Bring up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel

Two months ago, I finished a much delayed reading of Hilary Mantel’s Booker Prize Winner, ‘Wolf Hall’. Two hours ago, I closed the covers of its celebrated and much anticipated sequel, ‘Bring up the Bodies’. I can honestly say that my reaction to both was the same: why do some books have to end? In ‘Wolf Hall’, Mantel began a project she claims to have conceived nearly forty years ago: to chronicle the life and times of one of England’s most famously reviled figures, Thomas Cromwell. The first book ends with Anne Boleyn crowned Queen, and Cromwell basking in what seems to be reflected glory. The second book begins with quite the opposite: Anne’s star is falling, but it is clear that Cromwell in no manner intends to be tarnished by this. His own position in court and at the king’s side only gets more strongly cemented while the Queen and her cronies (incidentally the same men who had insulted the memory of Cromwell’s former employer, Cardinal Wolsey) bleed their ‘flat little presence(s)’ out upon freshly erected scaffolds. ‘Bring up the Bodies’ charts what an enthusiastic blurb writer has called ‘the bloody theatre of Anne’s final days’, drawing in its full complexity the role assumed by Cromwell in the execution and disposal of the king’s one time sweetheart. Mantel’s greatest achievement is the humanization of this political genius, a figure who has all too often been viewed as nothing more (and nothing less) than the epitome of the Renaissance Machiavel. Cromwell, in Mantel’s hands, loves and incites love; loses and grieves for those lost; feels anger, betrayal, fear, but also pride, loyalty, pity. With a sure, delicate hand, Mantel weaves the portrait of a man who fashioned his daughter a pair of peacock feather wings, but never ceases to remind us that it is the same man who witnessed, indeed, orchestrated, the perhaps undeserved and innocent death of a Queen of England. Though she is the pivotal point about which events in the book turn, Anne Boleyn herself has very little screen time. She is reported on, spied on, eavesdropped upon and repeated in third person, her words filtered through a number of (not entirely impartial) speakers before they are fed into Cromwell’s and the readers’ ears. In contrast to this stands Jane Seymour, who speaks considerably more, but is spoken of less. Jane, for all her quiet sharpness, remains an enigma, as mysterious and difficult to pin down as her unfortunate predecessor. Does she play a willing game with Henry, or is she a mere pawn in a political ploy much larger than herself? Much like the truth of Anne Boleyn’s crimes, the answer is what the reader chooses to make of it. It’s not every day that a writer can take an event that is so celebrated and investigated and hold it up to flash an entirely new light. Mantel takes over the history, takes over the once-living characters and gives them a verve and vitality that is all her own. It takes magic to make a reader sit on the edge of their seat in suspense when he or she knows (or is a mere Wikipedia page away from knowing) how the ‘story’ will end. For all the background reading I had done, all the pages of Anne Boleyn related text I had read, I was still waiting, breathless, for the sword to swing, hoping against hope, like Anne herself, that I would be mistaken: that history would rewrite itself in Mantel’s flowing language and that she would be saved. Alas, that did not happen. But it is a mark of Mantel’s genius that for a few moments, I forgot the bloody tracks of history. ‘Bring up the Bodies’ resounds with creative energy, its language compressing deeper allusions and metaphors that spangle out of the readers’ grasp just when focus is brought to bear upon them. The best way, I believe, to describe Mantel’s style is to quote Mantel herself. Here, Cromwell reflects on the work of Thomas Wyatt: When Wyatt writes, his lines fledge feathers, and unfolding this plumage they dive below their meaning and skim above it. They tell us that the rules of power and the rules of war are the same, the art is to deceive; and you will deceive, and be deceived in your turn, whether you are an ambassador or a suitor. Now, if a man’s subject is deception, you are deceived if you think you grasp his meaning. You close your hand as it flies away. A statute it written to entrap meaning, a poem to escape it. A quill, sharpened, can stir and rustle like the pinions of angels. Angels are messengers. They are creatures with a mind and a will. The inability to grasp and pin down meaning is exactly what the reader encounters in Mantel’s language. The narrative seems to skim the surface of a wealth of emotion and intrigue, dipping daintily into this swelter in order to paint a quaint picture of a bygone time. Beneath the words and the half-glimpsed gestures lies the morass of desire and danger that laces this court, a morass that Cromwell, like his creator, negotiates with grace and ease, giving hardly a hint of the scum his finely tailored robes have brushed through. Mantel seems to strive to be impartial, privileging neither Jane Seymour nor Anne in her novel, not making it clear whether she herself believes Anne to be guilty as fearfully charged. This is no easy feat- scores of novels and films have been built around this fantastic episode, each weighted either with blind admiration or withering disgust for the executed queen. Anne is passionate, but given to childish outbursts, admirably courageous but stupid and (at the close) self defeating. Jane is plain, quiet, but strangely acerbic. Her intelligence, cloaked for the most part behind placid boredom, is revealed in razor sharp repartee with Cromwell and her brothers. Witness this exchange: ‘My belief is,’ Edward says, ‘this modesty could pall. Look up at me, Jane. I want to see your expression.’ ‘But what makes you think,’ Jane murmurs, ‘that I want to see yours?’ I am a woman who wholeheartedly loves reading about and celebrating Anne Boleyn, and would throw my support behind the contemporary move to absolve her of all allegations (for more details, read Alison Weir’s excellent chronicle of Anne’s final days, ‘The Lady in the Tower’). And yet, even I could not hate Jane in this novel. I found myself admiring her, rather grudgingly, true, but admiring her nonetheless. One closes ‘Bring up the Bodies’ with a sense of having run a lengthy, tiring race. Your brain has been spinning alongside Cromwell’s for four hundred pages, watching its ceaseless convolutions as it churns out a plan to depose one queen and raise another. Your emotions have ravelled and unravelled through complicated skeins as you watch Henry and Anne pull together and then pull away from each other, a six year long courtship soured in what seems an instant of marriage. It is an exercise well worth undertaking, and one that I cannot wait to repeat when the third and (alas) final instalment of the Cromwell trilogy arrives. Until then, it’s back to the History books for me.

A Michikookan Adventure

JAUNA’S BIRTHDAY: A MICHIKOOKAN ADVENTURE

When she turned six months old, Jauna was about as big as a snail shell.
Her mother gifted her a sling bag, and she carried it with her to the school where she, and all the other Michikookans learned Spelling, Grammar and the rudiments of Arithmetic. The teacher, an old Snorkalump, was frequently absent, accompanying his wife on her regular trips to the Himalfan range to photograph destringas. As a result, the little Michikookans spent more time playing tag and snowfield angel than actually studying, a practice they had no problem with at all.
It was on her six month birthday that something astonishing happened to Jauna. For one thing, the Snorkalump teacher actually turned up, and insisted on taking classes that day. The Michikookans were none too happy, especially Jauna. She’d planned what she insisted was an ‘amazingly dorypajglain’ trip across the theysofna plains to the city of rawassati, where they would dine on breads and cheeses and lirgac sauces. After this scrumptious meal, they were to play radeshac, her favourite game. And now it was all ruined because of that stupid Snorkalump.
Jauna was so angry that she decided to do something utterly uncharacteristic. The class was seated, pert and tidy at their desks, waiting for the Snorkalump to come back from a roghting break (a peculiar ritual that only Snorkalumps indulged in, involving trouser legs and trunk caressing). Jauna seized the moment to put her plan into action, and mounted, with some difficulty, her desk.
All the Michikookans turned around in surprise, and excitement. Something was happening!
‘Fellow Michikookans!’ Jauna squeaked, her hands cupped around her mouth. ‘Let’s revolt!’
It was a new word they’d learnt the last time they had had school.
‘But why?’ The question was asked by Yeshar, a Michikookan girl who was rather slow on the uptake.
‘Because we can.’ This was from Pijarata , who usually took pride in informing others of the latest developments in the Michikookan social scene. ‘Why not?’
‘That’s like the Lediawn principle!’ Another little Michikookan girl trilled. ‘Like Rats for Rats sake. Revolt for Revolts’ sake!’
Jauna rapped the desk with her foot before the conversation could glide on to irrelevant topics. ‘The reason we should revolt is...’ here she paused dramatically, and looked around, eyes twinkling. ‘Because it’s my birthday!’ she finished.
‘Oh! Happy Birthday!’ the Michikookan class chorused and smiled and clapped. A few started singing the traditional Michikookan birthday anthem, which went something like this:
It’s a happy dappy cappy day!
It’s your semi-annual birthday!
Six months are past since the last
And now you’re older!

