Читать книгу Possessed hearts - Анна Морион - Страница 4

Midnight.

The big yellow moon shines its light on an awake Toronto. The moon shines so brightly on this night that the streetlamps only gleam uselessly with their electric dead light. There is only this endless deep black sky and this moon.

I savour the solitude and this picturesque scene. My wide long balcony has fortunately become a great place for night contemplation. I am lying on a narrow sofa. My bare feet rest on a large firm velvet cushion. Comfort. Solitude. A bottle of fresh blood. A crystal wine glass. The idyll. I cut myself off from all sound. Not the voices of the neighbours, not the couple in the next house watching a horror film, not the noise of cars. Nothing. Silence.

And in that silence a horrible scary voice screams, shrieks, and squeals, keeping my thoughts at bay. I can't get rid of them. Every time I wish I could just escape reality, even for a second, it bursts in on me, unwelcome, unloved. I hate it. The eternal uninvited guest before whom anyone would rush to close their doors and keep her off their doorstep. But this bitch kicks down the door, breaks the locks and bursts in, filling the entire space with her. She's in my head. She whispers to me that I'm miserable. She humiliates me. Me as a person. Me as a woman. Me as a being with the highest intelligence on this damn planet.

I love to live. But Life hates me and makes my existence an eternal hell. The Hell that people believe in. But people only get it when they die. I'm punished while I'm alive. For eight years I've lived in a ravenous, raging flame. I feel no physical pain. It's the flame that destroys me morally. And my soul… If I ever had one, it's gone now. It's burned away. Crumbled. I'm burning and crumbling.

I shouldn't have come. That day.

Prague. Mariszka's wedding. I walk into the huge, semi-dark cathedral of St Paul and St Peter. The guests. Perfect creatures. Vampires, like me.

A vampire wedding. An excuse to pull out the best of my wardrobe. My favourite. I'm wearing my short red dress. Oh, I love it. My hair is loose and falls loosely to my waist, shamefully covering the beauty of the nakedness of my back that the deep neckline of the dress affords. Red shoes. I leisurely take a seat in the front row of pews, next to Martin. Everyone is beautiful. Gods and goddesses on earth. Mum asks Misha if she's met Cedric. Cedric himself is standing next to the altar, next to the pastor. God, he's majestic. But his face is aloof, his eyes downcast. He's not here. He's somewhere far away. Misha replies to her mother that she has no wish to meet this "sullen type", and her mother immediately shushes her, then apologises half-heartedly to the Morgans and the guests for her youngest daughter's inappropriate behaviour. Markus takes his seat with a quick step. He's excited and doesn't hide it. Martin jokingly tells me that whoever made my dress must have skimped on fabric, but the deafening sound of the organ nullifies all conversation and fills the cathedral. The guests stand up. Mariszka, under the arm of our father, sails down the aisle. Everything is so sweet that I want to smile sarcastically and roll my eyes, but I restrain myself. I don't take my eyes off Cedric…

– Is my beautiful neighbour bored?

My playboy roommate's voice made me wince.

– You know, Troy, I'll be sure to order an impenetrable blacktop for my balcony so you don't poke your nose into my territory again," I said in a bored tone and took a sip from my glass of blood. Troy wouldn't understand anyway. I could drink the blood in front of him, but even then, the dumb-ass millionaire wouldn't recognise that it wasn't red wine in my glass.

– Are you telling me that you're just lying there on your outdoor balcony, in nothing but sexy underwear? – Troy replied languidly.

I looked up at him, his lustful gaze caressing my beautiful white body.

– It's not underwear, Troy. It's a dressing gown," I said calmly.

A black silk dressing gown. Open. Underneath it, there is a red silk lingerie.

– When are you going to invite me to your place? I'm tired of being just a listener.

– If I want to sleep with you, I'll let you know. But I'm afraid that will never happen. You're not my type, boy," I said tiredly. – Now get out and leave me alone, or I'll get angry.

How annoying he is, that idiot. Every time I walk past him, he licks himself like a narcissistic, petted cat.

– Leave you alone? – he smiled wryly. – Maria, you know you want it yourself. And I'm always at your disposal.

