A misguided act of kindness

NIGHT – I

In the dead of the night, a force jerked her awake. The cry of an owl screeched into her ears almost paralysing her. She awakened startled at the loss of a calm, tranquil silence that permeated between the walls.

The walls were damp, the noise was unpleasant. Yet, she listened closely.

It sounded like a child throwing all his marbles on the ground, collecting it back and throwing it again.
Only, the noise grew louder. So, she pictured a line of noisy little children with their concealed weapons, waiting to drop the tiny marbles one after the other, hushed giggles and mischievous smiles while the untiring routine of dropping marbles sustained, line after line, child after child in an unceasing drone of continuity.

She ran to the window and looked out. It was the sound of the rain pouring onto the streets mercilessly, proclaiming power over everything that surrounded it. The streets begged and begged, only to be submerged, for the punishment rendered them weak, and the weak always became prey.

She was not comfortable with this misplaced sense of power. She felt violated watching the rain bear down on to the naked streets, plunging into its flesh and bones, almost like a mighty Bengal tiger feasting on a deer.

The thought made her cringe when the DVD of Bambi caught her eye. She picked it up from her table and buried it under her bed. Now that its safety had been preserved, she felt better. She turned around and looked at the rain with molten eyes emanating conviction.

But, for all the time she stood and stared, the rain fell like chunks of marble on the street whose muffled screams and tightened teeth failed to trickle into one ear and the night sky witnessed all of this, but only remained untouched and unfazed.
She was more disturbed by the sound of the rain than the strange illusion of her room. Every inch between the four walls that guarded her room spelled claustrophobia. On her left was a small bed that could support the weight of one person. The sheets that swathed her bed were dominated by recurring faces of a certain joker.  It terrified some children but she always found it amusing.

On her right was a small, purple table with an even smaller chair. Books lay on the table, some of which beckoned to her. The table was complete with a French lamp. It was an old lamp that could coil, change direction and shape all at once and was her treasure for it was the only control she could exercise.

Straight ahead lay a partially opened window. A window of possibilities, if you will. It was strategically placed ahead of the bed and the table as it was her only escape. It would call out to her much too often. Consumed by curiosity, she would follow the steps only to be made a fool of. When she’d look outside, there lay the street barren, stripped of all its beauty and colour while the only thing she ever saw was darkness.

In the pitch of the dark she never looked out the window, terrified of what she would see.
So, she kept a piece of cloth between the opening of the window and the window itself and that was her guide to the darkness that lurked outside her tiny little safe hole.

The little cloth, once a piece of a big sheet would flutter about and tell her when the winds were strong. Other times it would lie there dead, signifying unusual activity but even she knew that the winds never stopped blowing.
The cloth was undecipherable now, but she remembered what it used to look like.
A big portrait of Pinocchio had been inked into a plain sheet; the sheet that now held the miniscule slit between her safe world and the darkness outside.

Her mother had gifted it to her couple years ago and had intended her to use it as a bed sheet so every night she went to sleep she’d remember that lying was bad. She was not entirely opposed to learning the value of the truth, but the constant pressure that hovered over her head seemed to her as a nasty reminder of the consequences of uttering a lie. She wasn’t completely sure if she was comfortable with giving away the luxury of having to lie in an undeniable circumstance. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to remain pure and truthful all the time.

As she saw the Pinocchio sheet fluttering irrationally, she sensed the danger outside trying to get in. Opposite to all that occupied her room was a red door like the one she had read about in Alice in wonderland. It was as if everything in her room  including herself was small and the door was giant. In the face of the red door, everything was defenceless.

Trapped between the window of darkness and the unassailed door she had succumbed to the elevated craftiness that awaited her outside. But the hope that she would meet an end mirroring Alice’s warmed her heart. For all these moments of words and silences, she had disappeared into a trance as her eyes were fixed at the window. She stared and stared sharply waiting for something to happen but not a leaf moved.

In a few moments, even the rain, drained of its power had given up and gone away. While little drops drizzled about aimlessly, her feel dragged her to bed. In the numb entropy of silence she weaved a cocoon around herself and listened carefully, even to the silences, unprepared the whole time wondering if staying inside the cocoon was just a neat little sham that had fooled her yet again.

