I can never remember how to spell Ella Fitzgerald's name.
Oh, well.
It felt intimate, when she stood behind him like this. He sat on the dining room chair and she could have admired and laughed a bit at how stark and different he looked against the texture of her furniture. Another time, she would have asked him to stay so she could observe that strange, wonderful phenomenon more.
She missed him. Friends miss each other, Erik.
Something in her heart stopped her there. Did he miss her?
After a brief argument over the necessity of her doing the action, he handed her the bandages indirectly, placing them on the table for her to pick up instead of bringing them gently to her hands. But he seemed to have thought the distance was necessary, and while she couldn't understand, it wasn't something she held against him. They hurt each other and the wounds matched: long, ruby gashes that cut across the chest and the moment he turned from the mirror, she saw the identical cut on his body as there was on hers.
She hesitated in putting her hand on his shoulder, but after the far too long and rather unnecessary war in her mind, she didn't, reaching for the bandages instead and began by anchoring one end of the length onto his brow and winding it around his scalp. For a brief moment she wanted to forget how her hands felt as if they were on fire, brushing them through his hair, which looked like raven's feathers in the morning light and glistened like ebony whenever he so much as tilted his head a bit upward. You're like a bird, she almost said, and flushed a deep shade of pink at the sudden thought of running her fingers through his hair.
Her focus instead drilled into the recesses of his mind, and she wished she could say sorry for everything, for anything, but any apology felt dry and useless. He would have found a way to prevent her from it, saying it wasn't her fault when clearly it was, in some destined and magical way; why else would the rot only come for her? The pad of her finger found his right eyebrow missing (because she had been looking at him, at the back of his head, certainly) and she fought the urge to cry. That was all she'd been doing recently, she thought: fighting, whether it was an emotion or a figure standing by her doorway.
"You don't have to do this," he said again, the afterburn of his anger still seething through the syllables. She saw his hands drum a silent pattern on her table and wondered what kind of piano piece that might have been to bring about such a restrained aggresion.
I don't care, the words sat on her tongue. But she didn't say them, instead completing the first circle of the bandages.
It was the least she could have done. Though well aware as she was that their effects would be rendered moot out in public as long as she didn't lay eyes upon him, the morning itself felt like it wanted to grieve. The air felt suffocating and angry, but the helpless sort.
He sighed. He wanted an answer whether it was a scream or a whisper but all she could give him was the gesture, and even that felt empty.
When he left, he left with every single answer to questions that weren't there. What will happen to that little record shop now? Will I see you again, Erik?
Erik. It was a Scandanavian name, just another piece of her missing home that managed to float its way back to her. It felt crisp on her tongue, like coffee and black clothing and rain. Above all the turbulent, buffeting winds that her emotions found themselves swept in, she knew in the constant but invisible sunlight that he was her friend. He filled the space he occupied with music, as if the air itself made room for him and his melodic voice, his austere instructions, and rarely ever a smile. God help her, that voice could have been a ghost with how much it lingered over everything and haunted each step of the house now that he was gone.
She shook her head and held herself, rubbing her forearms with a failing sense of faith, that yes, she was still flesh and touch still worked, miraculously. Her home began to settle from its disturbed state, and it seemed to let out a sigh of relief as she did. The energy of the coffee hummed on her tongue but she didn't even turn to look at him down the hall when they said goodbye.
When he said goodbye. As usual, she said nothing.
She hated nostalgia, more than anything in the world. Of all the emotions she felt, it was the most traitorous. How dare it feed her sweetness of honey when all she felt were the sharp thorns of memory and regret.
What was it about her? Why her, what on earth could she have done to him to bring to rise some deep-seated, unfathomable curse that plagued his body like a malaise? Did she wish it on him, or some other kind of cruel trick? Was there a part of her that detested his secrecy, the way he shut himself in like an old oak door, and then wished this fate on him in return so she alone may be privy to a cruel, folie à deux torture? Of course not; despite all of his aloofness and snobbish attitude and tall, faraway glances, he was still her friend, and a piece of his heart was to be embedded in hers forever.
