I wonder what you made of the last chapter...please review! And I hope you like the next one :-)
III. The Harpsichord Notebooks
The city slept in its grey mists, in its still, calm waters, in its cold steel silence. It was early morning, and yet the lone, weather-beaten man trudging along the road to Hyde Park, had no method of detecting the time of day but for a Rolex he had safely tucked away into his pocket; the sky gave no such hints in London. Morning, day, evening, summer or winter, everything was painted grey.
London. He hated the place. And he wasn't the only one. And yet, once he set his eyes on the mansion, he loved it. Loved its architecture. Loved the cobbled roads leading to the lines of uniform Victorian houses, mathematically beautiful and precise. Cold. Perfect. Black-and-white. He surveyed his latest fancy, guarded by two Imperial lions, with its massive oak door, marble porch and stairs.
«Good morning, sir,» said a voice behind him. He didn't turn; he simply removed his glasses – those small, round glasses that were perched so far on his long nose that one wondered whether or not the man's eyesight was indeed impaired – and set about wiping them clean.
«Good?» was all he uttered in response to the man. Indeed, what was so good about this morning? He had no time or patience for words with no meaning. If the morning was not good, do not call it so. If you are not well, you do not answer «fine» to a «how do you do?». That's what he believed. His philosophy. Aut tace, aut locquere meliora silentio. Only speak if what you want to say is better than silence.
His small, portly companion released another gush of useless words in response to his one. He inhaled deeply, letting the words wash over him, allowing only a twitching of the lip to betray his annoyance. His annoyance with the sort of people that behaved more like dogs than humans. That snivelled, had a permanently stooping posture, more things than one could carry in their hands and a simpering tone of voice with a stutter. His lip twitched again.
«Lets talk business, shall we? The auction takes place on...?» he trailed off, looking the little man in his wide eyes. Wide, over-enthusiastic eyes. He felt a tingling in his lips.
«There's no auction, sir, you see...»
«How so? So I technically did not even have to travel to London? It was quite inconvenient, you know, and I wouldn't have come this early if not for the auction.» He prepared himself for the torrent of apologies as he finished his sentence. After it abated, he demanded a reason.
«Oh, sir, well, you see, it's a most unfortunate circumstance, I don't even know how to explain...»
Maintaining a stony facade, he waited for the words to start making some sense. Do I have to throw him a bone? He thought, demonstratively checking his Rolex. 7.35 London time. Where he came from, it was nearing eleven.
«You see, people seem to think the house is haunted.»
At this, he took the liberty to chuckle. It was half-amused, half-annoyed, that steely little laugh. «Haunted,» he echoed. Haunted. I cancel five important meetings, and fly to London to hear about...ghosts. Haunted houses. The headless horseman in the back garden and his severed head in the bathroom mirror. He chuckled again.
«There's no place like London, sir...so, as you see...» see? I see nothing. This talkative Fido hasn't even shown me in yet and it's nearly breakfast time. «hm. As you see, after the story of a rape, a disappearance, and five subsequent and consequtive suicides, and of the dead birds, got out, no-one wants the house. It's yours to buy, sir, at a great price.»
«Dead birds?» he echoed, puzzled. As much as he scorned haunting and similar nonsense, he didn't want a house infested with germs. Even if he wasn't going to live in it.
«The previous realtor firm that owned the rights for the house went bankrupt after a married couple who purchased the house filed a lawsuit against them – and won. Thing is, the husband died of poisoning, and some young, inexperienced forensic expert said it was some disease you can get from dead birds. And they'd been finding dead birds all over the house, in strange places. And strange birds, you know, sir – not just pigeons and sparrows – but larks, finches, linnets...the wife once said she found a delightful green finch perched on her windowsill, but when she touched it, she realised it was dead, just slumped against the side of the windowpane.» the little man cleared his throat. For once, what he was saying was of interest. «Later on, before my firm acquired the rights, we had the house checked – no dead birds, no deadly viruses or anything like that hiding in the corners or behind all those paintings...fact is, the husband committed suicide. Drank arsenic. His wife told us in an unofficial interview. She's dead now, so there's no point in concealing it...and the firm closed, so there was no-one to appeal to court to reverse the sentence...»
Haunting. Dead birds. But no diseases or anything that might threaten him lest he ventures inside the mansion or needs to spend a day or two, or a week, there. That was perfect. The rumours only made the house more valuable in his eyes. He was a collector, after all, and he couldn't collect just any house.
«Perfect,» he said, echoing his thoughts. The little realtor looked shocked, his mouth half open. That was pleasing, too. The more the shock, the better.
