Back when I was younger, and more vulnerable to every minuscule episode, I like most, strongly believed in my own elite brilliance. That in all the billions, of countless billions, that have breathed and later lost their breath. That I was dissimilar, distinctive and unique. But time and age can whither this belief and expose the uncanny truth – that we are all drops in drops of water: disposed to pain, grief and loss. The humbling idea that everything we hold dear to our hearts today, will one day disappear, only cultivates and acquires form with the advancement of time.
There I was, after her cheerless departure; left there to gather my fallen parts and pieces without even a moment’s rest or pause. The clock ticked on, the world went on spinning on its axis while swiveling with its bright moon. Nevertheless, there I remained, expected to advance this heart aching journey of life. It was even evident in the reflection on the mirror that a quantity of my unseen soul had died. But I was made up of much thicker bones and skin – perhaps even broken heart can heal. I had to continue without her somehow, I had to learn to live without her somehow.
Years had passed as they constantly do and today soon became tomorrow: now turned to then and slowly the nightmares reduced by small quantities and the lifeless cells in my heart increased by even smaller quantities; but they did.
I had recently moved from Arcadia to the neighboring – almost kissing Sunnyside’s flats – the side where it is always sunny or as better known by its prominent dwellers; as the New York of the South. A place I would soon embrace and call my own. Although I had not forgotten about my past misfortunes and afflictions which transpired in Arcadia, I contemplated that perchance, here in Sunnyside, I would find fresh waters and mountain dew to start afresh. I had a promise to keep.
It was enormously apparent how people pontificate romantics in days and times of today. The very definition of my kind, a romantic, was vaguely misunderstood. They interpreted my breed as those who opened doors or bought flowers for the one they love. But dear reader nothing could be further from the truth. A true romantic does not look but gaze. He dreams romantically, thinks romanticism and only kisses with romantic lips. How can I explain it? My very DNA is different: it is bounded by romantic strings.
Sunnyside lived up to its name: shedding light were darkness lives. By some strange means, it liberated my mind. I felt as fish placed in the smoothness of water, bird liberated to fly in the softness of the wind or mighty lion released to the thorny jungle – roaring with delight. Here I could put layer upon layer of magic on the pages I wrote and all seemed to be well.
But like all true romantics, living without a heart was more grueling than flames to my back. Thus, aware or otherwise I seek turmoil and tribulations as vigorously as bees seek nectar from flower. It was at this precise moment when I met Lucy; while in solitary and troubled times. When all I was seeking: was one to lighten my load, lift my pain and to understand the pieces of my shattered heart.
There was a sense of sensitivity to her. The kind I was never likely to meet again. But that first day I met her, I observed trouble walking hand in hand with her shadow. She had this rare gift to entwine sensitivity and danger into one exquisite body.
It was a Tuesday, I think, but by then days were seldom imperative to me. There was rushing wind, however, not the kind which gestures destruction; on the contrary it was the soft and melodious kind which only cries for rain. The dark and ashy cloud had covered the blue, and the smell of rain perfumed the air. At a not far-flung distant, along my path, I saw them.
I believe she was dancing to something or nothing or everything in that open ground. But one thing was for certain, it was as if she was crafted out of sounds of music and a few pieces of perfect. She spoke very little and her smile was rare, this led her to have a certain natural authority. Even the moving air was cautious on how it moved in her presence. This flaming personality allowed her to speak volumes in one word of speech.
There was a guy – there’s always a guy. He wore close-fitting leather pants. His tattoos were unconventionally colorful while his shades were quite dimly to hide the eyes. He was furious and gestured rage. She was bored signaling a lack of interest as she moved her legs that were made of musical nodes. He continued to howl like a grizzly bear. She remained serene and silent as if she repelled the darkness with her scent.
I approached them at a snail’s pace with her face leisurely coming into focus after observing them for a while. She stared at me: a glare showered with promises of the future and warmth of peace. I now evoke how, with that single fleeting stare, she gave more than what all women could by no means give me in centuries of years.
When the momentary loose string – which connected our eyes shattered to spoil – I imagined all possible futures my life would bring. A young, an old, wealthy man or a man deprived. In all these possible futures I could not, even if I so durably tried, imagine any future without her.
