The Star-Crossed Lovers

For lesnuitsdhiver and Mara.

This chapter is related to Chapter 6: The Seventh Priest.

Summary: He answered one last call and told me that we would meet again. Would meet again, he said, and I felt that the phrase was lacking something. Probably it was me wishing that he'd say we should meet again, instead of would.

Disclaimer: I just own the plot.

The Star-Crossed Lovers

"We will be together again, my lord."; "Stay with me, Kisara!"; "My son, you could take over the kingdom, take it over! TAKE IT OVER!"; "This Holy Match is going to give you no satisfaction, Seth!"; "We will be together again, my lord…"

IT LASTED FOR SOME TIME, the dizziness, the next time I knew I was running out of breath, beads of cold sweat in my hands. I thought I had gone to hell and back. I was trembling.

He was still holding my hand, and when I looked at him he had that surprised/worried expression on his face. He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to figure out what happened with me.

When he let go of the hand, I felt that the storms that were approaching had been calmed down. I breathed in the wood-scented air and ordered a coffee.

He lit a cigarette.

"I thought you were about to pass out," he said.

"Sure I was," I said. "I heard clusters of voices; like… noises."

He let out a leisurely exhalation. I loved the scent. The library owner smoked Camels, too, days and nights, as he read, as he took his morning and afternoon walks, before lunches and dinners… Take that away from him and I was sure that he wouldn't be able to live.

I smiled in that remembrance. Soon the turmoil I'd experienced earlier starting calming down, too.

"I guess you're alright now," he said calmly.

Silence.

The coffee arrived. He handed the full ashtray to the garçon and asked for a new one.

"I love the smell," I said. "Your cigarette. Mr. Yamamoto smoked them too. When he died I was sad. Sometimes I'd walk the corridors to find that scent. No more."

"And why are you telling me this?"

"For nothing," I said. "You happen to smoke the same brand, guess I gotta tell."

His cell phone rang. This time he picked it up: "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."; "Prepare the papers, as always, then clean up the meeting desk. Not a single spot of dust."

I sipped on my coffee. He hung up.

"Work," he said. "Here's my notebook and name card. Contact me soon when you've finished reading the translation."

He stood up, waved at the counter as if to tell that he wouldn't need the empty ashtray anymore. He walked there and paid the bill.

I waved at him as he left the café.

I WENT TO THE LIBRARY to check on the locks, the desks, and the sofas once more before finally taking the book from the reception desk where I'd left it. I prepared for myself a glass of iced milk before I went home.

I thought of the meeting as I was onboard the train. I felt stupid, really stupid. "Sometimes I'd walk the corridors to find that scent." Why did I say it? To shake off the thought I plugged the earphones then listened to Ryuichi Sakamoto.

The notebook in hand, I started reading. It was a five-minute ride home, plenty of time for three or four pages. Impeccable translation, I had to say. I didn't know whether it was the original passages that sounded that way, because the lines in English were really fluid, as if I was reading it straight from an edited book.

The thief had with him Zorc Necrophades, a demigod whose half of the body shaped like a giant snake. He carried the spirit as he ravaged the castle, killed the guards even slaughtered the priests. The Pharaoh fought against him in the end, although the result was unknown. Assumptions said that the Pharaoh, undoubtedly, won because his mummified body was discovered intact.

However, the body of the thief remained unknown. It was never found.

IT WASN'T UNTIL ANOTHER TWO WEEKS when we met again at Pierrot le Fou. I never called him, I just had the feeling that he would be there. He belonged there.

The air smelled of Camel. He took off the glasses then pressed on his forehead lightly before he greeted me. I returned the book. I told him that the translation was amazing. "I wouldn't agree. It was something rigid, imperfect. A draft, I may say."

I wouldn't try to change his opinion. Sure, I thought, he was a dyed-in-the-wool perfectionist. Trying to remind someone like that about how awesome his work already was would only pressure him even more.

The seventh priest was Seth. He was among the most brilliant and most trusted ones besides Shada and Isis. An old transcription said that he was trying to save his lover (a vain attempt) before finally faced a bitter fate in which he had to kill his possessed father. The failed attempt to save his lover's spirit from being extracted by his father during the final hours got him badly damaged at heart.

Finding no way out to express his depression and vengeance, he focused on taking over the kingdom. In that attempt also included challenging the Pharaoh in a sacred match.

"So," I said, changing the topic, "I'd read about Priest Seth's lover."

He put back his glasses then lit a new cigarette. His usual red wine arrived.

"I have to say it was pretty hardcore," I continued.

He chuckled. For the first time since I'd met him, that expression, that happy expression, seemed real enough.

"He got the powerful spirit, though, but he wasn't happy with that," I continued.