The days went fast, the weeks just flashed
Are your bones colder?
It’s a happy dappy cappy day!
It’s your semi annual birthday!

‘Thank you, thank you!’ Jauna smiled painfully, but looked worriedly at the door. ‘But we can’t make a noise, otherwise Snorkalump will be back!’
The Michikookans’ faces took on looks of anxiety at the mention of that name. One of them even went so far as to gulp nervously.
Jauna was amazed at the immediate effect her words produced, and was not a little proud because of it. She waved her hands magisterially and continued, ‘So we are going?’
‘We are revolting!’ the Michikookans were shouting and jumping about again. It was enough to bring the besastos roof down over their little heads, but luckily, the foundations were strong enough to take it. Also, the Snorkalump was too involved in his rituals to pay attention to a number of piping little voices screaming in joy, so all was well.
‘We are revolting, in every way.’ Jauna grinned at her own cleverness. She knew such big words! Her mother would be proud. The sling bag was certainly well merited. ‘Follow me! I know the way to Rawassati.’
The Michikookans formed a tight little line and marched after their leader. By the time the Snorkalump came back to the classroom, they were long gone.
‘Oh botheration.’ The Snorkalump fumed a bit, but then recollected that this left him more time to himself. Perhaps he would go rouse Mrs. Snorkalump and head off on another photographic adventure. The thought brought a grin to his usually immobile face and he left the classroom, flappers rubbing gleefully at the prospect of another ill deserved holiday.
Meanwhile, the Michikookans were trekking across the Theysofian plains to the city of Rawassati. More than one of them had already expressed tiredness and complained of aching pedals. Jauna didn’t let that disconcert her, or the group at large. ‘We’ll have fun when we get there, you’ll see!’ she insisted in her piping little voice. ‘I promise!’
‘But I’m so tired and bored!’ Rihac, one of her closest friends, whined. ‘Must we go all the way to Rawassati?’
‘My parents will be angry.’ Pijarata squeaked. ‘I’m not allowed to cross the plain on my own.’
‘But you’re not on your own.’ Jauna pointed out (quite logically, too). ‘We’re all with you.’
‘Hm.’ Pijarata pondered this for a bit before brightening up. ‘That’s true.’
‘Are we there yet?’ the chorus was getting more frequent with every step. ‘Are we there yet? How far is it? What’s so great about this place? I want to go home!’ Jauna rounded on her class, her fists on her hips.
‘Whoever wants to go home, go home!’ dead silence greeted her words. They were unused to seeing this little bundle of sunshine erupt in anger. ‘I want to go to Rawassati, and it’s MY birthday, so you follow me!’
The Michikookans looked at her for a while, their big eyes expressing the contriteness and shame that they felt for crossing her wishes. Then Nana finally spoke. ‘We’re sorry Jauna. We’re being petty, i.e., small.’
The Michikookans were intensely proud of the fact that they’d all just learned and understood what those mysterious, punctuated letters stood for and hence lost no opportunity to use it.
‘You ARE.’ Jauna pouted. But then she brightened immediately. ‘But it’s okay! Let’s go!’
With ‘Yayees’ the Michikookan band started off again, stirring up the sand of the Plain in their pursuit of a dorypajglain time. Unfortunately, they were stopped once again, but this time it was by external forces.
‘Hello there Michikookans.’
It was the Gahgnatan Hinderbinde, the relic of the Morancitian Empire! Jauna and her friends were brought up short, and stared, wide eyed at the heaving morass of slime and bad poetry. ‘Oh no.’ One of them whispered, but Jauna could not tell who.
‘I was looking for an audience.’ The Hinderbinde grinned, revealing its pearly white teeth. ‘You came right on cue.’
The Michikookans drew close together in one body and shivered. ‘What do we do?’ Rihac quavered. ‘He’s going to read to us!’
The Hinderbinde’s grin just widened, and it pulled a thick sheaf of paper from one of its scaly pockets. ‘Prepare to be amazed!’ it croaked, and the torture began:
Dropping pills
I wandered, lonely and so loud
Screaming across vales and hills
When all at once, there was a cloud
Above my head, dropping pills!
My mouth agape, I stared amazed
Nor moved myself from that there spot
Planted thither, I gazed and gazed
Until an aspirin fell- aha! And was caught!
I searched for water, to drink it down
Twas nowhere to be found
This lack brought on a terrible frown
I dashed the pill to the ground!
Alas, alack what could I do?
There was no quick fix for me
So I sat and cried boo-hoo, boo-hoo
And that’s my tragedy.
For a moment after it finished, no one spoke. The Michikookans were reeling from the impact of the terrible rhyme scheme and the obvious lack of ‘purpose’ behind the Hinderbinde’s poetic venture. Noting their silence, the monster grew angry.
‘You did not like it?’
Jauna looked around at her companions, desperately and silently beseeching one of them, any one of them, to reply. When no one opened their mouths, she decided to take matters into her own hands.
‘Of course we did, sir. It really was wonderful of you to share that piece with us. Did you write it yourself?’
The Hinderbinde looked slightly mollified and puffed its scaly chest out in pride. ‘You children think I’m awfully clever, don’t you?’ it chuckled in a rather avuncular fashion. ‘Terribly sorry to disappoint you, but that piece was by a very famous poet- Mr Lilimaw Droswroth. He is my favourite artiste. Once grand Prince of the Morantic empire.’ A tear trembled at the edge of his eye, and it wiped at it delicately with a claw. ‘Alas, those days of glory are past, and now I am the only one who pays any heed to those great masters.’
‘Sir, you are truly selfless to spend your days honouring the dead.’ Nana said. Jauna threw her a look of thanks. ‘Perhaps you would favour us with one other piece?’ Jauna’s look quickly changed into one of fury, but before she could throw in insinuations about the lateness of the hour and the far trek they had ahead of them, the Hinderbinde was beginning once again:
Ode on the Birthday of a Favourite Bat
Oh little bat flying fine and free
You know not you belong to me
And are my ickle pet
Today’s the day you were born so wee
And your mother went away you see
While you were still small and wet

The jackals were gathering around
And staring at you from the ground
Their teeth were very sharp
Luckily I’d heard the sound
Of those ugly snivelling hounds
And you didn’t have long to carp!

