Soundtrack to Torment

Soundtrack to Torment

an album

by

Julian Clyne

Trilby & Quill Editions

First edition

Produced by Trilby and Quill Editions.

Published and distributed by epubli GmbH, Berlin 2015.

© 2015 Julian Clyne

Julian Clyne is hereby identified as author of these words in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Cover art: Jill Tegan Doherty (www.jilltegandoherty.com)

Cover design: Christopher Gramer

Published by epubli Berlin GmbH

www.epubli.de

ISBN 978-3-7375-3905-0

Trilby and Quill Editions

www.trilbyandquill.com

For those who are still able to dream.

And for those who wish they still could.

For those who have understood.

And for those who will redeem.

Prelude

It feels strange that all this should begin

with good-bye.

Oh! “Sticks and stones may break my bones

but your words – now they really hurt!”

What a poetic stab in the ribs you gave me…

Thoughts ripple the mind

unknown – cold.

You: but a distant reflection.

Your soft voice rings in my ears:

Delicious soundtrack to my torment.

Nostalgic for a world I’ve never seen.

Nostalgic for a distant place.

Nostalgic for what could have been

A better life –– with you?

Left to create realities,

I get high and listen to Miles.

Parentheses, helium balloons,

Cubes in tumblers, smileys on pills:

Little compartments filled with possibility;

The potential… to replace … to help me

Escape from the confines of the netherworld.

Conjure dreams. Dreams!

But of what? For what?

Above the Clouds

Naomi’s face at the airport. I’m embarking on a journey across a continent and an ocean. It is a race against time. Yet I have no power to go faster, it is entirely out of my hands. It is unbearable: I can only watch in agony as the hourglass empties itself, grain after grain, and I know that this time there won’t be anyone to flip it around.

Naomi’s face at the airport. Her eyes, her beautiful blue-grey eyes, the colour of the Pacific on a bright sunbathed day. She’s fighting hard not to cry, and I thank her for it. To see her tears would tip me over the edge, too. She wants me to know she’ll always be there for me. And right then, she is my only glitter of hope. For a brief instant, with her hand strongly squeezing my hand, I don’t feel the pain. For an instant the oppressive fear disappears which has been growing ever since I heard about my sister’s accident. Naomi and I don’t speak. Words are useless at this point. Her presence is more than I could have prayed for. Before I head towards the security check, she leans in, forces a faint smile, and kisses me. She whispers in my ear, “I love you.” It’s the first time she said it, it’s the first time either one of us said it. I can’t return it, I can only hug her even more strongly. I leave her, hold on to her hand as long as possible, but I have to let her go. “I’m right behind you,” I hear her shout, but I’m scared that we will never again meet as the people we are now.

Naomi’s face at the airport. The vision lingers in my mind. I need to hold on to it, to treasure it, to cherish it. It will no doubt become a crutch for me to lean on. The next thing that penetrates my perception is the blue sky above the clouds. Perfect, untainted azure, as if everything was alright, as if nothing could ever break the peace, as if they were right in saying that, up here, the sun always shines. But it’s just an illusion. For I’m flying East, into the night, and up here the night is even darker.

Naomi’s face at the airport. She’s all I see, even though I try to remember my sister, try to conjure images from a happy past. But instead of memories, there are premonitions of horror. My vivid imagination becomes a curse. I start to see an ICU, tubes dangling and machines beeping. I start to see a crematorium. I start to see my parents, devastated. Then, as if my mind entered a mode of self-defence, Naomi’s face at the airport always returns, stops me from going deeper into the darkness. Tears run down my cheeks and the lady next to me asks if I’m all right. I don’t answer. I’m sorry, too; she seems nice. What use to me are the words of a stranger now? Instead I look out the tiny window and hope the sunset behind us will appease me. The clouds are the colour of blood.

Joe’s face at the airport as he picks me up. Words are useless, his expression says it all. I’m too late.

Silence

“Ugh!”

His sigh was filled with exhaustion, pain and disgust. He had just stepped out of the office. Routine. Day in, day out: pub, pint, empty banter, pint, empty noise, pint, tube, pint, empty bed. Sometimes the bed was shared, always it felt empty.

And now rain! But today he felt the need to walk, not home, not anywhere –– just to walk in the rain.

He delighted in getting drenched and watched with glee as everyone else was visibly annoyed by the downpour. The gush of rain was not, by then, surprising. Yet, to many it had come at the worst time: the 5 o’clock rush. Some people chose to stand under awnings or marquees or any kind of shelter they could find. Others ran to the nearest tube station covering their heads with document cases or overcoats. Still others sought refuge in coffee shops, bars or boutiques. There were also the pessimists, who, despite the sun’s early morning promises, had taken their umbrellas “just in case” and now strutted along on the sidewalks.

He, on the other hand, simply sauntered and slowly he drifted off, forgetting all the little things that annoyed him, forgetting the tedium in his life. Each cold drop made him happier and happier, for with every single drop the inevitably subsequent sunshine and blue skies came closer. The fleeting nature of the rain made it all the more enjoyable.

