Once upon a time there lived a little grey dog. He lived with his young master by the edge of a forest- he in a cosy kennel and the master in a tumbledown cottage. Every morning the grey dog would trot at his master's heels to go into the dim darkness of the forest to hunt for partridges and deer- for the master was a hunter and sold his game at the village market each day. The little dog loved his master dearly, and hunted alongside him as best he could, but somehow between the two of them they could never gather as much as a few small game each day. His master did not seem to mind though. However fruitful the hunt he still returned home whistling cheerfully, cleaned his kill and got them ready to be brought to the market to sell. From the money he earned he would buy just enough bread and meat for his dog and himself, and life went on like this for as long as anyone could care to remember.
One day, upon returning from the market, the young master called for his dog.
" Look at what I've brought from the market!" He cried as his dog came to him. "I bought it from a travelling gypsy. Is it not beautiful?" As he spoke, he drew out from his game bag a small metal cage. Inside it was a beautiful yellow canary. The dog sniffed at it with great interest, and its tail thumped in approval. The little canary gave on sweet thrill, and henceforth the two became good friends.
The bird was not permitted to leave her cage, but when master left for the market each day, the dog would curl up by the cage and the two animals would talk about their lives. The dog would tell the canary all about his troubles; how he tried his best to capture as much game as he could for his master, but to little avail. The little canary would console him by singing to him the sweetest songs she knew.
One day, returning from the forest, the dog threw himself by the birdcage, panting histrionically.
"Little dog, why do you pant so?" The canary twittered.
"I have been running, dear canary," The dog answered between pants. "There were rabbits today, and they ran like the wind- I had to run faster than the wind to catch them. But oh, all I could get were two skinny little ones, hardly enough to fill myself up. That was all master and I caught today- he is cleaning them now to sell at the village, but I doubt very much anyone would want them; they had no flesh to their bones."
The little canary felt sorry for the worn out dog, and began to sing a sweet song about the cool spring winds, of soft green grass, and of happy baby rabbits frolicking amongst the daffodils. Whereby the rabbits hiding in their burrows under the forest floor pricked up their ears, entranced by the lovely tune. They hopped to the cottage, eager to hear more of the song. By the time the dog was upon them, only a few managed to escape.
When master came in to fetch his hat, he was overjoyed to see some six fat rabbits lying by the dog's feet.
"You wonderful creature!" He cried to the dog. "You have brought the bread to our table tonight! I shall sell these magnificent rabbits at the market right away, and you shall have the largest bone the butcher has!" With that he picked up the rabbits, cleaned them, and went off to the market to sell them.
The next day, after the morning hunt, the dog flopped down in the cottage, too exhausted was he to even say a word. The little canary chirped out to him, head cocked to one side.
"Little dog, little dog, what is the matter now?" She chirruped.
"Dear canary, I am so tired today I feel as if my feet may fall off," The dog moaned. "I chased after a young deer today, so fast was it it took all I could master to snap at its heels. But no luck, for it kicked me hard and ran into the darkness. See, I am bruised all over, and poor master has nothing but a small partridge to sell at the market today." Tears ran down the little dog's nose, and the canary felt sorry for him. She started a new song, a song about secret glens in the heart of the forest, where the sunlight streamed down in golden shafts, and dainty fawns nibbled the sweet grass beneath their china hooves. And from these deep glens, out came a herd of deer, all making their way to the source of the sweet song, so close that they came almost to the steps of the cottage. The dog flew out at them as they scattered, and killed a fine young fawn. When master came to the cottage, he found the dog sitting by the fresh catch.
"You've done it again, you fine fellow!" He cried, patting the dog on the head. "This time you shall have two bones, both with the meat still on them. You have done great justice to me, and I am forever in your debt."
This went continued on, and everyone was happy. But soon, more animals came out of the forest to listen to the canary's songs. A black Raven perched at the windowsill, an emerald green Snake slithered and curled around the drainpipe, two copper-colored Frogs crawled out and sat in the grass, a silver Drake sat by Raven, and a Fox with a coat of russet and snout of soot, put his front paws up onto the sill and put his head into the window. These animals, however, were not at all entranced by the canary's songs. They laughed and mocked her.
"Travels? Pah!" Raven cawed. "This stupid yellow thing has seen nothing! Listen to me, dog, I have travelled further than any dirty Gypsy could crawl in a caravan! I have flown over far and distant lands! I could tell you all about the barren deserts with sun-baked sand, sparkling turquoise waters of the Mediterranean, cool green rice fields and exotic towns of the Orient! But no, you must insist on listening to this little caged ball of wet feathers!"
"People? Lies, all liess," Snake hissed. " What commoners this little bird singss of! Dog, lissten to me, and lissten well. My forefather was the very sserpent that led the pitiful humans to their sssinss. My brotherss guard templess around the world, protecting treasure you can't even began to imagine. My sisterss curl at the feet of dancing women, at the heelss of ssultanss, just as you stand by your dear masster. If there iss someone that could tell you of kingss and bloodthirsty rulerss, it would be me! Lissten no more to the tales of thiss silly bird, and take heed of mine."
"Ah, each of us have far better tales to tell than this boring little bird," Fox yawned, showing off two rows of sharp white teeth. "Come with us, dog; we shall take you in hand, you shall know about the Wide World from us- and nothing but meaningless fragments of dreams if you stay with this pathetic canary."
Impressed by the words of the animals, the dog followed them. Days passed as he listened to their tales of the Wide World. Drake told him of the long journey South during the winter, where the faraway lands were warm and moist and insects were abundant. The copper frogs croaked of a secret pool in the heart of a great jungle far in the tropics, where the Frog King lived and saw the future with his great amber eyes. Fox sat by him and told him of large cities teeming with People- "the right sort of people you'd want to meet- not the common kind," he declared, and how they feasted on roast oxen and broiled bear and drank wine out of gold goblets and danced the night away. All this and more the little grey dog drank in, sucked deeper and deeper into the tales, his mind being fed with new and exciting thoughts.
By and by the dog deigned to return to his home. The canary had been waiting patiently for him all the while, its lovely feathers ruffled and expectant.
"Little dog, little dog!" She twittered merrily, glad to see her friend once more. "Come over here and let me sing you my sweetest song!"
But the dog shook its head.
"No, not anymore, little bird," He said. "For what good have you been to me? All you have done is sing the same songs over and over. What good is it for me to listen to the songs of a bird- a bird whose feathers the sun does not glitter upon? You have not flown as far as Raven, neither are you as wise as the Frog King and the Frogs, nor have you the cunning of Fox. No, you are no good to me, and I will have nothing to do with you anymore- I have already wasted enough time already." With that, the little grey dog turned away and went back to his new friends- his true friends- who were waiting for him outside.
