"So, how is Mother?" I asked tremulously. It was approximately seven in the
evening now, du soir, as the French put it. Meeting my brother, meeting
James was still a bit of surprise every time I dwelt upon it. We were
sitting in the finest restaurant in Calais, the Palais sur le Lac.
He smiled at my question. Oh, he was so handsome that I was proud that he was my brother. He was the very image of Daddy. I was going to enjoy going places with him, and watching girls drool. James sat back in his chair effortlessly, with flawless grace, and brushed imaginarly dust of his superlative clothing. He was just like Daddy. He struck such a carelessly suave and handsome pose that I could even women staring in facination. I was aglow with pride.
"Have you heard anything of her?" I shook my head, eager to hear something, anything of my mother who had been absent from my life for sixteen years. James looked eager to speak of her as well.
His eyes, almost exactly the color of mine, were a violet-blue, though they had more of a tint of midnight blue to them. His hair was like mine too, black, though it was no wonder since we were twins. I wonder if Daddy even knew what he looked like.
"She is doing as well as she could be. She doesn't even look like she has reached thirty years, though she is thirty-six now. She is still friends with all the people in the fashion business, and of course you have heard of her." I was out of sorts. It was the famous Daidouji Tomoyo that was my mother? I admired her very much for her storm on the fashion business. Infinitely better than Solange, that was sure.
"Mother still sings, and her voice is like silver and angels. She still talks of you sometimes, of how you looked when you were born." My eyes were getting misty, but I smiled beautifically.
"You must tell her that I always think of her, and that I wish to meet her one day." There the smile on James' face faded somewhat. At my questioning glance, he answered,
"Mother and Father have a rift between them, Emilia. There always had been, every since we were born. Apparently something happened between them at about that time that caused them to split." He looked serious for a moment.
"Apparently, it came to legal battles and hired guards." I stared incredulously.
"Daddy would never do anything like that!" James shrugged.
"I don't know anything, except bits and pieces of things. What do you know?" I shook my head, and thought hard.
"Daddy said that he and Mother did not part amiably, and that he was nearly out of his mind for hurting her." James sat there, musing.
"Then it must have been something that he did, though Mother said that she shouldn't have reacted so harshly." I looked sad for a moment, but then I brightened.
"There is one thing that I am sure of, though. I think that he still loves her more than any other woman in the world." James cocked his head.
"How do you know that?"
"Well for one, he always looks sort of out of it on her birthday and on mine, as if he was remembering and regretting something. And always, he forbids mention of her among the servants, but they talk anyway behind his back. My nurse in England was a very kindly old lady, though she was prone to gossip that was how I found out all the more unsavory tidbits of my father." James leaned forward. I continued.
"My father was apparently very popular with the women, but there was an older woman with whom he was particularly enamored in. I never found out who she was. When he couldn't have her because of some other man she was engaged to, he went on a rampage among the women with his friends. They were all poweful, and rich. So they went through the women almost as fast as they went through money. But they were rich and powerful enough to go through both at the rate that they wanted."
I had the sudden image of Daddy, younger, flirting as easelessly with women as he did at the parties that he gave. Last year, when he finally said I was old enough to act his hostess (before that witch, Solange), I had a shock seeing my kind father being the casanova of the entire party.
"Mother was a childhood friend of Daddy's, but she disapproved of his behavior. Then he became so desperately infatuated with her that he seduced her, after a long while. After that, he abstained from his wild behaviors. They were going to get married, but then something broke them apart."
My mind was swimming with ideas about our parents. Why did they break apart? When and where did they meet? James looked too, deep in thought.
"Yes," he said, "I heard from Mother about his wild behavior. She said that she met up with him for the first time in a long while in Italy, in a party in a mansion on the canals. Venice, I thought it was. She said despite his infidelity towards all women, they still draped themselves over him." I laughed.
"That definitely sounds like Daddy." James chuckled.
"Mother also said that he did a lot to make her happy. I think that they were happy together." I was sad. Then why weren't they together now?
