The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

“What do you think of me, Miss Bruno?”

Once again, I forced him to repeat the question, and once again I surprised him.

“I didn’t think you’d be so young.”

He stiffened instantly, and I fell silent, fearful of having upset him somehow. He pulled himself back together, and captured me with another of his heart stopping smiles. “Is that so?”

I moved restlessly on the chair, undecided about how to continue. At that point, summoning all my nerve and encouraged by his gaze, locked on mine, in a silent and exciting dance, I started talking again.

“Well... you wrote your first book when you were twenty-five years old, fifteen years ago, I think. Yet you look as though you’re slightly older than me,” I spoke my thoughts out loud.

“How old are you, Miss Bruno?”

“I’m twenty-two, sir,” I said, again lost in the depths of his eyes.

“I'm really too old for you, Miss Bruno,” he said with a chuckle. Then he lowered his gaze, and again the cold winter night came over him, as cruel as a snake. Every trace of warmth disappeared. “Anyhow, don’t worry. You won’t have to worry about sexual harassment while you sleep in your bed. As you see, I’m condemned to immobility.”

I fell silent because I didn’t know what to answer. His tone was bitter and forlorn, his face sculpted in stone.

His eyes pierced mine, looking for something that he didn’t seem to find. He gave me a small smile. “At least you don’t pity me. I’m glad. I don’t want it, I don’t need it. I'm happier than many others, Miss Bruno because I’m free, in a complete and most absolute way.” He frowned. “What are you still doing here? You may leave.”

The sudden dismissal disturbed me. I stood up hesitantly, and he vented his anger on me.

“Are you still here? What do you want? Your salary already? Or do you want to talk about your day off?” He accused me irritably.

“No, Mr Mc Laine.” I awkwardly went to the door. I already had my hand on the handle when he stopped me.

“I’ll see you at nine in the morning, Miss Bruno. I'm writing a new book, the title is: The unburied dead. Do you find it creepy?” His smile widened.

Sudden mood swings had to be a dominant trait of his personality.

I had to remember that in the future, or I’d risk a hysterical break down at least twenty times a day. “It sounds interesting, sir,” I replied cautiously.

He rolled his head back and laughed heartily. “Interesting! I bet you haven’t ever read one of my books, Miss Bruno. You seem to have a delicate stomach... You wouldn’t sleep all night, haunted by nightmares...” He laughed again, suddenly speaking to her with familiarity, proving again that he was subject to mood swings.

“I'm not as sensitive as I seem, sir,” I replied, sparking another wave of laughter.

He maneuvered the wheelchair with his hands as smooth as a feline and with an admirable ability, born from years and years of practice, and he came to my side surprisingly fast. He was so close I couldn’t muster a rational thought. Instinctively, I took a step back. He pretended not to notice my movement, and pointed to the bookcase on my right.

“Get the fourth book from the left, third shelf.”

Obedient, I grabbed the book he was pointing to. The title was familiar to me because I had carried out a search on him on the Internet before I left, but indeed I had never read any of his work. Horror stories were not my kind, definitely they were more suitable for strong palates, and unfit for me, for I preferred a more delicate and romantic literature.

“Zombie on the way,” I read loudly.

“It's the best one for starts. It's the least... how can I say it? Least frightening?” He laughed whole-heartedly, obviously at me, and at the uncomfortable awkwardness that transpired from every pore of my body.

“Why don’t you start reading it tonight? Just to prepare for your new job,” he suggested, his eyes laughing.

“Okay, I'll do it,” I said with little enthusiasm.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Miss Bruno,” he dismissed me, again with a serious expression. “Lock the door to your room; I wouldn’t want the spirits of the palace to visit you tonight, or some other dreadful night creature. You know what I mean...” He paused, with a flash of merriment in the darkness of his eyes. “As I said before, it’s difficult to find employees out here.”

I tried to smile, although I wasn’t very convincing.

“Good night, Mr Mc Laine.” Before closing the door I couldn’t help myself and I blurted “I don’t believe in spirits or night creatures.”

“Are you sure?”

“There is no proof of their existence, sir,” I answered involuntarily copying his previous statement.

