Читать книгу The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows - Rosette - Страница 10

“Would you like to have dinner with me, Melisande Bruno?”

I stared at him with wide eyes; I must have misunderstood him. He had ignored me for hours, and the rare times he spoke to me he had been unpleasant and cold.

At first I thought of refusing, outraged by his childlike and moody attitude, then curiosity got the best of me. Or maybe I was hoping to see his smile again; that lopsided, friendly and warm smile. However, whatever the reason, my answer was yes.

Mrs Mc Millian was so shocked by the novelty to be silent for as long as it took her to serve our dinner, stirring up our mutual amusement.

Mr Mc Laine was relaxed, and he no longer had that severe expression than I had learned to fear.

We sat quietly and began speaking only when the housekeeper left us alone.

“We managed to leave our dear Millicent speechless... I guess we'll end up in the Guinness world records,” he remarked with a laugh that struck my heart.

“Undoubtedly,” I agreed. “And that’s a monumental task. I never thought I’d see that day.”

“I agree”. He winked at me and grasped a meat skewer.

The improvised dinner was informal but delicious, and his company was the only one I wished for. I promised myself I wouldn’t do anything to ruin that idyllic atmosphere, and then I remembered that it only partially depended on me. My companion had already shown on several occasions that he was irritable, and without any apparent reason.

Now he was smiling, and I felt a stabbing pain at the thought that I would never know the exact colour of his eyes and hair.

“So, Melisande Bruno, do you like Midnight Rose?”

I like you, especially when you're so laid-back and in peace with the world.

I said aloud, “Who wouldn’t like it? It's a slice of paradise, far from the usual frenzy, stress and madness.”

He stopped eating, as if he fed off the sound of my voice. And I also began to chew more slowly, so as to not break that spell, as fragile as crystal and more fluttery than an autumn leaf.

“For those who come from London it must seem so” he granted. “Have you travelled a lot?”

I brought my glass of wine to my mouth before answering. “Less than I would have liked. But I understood one thing: you can discover the world in its corners, folds and grooves, not in the large centres.”

“Your wisdom equals your beauty,” he said seriously. “And what are you discovering in this lovely Scottish village?”

“I haven’t seen the village yet,” I reminded him, with no resent. “But Midnight Rose is an interesting place. I feel like the world could stop right here and now and I wouldn’t miss my future life.”

In response he shook his head. “You have perceived the most intimate essence of this home in such a short time... I still haven’t succeeded in doing so...”

I didn’t answer; the fear of spoiling our regained intimacy curbed my tongue.

He studied me closely, as always, as if I was the content of a slide and he was a microscope. The next question was pondered, explosive, and the premonition of an imminent disaster.

“Do you have a family, Melisande Bruno? Are any of your relatives still alive?”

It didn’t sound like an idle question, made just for the heck of it. There was a keen and authentic interest in it.

I hid my hesitation by sipping some more wine, and in the meantime I was thinking about how to answer his question. Revealing that my sister and my father were still alive would give rise to a series of other insidious questions that I wasn’t ready to deal with. I was realistic: he had invited me to dinner that evening just because he was bored, and he was searching for a break. I, the still unknown secretary, was ideal for the purpose. There wouldn’t be another dinner. I chose to lie because it was easier, less complicated.

“I'm alone in the world.” Only when I stopped speaking, I realized that it wasn’t exactly a lie. As a matter of fact it was a lie only in part.

I was alone, regardless of everything. I couldn’t count on anyone except myself. This fact had made me suffer so much that I thought I would lose my mind, but I had gotten used to it. It was absurd, sad and painful, but it was true.

I was accustomed to not being loved. I was misunderstood and alone.

He seemed absurdly satisfied with my answer, as if it were the right one. Right for what I couldn’t say.

He raised his half empty glass of wine to make a toast.

“What are you toasting to?” I asked, imitating him.

“I’m hoping that you’ll dream again, Melisande Bruno. And that your dreams come true.”

His eyes smiled at me over the glass.

I gave up trying to understand him. Sebastian Mc Laine was a living enigma, and his charisma, his animal magnetism, were adequate answers for me.

