ENDLESS REBUKE

                                      ENDLESS REBUKE


Staring down from the balcony at the sea waves a few yards away, he again descends into that unspeakable thought.  Compulsory evening routine, late afternoon meditations. Seated in an armchair, he is often so abstracted, so absorbed he never notices you approaching until you call out “Wilfred!” bawling at him in mystified irritation. Then he will start, startled, and make a nervous utterance of flimsy self-defence.

Now, a standing observer has been staring at him a few steps away, for some minutes, and finally breaks the silence:

“Wilfred!”

“Hi! Hello!” he turns his face towards her. “Just turning matters over. The waves aid my reflection.”

“Something is definitely wrong with you, Wilfred; can’t be just the ‘matters’. I’ve observed you for many days already. ”

“Well, call it unusual shades of usual matters.”

The worried gaze draws nearer to him, and her compassionate hand rests delicately on his shoulders. She has noticed how his mood will suddenly drop and how his face will get clouded over during chats or ordinary conversation. She offers fresh reassurances of confidentiality. For the umpteenth time. Now, she appears to see through the deceptive veneer of cheerfulness he has suddenly remembered to don: seems to sense the depth of his concerns. She whispers endearments into his ears, re-affirmations of sincere matrimonial vows.  She is not wheedling. She is far too scrupulous to do that. Nor is she pestering him with diplomatic subtleties. These are gestures of pure affection coupled with utilitarian tenderness. She seems to think all these will at last dissolve his resistances and pave way for her compassion. But it falls on deaf ears, on a benumbed heart. She again has to resign herself to the deadlock. Picturesque in her kitchen pinafore, industrious sweat beads adorn her brown face. She gives him a final look, keen and searching, as if in sudden inspiration that has x-rayed his soul before her. She informs him of his prepared dessert, and leaves for the living room, there to gaze at his portrait as though this may unravel his strange behaviour. Gazing at this very portrait at times like this has always calmed her confused thoughts. It is a portrait painted a few years ago, a few minutes after she accepted his marriage proposals, words of sincere intentions, soulful outpourings of a pleading heart. 

It is exactly one week today after the event at Killby.

At this time of the year, he will take solitary walks into the woods, about 750 metres away from his abode. Leisurely, evening walks that spice up his six-week annual leave, on which he usually goes during Yuletide. They afford him the delight of a more direct absorption of the physical and subjective atmosphere of the season. This, he could not really enjoy in company, not even in company with his wife or closet pal. Yuletide is ascent, it elevates him into realms of priceless memories. It is the yearly return of his glorious childhood celebrations, once upon a time when the city turned a fairy land where  every possible and impossible desire was granted, every conception of fun and merriment  nourished over the past twelve months; mother, father, uncle and friends were certain to indulge all wish and whim beyond the asking. Sumptuous dishes and delicacies, never paling or palling,  first coming in tantalizing quantities, and then in obliging doses of modest gratifications, new combinations or concoctions from one day to the next; and fanciful presents, least expected, stoked their mirth into unforgettable hilarity.

These Yuletide scintillations have come alive again in his spirit, but they are dimmed by his daily brooding. Dimmed, much as he tries to contain his worries in his wish to relish the so much cherished atmosphere. He has, of course, lost to maturation his propensity for boundless merry-making. But he finds all around him—in the crisp or cool weather, in the sweet melodies of singing birds, in friends and relatives immersed in the Yuletide spirit of hearty give-and-give—a revival of his unforgettable childhood days. 

And this is remarkable: Whether it is his weak enjoyment of the company of childhood friends or of relatives, his savouring of the cool, austere stillness of the Harmattan, his delight at the singing birds, or the occasional freak trickles or downpour of rain lending a special view and aroma to the environment; whether it is the preparations of excellent delicacies of his wife ( her seasonal dishes) or her proposals and their agreed performance of such creative erotic foreplays indescribable in their ascent towards heights of memorable intimacies —they all come before evening, before he again descends into his daily pondering. Solitary walks seem his only remedy, his only means of lightening up.

