The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

Kyle opened the fridge and pulled out two cans of beer. “Goodnight, dear ladies. I’m going to my room to celebrate my divorce.” A nervous tick made the right corner of his eye twitch.

The housekeeper and I silently looked at each other until he left the room.

“It was really indelicate of him to talk that way about poor Lord Mc Laine” were her first words. Then she stared at me frowning. “Do you think he intends to commit suicide?”

I laughed, before I could hold it back. “He doesn’t seem like he’s the type,” I calmed her.

“That’s true. He’s too shallow to have deep feelings for anyone,” she said disgustedly. Her concern for Kyle disappeared like dew in the sun, and she went on to list the advantages, according to her, of living in the country, compared to the city.

I helped her wash the dishes, and we retired. I went to the first floor, and she to the ground floor, in a room not far from the kitchen.

I tossed and turned for a long time before falling asleep, and then I fell into a restless sleep. In the morning my cheeks were streaked with dried tears that I didn’t remember shedding.

I didn’t dream of Sebastian that night.

The next day was Tuesday, and Mr Mc Laine was already grumpy early in the morning.

“Today, as punctual as a tax collector, Dr Mc Intosh will come,” he said grimly. “I can’t talk him out of coming. I've tried everything. I tried threating and begging him. He seems to be immune to all my attempts. He’s worse than a vulture.”

“Maybe he just wants to make sure you’re in good health,” I remarked, just to say something.

He stared into my eyes, and then he burst into a roaring laugh. “Melisande Bruno, you're a character... Our beloved Dr Mc Intosh comes because he considers it his duty, not because he has a particular affection for me.”

“His duty? I don’t understand... In my opinion, his only purpose is to perform an examination. He must have some interest in you,” I said stubbornly.

Mc Laine grimaced. “My dear... You’re not as naive to really believe that everything is what it seems, are you? Not everything is white or black, there is also grey, so to say.”

I didn’t answer. Anyhow what could I say? That he had realized the truth about me? For me, there really was nothing but white and black, to the point of being nauseated by it.

“Mc Intosh feels guilty about the accident, and he thinks he'll make up for it by coming to visit me regularly, although I don’t like it at all,” he added spitefully.

“Guilty feelings?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”

A flash of lightning lit up the window behind him, followed by a loud sound of thunder. He didn’t turn away, as if he couldn’t pull his eyes away from mine.

“It seems like we’re in for a torrential flood. Perhaps that will distract Mc Intosh from coming today.”

“I doubt it. It's just a summer storm. In an hour it’ll all be over,” I said practically.

He looked at me with such intensity that subtle chills crawled along my spine. He was a strange man, but his charisma cancelled any other flaw.

“Do you want me to sort out the rest of the shelves?” I asked nervously, avoiding his fixed gaze.

“Did you sleep well last night, Melisande?”

The question surprised me. His tone was light, but it had a pressing urgency that pushed me to tell him the truth.

“Not really.”

“No dreams?” His voice was light and clear like the water of a mild stream, and I let myself get carried away by that refreshing flow.

“No, not last night.”

“Did you want to dream?”

“Yes,” I said on impulse. Our dialogue was surreal, yet I was ready to continue it forever.

“Maybe it will happen again. The silence of this place is ideal for dreams,” he said coldly. He turned back to the computer, already forgetting about me.

Great, I thought, humiliated. He had thrown me a bone like he would with a dog, and I was so idiotic as to grab it as if I was starving. And I really was starving. For our glances, our intense complicity, and his rare smiles.

I hunched my shoulders and started working again. At that moment I thought of Monique. She managed to turn men’s heads, to allure them into a net of lies and dreams and conquer their attention with consummate expertise. I had asked her once how she had learned the art of seduction. At first she answered. “It’s not something you learn, Melisande. It’s innate; if you don’t have it you can just dream about it.” Then she turned to me, her expression soft. “When you get my age, you’ll know how to do it, you'll see.”

Now that I was her age, I knew less than I did before. My relationships with men had always been sporadic and short lived. All the men I had met had always asked me the same questions: What’s your name? What do you do in life? What car do you drive? When they learned that I had no driver’s license, they stared at me as if I were a rare beast, as if I was suffering from a terribly contagious disease. And I certainly wasn’t a person who shared her thoughts.

