Drinking at the holy well By the time Zuska arrived downstairs Bruno had finished his breakfast and was playing fetch with Harry, laughing delightedly as the little dog skidded across the tiled floor in pursuit of a small rubber ball. She smiled and poured herself some orange juice and let them play for a few minutes more before sending Bruno upstairs to dress in the clothes she laid out for him on the bed. Was he happy? Zuska shrugged to herself. What did she know about happiness? He laughed more and talked more and seemed at least as content than when she’d found him in that awful place. But of course Bruno was always content. Ever since she had known him he had showed an amazing ability to absorb all the poison and bile in the world and filter it – no, transform it almost miraculously - into pure, cool, sweet water. Like a holy well. Was she doing the right thing? She shrugged again. What did she know about the rightness of things? The clinic was expensive, the best there was. Music and poetry and stories were part of his life now, and he was bursting with enthusiasm over the events of the week when he came home on Fridays. She looked out of the window down into the street. The limousine was already there. Isaac, the driver, was smoking a cigarette and leaning against the car door. Zuska was glad it was him. She had threatened to cancel the contract with the limousine company on Friday when they had sent Bruno home with a different driver. Bruno wasn’t good with strangers. She took the bag and waited while Bruno said goodbye to Harry, and then they walked hand in hand down the staircase and into the street. Isaac nodded to Zuska and smiled at Bruno. He opened the rear door and took the bag from Zuska and put it into the boot. Zuska spread her hand over Bruno’s skull as he stooped into the car. She lent across the leather seat and fastened his belt and then whispered into his ear and kissed him tenderly on the lips. Standing on the pavement she watched as Isaac pulled the Mercedes out into the traffic. She smiled sadly, kissed her hand and blew the kiss towards Bruno, receiving a little wave in return. She looked up. The man from the café was standing in his doorway staring again, with the untroubled, unembarrassed curiosity that she began to realise was a characteristic of this town. For the second time that morning their gaze locked across the street. She wasn’t going to back down and look away this time. She glared back defiantly for what seemed like minutes. The standoff only ended when a man tried to squeeze past to get into the café and proprietor and customer exchanged a few words. When he looked up again, she was gone.

29.9.04 19:19 Permalink / 1 Comment / comment

Out of the darkness She waited until she had found her way in the darkness to the landing before hitting the switch. She paused while her eyes adapted to the artificial brightness. The dog stirred in his basket below in the kitchen. On bare feet she walked across the polished wooden floor to the door of Bruno’s room and pushed it open. No sooner had the rectangle of light fallen across his bed than fear gripped her by the throat. He lay precisely as she had left him the night before, entirely still for eight hours, seemingly lifeless, a chilling echo of that terrible day in the woods many years earlier. She moved swiftly to his side and took hold of his hand, its warmth reassured her. She held her face close to his and felt his regular breathing on her cheek, and gradually, gratefully she swallowed down the momentary panic. With her fingers she brushed the hair from his eyes and stroked his face gently until eventually he opened his eyes with a smile as warming as the dawn. “Time to get up Bruno,” she said quietly. “You go back to the clinic today and the car will be here in an hour. And Harry wants his breakfast!” At the mention of the dog’s name Bruno smiled more broadly, pushed away the covers and climbed out of bed. Harry was barking a welcome before he got to the top of the stairs. In what had become in a few short weeks a Monday morning ritual, Zuska finished packing his bag. She knew the pleasure tactile sensations gave him and combined a few favourite garments with new things she had bought - stiff white cotton, soft, springy wool, burnished leather. Between his shirts she interleaved little notes on purple paper written with an elegant, looping hand. One reminded him to telephone each evening, another told how she would cook his favourite meal when he returned on Friday evening, a third held out the vision of the cottage in the country she had always promised him, and a fourth said simply - and truthfully - that she loved him with all her heart. But Zuska knew it mattered little what she wrote or said. Words could mean as much, or as little, as you wanted them to mean. The important thing was what you did, and this time she was determined to keep her promise - even if it killed her doing so.

28.9.04 21:45 Permalink / comment

Plat du jour - a tale of food, champagne and sex Zuska had lived in this strange little town for barely a month, but already the sounds of the street were familiar to her. She needed no alarm clock. In the early hours she slept soundly through the noise of the mechanical street sweeper with its orange flashing light that sprayed and brushed the pavement clear of the daytime debris. Hours later she didn’t stir when the birds began to gather and twitter on the branches outside her window, illuminated by the first glimmer of dawn in the far off sky. But as soon as she heard the mechanical creak as the café owner opposite wound down the striped awning, she immediately opened her eyes. She lay still for a moment until the repetitious, metallic squeaking stopped only to be replaced the sound of a stiff broom on the pavement. She pulled aside the covers and padded almost silently to the window where she opened the curtains a crack. The man was like clockwork. Same routine every morning. He wore a starched white apron and gave a proprietorial glance up and down the street before making a perfunctory sweep at his feet without even looking down. He was more interested in greeting the early risers already on their way to work and drumming up business, than in cleaning the already spotless paving. “Hello there Stefan!” he shouted to a man out of Zuska’s sightline below her window. “How’s your wife?” Zuska couldn’t hear Stefan’s reply, but the café man adopted a serious face and nodded his head gravely. “Listen my friend – she’s in the best place. They’ll look after her better than a mother could. She’ll be up and chasing you around the kitchen table before you know what’s hit you!” He smiled a sad smile and nodded his head again as Stefan imparted another bit of bad news about the unfortunate woman. “Listen, you need to look after yourself too – keep up your strength. I’ve got just the thing. Beautiful bit of lemon sole - straight off the boat this morning. You’ll love it! What say I put you down for a piece at lunchtime?” Stefan’s concern over his wife’s medical condition obviously had not deprived him of his appetite and a deal was struck. “Fine, about one o’clock? See you then. And tell that missus of yours that there’s a celebration meal waiting here as soon as she’s well enough - on the house!” The café man waved farewell and then, after a barely decent pause, pulled out a notebook from his apron pocket and a pencil from behind his ear and began to scribble down details of the booking. He was just reflecting, not without a tinge of guilt, that given the good lady’s prognosis it was hardly likely he would ever have to keep the promise of a free meal, when something made him look up – directly into Zuska’s eyes. She froze for a moment as their gaze locked across the street. Surely he couldn’t see her through the small gap in the curtains in this half-light? But his stare seemed to penetrate the gloom. She took a half step backwards and then silently let the curtain fall shut.

27.9.04 19:30 Permalink / 1 Comment / comment