From behind the little cage the canary watched as the dog barked merrily with his new friends. They gambolled and played together, out under the sun, the moon and the stars. Tiny tears dropped down her little yellow beak, but not one soul saw. Her little heart throbbed and ached under her golden breast, and she broke into a sorrowful song of love and heartbreak, of pain and confusion, of sacrifices and clipped wings- wings that would never take flight. And all the while tears leaked out of her eyes.
The next morning master came into the cottage after his hunt and came upon the little canary lying down at the bottom of the cage. She was cold and hard, her once-bright eyes filmed with dull blindness.
"What a pity!" He said to himself. "It was such a pretty thing- and it sang so sweetly too. Though I do believe its songs held no significance whatsoever. Whatever it sang, I'm sure it couldn't have brought any bread for the table. Ah well, it didn't do good for anybody anyway, despite being such a pretty little bird." That said he tossed the lifeless corpse out, put away the cage, and took his game out to the village market to sell.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Chapter 5: The Candy Man
Everyone loved the candy man.
His candy store stood at the end of the busiest street in the village. On Wednesdays, the street would be crowded with stalls selling fresh produce, from fruit and vegetables to meat and fish and large blocks of strong smelling cheese. During celebrations like Christmas or New Year's Day, the street would be a festoon of colourful baubles and lights that glowed in the night. The villagers would crowd the street, holding hands and singing. In the spring, the villagers would take out their lazy chairs and spread blankets underneath the trees that lined the street to enjoy the spring breeze and the new blossoms.
The candy store was always crowded, spring or winter, rain or shine.
The candy store was heaven.
The candy man was heaven.
The candy man was heaven.
Walk down the street, past the boring shops the colour of mud. One would instantly stare fixedly at the candy store. It stood out of the mundane rows of everyday life like a ludicrously cheerful pink thumb. Its walls were a cream pink flock with a matching pink and blue striped awning overhead. The store window- when not hidden behind a crowd of curly-headed cherubs, wistful noses pressed to the glass, was edged with crisp white, like freshly spun sugar. The bright yellow door was almost never shut. The children of the village kept the little brass bell that hung over the door in a constant merry tinkle.
The children loved the candy store.
Step inside the candy store. The first tinkle of the bell would be the last one would hear of the outside world, before being transported into the candy man's realm. Little shoes pattered and squeaked against the black and white floor tiles, like animated chess pieces upon a gigantic chess board. The sound of excited children jangling their week's pocket money filled the air. Then, all was silent- time would appear to freeze as one gaped at the array of sweet delicacies around him, enough to drown a child in sweet dreams for a thousand lifetimes.
It would take another thousand of lifetimes to describe everyone of the jewels in the candy store. Winking and grinning upon the shelves were jars of jellybeans, gum drops, and boiled sweets in every colour imaginable. Their cheeky grins were returned with smiles from the large glass plates of honey squares at the window. Mountains of gold cubes, nuts and peel suspended amongst tiny air bubbles, captured forever in the golden moment sat side by side dishes of banana nut clusters; chewy chunks of cinnamon-flavoured banana encased in a crunchy shell. To the left of that, wooden boxes containing crystallized happiness. Plums, pineapple, limes, quince. Garnets, sunshine, spring and chartreuse. Beside them were willow-patterned plates of china so fine they seemed to crack under a mere glance. Upon these plates sat a majestic array of jellied goodies. Peaches, apricots, cherries and oranges, steeped in boiling sugar and enveloped by a layer of glistening lemon-flavoured jelly that sparkled in the sun- and in the eyes of delighted children.
Little wooden tables the colour of the striped awning outside the store were always crowded around, little boys and girls jostling one another to get first pick of the sweet comforts that sat waiting in large bowls and dishes. Round minty bull’s-eyes, the same red and white of the wooden targets that the little boys shot at when they went to the seaside fair; soft and girly dolly mixtures in pink and yellow that the little princesses bought by the pound to play tea with their dolls in silk and cotton frocks; traffic-light-coloured lollipops that promised hours of cherry, lemon and apple flavoured sucks. Pale pink bags of sherbet lemons lined up like little soldiers on one table, standing at attention to leap into the hands of the eager children. They were sweet yellow shells without and shocking sour bangs within. On the neighbouring table were raised plates made of bumpy glass. These held carefully arranged piles of heavenly smelling Turkish Delight. Bite sized nuggets of rose pink, jelly-like to the fingers, studded with almonds and dusted with a fairy's sprinkling of icing sugar. Standing aloft in tall vases in the middle of each table were sticks of curly barley sugar and rock with lovely messages all the way through them, so that even when the eager mouths broke off chunks they would still read "I love you", "Have a good day", and "Smile always". All these and more were the priceless gems of childhood, the reason for the children's existence, a cunning bribe for the naughty ones, and a sweet treat to the good.
It would take another thousand of lifetimes to describe everyone of the jewels in the candy store. Winking and grinning upon the shelves were jars of jellybeans, gum drops, and boiled sweets in every colour imaginable. Their cheeky grins were returned with smiles from the large glass plates of honey squares at the window. Mountains of gold cubes, nuts and peel suspended amongst tiny air bubbles, captured forever in the golden moment sat side by side dishes of banana nut clusters; chewy chunks of cinnamon-flavoured banana encased in a crunchy shell. To the left of that, wooden boxes containing crystallized happiness. Plums, pineapple, limes, quince. Garnets, sunshine, spring and chartreuse. Beside them were willow-patterned plates of china so fine they seemed to crack under a mere glance. Upon these plates sat a majestic array of jellied goodies. Peaches, apricots, cherries and oranges, steeped in boiling sugar and enveloped by a layer of glistening lemon-flavoured jelly that sparkled in the sun- and in the eyes of delighted children.
Little wooden tables the colour of the striped awning outside the store were always crowded around, little boys and girls jostling one another to get first pick of the sweet comforts that sat waiting in large bowls and dishes. Round minty bull’s-eyes, the same red and white of the wooden targets that the little boys shot at when they went to the seaside fair; soft and girly dolly mixtures in pink and yellow that the little princesses bought by the pound to play tea with their dolls in silk and cotton frocks; traffic-light-coloured lollipops that promised hours of cherry, lemon and apple flavoured sucks. Pale pink bags of sherbet lemons lined up like little soldiers on one table, standing at attention to leap into the hands of the eager children. They were sweet yellow shells without and shocking sour bangs within. On the neighbouring table were raised plates made of bumpy glass. These held carefully arranged piles of heavenly smelling Turkish Delight. Bite sized nuggets of rose pink, jelly-like to the fingers, studded with almonds and dusted with a fairy's sprinkling of icing sugar. Standing aloft in tall vases in the middle of each table were sticks of curly barley sugar and rock with lovely messages all the way through them, so that even when the eager mouths broke off chunks they would still read "I love you", "Have a good day", and "Smile always". All these and more were the priceless gems of childhood, the reason for the children's existence, a cunning bribe for the naughty ones, and a sweet treat to the good.