Rays of sunlight rushed into her eyes pricking her eyelids, prompting her to wake up. In the morning, her room was well lit, bright. It was as if she lived in a world where darkness and light coexisted. It was like she lived in the same world we all lived in.

She woke up hastily and walked toward the window. She lifted the sheet gently, almost as if she didn’t want to hurt it. The lifeless sheet enveloped her fingers, tired of fighting the night before. Internally, she thanked it for keeping both her worlds separate.

Every morning she looked out the window and saw children cycling and skating or on the sad days, boarding buses to get to school. But when she looked out this time, she was appalled.

The streets were filled with water. It was  like the ground had disappeared, and for a moment she looked up at the sky angrily, cursing the rain and the children with the marbles. She wanted those children to drown with their marbles.

The trees were slayed and the bell pepper plant she had tended all these days lay in pieces unrecognisable.
She shut the window and left the Pinocchio sheet to dry. The red door gave way and Alice was finally out of her wonderland.

Outside her room saw a whole different world. The noises of a happy home came to life while the clatter of crockery wasn’t entirely displeasing.

For any other child this was all calming and in the realm of normalcy, but for her it seemed a bit too overwhelming.
Her house was a beautiful cottage with vineyards and grape vines hugging every pole within reach. Original manuscripts of French poets hung from the walls, while paintings of French artists adorned every pillar, while her father made French wine and her mother cut French toast.

She picked up the toothbrush and gazed into the mirror. Her blue eyes adjusted to the light and her brown hair fell apart in one quick motion. She smelled French toast and Bacon but wasn’t ready to go out there. She liked it in here.
Wiping the corners of her eye and running her fingers through her disobedient hair, she closed her eyes and just for a moment, everything fell quiet under her charm as she hummed to herself and the soft murmur of her voice ignited by the stillness froze the moment while she cuddled with the soundless silence that surrounded  her. But, it all fell apart, much to quickly.

“Genevieve!”

As she set the table, Genevieve reflected on her life. She thought about how much she’d grown since she had left France.
It seemed to her that she had left a piece of herself there. Even out of France a long time, she still struggled to feel French. Back there, there wasn’t anything left to de construct.  She had gone to school with her French classmates and come back to a French roof and conversed with her friends in elementary French.

Everywhere she went, she felt at ease because everything was a reminder of who she was.
The architecture was French and all the carpets were French while even the clothes that draped her body were French.
But those feelings had deserted her once she’d moved away, and this place had become her home.

She felt sorry every moment her parents spent pretending. They worked day and night to get those paintings up on the wall. They worked incorrigibly to buy French bread and even after using the word “French” so many times, the minute she stepped out of her home, she stopped belonging.
The illusion of France, as majestically constructed as theirs, lay in their home and was their only medium to find any shreds of broken happiness. But in her heart, Genevieve knew that they would all be broken lest any force crumble the sanctity of their home.

“Charlotte is moving to Prague,” her mother said as she served hot toast.
“Really,” her father said in a mildly reprimanding tone.
“Yes,” she answered coldly.
“How did you know?”
“She wrote a letter last Monday saying she’d be moving in a few days. But you know how long letters take to reach here.”
“Why Prague?” he asked drinking his juice.
“I know!” she proclaimed noisily and put the bowl down at once.
“She’s British. She should be moving to England or something.”
His eyes softened at once.
“It’s not that bad,” he whispered softly.
“I know,” she said and the lost smile reappeared on her face.
Genevieve tried to read their faces. She was reading too much into it, or so it seemed, for it made her heart ache watching her family search for happiness only to end in doom.
“Genevieve, eat your bread. ”