"Oh, and yes, there is another definite reason that I know, absolutely, that Daddy still loves Mother." James looked at me eagerly.
"Well, it all started about three years ago, when I was thirteen." Then I was lost in memory.
It was a very warm, sunny day in the southern moors of South England, and it was such a lazy and golden day that I wanted to do absolutely nothing except my favorite pastime, exploring our house. It was an old stately manor house, though it was in its own right a medium sized palace. There were many windows, and all of them let in the deliriously sleepy sunshine in. I had thought that it was the perfect day to explore the house.
Now you might wonder why I wanted to explore my own house, but let me tell you that the manor had more than two hundred rooms, of which only half of them can be kept clean with an army of servants. The great, stately marble halls and fine polished wood were endless.
I had been walking around aimlessly, carrying a basket of keys as a girl might in a Renoir picture, serene and idyllic in a white silk gossamer dress that was supposed to be for a tea party later that on. I was assiduous in keeping the yards of fine white gauze, aged Valenciennes lace, and pale purple sashes spotless. The tea party's theme was Napoleonic dress, and the high bodiced gown was perfect. All in all, I looked as if I had stepped right out of a painting of an early 18th century afternoon.
I looked at the little map of the house. I was on the fourth floor. There still was another floor to go, the one least frequented by anyone. Everyone thought that this house was haunted, even though it was wired with electricity and had enormous windows. So I turned, and I found myself on the fifth floor. It was a mysterious floor, with only the halls cleaned once a month. All the rest of the rooms were locked and shut firmly. Well that was what the basket of keys was for.
I didn't think that there was anything interesting on the fifth floor. On the fourth floor, there had been a nine foot concert grand piano in fine mahogany, carved and still sounding beautiful. There had been a large room filled with what seemed hundreds of myriad knick-knacks, old ivory and gold and enamel gleaming despite the dust and age.
I looked though the little book of maps. There was a Blue Cobalt Suite, a Billiard Room, a Statuary Chamber, a Star Observatory with no ceiling, only glass, and ah, what was this? It was called the Gallery of Seven Doors. I went to see it to satisfy my curiosity. I remembered a cook mentioning something about it once. I thought hard. Oh yes, there was some myth about a lady who lived there.
I sniffed. What rubbish was that? But I went to see it anyway. Did the room have seven doors, or was it just a name? Here it was.
Staring up at the great, two story doors, I could not help but feel a bit intimidated. There was a scatter of cherry blossoms from the branches that spread themselves across the two doors, so artfully done I half-expected them to float to my feet and drift into my hair.
I rummaged for the key, and took out a large brass key that I needed both hands to open. The doors opened without a sound. I frowned. They should be squeaking, but were very well oiled. I looked up, and gasped. It was absolutely gorgeous. Frescoes of angels and nymphs and flowers and beautiful places decorated the arched ceiling, alternating with thin strips of gilt work on shimmering alabaster.
The room was decorated for a king. No, here it was more feminine. For a queen, then. The walls were pale marble, with greenish blue waves that hardly made any impact on the pale appearance of the room. I turned on the lights, and saw priceless works of art, of Italian statues and golden figures and eight-armed candlebras. How much was this room worth? Probably more than what the President of the United States earned in a year. In five years. Ten, maybe. I opened the second door. It was just like that, except it was more beautiful.
For four more doors, it was all the same. More and more priceless, and more beautiful. Here was the seventh door. I frowned again, preplexed. What was this room for, this room with seven doors? Why was this room, out of so many others, so well kept? Perhaps because of its beauty?
No, I reasoned with myself. My father closed up the Crystal Dome, a beautiful room that was expansive, being intended for parties. Now he only opened it up for that purpose. I was dying of curiosity. So I opened the doors.
At the end, there was no eighth door. There were no decorations, save the frescoes on the ceiling and the golden gilt, and the carvings on the walls. Unlike the other rooms, there was only one thing that was not attatched to the actual room. It was a huge picture.
