If the readers would kindly review this chapter it would be much appreciated! I have several misgivings about this chapter and am not sure if I like it. It may undergo serious revision during the (duh) revision stage. But any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Likes, dislikes, confusion, etc. Thank you very much!
-bn-
Hemingway and Bambalina
In the following weeks Amara watched him closely marking any behavior indicating a stronger feeling than friendship. He provided evidence equally informative and ambiguous. Like escorting her up to her room every morning. He had always done so, when she indicated she was retiring around the time when he was retiring. But now it was different, he seemed to wait on the edges of their conversations for something. It reminded her of watching Aurora's first date through the window. Todd, the gawky boy from her third hour had taken her out to dinner and a movie before bringing her home. As they stood in the cold February air, Todd had shifted around, his hands deep in his pockets. Amara remembered clearly how poised and expectant Aurora had been, waiting for Todd to get up enough guts to lean in and kiss her goodnight. At last Todd took the plunge and smashed his lips against Aurora's. Amara and Allene had laughed for days about the awkward kiss. It didn't seem so funny now that it was happening to her. The worse part was that she felt like jittery Todd, instead of collected Aurora.
What frustrated Amara most about his expectancy was that she had no proof. There was no clear signal to indicate that's what he was waiting for. All of her speculation came from feeling and she had read too many stories about women who drew conclusions based on speculation alone. They always wound up in embarrassing, humbling messes. She refused to be another stereotype.
So she watched him, waiting for any stunning evidence. In the meantime she held off any advances by acting completely naïve. If he pulled out her chair for her at dinner, she chatted brightly, pretending it was something normal rather than chivalrous. If he gazed at her with too loving an eye she changed the subject to something controversial. If he tried to hold her hand while walking out in the wintry garden, she managed to slip loose in order to examine a flower.
Despite her varying scruples about him, Amara was glad for Dominic's company. In a stuffy house devoid of humans and other forms of entertainment, he was a welcome breeze. His obvious intelligence and combative nature made him an interesting conversation partner.
"Why don't you like Hemingway?"
"I might if I was ten-years-old," she retorted, running her fingers and eyes over the other spines on the shelf.
"That's the beauty of his work. It's simplistic,"
"Too simplistic! It has no character depth,"
"Are you talking about Hemingway or The Old Man and the Sea?"
"Both!" She exclaimed, sliding a copy of Anna Karenina from its cozy niche. The candles from a nearby holder shined off the glossy leather surface.
"And I suppose you like Tolstoy's flagrant characterizations,"
"Flagrant?" she raised her eyebrows in insult. "Tolstoy's characters are some of the most realistic and believable characters ever created."
"Perhaps. But don't you think heavy characterizations distract from the plot?" Resting an elbow against the shelf he leaned towards her suggestively.
"Maybe," she replied, ignoring how close he was by examining the first pages of Anna Karenina, "But that's the point of some books isn't it?"
"So you like character studies better than plots?"
Amara stopped half-reading and did a mental checklist of all her favorite books: character study, plot, character study, character study, character study, plot…
"Yes," she said at last, closing the book with a soft snap, "I like character studies better than plots."
He smiled, "Me too."
Amara started, "Wait, you spent all that time defending Hemingway, but you like character studies?"
"I don't think Hemingway's worth as a writer should be overlooked,"
"I never said he wasn't a worthwhile writer—he just writes with a third grade vocabulary trying to weave a complex allusion."
"Rather like Christ and his parables,"
"Hemingway was not like Christ,"
"How do you know? Have you ever met either?"
"Hemingway was a drunk with too many cats,"
"And Jesus made wine out of water,"
Amara covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle the laughter. After her bout she gazed up at him in amusement, "What were we talking about?"
"The Old Man and the Sea," he answered softly, "which by the way, is an allusion to the Passion."
"How?" She countered, vaguely recalling a similar discussion in her high school literature class.
"Think about it, he's fishing out on the sea. Christ is referred to as the fisher…"
"Of men," she mumbled over his speech.
"While he's out fishing for followers a group of sharks start circling. He struggles to shore trying to protect his fish. But eventually he stumbles up to his shack, bearing…"
"A mast that looks like a cross," she smirked, "clever. But why write a story that's been told for thousands of years?"
Laughing he pushed himself off the bookshelf to stand upright, "How can you not? Every story is interconnected in some way. I think the term used is intertextuality."
"I wish this was the stuff they had taught in Literature 101. All my professor ever talked about was grammar." Making a face, Amara replaced Anna Karenina, making a mental note of where she placed it.