– Yes, yes, I know. Is that it? Good night, Troy.

– Good night, tiger.

"Bitch," he muttered, not knowing I could hear him.

– 'I'm, '" I said with a wry smile.

His face grew serious for a moment, but then, sure that I had commented on his 'tigress' comment, he winked at me and walked away, slamming the door to the balcony loudly behind him.

"We need to move out of this crazy house. Everything would be fine if it weren't for the neighbours… Maybe I should buy a house, somewhere in the provinces? But not too far from Toronto… Damn, those nasty people are everywhere. Where can I hide from them?" – I thought wistfully as I sipped my glass of blood.

***

People. They're everywhere. Standing there with their mouths open, staring at us. That day.

– I'm sorry, Mrs. Mroczek. I'm terribly late.

I turn my head to the right.

He's looking at me.

Brandon Grayson.

"I hate you so much!" – flashes through my head.

He smiles charmingly, and then his attention is completely consumed by the wedding process.

And I stand there, barely concealing a small shiver of disgust and hatred. Feeling like I've been dunked in a tub of shit and forced to be here, in this damn church, to be a scoffer. I see nothing, hear nothing and feel nothing. I just want to get the hell out of here. To run out of the church screaming in disgust. Screaming how much I hate that son of a bitch. Scream loud enough to drown out the murmurings of the world. But I humbly remain in my seat until the end of the wedding ceremony. I am weak. No, I'm just not there anymore. I'm gone.

***

– I really like this shot, but that tourist ruined everything that could be ruined. – I sighed irritably, showing my model the ruined shot.

A bloody stranger in a bright yellow jacket had unexpectedly and unexpectedly appeared in the frame at the very moment I pressed the button. And now, behind the beautiful Aisa, his bloody jacket was a distinct ugly yellow stain. But, noticing that his presence was clearly spoiling our photo shoot, the hapless tourist hurried away.

– I'm sorry, but you'll have to take another pose in the same spot. – I looked at the girl. – I'm sorry, I know you're cold, but this is very important.

Aisa. Nineteen-year-old Icelandic girl. Beautiful and tall. Exactly the kind of nurse I'd dreamed of shooting since I first saw her in the café of her small hometown. I immediately met her, took her details and, with her permission, took a couple of shots of her beautiful white face. Her white hair, eyebrows and eyelashes are completely white as snow. But white in a different way than albinos. Her beauty is the very embodiment of the North, its beauty and power. This is exactly how I think the inimitable Scandinavian goddess of beauty Freya, who was reborn in the guise of the magical young Aisa, should look like. Today I shot her against the backdrop of a sullen ocean shore full of large sharp stones. Dark blue, almost black waves crashed into those rocks and crashed in an icy rain behind my modern-day Freya. Twilight. The girl is wearing a translucent black dress that almost blends in with the surrounding gloomy dark beauty of this place. Her snow-white skin barely pokes through from beneath the fabric of the dress, and her hair seems to be frozen in mid-air, obeying the wind. Aisa embodies a lonely ghost, an ancient spirit, a Freyja who has descended to earth in search of peace.

It's six degrees centigrade. I feel sorry for Isa.

But this girl exceeded my expectations and stood firm against all my demands, the cold and the icy spray of the ocean. She was so obedient and meek that I gave myself my word not to kill her. Aisa is too beautiful, too sublime. Even for me. Especially for me.

After the shoot, I hurriedly wrapped this heavenly creature in a warm blanket, put her in the car and we drove to her house where I handed Aisa over to her anxious parents. I was invited to dinner, but I declined, citing my already purchased tickets to London, where I was scheduled for my next shoot and interview with Colour world, one of the most famous English reportage photography magazines. I bought the tickets three days before the meeting with the editor-in-chief so that I could print my best photos. After all, even though I was shooting models, in my spare time I was shooting the world. Ordinary mortals. Airports. On the platform. In subways. On the street and in cafes. Children and old people. The beautiful and the not so beautiful. The ugly. Cripples. Life itself in all its contradictory diversity. But also Death. Three years ago, I managed to capture it. In Toronto. A guy jumped in front of an incoming train. And I did it: the suicidal man was left hanging in the air, right in the centre of the train's huge iron nose. Unaware of what was happening, the driver, frowning his bushy eyebrows, stared silently ahead. A second before the train crushes, blows to pieces the body of the suicider. The mouth of the girl opens in horror, reaching out her hands to the one who has decided to end his Life. Probably his girlfriend. Now an unofficial widow. Best shot I've taken in all the years I've been into photography.