She wished to understand him; yes, that must be it. Understanding, the way one would understand a puzzle or wish to chart territory for the land's scenic beauty. And the one way she could begin to understand is if he brought her along to the answer: his mother, some enigmatic, domineering monster that seemed to still have claws digging into his arms, even now.
She asked, as an experiment, if she could come with him, and he said no.
No, like the answer was as simple as that. Because it was his mother, and she was a horrible monster to me, Christine. I cannot have her do the same to you.
At first she believed it right; this was a personal matter, and if his mother did know the secret that kept him rotting, she could free him if he asked. But the more she thought about it being kept from her, the more she believed she deserved it, as much as he did. If it affected him, she was the inflictor and she had to understand why. It was unfair that he would have those wounds sewn up for him while hers were just left to scar and corrode her skin.
From under the shelf she brought out the Étoile 58 disc and set it on the player, waiting for the music to clear out the air. But after two more songs it felt more suffocating than ever. And by the time 'Planter Café' came on, she sat down on her couch and began to cry.
The indulging vision of that little cafe never returned.
"Christine."
Her head perked up from the tea Jacqueline had made her. "Yes, Mama?"
Mama smiled kindly at her, the wrinkles of her face bending upward in an aged beauty Christine wished she would have when she turned grey. The clear, bright atmosphere of the morning room in the visiting home pushed away all the shadows that had been lingering in her mind, if only a little. There was nothing playing over the phonograph, but the silence felt peaceful where everywhere else it may have even caused her alarm.
She returned her attention to her latest knitting project: a mass of something coloured pleasant, muted teal. "You said there was a record shop downtown, didn't you?"
His voice laid a cold hand on her shoulder and she shivered, frightened for her life to turn around. "I suppose I did."
"Could you perhaps buy the house a record from there? It's been very quiet whenever you aren't around, and I'd like to hear the old phonograph whirl again."
Her heart withered in her ribs and she tried not to let it show; as old as she was, Mama was very good at reading her as if she had known her from birth. "Me, Mama?"
"Yes, dear. I don't suppose Jacqueline just wandered into the room all of a sudden?"
She huffed a breath that was supposed to sound like a laugh. "No, she didn't, Mama."
Mama's eyes crinkled in delight, mischief like eavesdropping stars. "That's good. Buy a record of that American jazz singer—you know, I've become so fond of jazz, my dear, I think your father's taste has been growing on me! What's her name… Ella Fitzherbert, or something similar to that."
"You mean Fitzgilbert?"
Mama nodded in agreement. "Yes, Fitzgilbert, that's it. I'd like you to pick something for me, anything you'd like; I'll even tell Jacqueline to hand you the money. Could you do that for me?"
There really wasn't a no to this question, and she knew the only reason Mama was asking it at all was because it was custom for her to ask anything she truly wanted. A lazier, much more anxious part of her wondered why Jacqueline couldn't do it, and for once she could spare a few hours to take care of Mama by herself. But even the excuses pointed to a fear far more sinister and dejecting, a fear she could not run from, and perhaps she never wanted to.
"I can, Mama."
"Perfect." And she set her knitting needles aside and unfurled her finished project: a long, scruffy scarf of a sea blue-green. "Come here, would you, Christine?"
Blinking away her confusion, she placed her tea aside and stood obediently in front of Mama, even lowering her head just so she could drape the scarf over her shoulders. It felt incredibly cosy, warm, pleasant in the way scarves tended not to be, and the weight itself on her neck and shoulders felt snug. Mama's hands fussed about, smoothening crinkles or pulling up hems, but even if she hiked it up towards her nose Christine couldn't help but smile.
"There we go," Mama said gently.
She took a sharp inhale into the crisp cloudy morning and braced her shoulders high, in front of the record store. The sign that indicated it was open seemed to mock her now, shaming her cowardice and every tumultuous emotion that sped through her throat like a knife-edged wind. But this was for Mama, and the sooner it was done with, the sooner it could be relegated into a dusty shelf in the recesses of her memory.