Silence; such immense silence that the music played by the band sounded distant. He looked at his hands on the table as if doing a deep thinking.

This time he was the one that looked as if he was about to pass out. The cigarette fell from between his fingers then unconsciously elbowed the wine glass off the table. The garçon rushed to our table, panicked.

"What the hell? Mr. Rich got sudden heart-attack?" he whispered then quickly stepped on the cigarette on the floor. Too late: a burnt spot was already formed.

I shook my head then asked for a glass of cold water.

When he finally returned to his senses, I told him to drink the water. He remained quiet for a while; quiet, even when his cell phone vibrated over and over. It was as if he had forgotten about his existence, where he was.

He drank some more. Taking a deep breath, he was about to light a new cigarette when I told him not to.

"Feel better?"

"Those voices," he said in a low tone, almost whispering.

I was about to ask him about what he'd heard, but decided that it would be better if none of us mentioned that, at least for now. Bad dreams, Egyptian stories and voices… leave them alone for now, I thought.

Half-past four. The time where he should return to the office. He answered one last call and told me that we would meet again. Would meet again, he said, and I felt that the phrase was lacking something. Probably it was me wishing that he'd say we should meet again, instead of would. 'Would' made it sounded like a premonition.

When he left I knew that I should call Isis.

SHE CAME TO THE LIBRARY in her usual majestic manner. Pure Greta Garbo and her fifties Hollywood charm. She was so beautiful I felt as if I was a little nothing standing in front of her. Probably that was the reason I never felt at ease around her.

"I'm sorry for the unpleasant things that happened between us," I said. "You can have the book now, really, if it endangers me I'd rather keep away from it."

She smiled. A dark, mysterious smile.

"Too late," she said. All of a sudden I felt an abrupt need to slap her here and now. First, it wasn't like I believed her. Second, once I decided that I wanted to keep myself safe, she told me that it was too late.

"The Dark Heart is already close, I guess," I said, playing her game. I wondered what she would tell me later.

"You shouldn't lose hope, though," she said. For the first time since I met her, the way she encouraged me this time seemed friendly, even human enough. I felt ashamed to had wanted to slap her earlier. "Remember the man I told you about earlier? He had saved you in the past, although it was a failed attempt, and in the future when everything is unlocked, and the passage of time has repeated itself once more, big is the chance that he would be able to successfully save you in this time. Let alone the past."

I pondered about the sentence for a while.

Among the seven priests was Seth,…, who was trying to save his lover.

If this was inside a movie, I would laugh until I couldn't pull my tongue back in anymore.

"By any chance could this man be Priest Seth?" I asked her, still attempting to adapt to the freaky talk. I wished that she would suddenly break into a loud laughter and told me that everything was a crazy joke, and that I had succumbed to the entire scenario.

"The Priest in the present-day, yes." She didn't break out laughing! I wondered if I should be serious. Probably I was trapped inside this nightmare and the darkness was slowly consuming my sanity, taking away the common senses in me. I didn't know….

I rummaged through the memories about the Priest of Egypt's physical descriptions. His skin was in the shade of olive, his green resembled a pair of raw emeralds then there was his brown hair…His majestic way of dressing up, his slim, nimble fingers he always moved with grace…. (If the Priest did exist in present-day Japan, he would've been a model or a movie star, someone who had probably been exported to Hollywood, like Ken Watanabe.)

Impossible.

I still wished that she'd break off laughing. She didn't; she even kept that serious look on her stunning face, which hurt me even more. The last thing I wanted was to look for some knockout movie star and told him that he was the one who could save me from "The Dark Heart". Even if I managed to see that person, he'd probably take me as a regular nut then got over it.

"I take it that he lives with a different name, different face then?"

I hoped she'd say something like: Yes, different name, different face. He was probably ugly in the present-day, but the inside remains the same; the good old Priest Seth.

That way the possibility of him being some kind of star could be narrowed.

"Different name, probably, as with the features, some would remain the same…" she said in a low voice. "I had seen many reincarnated people… they retain their old features, although there are changes, insignificant ones, like the color of the skin or eyes."

Excellent.

I thanked her and offered her a cup of coffee. This time, though, she didn't leave until she'd finished the coffee. "Excellent coffee," she said.

We chatted some more then a little before six, she excused herself.

When she left the room I rapid-fired the internet looking for information about young actors, writer, painters, bosses that were handsome and was on a constant rise to the top. Here it was! Top Twenty Young Men in Japan You Should be Aware Of. A list. Most remained the same; your regular movie stars and band singers, the sons of some tycoon who had won a multimillion deal, I scrolled down the page, scrolled and scrolled until I reached number one.

Kaiba Seto.