***

– I'm impressed, Miss Mroczek. You should open an independent exhibition for your photos," said editor-in-chief Bernard Attick. He looked very impressive.

We were sitting in his large office, bright from the four large desk lamps, tastefully furnished but slightly dishevelled. The editor's black wooden desk was cluttered with dozens of folders, an open notebook, many sheets of paper, letters, and a small white coffee cup lurking on the very edge. One wrong elbow movement and it would fall to the bare parquet and crumble to pieces. But the editor-in-chief seemed so accustomed to having that particular cup in exactly the right place that I wasn't worried about its safety.

Mr. Attick was a professional. And I respected him. I respect very few people. But his sense of smell and flair and taste were beyond reproach. It's true he had a funny last name. But it's kind of cute.

– Isn't it? – I said modestly, knowing exactly why he was so impressed.

– Yes… Your photos… I've never seen anything like them. And you do modelling, don't you? – Bernard looked at my photos for the second time. – This one. It's magical.

I looked at the photo: Oh, yes, a random shot in a little cafe in Liverpool. A little boy is discreetly feeding a fat, short-legged dog a boiled sausage while the boy's mother sits at a table, concentrating on her mascara. The woman's mouth is wide open, as if it were aiding her in her occupation. Black and white photograph. Early 2000s.

– Nice, very nice. So what do you reckon? – Bernard muttered, still contemplating every detail of the photograph.

– To what? – I asked, waiting patiently for Mr. Editor-in-Chief's excitement to subside and his brain to start working.

– The exhibition.

– You're not kidding? – I marvelled. What a twist! My own exhibition in London!

– Your work is damn good, Miss Mroczek, and I don't want you to go looking for recognition in another magazine.

– I'm all yours, Mr. Attick," I said jokingly. – In what time frame?

– For now, our gallery is busy with Najada Olivecka's exhibition. Fathers and children. Are you familiar with her work?

– You bet! As far as I know, she's recognised as the most influential photographer in Eastern Europe.

– Her exhibition ends in a fortnight. It'll take about a week to organise yours.

– That's a three-week wait. That's not so bad!

– But I need to show your work to our sponsor. He'll have the final say," Mr. Attick said suddenly.

I grinned. Shit. It's always like this – just when you're excited, your joy is killed with just one sentence.

– Who's your sponsor? – I asked. – The same one who sponsors Najada Olivecka? Then he has excellent taste. By the way, can you tell me where I can meet Najada herself… – And at that moment my smartphone rang loudly in my purse. – Damn, I'm sorry. – I took the smartphone out of my bag. – I'll just be a minute, it's an important call.

– Don't trouble yourself, Miss Mroczek," Mr. Attick smiled benignly.

I smiled back and went out into the corridor.

– Yes, Mum, hi," I said quietly into the phone. – I'm busy right now, is it an emergency?

– Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. It's just that you haven't been calling, and I want to know how my girl is doing.

– Your girl's business couldn't be better. I'm in London and the editor-in-chief of Colour world wants to put on an exhibition of my work! – I said with a note of happiness in my voice.

– Oh, that's great! Congratulations! When? Me and my dad will definitely fly down for the opening!

– That's great. But let's talk later. I'll call you back when I'm free.

– Yes, of course. But that's great news! Congratulations.

– Thank you. I'll call you later.

– Yeah. Kisses.

I smiled. No doubt Mum would be calling all the relatives now.

Back in Mr. Attick's office, I found the latter drafting the contract.

– I've called our sponsor. He'll be here in a couple of hours to look at your work. – Mr. Attick smiled broadly. – 'But between you and me, Miss Mroczek, I'm absolutely certain of a positive decision.

– That would be delightful," I smiled too, still not happy that my work needed some mortal's approval.

– So, if you don't mind, I'll ask you to leave your pictures until this evening, and at six o'clock you can pick them up.