Sweet, sour, sugared and creamed,
All belonged to a little one's sweet dream.
All belonged to a little one's sweet dream.
And the chocolate! Oh, the chocolate! One would reel at the very sight of them! Bars of creamy milk chocolate were piled on the counter. Baskets of chocolate truffle eggs lay nestled between curly paper ribbons and fluffy toy chicks so that the children could taste the joys of Easter even the frost-bitten autumns. For the more sophisticated- boxes of the most luxuriously crafted mouthfuls in a helpless variety: creamy white domes with sticky raspberry and rum centres, whole dark chocolate nubs with hazelnut toppings, cream coloured balls with a raised pink tip like a doll's breast, precision-cut karats of choice pralines, ribboned with bitter chocolate so that and explosion of different flavours erupted in the mouth.
For the young at heart- endless trays of peanut butter brittles, little chocolate drops in shiny paper packages, chocolate balls with gooey caramel insides. Long bars of crispy hokey pokey covered with a thick layer of the finest milk chocolate. Oh, anyone who stepped foot into this heaven would get lost inside it. They would want to be lost- immersed entirely in this vat of rainbow nectar, to gorge and feed on this candied ambrosia. The children loved it, and they couldn't get enough of it. That was why, day after day they would flock back, even if all their pocket money was gone, they continued to press their little noses on the glass and stare wistfully at the sweets. They loved the candy store.
For the young at heart- endless trays of peanut butter brittles, little chocolate drops in shiny paper packages, chocolate balls with gooey caramel insides. Long bars of crispy hokey pokey covered with a thick layer of the finest milk chocolate. Oh, anyone who stepped foot into this heaven would get lost inside it. They would want to be lost- immersed entirely in this vat of rainbow nectar, to gorge and feed on this candied ambrosia. The children loved it, and they couldn't get enough of it. That was why, day after day they would flock back, even if all their pocket money was gone, they continued to press their little noses on the glass and stare wistfully at the sweets. They loved the candy store.
They loved the candy man just as much.
The reason why he appealed so to them was because of the very feasibility of his existence. He wasn't an elusive storybook fairy that peeped from beneath the oak leaves but was never seen. He wasn't at all seasonal- popping down chimneys in a fur-trimmed red suit in the winter to deposit sugared goodies into the stockings of slumbering children. He was as real as anything- and so was his magic to spurn out the delectable sweeties for his adoring customers.
Did the candy man make his own sweeties? Undoubtedly. At the back of his store, just behind the counter, was a little door painted the same canary yellow as the front door. However, unlike the front door that never shut, this was a door that never opened. Behind it was the candy man's magical den where he made his confections in wafts of sweet scents and merry jingles. Sometimes the candy man would come out from behind the door bearing trays of freshly made honey nuts or clouds of fluffy candyfloss in pink, aqua and lilac. The candy man would smile at the angelic faces that beamed back at him, and his generous hand never paused to press into the sticky paws a packet of fruit drops or a fairy bubble, which only succeeded to add to his general appeal. The children worshipped him as a figure of godlike magnanimity, able to bring their simple taffy-spun dreams into the world of the living and breathing. He brought all of their wishes to life, satisfying their innocent but intense desire for all things sugary- and they loved him for that.
Did the candy man make his own sweeties? Undoubtedly. At the back of his store, just behind the counter, was a little door painted the same canary yellow as the front door. However, unlike the front door that never shut, this was a door that never opened. Behind it was the candy man's magical den where he made his confections in wafts of sweet scents and merry jingles. Sometimes the candy man would come out from behind the door bearing trays of freshly made honey nuts or clouds of fluffy candyfloss in pink, aqua and lilac. The candy man would smile at the angelic faces that beamed back at him, and his generous hand never paused to press into the sticky paws a packet of fruit drops or a fairy bubble, which only succeeded to add to his general appeal. The children worshipped him as a figure of godlike magnanimity, able to bring their simple taffy-spun dreams into the world of the living and breathing. He brought all of their wishes to life, satisfying their innocent but intense desire for all things sugary- and they loved him for that.
Their mothers loved the candy man as well.
He wasn't short and round like the cookie-cutter figures in their children's brightly illustrated picture books. The confectioners in the pages were fat and old and cheerful, with twinkly blue eyes and jaunty moustaches black as liquorice and curled at the corners. A jolly "ho ho ho" was all they needed to make them first cousins with the seasonal red gift-giver on his reindeer sleigh.
The candy man wasn't at all like that. For starters, he was tall, with broad shoulders and rippling muscles from hours spent stirring vats of thick liquid sugar and pulling soft cotton spuns of pastel taffy. He wasn't bald with a shiny head- his hair was a thick mop of silky nut-brown curls- the exact shade of his priciest chocolates with bright silk ribbon round the boxes. His skin- if translucent- could easily be mistaken for honeyed caramel. The children almost believed that butterscotch and toffee for their apples could drip from his very fingertips. And his eyes- the candy man's eyes were as dark as the currants that dotted his fruit and nut chocolate and studded his gingerbread. His eyes didn't stop at twinkling- they positively sparkled, throwing out radiant light, the windows to the depths of his soul. They smiled together with his fondant lips that were always curved into his high-voltage smile, for the children and their mothers.
He looked almost as delicious as his sugar concoctions. Almost as if you could unwrap him. Almost as if you could eat him all up.
The candy man wasn't at all like that. For starters, he was tall, with broad shoulders and rippling muscles from hours spent stirring vats of thick liquid sugar and pulling soft cotton spuns of pastel taffy. He wasn't bald with a shiny head- his hair was a thick mop of silky nut-brown curls- the exact shade of his priciest chocolates with bright silk ribbon round the boxes. His skin- if translucent- could easily be mistaken for honeyed caramel. The children almost believed that butterscotch and toffee for their apples could drip from his very fingertips. And his eyes- the candy man's eyes were as dark as the currants that dotted his fruit and nut chocolate and studded his gingerbread. His eyes didn't stop at twinkling- they positively sparkled, throwing out radiant light, the windows to the depths of his soul. They smiled together with his fondant lips that were always curved into his high-voltage smile, for the children and their mothers.
He looked almost as delicious as his sugar concoctions. Almost as if you could unwrap him. Almost as if you could eat him all up.
The candy man will not be eaten. He will eat you.
Where did the candy man obtain his ingredients? Without a doubt his goods were made of nothing but the finest the world had to offer, but the greengrocer did not stock any of the ruby-red plums and fuzzy peaches the candy man crystallized and jellied. It was impossible that the cinnamon and clove from the spice shop across the road- guarded by a small, wizened Indian lady in a washed out sari, could have been the chief ingredient of the spiced gingerbread the children nibbled at during the worst of the bitter cold winters. The florist certainly did not have such lovely tea roses that the candy man distilled himself to make the make rosewater for his lumps of Turkish Delight and special Valentine's sweetheart candies. The candy man was never known to leave his shop, not even to go down to the market on Wednesdays. He existed in his own right, encased in his own fairy bubble of sweet dreams and lustful desires.
