The Vorrh

crumpled manila envelope out from under her shawl. She digs into it and, after a few moments, produces a dog-eared photograph. They are posed like a married couple: she seated, him standing behind her chair; her kindness radiates, even lending beauty to her startling hat, which resembles the neck of a dead, inverted swan. The American is mesmerised: this is the best image of his literary hero he has ever seen. It shows a taut, immaculate man of precise, if diminutive, proportions.
    ‘This is wonderful, truly wonderful!’
    She sees the excitement light up something else in her guest, and there is a flicker of likeness; he has a taint of the same erratic, self-possessed dynamism. This stranger has been her only male visitor, and he bears a trace of the man he so admires. She warms towards him and relaxes. He listens as she begins to unwrap an explanation of what their relationship truly was. It has become quiet in the room; even the incessant coughing has stopped. The ladies subtly strain to catch the details.
    As he is about to leave, he remembers the gift he has brought her and rummages about in his briefcase. He presents her with the chocolates and asks if they can meet again. She is delighted and says nothing would please her more.
    They meet four times more; on the last occasion, he visits her in her own room in the elegant, private nursing home that houses her final days in a peaceful dignity.
    He had worked hard ever since he had first left her in the crumbling decay. He had instigated the move, and surrealism had paid for it. He had contacted everybody who had dreamed in its crooked path or published and promoted its flamboyant imagery, and had collected enough wealth to change her last few years. Now she shone in her reflective surroundings. She beamed at him when he arrived and showed him around the room, pointing out her prized possessions, which had been locked away in storage for the last nine years. She wanted to tell him everything, but there was so little detail that he really wanted to know, and she had already forgotten so much. Only the joy and spite remained embedded over the years; the rest had fallen away. Nevertheless, they talked for hours. She enjoyed the company of the soft, shapeless man, and did not welcome his final departure; he started to rummage in the briefcase and she knew he had already left.
    Like a disappointing conjuring trick, the chocolates had transformed into a book. She stared at it as he adjusted his spectacles.
    ‘I thought you would like this: it’s just been published, the latest edition.’
    She took it from him; it seemed unfinished, without a spine or hard covers.
    ‘It’s the first publication in paperback,’ he said gleefully.
    She thanked him and held it close. They said their goodbyes and he slipped away, waving back to her along the diminishing corridor: she knew she would never see him again. She crossed the plush carpet and lay down on the bed, bolstered slightly by the crisp, white pillows, her thoughts soft-edged and reminiscent.
    The dove had won over the raven, at least up to the very last days. She had fought hard and dogmatically for its victory. His cruelty had been painful to her, but nothing like the carrion bird that had continually stabbed at his own heart. Now she would banish that and only see him as she wanted to: mimicking music hall stars, or playing Max Kinder’s hopeless decadent fop, seated at the piano again, his fingers skipping across the keys, his warbling voice dimming into a plaintive hum.
    The book was in English; its titles sounded more emphatic that way.
Impressions of Africa
– he would have liked that. She imagined him reading it out, in the mock British accent he so enjoyed. She smiled, closed her eyes and put the book aside. She would never read it, not in English. She had never read it in French.

Also by Honest Publishing

    Homegirl!
    Ryder Collins
    Jazz
    Jéanpaul Ferro
    Nothing Doing
    Willie Smith
    The Killing of a Bank Manager
    Paul Kavanagh
    The Wooden Tongue Speaks
    Bogdan Tiganov
    Wedding Underwear for Mermaids
    Linda Ann Strang
    Iceberg
    Paul Kavanagh
    Find out more at www.honestpublishing.com

Please review this book wherever possible, and help support the author and independent publishing. Thank you.