The Other Side Of Midnight

by Georgia Le Carre

  “Hello, Autumn,” he greets softly.

  “Hi.” That was meant to be casual and nonchalant, but it comes out like a squawk.

  “Would you like something to drink, or some refreshments, perhaps?”

  I would have loved a strong drink, a double vodka, but I grasp my knapsack harder, and shake my head.

  “Thank you, William.”

  Behind me, the door closes with a soft click. We are alone. A blind panic hits me and I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. “It must have been very difficult to build a house like this on a mountain.”

  “Yes, I’m sure the architect and builders had their share of difficulties, but I wouldn’t know.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “You just paid for it.”

  His mouth twists. “Ah, you don’t approve of money.”

  I dig in. “The kind of riches it takes to build a house like this is usually ill-gotten.”

  “I’m afraid I have to agree with you,” he concedes.

  I stare at him with surprise. “Did you just admit your money is ill-gotten?”

  He shrugs. “I built my fortune on the considerable pile my ancestors left behind. No doubt much of it must have been acquired on the backs of the oppressed and dispossessed.”

  “And you don’t feel bad about it?”

  I see a flash of some emotion in his eyes, but I do not know him well enough to know what it is. “A clean slate was denied to me.”

  I wanted to ask him what he meant, but he changes the subject smoothly.

  “Have you dined?”

  “Uh, I had a very heavy lunch, Mrs. Appleby’s lasagna from the deli, so I’ll be good until I get home later tonight. If you need to eat, I’m quite happy to hang around and to set up my gear.”

  “In that case, we’ll have a late supper after you’ve finished painting for the night.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I reply immediately.

  “It will save you the trouble of cooking when you get back,” he adds suavely.

  Ramen noodles is not exactly cooking and I really don’t want to spend more time in his company than is strictly necessary, but it seems churlish to refuse his hospitality. “All right.”

  He nods. “Good. Let me show you the house and you can pick out a suitable room for you to paint in. Leave your things here until we find the right location for you.”

  He starts moving towards the door and as he passes me I get a whiff of his fragrance and the hairs on my skin rise. He smells like those stormy nights when the air is alive with electrons and excitement. When he gets to the door he turns back to look at me, one eyebrow raised.

  “Coming?”

  I pull myself out of my stupor, hurriedly place my knapsack on the floor, lean my stretched canvas on the floor against a chair, and go to him.

  As he shows me around the house, I listen to his melodious voice call out the names of the rooms, each one a beautiful work of art in itself. The whole house is a treasure trove. There are Greek and Roman marble statues, ancient tapestries from Persia, intricate stone friezes, and marvelous paintings, some of which I recognize as masterpieces worth millions. And yet there is no part of the house which is not cold and unwelcoming. The whole house is awe-inspiring and beautiful… and strangely dead.

  I spot a painting in one of the grand rooms that makes me do a double take. It can’t, it… but the style is so similar. “Is that?” I whisper.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But I have never seen a picture of this painting anywhere.”

  “That’s because it’s never been photographed. It’s been in my family ever since it was acquired directly from the painter.”

  I walk towards the painting in a daze. Wow! An original, one of a kind, Van Gogh masterpiece, the world has never seen. It seems almost unbelievable. And his family bought the painting directly from Van Gogh! What a story! I stare at the painting of a vase of what looks like red dahlias on a wooden table. It is similar to his painting of sunflowers, but somehow so much richer.

  “It’s so, so, so beautiful,” I say in an awed whisper.

  “Have it if you want,” he offers from behind me.

  I whirl around in shock. “What?”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “If you like it so much, have it.”

  I stare at him incredulously. “This is the only painting of red flowers that Van Gogh has ever done. It must be worth hundreds of millions.”

  His mouth twists into a bitter smile, and he makes a dismissive waving gesture. “All these things are worthless to me. Nothing gives me joy. Take it. “

  I shake my head. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

  His eyes never leave mine. “How about an exchange? Your painting of the castle for this one.”

  My jaw actually drops with disbelief. The first thought that flashes into my head is: is he serious? Yes, he looks serious. Next: is he a madman? If indeed he is, he gives a very good impression of being sane. After that: What cat and mouse game is he playing? Because nobody in their right mind would exchange a Van Gogh for my amateurish painting. My chest fills with suspicion and distrust.

  “Why do you want my painting?” I ask softly.

  He doesn’t hesitate and he seems utterly sincere as he says simply, “It gives me joy.”

  I exhale the breath I’m holding. “All right. You can have it, but I won’t take your Van Gogh.” I turn to look at the painting inside its heavy gilded frame. “To start with I have nowhere to hang it and I would be terrified of it getting stolen. Let it remain here. It is enough that I have seen it.”

  He bows his head formally. “Thank you, Autumn. You do me a great honor.”

  After that the tour of the ground floor of the mansion continues, but something is different inside me. I no longer see him as an insanely rich Count who has more money than sense. He is too beautiful and privileged to be pitied, but I can see now his great wealth and all his wonderful material possessions have not brought him any happiness at all. In fact, he seems to be desperately lonely on a level I cannot even begin to comprehend. Of course, I felt sad and mourned for my parents when they died, but that was a natural process of grieving for my terrible loss. But even then, I never felt as deeply alone as he seems to be. I would even go so far as to say, he is somehow damaged. Something very bad has happened to him in the past, and he has never gotten over it.