“Nor that they don’t exist,” he replied. He turned his wheelchair and went back to his desk.

I closed the door gently, demoralized. Maybe he was right, and zombies did exist. For sure at that moment I felt like one of them. Dazed, my thoughts were fuzzy and I felt suspended in a limbo, where I no longer knew how to distinguish between real and unreal. It was worse than not being able to distinguish colours.

I dined listlessly in the company of Mrs Mc Millian: my mind was elsewhere, with someone else. I feared I wouldn’t recover my thoughts until the next morning, when I would return to where I had left them. Something told me that I had entrusted my gullible heart to the wrong person.

I remember very little of the conversation I had with the housekeeper that night. She was the only one who spoke, incessantly. She seemed to be in seventh heaven, for she finally had someone to talk to. Or rather, someone to listen to her. I was perfect for that. I was too polite to interrupt her, too respectful to show my disinterest, too busy to think of other things, therefore I didn’t feel the need to be alone. If I had been alone, all my thoughts would’ve certainly been focused on him.

In my room, an hour later, sitting comfortably in bed, with my head resting on the pillows, I opened the book and started reading. I was already terrified when I reached the second page, and foolishly so, considering it was just a book.

In spite of my common sense, of which, in theory, I was well-supplied, the atmosphere in the room became suffocating, and I felt the need to get a breath of fresh air.

I walked barefoot through the darkened room and opened the window. I sat on the windowsill, soaking in the warm, late summer night; the silence was broken only by the chirping of the crickets and by the call of an owl. It was pleasant to be far away from the frenzy of London, from its fast rhythms, always on the brink of hysteria. The night was a black quilt, apart from a few white stars here and there. I liked the night, and I idly thought that I would’ve liked to be a night creature. Darkness was my ally. Without light everything is black, and my genetic inability to

distinguish colours was meaningless. At night my eyes were the same as those of any another person. For a few hours I didn’t feel different. A temporary relief, of course, but it was as refreshing as cool water on warm skin.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of the alarm clock, and stayed in bed for a few minutes, bemused. Following my initial confusion, I remembered what happened the day before, and I recognized the room.

Once dressed, I went downstairs, almost frightened by the deep silence around me. The sight of Millicent Mc Millian, cheerful and loquacious as ever, dissolved the fog and brought peace to my turbulent mind.

“Did you sleep well, Miss Bruno?” She began.

“I’ve never slept better,” I said, surprised to realize that it was true. For years, I hadn’t abandoned myself so serenely to sleep; I had set aside my negative thoughts for at least a few hours.

“Do you want coffee or tea?”

“Tea, please,” I accepted, sitting at the kitchen table.

“Go to the living room, I'll serve it in there.”

“I'd rather have breakfast with you,” I said, stifling a yawn.

The woman seemed pleased and began to bustle around the stove. She resumed her usual chatter, and I was free to think of Monique. I wondered what she was doing at that hour. Had she already prepared breakfast? The thought of my sister again put the weight on my thin shoulders, and I gladly welcomed the arrival of my cup of tea.

“Thank you, Mrs Mc Millian.” I happily sipped the warm and pleasantly perfumed drink, while the housekeeper served toast and a series of little jars full of various inviting jams.

“Try the raspberry jam. It's fabulous.”

I reached towards the tray; my heart was already in fibrillation. My diversity came back to bury me. Why me? Were there others like me in the world? Or was I an isolated anomaly, a wacky joke of nature?

I randomly grabbed a jar, hoping that the old woman would be too busy to notice my mistake. There were five different jams, so I had a chance in five, two out of ten, twenty per cent to pick the right one at my first attempt.

She hurried to correct me, less distracted than I thought. “No, Miss. That's orange.” She smiled, not at all conscious of the agitation that was mounting in me, and of my sweaty forehead. She passed me a jar. “Here, it's easy to confuse it with the strawberry jam.”

She didn’t notice my forced smile, and resumed telling me of her love story with a young Florentine who in the end left her for a South American girl.