The candy man did not go out for his ingredients. His ingredients came to him.
Occasionally, upon arriving home in time to cook the evening meal, a young mother would find in the paper bag of sweeties a little bag of crystallized crimson roses. There would be a slight puzzlement- she certainly did not take it off the shelves- in fact she did not even see any crystallized roses on sale- neither did her little angel clamour for it. No, the packet was slipped into the bag by a certain honey-tipped hand, unbeknownst to the unsuspecting customer.
She knew just what the roses meant. She knew what the invitation was for- and she was unable to resist the cloying temptation of it.
That night, when all in the house was a-slumber, she would climb carefully out of her bed so as not to awaken her snoring husband. She would dress in her finest clothes, perhaps spritz just a little of her birthday perfume, and quietly slip out of the house.
In the cool night air she would totter to her destination as eagerly as a bee to a nectar-swollen blossom. Her cheeks flushed pink in excitement and her heart a-flutter.
The candy store would be dark, perhaps arousing some doubt in her already quick-beating heart. But the flicker of candlelight and the door that hung ajar told her that her coming was expected, and that would ease her mind considerably. With that thought lingering in her head, she would slip into the dimness of the candy store.
She knew just what the roses meant. She knew what the invitation was for- and she was unable to resist the cloying temptation of it.
That night, when all in the house was a-slumber, she would climb carefully out of her bed so as not to awaken her snoring husband. She would dress in her finest clothes, perhaps spritz just a little of her birthday perfume, and quietly slip out of the house.
In the cool night air she would totter to her destination as eagerly as a bee to a nectar-swollen blossom. Her cheeks flushed pink in excitement and her heart a-flutter.
The candy store would be dark, perhaps arousing some doubt in her already quick-beating heart. But the flicker of candlelight and the door that hung ajar told her that her coming was expected, and that would ease her mind considerably. With that thought lingering in her head, she would slip into the dimness of the candy store.
Enter into the lair of the sugar candy beast.
The candy man would be standing behind the counter, just as he had not six hours ago. In his hand was a lighted candle, on his lips the same, welcoming smile he bestowed upon his customers. But in his blackcurrant eyes- a certain, glittering look of mischief that masked what looked like the look in the eyes of a starved wolf. The look of a voracious appetite. An appetite that needed filling- and fast.
He would beckon to her to step to the back of his mystical store, then lead the way through the door behind the counter, into the den that no eyes but his own saw. She would be fascinated, then slightly disappointed when she saw that all the room contained was a bed of plump pillows and candles around it. The candy man's humble bedroom. But upon realising why she was brought into it, she would begin to giggle, somewhat flustered. Perhaps she would flutter her eyelashes too much, twirl a lock of hair with her fingers, blush. Then the candy man’s smouldering gaze and inviting smile would cast off all her hesitation as fast as she would cast her garments off for him.
She would lay down upon the candyfloss pillows and silk sheets the same colour of the ribbons that adorned the chocolate boxes- and the candy man would begin to perform his magic upon her. His golden syrup fingertips would skim against her oh-so-sensitive skin, his barley mint teeth would nibble her fair neck, bringing forth the sweetest murmurs and moans of bliss. His penetrating smile would turn her into a peach cooking in sugar. Naked and blushing.
He would show her, one by one, his special toys that helped him make his confections. They would tempt and excite her. The candy man's favourite was a lovely long snake of cinnamon-honey leather. Its silky soft feel and sharp scent would sent loving shudders down her spine as she prepared herself for what came next. The snake, as hungry as its master, would bite into the fleshy globes of her behind, filling the den with glorious cries of ecstacy. It was from all this that the candy man harvested his ingredients. The soft, tender whimpers he caught to be spun and made into his mint green and robin's egg blue taffy. The salty tears that ran down her cheeks he would catch in little crystal glasses. From that he would roast an abundant supply of almonds and walnuts to mix into his chocolate bars and peanut brittles. The hardness of the thrusts he would capture and slip into his sticks of rock candy, so that when the little teeth bit into them there would be a loud crack of sweet shattering sanity. The hot steam that came in short gasps he used to give his chocolate creams and gingerbread their wonderfully warming heat. The pink blush that touched the skin of the rapturous women he took to colour his wine gums, his candyfloss, his sugared almonds. The sweetest cries after each piston he put into the most expensive chocolates and pralines, giving them their distinctive flavour that sent the insides of those who ate them stirring with a desperate, unidentified lust for release.
And at the final, deep plunge, at the deliciously tipped climax laced with pain and dusted with lust, the candy man would reach down and pluck the rose from between her thighs, the fruit of his nightly labours. And from that came his light pink syrup of fragrant rosewater. The same smell that lingered in his shop and hung thick and sticky over the village in the summer and billowed warm and inviting during winter. And the last of the cries were the just desserts- sweet nectar to the candy man's ears.
She would awaken in her own bed the next morning, unsure of whether it had all been a sweet dream, or a hellishly scandalous nightmare. But everything was as normal- the sweets continued to glisten at the window of the candy store, the children's noses continued to press upon the glass, the candy man continued to smile behind the counter, the yellow door still shut from prying eyes. His blackcurrant eyes still glittered, the wolf now satisfied and sound asleep until the next awakening. When that came- another package of sweet crystallized roses would be slipped into the bag of an unsuspecting smiling customer by a honey hand, and the night would be alive with cries of pleasure, and the sweets would continue to glisten, and the children would be happy. Oh, the candy man had a sweet sweet secret- and everyone loved him from it.
He would beckon to her to step to the back of his mystical store, then lead the way through the door behind the counter, into the den that no eyes but his own saw. She would be fascinated, then slightly disappointed when she saw that all the room contained was a bed of plump pillows and candles around it. The candy man's humble bedroom. But upon realising why she was brought into it, she would begin to giggle, somewhat flustered. Perhaps she would flutter her eyelashes too much, twirl a lock of hair with her fingers, blush. Then the candy man’s smouldering gaze and inviting smile would cast off all her hesitation as fast as she would cast her garments off for him.
She would lay down upon the candyfloss pillows and silk sheets the same colour of the ribbons that adorned the chocolate boxes- and the candy man would begin to perform his magic upon her. His golden syrup fingertips would skim against her oh-so-sensitive skin, his barley mint teeth would nibble her fair neck, bringing forth the sweetest murmurs and moans of bliss. His penetrating smile would turn her into a peach cooking in sugar. Naked and blushing.
