Sunday Short Story By Sanjeevani Biswas

Romaan

She stood at the edge of the hill fearlessly, as she often did. The breeze blew few locks of her dark curls. It was a gloomy day in February. She glanced back for one last time. She was pale. I saw the horrors of death over her face, only it made her more beautiful. She took my breath away with her every glance. And, lay beneath, the sea, staring her in the face, haunting her with its depth, waiting to consume her.
“Romaaaaaan!”

That was the last time I saw her, in her off white laces. She still graces my dreams; she is the anchor of my nightmares. And each time she looks back for one last glance, she takes me with her; and I drown, I drown with her, I drown in her, all over again. The sea continues to haunt me to this day. She calls me from its depth, as if I belong with her, with the sea. And I submit to them every time.
Old age has failed me. I cannot separate her from the sea anymore; both stands by my door tempting and haunting me concurrently. It must be sheer luck to return where you came from, to get reunited in death with what you hold most valuable, so much so that one cannot separate the two of you anymore. I had grown to be jealous of the sea; it taunted me for failing to consume her, for failing to be a man. And I always knew she belonged in the very depths, but of what? There they stand mocking me, my very presence, my failures. And I wait, I wait here in this chateau, this stone building graced by domes and mosses, that lingers of her perfume, even years after. She was here. She is here.

Last night it rained, like hell. I could hear Mrs. Denvers playing the Mozart. The housekeeper was putting the shutters down, lighting candles at every nook and corner. I detested the scent of burning wax. I finished with my Hegel, and was about to go downstairs for supper, when got interrupted by a sudden ruckus.
“Is Soloman here? Can I come in? It’s awfully chilly outside. And the storm isn’t helping either!”
The housekeeper hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t have a heart, it was more about making a decision, she thought was above her stature.

I could hear a woman’s voice from the spirals. How striking the resemblance was!
Mrs. Denvers was about to interfere when I took over.
“Who is it?”
“Soloman?”
“Yes! May I have the missus’ name?”
She moved her hat and looked straight into my eyes. I was horrified. Did my eyes fail me after all, and at such a juncture?
Mrs. Denvers grabbed my arm with a shriek of fear, the two of us stood stupefied in the silence of the absolute horrors of our past. The portrait of Roman over the staircase shone in the light of the candles.
She continued, “I am in need of protection!”
“I… I am sure you are! Do come inside… Marley! Bring on some warm clothes, and a towel! Be quick!”

Mrs. Denvers stood where she was, without flinching for even a second, traumatized by the events of the night. It is kind of funny when I think about it now.
Marley, the housekeeper, hurried, carrying the towels on one arm, and warm clothes on the other, and took the young madame in.
Lazarus, the cook started serving the dishes on the antique woodwork dignified with cotton tablecloths; garlic soup, broccoli, carrots, lamb…
The defeated fireplace witnessed the night in silence.
I couldn’t recall the last time I was graced by such youth, her youth. I stood before the portrait of Roman! Oh, the uncanny resemblance!
“What kind of game are you playing with me now, Rome, after all these years?”

And as I stood there, I sensed I was shivering, shivering from the cold outside, as I faintly noticed the door was left ajar, shivering from the occurrences of the unpredictable night, shivering from the fear of what my fate holds, shivering from her very presence. My eyes drew close, my vision became impaired, with Mozart still playing in the back of my mind, I fell on the ground, hard, under the rusted chandelier, before her portrait, as I fumbled to whisper “romaahn!”
Last night I went to hell.