Call it the blues

Alba had decided to go for a walk today. It was the third day of her holiday in the countryside. She wanted to see the woods and, perhaps venture as far as the lake. She’d had a nice time reading, cooking and dozing in the sun for a couple of days, but now she was ready for some fresh air. She took with her a small bag in which she had packed some sandwiches and a bottle of water. On her way out she smiled and waved at Beryl, the lady owner of the holiday home, and her neighbour for the rest of the week.

It was only a short walk to the woods and from there she could follow a path that led to the lake. Alba hoped she would see some wildlife along the way; share her sandwiches with some ducks. The sky was a welcoming shade of grey with little, white, fluffy clouds scudding through. The sun shone with a powerful white light and the day was warm and pleasant. Near the woods flowers grew along both sides of the path, with bees visiting every one. She could smell the sweet pollen and it lifted her spirits. This was exactly what she had been hoping for when she booked her getaway. She found the start of the path into the woods as Beryl had said. She had loved the woods since she was a little girl and loved it still. The light was different under the canopy. Here broken into beams that dappled the undergrowth in myriad shades of grey. It was quite beautiful.

The walk was a little further than Alba had expected and she was hot and in need of rest by the time she saw the lake. Dancing on the water was sunlight, bright and sharp like diamond. Once out of the woods and by the water’s edge she was taken aback by the sudden openness and the picturesque beauty. She wanted to find some shade and somewhere to sit and eat. Scanning the shore to the right she saw a small building and decided to investigate. The little wooden building was right on the edge of the lake and had a small jetty, some steps and a picnic bench. Alba headed up the steps. She wanted to use the picnic bench. Alba would not be so impolite to do so without first asking permission. She peered through the window but it looked dark and so she assumed it was empty. There was a sign above the door which read “Mr Morado’s Museum of Colour.” She knew what colour was - in a theoretical way. Only the very oldest people remembered a time when humans could see in colour. She tried the door and it opened into virtual darkness. Her curiosity peaked and, forgetting now her hunger, she stepped inside.

***

Alba waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. As she did she was aware of the sound of shuffling coming from the back of the room. “Hello?” she said, her voice sounding loud. She heard a cough, the clearing of a throat and a voice ask the same question, “Hello?” A small man appeared, and smiled.

“Hello, hello.” He said. “Hello young Miss, and welcome.”

The man was so happy to see her that Alba warmed up to him immediately. “Hello Sir, “ she said.

“Sir! My goodness, no. No I’m no Sir, no I’m Moredo, or Mister Moredo… hmm. I had a first name I’m sure, but who can remember?” He smiled. Alba was sure he was joking but chose not to pursue. Instead she smiled.

“Welcome to the ‘Museum of Colour’,” said Moredo. “Are you interested in colour?”

“No,” said Alba. “Well, I mean, I stumbled upon you quite by accident.” Moredo said nothing, still smiling. She continued, “Honesty, I have never really thought much about colour at all.”

“Oh? I’ve thought of little else for decades. Or ever. I know what colour is, of course, who doesn’t? But what is it? What does it look like? How does it feel? Why does it even exist if we’re ill-equipped to see.”

Feel like he had said. Feel. “Why should colour feel like anything at all?” She asked.

“Oh but it must have my Dear, it must have. Here, I’ll show you.”

Morado walked to a shelf, separated into columns and stacked with square pictures. Above each column was the name of a colour; Blue, Red, White, Yellow, Green, and others. Morado picked a picture up, “Here, read the title.” Alba took the picture and held it. It was the silhouette of a man standing by a piano.

“I guess that’s why they call it the blues.” She read.

“Have you heard it?”

“Heard it? What is it?”

“It’s a song.” Morado tilted the picture and a disc slid out, black and shiny. “It’s a vinyl record. These are all antiques. I’m not surprised you haven’t heard it, people fell out of love with songs about colour a hundred years ago. I’ll play it, then you tell me how it feels.” Alba listened, mesmerised.

She didn’t fully understand the song, but the plaintive tone was clear. At the end her eyes were misty. She cuffed away a tear, embarrassed, while Morado looked away. Is this what blue feels like? She stepped up to the shelves and began looking through. Morado had about fifty records. Purple Rain, Rhapsody in Blue, Love of Three Oranges, Yellow Submarine.

Morado had moved away and was gesturing to her, “take a look at these.” His enthusiasm was infectious and, somehow, the sad song had made her happy. Moredo wanted to show off his dioramas, the centrepieces of his museum. Each dedicated to a specific colour. He showed her a diorama of green, which included plastic grass, leaves and fruit. Red, which had little tomatoes and strawberries. Last of all was a diorama dedicated to all the colours, in which stood a bunch of silk flowers. Alba looked at the flowers, many shades of grey. They were pretty, she supposed, but why would anyone bother displaying flowers? Morado seemed to read her question and said, “People used to love flowers. The clash of colour maybe. I have hundreds of photographs of people with flowers, displaying them, wearing them. I often try to imagine what they must look like, but I never can quite get it. Like trying to remember a dream upon waking.”

Above all was a depiction of a rainbow, showing the seven shades of grey. Written across the rainbow were these words. “Red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and blue, I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow too.” Alba didn’t understand any of this. She still couldn’t imagine a rainbow of colour.

As she was leaving Morado plucked a flower from his display. “It’s a marigold,” he said, handing her the flower, “and it’s for you, young Miss.”

As Alba bid Morado farewell she got the impression that he didn’t get many visitors. She promised she would return and listen to some more music. She loved the feeling it had given.

***

That night Alba dreamed. She dreamed of a World of colour. Green grass and blue skies, fields of red flowers. And above all, a rainbow in all its glory, red and yellow and pink and green and purple and orange and blue.

Alba awoke in white morning light and blinked once, twice. Shades of grey. She could remember her dream and how it felt to see the beautiful colours. She tried, but her imagination couldn’t quite get it. Couldn’t quite grasp the colours.

Alba decided to take another walk before breakfast. She went again to the field of flowers and decided to pick some. She chose those that seemed the different from one another, the darkest and the most pale and a few others. It didn’t occur to her that she was no longer choosing by shape or smell. Though she saw only grey, her subconscious was choosing by colour. Hungry now Alba returned home. She searched her little house for a vessel in which to display the flowers. Her breakfast prepared, Alba headed outside to eat on the veranda. With her she took her flowers and placed them on the centre of the table. She waved to Beryl who was sitting on her own veranda drinking tea.

“Whatever are those Dear?”

“They’re flowers, do you like them?”

“I suppose. Never saw much use for them. Why pick them and put them in a pot?”

Alba watched as a tiny bee with it’s distinctive black and white stripes settled on one of her flowers. “I don’t know,” said Alba, though she did. “I think they look pretty.”