I ate half-heartedly, still nervous because of the incident, and I already regretted not having accepted to eat alone. That way I would have had no problems. Avoiding potentially critical situations was my mantra. It always had been. I had to make sure that the delightful atmosphere of the house wouldn’t make me act recklessly and forget the necessary prudence. Mrs Mc Millian seemed to be a smart, intelligent and thoughtful woman, but she talked too much. I couldn’t count on her discretion.

She paused to drink her tea, and I decided to ask her some questions. “Have you been working for Mr Mc Laine for many years?”

She brightened, happy to be able to tell me new stories. “I've been here for fifteen years. I arrived a few months after Mr Mc Laine’s accident. The one in which... Well, you understand. All the previous servants had been sent away. It seems that Mr Mc Laine was a very cheerful man, who loved life and was always happy. Unfortunately, now things have changed.”

“How did it happen? I mean... The accident? That is... please forgive my curiosity, it’s inexcusable.” I bit my lip, fearful of being misunderstood.

She shook her head. “It's normal to ask questions; it's part of human nature. I don’t know exactly what happened. At the village I was told that Mr Mc Laine was to be married the day after the car accident and of course the wedding was called off. Some say he was drunk, but I think that it’s just an unsubstantiated rumour. What we know for sure is that he went off the road to avoid a child.”

My curiosity was aroused, fuelled by her words. “A Child? I read on the internet that the accident happened at night.”

She shrugged. “Right, it seems that it was the grocer’s son. He had run away from home because he decided to join the circus company which was on tour in the area.”

I dwelled on that news. This explained Mr Mc Laine’s sudden mood changes, his constant bad mood, and his unhappiness.

It was understandable. His world had crumbled, broken into pieces, as a result of a wretched fate. A young, wealthy, handsome man; a successful writer, about to fulfil his dream of love... And in a matter of seconds he had lost almost all he had. I would probably never experience such bad luck, but I could imagine it. You can’t miss what you don’t have. My only companion had always been Nothingness.

A quick glance at my wristwatch confirmed that it was time to go. It was my first day of work. My heart beat faster, and in a glimmer of rationality I wondered if it depended on the new job or on the mysterious master of that house.

I climbed the stairs two by two, irrationally afraid of being late. In the hallway I crossed Kyle, the nurse-handyman. “Good morning”.

I slowed down, embarrassed because he caught me rushing. He must have thought that I was insecure, or worse yet, rash.

“Good morning”.

“It’s Miss Bruno, isn’t it? Can I call you by your name? After all we’re in the same boat, at the mercy of a crazy lunatic.” The harsh and brutal ruthlessness of his words surprized me.

“I know, I'm disrespectful to my employer, and so on. You’ll soon learn to agree with me. What's your name?”

“Melisande”.

He bent in an awkward bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, red-haired Melisande. Your name is really unusual, it's not Scottish... Even though you look more Scottish than I do.”

I smiled politely, and tried to move past him, still fearing to be late. But he blocked my way, standing on the landing with his legs stretched out. The timely intervention of a third person cleared the situation.

“Miss Bruno! I won’t tolerate any delays!” The cry undoubtedly came from my new employer, and it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Kyle moved out of the way immediately, allowing me to pass. “Good luck, red-haired Melisande. You’ll need it.”

I gave him a fierce look, and ran to the door at the far end of the hallway. It was half closed, and a smoke ring was coming out of it.

Sebastian Mc Laine was sitting behind the desk, like the previous day, holding a cigar between his fingers, and his face was unyielding.

“Close the door, please. And then sit down. I've already wasted enough time while you socialized with the rest of the staff.” His tone was harsh and insulting.

An act of rebellion pushed me to answer, like a reckless lamb in front of a wolf.

“It was just normal courtesy. Or would you prefer a rude secretary? In that case I can leave. Immediately.”

My impulsive response took him by surprise. His face lit up with amazement, the same that probably was reflected on mine. I had never been so daring.

“And here I had already labelled you as a toothless dog... That was hasty of me... Really too hasty.”

I sat in front of him; my legs no longer supported me, regretting my irresponsible frankness. I was terrified of the potential explosive consequences.

My employer didn’t seem offended, indeed. He smiled. “What’s your name, Miss Bruno?”

“Melisande,” I replied automatically.

“Debussy, I guess. Did your parents love music? Maybe they were performers?”

