A Week-end at Golden Hills
I decided to sell the Golden Hills country house. I knew it embodied my mother's dream of perfection. It had been her safe haven. But she was long gone and I hated how objects would ridiculously outlive their owners. The place was too far to reach by car just for week-ends, with traffic and all. Sometimes I had fun there and I even wrote part of my research work in that peaceful atmosphere, still its maintenance was a nuisance. It was not that I couldn't afford it, but I felt the need for a complete change in my life. Moreover, the house had witnessed my sad love affair with Peter and there were too many things there that kept reminding me of it.
The real estate agent had found a reliable client; he had seen the place and liked it. Since Mr. Stouten was an extremely busy local business man, he promised that his office would take care of all the paper work and we were supposed to meet at Golden Hills in two weeks time, on a Saturday, for the final formalities.
I was pretending to watch a movie in my apartment that evening, sipping my green tea with Tealc, my cat, dozing in my lap. Its shiny black fur and mysterious green eyes inspired me to give him an unusual exotic name such as that of the famous "Star Gate" character. Suddenly the same question popped in: "if our dear ones that are dead, loved us so much, why did they give us no sign of where they went? What if it's all nothingness? Is there any truth in the souls' journey after death?" I startled when the phone rang. It sounded so loud in the silence of my living. Just in time for me not to indulge in these atheistic thoughts.
"Hi there, it's Katy! Do you have any plans for this week-end? If not, will you take me to Golden Hills? I have so much inspiration, and you know I'm drawing and painting like crazy there, as in no other place! I'll do the shopping on Thursday evening and I promise to clean after myself as if no painter ever "trespassed" your property".
"It's all right for this week-end, Katy. I had no other plans. I'll bring the wine."
"Million thanks. We'll go in my car, I'll pick you up on Friday, early afternoon.
"OK. Bye"
What was the use of telling her about the selling? I would have spoiled her enthusiasm. Like most artists, she is so selfish. She did not even ask how I was doing; she would always speak about herself, her feelings, her love affairs, her dilemmas and depressions. There is no more room for me and my uninteresting life of a boring researcher in the history of Romanian literature surrounded by books that almost no one (or at least no normal people) would read nowadays, not to speak that one could hardly make a living out of it. I love Katy. She is my best friend and such a talented artist. The combination between her extrovert personality and my owl behavior brought a stain of color into my life and a good listener into hers. I would never say how much I suffered after the separation from Peter while she would tell me every small detail of her life, but I knew that she was sincerely sympathizing with me, I could feel it. Katy was so full of life that she would not let anything disturb her balance. Her "joie de vivre" was contagious. She was my best cure against depression.
While I rarely spoke to her about my life, she had an intriguing talent to know or rather to sense everything. She knew for instance, that I hated the toaster which witnessed so many breakfasts with Peter at Golden Hills, and the two champagne glasses, and his photo on the mantlepiece. Under one pretext or other she managed to get rid of all of them with time, and I realized that I felt much better not having to see all these, although I most resented when she clumsily broke one of the glasses. Returning from a successful exhibition that she had in Vienna, she brought me for my birthday a nice white leather bag with a small bottle of champagne and two delicate glasses. Soon after, while we were doing some cleaning before closing the house for winter, she pretended to have misplaced Peter's photo and I did not insist too much to look for it. That was Katy, and I knew how much she cared about me.
I was not very enthusiastic about this week-end at Golden Hills but on Friday, when her small silver Peugeot 206 parked in front of my window, I already felt invigorated by her warm smile and tonic spirit. I fetched Tealc and jumped into the car. I traveled lightly since I needed no luggage. I still had lots of sports clothes there. Tealc loved Golden Hills, but I was not inclined to ponder too much on this aspect.
We finally arrived after two hours driving. I got out of the car to open the gates but Tealc was already in the middle of the plum orchard. Katy parked as badly as usual that I did not even bother to tell her.
"Oh, Lizzie, I adore this soft golden honey afternoon light! The contours expand and the whole world becomes softer and yet more real!"
"I'll make some coffee for us", I said grumpily.
"Lizzie, what's wrong? Did Peter call you recently, or what?"
"It's nothing. I'm just tired", I said. I was still not prepared to give her the news about the upcoming sale of the house, because I knew how she would plead against it and I just wanted to relax and have a good time.
Katy furiously sketched while I was preparing the barbecue fire.
