Читать книгу The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows - Rosette - Страница 9

I looked like a ghost, eerie in my nightgown which was blowing in the invisible wind. Sebastian Mc Laine kindly stretched out his hand. “Would you like to dance with me, Melisande Bruno?”

He stood still at the foot of my bed. No wheelchair. His figure flickered, faded, and it had the same consistency as dreams. I covered the distance between us, as fast as a comet. He gave me a lovely smile; the smile of a man who doesn’t doubt your happiness, because it reflects his.

“Mr Mc Laine... you can walk...” My voice was naive, and sounded like that of a little girl.

He returned my smile, his eyes dark and sad. “At least in your dreams, yes. Why don’t you call me Sebastian, Melisande? If only in the dream?”

I was embarrassed, reluctant to abandon the formalities, even in that fantastic and unrealistic situation.

“All right... Sebastian.”

His arms circled my waist in a strong and playful embrace. “Can you dance, Melisande?”

“No”.

“Then let me guide you. Will you allow me to do it?” He stared at me sceptically now.

“I don’t think I can,” I admitted sincerely.

He nodded, in no way disturbed by my sincerity. “Not even in a dream?”

“I never dream,” I said incredulously. Yet I was dreaming. It was an undeniable fact, right? It couldn’t be real. I was in his arms in my nightgown; I could see the sweetness of his gaze and the absence of a wheelchair.

“I hope you won’t be disappointed when you wake up,” he said thoughtfully.

“Why should I?” I objected.

“I’ll be the object of the first dream of your life. Are you disappointed?” He stared at me with a serious and doubtful expression.

He was pulling back now, and I planted my fingers in his arms, fierce as claws. “No, stay with me. Please.”

“Do you really want me in your dream?”

“I wouldn’t want anyone else in it,” I said boldly. I was dreaming, I reminded myself. I could say whatever came to my mind, without fearing the consequences.

He smiled again, more handsome than ever. He twirled me around, speeding up the pace as I learned the steps. It was a realistic dream, frighteningly so. My fingertips perceived the softness of the cashmere of his sweater, and under that, the strength of his muscles. At some point I heard a noise, like a pendulum clock striking the hours. I laughed. “Also in my dream!”

The sound of the pendulum was not particularly pleasing to me; it was a shrill sound, distressing and old.

Sebastian pulled away from me and he frowned. “I have to go.”

I jumped, as if struck by a bullet. “Do you really have to?”

“I must, Melisande. Dreams also end.” His quiet words were sad, and they sounded like a farewell.

“Will you come back?” I couldn’t let him leave like that, without putting up a fight.

He studied me carefully, as he always did during the day, in reality. “How could I not come back now that you've learned to dream?”

That poetic promise calmed my heartbeat, already uneven at the idea of ​​not seeing him anymore. Not like this, at least.

The dream dimmed, like a candle flame. And so did the night.

The first thing I saw, opening my eyes, was the ceiling with the exposed beams. Then the window, half closed because of the heat.

I had dreamt for the first time.

Millicent Mc Millian gave me a kind smile when she saw me appear in the kitchen. “Good morning dear. Did you sleep well?”

“Like never before in my whole life,” I said laconically. My heart felt like it would burst out of my chest, when I remembered the star of my dream.

“I'm happy for you,” said the housekeeper, without knowing what I was referring to. She went into a detailed account of the day she spent in town. She told me of the mass and of her meeting with people whose names didn’t mean anything to me. As always I allowed her to speak, but my mind was occupied by much more enjoyable fantasies; my eye always fixed on the watch, in the feverish anticipation of seeing him again.

It was childish to think that this day would be different, that he would behave differently. It had been a dream, nothing else. But inexperienced as I was on the subject, I was under the illusion that it might reflect onto my real life.

When I entered the office he was opening some letters with a silver paper knife. He hardly looked up at my entrance.

“Another letter by my publisher. I turned off my cell phone so I wouldn’t have to talk to him! I hate people with no imagination... They have no idea of an artist's needs, of his timing, or his spaces...” His bitter tone brought me back to earth. No greeting, no special recognition, no sweet glance. Welcome to reality, I said to myself. How stupid of me to think the opposite! That's why I had never dreamt before. Because I had no beliefs, no hope; I didn’t dare to hope. I had to go back to being the same Melisande I was before I came to that house, before that meeting, before that illusion.