– Well, if those are your sponsor's terms, then of course I will come back for them later.

– I promise in return that all your thirty pictures will be safe and sound. And naturally I would be pleased and pleased to co-operate with you, Miss Mroczek.

We shook hands, and Mr. Attick suddenly smiled confusedly.

– Oh, please forgive my oversight! I should have ordered coffee or tea for you …

– No, I'm not cold, believe me," I hastened to interrupt him.

He was gentlemanly enough to assume that the coldness of my hands was, however trivial, a matter of coldness.

A nice mortal, I'll give you that. Not many of them.

– Goodbye, Mr. Attick, I'll be back at six. – I picked up my bag and woollen cardigan and headed for the door.

– See you tonight, Miss Mroczek.

I had a three-hour wait ahead of me, and I didn't feel like going back to the hotel. I caught a taxi and went to Najada Olivecka's exhibition. After breathing in the aroma of reportage photography, which I would call "social" as this Moldovan photographer's work reflected everyday life and generational conflict, and imagining exactly how I would design my exhibition, I returned to the Colour world office to find out my verdict.

– Your work was to his liking. Congratulations. – Mr. Attick smiled, but I could see that he was clearly hiding something, and it was something that made him mentally uncomfortable.

– Well, I'm glad. So it's time to sign the contract? – I asked. – But there's something troubling about you. Your sponsor must have had some questions about my work.

My bluntness didn't embarrass Bernard. Of course he did – he'd been working at the magazine for twenty-seven years, as editor-in-chief, and had seen a lot.

– No, everything went smoothly. He really liked your work. That's true. But he'll only agree to organise your exhibition on one small, I'd say insignificant condition.

– What condition? – I frowned.

– He wants to buy one of your works on the condition that you never publish it anywhere else. All options, all files.

– Hmm, that's an interesting condition! – I grinned. It flattered me. – Did he like my work that much?

– When he got to this picture, he looked at it for about three minutes. Usually, he looks at each work in ten seconds.

– Which one? – I was getting curious.

– This one. – Mr. Attick held it out to me. – It won't be the subject of the exhibition.

А 4. A girl waiting for a tram. Ten years ago. One of the worst neighbourhoods in Prague. Not my favourite work, I must admit. I photographed this girl by chance because I was fascinated by her long, thick hair, slightly dishevelled by the wind. It was autumn and this girl was wearing a long black coat. Her hands were hidden in her pockets. Expressive brown eyes squinted. Hmm. And this picture so impressed the "great and terrible" sponsor that he was willing to buy all the rights to it?

– If he likes it so much, I can't deny him the joy of owning it," I said in a serious but ironic tone. – So, as you said, the name of your sponsor?

– Mr. Brandon Grayson.

My mouth dropped open, but no sound came out of it. I fell into a stupor.

– I see. – After a long pause, I let it out.

– Is everything all right? – Mr. Attick asked in a slightly concerned tone.

– Yes. It's just… I know him. He's one of my family friends. I didn't know he did exhibitions," I said casually. – How long has it been?

– This will be my seventh. Mr. Grayson is very generous and supports young talent. Like you, Miss Mroczek.

I grinned. To myself. Only a mortal would call me young.

– I'm flattered. So what about the contract? If we've got it all figured out, and I'm willing to give up all the rights and all the files for the job, I'm ready to sign and go to the hotel," I smiled.

Everything went without further ado. The contract was signed. The official opening date was set for the tenth of October.

I got into a taxi and ordered it to take me to the hotel, and called Markus's number.

– I need Brandon's number. It's an emergency," I said briefly.

Yeah, I didn't have Brandon's number. I never imagined I'd be dealing with him.

Markus had sent me the number, thankfully without further question, and I dialled it immediately. My fingers did it on their own, regardless of my desire to never communicate with Grayson. I hated him.

But I needed to know. Why he needed that picture. Because he knew damn well I was the author.

– Brandon Grayson. – I heard his beautiful, low voice.

– Why do you want that picture? – I asked in a joking tone.

Apparently, he chuckled. I could feel it.

– It's you, Maria. I have to admit, you're a great photographer.