It was a full-length painting of an extremely beautiful woman, dressed in Napoleonic regalia, a cream-colored satin confection with a thousand swirls of tiny seed pearls. It was decorated with Valenciennes lace, like mine, and a pale violet sash encircled the high waist of the dress. Her hair was black, but shimmered in the light of the painting and was so artfully arranged with diamonds and pearls that the coiffure seemed happstance. Pearls hung from her ears elegantly, and a choker necklace of diamonds and pearls accentuated the longest, most graceful neck I had ever seen. Her large, enigmatic eyes were a deep violet, and a slim hand was raised slightly as if to beckon something.
Her face was so beautiful that I could not even be envious, but I could only stare. The expression she wore was mysterious, ethereal, and so enigmatic that though she was only a painting, I still felt drawn.
I must have spent at least ten minutes staring at her, mystified. Who was she? Who was she that my father kept her rooms spotless, polished, though she was dead?
I looked at James now, freed from my reminiscing.
"I now know James, that she is not dead, merely gone, and she was my mother. I thought from her dress that she lived a long time ago, but it was my mother who posed for that picture, for our father." James looked at me sharply. He seemed resolved now.
"Then it is true." He said slowly.
"What is true?"
"Mother always said he kept a room where he allowed no one to enter, and he said that he would show her someday. She said she never did."
The waiter brought by our desserts, cappucino soaked tiramisu and blackberry cake with a white chocolate dressing.
"Merci, Monsieur."
"S'il vous plaƮt." The waiter replied.
"I want to get them back together again." I stated. I didn't care what he thought, only that I wanted to do it more than anything. He nodded slowly.
"I do, too." There was a pause, as though we were both wondering how to do it.
"I want to make to you a promise, Emilia. Promise that we will go through with this." He held up his smallest finger, that gesture children make as a symbol of an oath that transcended all other agreements, that held greater weight than any other promise ever made. We were too old for that. I thought for a moment. So much had been stolen from us, and we had never promised each other anything before. This would be the first.
I smiled slowly, and extended my smallest finger. We shook on it, and James kissed both my cheeks in an oddly formal way. The bargain was sealed.
He smiled at my question. Oh, he was so handsome that I was proud that he was my brother. He was the very image of Daddy. I was going to enjoy going places with him, and watching girls drool. James sat back in his chair effortlessly, with flawless grace, and brushed imaginarly dust of his superlative clothing. He was just like Daddy. He struck such a carelessly suave and handsome pose that I could even women staring in facination. I was aglow with pride.
"Have you heard anything of her?" I shook my head, eager to hear something, anything of my mother who had been absent from my life for sixteen years. James looked eager to speak of her as well.
His eyes, almost exactly the color of mine, were a violet-blue, though they had more of a tint of midnight blue to them. His hair was like mine too, black, though it was no wonder since we were twins. I wonder if Daddy even knew what he looked like.
"She is doing as well as she could be. She doesn't even look like she has reached thirty years, though she is thirty-six now. She is still friends with all the people in the fashion business, and of course you have heard of her." I was out of sorts. It was the famous Daidouji Tomoyo that was my mother? I admired her very much for her storm on the fashion business. Infinitely better than Solange, that was sure.
"Mother still sings, and her voice is like silver and angels. She still talks of you sometimes, of how you looked when you were born." My eyes were getting misty, but I smiled beautifically.
"You must tell her that I always think of her, and that I wish to meet her one day." There the smile on James' face faded somewhat. At my questioning glance, he answered,
"Mother and Father have a rift between them, Emilia. There always had been, every since we were born. Apparently something happened between them at about that time that caused them to split." He looked serious for a moment.
"Apparently, it came to legal battles and hired guards." I stared incredulously.
"Daddy would never do anything like that!" James shrugged.
"I don't know anything, except bits and pieces of things. What do you know?" I shook my head, and thought hard.
"Daddy said that he and Mother did not part amiably, and that he was nearly out of his mind for hurting her." James sat there, musing.
