Once More

Once More

         He had circled the room for the third time. This time he gave in to the urge and stood in front of it, motionless, his eyes searching it for the reason it seemed to mesmerize him.

         Maybe it was the eyes, he thought, trying to rationalize his unnatural interest. He shook his head in bewilderment. It’s such an ordinary painting!

         He tried to study it objectively, wanting to maintain some semblance of sanity. Framed in a carved wooden frame, the painting was, at best, suited for office décor. It was a typical painting that one saw everywhere these days - a girl stood at a window, staring out into the world, the window itself framed with vines and creepers; a pretty but dull picture.

         Marie did this? I just don’t believe it!

         And why the hell are you so interested in it, an inner voice asked. Damien was now more than a little irritated with himself now.

         He turned around to survey the other paintings, the bold and flashy colors painted with sweeping brush strokes shouted out the true style of one of the most successful painters in Washington D.C. It was a stunning collection - as compelling and vibrant as Marie herself.

         But this one is so pale and ordinary in contrast! What is it then?

         His brows furrowed, Damien stepped back as though trying to get a better perspective.

         “So Damien, you finally found time from your work to meet with us mere mortals?”

         Damien turned around, startled by Marie’s booming voice, one surprisingly loud for a woman so tiny. He smiled at her, the confusion in his eyes and the smile on this lips warring for prominence on his face.

         Marie leaned up to hug him, and he found his face smothered in the folds of the jewel blue caftan she was wearing, enveloped in her overpowering lavender perfume.

         “Your collection is spectacular as always Marie, and if the paparazzi and the collectors’ reactions are anything to go by, this one will also be a big hit,” he said, extricating himself from her.

         “Honey, you say such nice things!” she exclaimed, pleased to hear the words of praise.

         With a regal wave of her arm, Marie beckoned a waiter nearby and picked up two flutes of champagne.

         “Here you go Damien,” she said, offering him one, as though a queen conferring a great honor, and linked one arm through his.

         “Walk with me darling and please smile prettily for the flash bulbs. You know how the media adore that.”

         Marie winked at him and began walking down the gallery. They made an odd pair, his tall and lean form contrasting with her tiny buxom figure. She kept pointing to her favorite paintings, taking great delight in the telling him which of them were marked ‘for sale’ by known collectors.

         Damien found himself nodding at her, almost robotically. Interesting as they were, none of the other paintings held him as the other one had. The tour complete, they arrived at the painting he was studying earlier.

         “So what do you think about this one?” Marie asked, studying his face with her shrewd kohl-lined eyes.

         He raised his eyebrows, taken aback at the sudden question. Marie never asked how any of her paintings were. That they were good was a foregone conclusion.

         He shrugged in a nonchalant manner, trying to look casual. “Ah, well. It’s pretty, though unlike your usual style.”

         Then, as though he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “What made you paint this?” his voice a little harsher than he had intended.

         Marie looked up at him, puzzled at his reaction. Seeing a perfectly composed face, she turned towards the painting as though seeing it for the first time herself. Conspicuously, it was the only one that attracted the least attention from the thronging crowd – a buttercup amongst orchids!

         “I don’t know Damien. I only know that I just had to paint it…just had to,” she said, her voice petering out into a whisper. 

         She stared at him as though waiting for him to explain why she had painted something like that. Just then, someone shouted out, “Hey Marie! Amazing collection this year.”

         Seeing another good friend approaching her, Marie quickly excused herself from Damien, leaving him alone with the painting.

         Damien turned to the painting, the girl’s eyes once more catching his. His heart leapt, settling somewhere near his throat.

         What is she looking at? Suddenly, exasperated with himself, he turned and strode out of the room, covering it with huge purposeful steps, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the painting.

#

         “So, how are you doing after Lily’s death?” his father rasped. Damien stared at the frail man in front of him in bewilderment. In a rare moment of complete remembrance of the past, his father had somehow managed to narrow down on the only subject that he was loath to discuss.

         “I’m fine,” he answered in clipped tones, averting his eyes from his father’s probing gaze.

         “Ah! But you loved her so,” his father continued, unwilling to let the matter drop.

         Damien could feel his heart beating uncomfortably as his father talked on about how perfect Lily had been and how good they both had looked together. Suddenly, he wished he were somewhere else – somewhere where her thoughts and memories didn’t stalk him and remind him of her absence in his life.