Genevieve opened the post box. It was empty. The thought of it made her sad.
What’s the matter?” asked her mother.
“She didn’t write,” Genevieve said as her voice trailed off towards the end.
“Oh, Genevieve. I’m sorry.”
“She’s found new friends.”
“No, no,” her mother said reflexively. “She’s busy. You know how it is this time of year.”
“Yes, it is awfully boring because there isn’t much to do.”
“But around there-”
“Even around there,” Genevieve stressed.
Her mother exhaled sharply.
“Listen to me. I’m sure she posted the letter. It’s just not been delivered yet. ”
“So, what am I to do? Wait around?”
“Yes, patience is the key.”
“No, the truth is the answer. And the answer is that she’s off making new friends,” said Genevieve thoughtlessly.
“No-”
“She’s forgotten me. Of course she has. Who would want to be friends with somebody for so long?”
“Genevieve!” her mother’s scream interrupted her train of thought.
“Don’t make me feel worse than I already do. I’m trying, we’re all trying but we can’t make this a paradise for you. It is what it is. Comprendre. Two years have passed since we moved. And for two years you have been checking empty post boxes. It saddens me. She’s found new friends and now you should.”
“I can’t.”
“You need to try harder. I know you are holding on to the idea that once we learn how miserable you feel, we’re going to go back there. But we’re not. This is our home.”
From a distance they heard the rain starting to pour. Tears streamed in Genevieve’s eyes.
“Look how kind everyone has been to us,” her mother said.
A stout woman ran into the house drenched and cold.
“And now it’s time for us to repay the kindness,” whispered her mother looking at her.
“Oh, I’m sorry I’m late,” the woman said shivering.
“You needn’t apologize. Genevieve, get the maid a glass of water.”
“Do you know how long the rain will last?” asked the maid sipping warm water.
“I don’t know.”
Genevieve saw the terror in her eyes.
“But it shouldn’t be long.”
The maid didn’t believe her.
“I’ll get you some clean clothes. You can start cleaning right after.”

The rain progressed late into the evening. Genevieve’s demeanour had changed. She felt at peace, hopeful even. But then again, this wasn’t France. From the corner of her eyes Genevieve saw a green lamp. It sat there, perfectly still, but the more she concentrated her gaze on the lamp, the more she felt that its top was mildly crooked.
Nonetheless, it still stayed there, untouched and unfazed just like the night sky. The air slowly filled with sound as she softly hummed the French national anthem. It was in these moments that Genevieve truly felt intact and in touch with her history.

Instantly, she felt something move behind her. She turned swiftly and saw her mother carrying paint brushes.
“What is it?” her mother asked seeing Genevieve’s perturbed face.
“What is happening?”
“I’m going to paint. Would you like to come along?”
“Where’s dad?”
“He’s in the garden removing the weeds.”
“Alright. I can paint,” she said confidently.
They entered the parlor only to be surprised.
“What are you still doing here?”
“I’m cleaning,” the maid said confused.
“Well, you were cleaning here two hours ago.”
“It’s really dirty.”
“You should go home.”
“But I’m not finished.”
“It’s alright. You came here in the morning. It’s almost seven now. You need to get back. Looks like it’s going to rain.”
Genevieve’s heart sank. All her initial peace evaporated. The maid stood there, motionless.
“You can go,” Genevieve’s mother said in a reassuring tone.
“Well, let me finish cleaning and I will.”
“You should go,” she rephrased.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Genevieve recognized the terror in her eyes but before she could say something, the maid left.

The brush caressed the thin walls and re-emerged with a new colour every time, surprising the rugged surface while enticing the diluted water that awaited to be splashed around with the paint to form a picture that dried away into a stillness radiating a certain magnetic force that even so alluring never failed to amaze those watching with astonished eyes, gazing at the tip as its hair brushed against the yellow of the sun or the brown of a bark and created on the naked surface a field of azure and the lush of a tree.

Genevieve loved painting on the wall. The idea that she painted layer after layer burying each painting after its splendour corroded away provided her with a sense of comfort.
Maybe the thought that a chunk of history was buried in those walls made her eyes glimmer.
As she stroked the wall in a particular direction, the green kept getting darker and darker until she looked at it and saw real veins.
“You can’t paint that,” her mother said disrupting her routine.
“What?”
“It’s a leaf,” she said bluntly.
“A very intricate representation of a leaf,” she whispered drowning in its colour.
“You’re sixteen now. You should paint something deeper.”
“A leaf is deep,” she defended.
“Yes it is, but not as deep as a blue ocean.”
“Or a green ocean,” she whispered mindlessly.

