THE AUTUMN MIST
He was intrigued by her affected manners. Her lips were painted a bright red, and her skillfully penciled eyes slid over him as if she were blind. The woman was pale, and her hollow cheeks had a touch of blush. She wore a small hat with a broad brim that cast a shadow on her face when she bent over her small delicate purse to get a handkerchief to dry her constantly watering eyes.
While trying to impress him, she jabbered non-stop, nervously crumpling her jacket. When she spoke, she hardly moved her lips, but her arched eyebrows moved up and down in a strange manner.
Her voice was pleasant but with sudden melodic pitches that sounded like false notes in a long operatic aria. Nevertheless, he was annoyed by the vulgarity of her manners, her incessant babble. To all appearances, he found her monologue tedious because at times she was seemingly constrained and uncomfortable. He didn’t interrupt her discourse but watching her with some curiosity. What irritated him the most was her unnatural vulgarity combined with an almost angelic innocence or even na;vet;. In this, he sensed an air of mystery about her.
He was a famous writer, trying to spend some time in solitude, escaping a crowd of noisy admirers. He realized that the unknown woman had no idea who he was and had just stopped by to chat at her leisure, enjoying her free time. He learned from her that those three marvelous days on the ship had been given to her as a present by her mother.
It was a quiet, cold autumn evening, and the sea breeze was pleasantly refreshing. The northern wind blew from the ocean on deck, bringing with it bubbles of water that left a briny tang on their lips, redolent of the taste of salted fish. The lonely moon suddenly cut the mist, glaring down on the water, gilding a path to the ship, and then its light faded, and the moon became quite obscured. A heavy fog completely erased the visible line between the sky and the ocean. The night slowly thickened, merging with the vast expanse of the waters. It was as if the tiny stars and the moon had drowned in the interminable ocean, and the music of the night wallowed in its waves. The very air seemed full of slow melodies and buzzing sounds of the night.
A sudden feeling of tranquility seized her whole being as the earthy paleness spread over her cheeks. The cold stars, like small fireflies, twinkled in the distant sky, clear-green and almost pellucid. And everything suddenly became so distant, so unimportant, even this cold autumn night, the dark viscous air and her own life. She knew about the approaching end, and there, beyond the horizon, she sensed a mystery, the mystery of death. Watching the falling night merging with the ocean, she thought about immortality and infinity, which transcended her capacity for apprehension of life. One day, her life too would be brought to the finish line where space and time have no limits. The wind gently touched her face, stroked her cold hands, like a lover who felt her grief, her fear of death. She cited:
I am an illusion, a reality, a shadow, in pain,
Absorbing the suffering of all, in vain.
Oh, God, just let me land
Before I drown, before the coming end.
In the empty space of moon eclipse,
I do exist.
Just send to me a stream of living light
To stay alive.
He listened to her melodic voice in surprise. The depth of her verses touched his heart. They both watched in silence as night fell, and the moon reflected on the surface of the dark waters, imparted to their faces a touch of a silvery hue. Admiring the beauty of the moment, he bent and looked into her eyes. And there, he found fear, helplessness and sensitivity to spiritual unknowns. At this very moment he thought that her appearance alluded to some mystery in her past. Her subtlety charmed him instantly and aroused a deep sympathy to her hidden suffering. He realized that under the veil of vulgarity she sheltered the real woman, strange and mysterious.
“For pity’s sake, please tell me what is making you suffer,” he demanded, grabbing her hand, forgetting about his previous annoyance with her and felt how thin and fragile her hand was. She pulled it away and laughed loudly, embarrassing him for his sudden
impulsive behavior. The wind caught up her loud roar of laughter and carried it far away into the ocean, leaving only ripples on the water and the distant echo of her fading voice. He didn’t utter a word and, turning away from her, began walking at a sluggish pace along the deck, careening from side to side, as though there
were high waves. He hoped that she would follow him, but she didn’t.
* * * * *
The next morning, he saw her again in the dining room. She was eating her breakfast in solitude. She seemed to be deep in thought, leafing through the pages of a book, as if she were deeply immersed in her reading. He recognized the cover of the book even from afar – his latest novel.
The room at this early morning hour was almost empty. The shimmering sunrays rained down through the windows, playing with the crystal glasses and casting a light on her tired and yet very youthful face. She wore no make-up, and only her lips had a touch of pale pink. Her heavy dark curly hair was scattered in disarray over her shoulders. Puzzled, he approached her behind the table:
“May I share your solitude?” His hand instinctively touched her shoulder.
She gasped and then slowly craned her head.
“Good morning. It is a beautiful morning. Isn’t it?” She replied, glancing at him without any interest and closed her book, ignoring his question.
“Yes, it is a lovely morning, and I hate to see you having coffee alone.” He waved to a waiter and sat across from her.
“I noticed you reading my last novel….” She didn’t let him finish his sentence:
“Somebody left it on this table when I came…” And suddenly, she blushed like a child who had been caught lying.
He stifled a smile and said seriously, “What do you think about this book?”
