I woke up under the persistent buzz of a cricket. It felt so close that for a moment I thought the bug was in my ear. Everything else was quiet- thoughts asleep and mouths- shut. I enjoyed the silence. The grass whistling beneath me and the smell of the flowers- almost audible. I stretched slowly, avoiding rash movements, twisting my tiny fists with closed eyes. The wind whispered in the branches above me, stirring the stiff, summer air.
It was late June. A bad month for us. Full of disappointment, nausea and bad acting. Full of paranoia and negative reviews. I tried not to think about it for now. The day was way too good and I didn’t want to ruin it just yet. There’d be enough time for that later.
I tasted the air, inhaling deeply and patiently, like a wine-lover, drinking from a five-star, blood-red bouquet from the finest fruit. It smelt of scorching heat, as if the piercing rays were strangling the weak breeze which hardly managed to brush my cheeks. It was going to hale later tonight. But there was still time. I tilted my head after the call of a bee zigzagging somewhere beside me. The sound from its wings was interrupted at short, even intervals.
I could feel the fresh smell of chamomile near by. Hyacinth and linden, and something that smelt like burnt daisies. I frowned. A deep crease settled itself comfortably between my eyebrows and I inhaled again. There was fire climbing lazily over a pile of dry wood sticks not far away from where I was lying. My frown deepened. So much for the perfect day. I lifted myself with stiff movements on one elbow and looked around. Sure enough there it was- away from the bushes at the far end, right in the middle of the sun-lit meadow. It looked almost tired, with its flames twisting unwillingly around the sticks, hiding beneath the wood searching for cooler shadows. In the bottom I could see the remains of something which, in its previous life, must have been a newspaper. A small curled piece of the brownish paper was blown away from the flames and fell within few feet away from me. I managed, with some difficulty, to make out the word “weekly” from the burnt page.
Thomas.
I shot a second glance at the ashen grass and, with a sigh, looked up at the branches laying a soft shadow over me. It was a big tree with a massive trunk. Leaning next to its core, there was a rag doll with a smile so sweet that it looked like the thin, crispy chocolate frosting of a birthday cake. He was sitting with his eyes closed, head tilted slightly towards the direction of the wind. He didn’t seem to notice me for a while, carried away in his mind. I watched his body relax as he took a few deep breaths, smiled and then finally turned to look at me.
“Was it that bad then?” I asked.
Next to us the fire had almost gone out, but the smell remained. Pierrot looked at the pile of ashes and his eyebrows crossed uncomfortably. He hesitated.
“Worse than we’d expected. He took it really bad.”
“Should I worry?” I pursed my lips.
He smiled dryly at me.
“Nah, you missed the whole thing anyway.” He looked carefully at his hands for a minute. “It’s just… “
“Just what?”
“It was weird… he started shaking, cursed a lot and then he just tore the paper apart and burnt it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him go that mad over an article before.”
“Well I guess we should have expected it. We really blew it last time” I tried to sound more positive. “But we’ll nail them tonight, right?”
His lips stretched slowly.
“Sure you will, Jez!”
“We will, Pierrot.”
He laughed quietly.
“Oh we’ll all be there all right. But you should know, Jez… everybody looks at the bride.”
“I’m not really a bride” I bent my head, blushing uncomfortably.
“You wear the dress, though. That ought to count for something.”
He looked like he wanted to say something more, but avoided me with a swift movement.
“Yeah, it should.”
Nice, sweet Pierrot. His eyes were deep brown and his hair had the same chocolate shade, only with yellowish highlights while in the sun. He was my best friend. My closest being on the planet, a constant ray of sparkling sunlight through my days and nights. And as I traced the familiar lines of his face I saw worry tucked in deep beneath his lids. I didn’t like it when Pierrot was worried- it meant there really must be something wrong and it made me nervous.
The wind blew stronger. The hale was closer already.
“Pierre,” I tried to sound casual” do you know where Tom is? Maybe we should get going.”
“I’m not sure actually, he said he had some work to do. He just told me to look after you until he comes back, ‘cause he didn’t know how long he was going to be.””
I frowned: “He didn’t? How long have we been here?”