I passed my hand over a book cover. It was a luxurious edition, in Moroccan leather, of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen.

“I bet it's your favourite book.”

I raised my head. Mr Mc Laine was looking at me from under his lowered eyelids with a dangerous sparkle in the black depths.

“No,” I said, placing the book on the shelf. “I like it, but it's not my favourite.”

“Then it has to be Wuthering Heights.” He gave me a breathtakingly unexpected smile.

My heart leapt, and almost fell into the emptiness. “That’s not it either,” I replied, happy for the firm tone of my voice.

“It doesn’t have a happy ending. As I’ve already told you, I prefer stories with happy endings.”

He twirled the wheelchair, and came a few feet away from me, his expression thoughtful. “Persuasion, always by Austen. It has a happy ending, you can’t deny it.” He didn’t hide that he was enjoying himself, and I was also appreciating that game.

“It's nice, I’ll admit it, but you're still far off. It's a book focused on waiting, and I'm not good at waiting. I’m too impatient. I would end up giving up, or changing my wish.”

Now my voice was frivolous. Without realizing it, I was flirting with him.

“Jane Eyre.”

He didn’t anticipate my laughter, and he looked at me, puzzled.

Several minutes passed before I could answer him. “Finally! I thought it would take forever...”

A shadow of a smile erased his frown. “I should have guessed immediately, actually. A heroine with a sad and lonely story behind her, a man with a painful past and a happy ending as a result of many ordeals. Romantic. Passionate. Realistic.” Now his lips were smiling as well as his eyes. “Melisande Bruno, are you aware that you might fall in love with me as Jane Eyre did with Mr Rochester, who coincidentally, was her employer?”

“You aren’t Mr Rochester,” I said quietly.

“I'm as lunatic as he was,” he objected with a half-smile that I couldn’t help but return.

“I agree. But I'm not Jane Eyre.”

“That's also true. She was wan, ugly and insignificant,” he said, slurring the words. “No person sound of mind, and of eyes, could say this about you. Your red hair would be noticeable miles away.”

“That doesn’t really sound like a compliment...” I said, whining jokingly.

“Whoever stands out, in one way or another, is never ugly, Melisande,” he said gently.

“Then thank you.”

He sneered. “Who did you get that hair from, Miss Bruno? From your Italian parents?”

The allusion to my family helped to blur the happiness of the moment. I looked away, and continued sorting the books on the shelves.

“I’ve been told that my grandmother was a redhead. My parents weren’t, nor is my sister.”

He brought the wheelchair nearer to my legs, which were stretched in the effort of fixing the books. At that short distance I could recognize his soft scent. It was a mysterious and seductive mixture of flowers and spices.

“And what’s a pretty red-haired secretary with Italian ancestors doing in a remote Scottish village?”

“My father emigrated to support his wife and daughter. I was born in Belgium.” I was looking for a way to change the subject, but it was hard to do. His closeness confused my thoughts, knotting them in a bundle that was hard to untangle.

“From Belgium to London, and then to Scotland. At only twenty-two years of age. You’ll admit that it’s at least unusual.”

“I want to see the world,” I replied evasively.

I gazed at him. His frown had disappeared like snow in the sun, replaced by a healthy curiosity. There was no way to distract him. Outside, the storm raged, with its violent intensity. A similar storm was unrolling within me. Communicating with him was natural, spontaneous and liberating, but I shouldn’t, couldn’t speak freely, or else I would regret it.

“Your need to see the world brought you to this remote corner of the world?” His tone was openly sceptical. “There’s no need to lie to me, Melisande Bruno. I won’t judge you, in spite of the appearances.”

Something broke inside me, releasing memories that I believed buried forever. I had trusted someone just once, and it didn’t end well, my life had almost been destroyed because of it. Only fate had prevented a tragedy. My tragedy.

“I'm not lying. Even here you can see the world,” I said smiling. “I've never been to the Highlands, they’re interesting. And I’m young, I can still travel, to visit and explore new places.”

“So you plan to leave.” His voice was hoarse now.

