"I met you in that past life A"
by Grace Mathew
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Chapter 1
I opened the box.
Looking back at that moment in my life, I ask myself yet again whether I regret all that happened… after opening what sometimes seems to me to have been a Pandora’s box… yet after a time, I pass a hand across my eyes, and straighten my shoulders, and raise my chin, once more…
But let us return to the box which I unfastened.
On its dark red lining lay an artist’s paintbrush.
Nevertheless, it had not been designed to be used in such a way.
For the entire brush was pure gold. Even the bristles were made of the same metal. They had been formed into the shape of a lotus bud and on the stem-like handle blossomed a subtle pattern of interlocking flowers.
Without doubt, a truly unusual gift.
But… its rarity was not what caused my sharp intake of breath.
My heart… it began to pound… began to hammer.
For I knew the paintbrush. Recognized it. Instantly.
It was mine. Once. At some point in the past. I was certain of it.
I could stake my life on it.
And yet, I could not recall anything else.
When… where… why… or how I had come to own the brush before.
Struggling to hide my shock, I somehow managed to tell Vera how much I appreciated her gift, and further, trying to sound as calm as I possibly could, I asked her whether she knew about its history.
“The previous owner might. As a matter of fact, Summer, she seems to be very interested in you,” replied Vera.
She got up, came to us with open arms, and embraced first Dad and then myself.
“It will be a surprise for you two,” she continued, “which is why I wanted you both to come here. I arranged it with her and she is waiting for us to visit her place this afternoon. We could go there right now and since it happens to be quite near, it would be better to walk instead of taking the car.”
Soon, we were outside a shop near the Sixeighty Hotel and Vera conducted Dad and myself to its display window.
My eyes. They travelled over beauty. Musical instruments, exotic jewellery, carvings of various types, old-fashioned photographs, and many other curios and works of art; most were apparently antiques collected from every corner of the world.
Then, I exclaimed in delight.
For there, arranged in a tenderly caring way, were two of my paintings.
I glanced at Dad. He had noticed them as well and at once his face lit up and his warm arms were around me.
As for Vera, she was enjoying our wonder.
“This is the surprise I meant. Actually, I came across this place quite recently, about a week ago when I was looking for a present for Summer’s birthday, something special, one of a kind for her 21st, and so I entered the shop and began talking with the owner. Ai, let me tell you, from the first moment, we got along — like old friends.”
Vera linked her arm with mine. “The shop owner asked me several questions, Summer. About your background, your tastes. To help me choose a gift you would like. I let her know that you are an artist. A painter.
In my bag, I always carry an album of you and your work, and so, I showed her the photographs.
Ai, ai, ai. If only you had been there with me. To see her reaction. She was moved. To the uttermost. Tears in her eyes. She studied each and every photograph and after a while said I should visit her again the next day.
When I did, she brought out the gold paintbrush.
It was perfect for you… my child… whoever made it must have done so for you… in fact I could almost see your name written on it…
But when I asked about the price, the shop owner was hurt, offended even, because I had brought up the subject of money. She simply wanted to give the brush to me. Free of charge. At no cost. Imagine. Of course I refused. Finally, we reached an agreement: we went to my gallery, where you know I have some of your art for sale, and she took one of your paintings, as payment for the brush; she also left with several others, to sell in her shop on a commission basis. Plus she wanted to know everything — and I mean everything — about you.
Your two paintings here in her exhibit? Outstanding, she said.
Look, just take a look again at how she has presented them in the display window: so much thought, so much concern. Me, the way I feel, this is not simply a matter of money for her.
It is above that. It is from her soul.”
“She does sound wonderful,” said Dad quietly, “but — in this world of ours — you never know — appearances, and words, are sometimes false. Can this person — …” He hesitated. Then pressed on. “Can this person be trusted? All that much?”
“I would trust her with my life,” said Vera. “Come. Let us go in. By the way, she is also very interested in you, Seth. She wishes to meet you as well as Summer.”
Chapter 2
A musical chime on the door announced our entry and when we went in, I found the interior of the shop far larger than I had expected. It was a hall. Of treasures.
The smaller antiques were expertly set out to their best effect in glass cases, whereas the bigger valuables were arrayed around the room, and in one corner towered a stand, rich with ancient volumes in Pali, Sanskrit, and myriad other languages. The walls were panelled in gleaming wood and wondrously beautiful carpets from Isfahan, Kerman, Shiraz and Tabriz covered the floor, and everywhere in that hushed shining world, quiet tender light fell like dew, from lamps in the shape of water lilies. A place full of marvels. Glowing. Refined. A connoisseur’s haven but at the same time with an ambience truly welcoming and sincere.