“Couple of hours at the most.” He smiled. “You’re a sound sleeper, you know. He knew you’d doze off as soon as you smelt the fresh air. He knows his creations.”
I rubbed my eyes, trying to brush the drowsiness of of them with a laugh.
“Yeah, he really does doesn’t he? Where’s everybody else then?”
“Oh, they preferred to stay in the car. Nathaniel especially…”
“Ahh, right. I forgot he’s hypersensitive” to…. whatever.”
Pierre laughed again.
“Yeah, it’s something new this time.”
“Christ, he changed it again?”
“Yep, it’s a sixteen-letter word so don’t ask me to pronounce it and it apparently causes things such as- allergic rhinitis, asthma, atopic eczema, anaphylaxis and something that was in Chinese, I think.”
Our voices rang out together for a few minutes.
“Damn, I’m sorry I missed that.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll bet you anything that you’ll be treated to the whole speech at least twice before the sun sets.”
“I might have to take you up on that one, what with Tom acting completely mental and all I might not even see him today. Or until the end of the week for that matter.”
I looked around, suddenly remembering another logical question I’d forgotten:
“Where are we actually?”
“Damned if I know. We drove for hours after the play last night. I think he just wanted to get away, he wasn’t really headed anywhere.”
I nodded.
“So it was about the article then? Last night, I mean.’
“You saw it yourself, Jez. The theatre was empty, there were like 10 people there at the most. I don’t think it’s ever been that bad before.”
“It hasn’t been. But he has a plan, I know it. We’ll pull through.”
“I hope so. For his sake, ‘cause otherwise he’ll go crazy, you know.”
Crazy. The word made me flinch. It seemed to bear some ungraspable meaning. Unnoticeable like the sharp whiff indicating the upcoming hale in the hot, summer day.
“Was he really going crazy”, I asked myself and lied back on the soft grass, closing my eyes.
I considered it for a moment. “And what if he actually was… how would I know?” He was thoughtful, yes, but did that necessarily mean nuts? He didn’t talk much, but then again, he never was much of a talker anyways. His silence had just gotten a bit more pronounced, that’s all.
And then there was the fire to consider. Fire wasn’t exactly a new thing for him… okay that was an understatement- he lived and breathed fire, but over the last few weeks he just seemed to be absorbed in it somehow. Like there was a secret riddle hiding in there, deep within the flames. Whenever he lit a fire lately he just sat still with a cigar, burning forgotten between his fingers and stared at it. As if expecting it to answer something back at him. The focus, the despair, the… lunacy was so distinct in his eyes that sometimes it scared me.
I know, I know what you’re thinking- “He’s an artist, right? He’s supposed to be all weird and mystical. It’s in his nature” and stuff, but this just wasn’t normal somehow. Not even for him and his perception of normal is really waaaay too broad. I tried to remember if I’d ever seen a crazy person before in my life so I could make a comparison. I could think of no one. A rag doll only sees her maker and an actress- her audience. Not much relationship in either of those. Not enough diversity that I could benefit from, in any case. Eventually I gave up with a sigh.
I lied on the ground with my eyes closed, trying to pretend that everything was OK. That the wind wasn’t blowing so persistently and that it wasn’t so dry and heavy. I focused on the July sun, up in the sky. On the thick, comforting shadow of the tree next to me. A single ray of orange sunlight had pierced the thick web of branches and fallen directly on my face. My lips opened slightly, embracing the warmth. I let my toes curl in contentment as it gushed over, warming my whole body and I took my time, opening my eyes again. I let the thoughts back into my head one by one, let them slowly flow in one after the other in a neat column, so that I could actually make sense of any of them.
Thomas Colt and his artistic temperament. Thomas Colt and his creations. Tom and his fires, his cigarettes, his constant silence, his thoughts. Tom. My… Tom with his gentle fingers and his cotton-soft voice. His fragile whispers. I missed him. Missed the times when he looked at me with a twisted smile, winking playfully. I missed it when he used to care. When he was considerate, when he would repeat that I’m “perfect, his favorite, the best one”- silently, under his breath, and no one else but me would hear. He didn’t do that anymore. Not for a while now. I wondered again, for the hundredth time, what had changed? It could’ve been anything that had finally gotten to him – the weather, the article, me, Pierrot, Nathaniel, the play, the city, the traveling, the solitary life… Madness even- the possibilities were endless and they almost drove me insane just considering them.
