Early morning. Dr. Rhoades prepares for his first lecture of the day...and also a visitor. A very important visitor. He has watched her closely for a very long time, and needless to say, she is his favorite student. He hums a chord from Beethoven's Fur Elise, but not because he is cheerful. But because he is anticipating.
As he sifts through photographs and postcards of Florence, he comes across one that catches his eye. He picks the glossy photo up and observes it. The scene is of a massive marble fountain in winter. Snow rests on the majestic lion in the center, yet no water pours from its mouth, as it should do. The white marble base holds frozen water and a bit of pure white snow. Pure...like Hannah, Dr. Rhoades thinks. He tucks the photograph into his breast pocket and smirks.
To pass the time, he stands at a rather large podium and scans the room with haunted eyes. His mind drifts; conjuring up memories better left in the dark, dank, recesses of his mind. Suddenly, the click of the door closing brings him back to reality. His eyes settle on Hannah, who is wearing a long sleeved sweater, white...like snow.
"Glad to see you could make it...Hannah, is it?" he says coolly.
"Yes. Hannah Starling, Sir," she replies.
Dr. Rhoades lifts an eyebrow. "Starling you say?" As if he hadn't known to begin with.
"Yes Sir."
"You aren't, by any chance, related to CLARICE Starling?" He asks with a slight affectionate emphasis on the name Clarice. Hannah doesn't notice.
"Why, yes Sir. She's my mother," Hannah says, almost robotically, having answered the same question more than once in the course of her life.
"I've heard a great deal about her." He nods. "She had a promising career."
Hannah just nods. She feels uncomfortable talking about her mother, let alone her mother's career.
"So, who is the lucky man she's married?" Dr. Rhoades asks, his head slightly tilted to the right.
Hannah lifts an eyebrow. This man is her professor. She feels she shouldn't be having a conversation like this with him. But there is something oddly familiar about him, so she proceeds with the answer.
"She's not married, nor is she involved with anyone."
He gives a satisfied nod, a look of triumph evident on his face. But Hannah is looking at her Adidas sneakers and doesn't notice. "Ah, I see. By the way, I have something that might be of some interest to you."
Hannah watches as his left hand, which she notices has a scar on the back, gracefully floats over to the fountain photograph in his breast pocket. He hands her the picture and gives her a fake smile, but she doesn't see that either. She is looking at the snow.
"Take it Hannah," Dr. Rhoades says. "It reminds me of you." And your mother, he thinks.
Hannah smiles and does what he says.
***********************************************
Hannah sits on the back porch of the apartment she and her mother share. The sky is a light blue, and the only thing dotting its eternal stillness are flocks of birds, noisily chirping. Down below, an elderly woman plants pansies around her apartment, which is just below Hannah's.
The wind blows sharply, almost snatching the photo from Hannah's fragile hands. Her pale blue eyes stare at the lion and she thinks. She wonders how that sort of thing could remind Dr. Rhoades of her. And more importantly, why is he talking to her and giving her things? She shrugs her small shoulders. He's just a lonely old man, and I probably remind him of his granddaughter, she thinks. Suddenly, she realizes he isn't such a strange or crazy man after all. She would probably go visit him before class again.
Then, the porch door opens and Starling, in an attempt to bond with her daughter, sits in the chair beside her. Although she is much older than thirty-two, she is still quite attractive. Her red-brown hair shows not even the smallest hint of gray and not a wrinkle betrays her ageing. Her blue eyes are still bright and alert. She crosses her long legs and looks at her daughter's profile, which looks so much like her.
"Hello Mother," Hannah says, without looking up from the picture.
"Hi Hannah," Starling replies, leaning over slightly and looking at the photograph her daughter holds tightly in her hand. She can smell her shampoo. "What's that?"
"It's a fountain, which is on display in Florence." Hannah answers, and then adds. "Dr. Rhoades gave it to me. He's a lonely old man, I think."
Starling looks at her daughter, curiosity forming in her blue eyes. "Who is Dr. Rhoades?"
"My Italian Art and Sculpture professor."
Starling blinks. Art…sculpture…Italian. No, it couldn't be, could it? He must surely be dead by now, she thinks, her heart racing.
"Something wrong?" Hannah asks, turning and looking at her mother for the first time
Starling regains her composure and tries to act as unphased as possible. "No, nothing's wrong. Just some silly thoughts is all."
"Oh, well Dr. Rhoades is just a lonely man, as I said before. He doesn't mean any harm." Hannah says, turning back to her photograph.
No harm, Starling thinks. No harm at all, I'm sure…
**************************************************************
Darkness falls, and Starling feels a slight chill as she lays in bed. Pulling her flowered comforter around her bare shoulders, she closes her eyes trying to keep her thoughts at bay. But she's loosing the battle. Memories seep into her consciousness, as a wound seeps blood, and forces her to remember. And remember she does…
She sees his face, smells him, hears his voice, feels his hands on her. There is a certain longing in her heart, but she doesn't admit it to herself. She WON'T admit it.
"Tell me Clarice…"
No, she thinks to herself, stop it…
"Would you ever tell me stop…"
Before her memory has a chance to finish the reverie, she opens her eyes and whispers into the stillness of the dark.
"Yes…I would…"
*******************************************************************
As Starling lays in her bed, conjuring up memories so does Rhoades, miles and miles away. His room is painted a beige color and on it's walls hang many rare paintings, a few done by the original artist. There is no television present, nor a radio. His made is made of cherry wood, and the headboard was custom carved with the images of horses and lambs. A single bed stand lamp is lit as Rhoades sits at his desk and stares at a oil painting of a landscape, lost in his own memories.
In his mind, he sees three deer leap passed him. A buck and two doe. He hears the soft padding of delicate feet on the earth. He smells the scent of dead leaves and a hint of sweat. HER sweat. He sees her ponytail bounce behind her as she fades from view. I've come halfway around the world, just to see you run…And I've come back again, Clarice…my girl…he thinks, with a smirk.
*******************************************************************
The morning comes and Dr. Lecter, better known as Dr. Rhoades is sitting at his desk once again. In his hand he holds a fountain pen he purchased in Florence, and on the desktop is a sheet of thick, off-white stationary. He writes slowly and beautifully, the pen barely touching the surface of the paper.
"Dear Clarice," He begins.
"I have already had the honor of meeting your…or rather, OUR daughter, Hannah. Was it good for you, Clarice? It was for me…"
"I've come back, my girl. And you should expect a visit from me. Or perhaps, YOU will come to ME. I can see you doing just that. Give my love to Hannah, who I am sure knows nothing of me."
"Regards, Hannibal Lecter, M.D."
"P.S-I believe Edgar Lee Masters said it best in his poem, 'William and Emily':
"That is a power of unison between souls…"
"You can't deny it Clarice."
He sets the pen down and delicately folds the paper, slipping it into the corresponding envelope. Now, all he has to do is wait…