Finale: Redemption and Truth
* * * * *
Mireille drove into Paris with the rising sun in her eyes. Despite the loose traffic restrictions and the lack of highway patrols, she traveled impossibly slow. The trip across the Spanish border had been made at an equally sluggish pace. She cursed her own apprehension.
The flight had been from Montreal to Madrid, and then onto Paris. Strangled by an overwhelming sense of panic, she had debarked the plane during the stopover. It seemed the closer she got to her objective, the more fretful she became. So here she was, three weeks later, in a rental car, with the Parisian skyline finally in sight. Somehow, it still felt like home.
It had been more than a year since last she had set foot here. The car passed landmarks, restaurants, stores. All of it was familiar, alluring, but Mireille did not stop. She pushed onwards with singular purpose.
Skyscrapers and office complexes flew by as she made her way through the downtown area, where the rush hour traffic was just beginning to pick up. Beyond that came the apartment buildings, hundreds of them packed together in one dense swell of humanity.
As she drew nearer to her destination, Mireille felt her resolve wavering. Even with the blast of air coming through the open windows of the car, she had a sudden inability to breathe. The car rolled to a stop at the side of the road.
Mireille leaned back in the driver's seat, removing her sunglasses. For one brief moment, she wanted to start the car again and turn around, but the sensation passed quickly. Nevertheless, she stayed put, simply staring ahead, unable to force herself into action. Nostalgia overcame her, stirring up memories that left her numb. What was she afraid of? Going back to an empty apartment?
When she finally summoned the courage to press on, the sun was well past its zenith..
* * * * *
Kirika sat pensively in front of the television. Disjointed images that she didn't bother to note flashed across the screen. The news anchor rambled on about natural disasters and economic crises. She tuned him out, concentrating instead on the sketchbook in front of her.
The blank page scowled at her, as if challenging her to blemish its virgin form. Kirika's hand hovered closer, pencil tightly grasped in her fingers. She hesitated. Not a thought came to mind. Or rather, there were too many thoughts, too many inconsequential thoughts, too many thoughts about the wrong things.
Just to spite the feeling, Kirika sketched out some scenery. A few trees by the riverbank, water flowing cleanly, the sun poking through sparse clouds. She spent maybe five minutes drawing, then pulled away to consider her work. It disgusted her. She threw the sketchbook onto the coffee table, where it landed next to the letter Mireille had left her.
Unable to help herself, Kirika leaned forward and took hold of the letter. With the endless droning of the news announcer in the background, she read it yet again, feeling the frustration build. In a sudden fit of anger, she snatched up the remote and flung it at the television. Miraculously, it struck the power button, shutting off the TV and spilling an uneasy silence into the apartment.
The cat leapt onto the table, its gaze questioning the girl.
Kirika sighed. She leaned forward, flipping open her journal. With the pencil still in her hand, she scratched a few words in the margin, not bothering to date the page.
"I'm going for a walk." She announced, leaving her diary open on the table.
The cat only stared at her.
* * * * *
A small white cat greeted Mireille as she timidly pushed open the door. Surprisingly, her key still fit, even though the apartment was clearly occupied. The smell of tea and flowers assaulted her nose. It was a mixture of two rich scents, yet the combined effect wasn't overpowering. The aroma was pleasant, almost spring-like in its intensity, which wasn't startling since greenery abounded.
That wasn't the only change. The whole apartment had been renovated. Floor redone, windows fixed, walls repainted. The work had been done fairly recently, but long ago enough so that the smell of construction was not all-pervasive. Some of Mireille's original furniture was still there; some had been replaced. Yet all of it was exactly the way she remembered. Every item positioned where it used to be. Even her pool table desk remained as the centerpiece. It was eerily familiar, yet subtly different at the same time, a testament to her taste in interior design.
The cat hissed, wary of this stranger, but unwilling to relinquish its territory. Mireille regarded the animal, fascinated by it. It seemed so much like another cat, from a long time ago. What was that cat's name again? Prince...?
"Prince?" She tried tentatively.
The cat hissed again, baring its teeth. No one came out to see what she was doing in their apartment. The tenants must be out. She hadn't really expected to find anyone, though part of her had hoped nonetheless.
The cat evaded her with surprising gracefulness, bounding off into the kitchen. Mireille did not pursue. It was a guess anyway, and wishful thinking on her part. Besides, although she couldn't recall the other cat's name she did remember it being much older. This one was still a kitten.
Feeling very much like an intruder, but powerless to stop herself, Mireille began walking through the apartment. Though the cat avoided her, she stepped into all the rooms, recalling memories and anecdotes along the way.
The bedroom was organized in a very ordinary way. The bed was made, clothes were neatly hung up in the closet. There was nothing at all that set the place apart. There was nothing at all to indicate who it was that lived here now.
The first thing Mireille checked was the loose floorboard. Her letter was gone. Maybe the new tenants had found it when they moved in. Maybe Kirika had found it. But then where was she?
Mireille laughed. A high, near-hysterical laugh. Had she really expected Kirika to come back? Had she really expected Kirika to stay here and wait for her? Of course not. Mireille continued her tour of the apartment, careful not to disturb anything else, so as not to let the new occupants know anyone had been here.
