In the hidden symphony of the universe, particles dance in harmony across the expanse of space and time. It unfolds its secrets through a pair of twin sisters. In the mirror of the twins, the son of one of the sisters sees the reflection of his own duality. He finds solace in the arms of familiarity, and yet, the thrill of the unknown.
***
Author's note:
This short story is written in a literature-nuanced ornate, poetic language style. It has light herbal infusions of philosophy, literature, music, art, film, psychology and physics. If you are looking for robust, flailing and wailing action intimacy, this is not for you, skip along.
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Chapter 1: Novel
Chapter 2: Family
Chapter 3: Shower
Chapter 4: Revelation
Chapter 5: Emergency
Chapter 6: Day 1
Chapter 7: Day 2
Chapter 8: Day 3
Chapter 9: Day 4
Chapter 10: Day 5
Chapter 11: Dream
Epilogue
***
Chapter 1
Novel
James is a fledgling aspiring writer. His single greatest influencer is Haruki Murakami. Although Japanese, his works, translated to English and other languages, are more famous outside of than within his home country Japan.
Languid mood. Banal, mildly flawed protagonists who are riveting for no particular good reason. Sensitive rendering of lone individuals, the human condition and places. Magical realism. He litters his narratives with tender contradictions, then lines them up in some kind of hazy order. Most of all, his uncanny facility to use impossibly simple words to craft the most engaging, vivid, meaningful prose. His narratives have light infusions of music, lit, art and philosophy. The man is his literature soulmate, though self-evidently, he doesn't know James exists at any level.
James has just finished reading Murakami's "A Wild Sheep Chase". The protagonist became entangled with a pair of identical twin sister girlfriends who lived with him in his apartment. They were uncannily identical. At first, he tried to tell them apart, even having them wear numbered t-shirts. But, he gave up after awhile.
***
The novel is not about sex. Sex is incidental to the narrative. But, James wonders a bit what it might be like to be in the situation of the protagonist, who is his age. One twin engaged with him one way, the other, another.
***
Chapter 2
Family
James and his mum, Isabel live in a seaside cottage perched cliffside, overlooking a moor of ocean on the south coast. Quintessential countryside of rambling English poetry and prose. The lay of their tiny sliver of land has a menacing but exhilarating feel to it. It rolls and slopes gently to the cliff edge, then falls away dramatically. No fence, no parapet. The sensation like you would tumble down the cliff if you aren't so surefooted for a moment.
Søren Kierkegaard's fear and trembling. Anxiety, dread and angst are unfocused fear. When the person looks over the edge, he experiences a focused fear of falling. But at the same time, he feels a terrifying impulse to throw himself intentionally off the edge. That experience is anxiety or dread because of his complete freedom to choose to either throw himself off, or to stay put. The mere fact that he has the possibility and freedom to do something, even the most terrifying of possibilities, triggers immense feelings of dread. The dizziness of freedom.
It is said that the heart of danger is the safest place. Like the eye of the storm. This, the edge of danger, has an inexplicable alluring charm. This is the anxiety James feels when he is in the garden. A sort of delicious unease. A misstep and he will tumble ingloriously down the cliff. But, oh, what a beautiful place to die in! For sure, he will die a happy bag of bones.
Their nearest neighbour, a kindly Sir Stu Miles, is a good two miles down the country coast road. The old boy has an air of antique calm.
All charmingly quintessentially English. Except that James and his family are not English at all.
James' dad is from Norway. He came to England to work when he was in his twenties. Enamoured of things English, he stayed on.
Isabel fled a wave of Latin American political upheaval tumult, to England in her late teens.
James has the impression that his mum is the only member of her family to escape the turmoil. She has never talked about her relatives. Thus, James knows no one from his mum's clan, that is, if any relatives survived the wanton convulsions at all. Maybe it is all too painful for Isabel to dredge up her past.
They met and married in England. No other man could help Isabel fly, and hold her down at the same time. What every woman wants but don't know it. A beast with brains. Each time he was not with her, and thought of her, he couldn't help but dance. For a Nordic, that was quite something.
James' dad died in a tragic accident some years ago. Isabel never remarried.
Isabel, fifty-five, is the classic Latin American babe. Think Girl from Ipanema strutting to bossa nova, now mellowed by age.
Though there is a kind of subtle English rose Helen Mirren mixed into her quality that is hard to place. Maybe it comes from having been in England since her teens.
The conditioning of climate, weather, food. Maybe even a touch of chill Germanic blood in her pulsing Latin veins. Her accent is English, but there is a cut-glass quality to it.
Isabel was a kickass power-suited corporate animal in her hey day. In the giant anthill of a capitalist society, she thrived. Life went nicely for her. Opportunities opened out before her on every side. Life extending prizes to her with both hands.
Not too shabby for a penniless scrawny child of a revolution who landed fresh off the boat in England with a total worldly possession of a rucksack on her back, thrown into the wilderness of a humourless reality to fend for herself.
Later, she retooled herself to a career in the creative sector, something closer to her inner disposition. A massive turn of career reinvention. Corporate machinery to ranging artist. Ground to cloud. Whole new ways at looking at the world.
***
What sauce do you get when you stir arctic Nordic into sunny Latin? James.
***
Chapter 3
Shower
A winding, dizzy trail hewn into the cliff face, connects the garden to a secluded cove beach. The beach is accessible by this trail only, making it effectively a private beach. The entrance to the trail is through a nondescript gap in the garden bush. A kind of secret entrance out of a mystery novel.
***
Isabel and James climb down to the beach. They swim to the island three hundred feet away. Touch the rock. Execute a racing turn. Swim back.
They chill on the beach, then climb back up to the garden.
They hit the outdoor showers at a corner of the garden. Flush the sand grains off their swimsuits and bodies before entering the cottage.
Mother under one shower head, son the other. In an act of socially conditioned modesty, James tries to face away from his mum to give her a modicum of privacy even though both are in swimsuits.
Isabel hooks her fingers underneath her one-piece swimsuit shoulder straps. Lifts the straps to allow the shower water to flush the inside of her swimsuit. More sand grains are collected in her swimsuit than usual today.
She pauses a moment like she is deliberating something. She glances over at James, pauses again, then pushes her swimsuit down.
James senses her movements. He can't help but steal a surreptitious peek. From behind, he sees the beginnings of the dark cleft between her buttocks. The scene has that quality of the pale brilliance of a leg suddenly revealed under a lifted skirt. He looks away as if he has been caught out.
She slips the suit farther, over her hips, slowly past her thighs. She bends down to push it past her knees. The swimsuit falls freely to the tiled floor. In all their past showers together, she has never done this before.
Her back still to her son, she glances over her shoulder.
Matter-of-factly, "I'm fifty-five. It shouldn't surprise you that I've wrinkles and age spots, if that's what you're thinking."
She may be a little annoyed. But he knows she is not embarrassed. He cannot remember her ever being embarrassed.
In a slightly provocative tone that can be interpreted in any number of ways, "Go on. Take a proper shower."
At this point, he supposes he has no choice. He has to man up. Take a proper shower. Like a mum chiding a blustering teen. Though he wonders if this is at all proper in front of his mum. It's not like they are a seasoned nudist family.
He strips off his surf shorts. Lets them drop to the floor.
For the rest of the time, they face away from each other. James can't help but feel strange that there is a naked woman not two feet from his naked self. What's happening? A sneak attack of oedipus complex? At age twenty-three? Kind of late in the Freudian lifecycle, especially when he has no dad to kill?
They finish off. Wrap themselves in towels.