Today, a little later than usual, about half an hour to twilight, Wilfred sets forth, biding his bemused wife goodbye. She gives him a calm look, and replies him in a gentle voice expressive of firm equanimity. He should be back in less than forty-five minutes.  He strolls away, savouring the gentle breeze, the rustling poplars that graciously line up the avenue leading from his abode in a long snaky curve to his destination. He looks uncharacteristically cheerful today. Improvisation? Perhaps it will serve as a catharsis to liberate him for some time from the pressure of his grey pondering; perhaps diverting himself this way will help him keep up cheery appearances longer than usual for the sake of his wife.  Light of feet, feeling unburdened, he hums an old tune that has come to his head.  Along his path, he bids good evening to every face that seems likely to return the greeting, children and adults in their to and fro journeying on foot or bicycle. These people must be fellow frequenters of his haunt, new or used to it. He proceeds in this leisurely way, stopping where a strange sight or movement arrests his attention, his thoughts unrestrained in the scope of their fancy.

Soon he arrives at the recreational forest of his destination, and moves a few yards into the forest, to a pergola on which purple, pink and white roses climb and spread beautifully, forming a wide, spacious enclosure into which rays of the sun gently penetrate to create an inviting haven. Seats of concrete, comfortable for three moderate-size adults, are fastened to the ground, spread in an orderly manner.

He goes directly to an unusual spot and seats himself on a solitary seat where the rays of the setting sun half-bath him in their gentle warmth.  Checks his watch. He still has some fifteen or twenty minutes to himself before darkness fully closes in.  He regrets he left home a little later than usual; he would have had a particularly nice time by himself today. Good time for contemplating the shadowy serenity of the forest with maximum relish. So light is his mood, and so unusually lucid and active his thinking and thought processes.

A good distance away, fellow frequenters sit or stand in scattered little groups, engrossed in silent, unobtrusive conversation, modest play and harmless merry-making, until they feel the urge to leave. Instinctively, Wilfred turns his gaze towards them, half-consciously following their gesticulations and excitements and lip-reading their chats and speeches, as though he needs this to facilitate his contemplations today. Unusual for him to observe fellow frequenters so closely.  But that was soon interrupted: He has no sooner looked in their direction than they begin to take their leave in ones, twos and threes—except for a woman, who lingers for a minute or two as if unsure whether or not it was time to leave; perhaps she felt she might leave something behind.

This uncanny coincidence strikes him. Did some of them sense something sinister in his face? Was it an evil omen that he should look in their direction and they remain sitting or standing there? Now his reflections are interrupted; he turns his gaze towards a shrubbery of yellow roses , opposite him, out the embrace of the pergola. The roses still give out some radiance. His thoughts are now about the innovative piece of literature he read lately; it contained information about the great ornamental potentials of yellow roses in gardens and in decorative flower arrangements for bed and living rooms.  These thoughts are probably leading up to his dreams for the completion of his half-ready bungalow; there, if she had them, his cultured wife would be sure to make something fantastic out of those roses.  Wrapped up in thoughts, he soon lost mental touch with his immediate environment. Less than a quarter of his consciousness is left here. 

Suddenly his thoughts descend back into the surreality of his physical environment. There is a strange sight visible through the flower hedges. This approaching figure, moving towards him slowly but surely, is she not the woman that lingered a couple of minutes ago? What might she, a stranger, want from him in the virtual darkness of the forest?  She must have sinister intentions. He started to his feet, all senses trained on her and all about him. But he recalls what the lingering woman wore— a freakish grey gown with a belt tied at a slight incline at the waist, reminiscent of a badly dressed Cherubim and Seraphim priestess. That surely contrasts with the approaching figure’s, a beltless grey gown flowing gracefully down to her ankle. And she has a rather bulky briefcase in her hands. Moreover, she is a little taller than the lingering woman, similarly slim, but less bashful, more self-assured, and she suggests a familiarity with him with her look, with her intent, expressionless gaze rigidly fixed on him. Now she stops, abruptly, about seventeen feet away from Wilfred, outside the pergola, just before the yellow roses.  Is she here to hypnotize him by outstaring? He is bristled into the keenest scrutiny, and shoots up, battle-ready. He draws a little nearer to the mystery, who has stationed herself before him as if to cast a speechless spell on him. He stops.

“Hello!” he bawls at her.

She says nothing, but simply stares on.  Now, life and expression begin to come into her countenance.

“Hellow stranger, who are you?”  he bellows, quavering.

He seems to vacillate between saying something again and taking to his heels, but she replies:

“Oh well!” passionate, composed, unruffled by his aggressive gestures.

“What do you mean, oh well, stranger?” he again bellows.

“That men will always be men, traitors and treacherous!”

She sounds so decidedly sane and self-assured, so certain of her mission, that she commands Wilfred’s attention, dissolving his resistances.  He posture is rigid, her gaze firm.

