The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

Embarrassed, I squeezed the sheets in my hands, risking creasing them. “I don’t have a license, sir,” I apologized.

Surprise altered his beautiful features. “I thought that today's youth was in a hurry to grow up exclusively to have the right to drive. Usually, they secretly do it before then.”

“I'm different, sir,” I said laconically. And I really was. I was almost an alien in my diversity.

He looked at me with those black eyes that pierced through me like radar. I held his gaze, inventing a plausible excuse then and there.

“I'm afraid of driving, and therefore, I’d probably end up causing some disaster,” I explained quickly, smoothing out the wrinkles from the sheets that I had crumpled.

“After all the sincerity on your part, I smell a lie,” he chanted.

“It's the truth. I could really...” I lost my voice for a long moment, and then I tried again. “I could really kill someone.”

“Death is the lesser evil,” he whispered. He lowered his eyes on his legs, and he clutched his jaw.

I mentally cursed myself. Again. I was really a troublemaker, even without a steering wheel between my hands. I proved to be a menace, unforgivably insensitive and only capable of making mistakes.

“Did I offend you, Mr Mc Laine?” I asked anxiously, and he snapped out of his slumber.

“Melisande Bruno, a young woman from who knows where, as weird and funny as a cartoon... How can this girl offend the great horror novelist, the devilish and depraved Sebastian Mc Laine?” His voice was flat, compared to the harshness of his sentences.

I twisted my hands, as nervous as I was at our first encounter. “You’re right, sir. I am nobody. And...”

His eyes thinned, threateningly. “Indeed. You aren’t a nobody. You are Melisande Bruno. Therefore you are someone. Never allow anyone to humiliate you, not even me.”

“I should learn to be quiet. I managed to do so very well before coming to this house,” I murmured gloomily, my head bent.

“Midnight rose has the power to bring out the worst of you, Melisande Bruno? Or am I the one who possesses such an incredible ability?” He offered me a kind smile, with the generosity of a king.

I happily accepted that silent peace offer, and found my smile again. “I think it depends on you, sir,” I admitted in a low voice, as if I were confessing a capital sin.

“I already knew that I was a devil,” he said solemnly. “But am I that bad? You leave me speechless...”

“If you want I could get you a vocabulary,” I said humorously. The atmosphere was lighter, and so was my heart.

“I think you’re the real devil, Melisande Bruno,” he continued to tease me. “Satan in person must have sent you here, to disturb my peacefulness.”

“Peacefulness? Are you sure you’re it wasn’t boredom?” I asked.

“If it was, with you here, I’ll never experience it again, that's for sure. Perhaps, as time goes by, I'll end up regretting it,” he said with emphasis.

We were both laughing, on the same wavelength, when someone knocked three times on the door.

“Mrs Mc Millian,” he anticipated, without looking away from my face.

I reluctantly looked away from him to welcome the housekeeper.

“Dr Mc Intosh is here, sir,” said the good lady, with a hint of anxiety in her voice.

The writer instantly got upset. “Is it Tuesday already?”

“Of course, sir. Do you want me to show him to your room?” She asked kindly.

“All right. Call Kyle,” he ordered, with a harsh voice. He spoke to me in a tone that was even more severe. “See you later, Miss Bruno.”

I followed the housekeeper down the stairs. She answered my unexpressed question. “Dr Mc Intosh is the local doctor. Every Tuesday he comes to visit Mr Mc Laine. Apart from his paralysis, he's as healthy as a fish, but his visits have become a habit, and also a precaution.”

“Is his...” I hesitated, trying to choose the right words “...condition irreversible?”

“Unfortunately yes, there are no hopes” was her sad confirmation.

At the foot of the stairs a man waited, dangling the briefcase with his instruments.

“Well Millicent? Did he forget about my examination again?” The man winked at me, trying to involve me. “You must be the new secretary, right? Then you’ll have to remind him of his future appointments. Every Tuesday, at three o’clock in the afternoon.“ He held out his hand with a friendly smile. “I'm the local doctor. John McIntosh”.

He was a tall man, almost like Kyle, but older, perhaps between sixty and seventy years old.

“And I'm Melisande Bruno,” I said, shaking his hand.