Presently, one of the shop assistants approached us, made a polite enquiry, took our message and disappeared behind a door at the back.
Dad, Vera, and I. We waited. In silence. Each of us far-away in our own thoughts.
Within a flash, however, we saw someone hurrying towards us.
A woman.
About 30 years old. Striking. Elegant.
With a sensitive countenance and warm-hearted eyes.
Introducing her to Dad and myself, Vera said, “I would like you both to meet the owner of this antiques shop. Her given name is Lantern.”
Holding my hand in hers, the woman searched my face. As if I were wearing a mask and she wished to discern my real features behind its cover. Her gaze was intense. Burning. Elated. Mixed with a strange apprehension. “The paintbrush. What do you think of it?” Those were the first words from Lantern to me. Blurted out.
Taken aback, I fumbled for an answer. “It’s… it’s fascinating. And… are you…”
“Yes?” Tension in every part of her.
“Are you aware of its source? Did it belong to someone? Perhaps several people?”
“Why do you ask?” Her eagerness — and dread — extending.
“I’d like to know. I think the brush has got a story behind it.”
“You’re right. It does. Give me a moment and I’ll tell you whatever I can about it.”
From her display window, Lantern removed both of my paintings and at her request, the three of us accompanied her to an office at the back of the shop.
There, a man rose at the sight of us. His hair was grey. A hundred per cent grey. He appeared to be around 50 years of age, and seemed homely, plain, very plain, in fact, when it came to his outer looks. His expression, however… How mild, how gentle it was… Gazing at him, my heart all of a sudden leapt to my throat, my pulse began to drum, faster and faster, and sharp tears prickled my eyes, out of the blue, for no reason that I could clearly name.
Alight with warmth, Lantern put her arm around the grey-haired man’s shoulder and started to speak. “My friend. My closest friend. Everard. We grew up together but he lives in Tsavo now. Earlier today, he drove up to Nairobi to visit me; later, he went to several art exhibitions and then stopped by here at the shop, and taking just one glance at them, Everard said, straightaway, ‘The Chinese ink brush paintings? The pair in your window? I’ll buy them. Right now.’ In addition, he wanted details about the artist and I told him everything I could, whatever Vera had informed me with regard to Summer.”
On Lantern’s urging, our group of five then sat down at a table while a shop attendant prepared tea for us.
During this interval, Everard took out an envelope and silently gave it to me. But when I was putting it away in my bag, he murmured, “Why don’t you open it now?”
I did. It turned out to be a cheque. As I knew it would. I glanced at the sum and felt the fire rush to my face. “There must be a mistake,” I blurted, “this is far too high.”
“No. Not at all.” Everard was firm.
Dad. And Vera. They were near me and I passed the cheque on to them; Dad examined the amount, nodded once and kept quiet but rewarded me with a look which needed no words and as for Vera, her opinion turned out to be the same, for her judgement was, “It’s correct, I agree with Everard.”
But I said the only thing which seemed right to me.
“Everard. I won’t take the money. Unless you accept this condition: you, together with Lantern, must both view the rest of my work and choose one each as a gift from myself.”
Their smiles were warm.
“I’ve been hoping to see more of your art, Summer,” Everard beamed. “Where’s it kept? Vera’s gallery?”
“Some of it. Quite a lot’s still at home. Dad…?”
Dad understood. Took over.
“Are you free this evening? Both of you?” The pair glanced at each other, smiled, said yes, and Dad continued. “We three are going out for dinner here in town. Why don’t you join us? Afterwards, we could take you to our place and you could have a look at Summer’s paintings there; in fact, stay for the night, there’s plenty of room at the house.”
They welcomed the idea and accepted his invitation with warmth.
Shortly afterwards, Lantern started wrapping the two Chinese ink brush paintings of mine for Everard, which reminded me of the reason I’d wanted so urgently to meet her in the first place.
“The golden paintbrush, the one I got from you, through Vera. I’m burning to hear about it. Where did it come from? Who were its previous owners? Could you tell us something — just a little — for now?”
Chapter 3
A shadow seemed to pass over Lantern but after some uncertainty she locked her hands together and eventually started.
“The brush was made for an artist… like you, Summer… the same age as you… 21… in 1898… She was then here, in Kenya. Tsavo. With her parents.”
“Her name?” Everard cut in.
I was about to ask the same question.
“You’re aware of her father, Everard. You collect his work and so do I. He was a painter, a spellbinding painter. Like his daughter. Sara.
His only child. His name was North… Brendan North.”
“For many years,” responded Vera, “I have been almost obsessed with Brendan North.” She was talking to Everard. Aglow. “He still fascinates me and it is good to learn you and Lantern have an interest in him; so does my girl here, and Seth.”