“But who are you, young woman? Why do you speak to me this way? What—”

He gives her a hard look, and something in her countenance which appears familiar consolidates a semi-conscious impression he received from the very first, from the very moment she came into his view. The remorse and consternation that follow pre-empt every quizzical urge. No more questions now, only rapt attentiveness

“Open your eyes wider and stop your dumb pretences. You don’t recognize who stands before you?”

“ I, I—”

“ Well then, listen on ,” she interposes with a severe voice, abrupt and sonorous, “Treacherous and unfaithful, ever contemptuous of the greatest womanly trust and loyalty, THAT is man and man for you! Her love, he treats as dirt; her deepest devotion, he despises. He will compensate her only with hatred, haboured under a cloak of the sweetest deceit. Until he has her lying prone on her face before his feet, he seated in a very vantage position. Just there, with unbelievable venom, he will thrust his concealed knife right into her back— CRUEL eyes, GRIM countenance, the BLACKEST grit of his accursed teeth, they will seal his devilish execution. This is my verdict on all men, and to none of them will I ever again give my heart. You, tremble not now, for that is all too late.  None in heaven or on earth can possibly deliver you from the consequences of your darkness…”

“ Kate! Ka—”

“I have gone for it, to start with. I will be content with this and with one other thing I will yet do. I will be content. I have gone for it because nothing of my possession must remain in your possession, you DAMNABLE Devil!”

Though actually so brief, his encounter with her was an odd hour happening. His heart has skipped beats and now he is perspiring so copiously, trembling as though from a sprint compelled by a nightmare personified into a real-life pursuer. He will need to mop up his face over and over again. She is no more here, the dreadful creature. Now, darkness has fully descended and gives the whole environment a strongly eerie atmosphere. Owls flit past, echoes of warblers resound through the forest—possessive self- assertion— and croaks of brook and sea denizens emphasise the descent of night. Though Wilfred is not one to so easily take fright, his encounter with the creature has now invested the forest with the power of a dreadful unpredictability which suggests that anything from anywhere might crop up to avenge the woman’s grievance in any of a thousand and one natural or supernatural ways: “ One other thing I will  yet do!” 

Hypersensitive, his legs vibrating with mortal terror, he inches his way through the forest, sharply startled by every budge, by every rustle of leaves or the slightest change in speed of the wind. As he approached the mouth of the forest, his walk becomes a trot—he shoots right through the forest unto the tortuous path leading back home, dashes away, his only illumination, the quarter crescent above.

Soon he arrives home. Censuring his wife for strangely not having come to look for him does not all enter his mind now. Nor is he remotely concerned about her current state or whereabouts, as has always been his habit when he returns from evening walks. Straight for the living room he heads, and there he sinks down on a sofa, critically gasping for breath. He looks about him with frail ready defensiveness, half-prepared for a feeble confrontation with the creature if she should re-emerge. Having at last regained his composure, he rises, looks furtively about him and then creeps right into his bedroom, to the corner where he hid an enormous chest, the chest about which he has so far mystified his wife, whose purpose or contents he will never disclose to her .In it lay numerous pieces of precious gold jewelry, large amounts of unprocessed pure gold and a huge fortune.

The chest which Kate entrusted to him, for Wilfred’s and Kate's joint profit and happiness.  Unquestioning love, flawless trust and faithfulness.  Love for the sake of love, not love destined for marriage. This same chest, he looks for in vain—everywhere, in the least and most likely spots and corners.  Certainly, he saw it in its corner less than an hour ago, before he left for his haunt.

Now, Killby appears threateningly before his soul and with it, Kate and he, in the solitary shadows of that fateful evening. Now, he sees vividly before him a replay of the event: How she and he had had a great time on a recreational mountain at a seaside close to the outskirts of the city, lying, sitting or standing beside or opposite each other, engrossed in soulful communion, silent gaze into each other’s eyes, contemplations of the beautiful, flowery scenery all about them, occasional sentimental sweet-nothings. They were the only ones there… Now, he sees how, as sunset began to give way to dusk, they got up, and hand in hand, strolled some distance around and then to the edge of the mountain, which overlooked a dark river some forty feet below, apparently enjoying the sights.  He led her there. And there, he thrust her right into the river below...

“One other thing I will yet do!”

“Where is my wife!” he screams. “Nathalie! Nathalie!” Looks in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the lavatory.  Dashes out to the balcony, a large torch in his hand. He is about to rush back in when she appears behind him.

“The chest! The chest is missing,” she anxiously whispers to him, "I've been home all day!"