Shades of Trust

  Within the utter silence of an unvoiced existence, serving as an unexciting renewal zone for dust motes and impressive Highland claymores, a rare edition of Fernando Pessoa, in Portuguese, called her. Sophia reached for The Book of Disquiet, about the absurdity of living and the inability of man to understand his own existence.

  She held it to her chest as she made her way downstairs to read it to someone who was questioning his own new life and now disconnected guilt.

  Sophia didn’t notice but as she randomly read the four-hundred-and-eighty-one passages with its unarticulated speech, Alistair’s plucked strings resonated within the momentarily empty and withdrawn chambers of his soul.

  “And this is so dispassionate and so perfectly matched to the title. Listen. ‘In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless history. These are my Confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it’s because I have nothing to say.’ I have nothing to say…” she parroted the last phrase, waiting for a word of his or a sound of recognition as he had been doing.

  Even though he was gazing at her, he could not see her.

  In fact, only his body was there. His soul was in a painful universe of its own, closeted to any gentle gesture that could bring him comfort.

  Alistair was in a world of unlived memories, unshed tears, unfelt kisses, untouched caresses, untold stories, untraveled journeys, and so many unloved days.

  Sophia closed the book and put it on the table between them. She knelt beside him, the back of her hand touching his cheek lightly. “Meu amor. Let’s go upstairs. You’re tired. You’re not even listening.”

  He shook his head slowly to one side and the other. “I was. ‘Each of us is a speck of dust that the wind lifts up and then drops.’ Dust. That’s where we all are bound to return to.”

  I picked up the wrong book. Sophia eyed the nineteenth-century Joshua Wilder tall-case clock. “Come on, Alistair Connor. It’s past eleven.”

  “Go.” He chose another cheroot and lit it. “I’ll just finish this and follow you.”

  I won’t get through to him tonight. Sophia stood up, and resignedly left him alone with his untouched whisky. Maybe it’s all that he needs. Space to brood in peace.

  But she knew that wasn’t true.

  Alistair was not brooding.

  He was mourning.

  11:55 p.m.

  Sophia sighed, looking at Gabriel’s Daytona Rolex.

  Deciding she didn’t want to sit quietly waiting for Alistair, she shed her wrap and put on her warm clothes again.

  In the unlit castle, she climbed down the large dark stairs seeking him.

  In the library, hisses and a few cracks indicated the fire was dying. A spark in the ashes reflected on the Lalique bottle of the Macallan whisky. The caramel liquid seemed to sway. Next to it, a glass showed Alistair had only half drunk it.

  A loud sound made Sophia jump.

  She put a hand over her rapidly beating heart. And the sound repeated itself.

  Stupid, Sophia. She chuckled nervously at her foolishness. It’s just the tall-clock indicating midnight has arrived.

  When a male hand fell over her shoulder, only a whizzing breath left her mouth.

  Chapter 16

  Sunday, January 30, 2011

  12:01 a.m.

  Sophia spun, ready to punch and elbow whoever was threatening her. She was about to scream for help when she saw Erskine holding a very heavy black manteau with a hood.

  “I’m sorry, Lady Ells,” Erskine apologized. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  God. She tilted her head to the side at the old man’s dejected voice. “What are you doing awake at this late hour, Erskine?”

  “Tonight…” He made a gesture with his hand. “He is outside, in the family crypt as he always does on this night. But tonight…he was different. I begged him not to go. He didn’t listen to me. I couldn’t stop him. Please, bring him back.”

  There was something oddly hasty and edgy in Erskine’s plea.

  “I’ve never been there.” And the idea doesn’t sound very nice at this late hour.

  “I turned on the path lights so you won’t get lost. The entrance is behind the chapel, after the trees. You can’t miss the large and tall old white limestone crypt with a light over it, beside it there is the stairs to the underground catacombs. At the end, there is a fence, which separates the children’s graves. He’ll be there.” The words had barely been spoken out loud. “Lady Ells, please. Bring him back.”