         He escaped to the only window in the room that over looked the garden, staring with blind eyes at the lush green below, trying to calm the roaring sound in his head. After what seemed like a long time, he became aware of the stagnant silence in the room, and he knew that his father had once again receded into his more familiar state of forgetfulness…he was ashamed to feel relieved.

         He walked to his father and gently kissed him on his forehead, whispering a quiet goodbye.

         He drove like a demon out of hell, his hands tightly gripping the steering as though borrowing strength. Her eyes, her face, her smile all flashed cruelly in his mind, jeering at him to break down and cry.

         A sudden loud honk pierced his consciousness and, cursing, he pulled the car over to the side, his foot driving the spineless brake into the floor.

         “Lily! How I hate you,” he spat out through clenched teeth, his face contorted by anger. His breath short and fast, heaved out of his chest.

         Gut wrenching pain gripped him familiarly, mocking him with the ease with which it held him helpless.  Her scent, her laughter, her beautiful face filled his mind contemptuously, ridiculing his attempts to forget all. 

         He remembered the last time he’d seen her face as it lay pale and beaded with sweat on the hospital bed, her clammy hands clasping his. That’s when he’d really begun to hate her.

         “I wish you didn’t have to see me this way Damien.  I wish I didn’t have to die,” she had said, almost in a soundless whisper, her eyes liquid with tears of regret and pain.  She had grimaced slightly as the pain racked her body, trying to disguise her agony from him.

         “Promise me,” she had said, “that you’ll go on…that you’ll find someone to love and share your life with.” Her eyes had begged him to reassure her – to tell her that he would be alright with out her.

         How could he? He had turned to her, angry at her selfish words, angry that she had wanted reassurance from him while she gave him none…that she so easily accepted her death, giving him no hope.

         That night, Damien had read to her from her favorite book of poems by Yeats, her hand firmly clasped in his. He still remembered the lines from the poem she had loved so much - 

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur a little sadly how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars

         He had never even noticed when she had slipped away...slipped into the ever after, but without him. She had died quietly, never even giving him a chance to say goodbye…

         He’d been angry with her, so angry that he’d not cried…not once since she’d died.  He’d swallowed the pain and anguish of her permanent absence and pretended that she had never existed…that she had never entered his life.  There were even days when he almost believed it…almost. 

         And life had gone on for him. His work had taken over, erasing all signs of time spent with Lily, consuming him till he was so tired that there was no time to think. Until now…

         Cursing the unerring hand of fate that had brought Lily’s memory to his father for that flash of time, Damien pulled back onto the freeway, swearing to bury himself completely in work.

#

         The next couple of days were deadened with work. There was something soothing about the impersonal and emotionless content of work.

         After another late night at the office Damien walked into his apartment building, his shoulders sagging a little under the weight of a tiring day.

         “Sir, we have a package for you,” the concierge called out, gesturing towards the large rectangular box near the front desk.  Damien nodded at him and signed the paper he held out.

         “There’s a letter with it too, sir,” he said, handing over a lilac color envelope embossed with an ornate “M”. Recognizing the characteristic stationary of Marie, Damien carried the package to his apartment.

         The apartment was a stark one, devoid of any personal touches. He’d moved in here after Lily had died. A few functional pieces of furniture stood alone, hugging the walls as though borrowing comfort in the cold and lifeless room.

         He set the package down, and one hand loosening his tie, ripped open the letter that Marie had sent him.


Honey,
I know you loved this painting. I watched you sneaking glances at it. So as a birthday gift in advance I am sending you this painting. Enjoy it.
                                                                          Marie


         He flung the letter aside and savagely tore open the package, his heart drumming an insistently loud and rapid beat, as though marking the unveiling of something important.

         He knew what it was even before he could unwrap it. It was the painting – the one with the girl in it…the girl who, even now, seemed to be looking steadily into his eyes, studying his reactions.

         With the composure of a saint, he quietly propped the painting against one of the couches and sat facing it. In the harsh gallery light, it had seemed ordinary but in the muted light of his living room it seemed almost life like. The moonlight filtering in through the sterile blinds seemed to caress her face, bringing a honey sweet smile to her eyes.

         He shook his head as though the physical action would bring some sanity.  It’s just a painting…something to dress up this apartment…nothing more, he thought and, suddenly happy at having reached an important conclusion, he decided to prop it against the wall facing the window in his living room.

         He told himself that it was the only large wall in the room and hence apt for the painting, but he knew it was really because he liked the way the moon touched her face.

         That night, he slept fitfully, dreams and reality mingling into one. He woke up tired, uneasy and he knew what he had to do – escape.

