Solitude is the parent of love, and love its obedient child.
On their incestuous bed lies the wine of betrayal and trial,
triggers the incessant cry of denial, and
leaves a scar in the hearts of all women.
This was a street where gentlemen and ladies strolled in their leisure. Shops of the extravagant brands were just a ten minute's walk from here. But the difference was enough to differentiate the materialistic world from this little haven; and thus it was a street that friends would meet for exchanging merciful news, couples brewing their love into something more stable and pure, elegant ladies taking a leisurely walk under lace umbrellas; while carriage and horses were rarely seen or heard. Perhaps it has an aura that protects itself from being disturbed, or there must be an angel guarding the place – at least that’s what I think.
Round the corner of several gothic buildings and opposite the Rosary Park hid a little pub. People who were not locals could not have noticed it by its appearance: There was no prominent signboard or any other indications. There were two carefully crafted white pieces fitting into the middle of a wall. They looked more like windows than doors. At the entrance stood two statues of cupid, one on each side. If one passed by he could probably make out it might be a hidden antique shop, or simply an extended decoration of the buildings in front of their eyes.
That was the place I dwelled my soul for the most time of a day. When the sun started to set I would be there to dress up my butler-like uniform. I would clean the glasses and prepare the ice. Pour myself a glass of ice water with slices of lemon to bring my spirits up for the long night. When darkness covered the sky and lampposts lighting up shadows I would be at the counter, and bowed to ladies and gentlemen and offered them a seat, and a drink.
“Mademoiselle, what would you like?”
“Something… to remind me of… love,” she said with a broken voice.
She had a pair of melancholy eyes. Curly greenish-brown hair covered most of her face. She wore a red bourgeoisie dress that showed the best parts of her lurid and young body. The texture of the dress looked coarse in the first place; yet critical eyes could appraise the true value behind, and would suggest that it could have come from somewhere higher.
She hid her eyes with her hair and supported the weight of her head with her right arm. Her legs twisted so tightly that you felt emptiness there.
“How about a fruity whiskey mixed with gin? That’s new on menu for less than a fortnight. It feels like a wild cat jumping around and rubbing your skin, and in a minute or two it becomes a little child warmly sleeping in your lap.”
She did not respond, but nodded her head slightly. She waved the finger nails of her left hand softly above the counter, responding to the calm but potent music in the air.
Sounds of “cheers” and chats of ladies dominate the room. Only by the bar corner did silence run constantly through. “Thanks for waiting, here’s your Kitten Sprite, Mademoiselle.” Yet she did not utter a word, but sipped the glass with the most withdrawn speed. She had her tongue stuck out into the glass and touched the ice cube floating on the champagne-coloured sea. Occasionally she tested a mouthful and rushed down her throat, revealing the emerald earring hanging on her ears and the thin red lips, but her eyes still shut tight.
As the wine swelled her throat her face became pink. It looked so much livelier and helped to dispel the pale curse. Tears started streaming from the corners of her eyes and her long eye lashes seemed to glow in the light. Yet no sound came from her larynx; she would not allow anyone to penetrate into her thoughts, or let anyone throw in a word of condolence.
Echoes are ringing in my head. I hear the voice vaguely. What is that he is talking about? I remembered I ran out from a doll’s house. I was chased by the moon and the infinite shadows. Then I am here? Where am I? Is this poison? The color looks so much like one. Thick, blurred, brown and confused. Yes, it must be poison. Let me drink it. I drink it and I’m free. I’m free. No. He is looking at me with the eye of a suspicious animal. He is the inspector. He must be. He is coming to take me back. Or is he? I don’t want to see him. Let me close my eyes. Close my eyes. My eyelids too. But why? Why do I still see him? No this is not him. He would have smiled indecently at me. He looks so calm, so understanding. He must have known everything. He had come to give me the poison I need. Let me drink it. Drink it. Little by little, so that I will forget, as each sip poisons my memory, erases it, bleaches it, empties it…
I took out some fresh grapes from the attic and placed them in front of her eyes. They shined like purple moonstones and gave a mysterious light. As I had expected, she asked for cutlery in a timid, whispering deep voice. But I said with a low but approving tone, “try taking it with your hands, smelling it with your nose, touching it with your lips and letting your taste buds bring it to the fullest.”
