Vampire opera noir reprise

As I watch the shadows on the wall like some scene from a Bela Lugosi film, the music seems to call to me and I get up pulled by the haunting sounds of his music

and at first I am stopped to watch him from the gallery landing outside the bedroom that in profile overlooks Jörn at his piano in the center of the living room that is all open, like some great hall in a Norman castle with the backdrop of the dark and dense forest beyond the barn house great window

this combination of the heavy ominous music; slammed hard on the deep low range with the peddle pressed to echo vibrato in contrast to the light and tinkling of high range; like a bird in flight

I watch .... and closer still .... to catch it all

like every second of my life, this need to record, verbatim diary

as close to accurate my documented proofs of memories; existence --

I press my phone

to record .... and close up to his face

and move....

                      am moved--

thus moved

to stop


and sit transfixed to every detail of him; no I'd never tire of his face, no matter how old he got; this time not to go too soon. So moved by his music I hardly notice as I record him that his face is wet with tears and it is only this that induces me to rush down the stairs but have to pause because of how well he plays this sequence and caught there

Jörn clears his throat when he realizes I'm there and seems to shrug but I see this way he wipes the evidence of what I saw was there

"Did I wake you?" and his voice is more dry than usual. Instead of saying anything, I go to him and move between him and the piano and wrap around him to kiss his face and feel the texture of his hair against my lips

"I don't mind. That part is new isn't it?" I say "I love it, it's so beautiful," and then move to sit beside him

"Here--" he says and puts one arm around me, he reaches for my hands, "I'll teach it to you.... like this...." he says and then he says, "we've not done this in awhile...." and because I have missed this I let him show me

And for a long while we play the way we used to when we first met, the way he kissed me as he did this, and reminding how with his touch and his music he could possess my soul with the passion and depth of his emotion and how willingly I forget myself in it. And so he does, right there at his piano do to my body what he accomplishes with his notes, wrapped around his hips

and later after we realize we never ate and are starving with hunger,  we share and devour a bowl of pesto and pasta before we return from the kitchen back to his piano again


But then, as we sit at the piano, Jörn stops playing as if becoming tired of playing and turns suddenly to me



“Your mother never mentioned Ethan Rhys Jones again after—?”

His non-sequitorial question causes me to sharply stare at him, my mind going blank for a moment.

but then, thoughts come

 as if willed on their own

it causes a course of thoughts and I am sat by his side but suddenly transferred as if by a flying carpet back to our little kitchen in Amsterdam, to our flat across from Amstel Park that lays parallel to Europa Boulevard. If any place in the world conjures feelings of home, it will always pull me there

and for a long moment I let myself be indulged with this

.... and the day

   that day

the very first time she said his name to me

I don’t know if there was a part of me that already knew —knew this moment would press indelibly inside my mind; that afternoon. I remember all of that moment. Drinking tea with her, a Sunday, it was, and I faced the window when on clear days I could see the hotel Okura, past the Rei.

Finally I blink and realize I got lost there

I look up at Jörn and study his expression. It is the surprise of such a strange yet deep look of —concern? or is it worry? No, I can’t at all discern what the look there on his face actually means, and I feel compelled to touch him, wanting to smooth it away,

“I was fifteen— no, sorry, sixteen....” I have to stop to calculate and take another moment to sort through a mental stack of playing cards whose suits all seem out of order.... and I try to sort them so many years now they have long reshuffled

it hurts my head to think. I have to rub the tension in between my brows as I feel the start of a migraine. I take a conscious deep breath.

