Carbaret

He visited me often. Painfully ordinary in his constitution, regardless he had all the charm needed to besott me. My highest affections were at his behest. My adorations were childlike. Wilfully silly. I’d often get the strangest urge to sit by his side and just look. He never talked. Every meeting with him was dead silent. My wife Camille disliked him. She stared at us with round, distrustful eyes, a curious vein throbbing on her forehead. I didn’t pay her much mind. She was a pretty woman. Unfortunately that’s all I can say in praise of her. She was boring. Prone to the deepest of introspection and deeper prejudice.

She stared at me, eyes cold as flint, one night.

“ Don’t follow me to bed”, she said, as she crossed the length of the corridor, the dim light haloed across her fair hair. I’d never wanted to follow her. But her blatant rejection stirred in me a scalding fury. The woman was unaware of her place. She thought she could dominate me with her airs and unbearable eyes. I resolved to follow her.

The full effort of her eyes was upon me. They stared, cold and resolute. I couldn’t beat it.

“ I won’t”. I found myself replying. She walked away satisfied.

I turned back to our fireplace and set myself upon my favourite armchair. I could hear the wind. It whispered, secret melodies and harsh whispers. Unintelligible yet unignorable. Crippling unease spread through my veins. Something was to come. I could feel it. I began to pace around. Shuffling steps on fine Persian carpets, each step cataclysmic, shaping the rug under me to strange contortions.

A knock spat me out of my fancies. I blustered towards it, irritated. I was ready to unleash a delightful tirade against this barbaric interlocutor.

“Why don’t you just ram my door in, you useless idiot.” I said as I unlatched the door and shoved the door open.

It was him. Despite my reservations, my hostility faded into the background. He was soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead, entangled in its crevices like a perilous spider's web. Underneath his imperious eyes, we’re terrible bags. Sallow and purple, they brought out a terrible yellowish haze in his eyes.

He walked in, careful not to douse me with rain water. I stumbled in a moment later.

“ Would you like a scotch?”

He simply nodded, I rushed towards the wine cabaret, eager to escape his presence.

Most of our meetings till this point had been in broad daylight, but now under the dim candlelight I was struck by how hideous he truly was. The retching shadows wrestled with the natural contortions of his cursed face to horrific effects. A cold shudder ran through my palm. The scotch was overflowing.

I steeled myself and reentered the room.

“My friend you really must leave, Camille won’t be happy with your late appearance.”

I was trying to be as polite as possible in sending him away. Camille, though I cared not for her feelings, was a convenient excuse. After all, who would think ill of the devoted husband, windswept by his young sweetheart's charms.

He gulped down the brandy in one fluid sip. I halfheartedly reached to refill his glass, but he caught my hand in his own, cradling it between his own, before staring into my eyes.

And what terrible eyes they were. Fire and brimstone. Canoodled in the hardest steel, they cut through me like a dozen spears. I couldn't breathe, so deep was their effect on me. In those earthen pits I saw Possibilities, endless chances. They were divine.

Beautiful. That's what he was. How had I never noticed this before? Was I truly so base, so vulgar, so pathetic. That I could not grasp the divinity, even when it started me dead in the eye. I wanted to embrace him. In the viagries of devotion, nothing seemed impossible. He had only to ask and I would rip my own heart for him. No sacrifice was too great.

He grasped my hand, moving it gently back and forth, like a mother lovingly teaching her young daughter the art of kneading.

Wine split from her throat, staining her golden hair, her nightgown, the French silk her mother had graciously gifted us.

Her eyes dim, and finally free of her prejudice. Love, deep and utter love overcame my heart. Ah Camille, lovely, lovely Camille. My head balanced on her shoulder, I bled forth torrents.

He wiped my tears with a fine ermine handkerchief and squeezed my hand. A shameless bystander to my sorrow.

I wanted to embrace him, rest my head on him instead of Camille and transfer my pain unto him, till I was an empty husk.

He laughed, a raspy sound which grated against my ears like gravel.

Sharp thuds spinning against my eardrum, heady pain spreading itself across my scalp, the back of my eyes, my ears, my throat.

Strangled gasps, my windpipe is closing. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

He was still laughing, that damned laugh.

Anger, desperation, resolve clawed at me. I struck at him, again. Again.Again.

He was dead. Hallelujah. Amen.

Dead.

I wiped my hands on the ermine handkerchief. Put on my boots, my sturdy coat and left.

The rain had stopped. I inhaled deeply. It smelled wonderful, earthy but fresh. I felt rejuvenated.

I wanted to sing, dance, shout. All at once.

I could sing.

“ I'm singing in the rain, I'm singing in the rain, what a wonderful day and how happy I am,” I cried in elation.

No reply came.

People can be so terribly rude.

I stared at the old man walking towards me.

Old doddering fool, hanging on to his stick.

“Cripple, I say cripple, come hither”, I hollered, our faces pressed together, his breath rank against my skin. I grabbed that old cane from him.

“Whack, whack, whack”,

Six quick hits against his head.Rain on my feet. Beautiful droplets across my pleated trousers.

“ Thank you, for the rain my friend,” I whispered, raising my hand in farewell.

“Your service will not be forgotten”.

Rain always makes me thirsty, luckily I knew of a delightful bar nearby.

I stumbled my way into the bar. The bar girl glared, unimpressed by my entrance. I waved at her.

“ One scotch, darling”, I said.

“Sure”, she replied monotone.

We sat there as I sipped my drink, gazing deep into her eyes.

Ready, set, match.

I do so enjoy being in love.