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Solace of Loneliness #003 (SI)

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The fine hairs of his elk chair soon began to ease his tempered mood, John let the material’s soft caress overwhelm his other senses. He quickly forgot the coffee’s foulness that had poisoned his pallet, about the Cronbach’s treachery and even Chandler’s folly and impertinence. John reached a calm and relaxed state soon enough and he was thankful that he had not had to resort to repeating that mantra his childhood therapist had shamefully programmed him with when suffering from extreme bouts of rage and calamity. It was painfully embarrassing for John and he needed to maintain a careful balance of vigilance and minimum effort or fixation, for too much attention given to the mantra would prompt crippling paralysis and certainly unmanly tears. Years of practice however restricted the reaction to the most sensitively troubling of times.

Of course through all this inner struggling and meditation, John was acutely aware that there was one detail that failed to be removed from his thoughts. All these years he had tried to occupy his time with all manner of past-times and frivolities, building fortunes, testing fates, supping on carnal pleasures, quelling foreign interlopers; yet here she is, made flesh anew by pen and parchment. Dare he think of how this now furrowed letter perhaps holds the instrument for his salvation? John puzzled on what was Cronbach’s game here and he pondered, “He must be aware of our involved pasts, but to what extent?”

As John began to draw the intricately woven web of acquaintances, motives and plots together he became aware once again that Reginald was still waiting upon him, apparently anticipating an order. John uttered indolently, “Reginald, have I ever acquainted you with the tale of my escape from the dungeons of the Faisal the first King of Iraq?”

Reginald responded in his typical hesitant and nervous manner, clearly unable to discern whether or not insincerity was to be had from his master’s question, “Yes, sir, I recall it clearly. You won your freedom in a game of Russian roulette.” “Indeed, pale Reginald, indeed,” responded John in a vacant manner, leaving no indication of purpose or meaning to his random query. The lasting moments passed between master and serf brutally for Reginald. He always disliked the manner his employer had, which consistently unnerved him and, from what he gathered at least from the infrequent occasions he glimpsed Mr. Esterle with other persons, this foreboding behaviour was only reserved for him. “Even that drunkard gardener enjoys pleasantries with master Esterle, but what of poor Reginald!” sobbed the manservant to himself. But he knew his place and purpose, and certainly he would shan't forget the debt he owed the Esterle estate, and so he endured stoically, as always.

“Ready our garments and belongings for prolonged travel. We are relocating immediately. And contact Madame Chamillart and organize our typical arrangement with her, to care for the estates in my absence, Reginald,” eventually John instructed mechanically and slightly aloof. Reginald took this command as an indication that his presence was no longer warranted, and he was more than happy to oblige his employer lest he risked summoning John’s ire once more.

John of course was oblivious of Reginald’s trepidations and disconcertedness; clearly his remarks towards his servant were simply now the product of habit and practice. John’s thoughts had crystallized however elsewhere and had taken form and purpose. He was determined to play Cronbach’s insidious game, "A rancorous duel to what end?" John’s opinion of Cronbach was that he was the worst of jealous sycophants and a vile creature with base aspiration. He speculated that his rival’s motives were to somehow bring forth the ruination of the Esterle holdings, which John considered a dubious aspiration for the ‘buffoon’. Even if harm were to befall his fortunes, he would consider it a slight inconvenience if he were able to encounter that fair spectre of his past, the only respite in his dim and troubled boyhood. Memories, long thought worthless, now sprung forth with renewed light and John recalled all his egregious yesteryears that he had endured, and that eventually tempered his very nature and character, but the thought of her now, here, left him raw and pliable. All these arisen thoughts and memories rushed and sparked his mindscape, till he could no longer restrain the torrent of emotions, and from him came forth a whispered utterance, “Helen,” a precious name a brave man had left unspoken for decades.