A story for Chambers*

[smokingboot]

And anybody else who likes this kind of thing.


Sometimes, one only know one is doing the right thing after it is done. And sometimes one does something and wonders what all the fuss was about.

I have now taken my glove off to examine my hand. The thumb nail is no longer as swollen as it was but I know better than to leave it.

Knowing what is to come next, I suppose I should recount tonight's doings. I take pen and write, and as I do, my left thumb gives a strange twisting little ache at the bone. Panic makes me want to call the doctor, but there is a deeper panic also; I know I will not be here tomorrow, and no-one will understand or believe what has happened.

Do I sound calm? I am calm, believe me. Sarah my maid is packing as I write. I do not know where I will go, but run I can and will.

I do not want to lose my thumb.

Shall I speak of this evening then? I was well dressed tonight, scarlet a favourite colour of mine, and a jet hairpiece coiling my hair high above my neck and obsidian necklace and ear-rings given to me a long time ago; I am not plain, by any means. Yet I was not attending the soiree to shine on my own account. Elizabeth, my dear friend, was announcing her engagement to one whose name I shall not mention, lest the spoken word brings him to my door.

I am not superstitious but for tonight. Tomorrow, in France, I will be as blase as you please.

Yes, I will go to Paris.

So then. Scarlet dress and ear-rings and my favourite perfume. Alas that the weather should turn so foul. Despite my efforts, by the time my carriage reached the turning into Berkely Square, all the elegance of rouge and powder had been blown from my face by the rain. This is not always bad; the rain gives a lady's complexion bloom for about 10 minutes after she enters the warm. Then it fades and she must redo it or look a fright the rest of the evening.

I did look fine, I admit it. I look at myself now, and I see a pale woman with dark hair and eyes; shadows beneath them and a slight tightening about the lips. My thought has been to run for Provence where all artists escape, but I look at my hand and I do not want warm seas and welcoming skies: I need a place where the blood freezes beneath the bone. Infection seeks heat does it not?

So I will go to Copenhagen. Or Vienna. Is it cold in Vienna?

You will grow impatient with me. Very well.

Once I was remade to the extent that I could show myself in such august company as Elizabeth's relatives and betrothed, I entered the drawing room, and met almost all of them. Elizabeth of course wanted me to meet the man she was to marry, but I was fortunate at that point; famous raconteur that he was, we could not interrupt him in his story and for that I was curiously grateful. They were listening to him and I took the opportunity to observe. He was a man of physical strength and grace - nothing less would please Elizabeth's heart - but even seeing him from the side, I could not say he was the sort of man I prefer. His skin was very white, as though he was powdered more than I, and though many ladies find it a most sensitive complexion, I cannot call it manly myself. Every gentleman benefits from the tan of open air in his countenance; it gives him an honesty and freshness of look. This man had neither, for all his charm.

Charm indeed he had; they all listened intently to some tale he was telling, of a book or a yellow sign or something. The anecdote lasted too long for my patience and I had to claim Elizabeth's indulgence - I had too many others to speak to,her aunt the grand-dowager included - and yet my friend looked so crestfallen!

'Do you not find him fascinating?' She sighed, 'It is a very good story. I have heard him tell it before...' I laughed and shook my head at her. Many's the love I have kept in my heart, but never have I met a man whose stories bear more than one telling. She must be in very deep. When I told her as such, she showed me her engagement ring with great indignation. It was a garnet surrounded by miniscule splinters of crystal. I was surprised. 'This is how much I love him!' She said, 'See, these diamonds are tiny!'

For once I was lost for words. Much was clear. He had neither looks nor money. All he had was that mouth of his, words spilling out, penny prizes from a parish tombola. And yet, they listened, rapt.

My thumb hurts now. Sarah has stopped packing in order to bandage it. It hurts so much I expect it to bleed, but I know it will not.

At that point, the impatience which has often been the bane of my existence, came to my rescue. Some part of me was determined to limit my contact with her fiance. I moved through the crowd and enjoyed the company of friends old and new, and the endless story, punctuated by murmurs of approval, faded behind me.

Moonlight came and disapeared under clouds, and once again, poor dear Albert accompanied me to a balcony and reiterated feelings I am deeply honoured to have inspired and know I can never reciprocate. I refused his hand again, but we stayed and listened to the church bells sounding the midnight hour.
'What think you of Elizabeth's fiance?' He asked me abruptly.
'I have not been introduced properly yet, but,' I could not help laughing, 'From what I know, he seems a frightful bore. The sound of his own voice-'
'I know!' Nodded Albert,'Did you know he has been telling that same story for hours now?'
'Surely not!' And yet, when I leaned my head against the curtain, I could hear it; something about a churchyard. Again.
'How many churchyard stories does he know?' I wondered aloud.
'It's the same story, I swear!' Albert shook his head. 'They are all too polite to tell him to stow it.'
We tiptoed away from the happy audience towards the musicians.