She hesitated to reply as if a thousand thoughts had burst into her mind causing her to pause. “I am impressed by your sensitivity, your ability to look deep into the soul, to see beyond the invisible line. You are an artist, who can paint the portrait of a soul, feel its suffering and make the reader plunge into the story, and become a part of it.”
She lost all her jocularity and flippancy of speech. She was now a different woman, not the one he had met last night.
“So, you are familiar with my books.” He stared at her. “I am amazed by your vision. I would say the depth of your vision. Do you write?” She didn’t answer right away, thinking and then looked at him haughtily.
“Well, yes and no. I used to write poetry but not anymore.” And then, smiling, “Let’s go outside. I adore the autumn sun when it is so unusually warm and cold at the same time.”
He watched her closely, amazed at how much she had changed since yesterday. She didn’t try anymore to pretend or bewitch him with her vulgarity and loquaciousness and now seemed to be pensive and withdrawn. Today, he was struck by the allure in her sudden quiet manners as she gracefully fluttered about the deck, holding a long scarf and deeply inhaling the salty ocean breeze. She reminded him of an untamed animal, trapped in a cage and searching for the way out.
“Do you travel alone? I’ll be glad to keep your company.” He said softly, trying to march in step with her.
She steered away from this question, but her face brightened with pleasure, revealing her true feelings. The morning sun began to grow dim, and feathery clouds hovered above the waters, like white birds, spreading their wings as they fly away from danger. The air suddenly darkened, as if an invisible artist had splashed muted colors on a clean canvas. A strange otherworldly light cut the mist, illuminating the sky for only a moment, and then the first drops of rain fell on the deck. He dared to put his arms around her shoulders, pressing her closely and feeling the warmth of her skin under the light dress.
“I am fine,” she protested, easing away from his embrace. “I like to feel the touch of the first drops of rain on my face. It is like the timid kiss of a lover.” She squinted at him, flashing an expressive smile and suddenly changed the subject, looking at him over her shoulder:
“Did you sleep well last night?”
“Actually, yes, I slept like a baby. Why are you asking?”
“Because I didn’t sleep at all. I was disturbed by the emotion of our meeting. Don’t you think that emotional stress invigorates the creative process? Yesterday’s evening was sad and translucent, as if it were lit up from beyond by the cold fading moon. In my dream, there were strange images floating in space before my eyes: waves, stars, twisted faces of death, like those in Bosch’s paintings. I am so deeply aware of the power of the sea and its potential for death, and destruction, and yet of its contribution to the beauty of the world, and its inspiration for creativity.” All her worries seemed to melt away as she talked to him, watching the glowing open sea, outlined against the autumn sky.
Swept by emotion, he interrupted her:
“A German philosopher, Oswald Spengler, once wrote that the creative essence of culture is progressively lost, and now becomes shallow, giving way to a soulless civilization. I have to agree with his philosophy, but nevertheless, our emotions will never dry up or die. Their force will give us this impetus of creativity and will remain in our work forever. We derive our inspiration not only from our inner being, but also from the beauty of nature that gives us energy to create. And, yes, yes, I do agree with you about the emotional stress being a vehicle for the creative process.”
He began to enjoy their conversation when she suddenly turned away from the ocean and grabbed his hand. She had lost all her vibrant colors of yesterday and her body was shaking with a feverish chill as she turned deathly pale.
“Please, help me to get to my cabin. I am tired, very tired,” she whispered in a changed voice and staggered, almost fainting.
He wound his arm around her waist, and she put her hand on his shoulder, looking for support. People passed them by without paying any attention to them, trying to escape the cold drops of the sudden downpour.
She had just enough strength to get to her cabin. He helped her to bed and took off her shoes. He held her wrist – her pulse was all in a flutter. She was shivering and, in a peremptory tone, unusual for her, demanded a cup of hot tea.
When he returned with tea, she was already undressed and asleep. As he watched her face, peaceful in sleep, the contour of her shapely body, twisted under the white sheet, her full breast rose and she groaned heavily. Even in her sleep she possessed an ardent charm, a hidden sexuality that aroused his animal instincts and long-forgotten desire. He just could not force himself to leave, so he settled his aching body comfortably in the armchair, and watching her in her sleep, he too was soon engulfed in slumber.
* * * * *
When he opened his eyes, the rain had already stopped, and the room was luminous with sunlight. She was still in bed, awake and pale but smiling.
“Do you feel better?” He stretched his tired body and took her hand in his.
“Oh, I am fine. It is just my hypersensitivity. Life is so difficult, so painful. It frightens me to think that one day I’ll find out what lies behind that invisible line where the dark waters of the sea intertwine with the sky.”
She raised her head above the pillow and looked straight into his eyes, as if trying to remind him of the previous evening. He felt the movement of her fingers in his hand and squeezed them with all his might.
“You make me wonder about you. Would you like to tell me your story? Sometimes, it’s much easier to share your life with a stranger. Isn’t it?” He said, driven by curiosity and continuing to hold her hand.
“Please, let my fingers go. You are hurting me.”
