Author's Note:- This story was inspired by the weather and my study days but I am not sure what I am trying to convey in this story and where I am getting at. Writing is therapeutic to me and helps me focus on something specific because I think a lot. If you had enjoyed this story and would like me to continue, feel free to let me know. I will try to devise a plot and continue it to the best of my ability.
Lily
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THE PROFESSOR AND THE VAGRANT
Prologue:- Cobbled Streets under Sunless Skies
Narrow streets greeted the world with greyish bricks with each cautious step I took under the sunless skies. There were chunks of bricks off the medieval houses, the pavement and the canals below where the water barely flowed. This was not known as a city of bricks; yet for all I did know, it could very well be famous for one.
It was the last day of everything really. Half the day was already gone and the other half coursed through baited uncertainty. Three quarters of the sky were devoid of blue, and last frontier of the was gradually losing any semblance of brightness. The wind blew; mercilessly stoic and strong. I tried not to cringe; by cold or by despair.
Part of the prestigious but ancient university was scattered around the historical center. The town itself was an influx of old and new. Students, tourists and locals flocked the narrow cobbled streets daily. Throughout the years of my lecture series here, I have been smart enough by now not to wear my black high heels. They wedged into spaces between the uneven bricks and I had to be extra vigilant not to trip and lose my balance.
I inhaled the scent of winter. We were into the first few weeks of the year and it seemed that winter flaunted its cold; unleashing it without airs and graces. I knotted my scarf tighter around my neck as I strolled cautiously. I immersed into the scent of people amongst the musk of bricks and the sharp chill of freshness intermingled as one. I saw my own breath condense in front of me; puffs of clouds so clear yet inconsequential. I remembered how I used to be amazed at this, and I noted how indifferent I was towards it now.
I am in between spaces; neither here nor there. Two worlds; the West and the East. Home is where the heart is; but I had no place I could emotionally call home. I flitted through spaces between continents; for my university days and for work. After getting my hard-earned doctorate in a non-practical area befitting of real life (what a mouthful!), I drifted in the waywardness of thoughts. I thought so much that I could barely keep myself in check. I lost track of keeping up and now my outright lies could not be sustained for much longer if they were to be believed. I knew how it would seem to others; and I knew how I would seem to myself- a liar not worth redeeming.
The sun was about to set soon although it was only half past four in the evening. The short days of winter used to terrify me as I was afraid of being alone in enclosed spaces. When I was out in the open; be it on the streets or in nature, I felt fine. But when I was in my own hotel room, I felt suffocated by the darkness outside because I was in this box they called a room.
As I navigated my way through the alleys, I felt like I was a creature prowling in the dark. I grappled with my flared coat; trying to keep it straight in place from the billowing wind. The Church of our Archangel Gabriel was located some distance away from the historical center. I had to cross a park and from there it was a long straight lane surrounded by oak trees. The moment I saw a speck in a horizontal line at the far edge of the horizon signalled the first sighting of the church from half a kilometer away.
The park and singular lane were devoid of people, and it was hardly surprising as it was a dead end right where the church was. It was the only destination to be reached from the lane. The grand entrance was closed so naturally I strolled into its quiet compound; its stocky structure of greyish bricks made everything seem to be viewed from the lens of a monochrome filter. I reached the rose garden within the church yard. Sitting on a bench with his legs crossed, his back faced me. I saw something black by his side and it was a pitiful image of a backpack which had seen better days. My eyes turned misty. I could not remember when I had experienced a better day and I knew that each passing day lost the little luster it had. Yet I also knew I could not blame meaningless days. I could only blame myself for taking the easier way out; it had been my voluntary surrender. I had almost given up on feeling any semblance of the living. I was but a ghost of the past and present; drifting further into God knows where but he...
His ears actually tingled and flapped slightly, like those of a rabbit. From the bricked arches of the rose garden, he turned to look at me. His greyish coat flapped in the wind. The sound of the worn, rough fabric against his shoulders I heard as a faint rustle in my ears.
The bricked arches of the rose garden and the church dome had done more than just amplify low sounds in the howling wind. It had made us starkly aware of the presence of the other in the burgeoning darkness.
Strange amber eyes gleamed against my own. For a second, I saw my reflection quivering like an apparition in the very depths of his eyes. But still the woman reflected in his eyes stood still; refusing to flinch more than she already did. I wondered whether this was how I looked like; impossibly fragile. I reminded myself that it was not the time for fragility or whims.
"The church is closed." He said.
I was amazed at how deep his voice was, but I was not sure whether it was because the howling wind had made him sound like that.
I was dumbstruck. I had played out my own version of how it would have happened, but always with me making the first move and initiating the first words; never him. I had never envisaged him speaking to me before I was ready for it.
"Do you speak English?" He asked.
Amber coloured eyes which shifted shades in the lighting widened against the ubiquitous plainness of the dark brown in mine.
I nodded.
The ethereal quality of his eyes expressed doubt for I had failed to speak. If I did speak, would he be able to take in what I really wanted to say?
"I want to know..." I began.
I had to start somewhere. I had forgotten how many times I had rehearsed the scenario in my mind's eye.
"Yes?" He trailed.
He sounded very disinterested but his eyes scrutinized me from head to toe. He took in the expression I had on my face, my flared coat which almost went down to the length of my knees, my low beige pumps and the briefcase which I clutched in one hand.
"...what time does the church open again tomorrow?" I asked.
I sighed then. It was ten times more difficult to articulate the words for real.
"Nine to four." He answered.
His answer was solemn and precise. There was no room to conjure small talk.
"Thank you." I said.
This came naturally enough.
He stood up now; moving towards me. His gaze never left mine. I felt a pang of something rising in my chest, pulling me in opposite directions. Fear was scaring the daylights out of me; yet foolhardy bravery called me out like a siren.
Despite what little light remained in the darkness, we stared at each other face to face in full sight.
I inhaled the musky chill in the air in a sharp gulp. My breath made puffs of clouds in front of me.
His presence had unearthed me.
"I see that my hideous face has startled you." He said, in a controlled voice.
He was overcompensating with politeness and I saw through his disastrous attempt at civility.
I had not thought of his hideous face. In fact I would have described his disfigurement somewhat differently.
I heard and felt the small greyish stones rub against my low heels in one screeching friction. Belatedly I realized that I must have taken a step backwards.
"Since you have shown great interest in my face, would you also care to know that I was disfigured in a fire eight years ago?" He asked.
It was strange. I could not comprehend the sudden change in his voice. It was now husky and low, almost with a seductive insinuation. Yet it could not be, could it not?
We were both strangers at a rose garden in an empty church yard. Dark winter skies must have played havoc with my perception. The darkness of thought had enveloped me too. I did not trust my judgment.
I raised my face a little higher to look at him. Men here were almost always so tall. He lowered his face; his lips almost grazing my cold cheeks. I felt the heat of his lips lingering inches above my skin.
My overthinking mind went blank for a second. I could not say anything intelligible to ease the situation. "I am sorry" seemed a bit too overused; while "I see" seemed callous and cold.
Instead I shook my head, somewhat in frustration at myself and at him for his unexpected remark.
"I was not staring at your disfigured face." I said.
Despite this, how had I shamelessly entreated my eyes on him and held his face with curiosity- those unmistakable scars; the raised welts which grazed his lower right eye; skittering down the same cheek in a rogue line. They had the colour of chapped lips; dotted with whitish marks amongst flesh. They looked weather-beaten; just as the man who possessed them.