That night I dreamt for the second time. The scene was identical to the previous one: I was in my nightgown and he was at the foot of my bed in dark clothes with no trace of the wheelchair.

He held out his hand, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “Dance with me, Melisande.”

His tone was mild, sweet and soft as silk. It was a request, not an order. And his eyes... For the first time they were pleading her.

“Am I dreaming?” I believed it was just a thought, but I had said it out loud.

“Only if you want it to be a dream. Otherwise this is reality,” he said categorically.

“But you’re walking...”

“In your dreams anything can happen,” he replied, guiding me in a waltz, like the first time.

I felt an angry rage. How come in MY dream other people’s nightmares were erased, while mine still remained intact? It was MY dream, but I had no influence on it, nor could I alter it in any way. Its self-sufficiency was bizarre and irritating.

Suddenly I stopped thinking, because being in his arms was more important than my personal drama. He was unbelievably beautiful, and I was honoured to have him in my dreams.

We danced for a long time, to the rhythm of a non-existent music, the bodies in perfect sync.

“I thought I wouldn’t dream of you anymore,” I said, stretching out my hand to touch his cheek. It was smooth, warm, and almost hot.

His hand rose to entwine with mine. “I also thought you wouldn’t dream anymore.”

“You seem so real...” I said breathlessly. “But you're just a dream... you're too sweet to be real...”

He burst into an amused laughter, and he held me tighter.

“Do I make you angry?”

I looked at him, dourly. “There are times in which I’d like to punch you.”

He didn’t seem offended, indeed he was satisfied. “I do it on purpose. I like to tease you.”

“Why?”

“Because it's easier for me to keep you at arm’s length.”

The shrill sound of the pendulum invaded the dream, causing my discontent. Because he was retreating, again. As if it was a signal.

“Stay with me,” I begged him.

“I can’t”.

“It’s my dream. I decide,” I replied.

He stretched out his hand and stroked my hair, his fingers lighter than feathers.

“Dreams escape us, Melisande. We create them, but they don’t belong to us altogether. They have their own will, and they end when they decide to do so.”

I insisted, like a little girl. “I don’t like it.”

His face was crossed by an unusual seriousness. “Nobody likes it, but the world is typically unfair.”

I tried to hold back the dream, but my arms were too weak, and my scream was just a whisper. He disappeared quickly, like the first time. I found myself awake; my ears dull with loud noises. Then I realized, with dismay, that they were the arrhythmic beats of my heart. It was also going on its own way, as if nothing belonged to me anymore. I had no control over any part of my body.

But the thing that upset me the most was that I also didn’t have any over my mind, and my feelings.

The letter arrived that morning, and it had the disruptive effect of a stone thrown into a pond. It falls in a certain spot, but its effects reverberate to surrounding spots, in concentric and very extensive circles.

My mood was sky high, and I began the day humming. Definitely it was an unusual thing for me.

Mrs Mc Millian served breakfast in a religious silence, pretending not to be curious about the dinner of the previous evening.

I decided not to lose any time. I had to clear her doubts before she could create her own ideas, which could damage my reputation, and perhaps even Mr Mc Laine’s. Any wishful thinking toward him was solely in my dreams, and I mustn’t yield to its evanescent magnificence.

“Mrs Mc Millian...”

“Yes, Miss Bruno?” She was buttering the toast and asked the question without raising her eyes.

“Mr Mc Laine felt lonely last night, and he asked me to keep him company. If I weren’t there, he would have asked you. Or Kyle,” I said firmly.

She adjusted her glasses on her nose and nodded. “Of course Miss. I've never thought badly of you. It’s obvious that it was an isolated episode.”

Her confidence froze me, although it made sense. Deep down I also agreed with her. There was no reason to hope that the County's golden bachelor would fall in love with me. He was on a wheelchair, but he wasn’t blind. My black and white world was the living and constant proof of my diversity. I couldn’t afford the luxury of forgetting it.

Never. Or my dream would break into little pieces.

I climbed the stairs like any other day. I felt restless, in spite of the calmness I displayed.

Sebastian Mc Laine was already smiling when I opened the door and it sent my heart sky high. I wished that it would never come back down.

“Good morning sir,” I greeted him calmly.