Late at night we were still in the middle of the orchard sitting by the garden table, enjoying our wine and gazing at the stars. At Golden Hills they would always seem closer to earth. It was mid August and I spotted the sign of Leo thinking of my father who taught me to see the constellations. The closest people in my life were gone and with them all that special warmth of kindred spirits. I would see no sign from above, nor hear any voice dictating me to do otherwise. I concluded that time has come to start something new and went to bed at peace with myself, leaving Katy in the living room bended over an A4 cardboard paper resembling a sort of parchment in texture and color.
Next morning, while enjoying a long breakfast in the front garden, Katy showed me the sketches and to my surprise, all of them were representing Tealc in different hypostasis. I thought she would draw the roses, or the slender magnolia in front, or some still life inside the house, but she enthusiastically portrayed in so many ways Tealc's joy of life at Golden Hills.
"I was thinking this could replace Peter's portrait on the mantelpiece!" She said shyly but with a playful smile in her eyes, while proudly handing to me the parchment over which I saw her bending with so much concentration last night. It was Tealc drawn in charcoal. She had perfectly captured his mysterious eyes glow.
"Thank you so much, Katy".
"I have one more favour to ask", she said.
"Please let me paint a still life with your mother's rosewood box."
"Ah, the famous box, all right, go ahead."
The rosewood box was in the chest of drawers between the two front windows of the living room. I gently handed it to Katy. I knew that she was a fan of my mother's box. My mother, who had been a famous poet and a talented actress kept there many trifles and memories, things of more or less value that were all so dear to her. The rosewood box was shining as new. It contained her life's essence and it was the only object that I intended to take with me after selling the house. Katy painted it on a coffee table and then, with my permission she opened it and painted again with its contents revealed. It took her the whole morning. There were a couple of jewels, two books of my mother's poetry, my grandfather's gold pocket watch, some love letters bounded with a blue ribbon, which I never had the courage to read, and many other objects that my mother treasured. Katy worked at these two paintings for hours and I had to improvise lunch.
"You can take one of them. It's my gift. You'll have Tealc's portrait on the mantelpiece here, and the rosewood box at your apartment."
I thanked her, looking in amazement at how the rosewood box became a strong presence, almost a character, in Katy's brilliant artwork.
Then nothing special followed. We washed the dishes and cleaned the house, locked it as usual and drove to town before dark.
A boring week passed. I decided to leave for Golden Hills late Friday since I did not want to spend too much time there. I left Tealc in the apartment, asking my neighbor who had my spare keys to check on him. I intended to come back on Saturday.
It was a quiet night. I prepared herbal tea, ate some cheese and had a long peaceful sleep, away from the city turmoil. I woke up fresh and determined to finish this business as soon as possible. Mr. Stouten arrived together with the agent and a notary. I invited them onto the front terrace and offered them coffee and cookies. I carefully read all the papers. They were in perfect order and already signed by Mr. Stouten. All I had to do was to sign under "Elisabeth Hampshire". "Where's my pen?" I kept wondering while fetching for it in my purse. I was sure I placed it in its upper small pocket.
"Is there anything wrong, Mrs. Hampshire? Are you all right?" Mr. Stouten inquired slightly worried.
"Just a minute," I said, rushing into the house. I fetched for the rosewood box and opened it in a hurry. My mother's silver pen was there - a gift from her parents when she published her first book of poetry. I took the pen and almost sensed her hand in the ethereal space. I cannot say if it had been a sound, the perception of an almost untraceable movement, or just the leaves rustling in the wind. I shivered and felt my face draining of color and a short, wild pain in my chest. From the place I was standing, I could see Tealc's portrait on the mantelpiece. I went back to the terrace, took a deep breath and said:
"Sorry, Mr. Stouten, Golden Hills is not for sale anymore!"
Published on Fanstory community of writers, 2010
copyright Daniela Albu
I decided to sell the Golden Hills country house. I knew it embodied my mother's dream of perfection. It had been her safe haven. But she was long gone and I hated how objects would ridiculously outlive their owners. The place was too far to reach by car just for week-ends, with traffic and all. Sometimes I had fun there and I even wrote part of my research work in that peaceful atmosphere, still its maintenance was a nuisance. It was not that I couldn't afford it, but I felt the need for a complete change in my life. Moreover, the house had witnessed my sad love affair with Peter and there were too many things there that kept reminding me of it.
The real estate agent had found a reliable client; he had seen the place and liked it. Since Mr. Stouten was an extremely busy local business man, he promised that his office would take care of all the paper work and we were supposed to meet at Golden Hills in two weeks time, on a Saturday, for the final formalities.