After a long pause as I consider what may prompt Jörn to ask I decide he must have a reason to ask, and.... since the hike with him I have felt .... something within me towards Jörn has altered

only what, I cannot quite fathom

only that.... it feels

    as if.... some gateway has opened.... up

my heart even rushes, skipping a beat and.... have to cup my hands to stop myself from the vertigo of hyperventilating ....that lightheaded feeling; blind faith

“I was always writing, even back then....” I begin, not looking at him, “you know, scripts and plays.... I was big into Oscar Wilde in those days ....and —Woody Allen....” I laugh at myself, “but I remember I was writing a story that I had been reciting to her this one afternoon.... “ I get a sick feeling, “well, it was about this bastard princess....” I shake my head and stop talking. I find I can’t breath. I turn to the piano keys and lay my fingers down.... touch the keys.... let it go .... and play some familiar chords

but Jörn watches me. I feel it, don’t have to look up. Then I do look up at him.... and see .... his eyes are patient.... he seems in no hurry to press me. He just watches me.... and again, there is something so different there now in his eyes; soft now, gray overcast the hint of glitter in the dim light

Another deep breath before I press on,

“looking back now.... “ I shake my head and shrug, “it blows my mind how thick I can be about recognizing the obvious.... well.... I remember she said the oddest thing....”

“Why—what was it?” and only now Jörn seems to rush me

I look down at the floor to avoid the distraction of his eyes now needing to figure something about this out.... even as knowing it will always allude me and is for naught

“Well— you know, she really wanted me to pursue painting, not writing. She seemed to think that I would be the artist she and my grandfather never got to be, so she was always nagging me about my sketch book, actually grading me weekly and criticizing every miscalculated mark of perspective and not spending enough time at it. So— it was a sudden turn when she said to me something that afternoon....” I stop and try to remember how she said it.... but it has been so many years now.... “she told me she wanted me to write a new story.... because she said I was gifted and reminded her of someone she once knew, and....she wanted it to be about him....”  I play the Beethoven chord three times. Stop. I look up at Jörn and without realizing my intent to, I reach for his hand .... and hold it tight; grip; cling.... even as I don’t want to, I seem to keep talking, “she started to tell me about this man.... she said ....she wanted me to know who he was; a great man who had been wrongly maligned by .... the press, the government,” I shrug hopelessly lost in the memory of that talk as I remember the way she seemed to trap me in conversation ....and I grip his hand.... but realize what I do in that instant— and let go; ashamed. I look quickly away. But I go on, “it seemed hours went by— she’d even shut the kitchen door so as not to be overheard, which was weird, that door was never shut. But.... then —he— came in....”

“Your —“

“Father— or who I thought was....”

“Was this before or after the biology blood test assignment?” Jörn asks with a more mild tone as if only saying this as a prompt of encouragement

“Yes,” I say because I know he already knows. So I say, “he said, ‘are you talking about Jamaica?’”

"Jamaica?" Jörn asks

"Oh, that's where we lived my first year after I was born," I explain

"The island? Why there?"

"Because that's where my mother's best friend Barbara DeLisser was; her family owned the resort the Half Moon in those days, the playground of the jet setters my mother used to run with. That's how she became friends with people like Adolfo and Jacques Cousteau.... we lived there-- you know? I remember it--they say we don't remember early years but.... I do-- isn't that strange? I remember the soft feel of the sand ....and the voodoo shops with the faces and ....the steel drums...."

And I put my fingers back on the keys.... then the black keys.... that were always the trickiest part; their strange dissonance ....the motion sickness

I pull back.... Still— determined to face the music,

“The next day he was off to Barcelona ....” and look up at Jörn before putting the sequence together .... turn and play almost one bar

then have to get up and walk away

"Please play something else Jörn!" I go to the two story window to look out into the blackness of the forest

But I hear the bench scrape as he gets up and turn to watch him as he goes to get something by his sound equipment and realize it is a disc

"Here, before I forget," he comes toward me but then stops himself and walks deliberately towards the widescreen monitor to switch it on

he says,

"Before my father disowns me for being so forgetful about this-- you know, he called again, before to remind me! And-- he was being oddly mysterious about it ....so I know as much about what this is as you do and only then cryptically said he's 'already put it in the right hands' which he actually seemed to giggle after he said it!" Jörn laughs, "so, I'm curious...." he says before returning to the computer by his equipment to insert it


It is only once it begins that I realize what it is Joseph has asked Jörn to give me.... it is an edited version of all the recordings and footage I sent to him of Jörn at his piano of his opera but remastered with himself on cello with Elsa's vocals and his two grandchildren on clarinet and electric violin

Inquiry averted~the spy is ambushed (jm muse noir)

”...I think it’s because I’m clumsy
I try not to talk too loud
Maybe it’s because I’m crazy
I try not to act too proud

They only hit until you cry
After that you don’t ask why

You just don’t argue anymore
You just don’t argue anymore
You just don’t argue anymore...”