         He plunged into work, allowing it to numb his senses. The next couple of weeks were hard with traveling. Chicago…New York…Boston, each pulled him into the whirlwind of city lights and hectic schedules.  Each city tried to seduce him with her wares - their new hope filled mornings and their urgent and exciting nights. He remained entrenched in work, hardly aware of the World around him as he traveled it.

         Finally, one late night he arrived back at his apartment. A shower and a finger of whiskey later, he lay on his couch thinking of the presentation he had to prepare for tomorrow.  He lay there, legs sprawled and his slightly wet hair dripping onto the couch, as the whiskey burnt its way into his gut.

         It was a while before he noticed the painting in front of him, his eyes suddenly finding hers, a tinge of annoyance marring her composed face.

         In a moment of madness he spoke to her. “Surely you aren’t annoyed that I was away all this time!”

         He laughed a humorless, at-the-edge-of-insanity laugh and wondered at his own foolishness for talking to a painting. Downing his whiskey in a bitter gulp, he decided he needed some more…if he was drunk, he wanted to completely lose himself in it.

         As he got up, his eyes sought her face again, as though wanting to confirm what it had just seen. Calm, placid eyes met his. His intent to get more whiskey forgotten, he stared at her. 

         She had blue eyes, bright blue like the skies in a children’s picture book.  Funny how he’d never noticed before how smooth her honey-toned skin was or how her russet hair, highlighted with bits of bronze waved out to frame her face. She sat with her elbow on the window sill, her chin resting on her hand, staring patiently into his eyes, as though urging him to talk to her.

         He didn’t talk that night, not because he thought it was crazy, but because for now, it was just enough to stare into her eyes…just enough for now.

#

         “You look more relaxed these days.” Damien looked up, surprised.  This was the second time in two years that his dad had addressed him and was talking to him like he remembered.

         “So, is it a new someone in your life?” his father asked in that familiar croaky voice of his that brought back memories of jokes shared over football games.

         “No dad, nothing like that,” he said, staring at his feet. Only a bizarre relationship with a woman in a painting, he thought to himself derisively.
Later, as he drove back, he thought about ‘her’.  A week ago he’d given in to the impulse to talk to her.  Somehow, it had seemed very natural.  It was almost a habit now. He’d come back from work everyday and talk to her about the day.

         He thought of it as talking to himself, still keen to justify it at some level.  It was like he had the perfect listening partner, for she was always there, with a patient ear, her eyes full of understanding.

         He didn’t want to think about what it meant for a grown man like him to be talking to a picture…didn’t want to analyze the sense of calmness it brought him. He just enjoyed the sensation.  It was like bathing in the rain after being lost in the desert.

         Back after visiting his father, Damien sat in his favorite place on the couch facing the painting, and thought about what his father had said. 

         He had been more relaxed these past few days.

         He looked up to see her face. In that instant, she reminded him of Lily. In the curve of her cheek, the laughter in her eyes and the hint of smile on her face he could see Lily…Lily, whose eyes would light up every time she saw him…who would fling herself into his arms whenever he returned from a long business trip.

         It was a dam that had been holding on too much for too long. It burst with a suddenness that left him panting for breath. He wept, long and hard. Wept for the love he’d lost, for the way it had touched his life with its magic and left before he could embrace it completely.

         He also wept for the anger he’d shown Lily, the guilt of calling her selfish and hating her when all she had wanted was for him to be happy.

         It was a long night, almost as long as a lifetime gone by. Damien talked to the girl that night, the words pouring forth, sometimes in fits and starts and sometimes in a steady outpour as though eager to exit his body after their long captivity.  He talked about the time when he was alive, the time when he lived life and greeted each day with excitement…the time when Lily was his life.

         He told her about the way they met on a cold winter’s day, shivering in their respective coats as they waited to buy tickets to a Dire Straits show.  They ended up going to it together.  He spoke of their marriage on a beautiful day on the beach, the life they made together, the jokes they shared, the fights they fought.

         Morning found him slumped against the couch.  He woke up to stiff and aching muscles and felt as if he’d run a marathon. He was oddly disoriented and then suddenly realized what it was. He felt fresh…free.  He stood up facing the morning sun, bathing in his light…reveling in it, remembering the night before. 

         She helped me do it, he thought, smiling into the sun’s face.

         He turned around wanting to thank her for what she had done, for being so patient and understanding.  The painting, caught in the morning sunlight was empty. The girl in the painting had simply disappeared, leaving behind an empty window!