“If you so wish,” I told her, “you can choose to stay here with him.” I further uttered words which in the inner chambers of the ear lovingly whispered my name. I drew closer, chest to chest, almost feeling the rapid beating of her heart with my words painting a doorway to heaven, for her eyes to see.
“Or you can choose to come with me,” extending my hand towards her. Her eyes alternated between us two.
She smiled and took my hand. We ran away, leaving her guy bewildered as to what had just transpired. I believe the invisible audience laughed at us that day.
Later the three of us - me, her and delight – dined at my flat as the drizzling drops of rain drew crooked lines on the window. The silence living in the wind softly whispered, “It is cold outside and warm inside”. Then Lucy Rey also whispered,
“Perhaps I should go”, biting her lips, and ironically showing no signs of wanting to leave,
“Or perhaps you should stay,” I also replied in whisper, virtually by impulse or hypnosis. When she stayed it became passionate inside, and dull outside.
In retrospect, I now see: I was being manipulated. Did I even decide to articulate with her? Or was I enticed by her seductive eyes, like a hypnotized mouse enticed by the promises of cheese? Right there, I knew that before our time is done, before our soul departs for the sky, only one of us would win these Lucy Rey games.
I was awakened by streaming particles of light which managed to penetrate the rather impenetrable black curtains. The light momentarily blinded me. When my sight returned, there she was gently lying next to me. Her smooth long legs seemed to be without end, although the beginning was evident to the soft eyes. Right then and there I could tell the historians of the future the reason why the first and second world war came to be. My theory was of the simple kind but astonishingly self-evident. I believed that God became too distracted with fabricating and constructing her to be concerned with the rest of humanity. I imagined him like Da Vinci: working busily and tirelessly in the day and resting only in the late hours of the night. Taking his time – beauty necessitates time. Lucy Rey was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman to ever walk the face of the earth. But yet, everything about her scared me: her eyes or face or lips… her beating heart, scared me.
She smelled of fresh air, fresh water and fresh flowers. You could tell that her intoxicating perfume cost at least a little more than my thumb. But strangely enough, Lucy was between jobs. You could easily discern that she had never worked a day in her life. Those soft and beautiful hands could barely make a cup of tea. Something was clearly unsavory and dubious. So like a classic detective in a dark hat and brown coat I was to solve the mystery of Lucy Rey.
I recall a moment of introspection as I felt awful about Lucy’s boyfriend. His lifeless stare remained engrained in the corner of my brain. I recall his wretched stare, as if to say,
“Why are you stealing my sun and my moon; those jewels that are the sparkle of my eye and the light of my sky?”
“Do you reckon he’ll be alright?” I asked her,
“Who… that want-
to-be rock star? Forget about him…” she said, softly caressing my face and blowing the cigarette smoke through the cave of her mouth.
“It’s you and me now, just us.”
If I was not me, and my thoughts someone else’s, I would have felt alright and my day would surely have been bright. But I was certainly alarmed that if she can throw him as spoiled garbage, what prevented me from becoming the inadequate garbage tomorrow?
Like the detective in the brown coat, shades and hat, I knew that the only way I could understand what makes her heart beat, was to grasp and be acquainted with her life story.
It was only after I told her about my past afflictions with Fiona that she became emancipated to explain. She divulged over breakfast her rather unconventional upbringings. A simple but yet underprivileged life she grew up to before she was touched by the harsh morning and the unbearable cold night, before she met with Razor. One could only compare their encounter with two planes violently colliding with each other – leaving only wreckage behind.
Razor was her first. He taught her about the secrets of old: the secrets in the Garden of Eden. Together the world was theirs: a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. A famous gangster like Razor afforded her the things she only had in dream and the world was truly hers for the taking. But perhaps I should have said Bonnies and Clyde. But when she spoke, he painted bruises all over her perfect body, but, “Not on the face,” Razor always did say, “not on the face”.