Funny, she thought. The waves of her nervousness abated just a little with the familiar chime of the door. The sound felt halcyon, glowing sunlight colours cascading in and out of her vision as the light of the store's chandelier filled her sight.
There was talking, miscellaneous enough to have blended into any background but she felt she knew this shop like a strand of her hair, a steel string of Father's violin. Something close to her but special, unique, unlike anything in the expanse of the world. And when she walked a few steps in, she saw Reza sitting at the cashier, tapping out a few buttons until the register popped open with an obnoxious chime. A shadow that was far too tall for the morning chandelier light stood behind the boy, until she realised with dread that the shadow was moving, gloved, and talked in a baritone cadence. And with a blink, his face had vanished until he went as white as the walls. When she tore her gaze from him and looked absentmindedly at the shelves, it felt like ripping a book down its spine, and its pages fluttered around her hair and skin like mourning rain.
"Oh, Mlle. Christine!" Reza said, and when she turned back at the two of them, she kept her eyes trained on the boy, and just the boy. "Long time no see, huh?"
She waved sheepishly (but just at the boy). From the limited scope of her vision, the sight of the shadow came only up until his sternum but no higher than that, and she could see the posture of his shoulders relax if only a little.
You have to be staring at my face, my head, for it to come back, I think, a voice from that sad midmorning echoed.
Your head, she heard herself saying. I have to be looking at your head? Your face?
"Yes," the shadow answered her memory, sinister but waiting, and then faded back into the present, "long time no see."
Her hands tightened over the strap of her satchel, which suddenly felt heavier than iron. That voice gripped something inside her ribs and tugged painfully.
"You know," the shadow continued, drumming his slender fingers on the counter. "I was just teaching Reza how to work the register, and he'd be pleased to help you now. Wouldn't you, Reza?"
Reza's pale brown eyes turned honey in a student's fear, in his student's fear, and looked sheepishly behind him. The shadow stiffened and so did she, but once Reza glanced back and forth between his face and the cash register in a nervousness normalcy, they both became a pair lungs, heaving a sigh of relief all at once. She found a small amount of relaxation in the fact that Reza looked absolutely terrified out of his mind to help a customer, even one as familiar as her, because it meant that he was not paying attention to what he was being taught at all. It made her smile, if only for a moment.
"Right," Reza said, in an attempt at charm, and cleared his throat as if it would clear his apprehension (and it didn't). "What are you looking for today, Mlle. Christine?"
"I'm looking for a record of some American jazz singer. I think her name is Ella… Fitzgilbert?"
"You mean Fitzgerald?"
She flushed and she could feel the shadow smile at it.
"Yes, Ella Fitzgerald," she tried again, shaking off her embarrassment. "I'll take whatever's selling nicely, or anything to the young man's suggestion."
Reza nodded, and it looked like the shadow behind him seemed… not inherently pleased, but not disappointed either. "If you'll allow me some time, I'll check what stock we have in the backroom, and I could bring out a disc to your liking?"
She nodded, but her head felt a little heavy at the prospect of being alone with him again. "Of course."
The boy sped off into the yawning doorway and he took all of her comfort with him, draining the room of warmth almost instantly. The silence felt suffocating and she could feel its cold edges press against the skin of her neck and face; her eyes went everywhere else, anywhere else—the shiny floors, the pristine ceiling, the rows and rows and rows of records she had seen before again and again—but it felt like a losing fight. When her gaze drifted back helplessly, as if it was coming back to a home it could never escape, the shadow had stopped drumming his fingers on the counter and left his hand there, moving in small increments like he was fighting instinct. The gloves, she realised, were leather, and glinted dully in the chandelier light like the edge of a blunted blade; the knuckles were all sharp and mean but held a peculiar, admirably soft quality to them. Was it tenderness underneath some frightening exterior?
She swallowed, and her ears rang. A beat. Two. It shouldn't have taken this long to get a record, right?
"So," he began, and the ghost of him that haunted her mind disappeared into thin, white ribbons.
"So," she reiterated. A mirror image, a mirror song.
She didn't look up. A part of her demanded it, a part of her said it couldn't happen. The man without a face. She was slowly forgetting what it used to look like before any of this happened, and her shoulders hung heavily like a mourning dress.