I was pretending to watch a movie in my apartment that evening, sipping my green tea with Tealc, my cat, dozing in my lap. Its shiny black fur and mysterious green eyes inspired me to give him an unusual exotic name such as that of the famous "Star Gate" character. Suddenly the same question popped in: "if our dear ones that are dead, loved us so much, why did they give us no sign of where they went? What if it's all nothingness? Is there any truth in the souls' journey after death?" I startled when the phone rang. It sounded so loud in the silence of my living. Just in time for me not to indulge in these atheistic thoughts.
"Hi there, it's Katy! Do you have any plans for this week-end? If not, will you take me to Golden Hills? I have so much inspiration, and you know I'm drawing and painting like crazy there, as in no other place! I'll do the shopping on Thursday evening and I promise to clean after myself as if no painter ever "trespassed" your property".
"It's all right for this week-end, Katy. I had no other plans. I'll bring the wine."
"Million thanks. We'll go in my car, I'll pick you up on Friday, early afternoon.
"OK. Bye"
What was the use of telling her about the selling? I would have spoiled her enthusiasm. Like most artists, she is so selfish. She did not even ask how I was doing; she would always speak about herself, her feelings, her love affairs, her dilemmas and depressions. There is no more room for me and my uninteresting life of a boring researcher in the history of Romanian literature surrounded by books that almost no one (or at least no normal people) would read nowadays, not to speak that one could hardly make a living out of it. I love Katy. She is my best friend and such a talented artist. The combination between her extrovert personality and my owl behavior brought a stain of color into my life and a good listener into hers. I would never say how much I suffered after the separation from Peter while she would tell me every small detail of her life, but I knew that she was sincerely sympathizing with me, I could feel it. Katy was so full of life that she would not let anything disturb her balance. Her "joie de vivre" was contagious. She was my best cure against depression.
While I rarely spoke to her about my life, she had an intriguing talent to know or rather to sense everything. She knew for instance, that I hated the toaster which witnessed so many breakfasts with Peter at Golden Hills, and the two champagne glasses, and his photo on the mantlepiece. Under one pretext or other she managed to get rid of all of them with time, and I realized that I felt much better not having to see all these, although I most resented when she clumsily broke one of the glasses. Returning from a successful exhibition that she had in Vienna, she brought me for my birthday a nice white leather bag with a small bottle of champagne and two delicate glasses. Soon after, while we were doing some cleaning before closing the house for winter, she pretended to have misplaced Peter's photo and I did not insist too much to look for it. That was Katy, and I knew how much she cared about me.
I was not very enthusiastic about this week-end at Golden Hills but on Friday, when her small silver Peugeot 206 parked in front of my window, I already felt invigorated by her warm smile and tonic spirit. I fetched Tealc and jumped into the car. I traveled lightly since I needed no luggage. I still had lots of sports clothes there. Tealc loved Golden Hills, but I was not inclined to ponder too much on this aspect.
We finally arrived after two hours driving. I got out of the car to open the gates but Tealc was already in the middle of the plum orchard. Katy parked as badly as usual that I did not even bother to tell her.
"Oh, Lizzie, I adore this soft golden honey afternoon light! The contours expand and the whole world becomes softer and yet more real!"
"I'll make some coffee for us", I said grumpily.
"Lizzie, what's wrong? Did Peter call you recently, or what?"
"It's nothing. I'm just tired", I said. I was still not prepared to give her the news about the upcoming sale of the house, because I knew how she would plead against it and I just wanted to relax and have a good time.
Katy furiously sketched while I was preparing the barbecue fire.
Late at night we were still in the middle of the orchard sitting by the garden table, enjoying our wine and gazing at the stars. At Golden Hills they would always seem closer to earth. It was mid August and I spotted the sign of Leo thinking of my father who taught me to see the constellations. The closest people in my life were gone and with them all that special warmth of kindred spirits. I would see no sign from above, nor hear any voice dictating me to do otherwise. I concluded that time has come to start something new and went to bed at peace with myself, leaving Katy in the living room bended over an A4 cardboard paper resembling a sort of parchment in texture and color.
Next morning, while enjoying a long breakfast in the front garden, Katy showed me the sketches and to my surprise, all of them were representing Tealc in different hypostasis. I thought she would draw the roses, or the slender magnolia in front, or some still life inside the house, but she enthusiastically portrayed in so many ways Tealc's joy of life at Golden Hills.
"I was thinking this could replace Peter's portrait on the mantelpiece!" She said shyly but with a playful smile in her eyes, while proudly handing to me the parchment over which I saw her bending with so much concentration last night. It was Tealc drawn in charcoal. She had perfectly captured his mysterious eyes glow.
"Thank you so much, Katy".
"I have one more favour to ask", she said.
"Please let me paint a still life with your mother's rosewood box."
"Ah, the famous box, all right, go ahead."