He would show her, one by one, his special toys that helped him make his confections. They would tempt and excite her. The candy man's favourite was a lovely long snake of cinnamon-honey leather. Its silky soft feel and sharp scent would sent loving shudders down her spine as she prepared herself for what came next. The snake, as hungry as its master, would bite into the fleshy globes of her behind, filling the den with glorious cries of ecstacy. It was from all this that the candy man harvested his ingredients. The soft, tender whimpers he caught to be spun and made into his mint green and robin's egg blue taffy. The salty tears that ran down her cheeks he would catch in little crystal glasses. From that he would roast an abundant supply of almonds and walnuts to mix into his chocolate bars and peanut brittles. The hardness of the thrusts he would capture and slip into his sticks of rock candy, so that when the little teeth bit into them there would be a loud crack of sweet shattering sanity. The hot steam that came in short gasps he used to give his chocolate creams and gingerbread their wonderfully warming heat. The pink blush that touched the skin of the rapturous women he took to colour his wine gums, his candyfloss, his sugared almonds. The sweetest cries after each piston he put into the most expensive chocolates and pralines, giving them their distinctive flavour that sent the insides of those who ate them stirring with a desperate, unidentified lust for release.
And at the final, deep plunge, at the deliciously tipped climax laced with pain and dusted with lust, the candy man would reach down and pluck the rose from between her thighs, the fruit of his nightly labours. And from that came his light pink syrup of fragrant rosewater. The same smell that lingered in his shop and hung thick and sticky over the village in the summer and billowed warm and inviting during winter. And the last of the cries were the just desserts- sweet nectar to the candy man's ears.
She would awaken in her own bed the next morning, unsure of whether it had all been a sweet dream, or a hellishly scandalous nightmare. But everything was as normal- the sweets continued to glisten at the window of the candy store, the children's noses continued to press upon the glass, the candy man continued to smile behind the counter, the yellow door still shut from prying eyes. His blackcurrant eyes still glittered, the wolf now satisfied and sound asleep until the next awakening. When that came- another package of sweet crystallized roses would be slipped into the bag of an unsuspecting smiling customer by a honey hand, and the night would be alive with cries of pleasure, and the sweets would continue to glisten, and the children would be happy. Oh, the candy man had a sweet sweet secret- and everyone loved him from it.
Sugar, spice and everything nice,
That is what little girls are made of.
That is what little girls are made of.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Chapter 4: Snow
"That's real stunning, that is," the man remarked. I looked up, startled.
"Sorry?" I struggled to return to reality. A man stood beside me, looking up at the large rectangular canvas before us.
"That," he said, nodding his head to the mounted canvas. "It's a true work of art. Although it's in black and white, it seems to explode in colour and life. The amount of detail in it is impressive, particularly since it is on such a large canvas. It must've taken years to complete."
"Actually," I replied, frowning slightly at the large painting. "It only took six months. I still think I could've added more to it, but it just didn't seem to be able to take anymore."
Now it was the man's turn to be startled. He turned to look at me quickly.
"You mean to say- that you?..." He gasped. I nodded and extended my hand. "This-this is amazing," he continued, grasping my hand and shaking it vigorously. "I can't believe I'd actually have a chance to meet the genius behind all this!"
"I come here most days, while the exhibition is still on," I said, laughing uneasily. Why is it that first meetings were always so awkward?
"Well, this is certainly me lucky day," the man beamed at me, and for a moment, the look in his lit eyes stopped me. But I quickly recovered when he drew out two books and a pen from his worn briefcase.
"I am such a fan of your work you can not imagine," he said, flipping through the pages of his books. "I never liked black and whites much, I always fancied something with more colour...but your works changed my views entirely."
"You're thinking far too highly of my paintings, sir," I laughed, trying to sound nonchalant, but I was trying my hardest to stop myself from blushing with pleasure. I took the pen from him and signed his books with a flourish. My hands were concentrating on balancing the books on my knee, signing the monochrome covers, trying to keep up with the man's excited chatter, and yet my mind was starting to wander far far away.
After he left, I sat down on a bench in the middle of the gallery. Throngs of people drifted in and out, examining the paintings on the walls and gasping and exclaiming. I felt comfortably invisible, just sitting there watching the passing faces, none of them familiar. I saw plenty of couples, walking hand in hand, nestled close, arms around one another. It made my heart ache. I sighed. It's been so long, I thought to myself bitterly. So, so long. I've made it so far. I've achieved so much. Yet there was just that one part of me that refused to let go of the past. How on Earth could I have fallen so helplessly in love with that one person that could never be mine? The question remained unanswered after all these years.
I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes, blocking out the bright overhanging lights of the gallery. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I slowly recalled the tender, yet painful images of my past. The dark hair. The soft, pouty lips. The pale skin. And those eyes- those brilliant eyes that sparkled oak in the sun and rippled ebony in the shade. It was the look in that man's eyes that brought back all these memories. That look of joy and laughter that brought his entire face to life. I remember spending sleepless nights just recalling the laughter I was so used to, imagining the sly grin, the curve of those lips when they broke into a soft, secretive smile. Always so mysterious, so enigmatic, the one code I could never decipher.
I should've released all these feelings long ago. I should've thrown them away with the rest of my past, bury them beneath the sands of time. Yet, over and over again, those pictures would return to me. Everything I did seem to revert to the past- when I was drinking coffee, driving back to an empty home at night, dipping my paintbrush into my black, grey and white palette.
It was because of this, because of all this love I allowed myself to shower upon a solid wall. It was because of this that I never looked at anyone else. It was in my head that as long as I'd never have my feelings returned, I'd never love anyone else again. Many a time I was overcome by the manic urge to kick myself hard. For torturing myself this way, unable to let go and forget, holding on to a past that should've long been forgotten. But it was hard attempting to break the habit, and though here I am, miles away from any familiar faces, the feelings within me seethed and bubbled, instead of cooling and stilling.
Ever since I'd left almost five years ago, I'd never wanted to return. Of course, I nver forgot to take the annual holiday back to my family, but that was simply out of the sake of regularity. I avoided certain parts of town where I know the memories would hurt me most. Which is rather ridiculous as I have not heard from any of my past acquaintances ever since I first left. It wasn't particularly hard not to, really. I did the simplest thing I could think of, the only thing I was ever good at. Fading from people's memories. Melted, evaporated, poof. Gone without a trace. Perhaps a few telltale here and there to serve as remembrance, only looked at by those who felt the way I did. But 'those' were few and very far between.