‘Um, sir, what does that word mean?’
The Hinderbinde looked up from its paper, amazed at the presumption of the Michikookan who’d dared to interrupt. ‘Which word?’
‘Carp.’ Yeshar blinked at him, oblivious to the storm she was unleashing within that slimily green exterior. ‘As far as I know, it means a kind of fish.’
‘It means two things, a fish and an action.’ The Hinderbinde barely squeaked the words out, its eyes large and ferocious on the Michikookan. ‘Moving on...’
I dispatched them with a steely glare
I cried out to them ‘Beware, beware!’
In my loudest, most dangerous voice
They slunk away, to their hideout repaired

‘That’s not a perfect rhyme.’ Yeshar pointed out.
This time, the Hinderbinde didn’t even pretend to be fine with the interruption.
‘YOU UNGRATEFUL IMBECILES!’ it screamed, drawing himself up to his full and rather terrifying height. ‘You do not appreciate good Morantic poetry! O for a dose of tinvage!’ Sobbing, he ran away, his tail flying after.
‘Thank you, Yeshar!’ The little Michikookans crowed. ‘You did it!’
Yeshar blinked at them. ‘Oh. I did.’
They continued on their journey, revitalized after the defeat of their first dangerous monster. Luckily for them, he didn’t have any siblings or angry parents to take up the cause for him, and they were unmolested by any of Hinderbindean kind for the rest of their journey.
(Now here, the Storyteller would like to remind her listeners that she is removing monsters of the Hinderbindean kind. She said nothing of any others.)
‘Hup two three four, hup two three four...’
Marching for long minutes made the Michikookans burst into songs from various Yisned films that were screened in their free hours (which were many) at the Snorkalump’s school. Jauna was thrilled at the way the Michikookans harmonized among themselves- the boy’s taking the low pitch while the girls screeched gaily in the higher. If the Snorkalump had heard them, he would have been proud.
(As a matter of fact, the Snorkalump could hear them, having ears that were finely tuned to catch sustained Michikookan misbehaviour. Luckily for them, however, he was too busy packing his jungle kit to worry about disciplining them.)
‘Are we there yet?’
One of the Michikookans broke the beautiful harmony that had built itself up with that annoying question. Jauna turned around and faced the Michikookan (a boy, this time- Ilen) down. ‘No!’
‘When are we going to be there?’
‘When we get there!’
‘Which is when?’
Ilen was a persistent little one.
‘Do you realise we’re slowing down each time someone asks that question?’ Jauna was furious.
‘Oh.’ Ilen’s face turned pink and fell. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Now you know.’ Jauna turned back around and kept marching, sure that the others would follow. She was their leader for the day after all. True to her belief, they did, Ilen meekly bringing up the rear.
After a good five minutes of marching, they came to the Drura Bridge. It was the farthest the little Michikookans had been.
‘Oooooh.’ They chorused. Some pulled out tiny catchem-contraptions and aimed them at the sight, intending to capture the moment for all eternity. On the pressing of buttons, little birds darted out and squalled, the sounds reverberating against the Canyon walls. The echoes bounced right back into the respective maker’s open beak. Cry collected, they flew back into the catchems.
(Do not ask the Storyteller how this works. She hasn’t figured it out yet.)
‘Cross the Bridge! Cross the Bridge!’ The little Michikookans began to yell to no one in particular, themselves perhaps. Runja, a rather daring Michikookan, stepped out of the mass and moved towards the Drura. ‘I’ll do it!’ he said, loudly and firmly.
‘Yay for Runja!’ The Michikookans called. Smiling, the boy stepped ahead, onto the rickety bridge, and vanished.
‘Where’s Runja?’ There was panic, the Michikookans screaming and crying fit to wake the catchem birds in their nest contraptions. ‘Where’s Runja gone? I don’t want to cross if I’m going to vanish! Where’s Runja?’
Jauna didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t tell where Runja had gone either. ‘Keep calm people,’ she said, ‘He’ll turn up.’
And sure enough, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, someone yelled- ‘There he is!’
She looked up to see Runja, all two inches of him, waving from the other side of the Canyon.
‘The Bridge makes you disappear and then takes you where you want to go!’ Nana was elated. ‘That’s totally dorypajglain!’
‘I know, right?’ Jauna grinned and stepped onto the wooden planks. ‘Follow me-‘ and whoosh! Before she knew it, she was on the other side.
‘Quite the experience, isn’t it?’ Runja smiled at her. ‘It was positively enervating.’
Runja was the only Michikookan who periodically used big words and understood what they meant.
‘Hey you guys, step on to the bridge!’ Jauna called out to her fellows. One by one, the Michikookans stepped onto the planks and appeared magically on her side.
Once they were all gathered, they took their catchem contraptions out again and collected echoes of the view from the other side.
And then they moved on.
‘Wow, the suns really have moved!’ Pijarata said, her eyes on the sky. ‘How far is Rawassati?’
‘I have to be back by dark!’ Rihac looked terrified. ‘Will we make it?’
‘I need to work out.’ Yeshar blinked. ‘Can I find the time for that?’
‘I have an appointment.’ Ilen looked mysterious. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘There’s a conference I have to attend.’ Runja postulated. None of the others knew what that word meant, but it sounded like something awfully important and unavoidable.
One by one, each of the Michikookans put forward a different excuse for needing to be home- one even went so far as to say that the Snorkalump was a frequent visitor and would penalize her if she were not in bed when he went to have his habitual snafflegurmp glass with her parents.
‘STOP IT!’ Jauna yelled. ‘STOP IT, all of you! If you have problems, just head back home! Go, do it! But then, you have braved the sun, the Hinderbinde and now the Drura Bridge for nothing!’
The Michikookans stared at her. And then, one of them asked,
‘What’s that behind you?’
Jauna’s brows contracted in confusion, but then she spun around, to see-
THE END

















A Note from the Author

Dear Reader,

I know, you want to kill me right? I left you dangling on the edge, uncertain of whether the Michikookans are about to be swallowed by the revenge of the aggrieved Hinderbinde, whether the Snorkalump has caught them after all, or if indeed they face more challenges- but finally win through to their bread and cheese and lirgac sauce. My point is though, that we writers make it too easy for you. Use your imagination- how would you like the story of Jauna’s birthday trek to end? The power, for once, is with you, reader.

I call it the creation of a new school of writing- that of the open-enders. We will be big someday, trust me. Critics will have a field day with us, for they have not only the author’s text to analyse, but the infinite number of endings that various readers will put forward, that they themselves will offer as superb closures to the book. Can’t you see the psychoanalytical reading already: ‘Upendran’s text is swallowed by the unutterable fears of the unconscious. Closure, finality, Death- these are not notions that an Ego avidly contemplates. By denying her work that artistic ‘little death’, she not only keeps readers hovering forever on the verge of orgasm, but ensures that the textual and tropological aspects of the novella are anchored firmly in the realms of the Eros.’ Whatever you say Mr. Freud.

So it is NOT laziness or lack of imagination, rather, it is an excess of the latter and the inability to curtail readers’ mindscapes that leads me to leave the novella open. Jauna and her friends have been a fine bunch to work with, providing me many a minute of hilarity while pursuing less delectable tasks. I hope to return to Michikookan lands someday. I look forward however, to seeing many of my readers there before me.

To keeping your imaginations alive,

Achala Upendran.

The 11th hour

Every day, I feel like I've taken the wrong route.

From the smallest of choices (a piece of Nutella toast- to eat or not to eat?), to ones that really weren't under my control (ought we to have moved back the US at all?)- every day I catch myself wondering if, unlike Frost, I'd made all the difference with the road I've taken, but not in the very positive manner his choice appeared to affect him. Doubts, confusions, and a nagging sense of 'this is wrong, this isn't what I want'- all this comes with the terrible, terrible memory of a choice.