When you live by the sword your right-hand man steals it and stabs you repeatedly in the back. That’s exactly what happened to Razor. She was no longer safe, so Lucy had to flee. The incident was a shallow gift and a deep curse. A gift since there was no more Razor; no more wretchedness and woe. But a curse since she could no longer return home and see her own, plus she had nothing to her name.
She would never love again, that much was clear. “Love hurt too much,” she thought while fleeing to the city of Pretoria. She knew not a soul here but she was strong. She had survived worse: cops and thugs. The taxi stopped and the strange city was raining cold. My Lucy Rey sat there in the rain – in the freezing rain. Her astounding beauty would come to her rescue as it has all her life. A man in a Mercedes pulled over.
“Are you alright Ms?” he asked concerned,
“Do you need a lift perhaps?”
“A lift?” she smiled sadly, her dazzling white teeth must have blinded him awhile nonetheless.
“A lift is only good for someone who has a place to go.” He thought for a momentary while, whilst starring at the cold August rain.
“You must come with me then – let me accommodate you till you can find your feet.” She might have wandered what he had to gain from all this.
When they arrived at the man’s house, there was a lady in the kitchen. Without a single utterance of a word, or a simple introduction, he took her bags and planted them in the guest room. They sat on the couch, the three of them. He was at ease, as if this was a conventional and habitual situation. But it was not, there was awkwardness and silence. The tension immense: you could cut it with a blunt knife. He later stood up and showed Lucy her room. Him and the other woman also headed to bed. There were screams. The lady was shouting uncontrollably. How could you blame her? Later that evening he came into Lucy’s bed: She was wearing very little and he even less. He told her how beautiful she was and the Mercedes man stayed the night.
A few days went by and the two women lived under the same roof. It was only a matter of time till the pressure weighed in on the other. She packed her bags and left Lucy with her now ex-husband.
Their relationship was neither written in the stars nor carved in ancient stones, so they soon parted. A few years later the once strange city of Pretoria was now Lucy Rey’s playground. It was then when I was first introduced into the violent story of Lucy Rey. She asked why I had chosen to be a writer. “Writing was hardly a choice for me,” I explained, “It is a basic need just as much as lungs need air, or my lips need your kiss.” She swallowed my delectable words with eager lips.
Lucy loved to listen to the beating of my heart – it was the only way she could fall sleep: with her ear gently fastened to my chest. Perhaps she heard the silent messages that my heart portrayed, or understood the dying secret that my heart kept. That it was not beating to beat, but rather trying to escape my chest and reach for her.
Now and then, time and again, she would retreat to her shell like a sluggish snail: that rough and thick shell lingering with the roughness of her upbringings. When she did, Lucy would act as harsh as bitter vinegar towards me.
But even in those cracked and uneven moments, I knew with my beating heart that she was most tender of all living beings. A gentle soul concealing her love so bright, pure and teeming with glimmer that would burn this world to the ground.
Lying beside her, I could have sworn that two people existed and danced the tango deep within her. The devious and promiscuous Lucy Rey! And a gentle soul only missing wings to fly. I was given to curiosity and I too listened to the sound her heart produced: ear to chest I listened; perhaps I listened with ears made of romantic fibers. But I heard a distinctively unique language that was unobtainable in the dictionary – it was a language of the heart. I smiled as I understood what her heart would say, “You hear it?” she said breathlessly. I nodded. She sighed and held me close.
As we lied close together with both our hearts to speak, the only thing that separated us was the tiny molecules of air between our skin. I believe we both felt it; there in comparison with the vastness of the universe; there between the sheets and the soft wind between us: was where we belonged.
The day before, my route headed to the south, today it is heading towards her. Yesterday her eyes, lips and dreams scared me. This day life without her would be a sad and whimsical flaw. The day before this, my heart had no proprietor; at this moment in history I was in love with Lucy Rey. She smiled as if she saw my thoughts and I felt her all-embracing love filling my sky.
“Do not hurt me Romeo, please don’t hurt me”.
As if in the presence of wise men we spoke of dreams and kids and things. Only the walls listened with vigilant ears: blushing, crying as love grew, evolved and filled all the space between us.
