#ShortStory: Garlands
Paris, hidden underneath the snow. To look out the window is a relief now. The city is untainted; the apartment almost dark. Night is falling. In some other room, a song is heard. A distant melody. Piano. A soft male voice. Words about some mad world, about children who wait for the day they feel good. “Happy birthday, happy birthday…”
The quilt from a bohemian friend includes me. Within its colourful patches I hide. I make it pale. My mother always told me that I look pale. My father refers to my paleness in every argument, “You are the ice queen. You have no heart”.
And the storm outside is growing stronger. The streets are barren. I sit in the dark. And I listen to the song. I stare at the grey wall. I wish I could paint it some other color, maybe red.
I was diagnosed a couple of years ago with bi-polar disorder. That was all my psychiatrist said. But it was fine. I have always known that I am different. And it made me happy.
My life began with pretending.
“My love, I want to give you everything that I have,
everything that I can give.
But the most important thing that I want to give you,
I .. I Cant.”
Then I would start crying. Sometimes I would begin by crying, then lying. I would tell the men I love, that I am barren, for two reasons. One, my pathetic obsession to be pathetic, yearning for care and sorry. And, it was also a kind of a test. Test them if they truly loved me. But now, I think what I was trying to tell them is that I can’t be a virgin. I never was a virgin.
“Would you still love me?”
People told me I’m a cynic. I am not. I am happy. I love my life. When I am in my manic phase, I miss the comfort in being sad. Being alone. Though, I never really was.
I have one habit. I imagine that I am being watched. Basically by the boys I loved. So I never was by myself. I was always being watched. I made my life a movie. And I was the star. I am obsessed with myself. I am selfish. And I believe, the world revolves around me.
Tonight, I am being watched by someone. No one I know. For there is no love in my life right now. This unknown companion, faceless watcher, is the only one who never left me. He would be there, when I was out of love. Between the boys he appeared. But I don’t know how he looks. That was fine because it made me more comfortable. I don’t fear the unknown.
My mother told me stories.
When I was a child, we went to the sea, for the first time. And I kept going further and further, deeper into the waters. Joy.
My grandfather’s grandfather-clock chimed in the dark. I guessed it was 11. The song sounds different now. I don’t remember the beat going like that, unharmoniously. I concentrate and close my eyes. The tempo did differ. It was like two different songs intermingling inharmoniously. But how?
Suddenly the doorbell gave way and I drop my glass of wine all over the quilt. I shout in rage, cursing and walking towards the door. I open it to find only darkness greeting me. I lean against the door, waiting to show fear that I’m not afraid of it. I defied the anonymous force, knocking at my door, but there was no one there. I start around and close the door when it pushes back towards me with might. I scream, but the old man starts to laugh.
‘Je suis désolé mon cheri. Did I give you zat ‘orrible frright? Let me in, I’ve got a ting to show you.’
‘Wine, Monsieur Pinacolodo?’
‘Ahh, oui oui, s’il vous plait.’
‘What is it?’
Monsieur Pinacolodo takes out a long red ribbon from his jacket and places it on my hair. I glance at the mirror over the grand piano. The ribbon slides right down my face. I have short hair, a boyish look on my face, and the ribbon clowns me up and rejects to crown me. I take it in my hands and feel the silk antagonising my dry hands.
‘What is it?’
‘Ah! Zis is a grey rribon mon cherri.’
‘Yes I can see that. Grey monsieur? Is it for me?’
‘Oh non, I just tought you ‘ould like it. Zis is pour mon fille. She is gone now.’ His last words are barely heard.
The ribbon is bright red. The tie is perfect, like a butterfly. I walk to the mirror and try to pin it on my short locks. My head looks like a present. I start laughing hysterically but clearly I am offending my old neighbour.
I close the door as he leaves and sit on the freezing windowsill. Grey. I couldn’t argue with him, I care for him and don’t want to hurt him. Is it possible he’s colour blind..
There aren’t any lighted buildings. The street is pitch dark. I open the window and look up. The snow is restfully, gently falling like whispers. There is no wind. The air is still. The snow is grey. Looking up, it feels like insects are flying towards me. Some are big and some are tiny.
