiu using well-trusted couriers.

  These were hectic days and nights. Petros wanted to see everything with his own eyes, to feel it all with his hands, to buy as much as possible. He hurriedly travelled through Turkey, Iran, China, frenetically searching through the bazaars in Kirman, Kashan, Bukhara, Isfahan. He bought rugs and carpets of all kinds, from thick, magnificently-coloured woollen ones to the ones preciously embroidered with gold and silver thread.

  It was only in India that he allowed himself to pause for two weeks. Every year, two weeks, not more. Fine silks and embroidered cloth, made just for him, awaited there. And there, amongst the silk, brocade and tulle, Asha awaited him too. In her palace, she patiently waited for his return every year, warm, fragrant and adorned with jewellery; always decided to ensnare him, to keep him by her side forever.

  He would play with this possibility, but postponed it year after year, knowing deep inside he would never be able to abandon Sibiu. Her hazel eyes burned ever brighter, and her beauty seemed to increase every year by some kind of hidden magic. Petros had already decided this was to be the last time he’d stop to see her. Livia’s deep green eyes were tormenting his nights. Ever since he had left Sibiu he was carefully studying the eyes of all the women he met on the way; on the streets, in side houses, in the bazaars. Brown or black, all kinds of eyes; big round ones, almond-shaped ones; barely seen eyes, hidden behind veils; tired or happy, innocent or cheeky. They all made him realize that he was in fact searching for just one pair of green eyes. Livia’s eyes were haunting him, ever since he had seen them swimming in tears, on the day of her kidnapping. In the few seconds when their eyes had met, he had been bewitched by their abs
olute beauty. Tears turned her gaze into a river of precious stones, a deep lake whose sparkling waves reflected the morning sun.

  He missed Livia’s green eyes, and for the first time in his life he could hardly wait to return to Sibiu.

  At other times he liked to drown in silky Oriental softness, and he would have gladly stayed forever in India, as he hated winter. But his business in Sibiu flourished just because of winter.

  For a moment he was afraid Livia would never forgive him, never want him; but just as he had been able to build a huge fortune starting life as a poor orphan, he knew he would succeed in taming her heart too. All he needed was time and patience.

  Still planning how to conquer Livia’s heart, Petros reached Asha’s palace in the evening. She had already known about his arrival and she welcomed him with the same beatific smile and love-filled eyes; but when she took his hands her gaze darkened, as she felt the cold metal of the wedding ring. She lifted his hand, studied it for a moment, and then she was again the Asha he had always known.

  She prepared the best room for him, instructed the servants to impeccably attend to his every whim, and came to him every night, bringing him rose-fragrances and hot passionate moments, such as no other woman had ever given him. He had known women enough in Sibiu, both Catholic and Orthodox, but none of them had ever surrendered her body in such a manner, they all had the fear of mortal sin deeply ingrained in their souls and a sort of ancestral prudishness. None of this existed in Asha; she had studied the art of love and had studied it well.

  On a beautiful Indian morning, Petros was pensively gazing through the fine gauze curtains while a languorously naked Asha was curled around his body. The filtered light created an atmosphere of lascivious, latent sexuality. He studied himself in the tall mirror overlooking the bed, wondering whether there was any point in returning to Sibiu. He looked at his dark eyebrows, his black hair, his olive skin; he seemed to belong more to India than to Transylvania, where people were tall, red or blonde-haired, with eyes of either blue or green colour.

  He then said hurriedly; “I am sorry, Asha, but you won’t see me anymore.

  I won’t return. This is the last time that we see each other” he continued, as he gently caressed her thighs. His hand travelled slowly along the delicate curves of her body, until it reached the full lips he had voluptuously bitten and kissed just a few moments ago. He would have stayed with her, God only knew he would have, but the memory of a pink house and a familiar face at the window stopped him.

  “ I understand” she answered, taking his hand from her lips and looking at his wedding ring. “I understand” as she rose from the bed, tall and clad only in her amber skin.

  Petros packed his things and left on the same day. Once the words had been spoken, there was no reason for him to stay. Silently, Asha accompanied him to the carriage.

  “This is for her, and I wish you both all the best in the world” she said, as she was handing him a piece of precious silk.

  Surprised, Petros took it and thanked her with a smile.

  # # #

  Livia was watching the raindrops tracing strange patterns on the windowpane. Two days of incessant, cold rain brought the first signs of autumn to the shivering city. The streets were almost deserted, and small streams were running through the middle of the road.

  Just at this moment a sorry-looking scarecrow with a basket and a cheap umbrella was approaching from the direction of the Main Plaza. She stopped in front of Livia’s house and climbing the stairs she knocked a few times on the door. Livia drew near to the entrance, and hidden behind her half-opened door listened to Helga answering the woman.

  “Your daughter is not at home and I have no idea when she is coming back” she enunciated while looking at the woman, with her wet clothes and water running from her hair. She would have liked to invite her inside, but Livia’s orders had been clear; if ever her father or her mother arrived, they should not be allowed to enter the house. Only her brother had been excluded from this interdiction, but it seemed he didn’t care enough to pay her a visit, in contrast to her parents who had already tried to see her a few times.