But maybe I'll dream about him again. That thought warmed me more than Mrs Mc Mililani’s tea, or than the blinding sun beyond the window.

“Well? What are you doing, standing there like a statue? Sit down, for crying out loud.”

I obediently sat down in front of him, his reproach still stinging.

He passed me the letter with a serious expression. “Write to him. Tell him he’ll have his manuscript on the due date.”

“Are you sure you’ll be able to finish it by then? I mean... You’re rewriting everything...”

He reacted angrily to what he thought was a criticism. “My legs are paralyzed, not my brain. I had a moment of crisis. It’s over. Definitely.”

I prudently stayed silent all morning, as I watched him press the computer keys with unusual energy. Sebastian Mc Laine got annoyed easily, he was moody and quick-tempered. It was easy to hate him, I considered, studying him secretly. And he was also gorgeous. Too much so, and he was aware of it. This made him doubly detestable. A non-existent person had appeared in my dream, the projection of my desires, not a real man, in the flesh. The dream had been a lie, a wonderful fairy-tale.

At a certain point he referred to the roses. “Change them, please. I hate to watch them wilt. I want them to be fresh at all times.”

I found my voice. “I’ll do it right away.”

“And be careful not to hurt yourself this time.” The harshness of his voice astonished me. I hadn’t prepared myself adequately for his repeated outbursts, loaded with spite.

I picked up the vase and brought it downstairs. Halfway down I met the housekeeper who rushed to help me. “What happened?”

“He wants new roses,” I explained breathlessly. “He says he hates to watch them wilt.”

The woman looked upwards. “He finds a new complaint every day.”

We brought the vase into the kitchen, and then she went to pick fresh roses, strictly red. I dropped to a chair, as if I had been contaminated by the mood of the house. I couldn’t stop thinking of that night’s dream, partly because it was the first of my life, and I could still feel the thrill of that discovery, and partly because it was so vivid, painfully so. The sound of the pendulum made me jump. It was so frightening that I had heard it in my dream too. Perhaps it was this detail that made it seem so real.

Tears flooded my eyes, unstoppable and useless. A sob escaped my throat, stronger than my notorious self-control. The house keeper found me in that state when she returned to the kitchen. “Here are the fresh roses for our lord and master,” she said cheerfully. Then she noticed my tears and brought her hands to her chest. “Miss Bruno! What happened? Are you ill? You’re not crying for Mr Mc Laine's reprimand, are you? He's a tease, as moody as a bear, and adorable when he remembers to be nice... Don’t worry about whatever he told you, he's already forgotten about it.”

“That's the problem,” I said with a tearful voice, but she didn’t hear me, already lost in one of her dialogues.

“Let me make you some tea; it’ll make you feel better. I remember that once, in the house where I worked before...”

I silently put up with her endless chatter, appreciating her failed attempt to distract me. I drank the hot drink, pretending to feel better, and I didn’t accept her offer to help me. I would carry the roses up. The woman insisted on accompanying me at least to the landing, and seeing her gentle determination, I couldn’t refuse. When I returned to the office I was the usual Melisande, my eyes dry, my heart in hibernation and my soul compliant.

The hours passed, as heavy as concrete, in a silence as dark as my mood. Mr Mc Laine ignored me for the whole time, speaking to me only when he couldn’t avoid it. The spasmodic desire for that day to end as soon as possible was the same as the one I had that morning to see him again. Could it have been only a few hours earlier?

“You may go Miss Bruno,” he dismissed me, without looking into my eyes.

I wished him a good evening, as polite and cold as he had been.

I was looking for Kyle, at his request, when I heard a sob coming from under the stairs. My eyes opened wide and I was uncertain about what to do. I hesitated, but then I came to the source of that noise, and what I saw was astounding.

Kyle was weeping with his face in the shadows, his shape indefinable. The man had a paper tissue, and was just a pale copy of the seducer I had met previously. I stared at him in amazement.

He noticed my presence, and stepped forward. “Do you feel sorry for me? Or are you having fun?”

I felt that I had been caught in the act of spying on him, like an indiscreet busybody. I resisted the temptation to justify myself.

“Mr Mc Laine is looking for you. He’d like to retire to his room for dinner. But... Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?”

His cheeks coloured with dark spots, and I guessed he was blushing from embarrassment.

I stepped back, also metaphorically. “No, sorry, forget what I said. I don’t want to get involved in other people’s problems anymore.”