  “And this is the library,” he announces, as he stands back to allow me to precede him.

  Of course, it’s absolutely beautiful. Like something from a magical movie. There must be thousands upon thousands of leather-bound books here. I breathe in the cool, dry air, scented with the fragrance of leather and old paper. It is full of history and ancient secrets. All those authors long gone who have left a little bit of their souls on those aged, yellowed pages. There is no fireplace here, presumably to protect the books from smoke and soot, but the cold doesn’t really bother me. Through the many narrow windows I see a storm is starting outside. Wild streaks of white lightning fill the window panes, as I turn to face him.

  He is watching me silently, expressionlessly. The flashes of light make him appear like a supernatural being. Exactly the way I want to depict him on canvas.

  “Here. I will paint you here,” I say decisively.

  He smiles. “Good. It is my favorite room.”

  Chapter 19

  Rocco

  The wind howls outside and rain lashes at the windows. The storm has been raging for more than an hour now. I am positioned slightly turned away from her, but I can see her from the corner of my eye. And I have done nothing but watch her. Every expression that crosses her face, every movement she makes, every pause, every backward journey. I cannot stop watching her. The craving for her is so visceral it is an ache in my gut.

  I see her: naked, defenseless, and begging me to take her… I can almost taste her sweetness.

  I take deep, even breaths and force myself to calm down. To match her state of composure and tranquility. Painting has give
n her Zen-like peace of mind. Her concentration and focus are so absolute I’m certain she can carry on working for many more hours, but reluctantly, she stops and addresses me.

  “Do you need… like a bathroom break or something?” she asks, her brush still.

  “Not a bathroom break, but dinner would be nice.”

  Her eyes dart to her painting then back to me. She bites her bottom lip. While she was painting, she lost the usual nervousness she shows when she is around me. Her hands had moved quickly and without hesitation, but now the nervousness is back. “Yes, of course, we can stop for dinner.”

  “Would you like to wash up first?”

  She drops her brush into the jar of turpentine. “Yes, I’ll use the restroom first and join you afterwards. Will dinner be in the dining room?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  She stands awkwardly next to her easel for a second, then she begins to move towards the door. “See you in the dining room.”

  As she walks out, William enters. “Shall I serve dinner now?”

  I nod, he leaves, his shoes hardly making a sound on the hardwood. I walk to the small table where there is a decanter of whiskey and a crystal glass next to it. I pour myself a generous amount of the amber liquid. It is Irish whiskey from the time of the prohibition. It is rare and even my own stocks are dwindling. I savor it on my tongue, then let the fiery liquor run down my throat.

  I walk towards the window. I see my ghostly reflection in the windowpane. I reach out my hand and touch the face on the cold glass. It feels as if I have been standing here waiting and looking at my own pale echo for centuries.

  I close my eyes and think of Autumn.

  Of the way she lifted her arms and gathered her hair into a ponytail so it would not disturb her while she worked. How the action had left her ears and white neck so exposed I could see the little pulse beating at the hollow of her throat. I hungered for her then. The desire was blind and ancient. Like a strongly beating heart it had a life and a will of its own. The need was too terrible, too terrible to bear.

  I forgot where I was, who I was.

  I stood and had already taken two steps towards her, when her sweet voice asking, “Is everything okay?” somehow penetrated my monstrous hunger. I apologized, made some excuse, and sat back down, shocked. Finally. Finally, I understood what I’d never comprehended before, the agony of desire.

  I had come so close to almost losing control. So close it was frightening.

  My eyes snap open. In the glass my eyes look haunted and desperate. What if I can’t do this? What if I can’t control myself? What if I am just like my family? Principles are all good… until they are put to the test.

  An image of my father’s face, cold and forbidding, comes into my head and a low growl rattles dangerously in my throat. I can and I will do this. I will do it if it kills me. I have not spent all these years watching her, protecting her, and guiding her towards me, to fail now.

  She is mine.

  A white flash of light is followed by a roar of thunder. I already know the road down the mountain will be unusable tonight. I will ask William to get one of the maids to prepare the suite next to mine for her.

  I put the empty glass back on the table and leave the room without looking at her unfinished portrait of me.

  Chapter 20

  Autumn

  As I wash my hands I stare at my own reflection. I don’t look at myself. My skin looks feverish and my eyes seem to glitter strangely. I tell myself it is just the excitement of being in this vast mansion on a mountain. A place no one in the village has ever been inside.

  My eyes slide away at the lie. I wipe my hands on a fluffy hand towel and start to make my way to the dining table. Halfway there I pause. Then I turn around and go back to the library. I want to just look at my painting again. There is no one in the library and I walk quickly towards my painting.

  I stand a few feet away and look at it. I have made a good start. The outline and the base coat are done, but I have left his eyes completely blank. Later, when everything else is done I will paint them. They are the doorways to his tortured soul.

  I close my eyes and remember them.