There was a plant by the large windows that drew her attention. It was in the same place her plant used to be. It even rested on that same table. She drifted to the window, peered down onto the street, almost hoping to catch sight of Kirika. No such luck.
The plant was thin and pretty. Not like the leafy thing she used to have. This one was a flowering plant, possessed with a certain fragile serenity. A single violet bud was visible, ready to bloom. She stroked the leaves gently, cradling the delicate flower-to-be in her fingers.
Time passed slowly as she stood by the window, waiting. For what? She didn't know. Unconsciously, she ran her fingers down the length of the plant, around its pot, beneath it, half-expecting to find another message for herself. There was nothing. Undeterred, she continued gazing out across the street, unaware of how closely she imitated Kirika's past moods.
The cat brought Mireille out of her trance. It mewled plaintively in the kitchen, scratching at one of the cupboards. When Mireille came to investigate, it only nudged her leg and looked up plaintively at her, making chewing motions with its jaws.
"You must be hungry." Mireille was undoubtedly right, because the cat sat up straight at the word 'hungry'.
Rummaging through the kitchen, she found a package of pet food, from which she scooped out a small portion. She also poured a saucer of milk, setting both on the floor for the cat.
As the animal voraciously dug into its meal, Mireille wandered back out to the front of the apartment and sat on the couch. She thought of turning on the television, but that would be getting too comfortable. After all, this wasn't her apartment anymore. She didn't know what else to do. She had come back to Paris specifically to see this place. There was nowhere else to go.
A folded piece of paper on the coffee table caught her eye. She picked it up. Mireille was struck by the fact that this paper seemed so familiar. The way it was folded, the smudges of ink that showed through the back, this was...
Her letter. The letter she had never given Kirika. It gave her hope. Maybe Kirika was actually here. Maybe Kirika had found the letter. Maybe Kirika was waiting for her... Maybe.
Mireille did not read the letter again, didn't even bother unfolding it. She had long ago memorized every word. She thought only of putting it back. As she did so, she noticed an open notebook with a few words scrawled on the page. That in itself wasn't surprising, but the first two words were... her name.
Mireille Bouquet
Let there always be Light and Water for the Tree
The sentence mesmerized her. She flipped to the beginning of the book. Three words had been written across the first sheet in bold black strokes.
Je suis Noir
Mireille turned the page. It was a diary. Her name appeared in almost every entry, she saw, and her heart clenched at the thought. Not wanting to pry too much, she simply thumbed through the book, without catching most of the words. Some of the pages however, would not turn easily. They were crinkled and smudged, spotty even, as though Kirika had written while... crying.
Intrigued, Mireille settled down to read.
* * * * *
Kirika walked home under an orange sky. The late evening sun engulfed the atmosphere in its fiery glow, setting ablaze the few clouds that floated above her. She made it back to her building just as the sun dipped out of sight. Wearily, Kirika headed for the stairs.
She was aware of the intruder even before entering the apartment. The entire floor was bathed in the wonderful smell of seafood and butter. Strangely enough, it was emanating from behind her own door.
With the practiced grace of a dancer, Kirika slipped silently inside.
* * * * *
She stopped in the kitchen doorway, captivated by the sight of the blonde woman in her kitchen. Kirika recognized her instantly, even from behind. There was something about her, something in the stance, the movements, the classy clothes.
"Mireille." It was spoken quietly, a simple statement. A statement of truth.
The blonde pivoted immediately at the sound of the voice, the frying pan slipping from her hands to the floor. It clattered loudly against the tiles, dumping its contents haphazardly about. Neither Mireille nor Kirika bothered to retrieve it.
A well of silence followed the fracas, a long moment in which the two just stood there, staring at each other.
Kirika looked older than Mireille remembered, although her eyes, which had once radiated indifference, were now softer and gentler. The maturity remained; however, she didn't seem as supremely confident as before. It was as though Kirika had lost some of that hard edge she used to possess. She wore the same type of non-descript clothes. Her ragged mop of black hair was in the same perpetual state of disarray, listless curls falling into her face. But even though her appearance hadn't really changed, Kirika came across as more vibrant than she used to be.
"Mireille." Kirika repeated, and this time she reverted to her accent, pronouncing the last syllable sharply. The younger girl tensed suddenly, and Mireille thought she was going to be jumped, but both of them held their ground.
Mireille tried to respond, but her voice was choked with emotion, and it came out as an inaudible mumble. She raised her hand weakly, as if to punctuate her inability to speak.
Now Kirika did jump at her, wrapping her arms around Mireille. "Mireille! You came back!"
"Kirika." Mireille whispered faintly, tears coming to her eyes as she recalled all the things she had read in the diary.
At he sight of her partner crying, Kirika felt her own eyes begin to well up.
Embarrassed, but starved for contact, they clung to each other for a long time without daring to look. Mireille closed her eyes, crushing the other girl to herself, surprised at how warm Kirika actually felt. The dark hair tickled Mireille's face, and some of her tears fell into it, shimmering as the pull of gravity traced them along the black strands.