—Suzanne Vega; lyrics from song “Luka”

   




He says that I said other things after.... Sometimes it has happened when I forget things ....after ....when something happens that—well—I don’t know exactly.... something triggers an episode.... Sometimes. And those sometimes .... it seems like a curtain gets drawn over my mind

and with it the sense that ....

well.... I am not sure

I just know I never know what I have lost when it happens. It has only happened a few times .... well, that I know about. And it feels after like a vacancy .... replaces an episode of time and has erased the memory and leaving a residue of a kind of euphoria and a strange foggy lightheadedness and along with it a heavy fatigue

....like an exhaustion of emotions spent like a rubber band snapped across the room, then leaving a feeling like being somewhat drunk yet as if something .... has been released or purged

only.... to be honest, as we document time for this very reason....

you see


....I suppose it is the something that always later I find that I .... deeply fear,

suspecting I must have betrayed .... the Celf



But at first I don’t think about it because the euphoria is so strong it overcomes everything else

in retrospect I know it is the release that brings on the giddiness

****

It seems only like a moment is passed when I feel I blacked out

“Oh the heat,” I say as rub my eyes from behind my glasses and then look up at him

We are in the car now

but I don’t remember getting there. This occurs to me slowly as he seems to be staring at me so strangely.

I have never seen the look on his face before like that .... he is leaned over me in the front seat and only now moves over slightly closer to his side behind the wheel but his right hand is still gripping my upper arm while he lets go of my other arm with his left

His look is so strange! His eyes are so wild! The way he stares at me almost concerns me something is wrong

“I’m ok,” I tell him and try to laugh but I’m still dizzy, “it’s the heat,” I say

“Drink the water,” he says oddly, like a command, and pushes it in front of me with serious urgency and that spooky look still in his eyes as he watches me

“What happened?” he whispers this carefully as he studies me

“I guess I blacked out,” I say and feel abashed at all the attention he’s making of it

He shakes his head,
“....so you don’t remember what you just said?”

“The Beethoven thing, yes—I can play it for you when we get back!” I suddenly become excited with the thought

Still he stares at me as if I now have two heads

I decide to take his advice and drink the water

He starts the car but still stares at me before reaching to reverse he wipes his face with the back of his arm and it occurs to me by this motion he does that it was damp. But it does not seem like with sweat. In fact.... it is this which is the strangeness of his expression because I realize .... I have never seen him cry

“Jörn....?” I look at him


But he turns his face away now from me as if to look out the side rear view mirror as he reverses the car and clears his throat

“Are you ok?” I ask him

“Ja.... you said you’re hungry? I don’t think you’re feeling up to cooking—“

“Yes, I’d love to cook!” I say as the euphoria starts to hit and the surge of energy with it —and I suddenly feel quite creative as I begin to suggest ingredients that I recall are lying around, back at the house

but he’s only paying half attention to this as he continues to give me side long glances as he takes the road back to the barn house

only after we pull up the drive I lose my balance getting out and he runs over to me which makes me laugh,

“I just got dizzy, I’m not about to faint or anything! It’s not like I’m glass!” I laugh at him

only he still looks strangely at me and he says seriously,

“I don’t want you falling down on the driveway and cracking your head open and then having to take you to ER, I’d rather we skip that—put you arm around my neck,” he says this also like a command and I only do this because I start to feel he may be right as the horizon begins to swerve a little

When he kicks open the door and brings me in I say,

“can we play the Beethoven piece? Let’s sit at your piano! I’m in the mood to play,” I suggest; thrilled with the idea

“No— we’re not playing right now, duva—I don’t think you’re feeling well,” he says, “I have a better idea let’s go upstairs....” and he kicks the door closed and on the way he suggests, “I’ll draw you a bath and maybe I should make you dinner,” he says

No, it isn’t like it is out of character for him to say this but I find it unexpected because of the stress behind his tone which is why I move my arms closer around his neck and adjust myself and wrap my legs around his waist,

“I like the bath idea,” I say into his ear, “but only if you join me.”