The biggest one is probably the same that assails most people- what do I really want to do? What to do I really care about? One month ago, I was sure English Literature was the course I was cut out for, the path I wanted my life to follow. I'm not so sure anymore.

I've always prided myself on love for the 'environment', always spoken (more than a little boastful of my own perceived sensitivity) of the torments the human race inflicts on Gaia, and other poetic lines that conveyed the urgency and the supreme catastrophe the Earth seems to be heading towards. It's only when I watch documentaries, or read articles or books that really deal with the crises (various as they are) that threatens our globe that that seriousness of my own boasts hits me. And that's what I'm worried about now. What do I want to do?

I want to help. Not necessarily help people (I'm not a community person), but perhaps, indirectly. I want to be a part of the band that wants to make a difference to what's happening to the Earth, I want to help heal her, or get her on the road to recovery. Of course, I'm not impertinent enough to assume that Gaia can't take care of herself, but it's what I want to do: at least help her, in any way I can.

Marx once said that a problem only arises when the materials necessary for its solution already exist/are in the making. I never really enjoyed what I read of the man, but this is one reassuring thought that's stuck with me. Perhaps we can make a difference, all of us. Perhaps we can hope to make amends for what we've done, are still doing, to this planet.

I've rambled from where I began, something about choices. Well, as I see it, we're all suffering that indecision now. It's time to put regrets behind and pitch ourselves into the present. Carpe diem, as one of my teachers shouted exuberantly, often enough.

There's no reason I can't enjoy Milton and help stop deforestation at the same time. In fact, I think the two go hand in hand. Save the best of the past, but also, invest in the best of the future.

I sincerely hope Marx was right. But hey, so many people seem to think he was absolutly dead on in other things, mayhaps he's not so far off the mark here.

That, as Gandalf once said, is an encouraging thought.

My Last Duchess

My Last Duchess
(Ferrara)

Robert Browning
That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
That depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain drawn for you, but I) [10]
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much" or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough [20]
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart - how shall I say? - too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace -all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech, [30]
Or blush,at least. She thanked men - good! but thanked
Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will
Quite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss
Or there exceed the mark"- and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set [40]
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse
- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence [50]
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

There was no use. She had made up her mind to die.

Alfonso drew his silk-lined rabbit skin gloves over his hands, his eyes fixed on the lurid glow of the sunset above him. The clouds were still being scattered across the firmament, tugged around by the depleted remainders of the storm that had hit the land last night. The same winds played among the branches of the newly fuzzed pear and cherry trees, their sighing strangely soft and almost wistful compared to the gusto with which they had raged.

He paid hardly any attention to the beauty of his surroundings, though. Wrapped in his dark daydreams, they skirted the edges of his mind, unable to break through the bleak wall of resentment, rage and revenge that he had built up there. The faint cooing of the tame doves, the clip-clop of the white pony’s hooves on the paved paths below, the tinkling of the fountain as the water cascaded around the battling god and into its sculpted basin- none of these held any joy for him.

She occupied his thoughts completely.

‘My Lord?’

Alfonso turned his head at the voice. Imperious eyes lighting on the entrant, he frowned.

‘Yes, Giotto?’

The lad looked nervous, as well he might, coming into the presence of the Duke of Ferrara unannounced. ‘My Lord, Fra Pandolf sent me. He, he said to tell you that the portrait is complete.’

‘Is it now?’ Alfonso turned away, his eyes rising once more to the painted sky. ‘Very well, tell him I will meet him in the Blue Room.’

‘Yes my lord.’ The boy bowed to his back, and prepared to leave. When he was halfway to the balcony door, Alfonso stretched back an elegant hand. ‘A moment, Giotto.’

He could hear the stilling of footsteps. An expectant hush filled the air.
‘What did you think of the portrait?’

Giotto hesitated for a moment. Then, he responded. ‘It is a fine likeness, my lord.’

‘Indeed? How fine?’

The boy seemed to be struggling for an answer; Alfonso could tell without even turning around. Growing up in the court of Ferrara had taught him that much could be read of a person’s thoughts and feelings by paying close attention to their breathing. It was that knowledge that he called upon now, though the learning was so ingrained in him that it came almost by second nature.

‘How fine, boy?’

The note of harshness that he allowed to creep into his voice provided just the right prod for the dunce. ‘Very, very fine my Lord. In the portrait, she stands as if, as if she were alive.’

‘Is that so?’ Alfonso allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. ‘You think Fra Pandolf has merited such commendations?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I wonder why.’ The smile changed into a diabolic sneer. ‘I greatly wonder why.’

***
With a flourish, Pandolf whipped aside the cloth that hung over the canvas. Alfonso was momentarily stunned. The likeness was indeed remarkable.

‘What think you, sir?’

He blinked once, twice, to clear his mind of the maelstrom of emotions that had begun to rampage on the sight of her face. ‘It is what I paid you create.’

Fra Pandolf bowed respectfully, but couldn’t manage to keep a tiny smirk off his face. It was not every day that a young painter received even a modicum of praise from discerning patrons of art. The Duke of Ferrera was widely regarded as one of the most critical of connoisseurs to be found in any of the city states.

‘Thank you, sir. It has been an honor working for you.’

The sunlight glanced becomingly off the young man’s hair, setting the golden highlights within it aflame. His eyes were a clear, aquamarine blue, his hands strong and long fingered. Standing there, he seemed to mock the conventional image of the starved, bird limbed artist, scrabbling about on hands and knees for any pittance of a commission that might come his way. Even Alfonso, who had had many dealings with artists, had never seen one so healthy, so young and so confident as Pandolf.

Doubtless, the Duchess had noticed his beauty too.

‘Tell me Fra Pandolf, how did you enjoy the making of this marvel?’

The smirk was erased from his face, and Pandolf looked genuinely confused for a few moments. ‘I would hardly call it a marvel, sir.’ He answered, his face smooth once more.

‘I think you are being too modest.’ Alfonso smiled and reached for the decanter that stood on the table between them. ‘Sit down my friend. You have earned a rest from your labors.’

Pandolf sat, his hand stretching out to grasp the glass Alfonso extended to him. Lowering his eyes, Alfonso feigned intense concentration on his own wine, but watched avidly under his long lashes as Pandolf (stealing a quick glance at the Duke) sniffed cautiously around the rim. So the boy was suspicious. Suspicious that the master knew he had something to hide? Alfonso would have to play his cards correctly to see this through. He would have to call all his courtly skills to his service once again.

‘Was the Duchess a good sitter?’

The young man looked surprised at the question. ‘Why, yes sir. She hardly fidgeted at all.’

‘Indeed.’ Alfonso stroked his chin. ‘I would have thought her restless, not like to stay still for a long while.’

Pandolf shook his head with a laugh. ‘No, no sir. She was as quiet as a mouse, really.’

‘Hm.’ Alfonso strode from his chair to view the portrait. ‘That explains the faint rosy blush upon her cheeks I suppose.’

Pandolf’s hands shook imperceptibly as he raised the wine to his lips. When he had wet his mouth, the artist lowered the glass again and answered ‘Rosy, sir? That is the usual complexion of well bred ladies, I assumed.’

Alfonso gazed at the painting for a while longer, allowing the tension in the room to grow. ‘Tell me, Fra Pandolf,’ he said finally, ‘did the Duchess ever speak to you during your sessions?’