I turned to him. A shadow had fallen over his face. There was something desperate, furious, and predatory about him at that moment.

Short of words, I just kept staring at him.

He quickly twirled the wheelchair towards the desk. “Don’t worry. If you continue being so lazy, I'll send you away myself, so you can resume your journey around the world.”

His harsh words made me feel as though he had tossed a bucket of frozen water over me. He stopped in front of the window, anchored to the wheelchair with both hands, his shoulders stiff.

“You were right. The storm is already over. There is no way to avoid Mc Intosh today. It seems that I can’t do anything right.”

“Oh, look, a rainbow.” He called me without turning around. “Come and see, Miss Bruno. A charming sight, don’t you think? I doubt you’ve already seen one before.”

“Indeed, I have,” I countered, without moving. The rainbow was a cruel symbol of what I was eternally denied: the perception of colours, their prodigies, and their archaic mystery.

My voice was as delicate as a sheet of ice, my shoulders stiffer than his.

He had again raised a wall between us, tall and insurmountable. A shatterproof defence.

Or maybe I was the one who had built it first.

Chapter six

“Would you like to have dinner with me, Melisande Bruno?”

I stared at him with wide eyes; I must have misunderstood him. He had ignored me for hours, and the rare times he spoke to me he had been unpleasant and cold.

At first I thought of refusing, outraged by his childlike and moody attitude, then curiosity got the best of me. Or maybe I was hoping to see his smile again; that lopsided, friendly and warm smile. However, whatever the reason, my answer was yes.

Mrs Mc Millian was so shocked by the novelty to be silent for as long as it took her to serve our dinner, stirring up our mutual amusement.

Mr Mc Laine was relaxed, and he no longer had that severe expression than I had learned to fear.

We sat quietly and began speaking only when the housekeeper left us alone.

“We managed to leave our dear Millicent speechless... I guess we'll end up in the Guinness world records,” he remarked with a laugh that struck my heart.

“Undoubtedly,” I agreed. “And that’s a monumental task. I never thought I’d see that day.”

“I agree”. He winked at me and grasped a meat skewer.

The improvised dinner was informal but delicious, and his company was the only one I wished for. I promised myself I wouldn’t do anything to ruin that idyllic atmosphere, and then I remembered that it only partially depended on me. My companion had already shown on several occasions that he was irritable, and without any apparent reason.

Now he was smiling, and I felt a stabbing pain at the thought that I would never know the exact colour of his eyes and hair.

“So, Melisande Bruno, do you like Midnight Rose?”

I like you, especially when you're so laid-back and in peace with the world.

I said aloud, “Who wouldn’t like it? It's a slice of paradise, far from the usual frenzy, stress and madness.”

He stopped eating, as if he fed off the sound of my voice. And I also began to chew more slowly, so as to not break that spell, as fragile as crystal and more fluttery than an autumn leaf.

“For those who come from London it must seem so” he granted. “Have you travelled a lot?”

I brought my glass of wine to my mouth before answering. “Less than I would have liked. But I understood one thing: you can discover the world in its corners, folds and grooves, not in the large centres.”

“Your wisdom equals your beauty,” he said seriously. “And what are you discovering in this lovely Scottish village?”

“I haven’t seen the village yet,” I reminded him, with no resent. “But Midnight Rose is an interesting place. I feel like the world could stop right here and now and I wouldn’t miss my future life.”

In response he shook his head. “You have perceived the most intimate essence of this home in such a short time... I still haven’t succeeded in doing so...”

I didn’t answer; the fear of spoiling our regained intimacy curbed my tongue.

He studied me closely, as always, as if I was the content of a slide and he was a microscope. The next question was pondered, explosive, and the premonition of an imminent disaster.

“Do you have a family, Melisande Bruno? Are any of your relatives still alive?”

It didn’t sound like an idle question, made just for the heck of it. There was a keen and authentic interest in it.

I hid my hesitation by sipping some more wine, and in the meantime I was thinking about how to answer his question. Revealing that my sister and my father were still alive would give rise to a series of other insidious questions that I wasn’t ready to deal with. I was realistic: he had invited me to dinner that evening just because he was bored, and he was searching for a break. I, the still unknown secretary, was ideal for the purpose. There wouldn’t be another dinner. I chose to lie because it was easier, less complicated.