“True,” agreed Dad, “I’ve got a picture of his in my office.”
It was an oil painting which had been in a special alcove in his office for years and I remember being always strangely drawn towards it, magnetized by it, and cherishing it from the time I was very young. It showed the sea. At dawn. A solitary shore. Every part of the picture shimmered with beauty. Spirituality. It was woven of sunrise and shadows, lovely with peace and a rose-hued silence, and I always imagined that if I gazed at the painting for long enough, a door would one day open in it, letting me enter at last that secret world of glistening calm.
It was painted here, in Kenya. In Mombasa. In 1898, at the start of October. However, soon afterwards, the artist passed away — passed away not at the coastal town, but at a place inland — the wilderness of Tsavo.
The artist’s name was Brendan North. Dad had told me of this.
But he had not disclosed the cause of the death or given me any other information. I found my thoughts returning to the artist’s daughter and I yearned to discover what had befallen her during that former life of hers which had started in the 19th century.
And so, I took a deep breath and prompted, “Sara —”
Lantern wavered, her regard drifting from me to her hands which were entwined together tighter than ever.
Finally, she answered.
“Sara’s parents. They died. Both in 1898, even though the two of them were only 38 years of age. It was sudden, appalling, something no-one could ever have expected. Her father… it was he who… passed on… first… in Tsavo, and a few weeks later, following him soon after his death, her mother went over that bridge into the other world.”
A silence. I heard a clock ticking. It seemed very loud. Very urgent.
“Poor child,” murmured Dad, “21 is still a young age, especially for a girl…”
Trembling, I swallowed.
Vera wiped my eyes. And then her own.
“How terrifying,” she whispered, “all at once fatherless, motherless, and surrounded by such nightmarish danger in the bushland. Sara must have felt so alone, so afraid.”
“Who took care of her?” Dad enquired, “when she was orphaned suddenly like that?”
“Her companions,” replied Lantern, “but… it… it was not for long.”
“Why? Did they abandon her? Leave her in the lurch? What happened to Sara?”
The person who asked those questions was Everard and on hearing his raised voice and the strange break in it, I glanced at him and saw to my surprise how ashen he had become.
As for Lantern, she looked tormented, overwhelmed by grief, and did not reply. Apparently, she did not know any more; and yet, I felt with a stab of disquiet that this mysterious woman called Lantern was hiding secrets about the North family, especially with regard to what eventually happened to Sara following the death of her parents in the African wilderness in that fateful year of 1898.
Chapter 4
After a moment, Everard, curious about the golden paintbrush, asked to see it, and I drew Vera’s present from my bag and gave it to him.
He examined it with interest.
“Special,” he nodded, “one of a kind. Where’d you get it, Lantern?”
“Hong Kong. Many years ago, from an antiques shop over there which will always stay in my memories. The proprietor was an elderly man and the brush had been in his keeping for decades. He’d received it from a friend, all the way back in 1904.”
“This friend. Could it have been Sara North?” I asked. “Perhaps, searching for a place to live after her parents died, she finally left Tsavo and travelled from Kenya to Hong Kong.”
“No. It was another person. A woman by the name of Kestrel Lockhart. In 1904, the Hong Kong antiques shop owner was merely a youth and he said Kestrel, having known his late father, became his guide and always treated him like a son. In the end, when her life was drawing to a close, she gave him a golden paintbrush as well as a work of art. Since he and I have been friends for a very long time, however, he presented me with both items and would not hear of taking any payment for them. Summer, you already have the paintbrush and now I want you to take a look at the second of Kestrel’s mementoes.”
Lantern went to her desk, took something out of it and came back and placed it on the table. Right in front of me.
It was a painting.
Of a lion.
A lion ready to attack.
Crouching. Snarling. Its fangs knife-like. An inferno of ferocity.
My eyes. They closed. Gripped shut.
Because — for a terrifying instant — it appeared to me that the lion had someone in its jaws. A man. Did I know him? I could not tell. For his face was covered with blood. His clothes, his body, torn, ripped open. Brutally. Harrowingly.
The man in my mind’s eye was being attacked, was being torn to pieces, alive, while still moving, still trying, faintly, with whatever little strength left, to get away from the lion, the bloodthirsty killer.
I cried out. Staggered to my feet. Lurched away from the table and stood shakily against the wall.
Escalating the horror of the vision was a sure knowledge.
An absolute certainty.
The painting had once been mine.
It had come from my hands.
I had done it.
I was the artist.
At some stage in the past.