The rosewood box was in the chest of drawers between the two front windows of the living room. I gently handed it to Katy. I knew that she was a fan of my mother's box. My mother, who had been a famous poet and a talented actress kept there many trifles and memories, things of more or less value that were all so dear to her. The rosewood box was shining as new. It contained her life's essence and it was the only object that I intended to take with me after selling the house. Katy painted it on a coffee table and then, with my permission she opened it and painted again with its contents revealed. It took her the whole morning. There were a couple of jewels, two books of my mother's poetry, my grandfather's gold pocket watch, some love letters bounded with a blue ribbon, which I never had the courage to read, and many other objects that my mother treasured. Katy worked at these two paintings for hours and I had to improvise lunch.
"You can take one of them. It's my gift. You'll have Tealc's portrait on the mantelpiece here, and the rosewood box at your apartment."
I thanked her, looking in amazement at how the rosewood box became a strong presence, almost a character, in Katy's brilliant artwork.
Then nothing special followed. We washed the dishes and cleaned the house, locked it as usual and drove to town before dark.
A boring week passed. I decided to leave for Golden Hills late Friday since I did not want to spend too much time there. I left Tealc in the apartment, asking my neighbor who had my spare keys to check on him. I intended to come back on Saturday.
It was a quiet night. I prepared herbal tea, ate some cheese and had a long peaceful sleep, away from the city turmoil. I woke up fresh and determined to finish this business as soon as possible. Mr. Stouten arrived together with the agent and a notary. I invited them onto the front terrace and offered them coffee and cookies. I carefully read all the papers. They were in perfect order and already signed by Mr. Stouten. All I had to do was to sign under "Elisabeth Hampshire". "Where's my pen?" I kept wondering while fetching for it in my purse. I was sure I placed it in its upper small pocket.
"Is there anything wrong, Mrs. Hampshire? Are you all right?" Mr. Stouten inquired slightly worried.
"Just a minute," I said, rushing into the house. I fetched for the rosewood box and opened it in a hurry. My mother's silver pen was there - a gift from her parents when she published her first book of poetry. I took the pen and almost sensed her hand in the ethereal space. I cannot say if it had been a sound, the perception of an almost untraceable movement, or just the leaves rustling in the wind. I shivered and felt my face draining of color and a short, wild pain in my chest. From the place I was standing, I could see Tealc's portrait on the mantelpiece. I went back to the terrace, took a deep breath and said:
"Sorry, Mr. Stouten, Golden Hills is not for sale anymore!"
Published on Fanstory community of writers, 2010
copyright Daniela Albu
MANHATTAN CHRONICLES Literary Magazine and Cross Cultural Opinion Platform
MANHATTAN CHRONICLES SHORT STORY
Fall 2011 issue
THE ORANGE DRESS
by Daniela Albu
Daniela Albu is a novelist, poet and journalist living in Bucharest, Romania.
Fall 2011 issue
THE ORANGE DRESS
by Daniela Albu
Daniela Albu is a novelist, poet and journalist living in Bucharest, Romania.
"Grandmother, do you like my new orange dress that mother bought me for the ball?"
Ana could not answer her. She hated that color, so she silently looked at her granddaughter proudly and impatiently taking the dress out of one bag while helping her mother to pick the pile of packages from the car. She let them enjoy the results of their furious shopping spree and unnoticed, took a long walk in the sunset. The wind was blowing and it was almost dark. She sat by the sea until late, still not able to forget, after so many years. Contemplating the waves, her inner eye kept watching her life's successive episodes, re-reading the words that struck her long ago, back in the 1940s. Her husband George, whom she adored was a successful lawyer, a great personality in those years, admired for his full control and his talent to master any situation. He looked up to him as the perfect man of her dreams – a winner. But every Thursday, George used to drink in his study, almost all night long, with doors closed. She did not know that it was then when he would loose his usual balance and used to scribble his most intimate thoughts in a leather-bounded notebook. When they had to move, in the fuss of packing everything, she found that strange sort of diary and since then, her life had never been the same.