“An exotic name for a beauty worthy of Scottish women.” The admiration in his eyes was eloquent. I smiled gratefully. Before arriving in that village that wasn’t even marked on the maps, I was considered pretty, at the most graceful, but most often just acceptable. Never beautiful.

Mrs Mc Millian was delighted by that compliment, as if she were my mother and I the daughter to be married. Luckily, the doctor was elderly and married, judging by the big wedding ring on his finger, or else she would probably start matchmaking to organize a beautiful marriage in the idyllic frame of Midnight Rose.

Once she ushered him upstairs, she came back to me, with a mischievous expression on her thin face. “It's a pity he's married. He would be a wonderful catch for you.”

Too bad he’s old; I would have liked to add. I stopped myself just in time when I remembered that Mrs Mc Millian was at least fifty years old and that she probably found the doctor attractive and desirable.

“I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” I reminded her firmly. “I hope you won’t start trying to set me up with Kyle.”

She shook her head. “He’s also married. I mean... He’s separated, which is uncommon around here. Anyhow, I don’t like him. There’s something unsettling and lascivious about him.”

I was about to argue on the point that I was the one who was supposed to like him in the first place, then I thought better of it. Mainly because I didn’t like Kyle either. He wasn’t exactly the type of man I would ever dream of, if I could. No, I was being unfair. The truth was that having met the enigmatic and complicated Sebastian Mc Laine, it was difficult to find someone who could measure up to him. I mentally scowled myself. It would have been pathetic and predictable of me to fall into the net stretched by the handsome writer. He was just my employer, and I didn’t want to end up like millions of other secretaries who fell in love with their bosses. Wheelchair or not, Sebastian Mc Laine was out of my reach.

Undeniably so.

“I’ll go upstairs,” I said. “How long do the visits last, usually?”

The housekeeper laughed cheerfully. “Longer than Mr Mc Laine can bear.” She started a series of tales about the doctors’ examinations. I broke her off immediately, with the firm conviction that if I hadn’t interrupted her in time I would still be there the following Tuesday, listening to her tales.

When I reached the landing, my steps noiseless on the soft carpet, I saw Kyle emerge from a bedroom. It seemed to me to be the one of our employer.

He noticed me and winked confidentially. I kept to myself and refused to play along with him. Mrs Mc Millian was right, I thought as he reached me; there was something deeply disturbing about him.

“Every Tuesday the same story. I wish Mc Intosh would end these unnecessary visits. The result is always the same. As soon as he goes away, I’ll suffer his patient’s bad mood.” His smile widened. “As you will.”

I shrugged. “It's our job, isn’t it? Aren’t we paid for that, too?”

“Maybe not enough. He's really unbearable.” I was stunned by such a disrespectful tone. I wasn’t sure if it was just the frankness of country people, genuine in their ruthless judgments. There was more to it, like a feeling of envy towards whoever could afford not to work, but to live out their hobbies, like Mc Laine. To envy him, although he was relegated to a wheelchair, imprisoned in his house, was preposterous.

“You shouldn’t speak like that” I admonished him, lowering my voice. “What if he heard you?”

“It's not easy to find employees around here. It would be difficult for him to replace me.” He said it as a fact, condescendingly, as if he were doing him a favour. Those words were the same of those of Mc Laine, and I realized their intrinsic truth.

“Here there are no opportunities to have fun,” he continued, in a more insinuating tone now. Casually, at least apparently, he moved a lock of hair from my forehead. I suddenly moved backwards, annoyed by his warm breath on my face.

“Perhaps the next time I touch you, you’ll appreciate it more,” he said, not at all offended.

The confidence with which he spoke sparked my fury. “There won’t be a next time,” I hissed. “I’m not seeking for distractions, and certainly not of this kind.”

“Sure, sure. For the moment.”

I remained silent, even though I would have liked to give him a kick in the shin, or a slap on his unpleasant face.

I marched down the hallway, ignoring his quiet laughter.

I was already opening the door to my room, when Mr Mc Laine’s door sprung open, and I could clearly hear his voice, no longer stifled.

“Get out of this house, Mc Intosh! And if you really want to do me a favour, don’t come back anymore.”

The doctor's response was calm, as if he were used to those bursts of anger.

“I'll be back, Sebastian, at the same time next Tuesday. Oh, and I'm glad to find you as healthy as a fish. Your appearance and your body can compete with those of a twenty year old boy.”