“I'm alone in the world.” Only when I stopped speaking, I realized that it wasn’t exactly a lie. As a matter of fact it was a lie only in part.

I was alone, regardless of everything. I couldn’t count on anyone except myself. This fact had made me suffer so much that I thought I would lose my mind, but I had gotten used to it. It was absurd, sad and painful, but it was true.

I was accustomed to not being loved. I was misunderstood and alone.

He seemed absurdly satisfied with my answer, as if it were the right one. Right for what I couldn’t say.

He raised his half empty glass of wine to make a toast.

“What are you toasting to?” I asked, imitating him.

“I’m hoping that you’ll dream again, Melisande Bruno. And that your dreams come true.”

His eyes smiled at me over the glass.

I gave up trying to understand him. Sebastian Mc Laine was a living enigma, and his charisma, his animal magnetism, were adequate answers for me.

That night I dreamt for the second time. The scene was identical to the previous one: I was in my nightgown and he was at the foot of my bed in dark clothes with no trace of the wheelchair.

He held out his hand, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “Dance with me, Melisande.”

His tone was mild, sweet and soft as silk. It was a request, not an order. And his eyes... For the first time they were pleading her.

“Am I dreaming?” I believed it was just a thought, but I had said it out loud.

“Only if you want it to be a dream. Otherwise this is reality,” he said categorically.

“But you’re walking...”

“In your dreams anything can happen,” he replied, guiding me in a waltz, like the first time.

I felt an angry rage. How come in MY dream other people’s nightmares were erased, while mine still remained intact? It was MY dream, but I had no influence on it, nor could I alter it in any way. Its self-sufficiency was bizarre and irritating.

Suddenly I stopped thinking, because being in his arms was more important than my personal drama. He was unbelievably beautiful, and I was honoured to have him in my dreams.

We danced for a long time, to the rhythm of a non-existent music, the bodies in perfect sync.

“I thought I wouldn’t dream of you anymore,” I said, stretching out my hand to touch his cheek. It was smooth, warm, and almost hot.

His hand rose to entwine with mine. “I also thought you wouldn’t dream anymore.”

“You seem so real...” I said breathlessly. “But you're just a dream... you're too sweet to be real...”

He burst into an amused laughter, and he held me tighter.

“Do I make you angry?”

I looked at him, dourly. “There are times in which I’d like to punch you.”

He didn’t seem offended, indeed he was satisfied. “I do it on purpose. I like to tease you.”

“Why?”

“Because it's easier for me to keep you at arm’s length.”

The shrill sound of the pendulum invaded the dream, causing my discontent. Because he was retreating, again. As if it was a signal.

“Stay with me,” I begged him.

“I can’t”.

“It’s my dream. I decide,” I replied.

He stretched out his hand and stroked my hair, his fingers lighter than feathers.

“Dreams escape us, Melisande. We create them, but they don’t belong to us altogether. They have their own will, and they end when they decide to do so.”

I insisted, like a little girl. “I don’t like it.”

His face was crossed by an unusual seriousness. “Nobody likes it, but the world is typically unfair.”

I tried to hold back the dream, but my arms were too weak, and my scream was just a whisper. He disappeared quickly, like the first time. I found myself awake; my ears dull with loud noises. Then I realized, with dismay, that they were the arrhythmic beats of my heart. It was also going on its own way, as if nothing belonged to me anymore. I had no control over any part of my body.

But the thing that upset me the most was that I also didn’t have any over my mind, and my feelings.

The letter arrived that morning, and it had the disruptive effect of a stone thrown into a pond. It falls in a certain spot, but its effects reverberate to surrounding spots, in concentric and very extensive circles.

My mood was sky high, and I began the day humming. Definitely it was an unusual thing for me.

Mrs Mc Millian served breakfast in a religious silence, pretending not to be curious about the dinner of the previous evening.

I decided not to lose any time. I had to clear her doubts before she could create her own ideas, which could damage my reputation, and perhaps even Mr Mc Laine’s. Any wishful thinking toward him was solely in my dreams, and I mustn’t yield to its evanescent magnificence.