A fragment from George's notes:
"I arrived in Bucharest by train. Tired with the agitation of the North Station, I reached the cheap hotel with excitement, heading to the bar, impatient to see Lara. She absently stood next to some gamblers' table, as part of the decor. She saw me and approached with lazy movements. I bought her a drink. We did not even said "hello" to each other. Her face was motionless. She had dark circles under her eyes. It had been two years since I told her not to use makeup. She had taken my advice but now looked so vulnerable. In spite of her "trade", Lara was not vulgar. Life had no more nasty surprises for her. Her last disappointment might have been when I once turned down her offer to keep her only for myself and buying her a cheap studio in exchange. I plainly explained to her that I did not mind that she was seeing other men too. Nothing had changed since then, for the past four years, I have been seeing her twice a week, without being bored or disgusted, trying to dissimulate my confused feelings. I watched her fascinated. Her strange orange dress with black lace, more extravagant than vulgar, made her look paler than ever. I calmly went to the reception asking for key number 37. The young guy behind the counter winked at me. I felt like slapping him, but I controlled myself. I was the intruder there. It would have been in my power to take her out from the promiscuity of that cheap hotel. To me, good and evil are but arbitrary choices. Why and for how long should I "save" her? I am tormented for years by this strange mix of tenderness and passion that I feel for her.
I went up knowing that she would follow me soon. The way her fingers silently knocked caressing the wooden door expressed something out of this world; I thought it might have been the sound with which death itself would be looking for me, when time would come. She entered the room in her absent style and started to undress mechanically, with no hurry. The street lamp outside was the only source of light which drew its strange irregular shadows on the dusty old carpet and the shabby bed cover. I perceived the contours of her skinny body in the darkness. A light spot fell on her fragile, almost transparent hands. That night I had the impression that I was making love to a liana, a shadow. I did not sleep waiting for the sunrise. She did not look disgusting in the daylight. There were no ribbons, artificial flowers, shiny belts, or other such accessories. Her orange dress lay on a chair looking pathetic, like the canvas of a shipwrecked boat.
She was sleeping, barely breathing, her tiny pale face that of a sick child. I did not wake her up. Her sleep seemed then her only refuge. I could not help feeling so touched by this woman. Sometimes when we think we are in complete control of our lives, contrary to our initial intentions, we end up in chaos. These thoughts crossed my mind while contemplating a fold on the old, stained silk lampshade. It was full of regular creases like the sinuous bents and curves we follow in our lives, thinking that we took a unique path. I felt stifled with the platitude of life. Everything was as insipid as the dullness of this impersonal hotel room, after a trivial night of carnal passion. Time freezes the same everywhere: the orange dress, the woman's sleep, the out of date decor with the gray lampshade, the huge mirror, too large for the space of the room, reflecting the trembling branches of a poplar, the noises outside... while I keep searching for some new magical secret from this whore, maybe the essence of life."
Ana had never told her husband that during the hassle of their movement to Bucharest, in all the mess he had carelessly left on his desk, she accidentally discovered and read the confessions of a totally different person than the husband she adored, whose dark side kept haunting her sleepless nights for a long time. But her silence that followed out of too much love grew a desert between them, wider with every passing year. There was no hatred but she felt so hurt that with time she lost the profound essence of her love for him.
Next morning her granddaughter gave her a perplexed look when she told her:
"Young lady, I will not let you wear that horrible orange dress at the ball, for anything in the world.”
Copyright Daniela Albu
Ana could not answer her. She hated that color, so she silently looked at her granddaughter proudly and impatiently taking the dress out of one bag while helping her mother to pick the pile of packages from the car. She let them enjoy the results of their furious shopping spree and unnoticed, took a long walk in the sunset. The wind was blowing and it was almost dark. She sat by the sea until late, still not able to forget, after so many years. Contemplating the waves, her inner eye kept watching her life's successive episodes, re-reading the words that struck her long ago, back in the 1940s. Her husband George, whom she adored was a successful lawyer, a great personality in those years, admired for his full control and his talent to master any situation. He looked up to him as the perfect man of her dreams – a winner. But every Thursday, George used to drink in his study, almost all night long, with doors closed. She did not know that it was then when he would loose his usual balance and used to scribble his most intimate thoughts in a leather-bounded notebook. When they had to move, in the fuss of packing everything, she found that strange sort of diary and since then, her life had never been the same.
A fragment from George's notes:
"I arrived in Bucharest by train. Tired with the agitation of the North Station, I reached the cheap hotel with excitement, heading to the bar, impatient to see Lara. She absently stood next to some gamblers' table, as part of the decor. She saw me and approached with lazy movements. I bought her a drink. We did not even said "hello" to each other. Her face was motionless. She had dark circles under her eyes. It had been two years since I told her not to use makeup. She had taken my advice but now looked so vulnerable. In spite of her "trade", Lara was not vulgar. Life had no more nasty surprises for her. Her last disappointment might have been when I once turned down her offer to keep her only for myself and buying her a cheap studio in exchange. I plainly explained to her that I did not mind that she was seeing other men too. Nothing had changed since then, for the past four years, I have been seeing her twice a week, without being bored or disgusted, trying to dissimulate my confused feelings. I watched her fascinated. Her strange orange dress with black lace, more extravagant than vulgar, made her look paler than ever. I calmly went to the reception asking for key number 37. The young guy behind the counter winked at me. I felt like slapping him, but I controlled myself. I was the intruder there. It would have been in my power to take her out from the promiscuity of that cheap hotel. To me, good and evil are but arbitrary choices. Why and for how long should I "save" her? I am tormented for years by this strange mix of tenderness and passion that I feel for her.