"There's a really great book over here," breezing past her, he made towards the eastern window, "that's all about literary theory and deciphering texts."
Interested, Amara followed him towards the beginning of the bookshelves. Reaching over his head, he plucked out a red-leathered book and brought it down to eye level. Examining the book with an objective eye, he held it out to her. Gently taking it, she read the title: The Mathematics of Literature.
"It's a lot more interesting than what it sounds," he said, watching her for any sign of dislike.
"It sounds great. Thank you." She said softly, swiping her hand over to the cover.
"You're welcome,"
Except for those little, literary debates, Amara's life had become increasingly boring. Every day was the same as the last: same scenery, same persons, same events. Running out of things to say, they had even reverted back to chess. Amara was growing stultified. Nothing new or exciting had happened since Dominic had taken her into the forest. While not a two-year-old, Amara was perfectly capable of entertaining herself: when adequate resources were available. There was nothing in the mansion except books and him. While both interesting, they were growing tedious.
One night, she snapped: "Isn't there something else we can do?"
He looked slowly up from the dusty volume in his hands, "Like what?"
"Something!" She cried, curling her legs up under her, "I'm tired of routine! I'm going mad!" She phrased it much more politely than she felt. If she really had spoken her mind the sentence would have contained the words, "so boring"; "I'm about to jump off a cliff"; "I'm sick of talking about literature!"
He smiled gently at her, "You don't have to spare my feelings. I was wondering when you would finally get bored. You lasted longer than I thought."
"You were just going to go on until I said something?"
"I wanted to see how long you would last. And now I have a rough estimate of how many days I have to invent a new activity for you."
Sitting up straighter she grabbed an embroidered pillow and hugged it to her chest. "That's sick. And I'm perfectly capable of entertaining myself. But I've already exhausted the possibilities here. I can't go into the woods, I go into the garden every night, I read every day, and the interesting rooms are all hidden." It was true: some of the rooms in the eastern and northern parts of the house were mysteriously locked. She would know! She took up exploring in the day whenever she was bored. Consequently, those locked doors were in the parts of the house where the office and Dominic resided.
"How is that sick?" He asked, ignore her accusation. Standing up from the adjacent couch, he walked over to the nearest bookshelf to replace the book.
"Because it's like I'm a lab rat. You watch and measure my reactions to controlled stimuli and then document it. It's sick."
"It's not sick. It's more or less like a character study," he grinned pretentiously. Amara stared straight at him, her tongue so hot and seething, she had to bite it to keep it under control. Seeing her serious manner, his grin slackened and his eyes sparked, "I thought this is what you wanted—not to be controlled."
"I didn't say I wanted to be treated like a character from a book! I don't want to be a persona you can poke and prod and examine," she retorted, sitting up straight as a pin. His face turned completely to alabaster; but Amara could discern his eyes working busily in his stone face. Sometimes it seemed like that was the only part of his face that worked. Worrying his chin with tapered fingers he moved a few paces towards her.
"What do you want?"
"I'm bored. And I don't want to be treated like a lab experiment."
"You are the most interesting person I have ever meet," his voice held no taint of irony or patronization.
"I can't be the most interesting person you've ever meet," she mumbled, trying to turn his attention away from her.
"Yes, you are. No one defies me,"
"Then you haven't met a lot of people," she jested, and then sobered at his unyielding visage, "I'm sure your parents didn't do everything you said." As the words slipped out of her mouth she did a quick mental retraction. He had never talked about his family before: maybe there was a reason for that.
"I was raised by a nurse—and she was easily tamed. My parents keep her on since I seemed bright enough and my attachment to her was deep." A scoff of air sounded from behind her.
"Oh," Amara adjusted her weight and turned around to locate the noise. Seeing no one, she put down the pillow she was gripping and turned back, picturing a tiny Dominic running amuck in a nursery, a disheveled nurse chasing him around. A small smile slipped into the corners of her mouth. "I can imagine you as an unruly child."
"I wasn't unruly so much…I just knew what I wanted and didn't stop until I got it." Her face softened further at his description of himself. This was much more interesting than books.
"So you were a brat," she teased with an adamant grin.
"I wasn't a brat," he said with a dropped jaw—as if he couldn't believe she had just said that, "if anything, my sisters were the brats."
"You had sisters too?" Amara head tilted to one side in interest.
"Three of them. All younger. It was me, Fiorella, Perla, and then Bambalina."
"Those are interesting names," Amara said softly, hoping not to offend. But they were and she wondered the origin. They sounded antiquated.
"They're Italian. Fiorella means 'little flower'. Perla means 'little sphere'. And Bambalina means 'little girl'. Which was appropriate: Bambalina was the youngest and the smallest."