He turned around sharply, just in time to catch the flicker of fear that flashed across his face. ‘She did, yes. Sometimes.’

‘What did she speak of?’ Alfonso waved a hand to stop Pandolf’s splutters. ‘No, no, nothing is too small for me, Fra Pandolf. Tell me everything. I dearly love my wife, but she is extremely, shall I say, closemouthed with me. I wish to know whether she would speak to someone who is not her husband, not bound to her. Maybe, then, I would consider providing her a companion of some kind. She is lonely, do you think?’

The young man’s hands clenched and unclenched around his glass. ‘Sir, I think, she is.’

‘Ah. How did this come up in your conversation?’

‘I would ask her what she had been doing that day, before the sitting, and she would tell me. I’ve found it the best thing to do, in order to get that flush of life in a sitter’s face, to speak to them, to treat them as living beings and not mere objects to be painted. The eagerness with which she spoke, sir, it was a trifle…’

‘Trifle what, man?’

‘Sad.’ Pandolf finished rather lamely, and drained his glass. ‘It was sad.’

Alfonso looked down at his own untouched cup. ‘You think she needs company, then?’

Pandolf nodded. He looked questioningly at the decanter.

‘Drink, drink to your heart’s content. You have earned it.’

Filling his cup, Pandolf asked the pensive Duke, ‘Sir, do you think I have done wrong to speak to her?’

‘Why would I think that?’

Pandolf shrugged. ‘Many men are jealous of their wives. That was what I first thought, when you began to question me. I was afraid you harbored some suspicions about my conduct with your wife. I assure you sir, it was nothing less than perfectly honorable.’

Alfonso forced a laugh onto his face. ‘I did not suspect you, my friend. Why would I withhold any gratitude from you, who have given me this marvelous piece of work?’

The young artist blushed. ‘It is my best sir, I hope it stands for long years in your house.’

‘I am certain it will, my man.’ Alfonso downed the contents of his glass in a single gulp. Pandolf did the same, and laughed. Outside, the birds continued to shrill and twitter in the branches of the orchard trees, as they had done earlier that evening. There was one note in particular that irked the Duke, one plaintive voice that was raised slightly louder than all the cacophony that surrounded it. He yearned to throw something at the dratted bird that disturbed the peace of his wine so. Then again, he reflected, his grip tightening about the cup’s stem, perhaps the poor little winged thing could be excused. Perhaps it was just, what was the word he had used? - Lonely.

***
‘Send the Duchess to me.’

The serving man bowed and exited the room on silent feet. Turning to the window, Alfonso mentally rehearsed the lines he would greet her with, the confessions he would wring from her, and then finally…

‘My Lord? You sent for me?’

Alfonso glanced over his shoulder, and beheld his wife.

The Duchess was a small woman, barely reaching his shoulder even when she reared herself as straight as possible. Her skin was like translucent marble- pale but seeming to encase a great light within itself. Today her dark brown tresses had been pinned in elaborate coils at the top of her head and pierced through with jeweled clips. She smiled, pleased, as ever, to be near him.

Lonely. Yes, that is plausible.

‘Come here, Lucetta.’ He smiled and held out his arms to her. She stepped into his embrace and nuzzled close, encircling him with her arms. For a moment, Alfonso was content to hold her.

Then she began to hum and the illusion shattered.

‘Lucetta?’

‘Hm?’ Mid-bar, the Duchess looked up at her husband, her eyes curious.

‘Are you, lonely?’

Lucetta frowned. ‘Why do you ask, my lord?’

‘A little bird brought the news to me.’

‘A little bird?’ Lucetta stepped away, her eyes lighting in suspicion. Alfonso fancied he could see a tinge of guilt there as well. ‘Who has been telling you these things?’

‘It matters not. Just answer my query.’

‘Well, I have to admit, sometimes, when you are away…’

Alfonso cocked his head forward, the better to convince her of his interest.

‘…the days grow long.’

‘So you are lonely.’

‘It is only human to feel so, husband.’

‘Is it?’ He spun away from her, and looked out upon his balcony. ‘I wonder then, why I do not feel it?’

‘My Lord, you must be of a sterner constitution than I.’

‘What do you then, to abate this loneliness?’

He heard the faint rustle of her gown as she twitched it about in nervous hands. ‘I read, my Lord. And pray.’

‘Is that all?’

‘There is naught I can do, besides that.’

‘You do not speak to others then?’

When he looked at her, her brows had contracted, her eyes showing the faint stirrings of anger. ‘Of course I speak with others, my lord. The servants would not be able to get through a day’s routine smoothly if I did not chide them about their tasks. Donna Bianca is useless when it comes to managing household affairs. I have a good mind to rid this place of her.’

‘Do you consort with men in my absence, Lucetta?’

She flashed him a look of pure annoyance, which slowly subsided behind an ironic smile. ‘Of course I do, husband. That is, unless you consider Signor Angelo and his son female.’

The kitchen help and the gardener. Of course she would taunt him with mention of them. Could the woman not see that he was serious in his questioning?

‘You know what I mean, wife.’

‘Of course I do. And I have answered your question.’

He took a step forward, his fist rising. ‘Do you presume to mock me?’

‘Mock you?’ The duchess shrank back, but a trace of rebellion was yet burnt clear across her features. ‘My Lord, are you accusing me of being unfaithful to you?’

‘What else could produce this?’ he demanded, and in one clean, practiced sweep, he unveiled the blushing portrait.

‘Behold those cheeks, those sparkling eyes! Why does that harlot’s smile decorate your face, woman? Why should your face colour in the presence of any man but your husband?’

The Duchess gazed upon the picture for a long while, and then finally raised her eyes to her husband to answer. ‘It is a masterpiece. I trust you paid Fra Pandolf well.’

Alfonso could contain himself no longer. With a growl, he struck her backhanded across her face and she fell, gasping, to the cold floor. Slowly, she put up a hand to feel at her lip. It came away red.

‘Alfonso, what has come over you?’ her voice was pitched high, nearly hysterical with rage. ‘Has the storm whirled away your wits?’

‘Silence!’ he bellowed, and slapped her again. The sound rang and redounded off the stone walls, not even the old tapestries managed to muffle it. For a moment, he was shocked at his own violence, but that evaporated when she turned her face to him again.

‘What have I done to you?’

She presumed to ask! If she had been anyone but his wife, Alfonso would have admired her, admitted to her bravery and courage under fire. Not now, though.

‘What have you done? What have you done? You have dragged the name, the ancient name I have given you through the dirt! You have coupled, like a pagan witch, with lowborn, sweaty artists and gardeners in my bed! You have laughed behind my back, you are and your mongrel lover, and forced me to pay for this- the fruit of your debaucheries! You whore!’

The Duchess had risen by the time he yelled the last word, and she stood, calm and resolute. ‘Nothing will convince you that I have done no wrong.’

It was not a question, and Alfonso would not stoop to present her an answer she did not wish to hear, nor that he wished to give.

‘What would you have me do?’

He took a step forward, he was directly before her once again. He raised his hands slowly, and placed them gently, almost lovingly about her white neck. ‘I would have you give yourself to me, forever.’

A cold smile wreathed across the Duchess’ face. She stared into his eyes, silent.

And then spat into his face.

***
‘You have my condolences, sir.’

Alfonso sighed and nodded. The envoy watched him, unsure whether he had said the right thing or not. The Duke was known to be touchy when it came to his last wife, the one who had died in such mysterious circumstances. It had been given out that she taken a chill from the summer storms, and expired shortly after. Whispers, mostly from the servants’ quarters, hinted at something much darker.