My grandfather’s grandfather-clock chimes yet again. It is 10. The candle I had lit for my visitor is almost dying. Its weak flickerings shadowing the pale wall, like ghosts who are trapped somewhere outside the wall yet inside the air. I walk to the music box and press play. But the batteries are dead, again, and there are none left. I sit on the bed’s shoulder and watch the snow from the huge window. So wide, wider than a normal window..
The electricity suddenly befalls. The music rolls in with a blast. I walk into the next room and slowly start clearing the presents, the glasses and the bottles. The overwhelmed ashtrays are centred in a sphere of ashes. A few cigarettes are tossed on the carpet. It is old, anyway. I shall buy a new one tomorrow, a bright one, maybe in some shade of red.
I pour a glass of wine and sit on the floor, wrapped in the wet bohemian quilt. I start opening the presents. There were so many but I found only a few. The music changes into bittersweet jazz; Dusty Springfield’s “Look of Love”. I sarcastically smile as I feel the choke of racing emotions.
We were sitting right here. He is shy and unsure. I know he loves me, but I want romance. He looks into my eyes and says nothing. I look into his blue eyes, and say everything. Could he hear me? Maybe he was saying everything too, but I couldn’t see through. We sat there, all night, looking and gazing at each other’s eyes.
I drink deep and start opening the first present; a small box tied in a green ribbon. Batteries! Momentous!
I open the next gift. It is a bit bigger with a yellow ribbon gathering it self between the laces. The music changes again. Frank Sinatra’s “Wonder”. I throw the box aside and start dancing. Oh how merry it is! Music is a blessing. Dancing is a relief. Such a pleasing relief! I waltz around the coffee table knocking down the bottle. The winefall splashes all over my old carpet and I dance away. My voice erupts surprising myself. Oh such a relief! Such a merry!
I am out of breath by the next few moments and fall on the sofa, laughing and crying. I take the box, untie the yellow ribbon and place it next to the green one. A Skeeter Davis tape; that’s mighty sweet of her to remember.
As I take the last gift, Diane Schuur’s begins to sing Black Coffee. My eyes, my body and my mind instantly awake. I feel the crippling tension evaporate from my back, shoulders and head. And I think to myself, do I feel lonesome in this big brimming world…
I open the last box wrapped in a blue ribbon. Oh how beautiful these ribbons are! I put it with her sisters and smile. The third box contains a tiara. It is of silver and seems elegantly angelic. But who is it from?
I take the three colourful ribbons in my hand and throw them in the air. They spray over me like a rainbow. I do it again, and again. Ha ha! Funny how silly things can make me happy. I feel childish and inappropriate. I did turn 30 last night. The music dies suddenly and so do the lights. I keep sitting for a moment but then stand up to light a new candle. This is the last candle. It is the prettiest and most expensive of my belongings. Léone and I once were walking, all alone along with the Sine. It was such a beautiful August day. Summer leaving the skies, sweeping us off our feet with its magic, and sad promising goodbyes. He leans me against the bridge’s wall and kisses me.
” Je t’aime”
I open my eyes and pull the wrappings off the candle. My lips curve into a weak smile. I feel the insides of me fall like cold water, getting colder and chilling me, giving me goose bumps, and I close my eyes again.
-“Cherri, I did not know what you like me to give you.
I tought zis will be happiness to you, oui?”
-“Léonce! Where did you get this? Is this really…”
-“Oui oui. I bought zis from an auction. It belonged to Louis XVII.”
-“But it’s perfect! It will never be lighted. This is treasure!”
“Mais non, cheri! We will light it togezer ze day we marry, oui?”
“Bien, darling. It will be free to burn for the first and last time only on the day we marry.”
I laugh. Ha ha ha. I take the antique, beautiful candle and break it into two halves. I go to the bedroom and sit on the shoulder of the bed. From underneath the pillow I take a box of matches, and on the very low windowsill I sit, lighting up the match, firing one half of the candle. I hold it upside down and let the liquid wax spill on the floor in front of the window. I take the second candle and plant it into the puddle of red mud. Then I hold the lighted candle upside down again and let the red velvet spill; and I plant the lighted candle there. One candle burns, the other is dead, and the grey snow falls. When the flame rises high, the snow falls slowly. When the snow falls fast, the flame burns low.
