Storyteller's Notes: Thank you very much for your reviews and for your patience. Thank you for your encouragement.
Disclaimer: as in the first part as it is continuation of the story...
Dr Hannibal Lecter sits in front of a Yamaha keyboard, hands hovering over the plastic keys, fingers stroking control buttons and switches. Electronic keyboard is a new experience to Dr Lecter. His preference resigns resolutely with a harpsichord; yet, he is pleased with this superb machine of the young century.
French doors of his rented cottage are opened to the late-morning sun and the delicate fragrance of the blossoming Calvados mixes with the wine's own bouquet, rising from the antique crystal, he acquired on the way home. It wasn't a part of a set, but its pedigree proved irresistible. Dr Lecter's convinced, the hands and lips that touched its delicate forms over the centuries etched a flavour of their own.
His hands exploring the potential of the instrument, he considers the success of this morning. Dr Lecter smiles, recalling the animation he experienced, surrounded by a few wonderful relics, left behind by their long departed owners. Driving through the coastal village, he was lucky to notice this quaint little shop, lost between narrow cobbled passageways, and was rewarded for taking a trouble to look in. Dr Lecter puts this treasure trove into the shopping directory in his memory palace. He would like to come back here some time, together…
Finally, he switches on a harpsichord tone and plays an air written by Henry VIII, "Green grows the Holly." Endurable…
Encouraged, he essays upon Mozart's "Sonata in B Flat Major", sharply reminded of his first acquaintance with the harpsichord she loved to hear him play. The taste of her presence after years of waiting. If I saw you every day, forever, I'd remember this time…
His indifference is much challenged these days when he is forced to flee and leave behind the things he'd become rather fond off… That is why the Yamaha will do for now… He is comforted by the thought that his late eighteenth-century Flemish harpsichord from the house on the Chesapeake shore is sleeping quietly in a dry temperature-controlled lockbox somewhere in the lands of its origin, together with the theremin, built in the 1930s by Professor Theremin himself, waiting to be delivered, once the predicament is over and he is settled again, hopefully, for good this time…
Hmm, yes, there've been some changes since they left Buenos Aires. Ever since he glimpsed Barney behind the binoculars at the opera. Ever since he told her and saw her jaw set. Watching her eyes frost over, he was pleased, in a way, when Barney decided that staying for the second act might be detrimental to his health.
Incarceration had always been an unwelcome consideration. Incarcerated separation became the intrusive fear. A possible fatality of a chance encounter left her restless…
For a few months now they've been on the move. The nomadic existence had little appeal for them both. Listening to the impurities in the voice of the apparatus, Dr Lecter considers the advancement of the events he set in motion. So far he is satisfied. His equations are elegant in their simplicity and brilliant in their complexity…
He must confess, though …the days without her… are very challenging to the peace he found in the last four years…Once again he sees Mischa in his dreams. Again and again he hears rustle of the wind high in the turning trees, rustle of the leaves beneath her feet. Through the forest lightly flying, Clarice Starling is running, running. Looking back in mid-flight, running, catching up with the deer ahead of her, running...
There were times when Dr Lecter didn't worry. Did he want those years of self-sufficiency back? He didn't think so. In fact, these days he sips his own pain of longing for her and finds it exquisite. The fear of never seeing her again, as he discovered, is the most difficult to contain. A scrawny little deer led away out of the woods… The mid-spring sun is colouring the light breeze with fireworks of flashes on rustling leaves, the glass of the open windowpanes is dark around the blinding reflections, almost purple. Purple, purple… Dr Lecter's eyes are now closed, his face is lifted and he is playing. Purple, purple, Mischa's star-shaped hands are touching his face with the sun-kissed breeze what is Clarice Starling running through the leaves…
Of course, they meet frequently. Opera, dining out, wine savouring and that royalty of all socialising – sex… His lips curl; the stolen nights are a far cry from the years they'd shared together. Maddening drop in a scorching desert. Every time there is unquenched thirst in her eyes, he knows, she is drained. Patience, Clarice, patience… All good things…
His lips stained red by the Château Pétrus, Dr Lecter moves to Bach now. "Variation Two" of the Goldberg Variations running through his hands,in his mind Clarice Starling runs through the leaves. The deer bounding ahead of her, Clarice Starling running down the path, limned golden with the sun behind her, but this is the wrong deer, it is a little deer with the arrow in it pulling, pulling against the rope around its neck as they lead it to the axe…
Dr Lecter doesn't notice when the music falls dead, his hands gripping the edges of the piano stool. He breathes deep, breathes deep; the pain for her is piercing. The fear for her is shattering. Was it a mistake? Bait too far? Dr Lecter is not in a habit of questioning his judgement and finds it disconcerting. He hears her stumble and fall to the ground, the deer leaps, falls atop her, the leaves are now the bloody snow, the ground, the air, all is veiling red, the stench is unbearable… He hears a thin scream, rising from his chest…
He sits for a long time with his hands at his sides in absolute stillness while his mind's calculating with an exasperating speed.
There, in the palace of his mind, he steps out through the gate that used to lead to the shaded sanctuary of his gardens. Now, as far as he can see, the space is taken by the ever sprawling, moving, breathing chessboard. His chess set is unusual – there are only two white figures, they move at will and to the rules of their making. There are countless black pawns, knights, bishops and rooks, devoid of their king and queen, all are connected through the presented options and possibilities. The rules of their engagement are as vague as the infinity of the choices we make. The variables of our personalities, the functions of our differentials…
Like his famous namesake, Dr Hannibal Lecter surveys the action before him. At the starting flank, where the board tiles are sparkling with clarity, his equations begin brilliantly, and he congratulates himself for his cunning.
The uncertainty of mid-decisions and sub-conclusions, however, is the matter of some concern to Dr Lecter. The spiralling development at the centre of his battleground is formulated by the consequences of the initial ripples. He questions if his calculations are doomed to failure by wishful thinking. Could it be that there are just too many variables and too few constants?
As though a general on a commanding hill, he turns towards the sounds of the fiercest fighting where the White Queen towers above the besieging sea of black pieces. Toxic yellow-and-brown clouds cling to the lone figure; lead rain pelts her delicate statue, chinking at the deep ice of her armour, bloody snow oozing through the cracks… Still she moves to the will of her own… General Hannibal Lecter smiles at the sight that pleases him – the constant he can rely on, the essence of Clarice Starling. Sparks fly from the deep darkness of his maroon eyes and shower over his Ice Queen, enveloping her exposed body, melting, mending the gaping wounds in her armour with a constant of his own – consistency of his presence, the least she can rely on – he'll be there when she needs him. Always.
And tonight. He'll see her tonight… Ah, all good things to those who wait. Hannibal Lecter is certain of it.
Dr Lecter rises without a sound and walks outside through the French doors. He breathes in the space, the sky, the sun of Calvados. He believes the breeze had brought her scent and he savours it on his lips.
Yes, he'll see her tonight…
Dr Lecter checks his watch. Time for lunch. Salad de Foie au Meredith Octavius would take a best part of an hour to prepare. He doesn't want to be rushed. It's been some time since Dr Lecter had indulged his palette with such delicate flavours. She had never really developed a relish for some of his more challenging recipes. Ever ceasing the chance, Dr Lecter is ready to entertain himself.
to be continued…
As ever I'd appreciate your reviews.
CE