I clicked on his name, triggering a whole page filled with his data, quotes, even fashion spreads and formal shots. A recent shot was quite minimalistic, although he showed some flesh. Stunning, really, not that behind the camera he'd turned into a different person or that the editing was over-the-top, but it was more like without the thoughtful look on his face, as he toned down those intensities a little, I could finally see his beauty.

It is said that Kaiba Seto had been offered a role in a short independent movie, that is, an idealistic work of a famous movie director R, based on a novelette by Murakami Haruki.

All the time I had been talking to a celebrity.

No wonder he'd rather be locked away in Pierrot le Fou. Downtown, young girls would tear him alive.

Kaiba, of course, turned down the offer. He said he was suited more behind the desk, not behind the camera. With the refusal the director finally decided to decline the making of the movie, having refused other real actors that offered to play in the movie for free.

Then there was a close-up portrait.

I tried to concentrate on his features that probably resembled the descriptions inside the history books. I thought I had really gone mad this time: I compared the face of a real, breathing person to the descriptions aged beyond five thousand years old.

I couldn't. He was too handsome.

THAT NIGHT WAS THE NIGHT I HAD A NIGHTMARE. It was about a spirit and a raven-haired man trying to find their way out of a ravaged underground dungeon. I recognized the stones, the slices of indigo sky I could see through the collapsed stones, even the silence… I could hear, recognize it. The next time I knew I was in front of a ravaged cage, but it wasn't where the thief was imprisoned. My veins were filled with a strange coldness, as if something had entered me, something that was inside this ravaged prison. It was calming, the time when it went inside me. I tried to find a way out, but this underground prison was too ruined, as if it had been let alone for a long time to rot there, to be one with the nature. Some stones were already very fragile; a gentle step could crush them into pieces. I hoped that there was nothing that constructed the wall reacted that way, less I'd be killed.

Someone was waiting near the entrance; at least I took that slice of light for the entrance. That person came in the form of silhouette, I could only see the outlines of his figure, as lined by the lights.

He extended his hands as if reaching out to me.

I woke up.

THE DREAM, at first I thought it was just because Isis had influenced me. I simply refused, inside myself, to believe that I had gone 'spiritual' like her. When it kept recurring, I was forced to see the possible outcomes of fact. Two entities, a thief and his snake-bodied spirit, were trying to break loose. For now the ruins still prevented them from doing so. Then there was a ravaged prison then that something that went inside me in a soothing way. A man was reaching out to me near the entrance… I rearranged the pieces, as if trying to write down a story. And I did; I wrote it in my notebook. Soon enough I could see the images when I was wide awake.

Still, everything had taken such a massive turn I hardly had a time to reflect. Everything was strange. First there was that meeting with Kaiba Seto, then came the scent of his Camel that reminded me of the late Mr. Yamamoto. Soon we were already talking like old friends because of Egyptian history. Then there was Isis and her warnings. I heard voices. He'd recently heard them too, Kaiba. Everything, everything was lightning-fast, I thought I'd rather someone take me out of this hole before those dreams started consuming me bit by bit… ever so slowly.

Soon I'd be no more if I was forced to live this kind of life.

Which one was dream, which one was reality?

Soon I was trying to match his face with someone in a five thousand years old history.

The main question was: Why was I so sure that he might be Priest Seth in the past? Say he was; would he remember? Then where would that put me in that ancient history? That I was his lover whose spirit was extracted by force by his possessed father?

Then the thief and that spirit, where would they be in this present-day?

Bad omen.

I simply couldn't imagine a raven-haired man possessing this grotesque spirit onboard the trains or walking the streets of downtown Tokyo after dark.

A bit more of these and soon I wouldn't be able to separate madness from sanity.

I CAME TO PIERROT LE FOU three days later, seven in the evening.

It was raining, a light drizzle. He wasn't there. I waited for him to show up, smelling of Camel and leather. He never did.

All the time during the waiting that day I felt as if I was waiting for ever.

"I'M HAVING A RECURRING DREAM."

It was a month later, the meeting. He'd been busy and the press had been hunting him like hungry hawks. The famous movie director tried his next luck and had been phoning him as if there was no tomorrow. He was well worn out, and the signs were on his face.

"I wouldn't mind a long story. I have enough time to kill," I said.

Funny, this understanding. He had never even asked me that he wanted to spill everything out, but I just understood.

"A thief, I think, raven-haired, and his oddly-shaped spirit, like a… a snake were trying to break free from this… ravaged dungeon," he said, carefully arranging the words. He certainly wasn't the type that tells long stories. "Then I was standing near this – how to say – entrance of this ravaged dungeon. I was trying to save someone, but that person was so distant I couldn't see the face. And that someone was… a precious person to me. I felt as if all I needed was to reach out to her, to save her… I don't know."