  “I understand” said the priest’s wife. Her face and voice both betrayed her disappointment; she had seen Livia behind the curtains. She had undertaken this long journey hoping for a miracle; she knew her daughter was sweet and generous and had a good soul, but this time she had received too hard a blow from her. She knew her daughter well, she was blood of her blood, like her both passionate and impulsive. When she loved, she did it with all her heart, and likewise when she hated. Her daughter hated her, it would be a long time until she would be able to forgive her mother. She would just have to wait.

  “Please give her this” the priest’s wife said, handing over the basket she had been carrying.

  “Of course” answered Helga.

  “I wish you a good day” said the priest’s wife as she was descending the stairs and trying to fix the broken umbrella at the same time.

  Livia hurriedly headed for the window trying to see her mother as she fought the umbrella which refused to open. She would have liked to run in the street and take her in her arms, shelter her from the cold rain; but sudden fury made her start to shake.

  What did she think? That from now on they would make peace and all would be as before? She had condemned her daughter to a caged bird existence, without caring about her dreams, her hopes; and now she was visiting?!

  As if knowing she was being watched, the woman in the street lifted her gaze and, for a second, their eyes locked. Livia retreated hurriedly, and the woman turned and resignedly ambled down the deserted street. Livia slowly drew close to the window again, watching as her mother disappeared between distant buildings.

  A soft knock on the door; still thinking about it all Livia headed towards the door of the warm and inviting room. She knew this would be Helga, bringing her the small basket her mother had left.

  “Thank you” she said, taking the cold basket. It was not wet at all, one could see her mother had carried it with utmost care, protecting it under the old umbrella as well as she could. She put it in the wardrobe without even looking at its contents.

  # # #

  Petros returned from his long voyage on a cold October morning, all of a sudden, without sending word. The carriage noise and the voices of the two men- Petros and Hans- awoke Livia, who quickly got out of bed. Desperate, she walked towards the window covering her shoulders with a shawl as she watched the two men unloading parcels and boxes from the carriage and transporting them up the stairs.

  So this was really the beginning of her ordeal! she thought. Her prayers had not been answered. She had wished him to be kidnapped by pirates, by savages, lost in the desert; but no. Here he was again, healthy and fit, a bit thinner, more alive than ever. He was lifting a heavy box – he had lost weight, regaining a little of his past good looks.

  The morning hours passed in the noise of doors opening and closing, voices overlapping each other, bulky packages being pushed on the stairs and dragged along the hall’s wooden floor. In her room, Livia knew Petros was going to knock on her door any minute now. She was scared of this moment, and she had created a strategy to keep him at a distance; she hoped it would prove to be efficient.

  A knock made her start.

  “Come in” she slowly said. So this most dreaded moment has come, she told herself. She desperately hoped it would be Helga or Lina, but the door opened and Petros appeared; tall and hefty, with a flower bunch in one hand and a wooden chest in the other. He closed the door with one foot, then headed towards Livia.

  “Good morning, Livia” he said, looking straight in her eyes. His gaze was full of assuredness, love and friendship; he was hoping time had erased some of the memories from that day when he had behaved in such a rude manner, kidnapping her and bringing her here. He was hoping for a new beginning between the two of them, a beginning which would erase the memory of that day. So he gazed at her with open heart, hoping
she would understand his message.

  “You look wonderful” he said, handing her the flowers. Livia was more beautiful than ever, and he would have given anything to make her act, if not lovingly towards him, at least with a little good will. He needed to feel welcomed home.

  But the fight was going to be tougher than he had imagined. Livia did not move, not even a smile crossed her lips, and he had to leave the flowers on the table. She looked upon him with coldness and detachment, a clear sign time had not healed her wounds. Her hatred was as fresh as on the day she had first set foot in this house.

  Seeing she had no intention to take the wooden chest - filled with earrings, necklaces and precious stones - from his hands, he set it on the table next to the flowers.

  “I wish you a good day” he said and embarrassedly retreated from the room.

  He felt ridiculously impotent, more so as no sound had left Livia’s lips.

  Livia breathed a sigh of relief as she saw him leave the room. Emotion made her feet shake and tears started coursing down her cheeks. She sat on the bed and started sobbing quietly as she heard him give orders to Ildiko and Lina in the corridor. She had understood the message his eyes had sent her, it had not been necessary for him to use words; and yet it had all been clear. But she just found it impossible to pretend all was as it should be; she didn’t want to, could not do it. It was beyond her powers to pretend they were husband and wife and everything between them was normal; it was too much, it was impossible – because she did not love him. The only sensations his presence elicited in her were horror and disgust- and this, forever and ever.

  Luckily, Petros started administering his business the next day. He left early in the morning, heading towards his shops and warehouses, running all over the city, giving orders and controlling everything, and even finding time for the City Council meetings. He only returned home for dinner.