"Fitzgilbert?" he prodded, and the tone in his voice knew it was dangerous to. But if she could look up, she could bet he would be smiling.
A small flower of warmth grew in her chest—and how small it was, a simple blossom with twelve, little petals the size of her fingernails, but she smiled at its colour. "Shut up."
To her relief, Reza came back from the storage room, carrying a teal sleeve that matched her new scarf almost perfectly that the coincidence furrowed her brows in some mild, whimsical concern. As he walked to the record player he was sliding the disc out of the paper (which was a habit she knew Erik hated) and plopped it onto the surface with an uncharacteristic clatter, she swore she could feel the shadow grimace and stiften in some adolescent fear.
He moved aside but his breath seemed to shorten. "Reza, you don't have t—"
"M. Erik!" Reza exclaimed with comic exaggeration, like a parent reprimanding a small child. "Weren't you the one that said we should always play something for the customer before they purchase it? At your record shop, we must always prove the quality of our product, even to the most disagreeable of patrons, in order to dissuade their doubts. The record player speaks the truth, does it not?"
Despite her apprehension, he was reciting them like textbook doctrine and she let out a fierce little giggle, one that put the shadow on edge, and God, she liked that he was just as nervous as she was. To be alone in trepidation was a terrible fate indeed.
Reza turned on the player and the speakers soon twinkled with the little jazz inflection of piano notes. Ella Fitzgerald's voice, she soon realised, was a glorious little cascade of mellow notes and rich tones, sounding almost impeccably like a bright brass trumpet. She was an artist made for jazz and perhaps the admiration bordering on envy shone in her eyes, because the shadow stirred a bit to hover his fingers over some of the modulator buttons. Those hands could play the piano like this for her one day, and she could sing for him, she thought, she feared exploring the capabilities of them further than that.
"I like this," she said, and the fact her voice sounded even and measured in stride relaxed her further. "What's this album?"
Reza picked up the sleeve with a rehearsed confidence, and memory rang a little bell in her head and the sound reverberated throughout her bones: that was exactly how Erik picked up the sleeves when she used to buy from him. And her sorrow stopped cold when she caught herself grieving for something that was alive; she was still buying from him. There was no use for mourning.
"Songs in a Mellow Mood," Reza recited.
The sparkling of the piano notes certainly resonated that theme. "I'll take the mono, thank you."
"Of course, Mademoiselle. I'll check in the backroom for you."
Alright, now this was ridiculous. Her mouth set into a thin line and Reza could see her anger. "I can get this disc that's playing just now—"
Reza shook his head. "No, no, only the best for Mlle. Christine. I'll get it for you in a nice plastic wrap to keep the quality. I'll be here in a jiffy."
And he disappeared again, with the amusement of a magician using a repeated trick while his audience got more exasperated with it.
The silence wasn't so uncomfortable now, but it felt it stretched on for longer. His eyes, she thought with a measure of grave determination, were surely staring at her. One day, I'll see your eyes again. One day, this won't be unfair.
"Why are you really here?" he asked all of a sudden, and the ice broke underneath her feet and she caved into the crash of the cold water. But it no longer pricked at her skin or drowned her lungs with each inhale; now she felt… relief.
She placed her hand next to his on the counter, not too far but not too close to his own, but the gesture was enough to send a flinch through his body that began at his fingertips and ended at his neck. Her boldness surprised her more, but she would rather be bold than shy away from the challenge he posed.
"I came to buy something for Mme. Valerius, at her request," she said, attempting to weigh her words with a darker inflection; but she knew the absence of his eyes in the conversation didn't give her much footing.
"And just that?"
"No, not just that."
There was no silence. Ella Fitzgerald's bold reminiscence scattered the space between their bodies with glistening stars.
When our love was new,
And each kiss an inspiration;
But that was long ago, so long ago, so long ago.