– I know I am. So why do you want this picture?

– Did you sign the contract?

– I did.

– I don't have to answer to you.

– And I don't have to sell it to you. – His calm, indifferent tone burned me.

– You already did.

– But I still haven't disclosed the amount.

– You're right, it's about time.

I desperately didn't want to sell him my picture. No, hell no!

– How much would you give for it?

– That's not a fair question. You're the author, it's your right to set the price.

– Then I want it for… Let's say a million. – I said that high figure on purpose. I don't think he'd want to buy a small photograph for that kind of money.

– It's a decent amount for a decent job," Brandon said, as if nothing had happened.

– Are you kidding? – I blurted out.

– Is that the final price?

– Do you want that picture that badly? – I couldn't help myself.

– Do I? No. But I like its aesthetics.

– Then I'm not selling it.

– It's too late. You signed a contract. You have to sell it to me.

– You know what, Brandon? I'll sell you my work, but only because I want the damn exhibit! And you're a scumbag like the world has never seen!

He laughed.

– You make it sound like a compliment, Maria. What's the final sum?

– I've already given it. Pounds sterling.

– That's good. It's already in your account. I'll be at your hotel tomorrow, 8pm. We can have dinner together and I'll pick up my purchase.

– Don't put conditions on me," I replied irritably.

– It's not conditions, it's just routine.

Dinner with Grayson. Never. How will I be able to look at him and hide my dislike, my disgust? For my eyes will burn with hatred.

But if he doesn't care, he can take his purchase and go to hell.

– It's a deal. Eight o'clock tomorrow at the hotel restaurant. – I passed out.

I was full of contradictory feelings, and I thought my head was spinning, even though it was impossible. But these feelings, these emotions sat inside me, pressing, tormenting, tearing. A worthless conversation with that narcissist Mr. Grayson – and I fell into a state I'd never known. I'm lying. The same state that had come over me in the church eight years ago when that bastard had said to my mother, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Mroczek, I'm terribly late." Those words rang in my head like the striking of a bell. Does that mean my head is as empty as the dome of a church? No. It's bursting. The thoughts. They're like the strikes of a bell, like Brandon's words, like everything around him and connected to him. My hatred. For him. For that day. For myself.

"Is that how much I need this exhibition? I can break the contract at any time, especially since no action from the performer has yet begun," I pondered. – He needs my work. He loves aesthetics. What aesthetics did he find in that photograph? He'll come for it… I should have just sent all the files by courier! I don't need this meeting. What the hell am I going to do, pretend to be indifferent to his presence again? He's ruined my whole life. Shit, Maria, you're acting like a white bunny trying to hide from a sly fox. What's wrong with you? Have you gone soft? Are you spoilt? It's just another business meeting and you'll be as calm as Everest. You'll chat about nothing…"

– Miss!

The driver's loud voice took me by surprise.

– Are we there? – I asked tiredly, opening my bag and looking for cash.

– Yes. Your hotel, as requested. The Laslett.

I glanced at the taximeter and paid silently, leaving a good tip, which caused the cabbie to change the scowl on his face into a friendly, barely perceptible grin. Grabbing my cardigan, I got out of the car, but suddenly, against my better judgement, I knocked on the window of the taxi that hadn't left yet. The driver rolled down the window. I leaned forward.

– What time do the nearest nightclubs open?

My question caused the cabbie's face to flush with displeasure.

– The nearest one opens at eleven. But it's rubbish, miss, even though it's close to such an expensive hotel.

– Thank you. What's your name, nice man?

– Erm, Harvey.

– Here, Harvey. – I took out another of my big wallets – a twenty, the first one I could find. – Buy yourself some tea.

– Miss, have you already…

– Take it. That's for tea. You can spend that money on something else," I said insistently, and handed the taxi driver the note.

– Erm… Much obliged, Miss. Have a nice evening! – Harvey took the twenty and smiled.

– You too.

I waved him off and headed for the hotel.

In fact, I knew what time nightclubs opened without Harvey. My favourite club in London was near my hotel. That was the reason I always stayed here – to bring another victim with me. Use it. Throw it away. To forget. Forget the real thing. At least for a couple of hours.