“Mrs Mc Millian...”

“Yes, Miss Bruno?” She was buttering the toast and asked the question without raising her eyes.

“Mr Mc Laine felt lonely last night, and he asked me to keep him company. If I weren’t there, he would have asked you. Or Kyle,” I said firmly.

She adjusted her glasses on her nose and nodded. “Of course Miss. I've never thought badly of you. It’s obvious that it was an isolated episode.”

Her confidence froze me, although it made sense. Deep down I also agreed with her. There was no reason to hope that the County's golden bachelor would fall in love with me. He was on a wheelchair, but he wasn’t blind. My black and white world was the living and constant proof of my diversity. I couldn’t afford the luxury of forgetting it.

Never. Or my dream would break into little pieces.

I climbed the stairs like any other day. I felt restless, in spite of the calmness I displayed.

Sebastian Mc Laine was already smiling when I opened the door and it sent my heart sky high. I wished that it would never come back down.

“Good morning sir,” I greeted him calmly.

“Aren’t we formal, Melisande?” he asked in rebuke, as if we had shared a greater intimacy than a simple dinner.

My cheeks burned, and I was sure that I had blushed, even though I had no idea of ​​the real meaning of this word. Red was a dark colour, just like black was in my world.

“It's just a matter of respect, sir,” I said, mitigating my formal tone with a smile.

“I did nothing special to deserve it,” he answered. “In fact, I must’ve seemed hateful to you sometimes.”

“No, sir,” I replied, walking on a mined ground. The risk of triggering his anger was always latent every time we spoke, and I couldn’t lower my guard. Although my heart had already done so.

“Don’t lie. I can’t stand it,” he replied without losing his marvellous smile.

I sat in front of him, ready to carry out the job for which I was paid. Of course I wasn’t in love with him. That was out of the question.

He pointed to the pile of mail on the desk. “Split the personal mail from work, please.”

It took a great effort for me to tear my eyes away from his, for they were full of a new sweetness. I could feel them on me, warm and irresistible, and I struggled to concentrate.

A letter drew my attention because there was no sender and the calligraphy on the envelope was familiar to me. As if that wasn’t enough, the recipient was not my beloved writer, but myself.

I froze with the envelope between my fingers, my head full of contrasting thoughts.

“Is something wrong?”

My eyes met his. He stared at me attentively, and I realized that he had never stopped doing it.

“No, I... It's all right... It's just that...” I was lost in a huge dilemma: should I tell him about the letter? If I didn’t do it, Kyle might do it later on. It was he who collected the mail and put it on the desk. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that one letter had another recipient. Could I count on this, and put the letter aside and reclaim it later? No, that was impossible. Mr Mc Laine was too keen-sighted, and he didn’t miss a thing. The weight of my lie came between us.

He stretched out his hand, with his back to the wall. He felt my hesitancy, and he wanted to see with his own eyes.

With a heavy sigh I passed him the envelope.

His eyes left mine for one second, just the time to read the name on the envelope, and then they sought mine again. Once again there was hostility in his gaze, as dense as fog, slimy as blood, and black with mistrust.

“Who’s writing to you, Melisande Bruno? A far-away boyfriend? A relative? Oh, no, how stupid of me. You told me they're all dead. Who, then? Maybe a friend?”

I leapt at the chance and continued to lie. “It must be from my old roommate, Jessica. I knew she would write to me, and I gave her my address,” I said, surprised at how the words flowed from my mouth, natural in their falsehood.

“Then go ahead and read. You’ll be anxious to do so. Don’t worry, Melisande” His tone was sweet, but veiled with a chilling cruelty. At that moment I realized that I still had a heart, in spite of my previous convictions. Although it was swollen, syncopated and disconnected from the rest of my body. As my mind was.

“No... there’s no hurry... maybe later... I mean... Jessica won’t have any big news...” I stammered, avoiding his frosty look.

“I insist, Melisande.”

For the first time in my life, I was aware of how sweet poison could be, of its seductive scent and misleading spell. His voice and his smile didn’t reveal his fury. Only his eyes betrayed him.