A loud cry of a child broke me out of my reverie. I looked up, returning to the harsh lights and decorated walls. A little boy lay on the floor, screaming blue murder. His mother- a small, flustered woman with red cheeks, hastily bundled him up and took him away. I sat still, unmoved. It was almost seven, yet the crowds kept coming in. Apparently I was more popular than I thought I was. It's that or these people were simply finding an excuse to escape the cold. Neither was I, actually. I wasn't at all keen to face the bitter cold of the night yet. I decided to people-watch for another half-hour, maybe walk around the gallery to look at the other exhibitions, before I went out and shopped for dinner. During this crazed holiday season, every other shop would be up till almost midnight, so I'd have no trouble finding a cozy delicatessen open somewhere round the corner. I remember how I used to be as hyped up as everyone else this time of the year, but now I can't even bother to summon up enough energy to care. It didn't matter the time of the year- it was always winter to me. Cold, numb, and bitterly cold. Like the brain-freezing slushies of summer and the first frosts of December. I remembered how I'd been so excited to see the first snowfall when I'd first came here. I'd ran out, struggling into a thin jacket that did little to protect me from the cold. All I wanted to do was make a snowman and roll in the cool white powder, but yet again memories stopped me dead in my tracks. Remembering how much we used to go on about snow...the white snow of our imaginations. It made the very white in my hands seem like live, black coals. Compared to the drought of loneliness, snowmen seemed utterly irrelevent.
Thundering of feet. Stamping and squeaking across the polished floors of the gallery. The echoes made it hard to tell which direction it was coming from. I never understood how parents could allow their kids to chase one another-or themselves, for that matter- in public areas. It's a good thing there aren't any pots or statues around, I thought. Else somebody would have pretty empty stockings this Christmas. Though it isn't quite impossible for a kid to backflip into one of the canvesses- children do have this tendency to defy gravity when the need arises. I tried to imagine the look on the poor parent's face when a warm weight fell upon me from behind, a pair of arms wrapped around my waist. The sound of panting, followed by a soft chuckle that brought all my memories back in a sweeping flood. The arms tightened around me as that sweet voice I thought I'd never hear again tickled in my ear.
"Found you".
Perhaps spring was coming sooner than I'd expected.
"Sorry?" I struggled to return to reality. A man stood beside me, looking up at the large rectangular canvas before us.
"That," he said, nodding his head to the mounted canvas. "It's a true work of art. Although it's in black and white, it seems to explode in colour and life. The amount of detail in it is impressive, particularly since it is on such a large canvas. It must've taken years to complete."
"Actually," I replied, frowning slightly at the large painting. "It only took six months. I still think I could've added more to it, but it just didn't seem to be able to take anymore."
Now it was the man's turn to be startled. He turned to look at me quickly.
"You mean to say- that you?..." He gasped. I nodded and extended my hand. "This-this is amazing," he continued, grasping my hand and shaking it vigorously. "I can't believe I'd actually have a chance to meet the genius behind all this!"
"I come here most days, while the exhibition is still on," I said, laughing uneasily. Why is it that first meetings were always so awkward?
"Well, this is certainly me lucky day," the man beamed at me, and for a moment, the look in his lit eyes stopped me. But I quickly recovered when he drew out two books and a pen from his worn briefcase.
"I am such a fan of your work you can not imagine," he said, flipping through the pages of his books. "I never liked black and whites much, I always fancied something with more colour...but your works changed my views entirely."
"You're thinking far too highly of my paintings, sir," I laughed, trying to sound nonchalant, but I was trying my hardest to stop myself from blushing with pleasure. I took the pen from him and signed his books with a flourish. My hands were concentrating on balancing the books on my knee, signing the monochrome covers, trying to keep up with the man's excited chatter, and yet my mind was starting to wander far far away.
After he left, I sat down on a bench in the middle of the gallery. Throngs of people drifted in and out, examining the paintings on the walls and gasping and exclaiming. I felt comfortably invisible, just sitting there watching the passing faces, none of them familiar. I saw plenty of couples, walking hand in hand, nestled close, arms around one another. It made my heart ache. I sighed. It's been so long, I thought to myself bitterly. So, so long. I've made it so far. I've achieved so much. Yet there was just that one part of me that refused to let go of the past. How on Earth could I have fallen so helplessly in love with that one person that could never be mine? The question remained unanswered after all these years.
I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes, blocking out the bright overhanging lights of the gallery. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I slowly recalled the tender, yet painful images of my past. The dark hair. The soft, pouty lips. The pale skin. And those eyes- those brilliant eyes that sparkled oak in the sun and rippled ebony in the shade. It was the look in that man's eyes that brought back all these memories. That look of joy and laughter that brought his entire face to life. I remember spending sleepless nights just recalling the laughter I was so used to, imagining the sly grin, the curve of those lips when they broke into a soft, secretive smile. Always so mysterious, so enigmatic, the one code I could never decipher.
I should've released all these feelings long ago. I should've thrown them away with the rest of my past, bury them beneath the sands of time. Yet, over and over again, those pictures would return to me. Everything I did seem to revert to the past- when I was drinking coffee, driving back to an empty home at night, dipping my paintbrush into my black, grey and white palette.
It was because of this, because of all this love I allowed myself to shower upon a solid wall. It was because of this that I never looked at anyone else. It was in my head that as long as I'd never have my feelings returned, I'd never love anyone else again. Many a time I was overcome by the manic urge to kick myself hard. For torturing myself this way, unable to let go and forget, holding on to a past that should've long been forgotten. But it was hard attempting to break the habit, and though here I am, miles away from any familiar faces, the feelings within me seethed and bubbled, instead of cooling and stilling.
Ever since I'd left almost five years ago, I'd never wanted to return. Of course, I nver forgot to take the annual holiday back to my family, but that was simply out of the sake of regularity. I avoided certain parts of town where I know the memories would hurt me most. Which is rather ridiculous as I have not heard from any of my past acquaintances ever since I first left. It wasn't particularly hard not to, really. I did the simplest thing I could think of, the only thing I was ever good at. Fading from people's memories. Melted, evaporated, poof. Gone without a trace. Perhaps a few telltale here and there to serve as remembrance, only looked at by those who felt the way I did. But 'those' were few and very far between.
A loud cry of a child broke me out of my reverie. I looked up, returning to the harsh lights and decorated walls. A little boy lay on the floor, screaming blue murder. His mother- a small, flustered woman with red cheeks, hastily bundled him up and took him away. I sat still, unmoved. It was almost seven, yet the crowds kept coming in. Apparently I was more popular than I thought I was. It's that or these people were simply finding an excuse to escape the cold. Neither was I, actually. I wasn't at all keen to face the bitter cold of the night yet. I decided to people-watch for another half-hour, maybe walk around the gallery to look at the other exhibitions, before I went out and shopped for dinner. During this crazed holiday season, every other shop would be up till almost midnight, so I'd have no trouble finding a cozy delicatessen open somewhere round the corner. I remember how I used to be as hyped up as everyone else this time of the year, but now I can't even bother to summon up enough energy to care. It didn't matter the time of the year- it was always winter to me. Cold, numb, and bitterly cold. Like the brain-freezing slushies of summer and the first frosts of December. I remembered how I'd been so excited to see the first snowfall when I'd first came here. I'd ran out, struggling into a thin jacket that did little to protect me from the cold. All I wanted to do was make a snowman and roll in the cool white powder, but yet again memories stopped me dead in my tracks. Remembering how much we used to go on about snow...the white snow of our imaginations. It made the very white in my hands seem like live, black coals. Compared to the drought of loneliness, snowmen seemed utterly irrelevent.