“What good news, Mc Intosh.” The voice of the other was ironic. “I’ll go out to celebrate. Maybe I'll also go dancing.”

The doctor closed the door without answering. As he turned, he saw me and gave me a tired smile. “You’ll get used to his dancing moods. He’s quite pleasant when he wants to be. That is, very rarely.”

I loyally ran in defence of my boss. “Anyone in his place...”

Mc Intosh kept smiling. “Not anyone. Everyone reacts in his own way, Miss. Keep that in mind. After fifteen years he should have at least accepted it. But I'm afraid Sebastian doesn’t know the meaning of this word. He's so...” He had a slight hesitation. “…passionate. In the broadest sense of the word. He’s impetuous, volcanic, and stubborn. It’s a terrible tragedy that this happened to him of all people.” He shook his head, as if the divine retributions seemed unfathomable to him, then he briefly bid me farewell and left.

At that point I didn’t know what to do. I looked at the door to my room. I was tempted to run inside and hide. I was afraid to face Mc Laine after his recent anger. Even though it wasn’t addressed to me. Once again the decision was made for me.

“Miss Bruno! Come here right now!”

To be heard through that thick oak door, he had to shout out loud. This was too much for my shaken nerves. I opened his door; my feet moved by force of inertia.

It was the first time I entered his bedroom, but the furniture left me indifferent. My eyes were instantly attracted to the figure lying on the bed.

“Where's Kyle?” He asked me sharply. “He’s the laziest person I've ever known.”

“I'll go look for him,” I offered, happy to have a plausible excuse to escape from that room, that man and that moment.

He shocked me with the strength of his cold look. “Later. Now come in.”

Somehow the fear I felt subsided enough to let me to enter his room with a high head.

“Can I do something for you?”

“And what could you do?” An ironic smile quivered on his full lips. “Give me your legs? Would you do it, if it was possible Melisande Bruno? How much are your legs worth? One, two, three million pounds?”

“I would never do it for money,” I said impulsively.

“He levered his weight on his elbows, and stared at me.” What about love? Would you do it for love, Melisande Bruno?”

He was teasing me, as usual, I told myself. Yet, for a few moments, I had the impression that invisible wind gusts were pushing me in his arms. The momentary moment of madness passed and I recovered, recalling that this was an unknown stranger in front of me, and not the sparkling prince in shining armour that I couldn’t dream of. And certainly not a man who could fall in love with me. Under normal circumstances I would never have been in that room, sharing his most intimate moments. A moment in which he wore no mask, bereft of any defences, stripped of any formality imposed by the outside world.

“I’ve never loved anyone, sir,” I said thoughtfully. “Therefore I don’t know what I would do in that case. Would I make such a sacrifice for my loved one? I don’t know. Really.”

His eyes didn’t leave me, as if they were unable to do so. Or maybe I was just imagining it, because that was how I felt at that moment.

“It's a purely hypothetical question, Melisande. Do you think that if you really fell in love with someone... you would give him your legs, or your soul?” His expression was unreadable.

“Would you do it, sir?”

At this point, he laughed. A laugh that echoed in the room, unexpected and fresh as spring wind.

“I would, Melisande. Maybe because I’ve loved, and I know what it feels like.” He glanced at me, as if he expected me to make some questions, but I didn’t. I didn’t know what to say. He could talk about wine or astronomy, and the result would’ve been the same. I wasn’t able to debate about love. Because, in fact, I had no idea of what it was.

“Bring the wheelchair nearer,” he said finally, in a commanding tone.

Pleased to fulfil a task I was prepared for, I obeyed. His arms struggled in the effort, and he slipped into his torture device with a consummate ability. It was so hated, but necessary and precious.

“I understand how you feel,” I said compassionately.

He looked up at me. A vein pulsed in his right temple, triggered by my comment.

“You have no idea how I feel,” he said succinctly. “I’m different. Different, do you understand?”

“I’ve been different since I was born, sir. I can understand you, believe me,” I weakly defended myself.

He tried to catch my gaze, but I didn’t allow him.

There was a knock on the door, and I welcomed Kyle’s arrival, who walked in with a blank expression.

“Do you need me, Mr Mc Laine?”

The writer made a gesture of anger. “Where have you been, you lazy bum?”

