( writing things )
| “The best thing about dying is that you don’t have to face the grief of your loved ones afterwards. While others face the invariable tragedy of your passing, you succumb to darkness and become nothing while tears are shed, over and over, for the loss of your kind, sweet soul or your easy, disarming smile. When you die, there is no more responsibility, no need to please or cater to others. No one expects anything more from you. You become an object of sadness, a name and a memory that people promise to treasure forever. Death makes everything easier. At least for the lucky bastard who dies.” It isn’t quite the start I expected. Smoke languidly swirls overhead, clogging the air in a heavy, claustrophobic haze. Against the sumptuous oak panelling and the rich scarlet paint it looks strangely at home, slowly sweeping around the expansive establishment as if following the sleepy lull of the piano in the background. I wonder if he asked me here in hopes that I would be distracted by my surroundings, but I’m far too taken in by the bitterness in his voice. I knew that death would always be a prominent topic within our conversation, but I didn’t quite think that that was where we’d begin. “Death is a terrible thing.” Slim fingers fiddle with a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers, back and forth. “Most days I wish when I’d died I could have just stayed dead, but it’s one of those things you never expect to desire.” A thin smile with no trace of amusement. “Live forever. Such an enticing prospect on the surface, don’t you think?” “Not really,” I answer, a little uncertainly, though quite honestly. He raises his brows. “You’ll just see history repeat itself, each time in slightly different ways, and chances are you’ll probably be alone.” The last thing I suspect is his laugh. It would be a harsh and raucous one, I think, were it not for the fact that he subdues it, he pushes it down into the very depths of his throat, like he undoubtedly has been doing so for years. Brief and low. That’s all it is. “That’s the problem with you modern kids,” he drawls, softly. “Everything has become so transparent and clinical. There’s no romanticism. At your age all I ever wanted was to be that way, forever, to live the same mistakes over and over again without having to care, run wild and carefree until the very earth itself turns to ash.” Every so often, I hear his age, despite his outward youth. It intertwines with his accent, his precise, enunciated English that seems too perfect to be genuine, and for a moment, the face of a man no older than thirty has a voice belonging to someone in his eighties. It’s always there, though, in his eyes. Every century is gathered there, in the cool blue irises. I can’t help finding his eyes a little frightening. His gaze upon me is not constant, but when our eyes meet I feel that something is gripping me from the inside. “Tell me again, why was it you wanted to speak with me?” “You’re something of a legend,” I answer, with words I’ve been practicing in front of a mirror for days now. “Word gets around about you, and it looks like everyone else is too afraid to delve into any more detail.” “How very brave of you.” He’s mocking me. It’s obvious, but I pay no attention to it. He is abrasive, fussy with his friends and often cold even to those he cares for. That’s what everyone else told me, and I did well to listen to them. “But I don’t believe that it’s just a passing curiosity.” His eyes, again. Looking straight at me. “I can tell, you know. You have Caroline’s hair, her pretty features, but you have his eyes.” Unexpected. Again. Another word to add to any description of César Augustin. Suddenly it explains his stare, it explains my discomfort beneath it. There’s bite in his words as he goes on. “I’m not an idiot, my dear.” “I wasn’t suggesting you were,” I say, a little faintly, though it’s almost a lie. I didn’t think he would realise. “I didn’t know if you’d take to me very well.” “I may not be a great friend of your mother’s, but you are half of your father’s blood,” he answers, tersely, raising his cigarette to his lips irritably. “That alone puts you in better books than most of the idiots I meet on a daily basis.” “My mum would murder me if she knew I was here.” Quickly said, a gentle plea for secrecy. I suddenly feel like a hopeless schoolgirl all over again, sneaking around behind mummy’s back and doing all those things she warned me not to do, but there’s nothing dangerous about this. Of course, some might disagree, but I like to think I know better than that. I watch him carefully as I await an response. “Dear god,” he breathes, “I have no intention of ever seeing your mother again, not even giving her a passing glance in the street, let alone tattling about your clandestine little visit. Your life and what you do with it is none of my business and none of my control.” I can’t help feeling relieved to hear this, if not a little saddened as well. Part of me always hoped that perhaps I would find some desire for forgiveness, but I’m not entirely surprised that I haven’t. He hardly seems like the forgiving type, after all. I relax a little in my seat, lacing my fingers together in my lap instead of keeping my hands firmly planted on my knees, leaning back a little. It’s a very fine armchair, upright whilst simultaneously being the sort that one just sinks into without a thought. Everything about this place is fine, from the furnishings to the people drifting around the expansive room. It's very much like a strange dream, except full of expensive things, men and women alike with fragile and faraway faces. |