“My dad was a miner,” I confessed reluctantly.

“Melisande... A pretentious name for the daughter of a miner,” he remarked, his voice vibrant with a restrained laugh. He was playing with me, and in spite of my decision of the day before, I wasn’t sure I wanted to let him do it. It would surely become his favourite diversion.

I straightened my shoulders, trying to recover my lost composure. “And why Sebastian? From Saint Sebastian, maybe? A very inappropriate choice.”

He absorbed the blow, wrinkling his nose for an infinitesimal moment. “Hide your claws, Melisande Bruno. I'm not in war with you. If I were, you’d have no hope to win. Never. Not even in your most daring dreams.”

“I never dream, sir,” I answered with as much dignity as possible.

He seemed impressed by my answer, sensing that it was extremely honest. “You're lucky then. Dreams are always a scam. If you have nightmares they upset your sleep. If you have pleasant dreams, the awakening will be doubly bitter. It’s best not to dream, after all.” His eyes didn’t leave mine, they were captivating. “You're an interesting

character, Melisande. A little slip of a thing, but funny” he added teasingly.

“I’m glad that I have the necessary requirements for this job, then,” I said, ironically.

I tortured my lower lip with my teeth, overwhelmed by repentance. What was happening to me? I had never reacted with such deplorable impulsiveness. I had to stop it before I lost my control completely.

His smile now went from ear to ear, amused beyond words. “Indeed you do. I'm sure we’ll get along well. A secretary who has no dreams, like her boss. There’s a special affinity between us, Melisande. In a certain sense, between our souls. Apart from the fact that one of us has no longer had one for a long time now...”

Before I could make sense of his ambiguous words, he returned serious, his eyes were again inscrutable, distant and lifeless.

“You must send a fax of the first chapters of the book to my publisher. Do you know how to do it?”

I nodded, and with a pang I realized that I already missed our verbal joust. I wished it would last forever. I had drawn from that exchange as if it were a miraculous source, filling me with vitality and an exceptional energy.

The next two hours flew by. I sent several faxes, opened the mail, wrote letters of refusal for various invitations, and sorted out the desk. He silently wrote on the computer; his forehead corrugated, his lips narrow, his white, elegant hands flying on the keyboard. Toward lunch time, he caught my attention with a wave of his hand.

“You can take a break, Melisande. If you like you may eat something, or take a walk.”

“Thank you sir”.

“Did you start reading my book, the one that I gave you?” His face was still far remote, immobile, but a flash of good humour showed in his black eyes.

“You were right, sir. It's not exactly my kind of literature,” I said sincerely.

His lips curled slightly, in an oblique smile, able to penetrate the armour of my defences. An armour that I thought was stronger than steel.

“I don’t doubt it. I bet you prefer Romeo and Juliet.”

There was no irony in his voice; he was just making a statement.

“No, sir.” Controversy became natural to me, as if we had known each other forever, and I could be myself, fully, without deceptions or masks. “I just love stories with a happy ending. Life is already too bitter, I’d hate to make things worse with a book. If I'm not allowed to dream at night, I’d like to do it at least by day. If I'm not allowed to dream in life, I want to do it at least with a book.”

He carefully considered my words, for such a long time that I thought he wouldn’t answer. When I was about to leave he stopped me.

“Did Mrs Mc Millian explain the name of this house?”

“She may have done it,” I admitted with a half-smile. “I fear, however, that I only listened to her half-heartedly.”

“Good for you, I get lost after the tenth word,” he complimented her without sarcasm. “I’ve never had a generous spirit. I'm selfish.”

“Sometimes you have to be,” I said without thinking. “Or else other people’s expectations will crush you. And you’ll end up living the life that others have decided for you.”

“Very wise, Melisande Bruno. You’ve found the key to spiritual peacefulness and you’re only twenty-two years old. Not many people manage to succeed in doing so.”

“Peacefulness?” I repeated bitterly. “No, the wisdom of knowing something doesn’t necessarily mean you accept it. Wisdom is born in our minds; our heart follows its own path independently, although dangerous. And it tends to make fatal deviations.”

He moved his wheelchair, and came to my side of the desk, his eyes probing. “Well? Are you curious to learn the reason for the name Midnight Rose? Or aren’t you?”