I went up knowing that she would follow me soon. The way her fingers silently knocked caressing the wooden door expressed something out of this world; I thought it might have been the sound with which death itself would be looking for me, when time would come. She entered the room in her absent style and started to undress mechanically, with no hurry. The street lamp outside was the only source of light which drew its strange irregular shadows on the dusty old carpet and the shabby bed cover. I perceived the contours of her skinny body in the darkness. A light spot fell on her fragile, almost transparent hands. That night I had the impression that I was making love to a liana, a shadow. I did not sleep waiting for the sunrise. She did not look disgusting in the daylight. There were no ribbons, artificial flowers, shiny belts, or other such accessories. Her orange dress lay on a chair looking pathetic, like the canvas of a shipwrecked boat.
She was sleeping, barely breathing, her tiny pale face that of a sick child. I did not wake her up. Her sleep seemed then her only refuge. I could not help feeling so touched by this woman. Sometimes when we think we are in complete control of our lives, contrary to our initial intentions, we end up in chaos. These thoughts crossed my mind while contemplating a fold on the old, stained silk lampshade. It was full of regular creases like the sinuous bents and curves we follow in our lives, thinking that we took a unique path. I felt stifled with the platitude of life. Everything was as insipid as the dullness of this impersonal hotel room, after a trivial night of carnal passion. Time freezes the same everywhere: the orange dress, the woman's sleep, the out of date decor with the gray lampshade, the huge mirror, too large for the space of the room, reflecting the trembling branches of a poplar, the noises outside... while I keep searching for some new magical secret from this whore, maybe the essence of life."
Ana had never told her husband that during the hassle of their movement to Bucharest, in all the mess he had carelessly left on his desk, she accidentally discovered and read the confessions of a totally different person than the husband she adored, whose dark side kept haunting her sleepless nights for a long time. But her silence that followed out of too much love grew a desert between them, wider with every passing year. There was no hatred but she felt so hurt that with time she lost the profound essence of her love for him.
Next morning her granddaughter gave her a perplexed look when she told her:
"Young lady, I will not let you wear that horrible orange dress at the ball, for anything in the world.”
Copyright Daniela Albu
MANHATTAN CHRONICLES Literary Magazine and Cross Cultural Opinion Platform
MANHATTAN CHRONICLES Summer 2010 issue
MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE short story by Daniela Albu
The dress was gorgeous and exactly how she dreamed it should be: absolutely flawless. It was already paid, so Diana kindly asked to have it dispatched at home. Then she called the driver on the cell phone. She resented his lack of discipline. He would often leave the car on different pretexts either buying a sandwich, or a newspaper, or whatever. He used to provide so many explanations and excuses that it was worthless to even bother asking him where he had been while badly needed. She could not understand why her father kept him in his service for so many years.
He would often leave the car on different etexts either buying a sandwich, or a newspaper, or whatever. He used to provide so many explanations and excuses that it was worthless to even bother asking him where he had been while badly needed. She could not understand why her father kept him in his service for so many years.
Lying in the back seat she wondered for a moment whether the dress designer's compliments were sincere. She kept telling her how wonderful she looked in her wedding dress. She could not believe how quickly time flew. Tomorrow she would be a married woman. Everything went as planned. Her mother-in-law had been extremely helpful with the logistics while her own mother couldn't care less. She would only linger by the swimming pool with her usual gin and tonic. She even told her bluntly and with her usual sarcasm how she hated weddings and funerals. She was not to blame with her father's lifestyle and all. Still Diana was confident in her future. Charles was such a strong and promising young man and he was so handsome. He inspired power and confidence. And the wedding invitations were so superb and unusual and in such good taste. Her best friend, Joanna had that brilliant "message in a bottle" idea. The invitations, printed on exquisite quality parchment paper were rolled, tied with a thin blue ribbon and placed in cute glass bottles with another thin blue ribbon on the bottleneck wearing a nice label with the name of the invitees. Inside the bottle was a layer of real sand with nice pebbles and shells and the cork had a tiny starfish applied as ornament: an original idea.
Suddenly Diana felt the acute need to be in his arms.
"Stop by my father's office please!" she told the driver when they were just a few blocks away.
