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NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE
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02-11-10 6M p2 |
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Acceptance by Myrta Willy |
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A novel of terror and love Today was a winter day and heavy with dampness and mist, where the flames of the lamps flickering through the foliage seemed to beckon like assembly points. This habit of hers to be there late in the afternoon began when her rambles in the dark green countryside became more frequent, becoming part of her daily routine. It began some time ago, she didn’t know exactly when, but the changes of the seasons and the whispering of the trees that was heard according to the time of day or night was enough for her. “Fine,” she would admit, “trees do not whisper, but they do quiver in the wind, with the rain seeping into the leaves, as well as the darkness that weighs heavily against their bulk.” “Trees do not whisper and darkness does not disrupt,” he would correct her and continue, “You are moonstruck.” He would make her mad and that was why they broke up. But at that time, she did not yet know of the forest-sized garden situated along the borders of the city. Until recently, she had rambled aimlessly among the hills, faraway country-sides and coastlines, until she suddenly found herself inside this huge expanse. How did this happen? She could not remember. It was as if a mist covered her memory, revealing only her long slender shadow wandering along the narrow pathways until she was stopped by a similar male shadow, a dark figure half slouched on a bench. The man had a flat, motionless face, similar to a photograph inside a picture-frame. This was her first thought, followed by a second that he was around her age, around thirty. A sweet young man despite his harsh pale countenance. He must be sick, she reasoned and stopped in front of the bench to look at the young man’s picture-like face. “My appearance has nothing to do with sickness,” he answered, as if he had heard her reasoning, and after uttering these words, his picture-like lips reverted to their motionless smile. In other words she wondered, “What are you trying to say?” “I am lost, all was in vain,” he placed a final period to his statement, moving his lips imperceptibly while forming these words as his mouth reverted back again to its frozen expression. His smile was not sad or worried, but rather steady so steady that it seemed that nothing could remove it. The face of a desperate person, a gloomy and depressive look that was consciously afraid, but she did not move away. In fact she was preparing to ask him why he was as he stated lost. “My name is Stefanos,” he said, and added his last name in the silence that followed, “Stefanos Stamoulis.” He continued in a voice that was somewhat questioning, “What’s your name?” “Elvina,” the young girl immediately replied, an unusual name that she liked. Her mother was now covering the marble slab with rose-petals. The grave was covered in flowers. Stefanos did not reply but he was there for her. After the flowers, her friend and her father held her mother as they returned back to mundane earthy matters, passing by the refectory. The others followed, leaving Elvina and Stefanos alone at the grave. She bent over to touch the petals that were still warm from the hands of her mother. The warmth touching her cold skin was like a lightning bolt. Yes, she was cold and dead and this awareness shattered her. “You’re number 33Δ,” Nontas informed her, shouting next to her since Elvina felt as if she was in the depths of the earth, covered with soil, as if an earthquake had occurred and she was buried in the ruins. “Your grave is near that of Stefanos, two rows to the left,” the ambulance driver continued on loquaciously. Elvina stood up and brushed the soil from her body, together with her mother’s rose-petals.
Anger frothed out of her mouth, mixing with the soil from the grave and gluing to her body and clothes, turning into mud. Tears accompanied the froth, running from her eyes, turning the soil on her face into a layer of mud, a shell that she tried to break through grimaces but could not shatter it. She realized that she was beginning to resemble Stefanos, like his motionless face. “I’ll stand up and remove the mud. I’ll wash myself at the tap and clean my dress. “How come I did not understand before, the dress that I was buried in, that’s why I didn’t have any other clothes. Let me get up now,” she told herself. “What’s happened has happened, everything has finished now. I am number 33Δ, why do I complain about?” “We have numbers here my girl,” Nontas explained now what he had hidden from her previously, when she had not known then. “We have numbers here my girl, which the relatives look for, together with the names. They would never find us otherwise. Section A, row 3 grave 23, that’s me,” and he burst out laughing. “Try and understand with names only, people don’t die alphabetically.” “I will look after the pavilion. I can manage it. At home I cared for huge pot plants with living green plants, it was a small but wonderful garden. I’ll liven up the pavilion so we can both stay here. I’ll care for the greenery, I’ll plant more flowers, it’ll be more beautiful than before,” she allowed a smile to appear on her face. “I never went to Prague,” confided Stefanos, “Nor did I go with another woman. I only went with you and that’s the only recollection I have. I remember having you next to me in the bar with the opaque coloured glass in the windows and the husky music that transformed everything into a vision.” Elvina’s only response was to look at him and sweeten the smile that was permanently on her lips, an expression that suggested the two of them might work things out between them. They left behind them the pavilion that had rejuvenated them and began to walk along the pathway. Relaxed and remote, each with his thoughts but also with new thoughts born from love, while innumerable light shadows watched them from behind the trees, floating just above the ground. Some were invisible due to their age while other more recent ones were clearly visible. Some were unknown and inaccessible while others were more familiar, such as Nontas who was snickering slyly, the cripple who was testing the flexibility of his limbs, the drunkard who had raised his hand as if holding a glass of wine, the woman/mom who was busy choosing balls, the journalist who had raised his camera, as well as some less familiar ones. |