The realtor accompanied him, of course, in his tour of the house, and, for once, he didn't ignore his tirades, since architecture, furniture and the art of living beautifully was his passion, his life, and he could listen to that sort of talk forever. For him, heaven sounded like «roccocco» and «baroque», «balustrade» and «armoire»; these words were better than any music to his ears.
The final room was a bedroom, office and a living room, all in one. It was the only room that had curtains, which the realtor threw open, revealing whirlpools of dust swirling in the air. Soon, he noticed that it not only had curtains, but also a set of Victorian furniture, a large, high, double bed with a single pillow, and little round table of what looked like oak, too small to write on, perhaps, but large enough to acommodate a tea set. At the other end of the room stood a dusty Harpsichord. Fascinated as he was by ancient instruments, it first seemed a mirage that the currents of dust particles had conjured for him.
«This room is somewhat special, sir,» said the realtor, rocking from leg to leg, clasping his podgy hands. The lip twitched once again. «It will be stripped bare of any antiques – that is, the oak table, the bed, that old armoire and, of course, the Harpsichord – unless you buy them separately. Most of the antiques were sold, you see, but the most special were decided to be left as part of the house to...um...well, to preserve, so to say, its initial makeup.»
He hardly listened to the realtor's words. He approached the Harpsichord, and stroked the fine, carved wood. His fingers left trails of deep brown in the light ocher dust, trails of brown with inlaid pink and blue, faded with age, faded with use. Worn. He smiled, genuinely.
«Leave me, sir, I wish to think. I will join you in a few minutes.»
Not even turning to look as the realtor left, he walked over to open the top of the Harpsichord. His heart stilled, and skipped a beat. He gasped.
A dead green bird lay inside, a finch, feathers still shiny, wings gently folded. It could be sleeping, if not for the open black eye. There it lay, on the soundboard, so that it's feet were directly above a painted flower, a lily of the valley. If one looked from a distance, or if he took off his glasses, he would think the finch were painted. Painted on that Flemish soundboard.
How long had it been since the instrument had been opened? The layers of dust, unmarked by fingerprints, seemed to be weeks old, and yet the bird was freshly dead. Before revulsion made him look away, before the impossibility of what he saw could register, he notices the notebooks. There were two of them. Bound with a simple, beige cover. Secured with a frayed rope. For once, his skepticism died away. In its place was a new emotion. One that startled him. Curiosity. Curiosity and the fear that goes along with it. Like that of a child playing in the dark.
He took the notebooks, and sat down at the window. The sky had lightened to a light grey now. He didn't bother checking his Rolex. His hands were busy undoing the frayed rope. When it fell open in his lap, some of the yellowing pages spilled onto the floor, floating in the air like square autumn leaves before hitting the ground.
They were both diaries. Written in one hand. A girl's hand. He could detect youth in the bold strokes, her femininity in the curve of her letters, in the neatness of the line of writing.
He opened it at random, in the middle, and read.
April 3rd
Oh, joyous news! The judge is going to Banbury, some place in Oxfordshire. For five whole days! He's packing right now, his carriage leaves in half and hour! This is wonderful, dear journal, wonderful! The Beadle is going with him, and the housekeeper is supposed to ensure I don't leave. The housekeeper is an man called Greg who spends half his life sleeping. The judge probably doesn't know that because he never has anything to do with servants.. I can't wait for him to leave! I can think of so many things I can do.
The next few pages were blank – some seemed to be simply washed out, others faded with age. He flicked through the notebook. Some were written in pencil, others in pen. Only a few penciled entries survived. He turned to another.
April 8th
I wonder if my father thinks of me. I think he does. Will he always think of me as a little baby? Or will he imagine me as a younger version of my mother? Does he think I'm living with my mother? Or does he know she's gone? If so does he think I am at an orphanage? Or does he wonder what has become of me? Or does he think I'm still with her? Is he planning to escape? Does he hope to find me and mother waiting for him? On the one hand I hope he does not know the truth; I hope he thinks I am living with my mother, waiting for him to come home. Ignorance is bliss. But on the other hand ignorance is only bliss while it lasts; if he comes back home expecting this, he'll be hurt. I don't want him to be hurt. If he found out what has become of me, and if he cares, I think he will be miserable. I wouldn't want that.
I want to write to him. But I know I cannot. Some things are impossible. If he does not know, I do not want to be the one to plunge the dagger into his heart. If he does, I do not want to further hurt him by telling him of my present situation. But do I have to talk about myself? I do not have to, But what would I say, if I concealed that? Besides, then I would commit myself and if he would write back I will have to clarify things… I am tired, and all this is so complicated, it is making my head hurt. Maybe I'll sleep tonight. That old fart Greg is snoring like a mastiff with an enormous pillowcase on his face and some book in hieroglyphics on his lap. He either belongs in Bedlam, or he understands hieroglyphics, which is unlikely.