She knew there were so many other tiny things to be taken care of and that her mother-in-law was already waiting for her to have lunch together, but she could not resist the strong impulse to be held in his arms for a second.
The Deputy Director's office was empty. Not even the secretary was there. The receptionist recognized her and kindly informed they were all out for lunch in the nearby restaurant. She rushed across the street and entered the restaurant. Charles wasn't there. She quickly saw his secretary having lunch together with other colleagues, but she did not want to interrupt. The secretary recognized her and came by to tell her very politely that Charles had a dentist appointment. Diana felt awkward and returned to the car.
The car stopped at the traffic light before crossing the bridge. She was still thinking about the dress when there they were, entering the small park, kissing each other passionately, Charles and an attractive red haired young woman.
She could not breathe while an inner scream burst out in all her cells. The car continued its route with a petrified Diana. The image of the "message in a bottle" invitations hurt her mind's eyes with a total new significance: a desperate call for help invaded her senses. The insensitive driver was drinking his juice holding the wheel with one hand only. "Weddings and funerals", her mother was right. How can she now meet her mother-in-law for lunch to discuss about all those stupidities? What was to be done? The wedding is scheduled for tomorrow. What should she do? Whereto was her life heading?
With all her muscles relaxed, she was crying silently, her face completely still, with a terrified expression that the driver pretended not to see, with the same professionalism with which he pretended not to have noticed Charles and his companion entering the park.
All she could think of was the beauty of the dress and the day after tomorrow .
Copyright Daniela Al bu
Daniela Albu is a novelist living in Romania
THE BADGER short story by Daniela Albu
Copyright Daniela Albu
This story was first published in
MANHATTAN CHRONICLES Literary Magazine and Cross Cultural Opinion Platform
and then it won a honorable mention and was published in the Anthology Nature 2021
The car door was locked. Without realizing this, she hastily tried to open it. The helpless expression on her face and the idea of indifferently leaving a woman alone in the rain made me pull on the right and accept to take her for what I thought it would be a short lift. Still, I resented her presence. She was obviously trying to flirt with me and in spite of her beauty, I only felt annoyed. I was thinking so intensely of Patricia that I could only find her boring. She obviously has class, I thought. But why on earth did I take her into my car, especially when anything might happen in this crazy world? She can as well be either a thief, a psychopath, or a murderer. Why did I let myself touched by the fact that she was looking so desperate with her small suitcase, by the road, in the middle of nowhere? I had still a long distance to drive and the sky was turning almost black. I could feel from inside the car the pressure of the strong wind. Maybe she was not trying to flirt with me after all and it was only my impression. I could not help looking at her thin delicate arms. She had gorgeous natural red hair and an extremely white skin. I could guess the elegant shape of her body under the long, vaporous summer dress.
The wind became stronger and stronger. Now we could hear the pebbles hitting the car. I could even see the green pupils of her eyes widening almost like those of a cat. It was not fear, but we both felt a sort of tension growing with the gathering of the dark clouds above us. We seemed to be leaving the light behind us and to be heading straight into the heart of the coming storm. Clouds of dust were now whirling on the road and rising up into the sky. I had to get to Patricia.
She had been so insistent at the time, that I finally agreed to buy that cottage so far away from the city, with no neighbors, and too near the woods, but she was totally charmed by the lake nearby that we could perfectly see from the living room terrace windows. Of course she made wonders and with time, the cottage became extremely comfortable. I still resented having to drive for so many hours to get there. I presume I am a lazy bourgeois and I would rather watch TV, glass of good wine in my hand, than enjoy the strong fresh windy air of the lake and woods and all the other countryside pleasures. But who could resist to Patricia’s charm? One could never neglect her presence when she would enter a room. All of us were so sad when she could not continue her ballerina career because of that stupid knee surgery. She could walk perfectly now but she could dance no more.
“Stop it, for Christ sake! Haven’t you seen the poor badger? It’s a real wonder that he got away. Look. He safely reached the other side”.
The woman’s shout has been loud but pleasant, like a cold shower to my nerves.
“What are you, one of those ecologists? I haven’t seen the darn badger. Can’t you see the storm looming ahead of us? Do you think I care about a stupid animal jumping under the wheels?”
Of course I did not really mean it. I was actually glad that the badger was all right. The woman was tense, but so was I. I could clearly see by the black sky ahead that we were heading directly into the storm. The poor badger must have thought it was night when he tried to cross the road.
“I’m sorry!” I said.