  She bit her lower lip at the old man’s eerie whisper. Something very wrong is happening. She nodded. “I will.”

  Erskine put the manteau over her shoulders and she closed it.

  The cold wind bit her face when he opened the door for her.

  Sophia pulled the hood over her head and walked the softly illuminated path where a layer of white snow had been disturbed by large boot prints.

  Dumb! Idiot! You should have brought your iPhone, Sophia. How are you going to see in the darkness now?

  There was no light after the chapel. After it, a grove concealed the crypt’s entrance.

  Since her childhood, Sophia had been afraid of dark places. I can fall again. There are going to be moths—

  Before she got too scared to continue, she cut her thoughts short.

  A small, far away light was beaming at her.

  Deeply breathing the icy air, she entered the dark grove, accompanied by the sounds of the night.

  A bat flew low with a whooshing sound and Sophia squeaked. She rushed until she reached the crypt entrance and located the stairs.

  “Alistair Connor,” she breathed from above but no one answered.

  The faint light over her head did not reach down into the catacombs, making her descent unsafe. The stairs looked sturdy at first, but to avoid tripping on the much used stone steps she had to use the manteau to hold on to the icy steel handrail.

  On the last step, she stopped, rubbing her hands to warm them. I’m not going in further.

  Inside the long, ancient chamber, she searched for him. This is not a place for people. At least, not for living people.

  She called again, louder, “Alistair Connor.”

  And his name echoed on the high vaulted stone ceilings.

  “Go away-away,” came back the echoed reply.

  This is where his demons hide. Slowly her eyes adjusted to the gloomy, overwhelming chamber. From its lonely and desolate hidden recesses came a barely there tremulous light that made the shades even longer and more ghostly.

  The whole cold place and its spooky atmosphere frightened Sophia to death.

  Yet there lay his daughter.

  And there he was kneeling.

  “I’m coming to get you, Alistair Connor,” she informed.

  The only answer she received was the echo of his name.

  One, two, three. Go.

  In spite of her first decision to stay put, Sophia stepped forward, back in time into an eerie place where the ancient residents revealed their presence by whispering dark secrets in the shadows.

  Don’t come closer. Go away. Just. Go. Away. Closing his eyes, he bent and rested his forehead on his knees. All he wanted was to be alone. Alone with his pain and the cold grave of his daughter.

  His beautiful daughter he would never see again.

  Once more, his hands and fingers grasped the marble spikes with so much force, deep cuts opened. His little Nathalie was forever sealed inside and it didn’t deserve its cleanness.

  If he could go back and change everything, he would. At that time, he would kill for her. He would die for her. But he couldn’t anymore.

  If he could, he would have sold his soul to the devil just to have Nathalie back safe and sound. He was already hellbound. It would make no difference.

  No one had listened to his shouted pleas.

  Not God; not even the devil.

  It was then that he discovered God or evil were not en
tities. They were powerful forces of selfishness and cruelty that shrouded lost souls like his.

  But he was not sure of anything anymore.

  He, himself, had chosen Nathalie’s most beautiful party dress, hair clip, warmest socks, little white boots, white fur lined gloves, and manteau. Her favorite blanket, pillow, and doll were inside her little coffin.

  He had let no one help him.

  But no loving thing could diminish his pain, anguish, incompetence, impotency.

  “I didn’t mean to leave you alone with her. I didn’t mean so many things,” he whispered to the small marble tile his hands now smoothed, leaving bloody marks. “And now, I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing.”

  The first week after her death, he spent days and nights buried there with her. When his mother’s health deteriorated, he leashed his pain to help her cope with hers better. But after his mother died, he had returned, at exactly midnight, every single thirtieth of each month.

  Kneeling by his daughter’s little grave, he told her all the children’s films he had seen alone just because he knew she would like them. He read and read many fairy tales until he knew them by heart to tell her on their special night.