“Aren’t we formal, Melisande?” he asked in rebuke, as if we had shared a greater intimacy than a simple dinner.

My cheeks burned, and I was sure that I had blushed, even though I had no idea of ​​the real meaning of this word. Red was a dark colour, just like black was in my world.

“It's just a matter of respect, sir,” I said, mitigating my formal tone with a smile.

“I did nothing special to deserve it,” he answered. “In fact, I must’ve seemed hateful to you sometimes.”

“No, sir,” I replied, walking on a mined ground. The risk of triggering his anger was always latent every time we spoke, and I couldn’t lower my guard. Although my heart had already done so.

“Don’t lie. I can’t stand it,” he replied without losing his marvellous smile.

I sat in front of him, ready to carry out the job for which I was paid. Of course I wasn’t in love with him. That was out of the question.

He pointed to the pile of mail on the desk. “Split the personal mail from work, please.”

It took a great effort for me to tear my eyes away from his, for they were full of a new sweetness. I could feel them on me, warm and irresistible, and I struggled to concentrate.

A letter drew my attention because there was no sender and the calligraphy on the envelope was familiar to me. As if that wasn’t enough, the recipient was not my beloved writer, but myself.

I froze with the envelope between my fingers, my head full of contrasting thoughts.

“Is something wrong?”

My eyes met his. He stared at me attentively, and I realized that he had never stopped doing it.

“No, I... It's all right... It's just that...” I was lost in a huge dilemma: should I tell him about the letter? If I didn’t do it, Kyle might do it later on. It was he who collected the mail and put it on the desk. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that one letter had another recipient. Could I count on this, and put the letter aside and reclaim it later? No, that was impossible. Mr Mc Laine was too keen-sighted, and he didn’t miss a thing. The weight of my lie came between us.

He stretched out his hand, with his back to the wall. He felt my hesitancy, and he wanted to see with his own eyes.

With a heavy sigh I passed him the envelope.

His eyes left mine for one second, just the time to read the name on the envelope, and then they sought mine again. Once again there was hostility in his gaze, as dense as fog, slimy as blood, and black with mistrust.

“Who’s writing to you, Melisande Bruno? A far-away boyfriend? A relative? Oh, no, how stupid of me. You told me they're all dead. Who, then? Maybe a friend?”

I leapt at the chance and continued to lie. “It must be from my old roommate, Jessica. I knew she would write to me, and I gave her my address,” I said, surprised at how the words flowed from my mouth, natural in their falsehood.

“Then go ahead and read. You’ll be anxious to do so. Don’t worry, Melisande” His tone was sweet, but veiled with a chilling cruelty. At that moment I realized that I still had a heart, in spite of my previous convictions. Although it was swollen, syncopated and disconnected from the rest of my body. As my mind was.

“No... there’s no hurry... maybe later... I mean... Jessica won’t have any big news...” I stammered, avoiding his frosty look.

“I insist, Melisande.”

For the first time in my life, I was aware of how sweet poison could be, of its seductive scent and misleading spell. His voice and his smile didn’t reveal his fury. Only his eyes betrayed him.

I picked up the envelope he was handing me as if it was infested.

He waited. There was a trace of sadistic amusement in those bottomless eyes.

I put the envelope in my pocket. “It's from my sister.” The truth burst out of my mouth, liberating, even though there had been no way of avoiding it. He remained silent, and I bravely went on.

“I know I lied about my relatives, but... I really am alone in the world. I...” I lost my voice. I tried again. “I know I was wrong, but I didn’t want to talk about them.”

“Them?”

“Right. My Dad is still alive. But just because his heart still beats.” My eyes became tearful. “He’s almost a vegetable. He’s an alcoholic at the last stage, and he doesn’t even remember who we are. I mean Monique and me.”

“It was stupid of you to lie to me, Miss Bruno. Didn’t you think that your sister would write to you here? Or did you take off so you wouldn’t have to take care of your father, leaving the burden on someone else’s shoulders?” His voice echoed through the office, as deadly as a shot from a gun.

I swallowed my tears, and I gazed at him defiantly. I lied, it was undeniable, but he was describing me as a despicable being, who didn’t deserve to live and unworthy of respect.