A flash of rebellion flickered in the assistant’s eyes, but he didn’t comment.

“Wait for me in the study, Miss Bruno,” Mc Laine told me, his voice still trembling with repressed violence.

I didn’t look back as I left.

Chapter four

Several days passed before I managed to recover the initial alchemy with the owner of Midnight Rose.

I avoided Kyle like a plague, to discourage even the slightest hope he might have. His greedy eyes always sought to capture mine, every time he met me. But I kept him at arm’s length, hoping that it would be enough to dissuade him from trying new, unpleasant approaches.

On the other hand, I began to appreciate Mrs Mc Millian’s company. She was a smart woman, not a busybody as I had mistakenly judged her at first. She was totally loyal toward Mr Mc Laine, and this quality brought us very close. I carried out my duties with a passionate diligence, glad to be able, at least in part, to take some weight off his shoulders. I missed our arguments, and my heart threatened to explode when they resumed.

They started again unexpectedly, as they had the first time.

“Damn!”

I abruptly lifted my head, as I leaned over some of the documents I was rearranging. His eyes were closed, and he had a vulnerable expression on his boyish face that stirred me.

“Are you all right?”

His gaze was very cold, and I almost regretted that he had reopened his eyes.

“It's my damn publisher,” he explained, waving a sheet. The letter had arrived with the morning mail and I hadn’t paid attention to it. It was my duty to sort through the mail, and I regretted not having given it to him sooner. Maybe he was angry with me for having missed an important letter. His next words revealed the mystery.

“I wish I had never received this letter,” he said disgustedly. “He demands that I send him the rest of the manuscript.”

My silence seemed to fuel his fury. “And I have no other chapters to send him.”

“I’ve seen you write for days” I dared to say, puzzled.

“I’ve been writing crap for days, and I threw it all in there,” he pointed to the fireplace.

I’d noticed that the fire had been lit the previous day, and it surprised me, considering the summer temperatures, but I didn’t ask for explanations.

“Try speaking to your publisher. Do you want me to phone him?” I suggested quickly. “I'm sure he'll understand...”

He broke me off, shaking his hand sharply, as if trying to shoo a fly away. “He’ll understand what? That I’m in the middle of a creative crisis? That I’m experiencing the classic writer’s block?” His mocking smile made my heart beat fast, as though he had stroked it.

He threw the letter on the desk. “The book isn’t moving forward. For the first time in my career I seem to have nothing to write, I feel as though I’ve exhausted my flair.”

“Then do something else,” I said impulsively.

He looked at me as if I were mad. “Sorry?”

“Take a break, just to understand what's going on,” I explained frantically.

“And what should I do? Go jogging? Take a car ride? Or play a tennis match?” The sarcasm in his voice was so sharp it tore me up. I could almost feel the sticky heat of the blood flowing from my wounds.

“There are not only physical hobbies,” I said, bending my head. “You could listen to some music, maybe. Or read something.”

Now, he would probably get rid of me in a flash, like the person who had suggested the worst nonsense in history. Instead, his eyes were alert, focused on me.

“Music. That’s not a bad idea. I don’t have anything else to do, do I?” He pointed to a record player on the top of the library. “Go get it, please.”

I climbed on the chair and pulled it down, admiring its details at the same time. “It's magnificent. It’s an original, isn’t it?”

He nodded as I placed it on the desk. “I've always loved antiques, although this is a bit more modern. In the red box you’ll find some vinyl records.”

I stopped in front of the bookcase, my arms hanging along my hips. There were two dark boxes of similar size on the same shelf on which the record player had been. I passed my tongue over my dry lips, my throat parched.

He called me impatiently. “Move it, Miss Bruno. I know I'm not going anywhere, but that doesn’t justify your slowness. What are you? A turtle? Or did Kyle give you lessons?”

I would never get used to his sarcasm, I thought angrily, as I made a hasty decision. The time had come: should I confess my peculiar anomaly, or take the easy way out, as I had always done in the past? Such as grabbing a random box and hoping it would be the right one? I couldn’t open them first to spy the contents; they were both closed with large pieces of tape. At the thought of the terrifying jokes I would have had to endure if I had told him the truth, I made my decision. I got up on the chair and pulled down a box. I put it on his desk without looking at him.