He shook his head, unusually gallant. “You're too nice to be a busybody, Melisande. No, I... I'm just upset about my divorce.” Only then I noticed that he didn’t have a tissue in his hand, but a crumpled sheet of paper. “She's gone. All my attempts to heal the break have failed.”

I almost laughed. Attempts? And how had he tried to fix things? By coming on to the only young woman in the neighbourhood?

“I'm sorry,” I said uncomfortably.

“Me too.” He took another step forward, coming out of the shadows. His face was full of tears, contradicting the bad opinion I had of him.

I gazed at him uncertainly, in great embarrassment. According to the etiquette, what was one to say to a person who had just divorced? How could you cheer him up? What could you say without hurting him? Of course, when the etiquette was drafted, divorce didn’t exist.

“I'll tell Mr Mc Laine that you're not well,” I said.

He seemed to panic. “No, no. I'm not ready to go back to the civil world and I'm afraid Mc Laine is just looking for an excuse to kick me out of Midnight rose. No, just give me a minute to pull myself back together and I’ll go to him.”

“A minute to pull yourself back together, of course,” I echoed, unconvinced. Kyle looked terrible, his hair dishevelled, his face flushed from his tears, his white uniform wrinkled, as if he had slept in it.

“All right, then. Goodnight,” I said, longing for the shelter of my room. It had been a terribly long day, and I wasn’t in the mood to console anyone, except myself.

He nodded to me as if he didn’t trust his voice.

I went in the kitchen before going upstairs. I didn’t feel like having dinner, and it was only right to inform the kind Mrs Mc Millian. She gave me a radiant smile, and pointed to a pot on the fire. “I'm making soup. I know it's hot, but we can’t just eat salads until September.”

I was overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt. I cowardly changed the answer that was about to come out of my mouth. “I love soup, heat or no heat.”

Before she started with her chatter, I told her about Kyle, leaving out the most embarrassing details.

“He really seems upset about the divorce,” I said, sitting at the table.

She nodded, continuing to mix the soup. “The relationship was destined to end. His wife moved to Edinburgh a few months ago, and they say that she already has another man. You know how unpleasant gossip can be... He's not a shin of a saint, but he's fond of this place and didn’t feel like leaving the village.”

I poured a glass of water from the jug. “Is that why he can’t bring himself to leave?”

The housekeeper served the soup in the dishes, and I started eating eagerly. I was hungrier than I thought.

“Kyle always says that he’s sick and tired of this place, of the house, of Mr Mc Laine, but he wouldn’t leave. Who else would hire him?”

I looked at her over my plate curiously. “Isn’t he a registered nurse?”

Mrs Mc Millian broke a bun in two pieces, meticulously. “Of course he is, but he’s mediocre and lazy. It can’t be said that he works hard here. And often his breath smells of alcohol. I don’t mean to say he’s a drunk, but...” Her voice conveyed her disapproval.

“I love this house,” I said, without reflecting.

The woman was amazed. “Do you really, Miss Bruno?”

I bent my eyes on the plate, my cheeks burning. “I feel at home here,” I explained. And I was honest. Despite the mood changes of my fascinating writer, I was at ease among those walls, far away from the pain of my past.

Mrs Mc Millian began to babble on, and I was relieved when I emptied my plate. My mind ran on deviating and uneven tracks, and the final destination was always, inevitably, Sebastian Mc Laine. I was torn between the uncontrollable need to dream of him again, and the desire to leave any illusion behind me.

Kyle peeped into the kitchen a few minutes later, more annoyed than ever. “I hate Mc Laine,” he began.

The housekeeper stopped her sentence in half to reprimand him. “Shame on you, speaking like that of the person who feeds you.”

“I’d rather starve to death than have to deal with him” was his answer. The venom in his voice made me shudder. He wasn’t a devoted servant, I had already guessed that, but his hatred was almost tangible.

Kyle opened the fridge and pulled out two cans of beer. “Goodnight, dear ladies. I’m going to my room to celebrate my divorce.” A nervous tick made the right corner of his eye twitch.

The housekeeper and I silently looked at each other until he left the room.

“It was really indelicate of him to talk that way about poor Lord Mc Laine” were her first words. Then she stared at me frowning. “Do you think he intends to commit suicide?”

I laughed, before I could hold it back. “He doesn’t seem like he’s the type,” I calmed her.

