A/N: I wonder what people think of this story. Any comments would be welcome.
Gifts
It is hard to describe what I'm feeling right now. Touched, for one. Not happy happy. A bittersweet happy. Slightly angry. Gratitude, or is it gratification? More anger at myself. Shock, too. Sadness. That feeling you get when you want to hug someone really hard, but you will never see that person again? Emptiness, perhaps. And above all, a longing for what I can never have. If you can jumble all those emotions into one word, that's what I'm feeling.
Remember the surprise I was talking about yesterday? There were two. Both surpassed all my expectations, regardless of the fact that I had very low ones.
First, he took me up to the garden.
When I saw the door in the living room again, I could barely stop myself from laughing gleefully. Before he opened it, however, he made it very clear that he was only letting me go up because I was sick (I am not!) and I needed fresh air, not because he had forgotten that I had tried to escape. If I ran again, he said (and I quote), "You will never see the sky again, not even if you die for it."
Trust him to ruin a moment.
He unlocked the door and motioned me up the stairs, following close behind. By the time we reached the landing above, I was winded (I'm not sick, and don't even think it! I was merely tired). We stopped there for a while. While we waited, he flicked a switch that made the lights in the stairwell unbearably bright. I winced and covered my eyes. Do you know how much it hurts to see the light after months in semi-darkness?
"It's still afternoon outside; your eyes need to adjust," was his curt explanation.
Afternoon! The sun was out! I smiled, despite myself. His eyes, which never left me, softened.
An awkward silence later, he unlocked the door of the landing and led me into the outhouse. I shouldn't call it an outhouse. Cottage, perhaps. There are three rooms there, but all are unfurnished. It's a mystery what they are intended for.
As we stepped out, I cringed again. It was indeed afternoon, and the sun was no less forgiving to a puny wisp of a person who had not seen it for months, than to any other. How it burned my arms and my face! It felt wonderful. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the heat on my skin.
He stood aside, watching me as I stepped forward, awkwardly, hesitantly, glancing back at him for permission to do so. He stood aside, without a word, when I kicked off my sandals to feel the grass better and stepped ahead, taking his silence as acquiescence. Such an odd figure, he cut, standing as he did near the incongruously ugly, concrete hut, a dark shadow against a near-white screen.
I closed my eyes, the better to appreciate the fresh air and warmth and the sounds. It is peculiar to be warm again, after such a long winter. I wondered if it would ever end at all. Or was it a dream and has the winter never ended? I am still here, am I not? No, it cannot be. See that on my dresser, Bella? It looks real. It feels solid when I touch it. It could not have been a dream, could it?
In my dream or not, I suddenly felt an enormous sense of gratitude towards him; I would have thanked him profusely had it not suddenly occurred to me that I was behaving like a dog, delighted to receive the tiniest scrap from a master that habitually kicked it.
I left the words unsaid, begrudged, and ventured further ahead. I could hear birds, the sounds of openness. Have I ever told you about the deafeningly deathly silence down here? It's like a huge weight that presses down on you all the time. It nearly drove me mad at first, and it also made me seek him out, if only to escape from that infernal lack-of-noise.
One final glance at him for permission made me notice that he was edging towards me. I noticed then that he was fidgeting with his collar. He only does that when he is nervous about something.
He began speaking slowly, hesitantly, as if unsure of how I would react. "I … Christine … I—Erik" (he has a disconcerting habit of referring to himself in the third person), "has something else … for you … a … a gift, you could say. I—would you like to see it?"
His nervousness rubbed off on me. I smiled unsurely and nodded and mumbled a yes. He held out his hand for mine, and I reluctantly gave it. Then, still fiddling with his collar, he led me further into the depths of the garden, to a little pond, complete with fountain and statues. It's my favourite place there.
There are four or five marble benches around it (he has a tendency to over-furnish; even the house is filled with sofas and chairs and couches that he certainly does not need), and requesting me to sit on one, he fished behind it and produced a small rectangular package that was wrapped in brown paper and string.
Thrusting it into my hands, he muttered something about leaving me to open it in peace and that he hoped I liked it, and then turned on his heel. I don't know why I called him back and asked him to stay.
Very reluctantly, he returned. He stood facing the fountain, with his back to me as I untied the package. When I saw what was inside, I gasped and began to cry despite myself. It certainly could not have been a dream. I would never have thought of this, even in my wildest, most feverish imaginations.