She nodded but I felt her tension combined with a sort of sadness. After all, we are all God’s creatures. I could have been that badger myself, I thought, but I did not say anything more. I just continued to drive scarcely seeing the road in front of me. A heavy rain soon started splashing its drops at random in the wild wind. The sound of the rain always relaxes me but this time it was as if someone was whipping the car with fury. The wind grew wilder and wilder. I would not stop the car for anything in the world. I desperately wanted to see Patty. I missed her the entire week and it felt like a year to me.
“Don’t you think it would be wiser to pull on the right for a while”? She candidly asked me.
“And do what; just wait for it to get worse?”
That very moment I realized that she would take me for a very rude person. I did not care. I was thinking of Patty’s embrace, of her soft arms, her curly black hair, so black that in the light it seemed almost dark blue, her warm walnut eyes, so strange, so innocent and different from any other woman’s eyes.
Her stupid idea of spending so much time at the cottage, made me endlessly drive almost every Friday to see her. How thrilled I was to surprise her like that and just show up on a Wednesday evening. I even bought two bottles of her favorite Merlot. We will dine gazing at the lake, not caring about the storm from our cozy living room, and then would make love all night like a crazy young roguish couple. My sweet Patty! I know that life has not been fair to you but from now on, I will try to make it up for all your misfortunes. I had not been right to put my career before anything. I will treasure you, as you deserve.
“You must forgive me for not being too talkative”. I suddenly said to the woman.
“It’s OK. My name is Sandra”.
“I’m Michael. I just want to get to my wife and I am only annoyed with this storm”.
“It seems to be right ahead of us. It is as if we are going into it. I’m not afraid, I’m from Kansas”
“That’s good to hear. It almost looks like a tornado to me.”
“Don’t worry. Are you sure you don’t want to stop and calm down for a moment?”
“No. I’ve already told you. I have to get to my wife.”
“You must love her a lot”.
I did not feel like answering her. I continued to drive. My eyes were in tears because of my effort to focus on the road. She looked at me with a sort of compassion and then she asked for my permission to smoke. I nodded. I did not wish to enter into any more conversation with her. She lit a cigarette and for a moment the flame of her lighter brought a strange powerful light in all that darkness. The car headlights were piercing the dense darkness of dust and fog. The rain was stopping and coming again in sequences. The woman’s green eyes were extremely sparkling, like those of some rare wild creature caught by surprise.
“I must admit I saw few men driving into a storm like this for someone else’s sake” said she.
We drove for almost another two hours and the center of the storm seemed to always be ahead of us. Whenever we reached a place the storm seemed to have been one pace ahead. We saw fallen trees and wires and even waited for almost half an hour until a huge trunk was removed from the road. We passed some houses with broken windows and smashed roofs and were terrified of what more was going to happen since we seemed to follow the footsteps of this disaster. All this time I felt a secret bound between Sandra and me. I did not know who she was and I did not care. We were now two closed people in the middle of perils and this was the only thing that counted.
“We are now getting closer to my place. I will speak to my wife and you can spend the night with us.”
She nodded in that special way of hers, without thanking me, as if she didn’t care.
I was so happy when I saw my house from distance and even happier when getting closer and closer; I realized that, with the exception of some bended trees and a devastated garden in front, it seemed not to have suffered any damage. I told Sandra to wait in the car. When I got out, I could barely slam back the car door. It was almost a hurricane and I was like a toy without balance. Finally I managed to reach the front porch and to enter into the house after another fight with the front door. Since our kitchen backdoor could be seen from the living room, it struck me to see the broken window of the kitchen door with the fluttering curtains and the wind howling in the kitchen. I new how careful Patty was with these things and I could not realize why this carelessness. I rushed into the kitchen and I pulled down the shutters to temporarily block the hole. I started to anxiously call Patty. But the wind outside covered my voice. I went upstairs and I opened the bedroom door. And there they were; her sweet face resting on the shoulder of my friend Jack, her half covered body in his arms, under the blue quilt. They were both sleeping, looking like the perfect pair. I closed the door slowly and I went back to the car. It was then when I realized that I was actually in the midst of the storm and that no damages were done until then, since it did not get there yet upon my arrival. We actually met at the cottage, the storm and me.
So, the storm was no more ahead of us. We were now in its very center and the disaster had only just begun. I managed to get back into the car and I speeded up with incredible fastness. All my senses were twice sharpened than normal. I managed to get out of that nightmare with accuracy, which at that time I did not realize that it was triggered only by my disappointment and despair. I left the storm behind without any remorse of what might follow or happen.
Sandra did not ask me anything. Only late in the night, when I was still aimlessly driving staring at the headlights she whispered:
“You look exactly like that badger that managed to get away”.
Daniela Albu is a novelist living in Bucharest, Romania, EU.