Chapter 25: Foreshadow of the Backstory
Lucifer heard her inside door slam, and chuckled drily. For all her minute finesse and reduced stature she could be formidable on inanimate objects. He picked up the tea glasses, combining both and quaffing as he looked out over her balcony edge. From far away he could hear the faint wail of sirens carried up on the wind and a column of dark smoke plumed from a far section of the city. Whatever the mess was, it looked extensive enough to keep her occupied for quite some time. Shaking his head a bit at Canaan and those like her trying to fortify the dikes temporarily preventing the encroachment of disastrous entropy, he brought the glasses in to the kitchen and washed and dried the few dishes they'd used, smiling at himself as he did so. Domesticity in the service of others was not his forte. He simply wanted her to be able to walk in after whatever slew of calamity she'd assuaged to a neat space. And maybe a snack: for someone small the woman could eat. Must be the swimming. He rummaged through her fridge, assembled a sandwich and plated the leftover salad with it. Finding a small pile of post-its in the tumble of paperwork on her counter he drew her a smiley face with horns and stuck it to the wrap over the plate. Now he definitely did not feel like himself; however, what he did feel was not unpleasant – just very different. Not just attraction and interest, but a growing concern for the more minor aspects of another's well-being. Learning to look after someone in small ways rather than grand gestures. He rolled this novel thought around in his mind as he brushed the soft material of his new sleeve, appreciating more what it meant. Hmm. Leaning against the countertop he surveyed her home…and spying what certainly looked as if it wanted to be a liquor cabinet he ran his tongue under his lower lip and grinned. "Don't mind if I do…"
Lucifer felt the impending indignity of sopping wet shoes on the walk of shame down the long hill AND the likely vehement displeasure of dealing with Maze upon his return deserved at least two stiff drinks to fortify himself with. He siphoned the first in one long swallow and sipping at the second decided to take a good look around, unchaperoned as he was. Dad only knew when or if he'd be back. Her art caught his eye first, set comfortably into spaces on the walls where their additions complemented the views and bones of her structure. Some prints he recognized immediately. El Greco's View of Toledo, just as stunning as their conversation about it had reflected. Van Gogh's Starry Night, Wyeth's Wind from the Sea, Monet's Low Tide at Pourville along with several pieces from Ansel Adams and John Muir complemented smaller photographs and works. These other artists were unknown to him yet the wild, natural themes continued. He looked closer for signatures, and noticed that some of the pieces he favored had the same one; illegible though it was. He walked over to the single object on her fireplace mantle, fascinated. A beautifully fragile bowl in hues of peach, pink and deep indigo was laced with threads of gold between where the pieces had been broken and repaired. "Kintsukuroi…how very appropriate."
Turning at last to the desk and counter against the far wall he noticed the same conspicuous absence of any personal photos so commonly scattered around human homes. The only item on her desk without any obvious function was a small, flattened box made of copper. Picking it up, he noticed its heft in relation to its size. The deeply gorgeous blue greens of the patina were disturbed in only one spot; the center of the box's surface. Here the ruddy amber glow shone through as if it had been rubbed like a talisman…perhaps it had. He suddenly wondered if this is what she had been holding last night in front of the fire. Looking at it closer, it appeared to have no keyhole, but the construction was more subtly complex than offered at first glance (much like its owner, he mused). Perhaps it was a puzzle to open, again like its owner in more ways than one. He set it down gently in the same spot, before turning to the counter and immediately finding that the puzzles continued.
Spread over the countertop, laid flat so they hadn't been noticeable before were photographs. Under many were artworks in various states of medium and completion – vivid inks, charcoals, watercolor washes – even several jewel-bright stained glass pieces laid out on a line drawing pattern. Each of the photos was uniquely angled, inimitably different perspectives of seemingly normal scenes, but the work underneath each made the original image pale in comparison. The level of detail and imaginative dexterity in nuance, shade and perspective made the created images vibrant and whole in a way reality lacked. One piece in particular drew him in. Laid out on matting to be cut, it was a spell-binding play of light through color. It had no corresponding photograph from which to tell its origin, but the wash of what looked like sun on water, through glass and reflected skies rendered it stunning enough to enjoy as an abstract, although he suspected that it was based in reality as the others. This one had a signature. An illegible one. Just the same as his favorites on her walls did. Lucifer sat down hard on the low stool in front of the counter, astonished at this denouement of revelation. These were her creations. Why, if she could translate such beauty from her mind and hands into the world, would she decide to throw herself repeatedly into that miasma of carnage for her life's work? Having left the wreckage of such a place himself - though on a far grander scale, and in a far darker role - he could not understand why anyone would choose it willingly. Absolutely confounding. He'd begun looking around to get a better sense of her, and found himself shunted away, keeled further off course than before. He decided he needed to pour a third drink before looking at her books.