Her face felt warm but she wished it wouldn't be so foolishly obvious. With steel lining her heart and her hands still, not trembling, she looked up at his face and she froze. The decay came for her, came for him: it devoured, denied, destroyed his face and she watched it appear as the cracks of betrayal came through the frantic fractures of his eyes. But her mouth set in a line as his own was overcome with rot. She would win over this. His eyes were still mismatched, a whiskey, honeyed hazel over an icy white blue, but closer to the centre of the pupil were cracks of gold.
"You're not wearing your bandages," she said before he could.
"I didn't see the need to," he replied. That was still his voice and she sighed; if that thing was to steal that voice from her too, she wouldn't know what she would have done. "I didn't think you were coming."
Anger shot through her like a lance. "That's your fault, you odd, stupid man. I still live here, and I still adore music, and coming to this place, and—" the sentence felt too short, missing its better half, and she struggled for footing, "and you… you were so stupid to think I was going to let it go because of that."
Her declaration stunned him just as much as it did her. She didn't know where these words came from, the conviction and ferocity in them was not a welcome contrast in a room where Ella Fitzgerald softened the place's edges. But she could tell what lay behind their power: a very old anger. Anger at herself for running away, anger at his mazes and his mirrors and his secrets, anger at this town, anger at her loneliness, nothing but bright red, boiling blood.
"Reza is coming soon," he said softly.
"No, he won't," she replied. "You know he won't."
He sighed and brought his other hand to pinch at his now hollow nose. It was not hollow when she first looked at him before, and it frightened and fascinated her all the same, these edges of magic she alone could see. His hand did not move from beside hers.
"Have you gone yet?" she tried again.
"Gone where?"
"To your mother. To ask her questions."
The word was two syllables long, and she could see exactly where each one fractured his calm expression into one of bitterness and scorn. It must have been so long since he had seen her before, but the wounds still appeared far too raw that she wondered with a grim, morbid curiosity what kind of weapon she must have used against him. Only something horribly cruel could inflict scars that still appeared to have ached so much.
"No, I haven't," he said simply.
"She doesn't live here?"
"No," he said. That was not a surprise; nobody lived here.
"Erik," she sighed, and it was not a plea anymore. "Tell me why I can't come with you."
"You just… you cannot. I will not allow it."
"And why not?"
"Because I told you she was a despicable, loathsome creature who does not deserve an audience with you. Nor will I permit you to sit there and force you to be privy to our old and petty grievances."
"But if she has the answer to whatever this is," and she gestured between them, and she could feel both their hearts sink in their chests, "—then I am owed that explanation too, Erik. I know what she is, and I know what you are. I won't be there to hurt you, I promise you, and she can't make me."
His head shook and the motion reminded her of a bird, always a bird. "You can't promise that."
The sorrow in that caught her off-guard and made her blink tears that she didn't know formed at the edges of her vision. How she wanted to close the distance between them and put her hand on his chest, to remind him that his heart was still beating, still here.
"Even if I can't, I deserve that, Erik."
"Then I'll ask her, and I'll tell you when I return."
"No," and it was an echo this time, "I want to hear it from her."
He flattened his crooked mouth into a thin line, but then blinked out of his anger and looked down. She dropped her gaze too only to realise that her hand, once it had descended, had lay atop of his, her knuckles crossing over his own in a way that almost seemed as if their hands were made to fit within each other's: crevices perfectly sculpted to accommodate the other. Neither of them drew away, not even as the disc scratched its sound into silence.
"Christine," he said, and she could have melted if she wanted to; his other hand enclosed hers and they stayed motionless like that for a while, hand in hand, heart in heart, until he moved her fingers off his, and she felt a violin string between them grow taut and snap painfully. "I can't."
Reza's footsteps answered the silence but she continued to stare at his hands, even as he let them slip from his, even as the boy brought the new sleeve onto the counter next to the other Fitzgerald record. She handed the boy the money regardless, and did not expect to wait for the change as Erik excused himself and exited through the backroom. She just prayed Reza had seen none of it. They watched as the last of his dark coat disappeared into the privacy of the store's inner room.
"Did you piss him off?" Reza asked curiously.
She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could. "We all seem to do that these days."
And Reza snorted uncharacteristically, placing the sleeve nicely into its packaging.