F L E U R
de
L I S
- Dim Aldebaran -
VII. L O T U S E A T E R S
Sisters parted: the ghosts did not. Her attempt at running away was not a butterfly within the net (no more storms that world away—) so they followed, and laughed amongst themselves, oh-so cruel, junior high.
She took to her bed; the sheets, old but soft, were a watered sort of nepenthes: better comfort than the rich wine of the violin, no, she couldn't drink herself to oblivion—
Trouble came, questioned. She pretended she didn't know: he pretended he didn't care and went away for a while, watching from afar, wondering the what did she do? the who did she talk to? and the why is she like this?
There was someone to answer the questions: he knew all, and what he didn't know he could find with the ant and the honey, Daedalus. Marvelous, really, how they could talk everyday and not say a word—
They had not spoken since the funeral.
"Holly's back—"
"I know."
"—yes, but you see—"
"She pretends."
"—more than she used to—"
"She doesn't hide it now."
"—her eyes, you have to see her eyes—"
"Empty."
"—not just that—"
"She thinks she's empty."
"—there's something else—"
"A souvenir."
"—I didn't see anything—"
"I will."
"—thanks, but—"
"Adieu."
VIII. W A T E R F E A T U R E
Foaly had never come before: but the lock was easy, and she was so alone it could have been murder.
He brought cookies in a little basket and set it by the bed, little red riding hood, missing grandma's smile but admiring the teeth.
She picked one out with blue frosting; it crumbled a bit, blue and brown on ivoried sheets. The place smelled of sweat and tears, and he crinkled his nose.
He watched for a while: but like most watchers he got bored with how this cookie was crumbling and reached for another: "Like them?"
"They're fine."
"I made them." —offering to a silent god.
Laugh: heavy, like a parsnip. "Bullshit."
He took it from her hand; crumbs fell, pooling in a fold of cloth. "How vulgar: I thought you above such gratuities."
Even though the cookie was all neat and collected on the sheet, her fingers kept moving back and forth against each other. He wondered how long it would take for her fingers to wear through each other.
Brusque, now, he took the basket and set it on the floor. "Trouble's worried."
—no response. Her eyes were open; listless, back and forth against the back wall as if it were a map of the world.
"You can't keep doing this."
—and she kept it on, the silence peculiar to the insane.
He tried for the blunt, the clichéd: "You're a fighter; you can't let this defeat you."
—gladiator's death, when at war with the world. Death had never been an instantaneous thing.
There was a piano; he knew it wasn't it because it had dust, staining it the color of old chocolate. He asked anyway: "This his?"
No reaction, no shepherd for the lost.
He pressed down on E, Beethoven, then, E-flat, soft and simple, then again and then down and it was deep and piercing like a night of stars. He let it flow; the stars wheeled and there was dawn as he finished, meno lento, Für Elise.
Reaction: "His favorite."
Equal but opposite: "I thought he hated the piano."
Smile, remembering: "Violin child."
He nodded. "Some things require the scientist and not the musician."
It was wrong but she didn't reply; she wasn't the sort for vengeance, not the sort for anything but a weak 'bullshit', quiet enough that he could pretend he hadn't heard and continue on: "I heard that there was something else."
"The Stradivarius." —as a whisper, as a sigh. She lifted her head up and she slid a box from under her pillow. He opened it and there it was, brunette curls of wood fiber. He turned them over in his hands and he had the odd feeling that he should thank her for letting him see, but he didn't and that was that.
He turned with the box, turned to go and could not turn back, no, could not turn back since he knew what he would see: and he heard a sort of soundless cry, the sort that people can't hear but feel because they know it will happen even before it sounds, and he tried to ignore it like he ignored everything else, but you can't ignore heartbreak, no, can't ignore the deafdumbblind.
She sat up; her eyes were open mirrors that reflected something that he could almost remember. "Please—"
He tipped his hatless head, and left.
The cradle will fall.
IV. M O N K S H O O D
He had nothing by way of a life, so he went to it: the pieces fit, perfect puzzle.
He played The Death of Äse, Grieg and felt the sweetness spread like honey in the mouth, sticking long after the pleasure wore off; he played Flight of the Bumblebee and felt the blood rush through him hotter than any drugs and considered the addiction; then Vocalise, Rachmaninoff and he felt the disharmony within itself and smiled: and frowned. Artemis never could bear a violin that couldn't play Vocalise;yet here it was, without that deep, throaty whisper Rachmaninoff required.
No Stradivarius—
—no truth.
Lies were more interesting, anyway: though, really, Artemis had been obliged.
X. P E N N Y R O Y A L
Her head had a peculiar slant to it; as if she might slip into a slumber (or to death—) or simply stay, staring, or pop up in a sort of reanimation. "No tricks."
His grin: crooked as his ways. "I am no farce, no le sceptique de la vie. Would he have a violin that couldn't play Vocalise?"
"It broke—"
"—and I fixed it." Grin: snake-oil salesman, satisfied. "Not the mechanic, ah, non, mademoiselle—un sage, next, ah oui?" He took up the violin and played a reeling hornpipe, one that made his shadow dance on the wall.
She sunk into the pillows, repelled, repulsed.
"—and so the violin beau/ fell to a depth so low—"
She curled in; the violin swung and swirled, but did not sing.
"—as that great violin beau/that struck a terrible blow—"
Curling, curling, curling inward, the sheets surrounded but did not comfort, sanctuary/purgatory, and long after he left the very flames licked at her feet, the fires of guilt from Father Lucifer himself—
XI. de L Y S
Trouble woke with a crash. He heard the snap of carrots and went to the kitchen entryway. "Is she—"
"Pitiable, as always."
"—how is she—"
"Lovely tomb she had there, even smelled like one."
"—is she alright—"
"Moping; such an emotional creature, really."
"—how's her—"
"Check the flight log."
"—to where?"
Smile: " Paris."