Within moments, unacquainted colours met each other, mixing, churning and writhing beneath the command of the brush and soon enough, there lay a bare ocean running across the wall, finished with the blue of the sky and the gold of the sand and the white of the waves breaking into the ocean like newly chiseled crystals glimmering in the dark.

“I can see the waves,” said her mother her eyes growing wider.
“Did you see the sea shells?”
“Yes, I did. Genevieve, I don’t know what to say,” she whispered absolutely bewildered. “It’s beautiful.”

And she stared brutally, almost like sinking in the ocean, seizing all the blue and the gold, swiveling around in her artistic world, and for a moment, just for a moment, everything felt whole until they felt the dark of a shadow creeping up behind the wall.
“Oh, it’s you,” Genevieve’s mother said startled.
The maid stood behind the wall utterly speechless, and in Genevieve’s eyes she looked like one of those villainous people with obscure, vindictive thoughts with distorted faces.
“Where’s dad?” she whispered frightened.
“Genevieve, quiet,” commanded her mother.
The maid still stood there, creeping out of the wall waiting to reveal herself wholly.
“What is it?” asked Genevieve’s mother, unaffected by the preceding events.
“I…I hadn’t… I didn’t-”
“Where is dad?” Genevieve repeated sensing impending danger.
“Genevieve, stop. It’s just the maid,” she whispered tenderly.
Her eyes immediately turned to the maid.
“Oh, good lord, come inside. You’re scaring her.”
The maid complied and gradually appeared as if out of the shadows and when Genevieve caught a glimpse of her, her eyes betrayed her.
She was human.

“And everything is gone. I couldn’t do a thing,” the maid said sniffing.

Twenty minutes had passed and Genevieve felt too exposed to her human side and it was starting to bore her.
She sat there nevertheless, awaiting her mother’s instructions that would determine her future course of action. She wanted to go to her room. But not without checking the post box first.
She looked through the window only to learn that the night had started to descend and remembered that she hadn’t yet put Pinocchio on guard.
She wondered if the sheet had dried.
Then she wondered how long she’d have to sit there with a sniffing maid and a clueless mother.
“Tell me what happened,” her mother said tentatively.
The maid looked at Genevieve questioningly.
“Why don’t you go to bed?” said her mother.
“But, I haven’t eaten dinner.”
“Well, you will in a while.”
“What if I fall asleep before that?”
“Dinner will be served,” her mother whispered menacingly.
Without saying another word, Genevieve quietly made her way to the door.
“Not the garden,” she commanded.
“I’m not going there,” Genevieve said indignantly.
“Or the postbox.”
Obediently, Genevieve left the room letting her mother focus on the maid.
“Now, what happened?”
“It started pouring yesterday. There wasn’t time. The water rushed into our home and we started to panic. What could we do? Everybody took one thing they needed and got out. It was worse outside,” she said shuddering.
“Here, drink some tea,” she said placing a cup of tea near the maid.
“Some of the children were swept away by the water. They’re dead. They found their bodies today… They’d just been playing.”

The maid winced at the memory of the horrific revelation the elders had made of the five boys under the water.
“One of them was clutching a marble in his hand. He hadn’t let go. He had been playing outside. I think he screamed for help, but nobody heard him.”
She broke down in tears.
Genevieve’s mother wondered how anyone so harmless could possibly scare Genevieve.
“Did you take anything important?”
“No, I lost everything to the water. Rice, money, clothes, everything. I have nowhere to go,” she whispered looking expectant.
“What about relatives?” asked Genevieve’s mother gingerly.
“They too have nowhere to go.”
The maid sobbed endlessly. She lamented about how the world had been so unkind to the poor.
“You don’t have to clean tomorrow,” Genevieve’s mother said instantly.
It provided little comfort to the maid.
“Oh, sure. You can go back to your cozy little den. Not everyone is so fortunate,” she hissed viciously.
“Oh, but you need to go.”
“Go where?” she asked in bewilderment, her crazy eyes almost popping out. “It’s all in pieces swimming in the water along with the little boys,” her eyes softened when she thought about their bodies afloat amidst the dirty water.