Gathering every ounce of will, I strove to calm myself, for I had no intention of revealing my discovery. This day, this afternoon, this hour, like a bolt from the blue, without any forewarning, I had encountered two articles which had once upon a time belonged to me. What former circumstances connected me to either the golden brush or the painting of a lion? When had I owned them? Where? Why? I had no answer. No matter how I hunted through my memory, I could find no explanation.
Meanwhile, my companions were looking on in concern.
Everard was fast. So was Vera. But Dad was faster: he reached me first, steadied me, kept me upright.
And yet, out of the four of them, Lantern was the only one who did not move, who did not rush forward with the others; she was gripping the table’s edge, battling hard to conceal her own turmoil, and again, my mind apprehensive, I wondered what secrets she might be keeping from the rest of us.
Then, noticing their eyes still on me, I knew I would have to explain my reaction to the painting of the lion, and grabbing at any excuse, I said I had merely felt faint, under the weather for a moment. “But I’m fine now,” I said. And it was true. Because Dad was by my side. All the love in the world in his touch.
He led me back to the table where Vera was pouring fresh tea for everyone but out of the corner of my eye I saw Lantern quickly leaving the office.
During the interval, the others gathered around the painting; however, I did not join them and remaining seated I tried my uttermost to marshal my thoughts. After a while, Lantern returned, her eyes puffy, red-rimmed, and her face evidently newly-scrubbed.
Vera looked up. Her gaze far-away. “The essence of the lion has been captured,” she said, “with only a few strokes of the brush.”
It had been done in black ink. No other colours.
The background left white, empty.
When Everard spoke at last, his voice was low, almost a whisper.
“You can feel the lion’s breath. Hot. Searing. A blazing fire. Imagine its claws, its teeth, tearing into you, while you’re still alive, still trying, with the last fading glimmer of hope, to struggle, to get away… The lion’s face a nightmarish mask, smeared with blood, your blood…”
He shivered.
“I can see what you mean,” responded Dad, ashen, his hands shaking, “but I — I’d rather not dwell on it, it’s — it’s better not to… Let’s just move on and look at the painting in a different way — don’t you think Summer could have been the artist for it? She does Chinese ink brush paintings and I’m sure she could have accomplished this one quite easily; there’s something about it which reminds me of her work.”
“Seth, you are right,” said Vera, “that is what I also noticed,” and addressing Lantern, she enquired, “Who did it? We could not find any name on the front.”
Darting me a glance, Lantern turned the painting over and replied. “She used to sign on the back. Ever in the same arrangement.”
And there it was. Set out clearly.
Her signature, followed by her printed name, and the date, and the place:
Sara North
1st November 1898
Tsavo, East Africa
“Unusual,” remarked Vera, “Summer signs on the back of her work too, and in the identical layout.” Dad and Everard were also surprised. Not Lantern. Nor I. What I sensed was inevitability. Fate. Fate starting its inexorable march and beginning to advance on and encircle me.
“It’s just a coincidence,” smiled Vera.
It was not. I could have staked my life that it was not mere chance. But I kept my silence.
“The lion,” said Lantern, “the lion in this painting by Sara North. It was one of the man-eaters of Tsavo.”
At once the room became constrictive, and I found myself fighting for breath, especially with Lantern studying me, gently yet extremely thoroughly.
I turned to Dad. “The Roselight,” I blurted.
“Yes,” he replied, nodding, understanding as always, and I was on the point of explaining to the others and inviting them along when Everard surprised me by putting my feelings into words.
“Why don’t we all visit there for a while,” he said, “it would be a good place to clear our thoughts.”
Everyone agreed, and saying he would soon be back for us, Dad went to get his car.
In the interval, Everard and Vera sat down together and began to talk. About Brendan North and his artwork.
Whereas Lantern was quiet. Lost in thought.
So was I… my mind on the golden brush…
and on the painting of the lion. The man-eater.
Chapter 5
A few minutes later, Lantern locked up the shop and the four of us waited outside at the kerb for Dad. He returned quite soon and Vera and myself entered his vehicle. “The Roselight,” he reminded Lantern and Everard, upon which both of them said they were familiar with the place and when they had climbed into their own cars, we all set out.
The evening rush hour had already started but we were very much in luck that day for there was not yet a lot of traffic. From the city centre via Uhuru Highway we accessed Chiromo Road, and soon enough drove down to a part of Nairobi called Westlands; a short distance along Waiyaki Way and we arrived at a palatial gate, entered through it, then glided up a winding, tree-shaded drive, a beautiful green lawn on the left, and on the right, a flowering garden.
The Roselight had been, in days gone by, a private estate.
Its next owner had transformed it into a hotel. A wondrous place. With an intimate magical air.