As if for the first time, he saw the familiar buildings in a grim and grey light and was surprised at how different it made them look: mystical, majestic, awesome. It was like pacing through a cubist art gallery, the mind attentive only to the play of light and colour, out of which a new shape emerged. The eyes alone were active; the other senses became superfluous.

A mild shock, due more to surprise than pain, tore him out of his trance and, instinctively, he grabbed her by the hand to make sure she’d keep her balance. It took a moment for him to regain control over his own senses. First he felt the cold drops hit his skin, on which goose bumps quickly rose; then he heard the cacophony of voices and passing cars, horns and sirens, only half drowned-out by the patter of rain; then he caught a whiff of her subtle fragrance; finally he saw her face. Her thin lips, slightly accentuated by a pale shade of red, were open just a little to reveal her teeth in the hint of a smile. Her pixie nose guided his gaze to her greenish-blue eyes. Her dark, boyish hair was sticking, drenched, to her forehead and temples; he could only guess that it was naturally curly.

He was stunned, as if stupefied by the girl who materialised in front of him. Only now did he realise that he was still holding her wrist. She did not say a word either.

“Sorry,” he stammered, unwittingly and rather foolishly because it felt to him like an eternity had passed since they had collided.

She smiled in response and, after a pause that he left unused, she made to leave, slipping slowly past him.

“Wuddyaliketjoin-me-for-coffee?” The words spilt out of his mouth as her back was already turned to him. He regretted speaking so fast and without confidence; in fact he was not sure if the sounds had been words at all. Yet, he had felt compelled to get to know her, to bask just a bit longer in the warmth she made him feel.

She was visibly hesitant but she no longer made any signs of leaving. He continued in an attempt to explain, “Sorry, it’s just… I’m dying for an espresso, you see, and I would much rather have it with you than by myself.”

For the first time since they had met, she spoke. Her voice was melodious and quiet, comforting yet commanding full attention.

“I know just the place,” she whispered and gave his arm a gentle stroke so as to initiate the walk.

Undaunted by the rain, she wedged her way through the labyrinth of black umbrellas which hopped about without consideration. He was no longer aware of the masses of people. He did not see the overexcited tourists in ridiculous plastic ponchos who forced themselves to enjoy the city, who abruptly stopped to point out oddities. He ignored the groups of schoolchildren who made the most of their precious leisure time before having to be home for the family supper. He forgot the grumpy locals who accepted that the spell of rain was longer than expected and rushed to their dry homes for a well-deserved break. He was aware only of her and mechanically followed her every step, enchanted by her elegance. Quite suddenly, having no recollection of the walk there, he found himself in front of the Diodati Rooms. He had never heard of it before.

She pushed the door and paused on the doormat in order to brush the lingering drops of rain off her coat, her face, her hair. Still in her wake, he saw her smile at him expectantly, as if asking, So? What do you think?, but he could not answer. He loved the place. It was chaotic and eclectic and had the distinct flair of bygone days. The café, like himself, seemed not at all to fit into the bustling hubbub of the city. Yet, there it was. And that this apparition of a woman had led him to precisely this place, which was unknown and yet felt familiar–– it triggered a flood of thoughts in him. He could not explain why, but it brought back all the dreams he had discarded, all the hopes on which he had given up. They seemed possible once again. The reverie was delicious and for some time he indulged in it.

After he had fully taken in the details of the café, he saw that she was already at the counter. She was chatting with the barista. He could not hear what they said but he noticed the gossipy looks they threw at him. When he finally reached her side, she ordered the drinks: “He’ll have a double espresso,” – it pleased him that she remembered – “and the usual for me.”

They went to sit by the window, in two cushioned armchairs which, though comfortable, he thought were strangely unsuited for the occasion because she was more than an arm’s length away from him: an unbearable distance for not allowing the innocent flirtatious touch. She slowly stirred her piccolo latte but paid no attention to the cup. Instead, she looked deep into his eyes, and did not once divert her gaze; and he, entranced and enchanted, equally lost himself in the profundities that opened up in her visage. They did not say a word but it was not awkward in the least, for they conversed nonetheless. Eyes peering or narrowing; pupils dilating and retracting; slightly twitching lips; hands reaching for the hair, playing with it; a subtle inclination of the neck: they were far more eloquent than words.

Their silence was truthful.

He could not tell how long they sat in the café. His espresso had grown cold, untouched.

Dusk had turned into night. The rain had stopped. They exited into the thronging streets, and kept their harmonious silence. Tightly holding each other’s hands, they walked aimlessly. He felt an intense need to be as close to her as was possible without tripping over her feet. Suddenly, she stopped on the corner of a street and turned to face him. The embrace surprised him pleasantly in its strength and duration and he refused to break it. He did not want to let go.

A last look.

A kiss.

They parted.

* * *

Hours later, he stood outside his flat. He reached into the pocket of his coat for his keys. Something fell out, dropped to the floor. Intrigued, he bent down, unfolded the scrap of paper and read: How lovely to meet you. Laura x