  He’d always lied to her, saying the sun was shining outside and the flowers were blooming, waiting for her to come back.

  He had let the marble spikes, which he had designed to protect her grave, cut his palms until they were bloody. Miserable, he lay on the cold stone floor and cried alone for hours.

  His world became uglier, darker, and cloudier without her.

  Each day, he felt lonelier and gloomier than the day before.

  Until Sophia.

  Until Gabriela.

  And now, he was thinking of having another baby.

  He, who hadn’t been able to care for his beloved daughter; who hadn’t been able to protect her from the cruelty of her own mother.

  He heard Sophia’s footsteps reverberating softly on the walls and he could feel she was hesitant.

  In his fear and ache there was only room for doubt and uncertainty. John’s words about the donated sperm hadn’t left his mind. And he questioned if in his selfish whim, he was opening a path to bring sorrow to Sophia’s life.

  “What should I do, Nathalie?” He put his hands over his face to muffle his renewed sobs, but nothing could contain the bitter taste in his mouth.

  Sophia’s heart pained as his sobs ricocheted off the stones to slash deep into her. She could barely discern the ground or the walls but so far she hadn’t tripped on any plaque or grave, nor had her hand touched anything strange. She didn’t care anymore.

  Bats and moths be damned, I said I would be here for him, and I will.

  With the tip of her fingers touching one of the walls, and an arm stretched out in front of her, she hurried her pace, the light getting clearer and steadier, the shades less frightening until she reached a shoulder-high fence.

  Behind it, was the only altar in the catacombs.

  A poignant fresco featured a madonna cuddling a baby arranged in pale-pink, baby-blue and white blankets with angels and cherubs around them. A painting totally in discord with the affliction and suffering that engraved the plates on the floor and on the walls.

  However, it was the fresco’s intention: to give a measure of peace where there could be none for the living.

  It was a sacred place. A haven for little angels gone back to heaven.

  Sophia breathed deep, and crossed the intricate opened iron gate.

  Alistair’s black overcoat spilled around him, and his long hair fell forward almost touching the ground. His face was buried in his hands.

  Kneeling and hunched over, his darkness absorbed the light of the only tall thin candle lit on the altar.

  He was still crying, more subdued now, the suffering so very great, it knotted his body.

  She had come all that way, so he would not hide what happened each time he visited this little grave.

  He saw no reason to shelter her from his dark sins, from the kingdom of horrors that were woven in his soul. A kingdom he himself had created. He would not pretend otherwise. He couldn’t anymore.

  Through his long wet lashes and his puffy eyelids, his bloodshot eyes saw an unfocused dark angel towering over him.

  So dark that he shuddered. Sophia had always seemed like an avenging angel, like Raphael or Michael, but unfocused and from below, she resembled Samael, the angel of death.

  Oh, my love. I’m so sorry. She stretched out her hands and whispered softly, “Meu amor, why didn’t you call me? I told you I would be with you. It’s late. We can return tomorrow.”

  My Sophia, my always sweet Sophia. My salvation.

  “Hello, Nathalie,” she whispered, through a great lump in her throat. “I’m your stepmother.”

  He saw her hands stretch out the manteau as black wings, softly offering help and shelter, a way out of his own private hell.

  Still kneeling, he slowly raised his head to show himself to her, knowing she would be shocked by the beast that had taken control of his insides.

  Speechless, Sophia fell on her knees in front of him, her hands framing his face and touching it desperately.

  He put his hands over hers, abandoning himself to her in all his heartbreaking woe.

  He, who was always so sure and so firm, the one everybody could rely on, had never felt so crushed and fractured.

  Her eyes widened. She turned his hands, gaping at them. The soft insides of his palms and his fingers were all lacerated and blood ran from them. She gasped, horrified.

  Everywhere there were drops and streaks of blood. On his face, on his gray sweater, on the grave. Now on her hands.