The paint such a long, long ago and far, far away pink, and emerald tiles covering the roof, and many rooms with French windows opening on to miniature flower-filled balconies.
The Roselight was — and still is, to this day — one of the most charming and old-world hotels in Kenya, well-liked by both locals and foreigners. Dad had been the one who’d first shown me the place, when I was very young, and I’d taken to it at first sight.
Having parked, we walked into the lobby.
Inside, the hotel’s wooden walls and floors were, as always, gleaming with a mirror brightness and the furniture and ornaments were as sumptuous as ever, several of them being antiques.
In the reception area, porters carrying a giant container were carefully moving their load towards the lounge. Supervising them was the Roselight’s owner. The proprietress. Noticing our presence, she gave the men brisk instructions, her Swahili fluent, and came smiling forward.
A pleasant woman. Svetlana Smith. Half-Russian, half-English, 62 years of age, resolute but with a quiet kindness, and utterly dedicated to her hotel.
Dad and Svetlana first got to know each other almost 30 years ago; in due course he had introduced Vera and myself to her and our acquaintanceship had quickly taken root; as for Lantern and Everard, we found out on the day we met them that they were also old friends of the Roselight’s owner.
Following our greetings, Svetlana requested a talk with Dad, concerning a business matter. It would not take long, she said. The two of them proceeded to her office and my other companions sat down in the lobby to wait.
Yearning for a moment of solitude, I told them I would go outside into the open air for a while and wandered across the hotel’s immense reception area.
But at a corner, an events board with a poster on it caught my eye.
It announced a film. A film concerning reincarnation. It would be shown at the Roselight a week from now. This morning, by chance, I had happened to buy a magazine with a thought-provoking cover and had lighted upon an unusual piece of writing in it. About this very film. The magazine article on it had provided only an outline however, and wishing for more details, I began skimming through the poster.
But — out of the blue — I was pushed away.
By a sharp elbow in my side.
A woman.
She offered no apology, only an insulting top-to-toe stare.
Never in my life had I hated anyone at first sight.
Until then.
I loathed that woman. In a flash of fire. In that blazing red moment.
I hated her because she was full of hate. It showed when she looked around at each person coming and going in the foyer. And it showed in the way she looked at me. We were absolute strangers: I had never met her before. What had I ever done to her?
Her eyes were even more disturbing. They were the colour of ghosts.
She appeared to be in her thirties, and in all fairness, she was attractive. Bewitching.
Further, as for the costume she was wearing, it was remarkable, haunting, truly extraordinary; it grabbed attention, due to its complete unexpectedness.
It was a gown, from once upon a time.
A dream of moonlight, delicate, floating, snow and silver.
Pure.
But the dress did not become her.
For her eyes were loud.
Loud with all that she was at her core.
The creature shifted her sneer from me to the poster I wanted to read, then took a stance in front of it, her back to me with arms akimbo. Blocking my view, on purpose, apparently, for whenever I tried to get a glimpse of the placard concerning the film on reincarnation, she would move smoothly to hinder me.
Was she itching for a quarrel?
I would not give her that satisfaction.
Fighting for calm, I walked away, and retraced my steps to where Everard, Vera, and Lantern were seated in the hotel’s lobby.
Chapter 6
Before long, Dad emerged from Svetlana’s office and rejoined us. “Something about a tour group of mine,” he said. “No problem though, we cleared it up. Now, shall we —”
But the next instant, without warning, he was interrupted.
“Well… well… well…,” someone drawled, “helllloooo there, Mr. Lion.”
The same beast from a minute ago, her phantom eyes gleaming.
“Goodness — pardon me. Not Mr. Lion after all. It’s Mr. Rightlaw. How I adore your name, darling. It suits you. Perfectly. You’re so very proper, so very correct, such an honest man, such a crystal-clear reputation. You’d never break the smallest rule. Would you, my darling? Or — could I be wrong?”
She was winding a lock of hair around her finger, her mouth lifting at a corner.
Dad bit back an oath, a shadow darkening his face, his big hands bunching into fists. The sight of him jolted me, stunned me, because I had never seen him like that before. Did he mean to hit her? Surely not. Dad was the mildest person in the world.
Still, I could understand what he must have been feeling, for the demoness not only got under one’s skin, she ate away at it like a corrosive acid.
Gliding up, she raised her arms, beguilingly, aiming to wrap them around his neck.
He stepped backwards immediately and she put her hand to her mouth and tinkled with laughter.
“Darling. How about my place? Later on? Ey? I’ll wait for you. We’ll have a good time… we always do, don’t we? Hmmmm?”
Dad grabbed her.