“That’s true. He’s too shallow to have deep feelings for anyone,” she said disgustedly. Her concern for Kyle disappeared like dew in the sun, and she went on to list the advantages, according to her, of living in the country, compared to the city.

I helped her wash the dishes, and we retired. I went to the first floor, and she to the ground floor, in a room not far from the kitchen.

I tossed and turned for a long time before falling asleep, and then I fell into a restless sleep. In the morning my cheeks were streaked with dried tears that I didn’t remember shedding.

I didn’t dream of Sebastian that night.

The next day was Tuesday, and Mr Mc Laine was already grumpy early in the morning.

“Today, as punctual as a tax collector, Dr Mc Intosh will come,” he said grimly. “I can’t talk him out of coming. I've tried everything. I tried threating and begging him. He seems to be immune to all my attempts. He’s worse than a vulture.”

“Maybe he just wants to make sure you’re in good health,” I remarked, just to say something.

He stared into my eyes, and then he burst into a roaring laugh. “Melisande Bruno, you're a character... Our beloved Dr Mc Intosh comes because he considers it his duty, not because he has a particular affection for me.”

“His duty? I don’t understand... In my opinion, his only purpose is to perform an examination. He must have some interest in you,” I said stubbornly.

Mc Laine grimaced. “My dear... You’re not as naive to really believe that everything is what it seems, are you? Not everything is white or black, there is also grey, so to say.”

I didn’t answer. Anyhow what could I say? That he had realized the truth about me? For me, there really was nothing but white and black, to the point of being nauseated by it.

“Mc Intosh feels guilty about the accident, and he thinks he'll make up for it by coming to visit me regularly, although I don’t like it at all,” he added spitefully.

“Guilty feelings?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”

A flash of lightning lit up the window behind him, followed by a loud sound of thunder. He didn’t turn away, as if he couldn’t pull his eyes away from mine.

“It seems like we’re in for a torrential flood. Perhaps that will distract Mc Intosh from coming today.”

“I doubt it. It's just a summer storm. In an hour it’ll all be over,” I said practically.

He looked at me with such intensity that subtle chills crawled along my spine. He was a strange man, but his charisma cancelled any other flaw.

“Do you want me to sort out the rest of the shelves?” I asked nervously, avoiding his fixed gaze.

“Did you sleep well last night, Melisande?”

The question surprised me. His tone was light, but it had a pressing urgency that pushed me to tell him the truth.

“Not really.”

“No dreams?” His voice was light and clear like the water of a mild stream, and I let myself get carried away by that refreshing flow.

“No, not last night.”

“Did you want to dream?”

“Yes,” I said on impulse. Our dialogue was surreal, yet I was ready to continue it forever.

“Maybe it will happen again. The silence of this place is ideal for dreams,” he said coldly. He turned back to the computer, already forgetting about me.

Great, I thought, humiliated. He had thrown me a bone like he would with a dog, and I was so idiotic as to grab it as if I was starving. And I really was starving. For our glances, our intense complicity, and his rare smiles.

I hunched my shoulders and started working again. At that moment I thought of Monique. She managed to turn men’s heads, to allure them into a net of lies and dreams and conquer their attention with consummate expertise. I had asked her once how she had learned the art of seduction. At first she answered. “It’s not something you learn, Melisande. It’s innate; if you don’t have it you can just dream about it.” Then she turned to me, her expression soft. “When you get my age, you’ll know how to do it, you'll see.”

Now that I was her age, I knew less than I did before. My relationships with men had always been sporadic and short lived. All the men I had met had always asked me the same questions: What’s your name? What do you do in life? What car do you drive? When they learned that I had no driver’s license, they stared at me as if I were a rare beast, as if I was suffering from a terribly contagious disease. And I certainly wasn’t a person who shared her thoughts.

I passed my hand over a book cover. It was a luxurious edition, in Moroccan leather, of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen.

“I bet it's your favourite book.”

I raised my head. Mr Mc Laine was looking at me from under his lowered eyelids with a dangerous sparkle in the black depths.

“No,” I said, placing the book on the shelf. “I like it, but it's not my favourite.”

“Then it has to be Wuthering Heights.” He gave me a breathtakingly unexpected smile.

My heart leapt, and almost fell into the emptiness. “That’s not it either,” I replied, happy for the firm tone of my voice.

“It doesn’t have a happy ending. As I’ve already told you, I prefer stories with happy endings.”

