15 HMV: Lady of the Lake
"Standin' under the disco lights/Gonna let my hair hang down/High heels bought me that whiskey mouth/I'm back on my own time…"
–Gin Wigmore, song "Hangover Halo"
9:10 pm, Week 7, Palace Garden Fountain, Across from Litteraturhuset, Wergelandsveien 29, 0167 Oslo, Norway
Their date night…no, more like weekend…had gone wonderfully, in all its sauna-filled glory. Macy and Harry's most recent evening excursion took themselves near Litteraturhuset; they had dined at Bokbacka Restaurant Frogner, an upscale Scandinavian restaurant known for their succulent langoustines and authentic Nordic rye bread. As they rounded the corner, walking past Dronningdamen pond, Macy snuggled her head atop Harry's for a brief moment, enjoying the serene, tranquil bliss that came with a Sunday evening in the quaint city.
All of a sudden, they heard a splash, followed by a chorus of raucous shouts.
"Uh…Harry, what was that?" Macy tugged at her husband's sleeve. "Did you hear that?"
Harry shrugged. "Maybe a couple of inebriated souls out on the town?" Macy shook her head.
"I could've sworn I heard a splash—I have a weird feeling about this…" her voice trailed off, meeting his eyes directly. Morgana? There was no way she would be out and about at this odd hour on her own, and even if she were—why would she be near a body of water? Highly unlikely, but just one way to be sure. Macy grabbed Harry's elbow in a dark corner of the sidewalk, orbing directly behind a tree that overlooked the fountain.
9:12 pm, Palace Garden Fountain, Across from Litteraturhuset, Wergelandsveien 29, 0167 Oslo, Norway
"She's in the fountain!" Macy heard a young man cry from the opposite end of the lamplit Slottsparken greenery.
"Who on earth is in the fountain?" yelled Harry, as he and Macy raced forward from where they had landed.
"The crazy redhead!" cried another youth, as a small crowd began to form around the body of water. Shit, shit, shit, Macy thought to herself, as they neared the water's edge, as they stared on in abject shock. Morgana, thoroughly drenched, wading about the fount without a care in the world.
"What's going on here?" Macy unsuccessfully attempted to flag down said youth, who ignored her as he snapped a handful of photos on his smartphone, no doubt to give to the Afterposten and whatever tabloids were all the rage in Oslo. She inwardly groaned and motioned Harry over who understood the depth and breadth of memory charms needed. "What the hell is she doing?" she frantically gestured in Morgana's direction.
"It appears she's Sylvia in "La Dolce Vita," as portrayed through Katherine in the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun,"" Harry answered. "She's very good, actually," he continued, after a moment's pause; he cleared his throat abruptly as Macy couldn't help but continue staring due to the utter absurdity of the situation.
"Is she drunk?" she whispered in Harry's ear.
He sighed. "I certainly hope so." Macy glanced at Morgana's form, which showed not-so-subtle symptoms of aging—her silvery threads were now visible, and the dewy visage she was fiercely proud of had acquired an extra few wrinkles that were impossible not to notice, even from a distance.
A sudden inspiration hit her. "You know," Macy remarked, channeling her near-perfect memory of "Under the Tuscan Sun," "in "La Dolce Vita," he goes in and he gets her. Mastroianni. He enters the water, makes contact, and he fishes her out." Oh gods, do I have to? Harry regarded Macy, rather unnerved by the scenario unfolding before their very eyes. Macy nodded. He removed his suit jacket and handed it to her as she patted his shoulder.
She would have gone in herself, were it not for the fact she was wearing a brand-new A-line scoop-necked asymmetrical satin cocktail dress with elaborate beading, creating sleeves that were barely visible save for what resembled intricate ivy that wound itself around her arms. At least, that's what she told herself. Harry had a warm suit jacket and could easily orb to acquire additional clothes as necessary.
9:18 pm, Palace Garden Fountain, Across from Litteraturhuset, Wergelandsveien 29, 0167 Oslo, Norway
Macy watched as Harry, with much trepidation, removed his dark leather laced shoes and sank into the frigid water, stepping through the fount toward Morgana, who was alternately pouring water from one hand to the other, and sinking her head under the mouth of the fountainhead itself.
"Morgana," Harry offered his hand, and she took it as gracefully as she could, given her rather sodden predicament.