Shook her. Hard.
“You damned hell-spawn. How dare you lie so brazenly? I don’t even know where your house is. Neither do I care. Get this — once and for all — stop faking we’re close. We’re not on such terms — you know damn well we’re not. Much against my will, I have to do business with you. Nothing else — absolutely nothing else — connects us.”
He shoved her away. “Get out of my sight. At once, do you hear me? Or our deal will end. Right here. Right now.”
The provoker daggered at him, her eyes striking him with a sharp insolence. “Go ahead,” she drawled, “if you like courting trouble.”
“I’ll take the consequences.”
“Brave, ey? All of a sudden. Why? Your friends? Am I embarrassing you in front of your friends? Tsk, tsk. I don’t mean to. Honestly.” But her grin said the opposite.
Then, her focus shifted.
She’d spotted something or someone else.
“You’re lucky,” she hissed, “I’m off. Just seen a pal of mine. But I’m warning you, Rightlaw, make sure you mark my words: don’t you dare think of defying me. Whenever I want, I’ll contact you, at my convenience, not yours, as always.”
And with that venomous parting shot, she disappeared.
“Dad?” I was in a red mist. “Dad, who on earth is that creature?”
“Yes — where did she spring from?” Vera bit out, “my hands were burning — I wanted to slap some respect into her — she was really enjoying you, Seth.”
“A man-eater to the core,” growled Everard.
“An expert at manipulation,” said Lantern quietly, “the type who will unerringly find your Achilles heel.”
It seemed then that a memory, a distressing memory, came back to Lantern, for her face grew troubled, apprehensive.
“Somehow this woman reminds me,” she murmured, “of a person I once knew… once upon a time… long ago…”
Dad lowered his head.
When after a break he raised it, he tried to be somewhat calmer.
“Forget about her.” His tone was dismissive but his eyes were not. “Wintereira? She baits everyone, relishes it, gets a sick little thrill out of it, a tingle, a feeling of power, dominance, control, no matter how short-lived. Hellhounds like her? You can’t avoid them in life. Wintereira was born a troublemaker, loves causing pain for anyone at all and at any chance she can get.”
Dad’s face hardened but making a great effort he softened his voice. “Look, she’s not worth our attention, agreed? Let’s not allow Wintereira to spoil our mood.”
And so, Dad, Vera, myself, and our two new friends, Lantern and Everard, decided to say no more for the moment at least, regarding the hateful, ghost-eyed seductress.
Instead, after I had told them about it, we all went to the hotel’s reception desk, where we bought tickets for the film scheduled for next week. The film on reincarnation.
Chapter 7
It was around half past six in the evening and we still had plenty of time before we would have to return to the city centre for the special dinner which Dad had arranged in advance at a restaurant in town.
At the Roselight’s coffee shop, our group of five sat outdoors on the veranda which offered a view of the extensive back garden. Our refreshments were brought and we sipped in quietness, unwinding in the green and golden peace of the vista spread out in front of us.
Vera eventually broke the silence, wishing to know a little more about the film on reincarnation which we were all going to see at this same hotel in the coming week.
Earlier today, I’d clipped the article on the film from the magazine where I’d first learnt of it and stored it in my bag. On Vera’s enquiry, I took the cutting out and handed it to her, and after she’d read it, Lantern, Everard and Dad did so as well.
A pause followed. Lantern was watching me. Yet again. Finally, she asked me a question. With a strange mixture of hesitation and recklessness, like a novice gambler putting a first big stake on the table.
“Summer. Do you believe in reincarnation?”
And then, she waited… waited as if her life depended on my answer…
“I do.”
Emotion lit Lantern’s face. Such a cascade of light, luminescing her beauty, within and without, until she seemed to be made of the slowly-diving sun.
I could not fathom her obvious relief, her open happiness. Wondering, I enquired in return, “What about you, Lantern… and Everard… do you think reincarnation is possible?”
Both of them said yes.
“So does Vera. And Dad.”
Was it only my imagination? Or did the air between the five of us change? Suddenly. The atmosphere seemed to tingle with unseen currents, prickle with invisible tensions. A silence came upon us. And night fell.
“Perhaps we should take a little more time for reflection,” murmured Lantern. “Shall we go for a walk in the garden?” And willingly, the rest of us agreed.
