02-25-2024, 09:52 PM
“Sure. Who doesn’t like beautiful things?” he said. Though a burlesque club in the red light district was about as far away as you could get from high brow art of the like he presumed Kristian had shown Jensen. Raffe’s life had never afforded for such intellectual things, and he’d never considered before now – suddenly ensconced in the sort of luxury that was everyday for some – how small the circle of his life was. He’d never even left Moscow.
Normally he would have said more. He wasn’t uncomfortable, and he did not shirk eye contact or seemed distintered. He even smiled, but there was a glass wall between him and his thoughts. Between him and the world, truth told. There had been a man coming to the club as late who sometimes pierced the fugue; reminded Raffe what it was to actually smile, though the feeling happened in a strange kind of isolation. But enough to also remind him how to fake it. It was how he stepped through his life these days, weaving an artifice of normality. But it was getting harder to remember why he did it.
He presumed it was the carved leaves of his mask which directed the conversation. Noticing the small details of a person, Raffe knew the trick; he employed it often at Kallisti, because he always liked to make people feel seen. And he should have cared about the gardens. Not a place he’d visited often, for even the nominal entrance fee was not always something he had to spare.They were indeed beautiful though, and for Raffe it was a beauty that reached deeper than appreciation. Though he could say the same for any green space, beautiful or not.
Talk of tulips and mothers reminded him of personal losses. But it felt like nothing. He could barely remember the sound of his own mother’s voice, and he’d never even been to Holland.
“What beautiful words, Mr James.” He felt Noémi’s touch on his arm as she stepped into the breach of his unintentional silence.
“They are,” he agreed. And meant it. “I’ve been, but not often, and I’ve never seen the tulips. I keep plants on my windowsill. Not quite the same thing.”
Normally he would have said more. He wasn’t uncomfortable, and he did not shirk eye contact or seemed distintered. He even smiled, but there was a glass wall between him and his thoughts. Between him and the world, truth told. There had been a man coming to the club as late who sometimes pierced the fugue; reminded Raffe what it was to actually smile, though the feeling happened in a strange kind of isolation. But enough to also remind him how to fake it. It was how he stepped through his life these days, weaving an artifice of normality. But it was getting harder to remember why he did it.
He presumed it was the carved leaves of his mask which directed the conversation. Noticing the small details of a person, Raffe knew the trick; he employed it often at Kallisti, because he always liked to make people feel seen. And he should have cared about the gardens. Not a place he’d visited often, for even the nominal entrance fee was not always something he had to spare.They were indeed beautiful though, and for Raffe it was a beauty that reached deeper than appreciation. Though he could say the same for any green space, beautiful or not.
Talk of tulips and mothers reminded him of personal losses. But it felt like nothing. He could barely remember the sound of his own mother’s voice, and he’d never even been to Holland.
“What beautiful words, Mr James.” He felt Noémi’s touch on his arm as she stepped into the breach of his unintentional silence.
“They are,” he agreed. And meant it. “I’ve been, but not often, and I’ve never seen the tulips. I keep plants on my windowsill. Not quite the same thing.”
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