Kirika held tightly to Mireille's neck, unwilling to let go and not wanting to see her cry. Every tear that struck her head reassured her. Mireille was back. Mireille was here. Absently, Kirika pushed her hand beneath the blond hair away and stroked the nape of Mireille's neck.
Gradually, calm returned. The tears halted, and eventually the both of them managed to still their trembling as well. Mireille's hands slid down to Kirika's waist, and she had a sudden intense desire to hold her again, but she pulled away. Finally their eyes met.
Kirika blinked, and Mireille noted the pristine quality of her face, the lack of makeup, the lack of jewelry, the lack of any fashion trappings in general. She reached out to touch it, but Kirika snatched the hand out of the air, entwining her own thin fingers into Mireille's. The Japanese girl offered only a smile.
For Mireille, that smile was everything. How long had it been, since the last time this girl had smiled? She wondered. So rare. In all the time they had known each other, Mireille had very seldom seen Kirika smile. So beautiful. Unconsciously, the ends of her mouth began lifting of their own accord.
Kirika saw the smile overcome Mireille's face, wanted to embrace her once more, but suppressed the notion, still too embarrassed. Still too afraid.
The blonde was the first to speak again. "You ruined dinner." Mireille pointed out, nodding her head in the direction of the dropped frying pan.
Kirika's smile didn't wane. "We'll make something else." With Mireille's hand still firmly clenched in hers, Kirika dragged her partner out of the kitchen.
* * * * *
They ate canned soup instead. Neither of them complained. Simply wallowing in the other's company was enough.
For once it seemed as though the roles had been reversed. Mireille kept a guarded silence, basking in everything Kirika wanted to share, but offering little of her own in response. She was content with merely being here, listening to Kirika's voice. Kirika, on the other hand, was overflowing with so many things to say, she had to stop to keep herself from babbling. Her excitement was clearly evident, and Mireille was touched by the atypical display of passion.
After their meal, as Mireille took the dishes into the kitchen, Kirika strayed to the couch and sat down, trying to force some semblance of calm into her demeanor. Her fingertips were all numb and tingly, as were her feet. It felt like her blood wasn't making it to the extremities. She closed her eyes, holding her hands tightly in her lap, as though it would somehow stop the fidgeting. She strained to slow her breathing, searching for a rhythm that was less racy.
Mireille stood at the window for a few moments, admiring Kirika. It seemed like she was meditating, sitting there with her eyes closed, her lungs taking in shallow breaths. A light breeze blew into the apartment, ruffling her hair and clothes slightly. As if taken by a sudden fit of inspiration, Kirika eyes shot open, and she grabbed her diary.
Mireille glided over to the sofa on her bare feet. Earlier, she had kicked off those ungainly heels she had become so accustomed to wearing. She sat next to Kirika, conspicuously leaving the seat between them empty.
Diary spread on her lap, Kirika appeared not to notice. There was nothing written on her page. Her mind kept spinning off on its own tangents. She felt unable to formulate her thoughts properly, even though she was bursting with ideas.
As her pen finally neared the page, she felt Mireille's touch on her shoulder. The hand lingered, crept its way towards her neck, and then suddenly retracted.
Kirika glanced over, puzzled.
"I'm sorry." Mireille whispered, looking away.
"For what?"
"I read your diary."
Kirika shrugged, tossed her notebook back onto the coffee table. "It doesn't matter."
She had always been somewhat anxious of Mireille ever reading her personal thoughts, but it was the truth, wasn't it? Every word, every phrase she had marked in those little lined sheets had come from deep within her soul. And in the end, who had she been writing to all this time anyway?
She shifted closer to Mireille, thinking of comforting her but not knowing how to go about it. Mireille only stiffened, tried to draw further away, even though she was already at the end of the couch. Kirika's casual dismissal did not assuage her guilt.
"I'm sorry." She sputtered again. "I'm sorry I made you wait so long when I never had the strength to do the same."
Kirika slid over, clasped Mireille's hand in her own. "You forgave me. What more could I ask for?"
Mireille fought back tears as she put her arms around Kirika again, enjoying the simple feel of having someone warm nearby. Kirika leaned into her, nuzzling her neck. Mireille gently stroked her back. They cuddled together silently, ignoring the need for words.
* * * * *
The night came in full, darkening the apartment gradually. Still tangled on the couch, they were both too comfortable to even think about getting up. Besides, the moonlight was beautiful. It highlighted Mireille's golden hair, giving it a pure silvery tint. Kirika reached up, ran her fingers through the hair, watched the moonlight play in her hand.
Why was there a flower in Mireille's hair? Kirika sat up straighter, saw that the flower was in fact sitting in a pot by the window. Her plant had bloomed. "It's beautiful." She remarked.
Mireille followed Kirika's gaze to the feathery purple petals, enthralled by the magic that seemed to permeate this place. "You're beautiful." She whispered breathlessly in defiance, her hand finding its way beneath the other girl's chin, her eyes falling sharply back into Kirika's.
"Let there always be Light and Water for the Tree." Kirika intoned solemnly.
Mireille kissed her. "You are my Light and Water."
* * * * *
END