He adjusts his grip on me as he reaches the top step and walks into the bedroom

“You sit here while I get the bath ready,” and he goes to set me down on the white, plush fake-fur, chair by the table, where I keep my things but I don’t let go,

and I say,
“stay here with me,” into his ear and press and mold myself against him firmly below his waist intentionally to change his mind and kiss his neck and ear

instead he sits in the chair with me on his lap to catch his breath and —giving up ....with just the slightest resistance

and because he looks worried and also because of what it seemed I saw before; the dampness on his face in the car that looked like tears I feel more worried for him than about myself

“I’m sorry,” I say to him and study his face now

I run my fingers over the angles of his face beginning from his brows to smooth the tension away and ending down to his jaw to kiss his mouth, letting loose, his hair to feel it with my fingers

“What are you sorry about?” he asks me looking at me

“Because we were having such a nice day and now I’ve ruined it.”

He smiles,
“you didn’t ruin it.... I asked you too many questions. It’s my fault. I should apologize. Let me make you dinner,” he says anxiously as if he feels guilty and moves as if to get up but I hold him down by gripping the back of the chair

“We can do it together,” I say but make no move to remove myself from his hips. Instead I press harder into him and feel that wild euphoria soar again and the wildness causes me to impulsively reach for something on the table from my makeup bag; I select a silver-color, crayon eye-pencil and decide it would be fun to outline his eyes in it

“What are you doing?” he asks as I start drawing on him

“I knew this would go well with your eyes!” and laugh because he can’t move and is forced to endure my whim as I do a good job of it beginning with the mysterious upward slant of his eyes and ending at the razor sharp edges by the bridge of his nose exaggerating the angle. Then find myself mesmerized by the effect

“When did you remember the notes of your composition?” he asks as if in surrender letting out a sigh and finally relaxing under me

I study my artistry but say,
“as we were talking. Weird, right? But I think it’s been coming to me in my dreams recently —I don’t know why it just suddenly popped out like that while we were talking!”

Only I see the way his kryptonite eyes narrow as he looks at me. I take a brush to smear the silver line into a smudge

Again he looks guilty I notice which oddly disturbs me

but then decide to consider lipstick shades

maybe just lip pencil; mauve or burgundy? but change my mind when I reach his lips and kiss him instead

“So have you made my eyes less evil looking now?” he breathes the question lasciviously into my ear and as I sense he has succumbed to my persuasion

“Why would you say they are evil?”

“Vampire?”

So I laugh,
“that’s not how I mean it about you—but.... I guess you never read ‘the Vampire Lastat’,” and laugh again, “so you have been reading ‘the dictionary’? A spy’s work is never done.... I mean it as ‘immortal’ and almost supernatural.... and beautiful,” and kiss his mouth some more, moving my hands to pull off his shirt

Fundamental keys; noir

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say

I get up from the tree and start going back down the path. And keep going.

It seems the heat has caught up with me; I go too fast and yet still I go. Just go. Want to get back, now, so, I focus on the sound of the ground under my feet

and ignore the dizziness that overcomes me—

just focus on the sound when my shoe hits the ground

...only it can’t override nor drown that I hear him call to me and have to run suddenly

I don’t think I can run faster than him, I just want to run 

but I don’t plan what I will do when he catches up

so when he does and pulls me to stop, we collide —which knocks the wind out of me

and notice stars cover my vision as I fall down

Like a split/that I don’t care, even as I hear his voice raised at me in alarm— I hardly notice as I try to breath

hear him tell me what to do

hear him tell me.

I just look at him then as that part follows instructions to do what he says. And do, just do and seem not to panic. Seem not to. Must never; never show ....and hold onto the walls

It seems I breath easy again and then he says,
“why did you take off like that?”

I shake my head,
“I told you, I’m hungry....” I stare into his eyes

He shakes his head,
“I don’t think that’s it.”