  Oh, dear God. Tears filled her eyes and the overwhelming feelings inside her were so great that she was incapable of judgments of any kind.

  Anger, pain, hate, or guilt. It could be one or all. And he needed to feel whatever was in him to feel.

  He’d lost a child; his child, whom he loved so very much and who could never be replaced.

  Until then, she hadn’t seen the small tomb. A strangled sound left her mouth when she realized what he had done. I didn’t know it was this bad.

  “Why?!” he rasped the question that was stuck in her throat. And with a voice as rough as sandpaper from crying and sobbing, he answered, “Because. Because she was too young to suffer; because she was too young to die; because she did nothing wrong; because I couldn’t protect her; and because of too many reasons, I have to suffer too. But mostly, Sophia….mostly because I can’t understand why she is alone under this cold, frozen earth and I, I am here above. I wish I could have gone in her place.”

  Please, Alistair Connor. “Tell me more.” Her whisper didn’t even echo. She knew bereaved parents need to talk about their child and the circumstances of their death over and over again. But not him. His feelings were still too ingrained.

  He just shook his head and passed his hands over his face, smearing more blood on it.

  “Come back with me. We will return tomorrow and we can tell her about many things we have done together.” Together. I will help you.

  His lips curled down and his bloodied hands gripped two of the spiked marbles that were all around the tomb as if he could carry it with him. More blood flowed from his hands.

  She muffled a sob trying not to think about his raw and consuming pain; so intense and extreme that it led to self-flagellation. She willed herself not to think about what she would do were it her daughter under that stone.

  Nathalie was Gabriela’s age when she had died.

  And that thought undid her arduous resolution not to cry.

  She embraced him over the little tomb.

  Forehead upon forehead, they cried over the most unfathomable mystery which cut deep and ruthlessly into everyone’s soul; thorns set deep in their hearts; thorns that would forever change their feelings and would bond their hurt together to make it more bearable.

  His vivid-red blood, which stained
the once pristine white marble, flowed watery in rivulets as their many tears drop over and mingled with it.

  After a long time had passed, he calmed himself and his tired arms dropped to caress the flat small tomb again. Let me be, please. “I need a few more minutes.”

  Oh, no, my love. “Did you pray?” When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Do you pray?”

  I forgot how to. He shook his head.

  “Can I say a few words? For Nathalie?” she requested, and he nodded. Oh, Gabriel, help me. In a whisper, she said, “Almighty God, I give and trust to you this little baby angel, turned my daughter of heart, our Nathalie, to guard and love. Please, keep her warm and safe in your arms. Sweet angels in Heaven, lull and watch over our Nathalie in her eternal sleep, protecting her from harm and cold, as if she were your own. Amen.”

  “Amen,” he croaked.

  “She is in Heaven, my love. She is in peace,” Sophia softly breathed, passing her fingers through his hair, smoothing it back, and rose. She picked up the candle, signaling to him that they had to go.

  Alistair pressed his hands down hard on the little tomb, making it even more bloodied. Privately, he breathed to the marble tile, “I’ll be back soon, Nathalie.”

  Sophia stretched out her hand, as if offering her own heart in it. Ungainly, he tucked her under his coat in the crook of his arm and she passed her arm around his waist.

  He blew out the candle. In the total dark, he whispered, “Sleep well, Nathalie, my love.”

  Sophia stumbled slightly. If she weren’t firmly enlaced by Alistair’s arm, she would have never made it out of the tall, lengthy haunted chamber.

  However, a piece of her heart turned around and laid there to sleep by the small grave.

  1:59 a.m.

  Erskine opened the door when Sophia and Alistair appeared on the path; one so close to the other that there was just one shadow on the ground. He looked to the sky and saw the clouds had disappeared and the stars were shining. He wondered if Alistair’s torment was coming to an end.

  “Thank you,” Erskine whispered to Sophia, who mouthed the same words to him.