I heard him rummaging in it silently. Surprisingly, it was the right one. And I started breathing again.

“Here it is.” He handed me a record. It was Debussy.

“Why him?” I asked.

“Because I've re-evaluated Debussy since I’ve known that your name was chosen as a tribute to him.”

The primitive simplicity of his answer left me breathless, my heart full of hopes that hurt like thorns. Because they were too good to be true.

I didn’t know how to dream. Perhaps because my mind had already understood at birth what my heart refused to do. Namely, that dreams never come true. Not mine, at least.

The music started, and invaded the room. First gently, then more vigorously, up into an exciting, seductive crescendo.

Mr Mc Laine closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, absorbing the rhythm, making it his, snatching it in an authorized theft.

I looked at him, taking advantage of the fact that he couldn’t see me. At that moment he seemed tremendously young and fragile, as if a mere gust of wind could take him away. I also closed my eyes to that scandalous and ridiculous thought. He wasn’t mine. He never would have been. Wheelchair or not. The sooner I realized that, the sooner I would have gotten my common sense back, my comforting acquiescence, and my mental balance. I couldn’t jeopardize the cage I had deliberately locked myself into, risking to suffer terribly for a simple fantasy, an impossible dream, worthy of a teenager.

The music ended, passionate and inebriating.

We re-opened our eyes at the same time. His had resumed their usual coldness. Mine were shadowed and dreamy.

“I’ll never finish the book at this rate,” he decreed. “Get rid of the record player, Melisande. I want to write a little, or rather, rewrite everything.”

He gave me a brilliant smile. “The idea of the music was brilliant. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome... I didn’t do anything special” I stammered, avoiding his gaze, or else I’d have gotten lost in its depths.

“No, as a matter of fact you didn’t do anything special,” he admitted, making my spirits drop, because of the quick way he got rid of me. “You’re the one who’s special, Melisande. Not what you say or do.”

His gaze locked with mine, determined to capture it as usual. He raised his eyebrows ironically, in an expression that I knew so well now.

“Thank you, sir,” I replied.

He laughed, as if I had made a joke. It didn’t bother me. He thought I was funny. Better than nothing, maybe. I remembered the conversation we had a few days earlier, when he had asked me if I would have given my legs or my soul for love. At that time I replied that I had never loved, therefore I didn’t know how I would have behaved. Now I realized that maybe I could answer that insidious question.

He pulled the computer towards him and began to write, excluding me from his world. I went back to my occupations, but my heart was fibrillating. Falling in love with Sebastian Mc Laine was suicide. And I had no desire to become a kamikaze. Right? I had always been a person with common sense, practical, reasonable, incapable of dreaming. I was even incapable of day dreaming. Or at least I had been up to that point, I thought.

“Melisande?”

“Yes, sir?” I turned to him, surprised that he had spoken to me. Usually when he started writing, he lost touch with everything and everyone.

“I want some roses,” he said, pointing to the empty vase on the desk. Ask Millicent to fill it, please.”

“Right away, sir.” I grabbed the ceramic vase with both hands. I knew it would be heavy.

“Red roses” he specified. “Like your hair.”

I blushed, although there was nothing romantic about what he had said.

“All right, sir.”

I could hear his look piercing my back as I carefully opened the door and went out into the hallway. I went downstairs with the vase in my hands.

“Mrs Mc Millian? Ma’am?” there was no trace of the old housekeeper, and then a thought came to my mind, too small to grab it. The woman, at breakfast, had told me something about her day off... Was she referring to today? It was hard for me to remember it. Mrs Mc Millian was a source of confused information, and I rarely listened to it from start to finish. Also in the kitchen there was no trace of her. I sorrowfully placed the vase on the table, next to a basket of fresh fruit.

Great. I realized I had to pick the roses in the garden. A task beyond my ability. It was easier for me to grab a cloud, and dance a waltz with it.

With a persistent buzz in my ears, and the feeling of an imminent catastrophe, I went outdoors. The rose garden was in front of me, the roses in bloom like a fire of petals. Red, yellow, pink, white, even blue. Too bad I lived in a black and white world, where everything was shadowed. A world where light was unfathomable, indefinite, forbidden. I couldn’t even dream of distinguishing colours because I didn’t know what they were. Since birth.