“I won’t allow you to judge me, Mr Mc Laine. You know nothing about my life, or the reasons that made me lie. You’re my employer, not my judge, and even less so my executioner.” The deadly calm with which I spoke surprised me more than him, and I put my hand to my mouth, as if it had been talking in my place, separated from my mind, as independent as my heart and my dreams.

I stood up suddenly and made the chair fall backwards. I picked it up with trembling hands, my mind in a catatonic state.

I had already reached the door when he spoke with a bitter voice. “Take the day off, Miss Bruno. You seem very upset. See you tomorrow.”

I reached my room in a daze, and ran into the adjacent bathroom. Here I washed my face with cold water, and studied my image in the mirror. It was too much. All the black and white that surrounded me was more disturbing than a funeral cloth. I felt as if I was dangerously hovering over the edge of a cliff. I wasn’t afraid of falling. It had already happened many times before, and I got up every time. My skin and my heart were dotted with millions of invisible and painful scars. I was afraid I’d lose my mind along with the lucidity that had kept me alive until that moment. If that were to happen, I would have preferred to crash into the ground.

The tears I didn’t shed twisted my bowels, and I was a basket case. A zombie, like the character of one of Mc Laine's novels.

I put my hand in the pocket of my tweed skirt in which I had stuffed Monique's letter. I had to read what she wanted, I could no longer procrastinate. I pulled it out, and went to my bedroom.

It weighed like a bag of reinforced concrete, and I was tempted not to open it. Its content could only be one: pain. I thought I was very strong before I arrived at Midnight Rose. How wrong I had been. I wasn’t strong at all.

My hands moved against my will, I was reduced to a puppet. They tore the envelope, and spread the sheet it contained. A few words, typical of Monique.

Dear Melisande,

I need more money. Thank you for what you sent me from London, but it’s not enough. Can you ask for an advance on your salary from that writer? Don’t be shy or fearful. They say he’s very rich. After all, he’s alone, paralytic and easily swayed. Hurry up.

Yours always, Monique.

I don’t know how long I stared at the letter, maybe a few minutes, maybe hours. Everything lost importance, as if all I really was just an appendix of Monique and of my father. For a second I wished they would both die, and that terrible thought filled me with horror. Monique had tried to love me, although in her selfish way. And my father... well, the good memories of him were so rare that they blocked my breath in my throat. But he was still my father. The person who had given me life, and was convinced that he had the right to trample it.

I carefully folded the letter, with meticulous and exaggerated attention. Then I closed it in the chest of drawers.

Money.

Monique needed money. More money. I sold everything I owned in London, very little in truth, to help her out, and just a few weeks later, we were back to the starting point. I knew that Dad’s treatment was expensive, but now I was starting to get scared. If Sebastian Mc Laine had fired me - and God only knew if he had good reasons to do it, even if for no other reason than to amuse himself - I would end up in the middle of a street. How could I ask him for an advance after what had happened? Just the thought of doing so was appalling. Monique had never had many scruples; she had an enviable impertinence, but for me it was different. I wasn’t good at communicating and asking for an impossible support. I was too afraid of a refusal. I had done it once, and I could still remember the taste of the “no”, the feeling of rejection and the noise of a door being banged in my face.

“Kyle is a real bum. He disappeared with the car in the afternoon, and he returned just a half hour ago. Mr Mc Laine is furious. That guy deserves a kicked in the teeth, I tell you. Leaving the Master without assistance!” Mrs Mc Millian's voice was full of outrage, as if Kyle had done her a personal wrong.

I kept moving the food in the dish without the slightest trace of appetite.

The woman continued to speak, as talkative as ever, and didn’t notice. I forced myself to smile at her, and I dived again into the darkness of my thoughts. Where could I find the money? No, I had no choice. I would receive my salary in two more weeks. Monique would have to wait. I would send it all to her, hoping it wasn’t a reckless move. The risk of being fired without warning was frighteningly real. Mr Mc Laine was an unpredictable man with a lousy and obviously unreliable personality.

I was so frantic when I returned to my room that I couldn’t cry, nor stand still. I lay on my bed, invoking sleep but it was late to arrive. I had no control over anything; I was an outcast in my own body.

Needless to say I didn’t dream that night.