‘She was a beautiful woman, my friend. There are not many like to her.’

‘I am sure, sir. It is a great loss.’

‘Would you like to see her?’

The envoy was taken aback, momentarily. ‘It, it would be an honor sir.’

‘Come with me.’

Wending his way almost unconsciously through the passages, Alfonso allowed his mind to wander towards an anticipation of what was to come. The moment when he stood before her, the corner of the cloth grasped in his hand, what power seemed to reside in him then. His very existence seemed attuned to it.

‘Here we are.’

A sweep, and there she stood. He turned to judge the man’s reaction. He looked entranced, and well he might. She was certainly a beauty, the earnest glance struck right to the heart of the beholder. A smile curled about his lips. Ensnaring beholders even in death, the harlotry hadn’t been put aside. She must certainly be burning in hell.

‘This is her, sir?’

Alfonso nodded. ‘That is her, man. That’s my last Duchess.’

***

Something I wrote two, three years ago. Now that I look at it it's wishy washy and could be improved. And priorities have changed. Still, it's a good index of my literary achievements (or lack thereof!)



The rain whistled through the gaps in the windows, dotting the clean white bedspread that lay over the tiny cot. Adrian watched with a tiny smile on his lips, as the drops appeared with increasing frequency on the sheet he had labored so hard to clean. Putting a hand out, he let it get wet. The sensation of the cold water trickling down his callused fingers calmed him.

He sighed and drew his hand back, wiping it briefly on his shirt before turning back to the scarred wood desk with its scattering of papers. Lowering himself onto the rickety chair, he pulled the nearest sheet towards himself and scanned it tiredly. A few small errors came to his notice; he corrected them with casual indifference. After all, this was only his hobby. It wasn’t like his life depended on it.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in a corner of the room, the Muse smiled.

Adrian’s tired eyes stopped in their unenthusiastic perusal of the paper. What was this? Suddenly he felt re-energized, re-vitalized, refreshed. Creative energy, such as he had never felt before was coursing through his veins. He knew this was the inspiration he had been waiting for. He knew this was the right, no, the perfect moment to begin his masterpiece prize-winning novel.

Casting aside the half covered paper, Adrian hastily grasped a fresh sheet. He raised his pen over it and paused. Words, phrases, ideas, were all pounding away inside his head. Which one should he unleash first?

Over in her corner, the Muse played a game of dice. She waited as the cubes spun, her green eyes never leaving their whirling surfaces. Finally, they stopped. Her eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. Double sixes stared back at her.

His pen darted across the paper. Sweat beaded on his brow as he strove to get the words out as fast as he thought them. His hand muscles tensed and flexed, visibly knotting under his skin; he paid them no attention. All he was conscious of was the motion of the pen in his hand and the ideas and images rushing through his mind.

The rain continued to lash the window.

The Muse had closed her eyes. She appeared to be meditating. Her wrists rested on her knees, her hands hung loosely, palms facing downward. The black waves of her hair rippled slightly in the occasional breeze that gusted through the gaps in the window.

Adrian scribbled away, wholly absorbed in his work. In the course of three minutes, his untidy scrawl had filled a whole page. Once he looked up from his labors, only to glance at the clock ticking on the wall before him. After that time check, his eyes had not strayed from the manuscript again.

Lightning flashed outside.

The Muse opened her eyes. She gazed straight ahead at Adrian. Lifting one hand, she smoothed away a few stray strands of hair that had blown into her face.

The spell was broken, for the time being. He leant back in his chair, panting slightly, as though he had just walked a great distance with no water to hand. Which he had, in a way. His brain felt as though it had run a ten-mile race, and his hand was numb. With some difficulty, he pried his curling fingers from around the sweaty pen. He closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts for the next onslaught on the paper.

The Muse sat calmly, watching him, judging him. Was he ready? Ready to bear the burden of inspiration? Ready to sacrifice his time, his patience, his social life, and shut himself into the fulfillment of that inspiration? The test was yet to come.

Adrian opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the paper that lay before him, only half filled. The empty space seemed to beckon him; it longed to be covered, it longed to be clothed in his script. He sat there for a while, doing nothing but stare at the sheet. Then his hand reached, trembling, for the pen. To begin his second attack.

The green eyes of the Muse darted to the room door. Yes. It was time.

A knock sounded on the door, startling Adrian and making him drop the pen. He blinked in consternation for a few moments, then rose from his seat and crossed the space of empty flooring to the door. Reaching for the doorknob, he pulled it open.

His eyes widened when he saw who it was.

A young woman stood there, one hand still raised as if to knock. She was swathed neck downwards in a long brown coat; black leather gloves covered her hands. Her black hair was loose; it fell about her shoulders in a tousled way. Thick lashes shaded brown eyes, and two shapely eyebrows arched above them. Her lips curled upwards in a smile when she saw him.

“Adrian! Finally!” she threw her arms around him, almost knocking him off balance.

“M-Maria?” What was she doing there? It been two whole years- no, wait! - Three whole years since they had parted in hatred, each vowing to never speak to the other again. He had often thought about her, missed her even, and regretted nearly every day the many harsh words they had exchanged. But for the past few days he had been fairly successful in pushing away those painful memories. Why had she suddenly decided to come again?

The Muse folded her arms. She was prepared to wait for the results, no matter how long they took in the coming.

Maria stepped back from him and peered intently into his eyes. But she said nothing.

He decided it was up to him to speak. “What brings you here?”

She smiled, a trifle sadly. “I came because…because…” she stopped, and seemed unable to go on.

“Because?”

Drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes and continued. “Because I realised I still have feelings for you. I decided I wanted to work things out. Truth is, I’ve missed you Adrian.” She opened her eyes now, and looked straight into his. “Please, if it’s possible, let’s work things out?”

She hadn’t said it, but he understood that she meant the time was now or never, that unless he seized this chance, they could never again contemplate the idea of restarting their relationship.

Lifting a hand, the Muse pointed a slender finger at Adrian.

Ideas burst in his head like fireworks, the desire to write them down, to record them on paper, to further his begun novel bubbled like molten lava through his veins. It was a stroke of inspiration crueler than the first one. His eyes were torn from Maria to the abandoned pen and paper lying on his untidy desk. Almost before he knew it, he was halfway to it, his hand already outstretched for the pen.

“Adrian?”

Maria’s voice halted him. His hand fell to his side; his raised foot was lowered. He stood between them- desk and door, woman and pen, Fame and a Second Chance. Which should he choose? He knew intuitively that if he chose one he would lose the other forever. Maria, or the novel? He knew that unless he utilized the inspiration racing through him immediately, he would never produce his dream novel. He knew that unless he walked away from that desk with her, would lose all chances of working things out. Which should he choose?

The Muse rattled the dice in her cupped hands. Closing her eyes, she cast them onto the floor. They spun, whirled, the numbers flashed before her green eyes. Thunder rumbled outside. Finally, they settled. Two ones stared silently up at her.

Adrian decided.


Seven years later…

The Muse stood on the wide windowsill, looking down at the middle-aged man who sat at the desk before her. He had changed little with the years, perhaps his hair showed a few gray strands and his forehead a few faint lines, but that was all. He was bent over a sheaf of papers, reading them with a curious expression of loss on his face.