"Then it must have been something that he did, though Mother said that she shouldn't have reacted so harshly." I looked sad for a moment, but then I brightened.
"There is one thing that I am sure of, though. I think that he still loves her more than any other woman in the world." James cocked his head.
"How do you know that?"
"Well for one, he always looks sort of out of it on her birthday and on mine, as if he was remembering and regretting something. And always, he forbids mention of her among the servants, but they talk anyway behind his back. My nurse in England was a very kindly old lady, though she was prone to gossip that was how I found out all the more unsavory tidbits of my father." James leaned forward. I continued.
"My father was apparently very popular with the women, but there was an older woman with whom he was particularly enamored in. I never found out who she was. When he couldn't have her because of some other man she was engaged to, he went on a rampage among the women with his friends. They were all poweful, and rich. So they went through the women almost as fast as they went through money. But they were rich and powerful enough to go through both at the rate that they wanted."
I had the sudden image of Daddy, younger, flirting as easelessly with women as he did at the parties that he gave. Last year, when he finally said I was old enough to act his hostess (before that witch, Solange), I had a shock seeing my kind father being the casanova of the entire party.
"Mother was a childhood friend of Daddy's, but she disapproved of his behavior. Then he became so desperately infatuated with her that he seduced her, after a long while. After that, he abstained from his wild behaviors. They were going to get married, but then something broke them apart."
My mind was swimming with ideas about our parents. Why did they break apart? When and where did they meet? James looked too, deep in thought.
"Yes," he said, "I heard from Mother about his wild behavior. She said that she met up with him for the first time in a long while in Italy, in a party in a mansion on the canals. Venice, I thought it was. She said despite his infidelity towards all women, they still draped themselves over him." I laughed.
"That definitely sounds like Daddy." James chuckled.
"Mother also said that he did a lot to make her happy. I think that they were happy together." I was sad. Then why weren't they together now?
"Oh, and yes, there is another definite reason that I know, absolutely, that Daddy still loves Mother." James looked at me eagerly.
"Well, it all started about three years ago, when I was thirteen." Then I was lost in memory.
It was a very warm, sunny day in the southern moors of South England, and it was such a lazy and golden day that I wanted to do absolutely nothing except my favorite pastime, exploring our house. It was an old stately manor house, though it was in its own right a medium sized palace. There were many windows, and all of them let in the deliriously sleepy sunshine in. I had thought that it was the perfect day to explore the house.
Now you might wonder why I wanted to explore my own house, but let me tell you that the manor had more than two hundred rooms, of which only half of them can be kept clean with an army of servants. The great, stately marble halls and fine polished wood were endless.
I had been walking around aimlessly, carrying a basket of keys as a girl might in a Renoir picture, serene and idyllic in a white silk gossamer dress that was supposed to be for a tea party later that on. I was assiduous in keeping the yards of fine white gauze, aged Valenciennes lace, and pale purple sashes spotless. The tea party's theme was Napoleonic dress, and the high bodiced gown was perfect. All in all, I looked as if I had stepped right out of a painting of an early 18th century afternoon.
I looked at the little map of the house. I was on the fourth floor. There still was another floor to go, the one least frequented by anyone. Everyone thought that this house was haunted, even though it was wired with electricity and had enormous windows. So I turned, and I found myself on the fifth floor. It was a mysterious floor, with only the halls cleaned once a month. All the rest of the rooms were locked and shut firmly. Well that was what the basket of keys was for.
I didn't think that there was anything interesting on the fifth floor. On the fourth floor, there had been a nine foot concert grand piano in fine mahogany, carved and still sounding beautiful. There had been a large room filled with what seemed hundreds of myriad knick-knacks, old ivory and gold and enamel gleaming despite the dust and age.
I looked though the little book of maps. There was a Blue Cobalt Suite, a Billiard Room, a Statuary Chamber, a Star Observatory with no ceiling, only glass, and ah, what was this? It was called the Gallery of Seven Doors. I went to see it to satisfy my curiosity. I remembered a cook mentioning something about it once. I thought hard. Oh yes, there was some myth about a lady who lived there.