To his relief, these were more enlightening and entertaining. And quite similar to some of his own. Despite her reticence to discuss it, she did seem to represent most major religions in her collection, along with a few surprises. Dead Sea Scrolls and Celtic megalithic anthologies, hey? Philosophy had a huge representation including an alphabet soup of names from the analytic, phenomenologists, existentialists, humanists…and more. Just about every major work and a few really obscure ones. He'd expected the well-thumbed tomes of nursing and medicine, and the hard sciences of biology and chemistry. He was a bit more surprised to see physics, especially several narratives on quantum, string and 'brane theories. Hawking, Greene, Feynman, Kaku, Sagan and others interspersed with the poetry of Hughes, Blake, Whitman, ee cummings and their ilk – she seemed to have a penchant for the Anglo-Irish particularly. This made him smile. Novels of most genres, classics to contemporary. Documentary-style books on everything from gardening to metalwork. Shelley's Prometheus Unbound and both of Milton's Paradise books rested on the top of one bookshelf, as if they'd been recently reviewed. His eyes narrowed…interesting. Several comic series and graphic novels rubbed cheek to jowl with the more whimsical stuffs of Silverstein, L' Engle, Kipling and other smart kid lit, which he found odd since despite the faint 'tiger stripes' on her torso she'd never mentioned children. Contemporary literary magazines and a good slew of science fiction omnibus editions rounded all this out. What a tapestry words must have woven for her! No wonder she didn't have to talk much out in the world: she was probably far more entertained with what she had stocked in her head.
He walked into her bedroom to straighten her covers. Leaning his nose toward a pillow he was fluffing he could still catch the scent of her on it, and he breathed in deeply, recalling how comfortable it had been to fall asleep with her. Actually sleeping with someone after a tryst wasn't his habit, but it had felt so…appropriate. The pile of books on her nightstand was an eclectic minutia of her shelves elsewhere. She'd read to him this morning from de Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince, but apparently it could have easily been Wilde, Attanasio, the latest issue of Harper's or carpentry how-to's. He shook his head. He felt as if he were doing that quite a lot lately when he thought of her.
Finding a small overnight tote in her closet to put his damp things in, he walked out one last time to her balcony looking over at the afternoon light falling into early evening. It would be growing dark when he arrived back, probably not as deep as the coldness of what was sure to be Mazikeen's welcome, but some things just couldn't be helped. He ran his hands lightly over the cooling stones of the thick wall, silently reflective. For a moment he felt the same as he had last night, the solemn space of quiet replacing the jangle of error he'd been so long accustomed to. He glanced up, for once not caught in overthinking or defense. Just looking at the changing light of the sky. It was a beautiful transition. This he could now appreciate even if he did not yet understand. And as soon as the thought formed, he felt a quiet warmth settle over him; a light cloak against the coming chill of the early October evening. Not wanting to ruin the brief feeling of serenity with overzealous introspection, he set about leaving. Making sure her gates and doors were locked and leaving the small lamp in the kitchen on to greet her he ensured the front door was fastened behind him. He paused briefly, standing in the shaft of sun angling from the skylight overhead, palm flat to the warm wood thinking of all that had transpired beyond it. Taking the elevator down to the lobby he was met with two very wizened and puzzled expressions as the doors opened.
"Why hello there, young man…you must be Ms. Canaan's….?"
"Plumber. Yes." Patting the small tote slung over his shoulder. "I've banged her pipes into good working order and she should be right as Raene from now on. Well overdue, I'd say. Cheers, ladies." Snickering a bit at his trick he left Canaan's elderly neighbors to gape in wonder after him.
"Well, the help are dressing quite a bit better nowadays than I'd have expected."
"Oh yes. Though I don't think I'd have minded to see that one's pants droop a bit!"
"No wonder she parked a mess, must've been distracted - poor thing." Each laughing at her sister, the little ladies entered their own elevator, resolving to get this man's number from their quiet neighbor…just in case they ever needed it.