J.B.
He had her initials. Not her name, but her initials. Was that not good enough? And why did the sound of the first letters of her name send joy coursing through his veins? He, so rational and cold. So skeptical and doubtful.
March 14th
I do not want to write anything today.
March 20th
I just realized how silly my last entry was.
The first notebook was otherwise empty – or washed out – or, perhaps, tampered with. He unbound the second. This one was stronger of binding. Only a page fell out. A page from which something golden, light, wispy, spilled. Picking it up, he realized it was a lock of hair. A woman's hair. J.B.'s? Perhaps. Probably. In fact, certainly.
December 20th
This journal is starting to scare me already. I have said too much. What if he finds it? What if, what if, …but I cannot stop writing. I don't have anyone else to tell these things to. I spend a lot of my time reading, making things, writing, and playing the harpsichord when he isn't here. But mainly I gaze out of the window. I gaze at the world I never knew, at the world I'll never know. Perhaps, if I start recording little things I notice every day, I might feel normal. For once. Today, I saw four young boys playing. Right under my window. Needless to say, they were lucky the judge was at court, or he'd have them punished for intruding on his peace. From what I understood, they organized a spitting competition…the best spitter getting a prize, though they fought over it in the end.
I think about my parents sometimes. My parents are a forbidden topic in his home. But I don't really belong there, do I? Is it possible to belong somewhere where you are in so much pain you'd rather die? I'd rather die, but I wish someone would do it. Quickly, like a puff of a candle blown out. I have a feeling he will kill me in the end, but I don't want it that slow. It terrifies me. How lucky it is for one like me to die in battle! A bullet straight to the head in the whole chaos of the fight, one will not even notice the blow! A bullet to the head. But I am too scared to do it myself.
I'm thinking about my parents now. I wish I had a picture. My mother is dead, he told me. He says she committed suicide. I wonder why sometimes, although something tells me that it has something to do with my father being sent away. He lectures me about the vulgarity of my father every day. I used to believe him, out of childish stupidity, I used to feel a vague gratitude even, that he had taken me away from such an allegedly evil man, until the day he became too cruel to bear. Do I now? Do I believe the things he says about my father? No, I do not think so.
J.B.
J.B., J.B., what happened to you?
September 2nd
Sometimes, when he calls me ungrateful, for not accepting his alleged love, for complaining about loneliness, even for the men that chanced to glance at me when he happened to be looking, too, I wonder about gratitude.
I have read King Lear. One could call Gonerill and Regan ungrateful. One could even call good, dear Cordelia ungrateful, though her only fault was probably excess stubbornness…but why must one be grateful to someone for their money? So, if one buys me food, I must marry him? Even if he does so out of covetousness and selfish desire? Must I be grateful to a tormentor, because he is the lesser evil?
J.B.
Another few blank pages, pages on which he nevertheless could feel the touch of J.B.'s hand. The hand that had brushed these pages as her fingers clasped a pencil, or a quill pen, the feather brushing her cheek as she bent over these pages, these yellow, worn pages. J.B...
September 23rd
Green Finch and Linnet Bird, Nightingale, Blackbird, how is it you sing? How can you jubilate, sitting in cages, never taking wing? Outside, the sky waits beckoning, beckoning, just beyond the bars...How can you remain, staring at the rain, maddened by the stars? How is it you sing? Anything? My cage has many rooms, damask and dark, nothing
The page was torn at this point, the rest of J.B.'s melancholy poem - or was it a song? - gone forever, and he was grateful for it. He wished to read no more. And yet, furtively affirming his solitude with a brief glance around the room, he stowed the books into his jacket pocket. It was not theft; he would acquire the harpsichord anyhow, he told himself.
He sat at the little table, and leaned his head onto the windowsill, observing the city that was slowly coming alive. The grey city that held so many secrets. The city he had once despised, but now loved, for the memories it cherished, for the surrealism that prevailed within it. And as he ran his fingers over where the poor, lonely J.B. had done, as he sat in the very chair where she sat, dreaming of a life beyond her cage, he wondered about freedom and death just as she feared she would die like that poor little finch, alone in a beautiful box; he wondered whether the universe with all its vastness and mystery, was enough for man to feel free in, just as this mysterious girl had wondered of the immense city, its towers and chimneys blending far into the horizon; and then he noticed, for the first time, the presence of a gramophone. It stood on the bedside table, and it had been obscured by the massive bed when he had entered. The realtor had said something about it belonging to the previous owners. Collectors, they had been.
Holding the notebooks close to his heart, he approached the grammophone, and as he did so, a lone, pale ray of sun cut through the morning mist. Cut through the torrents of dust in the room.
He lowered the needle onto the vinyl.
It was Max Richter. The Nature of Daylight.