I push against him to stand up and get dizzy and fall against him,
“see, I’m hungry....” I say even as it isn’t really what I think but it’s not his business; he has no right, so I can say what ever I want to because I don’t want him in my head. He has no right. How dare he? How dare he.... he thinks he knows? He doesn’t know. He can’t know. How dare he think so? How dare he. Fuck him, how dare he....

“Why won’t you answer the question?” he asks

“What question?”

“That I just asked you.”

“What was it? The one about my mother and how I was invisible to her and would float in and out of existence?” I laugh, “I don’t know what you mean—“ I push him away, “it’s hot, can we go? You must be hungry too—let’s go make dinner—there’s broccoli—let’s make couscous—“

“The Little Mermaid....” he says it flat and his eyes watch my eyes and it is how sharp their edge can reach deep inside that cuts me right open and I feel my head go light as it hits my solar plexus

I run out of breath

One cannot escape one’s personal fundamental truth

“The original story did not end happy.... “ I say for any excuse to say anything except what it is he fishes for because it is my personal right. I can defend it. I will defend it. And nothing else matters.

Still. I realize as my mind begins to clear that he will not give up —not now; I think this now— this actually makes it worse—shit, what have I done?.... think....fuck, what now

“That disc your father gave you—“

He shakes his head and turns my face to him and forces me to look at him. Again the stare. I  turn my head; he pulls it back.

I look away with my eyes

“Look at me,” he says

“Please, can we go?” I ask him as a chill passes through me

I hear him say softly under his breath,

“‘I won’t come out, you must come in to me....’”

I feel another chill and look at him now. I shake my head,

“no....” I say but it comes out too small. As if I cannot speak. I say instead, “I told you the code was written backwards ....it wouldn’t have opened the safe.... I spelled the codes backwards.”

He draws his brows,
“you remembered the codes?”

“They’re all backwards,” I say and close my eyes as I play the piece in my mind ....right hand; thumb, middle finger, pinkie ....Beethoven ....left hand.... thumb ....as I fall down he catches me before I hit the ground 

Electra’s dictionary Level 2: a mutated voice; Noir, the passage through silence (jm muse chronicles)

We decide to hike the nearby trail because there has been some relief from the heat due to the rain

rain is beautiful when it’s like this —if it wasn’t for the lightning; how much I do love getting soaked ....and the sound of rain when it comes down hard as if it can drown out all the bad in the world ....and I can lose myself in it

It has been 93F/33C and I feel glad for the break to get out in this especially because I want to avoid thinking about my daughter’s birthday

by afternoon it is clear for awhile to hike, the ground hardly damp at all

He says suddenly as we walk through the woods,

“You once said that you used to think that you were invisible —unless your mother saw you....” Jörn looks at me strangely

“Why do you say this?” I ask him

“You’ve been so distant lately,” he says

“but I can say the same about you,” I stop to look at him because it is true as it has bothered me —only I’d never say unless he said it first

“There is just a lot going on —you know, that I can’t talk about with ....”he shrugs as he considers and looks into the trees momentarily distracted in this

“The world?” I say to finish his sentence

“I was going to say ‘work’ but, yes, the world.... politics —” he grimaces with a note of frustrated disgust and then he looks at me now and reaches to brush an insect off my face that just landed there but then says, “oh I forgot —that reminds me; I was supposed to give you something that my father gave me for you when I saw him—“

“W-wait—what? When you saw him....?” I stare at him directly to ask the question without words and dare him with my eyes meeting the kryptonite sharply. To say. And look boldly at him. And his eyes tell me. He does not look away and does not deny what I imply, and I take a deep breath to say, “so they were right....” and I think about Smulagan and that day and even as I knew this anyway but —he never said after and so now letting out the deep breath I say with calm resignation, “well.... I guess I knew I was ....lying ....for you....” and look down as now I stop to consider,

then say,

“so ....what is it he gave you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s something on a disc that he seemed to think you would want and I keep forgetting to give it to you,” he tells me and takes my hand impulsively to pull me along in another direction, “so remind me when we get back because he keeps asking me if I gave it to you.”