When it came time for her to leave, she grew quite downcast and refused to kiss me goodbye. It was only after I promised I would call her the very next day that she did. With the taxi driver impatiently waiting,
“Come live with me,”
Said I, she smiled; love smiled at me,
“I’d love to. I’ll wait for this call!” The taxi drove away. I stood there staring at her parting image.
Sunnyside’s streets are relatively safe as people constantly traversed up and down. Except at Esselen Street – the street which loathed the sight of sleep. It was here where I rallied with them – those two robbing thieves. Two midgets, two cheeky midgets. Dear reader, I must honestly admit, I was tempted to replace the dwarfs by two wrestlers as I felt ashamed that I got mugged by the seven dwarfs – but midgets they undoubtedly were.
“Ey, you… empty your pockets!” the one midget said, with a matchstick dancing in his mouth. At first I thought it was a joke, looking at their oddly shaped heads from above. But the joke quickly turned sour when the midget pulled out a rusted gun. Without delay I surrendered to my foes; my very tiny foes.
I walked away slow, like a snail carrying a heavy shell or a tired old man with tired eyes and tired dreams. Perhaps they did not understand what they had done – they had opened ancient scars in their tomb. They had mocked Romeo and Juliet, spat on Jack and Rose and cursed Bonnie and Clyde. Those midget thieves had stolen my heart away, not by my wallet or my phone or my fear but by the single string of numbers in my phone that cried Lucy Rey. My eyes, although they were still in denial, knew they’d never see precious beauty again
I had always admired the lush multi-layers hidden in silence, like the poignant silence between nodes which holds the secre
t to all transcended music. Or the rich quietness that lives in-between uttering’s of speech; the silence which holds the key to all poetry. But not silence of the heart. I resent silence of the heart. I – more than any other – know that if the heart forgets to beat and desires silence instead, than the body, is but a worthless rock.
That night as I stared at the sleeping moon by my window, I noticed how the carnivorous darkness had swallowed the background light, and how only the sleeping moon lived to shine. The city had hushed and the wind had become still as only the dead can be. My mind had voyaged like an adventurous weathered ship as I continued to stare deep into the dark. I noted how in that white room except for those strips of black that the night had entwined the colors and I could neither distinguish one from the other nor discern this from that.
But the knowledge lingered that tomorrow; the sun of heaven would return, paint the leaves and the tender sky, the tender blue sky but would still leave my heart dripping black. I instantly loathed the dark night for the same night that had swallowed its background light – swallowed my one true love.
A distant shadowy star lingered at the far curvature of my eye, one which only reminded me of the days preceding her when stars still gleamed in the sky. Days when I was at ease – days when I needed less. Tomorrow came but I hated the morning light and despised the very flow of time.
When I finally became tired of pitying myself and loathing the world, I searched for Lucy. I searched neither as a sad man or a mad one but one seeking for oxygen to breathe. Everyday my searching for her was beyond futile. My ear had started twisting the slow sounds that reached them into Lucy’s voice – a voice it desperately needed to hear. But not just one voice, all voices that were carried by the wind came from her. My eyes deformed all light carried by the vacuum and painted her so fair before my eyes. I was going mad.
The missing did not take pity and decide to look the opposite way. Rather it stared at me with evil eyes. I remember how the pain of missing her evolved from an emotional pain to a physical one, a deeply cynical one.
I closed the curtains and turned off all light to live in darkness. A beard involuntarily grew and all doors were forcibly locked. I had stopped to live. Life had departed with her.
I heard a soft – and almost – silent knock on the door. I wished to be alone, miserable and alone but something persuaded me to open. The sunshine hurt my eyes. I could not make out who stood still on my door. A fleeting moment later I saw her. There she was on my silver door, with shining eyes and shining lips. Staring at her with teary eyes I drank the air and the passing wind – it was perfumed with her breath. She could no longer hold in the tears she had withheld in her eyes. I too could no longer cage my heart from leaping to her.
I held on tightly to her covering like I was catching a flight: loved her as if I was about to die for her. But finally when we both could catch our breath, I looked deep into her layered eyes and I saw the one I love. But unlike the time before when I imagined all possible futures, there was one I imagined without her.
Chapter 2
The Lucy Rey Mystery