“Midnight Rose” I translated, struggling against the emotion of having him so close. I had avoided male company for a long time, since my first and only date. It had been so disastrous to mark me forever.

“Right. In this region there is a legend of centuries, or perhaps thousands of years ago, according to which if we witness the blossoming of a rose at midnight, our greatest and secret wish will magically come true. Even if it’s an obscure and cursed wish.”

He clenched his hands, almost challenging me with his eyes.

“If a person wishes something that will make him happy, it's never obscure and cursed,” I said calmly.

He looked at me carefully, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. A devilish laughter escaped him. I felt a chill run down my back.

“Very wise, Melisande Bruno. I’ll admit that. Those words are scandalous for a girl who couldn’t kill a mosquito without crying.”

“A fly maybe. With a mosquito I wouldn’t have any problems,” I said bluntly.

Again he became alert, a dim flame warming the frost of those dark eyes. “How much valuable information I’ve learned about you, Miss Bruno. In a few hours, I’ve found out that you’re the daughter of a former miner with a passion for Debussy; you can’t dream and you hate mosquitoes. I wonder why. What did those poor creatures ever do to you?” I heard the amusement in his voice.

“Poor my foot,” I replied promptly. “They are parasites; they feed on people’s blood. They are useless insects, unlike bees, and not even as pleasant as flies are.”

He hit his hand on his thigh, laughing out. “Flies are pleasant? You're very strange Melisande, and very funny, maybe too much so.”

As unpredictable as the weather in March, his mood changed abruptly. His laughter choked into a cough, and he stared at me again. “Mosquitoes suck blood because they have no other choice, my dear. It’s their only source of livelihood, can you blame them? They have refined tastes, unlike the praised flies that are used to wallowing in human waste.”

I gazed at the desktop, cluttered with papers, uncomfortable under his cold stare.

“What would you do if you were a mosquito, Melisande? Would you give up eating? Would you starve to death so you wouldn’t be labelled as a parasite?” His tone was unrelenting, as if he required an answer.

I contented him. “Probably not. But I'm not sure. I would have to be in a mosquito’s place, to be sure of it. I like to believe that I could find an alternative.” I carefully kept my gaze off of him.

“We don’t always have an alternative, Melisande.” For a moment his voice trembled, under the burden of a pain that I knew nothing of and that he had come to terms with every day for the past fifteen years. “See you at two o’clock, Miss Bruno. Be on time.”

When I turned to him, he had already turned the wheelchair, hiding his face.

The awareness of having made a mistake crushed my heart in a vice, but I couldn’t make it up to him in any way.

Silently, I left the room.

Chapter three

At two o'clock, I entered the office. Kyle was leaving, carrying an intact tray, with the air of a person who wants to drop everything and everyone and move to the other end of the world.

“He’s in a foul mood, and he refused to eat anything,” he mumbled.

The thought of being the involuntary cause of his state of mind struck me deeply in every fibre of my being, in every single cell. I had never hurt anyone, almost walking on the tips of my toes, so as to not disturb, mindful of every word I uttered so that I wouldn’t hurt anyone.

I stepped over the threshold, one hand leaning against the frame of the door left open by Kyle. At my entrance his eyes lifted. “Oh, it’s you. Come in, Miss Bruno. Hurry up, please.”

I hurriedly obeyed.

He pushed some sheets on the desk written with a male calligraphy towards me. “Send these letters. One goes to the manager of my bank, and the others to the addresses on the bottom.”

“Right away, Mr Mc Laine,” I replied reverently.

When I raised my eyes on his face I joyfully noticed that he was smiling again.

“How formal, Miss Bruno. There’s no hurry. These letters aren’t that important. It’s not a matter of life and death. I've been a living dead person for many years now.”

In spite of the rawness of his statement, he seemed to be in a good mood again. His smile was contagious, and it warmed my turbulent soul. Luckily, he never stayed angry for too long, even though his anger was frightening and violent.

“Can you drive, Melisande? I need to send you to pick some books up for me at the local library. You know, for research.” The smile was replaced by a grimace. “Of course I can’t go,” he explained.