Pierre’s voice rang in my ears again: “Crazy.”
And if not crazy, what better word was there to describe what he had turned into. His masochistic insomnia, absentminded driving and one-word responses to everything. Actually “wrapped- up in a cocoon” seemed the most appropriate way to put it to words. Distant. Absorbed, and I was starting to think fire wasn’t the only thing that absorbed him. Taken in by something with green eyes, five legs and a hairy back, most likely.
I exhaled loudly again angry at myself for wasting the afternoon with pointless inner monologues. As I rolled to the side I heard the low rumble of car tires over gravel on a road somewhere far behind the wall of bushes encircling the meadow.
Tom was finally back. He turned the engine off and the sound died down gradually until I could hear the birds sing again. There was a pause between that and the opening of the door. I could picture him very clearly in my head- fidgeting with the key with distracted movements. I started humming to myself in a low voice. I didn’t want to leave yet. It was warm there, bright, spacious. The air was fresh and breathing seemed easier somehow. My heart beat freely and my mind was relaxed, floating with the clouds. My lips twisted slowly around the melody of a song I’d heard long ago, playing from an ill-tuned radio at a summer carnival we’d been to. I liked the strange edge my voice got when I sang it- the way it changed and whirled, sprinting from my parted lips. My fingers swayed to the rhythm lazily and I ignored his call although his voice made my heart spin like a flipped coin in my chest.
“Jez!”
Pause.
“Pierre?”
“Yeah, Tom, we’re here” he answered.
I heard it as his boots stepped over the soft grass and glanced at him under my half closed eyelids. He looked magical crossing the meadow when hundreds of small crickets, bugs and butterflies jumped out of their hideouts under the grass and encircled his ankles as he walked, marking his way forward. I’d almost forgotten to breathe until his voice called to me again bringing me back to reality:
“Hey, sweet sunflower” and glided his fingers over my bright yellow hair. I shivered unnoticeably and turned to face him.
“So you’re finally up, huh? Did you sleep well?”
“Mhm.”
He shot a glance at the remains of the fire and frowned.
“I- I’m sorry I took so long. You didn’t have any trouble, did you?”
Pierrot smiled at him:
“No, she just woke.”
“Are we ready to go then?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure. We’re ready, sunflower.”
He picked me up and turned to the car. Pierre preferred to walk.
My box was white with small, red flowers on it. He put me in carefully and left the lid off muttering:
“It’s going to be a long trip anyway.”
“Where are we going?” Pierre sat next to me.
“I…” he dropped the keys and bent down to look for them. When he lifted his head again he was already panting: “…I, um, I don’t know yet. I mean, I’m not sure, we’ll see.
Slowly the sentence turned into low mumble and I could hardly make out any words from the whole: “somewhere… don’t know… time… perfect… has to be… perfect…”
Okay, well one thing was evident- he was gradually losing his ability to talk, period. I tuned to Pierrot as he whispered in my ear with a frown: “Weird.”
“Very.”
The sound of his chuckle drowned in a deeper voice coming from the back.
“Oh, I do hope we’re going somewhere warm finally. My immune system is in an extremely delicate state and I simply can not afford another infection this summer. It would be a horrible waste of talent if I had to sneeze through yet another performance. Positively criminal, I tell you. And what would the people think of my- my… apchih… See, sneezing again. A most unfortunate turn of events. Oh, what shall I do? You- you don’t happen to have any tea in you, huh?”
I bit my lips and answered before the laughter sprang out of me:
“No, Nathaniel, sorry.”
“Oh, I knew it. I should buy some napkins too.”
I heard Pierre laugh and put my hand over my mouth to smother the sound bursting from my own lips.
“I told you” he winked.
The engine started and in front of me I saw Thomas moving his lips slowly. It looked like the shadow of the word: “Perfect”.
“Crazy?” I wondered again. “Or obsessed?”
Obsessed sounded about right to me, I decided.
A thunder split the sky as soon as we got on the road.
Just as I thought.
The hale was rising.