"Thank you. Do you think I make a good Sylvia?" her emerald eyes glimmered up in his general direction.
"Y-yes," Harry's teeth began to chatter. "Y-You were splendid," he finished, as Macy met them both at the water's edge, as he removed his shirt and put the dry suit jacket on in its stead.
10:30 pm, 2nd floor Bedroom, Sagene Bok og Papir, Arendalsgata 12, 0463 Oslo, Norway
Morgana had showered and changed into a flannel pajama set while Harry used the hallway washer and dryer to clean his soggy dress shirt, undershirt, and slacks (his boxer shorts were dry to begin with). Macy fixed themselves each a cup of steaming peppermint tea from the selection of herbs Morgana had in a nearby cabinet, and they sipped in silence several minutes thereafter in the cozy, carpeted room, illuminated by a myriad of ivory-colored jasmine and coconut-scented candles that reminded Macy and Harry of their Epicenter Pico home in the Azores. Various-sized rose quartz crystals hung from hooks alongside each of the windows, as Macy tried hard not to steal glances at Harry's bare, muscular chest, at least for the sake of Morgana's dignity.
"I see you no longer have a language partner?" Macy hesitantly ventured, referring to Morgana's efforts at learning Norwegian bokmal, which included private coffee shop meetings with a certain blond gentleman by the name of Bjørn.
Morgana shook her head from where she was tucked into her twin-sized bed, covered with a bright crimson floral-printed quilt. "Back to Valhalla, alas."
"I'm so sorry," replied Macy softly.
Morgana laughed a bit. "Don't be. I'm fine now. There's nothing like a fountain and a magnum of Hetta Glögg to set oneself straight again."
"Really?" Harry couldn't help but interject, ever-the-optimist.
"What do you think?"responded Morgana sarcastically, with an arched eyebrow.
"Oh."Harry appeared crestfallen as he awkwardly stared into the bottom of his teacup, the dregs of peppermint leaves curled up within, as if in a demented fetal position. Morgana, he silently realized, had hit rock bottom. In Oslo, of all places.
"You know who I really love the most from all the films?" murmured Morgana. Macy stared over at Harry then back at Morgana, as they both shook their heads.
"Cabiria."
Harry appeared confused as Macy instantly recognized the reference, as she thought of a certain film's Francesca, hopelessly lost in the Tuscan countryside after a failed marriage back in the States.
"You remember at the end when another man has left her, and she thinks it's all over for her?" Macy nodded, having an inkling as to where the conversation was headed.
"She sees children," Macy continued, "right?"
Morgana nodded, her curls graying before their very eyes. "Playing in the street, making music."
"And before she knows it...she's smiling again," said Macy.
"Per Federico Fellini, wise sage of the ages," Morgana ended, her exhaustion finally catching up with her as her head dropped back onto her pillow and she unceremoniously commenced snoring.
11 pm, 2nd floor Bedroom, Sagene Bok og Papir, Arendalsgata 12, 0463 Oslo, Norway
Macy cleared the small coffee table of the three teacups and washed the teacups in the adjoining bathroom sink. Once Harry's shirt, undershirt, and slacks were dry, he put them back on in the bathroom and tiptoed back into Morgana's bedroom, as her snoring droned on.
"Will she be ok, you think?" Macy asked Harry, who wearily surveyed the fast-aging witch, whose arms were beginning to wrinkle and crease ever-so-slightly in the candlelight.
"I think she's realized her time in Norway is coming to a close, is what I think." He turned to face his wife. "How about we orb back to the hotel—I'll check on her in the morning with a fresh cup of "Hair of the Dog" to soothe her impending hangover—"
"Don't tell her what's inside, if you can help it," interjected Macy, recalling the time, decades ago, when she, her sisters, and Harry himself had woken up supremely ill from the past evening's debauchery. "If you hadn't told me it was a literal 'hair of the dog' I probably wouldn't have spat it out, violation notwithstanding—"
"I know, love," Harry said with a wry chuckle. "Once Morgana comes to, we can discuss how she's getting back to the Azores. I think Matias will be glad to know she's returning; it's been a quiet couple of months without her at Faial Market."
"Sounds like a plan," Macy shakily smiled as she clasped Harry's arm, vanishing into the starry night.