“The storm is coming,” she whispered wide-eyed, and for some inexplicable reason, it scared Genevieve’s mother.
She took a few steps back before deciding what she must do.
“Oh, but the boys. Nobody could help them,” the sad, misty ballad of the maid resumed from a corner.
Genevieve’s mother inhaled sharply and composed herself.
“You can stay here.”
“Thank you.”
“You can stay here until it dries up. I’ll give you clean clothes and some food.”
The maid restarted her ballad once again; perhaps for another reason.
“You don’t need to worry,” Genevieve’s mother said in a comforting tone.
“Oh, but I must. I have a son of my own. I can’t leave him alone in the trenches. He wouldn’t last a day. He’d be dead like those other boys. I must go,” she said standing up. “I must go to him at once.”
“No, no, you can’t go out there. You will die. You have no shelter, or food. I won’t allow you to go back there. Your son can very well stay here, with you.”
The maid’s lips quirked up into a deadly smile, all the tears remained forgotten.
“Thank you.”

Genevieve found herself in the presence of a place that was much too nostalgic and a feeling she recognized all too well.
The post box was a red, wooden box hinged to a wall and despite the discolouration of everything around it, it managed to remain the same red; the red of a clown’s nose.
She had managed to get to the post box without her mother’s knowledge, but she feared to open it. The promise of another empty post box was one she could not bear. The only way to find out was to do the deed. She opened it and found four letters and was too quick to assume they were all from her friend.
The first three were immensely disappointing and were just old mails containing old news which lay unutilized in every other post box in the neighbourhood. Genevieve wasn’t feeling special. The last letter held so many expectations. She opened it only to find that it was nothing but a useless newsletter. She tried to read it but found the words too empty and baseless.
The dark of the night had started to go black. So soon did the skies hide away, than the light disappeared and Genevieve could not read the words anymore. She yearned to read again, having forgiven the words for being so empty.
From the corner of her eye, somebody appeared. She dropped the letter and as it fell to the ground she saw an unfamiliar face.
The boy was taller than she was, and stronger than she wanted to admit. Something about him made her feel powerless. Maybe it was the way he camouflaged and hid between the darkness so seamlessly.
He stared at her with lustful eyes, but Genevieve was not even sure if she knew what the word lustful meant.
She picked up the letter and placed it inside the post box for her mother to find. She then closed it gently and turned around. The boy was still standing there. He didn’t move.
Genevieve did not like the way he stood and stared but failed to recognize it. It was the same stare she fixed upon her window as the rain crashed onto the helpless street.
He walked away without warning, leaving her alone standing there, and the heavy clouds were the only witnesses to the strangeness that had followed her through the day.
She made her way into the cottage. Her mother smiled at her, it was convincing. Genevieve wanted to believe in that smile. She did not question its authenticity, she merely wanted it to last.
She saw all the food placed on the table impeccably, the smell was pleasantly familiar and the sounds of the cutlery clacking against each other dissolved the unnerving silence.
She pulled out her chair and sat in the place her mother had assigned to her from the beginning.
“Not there Genevieve,” said her mother in a critical tone.
A part of Genevieve felt relieved. She had wanted to sit elsewhere for a long time but hadn’t dare changed without her mother’s approval.
“That’s for the adults.”
The maid made her way to the chair and sat there without saying a word to Genevieve.
“You can sit there,” her mother said pointing at the coffee table.
Genevieve walked to the coffee table, inferior to the grand dinner table in both size and elegance. She was surprised to see the scrawny boy sitting on one chair while another was waiting for her to sit in. She hesitated to sit.
“The food will get cold,” her father said.
The dinner was disturbingly quiet. Nobody said a word. The adults did not laugh and humour each other like they did in the movies and the children did not engage in innocent food fights. No one looked at each other. They gazed at the food and then at the fork. Genevieve felt more alone in their presence than she did when she was by herself.
Finally, her mother spoke the two magical words that broke the perplexing silence.
“String beans?”