He twirled the wheelchair, and came a few feet away from me, his expression thoughtful. “Persuasion, always by Austen. It has a happy ending, you can’t deny it.” He didn’t hide that he was enjoying himself, and I was also appreciating that game.

“It's nice, I’ll admit it, but you're still far off. It's a book focused on waiting, and I'm not good at waiting. I’m too impatient. I would end up giving up, or changing my wish.”

Now my voice was frivolous. Without realizing it, I was flirting with him.

“Jane Eyre.”

He didn’t anticipate my laughter, and he looked at me, puzzled.

Several minutes passed before I could answer him. “Finally! I thought it would take forever...”

A shadow of a smile erased his frown. “I should have guessed immediately, actually. A heroine with a sad and lonely story behind her, a man with a painful past and a happy ending as a result of many ordeals. Romantic. Passionate. Realistic.” Now his lips were smiling as well as his eyes. “Melisande Bruno, are you aware that you might fall in love with me as Jane Eyre did with Mr Rochester, who coincidentally, was her employer?”

“You aren’t Mr Rochester,” I said quietly.

“I'm as lunatic as he was,” he objected with a half-smile that I couldn’t help but return.

“I agree. But I'm not Jane Eyre.”

“That's also true. She was wan, ugly and insignificant,” he said, slurring the words. “No person sound of mind, and of eyes, could say this about you. Your red hair would be noticeable miles away.”

“That doesn’t really sound like a compliment...” I said, whining jokingly.

“Whoever stands out, in one way or another, is never ugly, Melisande,” he said gently.

“Then thank you.”

He sneered. “Who did you get that hair from, Miss Bruno? From your Italian parents?”

The allusion to my family helped to blur the happiness of the moment. I looked away, and continued sorting the books on the shelves.

“I’ve been told that my grandmother was a redhead. My parents weren’t, nor is my sister.”

He brought the wheelchair nearer to my legs, which were stretched in the effort of fixing the books. At that short distance I could recognize his soft scent. It was a mysterious and seductive mixture of flowers and spices.

“And what’s a pretty red-haired secretary with Italian ancestors doing in a remote Scottish village?”

“My father emigrated to support his wife and daughter. I was born in Belgium.” I was looking for a way to change the subject, but it was hard to do. His closeness confused my thoughts, knotting them in a bundle that was hard to untangle.

“From Belgium to London, and then to Scotland. At only twenty-two years of age. You’ll admit that it’s at least unusual.”

“I want to see the world,” I replied evasively.

I gazed at him. His frown had disappeared like snow in the sun, replaced by a healthy curiosity. There was no way to distract him. Outside, the storm raged, with its violent intensity. A similar storm was unrolling within me. Communicating with him was natural, spontaneous and liberating, but I shouldn’t, couldn’t speak freely, or else I would regret it.

“Your need to see the world brought you to this remote corner of the world?” His tone was openly sceptical. “There’s no need to lie to me, Melisande Bruno. I won’t judge you, in spite of the appearances.”

Something broke inside me, releasing memories that I believed buried forever. I had trusted someone just once, and it didn’t end well, my life had almost been destroyed because of it. Only fate had prevented a tragedy. My tragedy.

“I'm not lying. Even here you can see the world,” I said smiling. “I've never been to the Highlands, they’re interesting. And I’m young, I can still travel, to visit and explore new places.”

“So you plan to leave.” His voice was hoarse now.

I turned to him. A shadow had fallen over his face. There was something desperate, furious, and predatory about him at that moment.

Short of words, I just kept staring at him.

He quickly twirled the wheelchair towards the desk. “Don’t worry. If you continue being so lazy, I'll send you away myself, so you can resume your journey around the world.”

His harsh words made me feel as though he had tossed a bucket of frozen water over me. He stopped in front of the window, anchored to the wheelchair with both hands, his shoulders stiff.

“You were right. The storm is already over. There is no way to avoid Mc Intosh today. It seems that I can’t do anything right.”

“Oh, look, a rainbow.” He called me without turning around. “Come and see, Miss Bruno. A charming sight, don’t you think? I doubt you’ve already seen one before.”

“Indeed, I have,” I countered, without moving. The rainbow was a cruel symbol of what I was eternally denied: the perception of colours, their prodigies, and their archaic mystery.

My voice was as delicate as a sheet of ice, my shoulders stiffer than his.

He had again raised a wall between us, tall and insurmountable. A shatterproof defence.

Or maybe I was the one who had built it first.