Thundering of feet. Stamping and squeaking across the polished floors of the gallery. The echoes made it hard to tell which direction it was coming from. I never understood how parents could allow their kids to chase one another-or themselves, for that matter- in public areas. It's a good thing there aren't any pots or statues around, I thought. Else somebody would have pretty empty stockings this Christmas. Though it isn't quite impossible for a kid to backflip into one of the canvesses- children do have this tendency to defy gravity when the need arises. I tried to imagine the look on the poor parent's face when a warm weight fell upon me from behind, a pair of arms wrapped around my waist. The sound of panting, followed by a soft chuckle that brought all my memories back in a sweeping flood. The arms tightened around me as that sweet voice I thought I'd never hear again tickled in my ear.
"Found you".
Perhaps spring was coming sooner than I'd expected.
Chapter 3: Paradise
I didn't know what happiness was until I gazed at the scenery before me. I stood atop the hill, the sweet, soft grass tickling my bare feet, the cool breeze whistling in my ears. It ran through my hair, caressing my skin with gentle, unseen fingers.
Below me lay the most beautiful scene I had ever set my eyes upon. Heaven on Earth. That was the first thing that came into my mind when I first saw it. The lush green hill, dotted with purple and yellow wildflowers, sloped gently down to a small pond surrounded by sweet-smelling rushes. I could catch a faint glimpse of emerald ripple from where I stood. Though I couldn't see it, I know that the dragonflies were at the pond already, skimming the glimmering surface with their iridescent wings. Beyond the pool stood the forest, dim and cool and inviting. The forest was filled with bluebells at this time of year. I could see patches of bright blue in the darkness of the trees. I drew a deep breath, taking in the sweet, fresh scent of country air. This was it. This was the happiness we'd always wanted. This was the place we were looking for all this while.
We. My happiness died. Realisation dawned on me, that there was no 'we' any longer. Up till that day it had always been the two of us, searching for Paradise, two wild adventurers on a quest in search of the unknown. But not anymore. There was only 'me' left, much as I didn't want to face it.
I looked down at the green pond. I fumbled in the pocket of my coat, searching until I found what I was looking for. I drew it out carefully. It was a folded piece of paper. I opened it slowly, my fingers trembling. I fought the tears back as best I could. When I had unfolded it, there it was. Lovingly sketched, his hand around mine, this was the reason for our search, etched forever on a little scrap of drawing paper.
It was a simple sketch, really. It certainly wasn't one of his best, but it was most certainly the one that held the most meaning to me. To us. We drew it together when we were still in the city. Sitting at a small street cafe, waiting for our cheese bagels and coffee, cursing the noisy vehicles honking past us, dirty black smoke vomiting out of them.
"This is crazy," I had grumbled, fanning myself with a napkin. "Remind me again- what exactly are we doing here?"
"Calm down," He had said. His face was calm and serene, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
"Calm down?" I had been incredulous, so the words came out sharper than I'd meant them to be. But the whole situation was so surreal I had done nothing but continue on. "I can't calm down!. This weather, all these cars, this choked-up feeling, it's all too overwhelming! I can't take it anymore, and all you can say is calm down?!"
He laughed at my outburst. Oh, that sweet, soft chuckle. He had always laughed at what I said, whether I'd meant it as a joke or not. But I knew that he had always taken me seriously. I knew he did then, because after I'd sulked in silence, he spoke seriously, "Maybe we should go away somewhere."
"Yeah, sure. To Paradise, right?" I rolled my eyes. That was our private joke. Whenever reality came down too hard on us, we'd play at finding Paradise- a place where it was just the two of us, away from the staring eyes, the criticism, the alienation of the city, everything.
"I'm serious." He had said, leaning forward in his seat. "We've always been playing at the idea. The idea of escaping, of leaving this place. Why shouldn't it come true? I know we can do it- both of us."
I didn't know what to answer. He never did talk much- so many words in so short a time left me uncertain. All I did was stare into his earnest eyes. Those dark, beautiful orbs that seemed to go down forever, bottomless pools. In the sun, they would turn a lovely hazel, but at the cafe, as twilight descended upon us, they seemed to sparkle, like black jet in the moonlight. So captivating. So unreal.
"Well," I managed after a while. "Don't you think that we should at least have a rough idea of how this Paradise of ours should look like?"
The look on his face disappeared, and he let out another chuckle. God, what wouldn't I give to hear that sweet laugh again?
"Then let's do it," he said. He opened his leather shoulder bag and drew out his sketchbook, then his tin of pastels. He opened the box and handed it to me with a flourish. I chose one randomly. Apple green. Our favourite color. His hand closed around mine.
"It will be...far away." he said softly, almost into my ear. His hand guided mine across the rough paper, making soft lines of green. "Away from all the cars, the rude comments-"
"And the crazy heat," I added. I picked up another pastel. Sunshine yellow. He said nothing, but I knew he agreed. He was concentrating so intensely on sketching that I knew he was trying to conjure the image up in his mind, making it clear enough to transfer it down onto the paper. I closed my eyes and concentrated too. I wanted so much to see the picture behind his closed eyelids, that scene that lay just a baby's breath away.
It was like wading in water at first. Treading through the bottomless pools of his eyes, the water solid black without even a ripple. But slowly, colors started to form the way a photograph would develop, and suddenly I not only saw the picture in his mind, but lived in it. First came the vivid green grass, followed by the multicoloured wildflowers- violets, lavender, pansies, lily of the valley, nodding and bowing in the breeze, each giving off their own unique fragrance. Their sweet scents came to be as I saw them dot the grass. Then I felt the gentle incline of the slope, felt the cool, turquoise water of the pool at my feet. Then the heady smell of bluebells from the dim, dark woods that appeared only a few shades lighter than the black waters. All this I saw so clearly, so clearly I felt as if I could stretch my hand out and touch the soft flower petals and scoop the sparkling waters into my cupped hands and raise the cool liquid to my lips.
"Well, what do you think?" his soft whisper of triumph brought me back to reality, and when I opened my eyes I instantly saw the picture on the paper. Delicate curves of colour, a soft touch of white to show the sun reflecting against the liquid mirror of the green pool. It caught me by surprise, and yet there was an odd tug of familiarity to it, as if it was a past memory I'd locked deep inside me, and through his magic touch it had been set free.
"Well?" he was looking at me, smiling with his eyes as much as with his lips. I smiled back.
"It's Paradise."
So now, here I am. Standing at the place of our dreams. Paradise. I sighed, holding the paper before me. What is it now but useless reality all over again? A dream brought to life, but lived by only one half of the dream. It was pointless to stay here. I didn't want to. Not without him. Not without him beside me- to laugh that sweet laugh at every word I said, to understand me without having me explain myself, to smile that gorgeous smile that never failed to make my heart stop.