He stopped abruptly, as if feeling ashamed of himself of having spoken so many.

I leaned closer to him, to tell him that it was alright to continue.

He hesitated a bit then started telling the story after he'd lit a cigarette.

"You were telling me about a precious person trapped in the dungeon."

"I take the emotion I felt in that dream wasn't real," he said. "I had never felt like that before… not a long time. In the dream I felt as if I almost… loved her, but then I don't know how to describe it without making myself a laughing stock. I'd rather stop here, if you don't mind."

I nodded. I sipped on my coffee, and he his red wine.

Silence. For a long time, it was only us and the same band.

He called the garçon and handed him a wad of money. "For the band."

I thought of that young man, the son of the owner, I wondered after this day he'd still take his mother's good old Pierrot le Fou as a 'ravaged bar'. Probably wouldn't.

I decided to break the silence after several minutes passed by. I thought he was still ashamed of himself, of not being able to keep his cool, of had spoken too many…

"You know, I have a recurring dream too…"

HE DIDN'T COME TO THE CAFÉ for a long time since that night. Soon I was checking everything about him from the internet, like an infatuated admirer. I looked at two more recent fashion spreads in which he was wearing all-black, including a designer leather jacket; a very expensive piece, I recalled, it was from recycled and reconstructed leather of a jacket that was once worn by a famous British rock star in the 60s.

He was born for that jacket. But not for the long stories.

I imagined the phone calls from the movie director. Then the editor of the fashion magazine telling him to take the jacket with him. He'd probably pull out those fat wads of money and got it right away.

No news about him, no phone call. I started feeling empty. I started feeling as if my regular days in the library, the days I used to sink behind books, had gone somewhere.

The excitement I felt was no longer there.

I was thinking about him in a strange way.

It was as if I almost loved him.

FIRST DAY OF AUGUST.

Fall was approaching. The air was piercing cold. As usual I visited Pierrot le Fou after the library was closed. Like a recurring dream, he was there, like the first time I saw him. He was wearing the camel trench coat, same leather shoes, wearing those glasses, he was even reading seriously with an ashtray and a glass of red wine in front of him. Just like the first time. The difference was that I didn't take him as a stranger anymore.

Where the hell were you? I felt that need thick and clear. Another second and those words would come out of my mouth.

He turned at me and smile. The band was playing "The Star-Crossed Lovers". I walked toward him, slowly, very slowly, as if savoring the melody suspended in the air.

The dimly-lit interior, the languorous saxophone play, his elegant gestures as he waved at me…

I sat facing him. He put down the book in his hand then looked at me.

"I'd figured it out," he said. "These months I'd been trying to figure it out, to find a better way to tell."

The hesitation that was once there was no more. In his place, a new person seemed to be taking an old place. He no longer had that cold, threatening air about him. Now the elegance was well mixed with peace and his good old mysterious nature.

I was ready for some more madness. Even if he'd say that he was once Priest Seth, I wouldn't be surprised.

No longer I wanted that this entire drama about past-life and The Dark Heart was some joke. It would be such bitter ending, after all it had done to entangle me in.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" he asked.

I nodded, although I wasn't a hundred per cent sure, I nodded.

"You know, the first time I saw you walked in here, I thought I had known you somewhere," he continued. A weight dropped from my heart. "I didn't say that, of course because I was aware that you would take me as some crazy, desperate person. But even now, I thought we had met somewhere…"

He sipped on his wine then brought the cigarette to his lips.

"Hey anyway," I said, trying to break the seriousness. With the music still playing in the background, this scene was dangerous. I could be easily carried away. Probably I'd even really loved him the time the conversation was over. "The woman Isis mentioned something about it too, the reincarnation, and that Priest Seth's essence is alive inside someone in this present-day Japan. Please tell me that she was as crazy as I thought she was."

He shook his head. Unexpected. He smoked some more before crushing the cigarette butt in the ashtray.

"I'd rather think that she was serious."

"I wonder," I said. "Then, hypothetically speaking, they are probably destined to meet again, to fall for each other again, that he would keep her save this time to cover the past faults…"

He smiled. A real, vivid smile this time.

"Hypothetically speaking, those are possible, yes." He was looking at me right in the eyes as he spoke. Time felt as if it was passing slower than its usual pace. I was trembling – joy or fear?

The music had finished playing.

He told the garçon that he wanted the band to play it again, "The Star-Crossed Lovers".

The voices repeated themselves in my head again this time, and I bet in his too; Pleasant repetitions this time.

We remained staring at each other for a long, long time.

As if there was no longer past or future, I was sure that the burdened passage of time had since long made its exit.

Update:

The Seventh Priest is now an independent story;

refer to it for the special epilogue ! :-D