  Immediately they float into view. Translucent and haunted with pain. As blue as the ocean on a sunny day, but in their midst, I detect fiery glints. Glints, I know will change with his emotions. They are so vivid I know I can paint them when I am at home.

  I open my eyes and am about to turn away from my canvas when there is a sudden loud clap of thunder, and all the lights go out. A small cry of surprise escapes out of my mouth. As there is no fireplace in this room, the room is now in complete blackness. I freeze with a strange and unnamable fear. Without the lights this place seems sinister. I can hear my heart beating loudly in my chest. Firmly, I tell myself not to be a dramatic coward. All I have to do is wait for another flash of lightning and I will be able to see a path to the door.

  I take a deep breath. The darkness seems velvet. Seems almost to touch my skin. I feel my hands tremble. Then suddenly, there is a light at the doorway. I turn towards it like a newborn baby turning towards it’s mother’s nipple. Instinctively, without thought, purely from muscle memory.

  Rocco is holding a candlestick. And in the flickering yellow light he seems bulkier, deadlier, and scarier. A predator! The light in his eyes that I had naively thought was torment, glowed like the pitiless fire in a falcon’s eyes. My whole body freezes.

  I open my mouth to speak and to my amazement no words will come out. My mind is blank. I can’t even think of his name. It’s not that I forgot, but I’m so astonished by my discovery it won’t come to mind. My mouth trembles in shock.

  “I’m afraid the storm has caused a power cut,” he says, moving further into the room. “Let me escort you to the dining room.”

  I can feel the blood roaring in my ears as I stare at him blankly.

  He stops about six feet away from me. “Don’t be afraid, Autumn. The generator will kick in soon.”

  A little voice in my head says, run. I take shallow breaths. “I’m not afraid,” I lie. “I was just startled.”

  “Good. Let us eat.” His voice is calm.

  In a strange daze, I follow him. The fear makes me hypersensitive. I can smell the beeswax from the candle and I can smell him. Like rain-soaked grass, or the woods early in the morning in spring. Hidden under the sweetness, the smell of earth. I can feel his strength, his power, and his will.

  The tall doors of the dining room are open, and when we get to the entrance I gasp at the extraordinary sight. The long dining table is covered in a snow-white table cloth and set for two, and the massive room is illuminated by hundreds and hundreds of candles. The grand mirrors are full of the candles reflections. There are five servants silently lighting even more. I have dreamed this before. Even the perfume of flowers that fills the air. It is like a scene from a wedding night.

  “But they must have started lighting these candles ages ago,” I breathe.

  “They have. Power cuts during storms are one of the drawbacks of living on a mountain top.”

  Silently, the servants troop out of the room.

  “Come,” he says, as William magically appears and pulls out a chair that is next to the head of the table for me.

  As I slip between the table and chair, I feel him push the velvet chair forward slightly. Rocco sits at the head. I stare at him in awe. In the bright, warm light given off by the numerous candles, his skin is radiantly flawless. I want to reach out and touch his skin. My fingers tingle with the need. A strange sense of panic overwhelms me. What is happening to me? Why does he have this effect on me?

  William pours wine into a glass on my right as waiters arrive with plates of food.

  As one of them places the food in front of me, he murmurs, “Lobster meat on tender green leaves with orange dressing.” I look at the plate’s contents as if they are totally foreign to me. Then I lift my eyes and meet the Count’s cold gaze.

  He starts to smil
e, but his smile dies, and his eyes narrow. “What’s the matter?”

  I shake my head and turn away from him. How can I tell him that his beauty has put a spell on me? That I am unable to eat even a mouthful, because my stomach is churning with desire for him. “I have to return,” I whisper hoarsely, then I push the heavy chair back and stand restlessly.

  He reacts so swiftly, I do not actually see him move, but suddenly he is by my side. “The road is dangerous. There would have been landslides during the storm. It will not be safe until the morning.”

  “Are you keeping me prisoner here?” I rage, taking a step further away from his intoxicating presence, and staring at him with accusing eyes. My breath comes in great gasps. I want to run out of that luxuriously warm, wonderland candles, away from his allure and his beauty that burns into my soul, but his eyes lock with mine, and suddenly I can’t move a single muscle.

  His eyes are fierce and blazing, but when he speaks his voice is hypnotically calm and shockingly persuasive. “You are not my prisoner, Autumn.”

  “Then I want to leave,” I cry wildly, but the horror is completely gone. I don’t want to leave him! I never really wanted to. It was just the fear of giving in to my dark desires. Of letting them take control. I am not afraid of him. I am afraid of myself.

  His lips part and a small sigh escapes him.

  Automatically, my gaze slithers towards his mouth, the fragile, thin skin of his lips. I want that silky mouth on my body. I want us entangled and mindless with desire. I don’t know if he can read my thoughts, but his eyes darken.

  His body is very still, only those sensuous lips move. “Are you afraid of me, Autumn?”

  “A little bit,” I whisper, staring into the depths of those luminous eyes.

  “Don’t be. I will never hurt you.”

  At that moment, in the flickering light from all those candles, I know that is the truth. He may be dangerous to others, but I am absolutely and utterly safe with him. I can trust him with my life. “Yes, I believe you.”