She looked at me for the first time with that pair of melancholy eyes. But that feeling softened a bit following my words. She had a look of an innocent child seeing the globe in grandpa’s study room for the first time and she touched and played with the purple pearl with a heartwarming curiosity. She took one, followed the steps I had suggested and chewed cautiously. Then she took another, and then a third.
“This is a species named Trahison,” I said. “It looked sweet and freshening, and yes it did contain these elements, but it had a strong taste of sour and a sickening fragrance.”
On these words she thirsted for the grapes even more, but her eyes turned away from me, and started humming in a thin low voice a sad melody, which echoed in my head. She asked me briefly where she could buy these grapes and I wrote her an address on a piece of yellowed paper torn from an old book. At its back I also wrote down a sentence of caution to remind her that this fruit should not be served with a certain wine.
She put down a note and turned to leave but I hinted her to stay for a little longer. She obeyed. Then I suggested, “Would you like to hear the story of Trahison?”
Again, she said nothing but nodded her head. I began:
“There was once a tribal kingdom on the island of a faraway land, near where we now called South Africa. There was a queen who was the top of all. She served the god and she was also a goddess herself, as the tribesmen believe. They offered her sacrifice and listened to her advice for important as well as trivial matters. Her name was Invidia.”
On hearing that name her irises dilated. I paused and waited. “Is she beautiful?” she asked. “Oh! Certainly. There were no beings so exquisite and deep and yet so pure and untouched. She was a virgin by all means.” She made a bitter smile and urged me to go on.
“It was a graceful place until that thunderstorm brought a young man to that secluded island. He knew so many things and taught the people skills which could be nothing but miracles. This quickly got into the ears of the queen. She summoned him and immediately fell in love with him. In a fortnight they were married; and there a new king and new god were born.”
“And I don’t suppose they would be living happily together ever after?”
“I wish the story would end there; but sadly, no. Invidia did have a felicitous time with her new king. But on the night of the third full moon, she spotted the shadow of a man and a female servant at the tower. The next day the king was executed. To punish him setting his eyes on other women, she had his two eyes pulled out from his skull. Invidia then summoned that servant who had betrayed her, and commanded her to bury them with her own hands. She was slain by the tribesmen afterwards and her blood watered the earth beneath. In a few years’ time, a tree of grapes started to grow from that forbidden place, and people named it Trahison.”
I was trying to finish my story but the lady was so irritated that she immediately turned to go. A man noticed her and started to chase in her direction and shouted repeatedly, “Vidia, freeze!” And each time more fierce.
One week later, the Paris Times reported a case which shocked the public. It wrote:
Repudiated Woman of Noble Family Sank Husband’s Optic Organs down the Pit
A disowned maiden of a seemingly upper class family, Vidia her name, was found murdering her three-month-husband and buried his eyeballs in the soil below their garden. How she did that was not comprehended. At the moment her bloodline was kept undisclosed by the authorities. Sir Herbert of Paris mourned for his lost child and openly disgraced the savage witch. The woman is temporarily kept in a remote asylum to avoid further danger.
Two weeks later, a follow-up appear on the papers, this time arousing the curiosity and fear of myriad young ladies. Vidia hung herself. A letter was discovered in Vidia’s safe hidden in her bedroom wall. It was the last message she had for this world:
Why me? I asked myself. There are maidens and ladies and princesses around who have a better face than me. Why me? For my property? That can’t be. I wasn’t even allowed to keep my family name after my father’s death. My uncle took everything which should belong to me. I was nobody in this world – until I met him. He disregarded the negative rumours and offered to dance with me; he took my hand gently and whispered love in my ears. For once he was my secret messenger to another men I fell for. How patient and forgiving he was! When the church bells rung I thought I would be a fortunate one to follow the path of Cinderella. But that French doll – that voodoo gypsy, wooing men from every place she sings and dances. She was the witch, not me. Her wicked simile, his cold words, those nights of nothingness and bruises, and those days of absence and jewels and debts! And those midnights when he dressed me up however he wanted, and sank the teeth and claws into my flesh like a beast. Am I in a dream? Why me? Why dream? I dare dream no more. Let me wake up, let me wake up, if you please.
I folded the paper and threw it into the fireplace. Under the moonlight I started mixing a new liquor with the tears from those grapes, hoping the finished product should be a better sacrifice to the violent god of solitude.