The door opened, and a smiling woman entered. She too, had barely changed; maybe she was a little plumper. She stole across to the man and tapped his back. He turned, and seeing whom it was, smiled.

“So you’re finally back. How was school?”

The woman laughed. “According to your daughter, wonderful. Apparently the class was treated to cookies today.”

“Oh?” the man laughed too, and stood up from his desk. “And where is my little cookie monster?”

“Here Daddy!” a small, lithe figure dressed in a pinafore came bounding into the room, her small bag still dangling from her shoulders. With a huge smile, she jumped into her father’s waiting arms.

“I thought you were supposed to remove the bag when you come home?” the woman asked with a slight frown.

“Now, now Maria. Let’s forget it for now, shall we? It’s not harming her is it?”

Maria shrugged, and then smiled abruptly. “Oh well, you’re right. But I just hope she remembers next time, we have to have some more discipline in this house.” The man just rolled his eyes. Maria laughed at his expression. “All right, all right, no lectures for now.” She walked to the door, and then turned back to him. “Come down. There’s cookies and milk for everyone!”

“More cookies!” the little girl squeaked. “Let’s go Daddy!”

Laughing, Maria walked out.

The man took slow steps, and once he reached the doorway, turned around to face his desk once more. There sat his stack of papers, the fine beginning of his novel. For a moment, the old desire to write, to win fame, came over him again. Almost he forgot the little girl in his arms. Almost he thought he could see a slender figure silhouetted against the light curtains, watching him.

“Come on Daddy, let’s go!”

He blinked. Then smiled. He had almost lost himself in a dream! Chuckling, he turned away from the desk and carefully shut the door.

The Muse turned from the empty room. With a little sigh she sprang from the sill, into the open air. As she drifted from the house, letting the wind take her to her next visit, only one thought ran through her head.

Adrian had chosen well.

The other take on the brasen world

I want to visit Copenhagen.

Yesterday, as I was attempting to read Sidney's 'Defense of Poesy', a phrase gnawed its way in and found a little nest for itself in my head- the 'golden world'. Sir Sidney propounds that Poets are different from all other men, and even get one upon Nature because they have the ability to create or present things better than they really are, and so inspire others to realise those images. While nature's world is 'brasen', that of the poets is golden. Herein lies the beauty and use of poetry- its chief aim is to delight and instruct.

I'm not sure how this is related to any desires to go globe-trotting, but those are the wishes it sparked off. I was suddenly reminded of the Little Mermaid (I mean the character from Hans Christian Anderson's tragic story, not the happy, singing Disney one, though I do love her in all her red haired glory), and her not-so-happy stint on Earth. Why was she inspired to come up, to rise through the waves and visit the never-never land of the shore? She heard the stories, she saw the princes. She felt the undeniable call of love. And for that, she was ready to sell her most prized possession, her voice.

What the Little Mermaid fell prey to is readily gauged- the golden world of stories, of poetry. Did she find what she sought? For a brief period, yes. The brasen world soon asserted itself however, and she was left with two rather terrible choices (va! Greek tragedy indeed!): either kill the Prince and his bride, or kill herself. Unsurprisingly (being a fairy tale heroine and all) she chose the latter. And, paradoxically, gained immortality that way.

It's funny to imagine a story book character falling in love with the world of stories. I don't hold 'human' characters in the same regard, but someone so TOTALLY make believe dying to actually meet reality, it's a strange concept. Hans Christian Anderson had a beautiful idea, and it's the tribute to that idea that I wish to view. We never think of longing from the other side, do we?

For a lonely Iliad-toting musician

The violin plays softly, notes falling from its cat gut strings like drops of dew from the razored edges of a leaf. They plink and plonk about him, washing about his knees for now, but soon (an hour, perhaps) they will submerge him completely, encapsulating him within a cocoon of music. Cut off, unmoored from his surroundings he will float, rudderless on the bosom of an ocean of sound.

Fitting that he be transported so. The great poet John Keats has flown on the viewless wings of poesy, his boarding pass being handed him by a singing nightingale. He was getting one up on Keats, producing the song of transportation himself.

Musing on Keats was always soothing, and served to lull him further into his melodious trance. Nothing suited the Romantics more, he thought, than a glass of sparkling wine on a summer’s day or a nocturnal serenade from a lonely violin. This was, therefore, both his tribute to them as well as a gift he received from the Masters in return for his homage. Shelley, Wordsworth, Blake, Byron and Keats- they sang to him, he played for them; they were all trapped in the same sublime reverie.

Only, more often than not, his part of the shared space seemed more like a nightmare than a poetry inducing flight of fancy. When the images and memories flooded his inward eye, he tried to shut them out, drowning himself instead in the wordless beauty of a tune.

I wandered lonely as a cloud.

There he had been- a lonely young man stranded in an unknown land amidst a sea of strangers. There were times when he had wondered how he’d gotten where he was, in a little university town in the bowels of Arizona. A B.Sc in Zoology certainly hadn’t seemed like it was leading up to this.

There were moments when to be young had been very heaven, he could see that now, peering down that fog laden road of memory. The books, the coffee, and the women- it had all come in a surge. There was a different woman by his side every month, a different face across the table when he wanted to talk ‘literature’. The exotic exterior and (almost) laughable accent had fascinated them, and he never found himself in want of a social life.

At times though, it got trying, and he realized it wasn’t all it had been cracked up to be. His large circle of acquaintances remained just that- acquaintances. The women came and the women went, and none left more than a lipstick smudge on his pillow cases or a stray powder puff in the bathroom. He often forgot how the latest affair had started, or even what her name was until she left him a letter on his desk, coldly informing him that she’d decided she needed more than just sex and poetry. He never felt hurt at these departures, more often than not, it was an odd sense of relief that flooded his being. Cruel and terrible as it may have been, the women just didn’t hold his complete attention. He turned to them more out of a desire to emulate the Poets (Byron at least) than any genuine desire of his own.

Until she walked in and changed everything.

She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies

He’d seen her at a get-together, one of those regular excuses to get drunk and delay the submission of papers to supervisors. She hadn’t grabbed his attention at first; it had been her brown-haired friend who’d had that honor. He was already slightly spiffed by the alcohol, and fumbled up his introductory flirtatious statements, putting the friend off. She’d stalked off in a huff, insulted by the inappropriate advances from the vague Romantics thesis writer (she herself had been pursuing a PhD in mathematics if he recalled correctly). Poor Savita had been left to deal with the awkward situation and lie on her behalf.

‘I’m really sorry; my friend’s had a rough week.’

Blinking, he tried to focus on the speaker. She was smaller, plainer, and altogether less impressive than the one who’d swept away. However, she would do for flirt material at a pinch. Besides, she was of Indian origin, or looked it.

‘That’s okay.’ His smile was a trifle bleary, but thankfully did not scream ‘I’m drunk!’ to an unfamiliar viewer. ‘At least she left you behind to make up for it.’
She looked like she didn’t know whether to be amused or not.

‘So where are you from? And can I put a name to you?’

‘I’m Savita. I’m an assistant teacher with the History department.’

‘Ah. Savita.’ Pretty name, and the more he looked at her, the more he liked her face. There was something comforting about it. Familiar and steady- she looked like what Annabella Milbanke, or better yet, Augusta Gordon Leigh must have appeared to Byron.

‘Could I take you out for a coffee sometime, Savita? When I’m less inebriated and have a book of poetry about me?’

A hesitant smile twitched the corners of her mouth. ‘Sure. But why would we need the poetry?’

‘I find it’s a great conversation starter.’