The moment he heard my sobs, he strode off towards the house. By the time I regained my senses, he was gone. I never enter the house alone now, so I stayed upstairs, alone, waiting for and wanting him to come back, and drowning in memories.
Oh, Erik. Of all the things in the world that you could have given me, this was the least expected. Sometimes, I think that you are the most knuckle-headed and emotionless idiot I have ever come across, but then you do something like this and I am forced to think that you have far more intuition than any man I have ever known. Why must you do things like this?
The gift was a framed watercolour of three people: my father, my mother, and my grandmother. They were all smiling, I felt, at me. He has used the barest minimum of strokes, but they are accurate; even when I look at it now, after almost a day, I feel my throat well up. I will never see any of them again, you see, even if I leave this place. They are all quite dead.
I know you know about Papa. I did not want to talk about Mama and Nana then because I did not want to remember that when I read you again. Those wounds are much closer and deeper. Now, he has precipitated any plans I might have had of bringing it up later. At any rate, I will not talk of them now. It hurts too much.
I was examining it more closely when I noticed that he had written something on the back of the frame in his near-illegible writing. After some squinting and reading it from different angles, I deciphered this: "May you lever–something–that blue hardiness is; may you kind it–something, something–day."
It made no sense. A few more moments like this and a shadow fell across my lap and the frame. I looked up to find him there. Hastily swiping the last stray tears from my face, I smiled a tiny, sad smile (it felt like that to me, anyway) and asked him to read out the message.
He did not take the frame, but never once moving his eyes off my face, he told me what it was. "May you never forget what true happiness is; may you find it again one day."
I did not say anything. I did not have to. The smile grew and I impulsively reached out and pressed his hand. He stiffened initially, but then relaxed and squeezed my hand back. It is the first, and perhaps last, time I have initiated contact with him.
He inquired softly if I would like to go inside, and I shook my head vehemently. No more darkness! He nodded as if he understood, then gently pried his fingers from my grasp and turned.
"Where are you going?"
"Inside. I presume you want to be alone."
I asked if he would stay with me.
He started at that. Said something to the effect of being under the impression that he was not exactly my favourite person in the world. He said it more eloquently, of course. I merely paraphrase.
I wanted to be with someone then. Anyone. I told him that in politer words, and looking slightly dazed, he sat next to me.
Neither of us spoke for a long while.
Then he asked me if I missed them very much. That set off the flood. I ended up wallowing in memories and crying. He did not try to comfort me; it might have been due to that argument I had on the day I started writing in you. He did not leave either, which was good.
When the tears dried up, I changed the subject. I think I blindsided him when I asked if he believed in God. He is an atheist, not surprisingly.
He asked me what I believe in. I used to believe; I must have amused him with my adolescent religious views, back when he was merely a voice. When things like this happen to you, however, you start to doubt the existence of a benevolent god. I told him as much.
"You believe in a malicious god, then?" I could hear the smile in his voice. Perhaps my views still amuse him.
"No. I don't believe in anything or anyone. I don't think there's any purpose to life."
"I never thought you would become a nihilist." He was serious now. Why?
"A nihilist?"
"It is a philosophy that…."
And that was how we started talking. I do not think I have had such a conversation with him since before I came here.
It reminded me about what I have forgotten since I came here; it is perhaps the most important memory of this book. Once upon a time, I was happy because even after my father's music had died, I had Erik's. For one brief, shining period after my private apocalypse, I had a normal, loving mother, a normal, loving grandmother, and beautiful music. Temporary, fleeting bliss, killed by his voice taking over my life.
Can I subsist on memories? I don't know. For once, however, I cannot be bitter about what he has done to me. His gift has reminded me of the time before he brought me here, when I respected and obeyed him because I wanted to, when I was not afraid of him (except when I thought he was a stalker), when I was happiest when I heard his voice and listened to his music.
He wants more than I can give, but if I give what I can–what can I give? I can't think of anything– perhaps … I don't know what. Perhaps he will see it for what it is. And then what? I don't know.
I am sorry, Erik. I cannot love you. You have hurt me far too much for me to let you in. I wish I could tell you that you are pursuing a lost cause, but I don't think that I will ever build up the courage to. I am a coward, am I not? Pathetic.
We spoke for a long time. From Nihilism, we went on to Marx (Karl, not Groucho) Stalin and Russia, then the French Revolution and the excesses of the aftermath.