It was then I noticed Wintereira. The spiteful creature who, earlier in the evening, had insolently pushed me aside at the events board and who’d gone on to taunt Dad about their relationship. A link due only to business, he’d said. The venomous woman was now coiled at a table not far away from ours on the coffee shop’s veranda. The place was starting to get crowded and what with the waiters bustling to and fro, I hadn’t spotted her until I’d begun to get an uncomfortable feeling that we were being watched. Then, instinct made me turn, and look in her direction. Her ghost eyes were focused on me. Mockery in her stare. Which could not entirely conceal a strange brooding wariness. A guardedness in her face as she continued to scrutinize me. The next instant, my companions, including Dad, saw Wintereira too. A single glimpse of her and he averted his gaze, his whole being taut with hatred.
Paying no attention to the troublemaker and walking calmly past her, our circle of five went from the veranda to the back garden of the Roselight. A wonderful place, like a forest from a lovely story of long ago and far away. Murmuring groves… hushed glades… and flowers… Roses. They had been planted everywhere in the garden and the hotel had been named after their luminosity. Roses of every kind. They were cups of shimmering fire by day and in the darkness they shone like lit candles.
We went wandering along the myriad paths. But we soon became separated. At the front, Lantern and myself. Followed a long distance behind by Everard and Vera who were strolling close together, arm-in-arm, in a world of their own. Finally, Dad. Far behind us all. Alone. We’d all asked him to join us, to walk with us, but he’d said he wanted to be on his own for a while, to think some matters over, and upon his insistence, we’d had no choice but to go on without him in the end.
A little later, a few yards away, I saw a certain rose. A bud, just starting to open and so wondrously lovely that my heart stopped. I knew I had to look at it closely. Touch it. Hold it. Breathe its fragrance.
A word to Lantern to excuse myself. “Yes,” she answered, “I understand, Summer.” Then, I left her behind. And ran. Ran to the rose.
I had almost reached the flower. When I stumbled. And began to fall. I thrust both my hands out, expecting to land on the earth. But… I did not.
I landed in the sky.
The magic of all its stars had become a man.
A man who caught me.
Body and soul.
A tower of light was holding me. Holding me close to him.
I felt and heard his heart’s wild pounding, and my own was drumming fast. Slowly, gently, his embrace tightened around even my spirit. It was a moment in amber. Preserved for time without end. For infinity. For eternity.
But out of the blue, the two of us were brought back to this world. By a woman. She was somewhere in the garden, circling nearer and nearer in the darkness, heard but not yet seen.
She was calling out, saying it was time to leave, to depart.
Hearing her, the man let me go, and at once hurried away down one of the paths, heading for the Roselight.
In truth, everything had happened very swiftly. Above all, happiness had stilled me against the man’s chest, taking away any wish to move. Which meant I had not glanced up at his features. And so, I was not aware of what his face looked like. Not in the least. How on earth, I wondered, would I know him again?
The next instant, someone appeared.
Stood right in front of my face, eyes raking me from top to toe.
“Why the hell were you holding him?” she snarled. “Keep your blasted hands to yourself or you’ll answer to me. He’s mine.”
And with that, Wintereira spat on the ground and hastened away.
Went hurrying after the man.
Who was climbing the steps of the hotel’s back veranda.
She darted there, got in front, blocked his way, and having turned her head to shoot a glance in my direction, spoke loud enough for me to hear.
“Darling — there you are at last. Come on. It’s time to go. Our date — at my place tonight — it’s what we planned, ey? Come on, we’ll have a great time, sweetheart. Hmmmm?” And Wintereira tried to put her arms around him.
He stepped out of her reach.
His retort clear and strong. Burning with an ice-cold anger.
“Damn you. Don’t call me by those terms. You haven’t got the slightest right to do so. We don’t have a date either. We never have. We never will. Stop your damn lying, Wintereira. I want nothing to do with you. I’ve told you that. A dozen times. Keep your distance. D’you hear me?”
With that parting shot, he strode off and disappeared into the hotel.
Throughout his exchange with Wintereira, his back had been to me; he had not turned around, which meant I had still not seen his face.
As for the troublemaker, she remained where she was.
Staring after the man as he walked away.
Fury in every line of her.
Chapter 8
Lantern and my other three companions strolled up to my side; not having witnessed the incident, seemingly, they did not mention it and neither did I.
Wintereira had dropped out of sight by the time we got to the hotel’s rear veranda where Dad urged our party to rest for a while and have some refreshments. His suggestion made me glad. My head was in a whirl and I needed breathing space. Especially after falling into that man’s arms. Especially after falling in love.
At our table, I took a mere sip of my coffee, got up, and in a murmur informed Vera where I was going. A particular ladies’ room. Situated at the far end of a corridor leading off the hotel’s reception area and therefore very isolated. There were other more convenient places to use, which meant the one I had in mind was usually deserted. I’d decided to go there. To marshal my thoughts.
On entering the powder-room, it seemed empty. But a second later, I heard a voice. Wintereira’s. She was in one of the stalls.