I sniffed. What rubbish was that? But I went to see it anyway. Did the room have seven doors, or was it just a name? Here it was.
Staring up at the great, two story doors, I could not help but feel a bit intimidated. There was a scatter of cherry blossoms from the branches that spread themselves across the two doors, so artfully done I half-expected them to float to my feet and drift into my hair.
I rummaged for the key, and took out a large brass key that I needed both hands to open. The doors opened without a sound. I frowned. They should be squeaking, but were very well oiled. I looked up, and gasped. It was absolutely gorgeous. Frescoes of angels and nymphs and flowers and beautiful places decorated the arched ceiling, alternating with thin strips of gilt work on shimmering alabaster.
The room was decorated for a king. No, here it was more feminine. For a queen, then. The walls were pale marble, with greenish blue waves that hardly made any impact on the pale appearance of the room. I turned on the lights, and saw priceless works of art, of Italian statues and golden figures and eight-armed candlebras. How much was this room worth? Probably more than what the President of the United States earned in a year. In five years. Ten, maybe. I opened the second door. It was just like that, except it was more beautiful.
For four more doors, it was all the same. More and more priceless, and more beautiful. Here was the seventh door. I frowned again, preplexed. What was this room for, this room with seven doors? Why was this room, out of so many others, so well kept? Perhaps because of its beauty?
No, I reasoned with myself. My father closed up the Crystal Dome, a beautiful room that was expansive, being intended for parties. Now he only opened it up for that purpose. I was dying of curiosity. So I opened the doors.
At the end, there was no eighth door. There were no decorations, save the frescoes on the ceiling and the golden gilt, and the carvings on the walls. Unlike the other rooms, there was only one thing that was not attatched to the actual room. It was a huge picture.
It was a full-length painting of an extremely beautiful woman, dressed in Napoleonic regalia, a cream-colored satin confection with a thousand swirls of tiny seed pearls. It was decorated with Valenciennes lace, like mine, and a pale violet sash encircled the high waist of the dress. Her hair was black, but shimmered in the light of the painting and was so artfully arranged with diamonds and pearls that the coiffure seemed happstance. Pearls hung from her ears elegantly, and a choker necklace of diamonds and pearls accentuated the longest, most graceful neck I had ever seen. Her large, enigmatic eyes were a deep violet, and a slim hand was raised slightly as if to beckon something.
Her face was so beautiful that I could not even be envious, but I could only stare. The expression she wore was mysterious, ethereal, and so enigmatic that though she was only a painting, I still felt drawn.
I must have spent at least ten minutes staring at her, mystified. Who was she? Who was she that my father kept her rooms spotless, polished, though she was dead?
I looked at James now, freed from my reminiscing.
"I now know James, that she is not dead, merely gone, and she was my mother. I thought from her dress that she lived a long time ago, but it was my mother who posed for that picture, for our father." James looked at me sharply. He seemed resolved now.
"Then it is true." He said slowly.
"What is true?"
"Mother always said he kept a room where he allowed no one to enter, and he said that he would show her someday. She said she never did."
The waiter brought by our desserts, cappucino soaked tiramisu and blackberry cake with a white chocolate dressing.
"Merci, Monsieur."
"S'il vous plaƮt." The waiter replied.
"I want to get them back together again." I stated. I didn't care what he thought, only that I wanted to do it more than anything. He nodded slowly.
"I do, too." There was a pause, as though we were both wondering how to do it.
"I want to make to you a promise, Emilia. Promise that we will go through with this." He held up his smallest finger, that gesture children make as a symbol of an oath that transcended all other agreements, that held greater weight than any other promise ever made. We were too old for that. I thought for a moment. So much had been stolen from us, and we had never promised each other anything before. This would be the first.
I smiled slowly, and extended my smallest finger. We shook on it, and James kissed both my cheeks in an oddly formal way. The bargain was sealed.