I learnt yesterday that he is keenly interested in the failings of mankind, he seems to have a personal vendetta against the world, and that he is far more cynical than I. And he knows an awful lot, and for once, I did not feel pressurised to keep up with him. How do you learn more about someone in a day than you do over months? It is what has happened with Erik and I.
The conversation became slightly gruesome somewhere around World War II (horrible!), so he told me stories of some old British kings instead. Edgar, was it? And Ethelred the Unready, I think.
The garden became darker, the sun set. I made no move to go in, and neither did he. I was hungry, but I was far too busy relishing the cool night air mingled with his voice to want to go in.
At one point, he got up, saying he would be back soon, and left me alone in the dark. I shivered, but it was a nice shivering. Open darkness is better than closed, locked-door darkness. He returned some time later with three blankets, a torch, and a basket of food. I wrapped myself in the blankets and gorged.
Stars began to appear in the sky. Venus first, brightest of all stars, then other minor ones whose names I did not know. As the night wore on and the food basket slowly emptied itself, he pointed out constellations, and told me the stories behind them. He showed me how to find Polaris, and explained the geographical reason for its apparent motionlessness. It's more interesting than it sounds. Trust me.
I must have dozed off at some point of time because the last thing I remember is something about the Aquila, the lightning-bearing eagle of Zeus. I ought to ask him about that again. I woke up in the middle of the night, in my bed and fully clothed. Half-asleep, I changed and collapsed back.
I noticed the painting lying face down on my bedside table only this morning. When I saw it, I did not smile. I miss them so much, Bella! But it's a distant sort of missing, like an old cut whose scab has peeled off. At least he has ensured one thing. I will never forget their faces now. I have stood it on my dresser so that I can look at it every day. And I can see it and feel it.
Do you know that I often wonder if this place is real at all? Perhaps I went mad after all that happened to me before this, and I'm truly not trapped by anything except my own mind. All these physical reminders—the books, the music, the painting, warmth, the garden, coldness—all these could be inventions, couldn't they? Even you, Bella. I don't think you exist either. But then why do I find ink dots on my hand sometimes, and why does my wrist ache? Compensation by the brain?
And Erik? Is he real? What was that voice I heard for so many years, if it was not real? I do not think I could imagine his music.
Could I?
So much time without any moorings on reality has disoriented me. No, not disoriented. Dashed me into pieces, with nowhere to go to bring myself back together. I no longer know what is real and what is not.
Today's lesson (if it existed) was much better than it has been for a while. I sang today. Really, truly sang. When I say that, I mean that I felt what I was singing again. And you know what the best part is? He noticed. He praised me. It's so rare! I basked in it. It still makes me smile at the thought. I know that the dog-like behaviour is there again, but I will not regret it. I need some kindness, don't I? It makes me more … alive.
It is … interesting. I felt what I sang, but when I stopped, the emptiness came back. Does singing make me more alive, more than kindness?
Something has changed in our relationship once again. I am readier to jump at whatever scraps he doles out, and he is readier to dispense them. Earlier, I snatched what I could, but resentfully.
The lesson was strange for another reason, too. He kept on looking at me as if he could not quite believe I was standing in front of him and smiling. I had forgotten what it was to be happy. Perhaps he has forgotten too? I do not think I will ever be free (of myself or of him?), but if I can have such moments of brief joy, I think I can be content.
No! What am I saying? I can't be thinking of accepting him!
I am tired of fighting, but I must. It is easier to give in, but to lose my freedom forever…? No, it cannot happen. But who do I fight? Which one is real? I cannot win against him, and I do not know how to fight against myself.
Am I betraying myself by being happy and smiling and laughing? Perhaps I am behaving like the dog I so despised myself to be yesterday. Perhaps? No. It's true. I am behaving like a dog.
I don't know what is right or wrong anymore. I desperately want to be normal again. That is all.
Do you remember that conversation Erik and I had about acceptance? I think I have an answer now. However grudging it is, he is irrevocably a part of my life. And yesterday proved that I can speak to him as I once used to. I don't know if that is acceptance. It is the closest I can get, I suppose. One question down, several to go.
Why would I imagine such an existence? If this is truly a hallucination, then wouldn't I have been able to free myself earlier? Wouldn't I have imagined a better place, surrounded by those I love?
The nightmare improves. He said that he will take me up to the garden every day now. Also that I was not getting enough exercise down here, and that he was sorry he had not addressed this issue earlier. Again, I felt that gratitude for favours unasked for, but yet secretly hoped for.
What a life! What a life, indeed.