but then we hear sounds in the leaves; that sound— as they rustle as if in haste something goes. We stop to be quiet to listen and we wait ....and watch for wild life

suddenly when he starts to go towards it I pull him back

“Wait—!“ I say like he’s crazy

“Shh....!” he is annoyed “oh, you just scared it away!” he exclaims in disappointment as we hear something take off

“It could be a skunk, don’t you smell that?” I ask him

but instead it is a redfox that we now see leap off into and out of the path with some kind of prey and Jörn laughs at me saying, “in daylight?” after it’s gone because I jumped as it came out of the brush

and makes it worse by running a branch up my arm so that I let out a scream as it felt like a spider crawling up my skin

“That’s not funny,” I say

But he laughs anyway

“Why did you think you were invisible?” he asks after we walk on

“I have been distant you say ....and you ask this.... how does that follow?”

“Because you’ve been talking in your sleep again,” he says as we go up a small hill as I stop to take a picture of the trees and how the sun light looks through the branches ....and the leaves; the lush, deep, dark, forest, green

“Have I?oh God—!what do I say?!” feeling my skin burn with embarrassment

He shakes his head,
“I can’t understand it— it comes out like mumbles. It sounds like ‘remus’ ....You did it more when we first came up here, though. And when you were ill, when your fever went up.”

We get to a clearing up at the peak that overlooks a nice view. There are trees with thick trunks and long, heavy branches and now I go over to one and touch the coarse texture with my hands and decide to sit down upon its thick roots and lean in to and against it. I always feel such peace around old trees. They are so very old, aren’t they? they always seem so wise to me; like vampires; such ancient souls to look up to

“Remus,” he says again and sits down next to me as I feel him look at me in that way.... that way that he does .... like when he tries to solve things, dissecting my brain methodically as if he has diagrams with the parts he thinks he’s got already figured out

“Tell me, Jörn, is this out of spy fascination or is it something else? Is it just some weird proclivity of yours to need to figure me out? Or is it that it bothers you that the safe is now back in your country?”

“Yes it bothers me! It’s not their case!” he says suddenly fired up

I pull back suddenly and look at him,
“well, even I can see it involves international intelligence, how can you say that like that?”

He doesn’t answer at first but seems almost to twitch in irritation about it with a scowl, then after a moment he says,
“it was my case and —I was close to —figuring something out! ....and now they have something —they— can never figure out.”

“Don’t you think that is what they would prefer?” I ask him and look at him but then get caught and then lost in his eyes; caught between what I see and what is behind that bewitching stare

“Remus.... duva.... ? what does ‘remus’ mean?” he persists as if he already knows

but my stomach growls

“Are you hungry?” I ask glad to change the subject, “it’s getting late,” I start to get up but he stops me

“That’s what you’re saying—isn’t it....?” and studies my eyes

“Well if you already knew ....” I shrug giving up and let him pull me back. I look back at him, “ok, what? Since you know. What....?”

He thinks about it and says it again to himself but then I am annoyed now and look at the view instead until finally I say,

“you know .... I told you ....once before.”

“The story ....” he says now as he remembers, “he would read to you ....during your secret visits with him,” and he smiles as he figures it out as it seems to always give him that sense of accomplishment when a pin drops into place

I don’t deny it and just keep watching the horizon as I wonder what he will decide to conclude about it

“Uncle Remus....” he chuckles to himself and shakes his head, “she told you he wasn’t real— that it never happened .... after.... when he stopped coming....”

“The year before he died....” I fill in the rest

“He was ill,” he says thoughtfully, “yes.... was that— before or after ....your visit that time with your mother to Sweden?” he suddenly asks

I hadn’t expected him to say that

so why do I get such a chill?

“What?” I ask confused at his reasoning

“You said the book he gave you disappeared too after.... “ but now as he stares at me I see he has that moment of an epiphany and

 ....my mouth goes dry

I reach for the water bottle to drink and turn away from his penetrating stare; like blinding gestapo, interrogation lights that turn a different, more brilliant hue in the sunlight

“What other stories did he read to you?”

I shrug and drink some more water and shake my head

but he reaches now for me with his hand and with such a gentle caress—along with his voice that has softened to a kind of purr

“is that when you left her in there?” he asks