I sat down on the grass and stared at the green pool down below. It's time to move on. Time to go in search of another Paradise. I opened the tin box of pastels, drew one out at random. Hazelnut brown. The color of the forest trees, the color of the eyes I drowned myself in. I closed my own eyes, shutting out the sunlight, the grass, the pool. A new image came to me slowly. It materialised slowly, emerging from the mist. Mixed ripples of color at first, but slowly, slowly, it became crystal clear.
With that, I began to sketch.
Below me lay the most beautiful scene I had ever set my eyes upon. Heaven on Earth. That was the first thing that came into my mind when I first saw it. The lush green hill, dotted with purple and yellow wildflowers, sloped gently down to a small pond surrounded by sweet-smelling rushes. I could catch a faint glimpse of emerald ripple from where I stood. Though I couldn't see it, I know that the dragonflies were at the pond already, skimming the glimmering surface with their iridescent wings. Beyond the pool stood the forest, dim and cool and inviting. The forest was filled with bluebells at this time of year. I could see patches of bright blue in the darkness of the trees. I drew a deep breath, taking in the sweet, fresh scent of country air. This was it. This was the happiness we'd always wanted. This was the place we were looking for all this while.
We. My happiness died. Realisation dawned on me, that there was no 'we' any longer. Up till that day it had always been the two of us, searching for Paradise, two wild adventurers on a quest in search of the unknown. But not anymore. There was only 'me' left, much as I didn't want to face it.
I looked down at the green pond. I fumbled in the pocket of my coat, searching until I found what I was looking for. I drew it out carefully. It was a folded piece of paper. I opened it slowly, my fingers trembling. I fought the tears back as best I could. When I had unfolded it, there it was. Lovingly sketched, his hand around mine, this was the reason for our search, etched forever on a little scrap of drawing paper.
It was a simple sketch, really. It certainly wasn't one of his best, but it was most certainly the one that held the most meaning to me. To us. We drew it together when we were still in the city. Sitting at a small street cafe, waiting for our cheese bagels and coffee, cursing the noisy vehicles honking past us, dirty black smoke vomiting out of them.
"This is crazy," I had grumbled, fanning myself with a napkin. "Remind me again- what exactly are we doing here?"
"Calm down," He had said. His face was calm and serene, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
"Calm down?" I had been incredulous, so the words came out sharper than I'd meant them to be. But the whole situation was so surreal I had done nothing but continue on. "I can't calm down!. This weather, all these cars, this choked-up feeling, it's all too overwhelming! I can't take it anymore, and all you can say is calm down?!"
He laughed at my outburst. Oh, that sweet, soft chuckle. He had always laughed at what I said, whether I'd meant it as a joke or not. But I knew that he had always taken me seriously. I knew he did then, because after I'd sulked in silence, he spoke seriously, "Maybe we should go away somewhere."
"Yeah, sure. To Paradise, right?" I rolled my eyes. That was our private joke. Whenever reality came down too hard on us, we'd play at finding Paradise- a place where it was just the two of us, away from the staring eyes, the criticism, the alienation of the city, everything.
"I'm serious." He had said, leaning forward in his seat. "We've always been playing at the idea. The idea of escaping, of leaving this place. Why shouldn't it come true? I know we can do it- both of us."
I didn't know what to answer. He never did talk much- so many words in so short a time left me uncertain. All I did was stare into his earnest eyes. Those dark, beautiful orbs that seemed to go down forever, bottomless pools. In the sun, they would turn a lovely hazel, but at the cafe, as twilight descended upon us, they seemed to sparkle, like black jet in the moonlight. So captivating. So unreal.
"Well," I managed after a while. "Don't you think that we should at least have a rough idea of how this Paradise of ours should look like?"
The look on his face disappeared, and he let out another chuckle. God, what wouldn't I give to hear that sweet laugh again?
"Then let's do it," he said. He opened his leather shoulder bag and drew out his sketchbook, then his tin of pastels. He opened the box and handed it to me with a flourish. I chose one randomly. Apple green. Our favourite color. His hand closed around mine.
"It will be...far away." he said softly, almost into my ear. His hand guided mine across the rough paper, making soft lines of green. "Away from all the cars, the rude comments-"
"And the crazy heat," I added. I picked up another pastel. Sunshine yellow. He said nothing, but I knew he agreed. He was concentrating so intensely on sketching that I knew he was trying to conjure the image up in his mind, making it clear enough to transfer it down onto the paper. I closed my eyes and concentrated too. I wanted so much to see the picture behind his closed eyelids, that scene that lay just a baby's breath away.
It was like wading in water at first. Treading through the bottomless pools of his eyes, the water solid black without even a ripple. But slowly, colors started to form the way a photograph would develop, and suddenly I not only saw the picture in his mind, but lived in it. First came the vivid green grass, followed by the multicoloured wildflowers- violets, lavender, pansies, lily of the valley, nodding and bowing in the breeze, each giving off their own unique fragrance. Their sweet scents came to be as I saw them dot the grass. Then I felt the gentle incline of the slope, felt the cool, turquoise water of the pool at my feet. Then the heady smell of bluebells from the dim, dark woods that appeared only a few shades lighter than the black waters. All this I saw so clearly, so clearly I felt as if I could stretch my hand out and touch the soft flower petals and scoop the sparkling waters into my cupped hands and raise the cool liquid to my lips.
"Well, what do you think?" his soft whisper of triumph brought me back to reality, and when I opened my eyes I instantly saw the picture on the paper. Delicate curves of colour, a soft touch of white to show the sun reflecting against the liquid mirror of the green pool. It caught me by surprise, and yet there was an odd tug of familiarity to it, as if it was a past memory I'd locked deep inside me, and through his magic touch it had been set free.
"Well?" he was looking at me, smiling with his eyes as much as with his lips. I smiled back.
"It's Paradise."
So now, here I am. Standing at the place of our dreams. Paradise. I sighed, holding the paper before me. What is it now but useless reality all over again? A dream brought to life, but lived by only one half of the dream. It was pointless to stay here. I didn't want to. Not without him. Not without him beside me- to laugh that sweet laugh at every word I said, to understand me without having me explain myself, to smile that gorgeous smile that never failed to make my heart stop.
I sat down on the grass and stared at the green pool down below. It's time to move on. Time to go in search of another Paradise. I opened the tin box of pastels, drew one out at random. Hazelnut brown. The color of the forest trees, the color of the eyes I drowned myself in. I closed my own eyes, shutting out the sunlight, the grass, the pool. A new image came to me slowly. It materialised slowly, emerging from the mist. Mixed ripples of color at first, but slowly, slowly, it became crystal clear.
With that, I began to sketch.
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