“Cheri, do you tink she will like me?
I fear she won’t. But zis doesn’t matter, oui?
Ze most imporrtant ting is you like me, oui?”
Oui. He is so beautiful, isn’t he. The way his shoulders carelessly fall when he kisses me. I don’t think I ever saw such sadness in one’s eyes. They burn so deep. They cool so deep. Blue eyes; like the waters. Thin words and hidden thoughts. But the pain is clear, like the waters.
I fear the sea. I don’t know how to swim, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like it. I love the sea.
-“Léone, darling, won’t you stop playing? It’s getting to me. I can’t take it no more.”
-“But you like ze way I play, non?”
– “Oui. I do, darling. I just don’t want to hear you practice. I want to hear you play.”
-“But ‘ow, cheri? If you won’t let me prractice ‘ow can I play?”
– “Léone! Go outside. Play in the streets.
Do it behind my back. I don’t want to hear this —noise!”
I go to the second room, pick up the empty bottle off the table and throw it across the room. It hits my grandfather’s grandfather-clock and the whole thing finally falls apart, shattering all over the carpet. Splinters and red stains permanently brushing the carpet. Yes! Another reason to buy a new one. I don’t feel angry. I threw the bottle to feel the anger, but it doesn’t come. I wonder what has happened to the music.
A new song begins playing. strange how I don’t notice. I sit on the sofa and pick up the colourful ribbons. Green, yellow and blue. It’s incomplete. I rise and knock over the coffee table, again. I fall and see the red ribbon, the grey ribbon. Oh, Monsieur..
Now, four ribbons are always better than three, oui?
I laugh and wonder, what is Léone doing.
I pick up the quilt, the tiara, the tape and the batteries and head back to the bedroom. Batteries…
I put the things on the shoulder of the bed and lie in the centre with my feet hanging above the ground. This room needs some colour too. Gray. Why always gray? It was white. I made it grey. I made it pale, paler. The ceiling is low. The shadow of the candle swims in a fog of smoke.
I rise with all my might but there is no fire. A cigarette is in my hand. Funny, how I’m oblivious of now and unforgetful of then.
I pull the cigarette to my lips and inhale.
-“Is she magnificent?”
– “’ho is ‘she’?”
– “Answer me! Is she magnificent? I know everything. Léon you better not lie, oh you better not lie!”
– “Mais cheri, what arre you saying? She is noting to me! I swear! You arre my everryzing. You know ‘ow much I love you, you know…’
-“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! You liar! You and your blue eyes! They lie!’
– “Cheri, I don’t know what you mean. We only went for a drink. Zat is all.”
-“You lie! You and your blue eyes! They lie!”
– “You don’t call me liarr! I never lie. I only was giving herr a shoulderr, you know, to crry to. Believe me cheri zat is all. You believe me, oui?’
‘Lie lie lie. That is all you do. All of you. You and your pretty eyes.’
‘ ‘ho arre we? Cheri, you must be tirred. Did you drrink tonight?’
‘Don’t you dare turn it on me again! If I drink it is because of her. Where is she? Where? In there? Is she there? In our bed? Is she?’
The door opens. Magnificent lies over the sheets; the red sheets.
‘Oh non! C’est impossible! Cheri! Non… non, attendez! Cheri, I can explain!’
I open my eyes and exhale. I pull the cigarette to my mouth but it’s dead. I sit up, wrap the quilt around my shoulders and walk to the music box. I take it and head back to the bedroom. I insert the tape. Skeeter Davis, oui? I laugh. I push play but its dead too. The batteries! Weird.
I pull the dead batteries quickly, but insert the new ones slowly, one by one, the twelve of them. I count with all the languages I know.
‘Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf dix onze douze’
‘Eine zwei drei vier fünf sechs sieben acht neun zehn elf zwِlf’
‘Un due tre quattro cinque sei sette otto nove dieci undici dodici’
‘One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve’
One for you, Leo. One for you Leon, one for you Leonardo and last but by no means least, one for you, Léonce.
I open the mighty window. The snow is falling ever so slow, slowing time, slowing my breathing, slowing my existence. Why won’t it hail?