"Is Dominic Italian?"
"It's Latin for 'belonging to God'. My mother was very religious."
Amara resisted the extreme impulse to touch the Saint Christopher's medal residing beneath the blue turtleneck she was wearing.
"And your father is a lover of beauty,"
Her attention immediately focused back on him, "What?"
"All of your names—Aurora, Allene, Amara—they all have to deal with beauty," he moved closer to the couch and sat down next to her; as if diverging some great secret, "Aurora means 'beautiful dawn'; Allene is a variant of Helen meaning 'fair or good-looking'; and Amara, " pausing for effect he lowered his voice, "Amara means 'eternal beauty'."
Quietly, her eyes filming over, she asked a question that until now she hadn't been comfortable asking, "How old are you?"
His eyes rolled upwards and studied his brain. Lightly leaving the couch he began to pace along the bookshelf, straining to think. The candlelight illuminated the defined curves of his face; the shadows pooling in the adjoining creases, making him look wholly mystical.
"Five hundred and twenty-five years," continuing to rub his chin his eyes remained strained upwards, "I have existed for five hundred and twenty-five years."
Amara's eyes doubled in size with a quick raise of her eyebrows. "That's incredible," she breathed, "you're living history." A smile dominated her face: the rosy-golden glow of excitement blushing on the apples of her cheeks. Her mind thoroughly buzzed with all the questions popping up in the recesses of gray matter. What she could learn from first hand accounts!
He didn't seem so amazed though. His brow furrowed and his fingers worried his chin until she began to wonder how it kept such a defined shape with so much rubbing. "It's not so incredible," he replied, his eyes moving towards the dark, pristine window, " much time has passed by--more than I realized—but it is all the same. Countries still fight wars, intellects still create controversy, capitalism still triumphs over idealism, people still fall in love," clear grey eyes flicked to hers, "but life goes on. Things change, but nothing changes. I am just stuck. Unable to go forward or backward."
Amara held his gaze, the beautiful tragedy captivating her heart. Nothing existed beyond her thoughts as she mulled over his words. So this is what it was like to sit at the feet of a sage.
"You make life sound so meaningless,"
"Not meaningless, just continuous,"
Eyes glazing over, she sat silently.
"Is this better than talking about books?"
Smiling, she looked up at him through dark eyelashes. "I still love books. But this was definitely more interesting."
"Good," he smiled gently, gazing lovingly at her. Amara turned her head towards the bookcases, trying to think of something to break his stare. Surprisingly, he broke it first. "I must be going: it is almost morning."
Amara's head twisted slowly towards the large windows behind her. The sky was a dismal smear of grey, stained with bloody pink. Her heart instantly weighted and dropped closer to her small intestine. She had only wanted him to stop looking at her: she didn't want their conversation to stop.
"I should probably go too." She mumbled only thinking of her disappointment.
"Then please allow me to escort you up to your room,"
"I
didn't…" stopping mid-sentence, she realized what she had just
said. But as there was nothing she could do to retract it, she nodded
in concession. Besides, she knew from past experience there was
nothing she could say, short of being rude, that would prevent him
from this chivalrous task. Although, it was probably a value firmly
cemented in his character—seeing as he was born over five hundred
years ago.
Rising sluggishly, she led the way out of the room,
with him following dutifully behind. As they walked up the stairs, he
asked her a question about her family and she answered automatically,
her mind on other things.
"Good day," he said as they pulled to a stop in front of the door to her room. Turning around she jumped at how close he was. Her eyes followed the natural chain: chest, chin, nose, eyes. Her eyes locked onto his with a magnetic force. She had not looked him in the eyes since her first night here. The swirls of grey were mesmerizingly clear. Slowly, his visage swelled as it came closer and closer. Amara stayed fixated on his eyes. In her peripherally vision she could see his lips on a direct line towards hers. Suddenly, his face swerved and the connection between their eyes snapped like a taunt cable.
"Be careful. If you get too close you'll fall in," his breath tickled her ear he whispered. He straightened and disappeared into thin air. Amara stared at the air, her heart pounding against her skin. Knees trembling, she fell into her room. Stumbling, she collapsed into a chair and put a hand on her chest to catch her breath. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, with the full potency of a new day. It was giving her a migraine.
"Close those curtains!" She snapped at the winds, tsking in the background. The curtains shattered together, their brass rings screeching. The quickness caused her to grimace, "Thank you." She said exhaustedly, hoping her weary state would count as an apology. The room now substantially dark, she began to rub her temples—what was going on?