         Damien stood there for a few minutes unbelievingly.

         She cannot have just disappeared!!

         He rushed to it, running his hands all over it as though searching for a way she could have left it.

         Had the paint run or maybe the painting itself had begun to fade?

         The painting was silent…the voices in Damien’s head were getting louder and insistent…where was the girl?  Mari-Marie would tell him…she could explain.

         With the urgency of a dying man Damien quickly dialed Marie’s number.

         Wait, she shouldn’t know how affected you are. You need to calm down, he reminded himself.

         Putting down the phone, he sat on the couch and steadied his breath.  He stole another look at the painting to confirm if she was really gone.  His heart fluttered with million trapped flies as he saw the empty window in the painting.

         Head reeling, he dialed Marie’s number again, reminding himself to talk slowly.

         “Hi Marie, Damien this side.  How is your new collection coming along?” he asked, hating the inanities that he had to go through. 

         “It’s going great Damien. A couple of months and the next exhibition will be ready to rock the art world.  So tell me, are you enjoying the painting I sent you?”

         Enjoying her painting? It was driving him mad, Damien thought. 

         Suppressing a hysterical laugh, he replied quickly, “Well, I called because I noticed that the painting seems to be either fading or running color and I thought you could come over and have a look.”

         Damien was proud of the calmness with which he spoke.  Marie had immediately put down her paintbrushes and informed him that she was coming to his apartment.  How dare one of her paintings run color or even have the temerity to fade!

         Forty minutes later, Marie arrived bringing the overpowering smell of lavender with her.  She’d not even bothered to change, for she was still in her paint splattered overalls.

         “So where is the painting darling?” she asked and breezed past him into his living room.  Damien rushed behind her and found her in front of the painting.

         “Why Damien, I know the painting is not as bright and colorful as any of my others, but surely even you can see that nothing has faded away!”

         “Are you sure Marie? I thought you painted someone standing at the window,” Damien said in a casual voice that completely masked his complete bewilderment.   

         “I know I painted the mere suggestion of someone…a shadow at the window…but that’s all Damien.  And that shadow still is there,” she said, pointing to the dark hint of someone standing at the window.

         Damien shook his head. What did it mean?  Had he imagined the girl at the window?  Had he imagined her smile, her blue-blue eyes?  Could it really be?  Had he imagined it all?   

         “Well, that’s it. I’m not painting these pretty paintings anymore!  Even my friends have a hard time appreciating them!”  Marie exclaimed, as she breezed past him.

         Damien stood silently, staring at the empty painting, long after Marie had left, wondering if he had lost his mind…wondering if it was all a figment of his imagination.

#

         It was two weeks since he’d shoved the painting into an unused closet.  At first he’d thought he was going mad, that all the women he came to care for just left him. But later, as each day went by he realized that it didn’t matter. He’d discovered that life was worth living just for its own sake.

         The girl in the painting had given him that…a new lease on life…and he was not going to throw it away.  He walked back to his car, ready to wind up for the day.  The evening was still new and he was looking forward to meeting some of his friends today. It had been a really long time.

         As he drove through the busy streets, one among the many rushing home, he smiled to himself…life was different now.  Now he found himself cracking jokes with his colleagues and also being invited to their houses. He was visibly a happier man and it all because of her.

         I wish you’d come back.

         The thought slipped out unbidden. He had missed her. Somehow she had replaced Lily’s face in his mind.

         With a lingering ‘if only’ thought running through his mind, Damien parked his car and walked towards the apartment building.

         “Oh! Gosh, I’ve forgotten my key again!!” 

         In the deepening evening, a girl stood at the door of the building trying to get in, the light from inside highlighting her chocolate hair.

         “Let me help you” Damien said, walking past her to open the door with his access key.

         “Thank God! I had given up hope of entering my apartment tonight,” she said following him inside the building.

         He turned to wish her goodnight when he noticed her blue eyes and familiar smile. He stood still, brows furrowed, staring at her. He couldn’t understand what was happening. Was he going mad?

         She seemed oblivious to his intense stare as she fumbled for something in her purse.

         Suddenly, as though she could feel his gaze on her, she looked up, the general social smile on her face giving way to puzzlement.

         “Have I seen you before, ’cause you look really familiar,” she said, looking quizzically at him.

         Damien paused for a moment. He knew that the fates were handing him a second chance.

         He smiled at her and extending his hand for a handshake said, "Hi, I'm Damien."

The End