The song begins. The piano rolls in with the violins. I sing.
“Why does the sun go on shining Why does the sea rush to shore Don’t they know it’s the end of the world ’Cause you don’t love me any more…”
I open the drawer and take the needle.
“…Why do the birds go on singing Why do the stars glow above Don’t they know it’s the end of the world It ended when I lost your love…”
I feel light headed. Everything is living and moving so slow.
“…Why does my heart go on beating Why do these eyes of mine cry Don’t they know it’s the end of the world It ended when you said goodbye…”
I find a brand new bottle of wine, lying there, peacefully on the pillow. Funny how I don’t find what I need when I need it.
I put the tiara over my head. I put the four colorful ribbons on top. I adjust the quilt and rip two holes to fit my arms in.
The snow; the dazzling, sad, grey snow of December. Falling restfully like feathers, whispers. Everything on the ground is of fluffy pillows; the cars, the trees, the street. Blankets and pillows, soft and comfortable. Listen to the quietness. Listen to the silence. Snow buries chaos, buries taintedness, buries troubles. Snow, snow, snow; its all mine, all mine. And I will disown it, just like I disowned you, Magnificent. You stole them from me, but I have these four beautiful, colorful ribbons now. They crown my head and they don’t fall. I am the queen, Magnificent. I am the ice queen. I am the snow queen. I am pale, but the ribbons are colorful.
I lie down on the bed. There is only one match left; the candle is still burning, melting and melting. Just a little more and nothing will be left.
I light the last match and fire the last cigarette.
I feel so creative, so much more.
“Smoke drifts from my lips As words are hard to find. In my vaporous memories, I see the daylight’s torn Gazing at nothing, One more injection, Before my angel calls me back And reminds me my fate. But what is the point to believe In such a celestial creature, When I am nothing else but a shade? In a glimpse of an eye I admire the beauty Of my pathetic reflection in the dusty mirror. I behold the void, my emptiness, the hollow shape of my futility. When I face my life, I feel the cold of my distress, My distress… Blackness surrounds me, in between the grey. No hope, no light, no life in the blue eyes… Nobody’s listening, so I talk to myself Trying to find out the light I lost all contempt so very long ago, Dreams inside me died”
I jump off the bed and gasp. I dreamt that I was falling. The snow was slowing me down and I couldn’t see the ground. I sit still and think, that was a sweet dream. I looked out the window and wished I could fly away with the snow. Yes, I would like that very much. My head feels so light! My body so numb. The bottle is empty! Funny, well everything is funny right now. I open the grey blankets and snuggle in. oh it’s so warm in here. I look for colder spots under the warm blanket, for I like the sensation my feet experience. I close my eyes again, and wish I would dream soon. I see Magnificent; she is 26 years of age. I’m wearing my favorite summer dress, red. It’s my birthday. She comes and hugs me and wishes me a happy, happy birthday.
‘Honey, that’s a very sad song. It’s your birthday; I will put on something merry.’
‘No, this song is for everything. I would like to dance to it. Dance with me.’
We dance to Skeeter Davis, the words are sad, but the music is so merry.
‘Where do you think you will be after 20 years from now, honey?’
‘I want to travel the world. I want to go everywhere. But you will come with me, won’t you?’
We laugh, and she comes and kisses me,
‘Promise me you won’t forget me, honey.’
‘Promise me that you will come with me. We will be together forever. We will travel together, promise me!’
She laughs. I don’t remember her looking so beautiful.
‘Alright honey, I promise.’
‘I love you mama.’
A sudden wind blows, and the candle exterminates before it’s time. The snow starts falling rapidly now. A blizzard comes from no where, whistling and hooting. The grandfather-clock chimes announcing midnight.
Monsieur Pinacolodo walks out of the 20 story high building, rapping his coat tightly around his face. The street is dark. He looks up to the sky and curses.
‘C’est très froid. Merde!’
He starts off to the bar at the very end of the street. Twelve years ago his daughter died. He needed a strong drink. Wine won’t do it, and besides, it’s too late for house calls. His footsteps disfigure the pretty blanket.
‘ Qu’est que c’est? What arre zes ribbons? Ah! Therre is my grrey ribbon aussi!’