She laid her head back on the pillow feeling dizzy. “Anyway, it is a long rambling story, and I don’t want to bore you. I want to enjoy my trip and my sudden encounter with such a famous writer. Let’s have a good time. My story will lull you to sleep. Don’t look at me in bewilderment, please…” She stretched out the word “please,” and it sounded to him like a musical score. She continued without paying any attention at him, “I feel hungry again, and I need a breath of fresh air. Go now and wait for me on the deck,” she said firmly, not as a request but a command.
It was folly on his part to persist, and he obeyed like a schoolboy. He waited for her on the deck, watching the serenity of the autumn sky and the bitterness of the heavy ocean, feeling the cold wind on his skin, thinking about her. He knew that she was not a woman of easy virtue but an interesting and complicated woman, a puzzle he was determined to solve.
As a writer, he couldn’t resist his habit of watching people, studying their lives, exposing their naked souls. He was always impelled to bury himself in flames, to put his burning emotions on paper, take refuge in his work. He knew loneliness, despair, pain, and nothing could dispel them but his work, his obsession with plots, mysteries, intrigues, loves. He missed love, it lived only in his imagination; he was hungry for love. It was like an illusion, a distant outline of an unknown woman, merging with the attenuated darkness. He was not afraid anymore to be hurt by love; he had faith in finding it one day, one day…
She appeared suddenly behind him, interrupting the flow of his thoughts, intruding into his life with her undue familiarity. “I hope I am not intruding.” She annunciated slowly as if reading his mind, piercing him with her divinatory eyes.
“Oh, no, not at all, just the opposite. I need some fuel, some human touch to carry me away from my dismal thoughts.” He was rejuvenated.
He was glad to share with her his time and began to enjoy her company. Her presence aroused in him diverse feelings, yielding to love and releasing him from the sense of reality and time. The sun generously squandered its autumn warmth, and he already foresaw his victory over her wayward nature and her stubbornness.
How often the course of events is as unpredictable and incomprehensible as the movement of human thought. They became lovers that same night, passionate lovers, plunging into the moment given to them so suddenly, so unexpectedly. He had power over her femininity, over her floating moods. She obeyed, she followed his orders; she moaned and laughed, and cried.
Three days stretched into one long night, and he still didn’t know her, didn’t know anything about her. When he tried to grasp the core of her being, her life – she skillfully escaped his questions, his curiosity. “Don’t complicate our happiness,” she would say gently touching his hand. “Please don’t take me back into my past. Let us forget reality, tomorrow. Let us enjoy this dream. I don’t want to wake up. This dream is so tangible, so beautiful.”
However, the taste of their fleeting happiness was bitter, enshrouded in obscurity, fear. They were both aware of the end and so tried to sustain their courage. He was bewildered by the miracle of completeness that they both found in each other. The complexity of her mind and unintelligible sadness, her versatility appealed to his
writer’s imagination, but he couldn’t decipher her soul.
Through the mist of the autumn rain, she watched him nervously puffing his pipe. She felt grateful to him for those three marvelous days that he had given to her. Their love presented them with a greater range of emotions, sensibility and depth, giving new meaning to their existence. She put her head on his shoulder, moving her body closer to his as if searching for a shelter, a safe place, like a snail longing to hide in its shell, layers of shell. The wind, the sea, the morning air had the scent of the coming autumn. The melody of the waves, the whisper of the wind created the music of sadness that tormented them, crucified them spiritually.
“You’ll forget me soon. I am nobody, or maybe just that tiny star that soon will merge with the clouds,” she said dreamily.
He didn’t reply because he didn’t know what to say to her. He felt tension and pity in his heart for her, for this seemingly insipid adventure.
They departed at the quay, where she was greeted by her husband and her mother, embraced by her sister and someone else he couldn’t see from that distance. He wished he could have been invisible and that all of these people would fade away before his eyes. The dream lost its shape and turned into reality. He rushed to get home, so that he could lock himself into his work. He hoped his work would keep him away from his memories, from her.
One month passed in solitude, in writing, but unconsciously, the memories of her still rushed through his mind as he tried to push them away. He gained new power in his writing as a novel began to take shape on paper. He allowed himself to reproduce the emotions and feelings that he experienced for those short three days with her. He thought that by this time he would have erased her from his memory, he would have healed the pain of losing her, and returned to his everyday routine, but he could not. Even his old friends and his habitual environment became an unexpected burden. He blamed himself for not trying to learn more about her, her life. Now, as he wallowed in total inactivity, life suddenly lost its flamboyant colors.
One more month passed before he saw her again. He was frittering away the afternoon in the park, watching another boring day fade away before his eyes. It was the end of fall, and the mist shrouded the sky and the streets. She appeared suddenly, as if she had drawn back the curtain of the dense fog. She didn’t notice him, being engaged in conversation with a man, perhaps her husband (he couldn’t remember his face). A little boy, three or four years old, held her hand. She looked pale and peaceful, and he didn’t want to disturb that peace.
How could he know that she would die soon of an incurable disease, dreaming of him and afraid of seeing him again, afraid to cause him unnecessary pain? How could he know that those three days with him were the happiest days of her short life? He would never know, and only the autumn mist would remind him of that fleeting episode in his rich and yet lonely life.