 

NIGHT – II

The rain pattered along noiselessly. Genevieve checked her room again. She did not like to compromise her security in any event. This was her fortress of solitude, disturbingly so, as it was also the place that fed her delusions.
On her lap lay the Pinocchio sheet that had been left to dry. She placed it in its spot, right between the window and its opening. Internally she thanked it for keeping both her worlds from colliding. Her finger grazed down the sheet as she reminisced about her birthday.
She looked at the clock on the table. It was one in the morning. The rain hadn’t been merciless, the streets were still within vicinity, but something was missing and that made her stomach twist. She decided to eat.
She closed the red door and made her way to the kitchen, all the while trying to be discreet. She opened the fridge and peered inside. The leftovers from the dinner were neatly wrapped and she thought the maid would take them with her when she would leave the next day.
She opened a tub of ice cream and grabbed a spoon. As the door of the fridge moved, the remaining light from inside revealed somebody standing right next to her.
She squealed softly, all the while keeping in mind that everyone was asleep. It was the boy. He was standing near her, smiling sheepishly. She thought he was shy, he hadn’t uttered a word all the while.
He walked away and left her unthreatened and alone once again.
The rain grew louder in the walls of her bedroom. Everything was in place, but something inside her stirred. The cause of her constant restlessness wasn’t the darkness that lurked outside the window. It was something else entirely.
She locked her door and got back into bed and closed her eyes, still believing in that smile.

“Genevieve! Genevieve!”
A loud pounding on her door repeated itself in a meaningless, repetitive drone, lacking order.
Genevieve ran to the door and released the lock. She looked at the clock. She’d slept all day.
“Why did you lock the door?” her mother inquired.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure,” she answered rubbing her eyes.
“Why?”
Genevieve remained quiet.
“What is it, Genevieve?”
Genevieve took her mother’s hand and sat her on the bed. Her mother’s eyes probed her relentlessly.
“That boy was standing there.”
“Where?”
“Near the fridge. In the middle of the night when I went to eat ice cream.”
“What was he doing there?”
“He was just standing and staring at me.”
“Genevieve, we don’t say staring. We say looking,” she corrected disparagingly.
“He was, he was staring,” Genevieve said trying to sound strong.
“Well, what did he do?”
“Nothing.”
Genevieve, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she smiled. “It was a smile.”
“What?”
“He smiled at me. He was just looking and smiling.”
“What happened?” her mother asked in a worried tone.
“Nothing, he smiled at me. It was a sheepish, innocent smile. He wanted to be friends, I think.”
“Is that why you locked the door?” she asked having stumbled upon an epiphany of some kind.
“No, no.” she said confidently.
“Well, the maid took some food and clothes and left. She won’t be returning for some time.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to work here.”
“Well, who will clean?”
“I will. And you can help when you don’t have school.”
“Alright,” Genevieve said with a big smile.
“Now, is there something you wanted to tell me?”
“No. There never was.”

 

NIGHT – III

In the dead of night, a force jerked her awake. The cry of an owl screeched into her ears almost paralyzing her. She awakened startled at the loss of a calm, tranquil silence that permeated between the walls.
The walls were damp, the noise was unpleasant. Yet, she listened closely, and listen is what she did because there was nothing else she could do.
It sounded like a child jumping up and down a trampoline. Up and down, unrelentingly so, as it seemed unending. Only, the noise grew louder. So, she pictured a line of noisy little children jumping up and down trampolines, one after the other, hushed giggles and mischievous smiles.
In one swift motion she felt her cheek pressed against the window.  The rain was pouring on the street mercilessly. She watched the rain lurching onto the street. Only this time, she had no choice but to watch.
Her cheek pressed against the window pane felt like it was going to crumble. She felt violated. She was not comfortable with this misplaced sense of power. Only this time, she didn’t feel powerless. She indeed was undeniably powerless. She cringed in discomfort, or pain, she couldn’t make up her mind.
Soon her whole body was pressed up against the window. She looked down at the Pinocchio sheet, she was afraid it wouldn’t be able to protect her this time. Her body was grinding on the window and its intensity matched that of the children jumping on the trampoline and as she listened closely, she couldn’t compare it to anything else, for she did not understand how anyone could go inside a trampoline and jump back out.
And that’s how it was; inside out, inside out.
Her eyes caught the rain pouring on the street, plunging onto the concrete and she stared as the rain fell like chunks of marble while all she felt was the pull of a trampoline inside her, whose muffled screams and tightened teeth failed to trickle into one ear, while the night sky witnessed all this only to remain untouched, and unfazed.

–END–