MUSE

Passionate lovers on top of the silence

Of everlasting denial

I walk through snow

To the temperate lands of your heart

Preciousness of the soul

Sadness of the last instant

Waiting waiting always waiting

I see my land but no there's no bridge

Here I will stay

Alone

Snow was falling on the damper side of an English town. Amongst the scatter of the crowd a young boy squeezed himself through, like a nasty scratch on an otherwise impeccable canvas. His deep golden eyes reflected the whiteness of the snow, his tanned face coloured from the cold. On turning a street corner, the silky subtlety of his hair left an everlasting impression on the dismal grey snow.

At his window, a man looked down from a warmly-lit room. All that could be discerned from the street was his short, grey hair, snowy-white face, and the long comfortable robe he wore. The moment the boy left the street, the face diluted itself behind the glass.

"Good morning Mr Kai"

"And how are you today, Lady Carlington?"

"Better, dear, please, sit down.."

"Not today, thank you, I need to speak to your husband..."

"Your uncle is in his study."

"Thank you madam."

"Where is that damned boy? Ray! Hurry up!"

"Yes, sir."

"Deal with the coat later! Just bring us some port and cigars!"

"But sir..."

"immediately."

"As you wish, but it is only ever ten o'clock in the morning..."

"We have some trying business to attend to, stop questioning my authority...Leave his coat for Heaven's sake!"

"...Sir."

"..Servants, I tell you, not the same nowadays!"

"Its those foreign types, very difficult to handle."

"But at least I don't have to pay him, be damned if i had to..; And he speaks perfect English."

Books, chairs, cabinets, an elegant desk, ornaments , paintings, vases. So much wealth for such an untrustworthy man. But sometimes one just cannot be picky about their source of income. He sat down heavily on a chair, facing the desk and the spines of the books displayed behind it. A man, much alike the younger one sitting opposite him, grey hair, white skin, and deep almost red auburn eyes looked up from his letter-writing.

Shoes, pots, pans, polishing wax, brooms, turnips, shirtsleeves, basins, roughly mahogany-hewn

table, shoes. The kitchen was tidy, but one could still smell and feel the untidiness of it. The cook was bent over the stove, mixing something, avoiding his gaze. Three maids, two from the house's staff and another from next-door's, sat at the table, sewing. There was a parlour for such clothes-related tasks, however the kitchen was where the fire was. He polished the shoes as hard as he could, admiring his reflected gaze in the oppressive black leather. He was beautiful, and he knew it. The furtive looks coming from the table were directed at him, the obstinate hostility emanating from the stove was addressed to the three much younger admirers, who had many more chances to win his heart. The hushed voices were talking about him. Doubtlessly. He could not hear, see, nor be sure of anything, but he knew this was true. Brilliantly polished shoes never lie.

"Good morning, sir."

"Good morning. Not many people today , Stevens?"

"Oh no, the cold is certainly keeping everyone from leaving their respective homes, sir. Venturing into the streets may be considered as a bit of an ordeal as opposed to the comfortable warmth of a fire in one's room ."

"Always the Joker, Stevens, keep up the good work."

"Thank you, sir"

"Oh my, seems like its just you and me here today; Kai old boy."

"Max.."

"I say , why the gloomy expression?"

"I have been disinherited."

"Good Lord, are you sure there?"

"My uncle spoke to me about it this morning."

"But what on earth for? You are his only heir!"

"There's Hilary."

"Carlington's daughter... but they are not even blood related!"

"She is more English than I am."

"A bit harsh a decision, don't you think?"

"The farther I am from him and his dismal affairs, the better I feel."

"So why the unhappy expression then? Now you're rid of him for good, old chap"

"An entire primary and secondary education in public schools and Oxbridge have done you no good, Max."

"HA! You've had to put up with worse..."

"Exactly, and I don't need your "oldchapping" me to remind me of it."

"Alright, alright,... you still have not answered by initial enquiry..."

" Anymore and I'll put you and Stevens toa speaking match."

"Kai!"

"Oh but its the money, Max, forever and always the money."

"Ah. No worries, I'll fund you"

"There is no way the heir to a famous American banker would be ready to pay for the keep of a desperate, anti-liberal, revolutionary, over-lyrical, miserable, poet."

"The way you put it!... Sounds as if I'm some sort of capitalist monster."

"But you are , Max, whether you like it or not."

"And you. Your mother was a Russian countess, no? Besides, Marx is part of your library."

"You are not necessarily an image of your fathers, Max, you know that better than anyone else."

"My point exactly."

"Oh lets drop it, my worthless life is boring conversational material."

"What was that about rivalling Stevens' language?"

"Haha! I'm warning you...Anyway, how's that lovely wife of yours?"

"Emily? As American as ever. Wouldn't mind talking to her would you? Show her how foreigners can integrate themselves perfectly into British society?"

"Like you?"

"My mother's half-Scottish, you're Russian."

"Ah but my father was English, that only makes me half-foreign."

"No need to be facetious, Russian is less British than Scottish."

"I suppose."

"Come over tomorrow, we're having a bit of a party, Tyson 'll be there. Oh, and Hilary Carlington, but I swear I didn't know.."

"Why don't you ask Tyson to deal with her?"

"He's not English enough"

"Hmm, yes, I see what you mean"

" Oh come on, bring some of your poems, we could have a reading."

"That is such an aristocratic concept..."

"Bourgeois, surely."

"But my poems are not like that, the sort you read, well, in "readings".You'll never like them"

"As long as they distract us from reality, it's a good thing."

"Your reality is no where near worthy of being distracted from."

"Oh just come yourself, WITHOUT your poems. Tomorrow evening, Mr Starling's place, wants to try out his new piano or whatever, or was it his newly decorated dining room?.."

"I suppose I could pass by.."

"Ah, coffee, thank you Stevens. Oh and by the way..."

"Don't push it , Max."