‘But Andrea just proved you wrong on that, didn’t she?’

‘Who’s to say? It got me talking to you didn’t it?’

At that she’d laughed, and he’d known he’d won for the night.

They had married three years later. Her parents were delighted that she’d found a nice Indian boy in the ‘States, his mother was just content that he was finally settling down. They’d both finished their dissertations by then, they’d both added the wonderful hard-earned prefixes of ‘Dr’ to their names. Settled (or attempting to) in the suburban recesses of Virginia, they were a happy couple, to whom marriage was just another game to be played with life.

Silly little fools.

Violent music swirled around him, it rammed itself in its ears, climbed atop his head and sat there, pulling and pulling at the memories of discord. They floated up to the surface, dim and unwilling. He wanted to yell at them Go! Hide! Don’t let the notes fool you! They seemed to understand, but the notes proved too powerful. Soon enough, they were parading before him, shone up and dazzling, blinding him with their power.

The game had turned sour soon enough. Once they both realized that they didn’t want the same things. How clichéd, he thought, sawing away at the strings, that they had been torn apart by the mundane and worldly reason that nearly all couples were. Didn’t want the same things- it sounded so goddamn prosaic. If they’d had to end up divorced, couldn’t it have been caused by something slightly more exciting- adultery perhaps? It sounded so much more adventurous, like they’d actually tried to live. Not wanting the same things, on the other hand, painted for the listener a picture of a crotchety couple who couldn’t come to a compromise about which TV channel to watch.

‘You get home too late.’ ‘I have a job too!’ ‘I just don’t have time!’ ‘There isn’t any food in the kitchen, why can’t you come home once in a while to cook?’ ‘You’d rather read about some old dead men than talk to me!’ ‘Fine, go and have dinner with Dr. Carson, he knows what the tribals of Zuzouland ate for breakfast fifteen hundred years ago.’ ‘Why don’t you just stop and listen to me sometimes?’

And finally:

‘I can’t take this anymore.’

Which one of them had said it first? He couldn’t remember, he didn’t want to remember. What would memory serve to do anyway? The bare fact that it had been thrown out like that, hurled from one mouth to the other’s ear, hitting like a bullet, a shock dart. After that, life just hadn’t been the same, no matter how much they tried to talk it out. He didn’t believe in all the newfangled conceptions of marriage therapy, and neither did she, so a marriage counselor had never been dragged in. He honestly didn’t think one would have made much of a difference anyway. Those things only worked in the movies.

He waited, almost eagerly, for the divorce to come through. It had seemed an eternity; he couldn’t have left the university in the middle of the semester, and he didn’t want to look as though he was running from the final consequence of his actions. She was allowed to retain the house; he lodged himself in the faculty quarters on the campus. Then he left and found a job somewhere new, far away from anything or anyone he’d ever known.

He was even moderately happy here, if a trifle lonely.

Never mind, the music was always around. Waiting to spring up and keep him company.

The violin’s pitch was low and sad. The strings quivered as he laced his bow delicately over them, coaxing out a quavering melody. The notes stole into the air and glided about him, running delicate limbs over his closed eyes. The memories were receding into darkness again, retreating, sheltering within the gloomy caves of no-visitors, and rearranging the cobwebs over themselves. The notes were the pacifiers and the lullaby singers; they tucked the blankets around them and turned their attention to the producer, stroking the care and worry from his broad face, replacing it with a benign and nearly transcendent expression of utter calm.

My mind is a whirling gulf of phantasy and flame

The smoldering ruins of a flame, for now. The inferno was past. It didn’t usually leave him feeling so blank though. Often he would feel tears trickling down his cheeks when those images had finished playing their little reel. He still didn’t understand why that was. Did he feel regret, perhaps?

Oh well, it didn’t matter. Not really. She had moved on. Last he had heard (and that had been from his sister), she was dating someone. An Andrew Barnaby, or something equally unexciting.

Good for her.

He’d tried it too, briefly. There had been someone named Ajita (was it Ajita? It may have been Lalita) his sister had attempted to ‘hook him up’ with.

‘Go ahead! Call her; I think you’ll really like her.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Don’t you trust me?’

The call had been made, more to placate his sister than for any other reason. Ajita (or Lalita, possibly) had sounded a little tired, a little apprehensive, but she’d at least agreed to meet him. His sister had orchestrated the whole event wonderfully, now that he thought about it. She’d managed to coax a fairly orthodox seeming Indian woman, in an Indian setting, to ‘go out’ with a man who was not her son, nephew, grandson, father, brother or husband.

They’d met at a coffee place, one of those numerous outlets of the grand chain ‘Indian Coffee House’. They talked, they laughed, but he was secretly glad to get away, and he thought she felt the same. There was too much pressure and expectancy (from themselves, from the outside) for anything to materialize.

A few coffees, dinners and emails later they had politely parted ways, both deciding that romance was not something that was going to blossom between them. She had been a charming woman- graceful, tactful, intelligent, and not too hard on the eyes. If only he hadn’t felt so damned drained and uninterested, things might have turned out differently. He might have changed her ideas and his. If only... but hypothetical situations were not good ones to examine. Especially when irretrievable.

What is writ is writ

It wasn’t like he had nothing going for him. He was a well paid professor at a prestigious institution, he was helping to shape some of the brightest minds in the country (sometimes he had a hard time believing that), he was well respected and (in the case of a few pupils) even liked. In fact, he had a niggling suspicion that one student at least had more than just a healthy share of respect for him. He’d surprised some funny turns of expression in her big eyes upon occasion.
‘Um, sir, could I talk to you?’

He’d stopped, more than a trifle taken aback that this student would actually dare to assail him outside the classroom. Girls really were getting bolder these days.

‘Sure! Something wrong?’ he thought her eyes looked strangely red.

‘No, nothing specific. I’m just…bored.’

So he was her recourse during hours of boredom, was he? He shifted the water bottle from one hand to another as he thought; the feelings and words darting through his brain at lightning speed. Then again, it wasn’t like he wasn’t a trifle dull himself. Perhaps a change of company (from the empty space that usually surrounded him) would be good. Besides, she was smart enough to provide intelligent conversation.

‘Sure, let me just put this darned bottle inside. I’ll meet you here?’

She nodded, and the pact was sealed.

Conversation had followed conversation, and he was pretty sure his charm hadn’t waned over her. He wouldn’t mind admitting to egging her on with book-lends and encouraging speeches. After all, a little ego boost never harmed anyone. And it certainly seemed to be working wonders with her, academically. He was just doing his job.

After all, there was no way he could really allow her to touch him. She was young enough to be his daughter. She could have been the product of a stable marriage with Savita, she even looked a bit like her.

But that was, again, not a path he wanted to go down, not a hypothetical situation he wanted to explore.

A very long overture was now moving steadily towards the crescendo. Tilting his head back he let his hands work away at the instrument, almost blindly. Note after note soared into being, swirled around his hair and then leapt gracefully above, winging its way towards the open window. Note after note, carrying with it the thoughts, the heavy, clod-like thoughts that clung inside him. They vanished into the starlit night. He was in raptures, he was being charioted away, he was actually flying as the poets had, as Keats had, he had escaped…

A last hum, a final vibration. He was poised, listening, awaiting an echo that refused to arrive. He lowered the bow and opened his eyes, reluctantly aiding the dispersal of the magic.

The night was young. The books were open, their pages rifling in the light breeze that whispered through the window. The violin lay cold and still, now dead, in his hand.

He was still alone.