If conversation failed, still the music was particularly inspired. I danced, and when I did not dance I listened. Then Elizabeth came up to me and asked if I would play for her guests. When I agreed, she looked so radiant and happy I felt sure something was afoot, and certainly I understood the moment she announced me and I walked up to the instrument.

There he stood, ready to turn the pages for me. Albert sat in the audience looking peeved. This was the introduction she had prepared for her beloved and I. He turned towards me with a strange malign expression, and I forced my features to be calm on seeing his face properly for the first time. Could they not see, I wondered, how distorted his features were? Lord, could they not see he was ugly?

I believe I must have stared, for he murmured something softly, meant to cheer me I presume. I was about to say something about being un-used to strangers turning the pages for me, that I would prefer someone who knew my style better - perhaps Albert or Elizabeth herself - and he made a gentle joke about the sensitivities of artists, and the others smiled and chuckled, and I resolved not to make a fuss. After all, is a man to blame for being ill-favoured? And anyway, my eyes would be on the music.

I took off my gloves and began well enough. Music is at once stronger and more delicate than we understand. His own ear for music was clearer than I could have hoped, and he knew just when to turn the page. It was only the scent of him as he leant across me that began to put me off. To be sure, it was a little thick, a little rich; there are gentlemen who cannot help a certain pungency in an over-heated drawing room. But this grew in intensity and it was by no means an ordinary smell. There was an offensive sweetness to it, like stilton or game but warmer. I could no more breath in beside him than I could bury my face in raw meat. I stopped, mid page, and he stood, smiling enquiringly at me.

'We tire our friend,' He spoke to his (my?) audience, and they nodded and cooed. When he leaned towards me again, his voice was the very essence of consideration.

'We have imposed upon you too long. True talent such as yours cannot suffer endless strain for the entertainment of others. It is quite wrong of us to expect it...'

Do not think I had anything marvellous to say at this point. I was caught between listening and dreading the misbehaviour of my stomach if he drew nearer. It suddenly occurred to me that I had to speak to Elizabeth about him.

'If you will forgive my impudence...' his arm moved forward and encased my hand, my bare hand, and I tried to pull back but could not - more, I did not wish to be seen wrenching away in disgust from this clown. Elizabeth was watching. So I let him hold my hand and in that moment's complicity, he lifted it to his mouth and kissed it, even as my wrist tried to writhe in escape. His mouth opened and his tongue licked the skin between my forefinger and thumb. At that moment, something small and white crawled from under his tongue up to the top of my thumb, and burrowed down under the nail. I pulled my hand back and stared. Under the nail I saw a small, grub-like shape moving. There was a second's pain when I thought it would burst upwards, through the nail, and knew this would be better, but instead it disappeared inward and the pain dulled.

And then he let go of me.

'I think,' he said, 'That you will go far. In my humble opinion, you are more than a mere performer. One with your feeling for music should surely create.'

I shrugged. 'You are too kind,' I said, 'My creations alway disappoint me.'

'Do they? Perhaps you are too harsh upon yourself. Perhaps your future creations will please you better. Or make you kinder.'

He prepared to leave.

'Are you going to tell them that story again?' I asked. He smiled at me.

'Of course,' He said, 'It is all they want to hear.'

He walked towards my friend, and my thumb throbbed. I wanted to warn her, but first there were some small notes that had occurred to me, some harmonies I did not want to forget. I wrote them down. Rough, very rough. But I knew I would have time enough to modify them. The root of my thumb nail aches now, as I fold those notes on my dresser. They need more work.

By the time I had finished, the story was in full swing once again. They laughed, just as they had laughed before. I made my way towards Elizabeth.

'What do you make of him?' She asked me at last. 'Is he not fine?'

'Very fine,' I told her, 'But this story - '
'Of the artist and the place with two suns? And the maggot man?'
'Do you not find it ridiculous?'
'Oh no, the maggot man is my favourite part,' she said, tiny black eyes shining.

I drew back and looked at them all. How I had misjudged him and them. Around him they still sat, though much closer, laughing and applauding, even if his flesh had coarsened with the passage of time, and his collar was dark with a thick flowing stain. How thin he had grown! But what could he do about that, when he had so many to feed and they were so hungry and desperate to move in and out of the holes in his flesh, blind little mouths clinging to his words, greedy for him, suckling. This time Albert was there. But it was when Elizabeth joined them, her little pink mouth fastened deep under his cravat that his eyes met mine for the last time; I did not know if he wanted rescue. I fled.

My thumbnail has just fallen off. Behind it the finger grows whole. Where the nail sat is tender. I press it and feel the movement respond to me. I could cut into it, pick at it with tweezers, dig out the worm. But then, how will I play?

I will not alarm Sarah. I am packed.

I leave this for you, along with my music and my manuscripts; dabblings of mine, tunes and melodies of no import. I should throw them in the fire, but I find I cannot, so I commit them to your wisdom and discretion. Touch them only when you wear gloves.

And of course, never play them.



*Copyright Debbie Gallagher yaddayaddayadda.

Comments

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

Whoops, forgot the important word. Thanks!