“Give it to me. Quick,” she ordered.
“Cash first.”
A female had answered. Her tone rough, harsh. The pair were apparently together in the same stall but I could not see what they were up to because they had locked the door.
Wintereira spoke again.
“No trust? After all these years?”
“You have 5 seconds. 5, 4, 3…”
A sound. A click. Maybe a purse being opened.
Silence. Briefly.
Next, Wintereira.
“Aaaaaah… That hit the spot. Just what I wanted. Out of this world.” Her words whooshing out with relief.
“Cool. Hey babe, you know me, I’m the best in the business. Here. Take this. A little extra for you — free of charge. You’ll be back for more — you’ll come running to me tomorrow. By the way, the guy you were talking to? A little while ago, on the veranda? Ooooooh weeeeee… Snap him up, girl. He said no but take it from me: maybe he’s just playing hard to get. Go look for him. Make him yours. Have fun tonight, girl, I can see you’re hot for it, mmmmmm?”
A burst of raucous laughter. From both.
“Ooooookaaaaaay, let’s make a move. You were lucky, babe, running into me like this — busy night tonight — got a bunch of people waiting for me.”
The sound of the stall being unbolted.
And the two of them came out. Wintereira and the other person. Who was dressed like a high-powered executive in a designer suit with a matching briefcase. The whole effect smooth. Impressive. But for one jarring note. The tattoo on her right hand. A picture of clouds. The sight of which triggered a memory.
Some months ago, I was having an evening out with a group of friends; we’d gone to a nightclub and this apparent businesswoman had also been there. Someone, a friend of a friend, had pointed her out. A dealer. A drug-dealer. That’s what he told us about the woman. He’d heard a lot about her activities and warned us to stay away from her, to keep our distance from her; she could be identified, he’d said, by her cloud tattoo.
Since then, I’d glimpsed her once in a while around town.
And now, the dealer was measuring me, with a guarded stare, perhaps trying to calculate how much I’d overheard.
Wintereira reacted differently. At first, on recognizing me, she’d been jolted, through and through, but bravado soon took over. The creature was glittering. Sparkling. With a rhinestone energy.
“Well, well, well… what do we have here?” she sang out. “It’s a little girl,” she answered herself, “no daddy nearby, or anybody else to help her.”
She swaggered towards me. Hands on her hips.
“You were holding my man. In the garden. Who the hell do you think you are? Huh? Think you can grab him from me? Ey? You want him, come fight for him. Right here. Right now.”
Aggression smoking out of her every pore.
I braced myself. Stood my ground. Returned her glare. My blood boiling.
“You…” she snarled. But in an instant, she was cut off. By her ally. Who rushed up, caught Wintereira’s arm and forcefully pulled her away.
“No trouble,” the dealer rasped. “Not for me. Or for you. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Have you forgotten?” and angrily, as if to remind her, she hit her client’s clutch-bag.
That action caused Wintereira’s bag to fall. It had not been closed properly and the contents spilled out onto the floor. Among them was a small packet. Transparent. Loaded with a white powder.
The seller ran to the door. Fumbled it open. And was gone in a flash.
Wintereira did not do the same. Instead, she smiled in disdain and began putting the items back into her bag, one by one, taking her time, slowly, leisurely. Her attitude now as cold as a knife.
“If you’re smart, Summer — oh yes, I know your name and everything about your life — you’ll keep whatever you saw and heard here to yourself. I’m warning you: keep silent and stay out of my affairs. Or else —” She drew a slow finger across her throat. “You. And that dad of yours.”
Her eyes, those eyes the colour of ghosts, shot venom at me, and then, with a swirl of that long, almost wedding gown of hers, she turned and walked out, her steps unhurried.
I flung an oath at her and threw myself down on a chair close by.
Wintereira — a drug user.
The discovery shocked but did not surprise me. Further, it seemed she’d started the habit quite a while ago. ‘No trust?’ she’d wheedled, trying to get out of paying for what she wanted, ‘after all these years?’ Exactly what she’d said to the dealer.
Was Dad aware of this side of Wintereira?
‘Much against my will, I have to do business with you.’
His words, earlier, when he was shaking her with such outrage.
What sort of business were they doing?
Drugs?
No way. Impossible.
Dad was the best person I knew. Totally unable to do wrong either in his personal life or at the business company he owned. He had honour. Integrity. Wintereira herself had said so, and even though her only motive had been to provoke him, her statement had nonetheless contained the truth.
My thoughts were yet agitated when, the next moment, the door swung open and somebody entered the room.
********************************************
"I met you in that past life A"
by Grace Mathew
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