The Angel of the Stories by John…

The Angel of the Stories by John Simmons: Episode 2

1 year ago

Rosa was wondering what remained for her to do in life. She wasn’t old. But her children were no longer children. One day soon they would move away and Rosa would not resist, knowing that they would have to live their own lives. Her husband was with her. She kept him around her like an extra blanket for a cold night. There was a comfort in his presence but she wondered, if he were not there, would she miss him?

She hated even thinking the thought. And she went back to her task. That day she was dusting the plates that she kept on display. Her husband called her the lady of the plates.

All her life she had collected plates. Of course, she used some plates to eat off  but for every functional plate there must have been three or four whose purpose was simply to sit on the shelves of dressers, on tables, in cabinets, on walls, in glass cases, on mantelpieces. Sometimes she would sit in the middle of the room and turn her head slowly until she had observed every plate. When she did this she felt the gaze of the plates on her too. Most of the time the gaze was benign but sometimes she felt that she was being judged by them. “Tell us,” the plates seemed to say. “What have you done?”

She had done nothing. At times the pain of having done nothing was acute. What could she do?

One Friday – it was always a Friday – she was dusting the plates. She dusted the one with the painting of pomegranates, the one with the country scene, the one with the Arabic pattern. As she wiped, she smiled, because she loved each of the plates.

What have you done? I have collected plates.

The thought made her laugh out loud. Her most precious plate was her wedding plate, given to her by her husband on their wedding day. The plate was decorated with a beautiful picture of a red rose, a rose so perfectly painted that you believed it must be real. For twenty years she had dusted it every week and its colour never faded.

I have collected plates. The laughter bubbled up inside her, her shoulders rocked as she didn’t even try to control the outburst of joy she was feeling inside. Nor did she notice at first that the plate had slipped from her fingers, had struck the floor and shattered into pieces.

Rosa wept. She felt the loss of her most precious plate but she feared for a greater loss that she understood but could not speak. She gathered the broken shards of plate, wondered if she could glue them together again but realised she could not. She threw them away in anger.

She went out into the courtyard where the strange girl from the top of the house was watering the pomegranate tree. They didn’t speak, they rarely did. But there was a pain in Rosa’s eyes that made Julia ask: “Shall I water this?” She pointed the watering can at the rose bush. Rosa shrugged.

The rose bush needed water. It seemed to perk up at the liquid touch. Rosa bent to smell the flowers.

Later that afternoon Rosa’s husband came home. As he stepped inside the courtyard he was enveloped in the scent of roses. It was a stronger and sweeter smell than he had ever noticed before and he stopped, breathing in the scent. He loved it so much that he cut off one of the rose blooms and carried it inside with him. He placed it on the plain white plate that Rosa had set on the kitchen table. He kissed his wife and told her that the rose was beautiful.

Rosa didn’t know what to say. She was still filled with sadness. She sat down at the kitchen table so that she could serve the dinner she had cooked. As she picked up the ladle she noticed that the rose had melted into the surface of the plate; it was no longer a rose but an exquisite picture of a rose. She ladled food onto the plate, covering the image but not caring. It seemed the right thing to do and she blushed.

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Julia discovered that she could, just by closing her eyes, make her wings fold and slip beneath her skin. This meant that she could go out without feeling the eyes of the townspeople on her. And that became a pleasure in itself, a feeling that she could walk almost invisibly through the peopled streets. Although she enjoyed not being noticed, she now noticed everything.

She strolled down the street. People walked before her, beside her, behind her. She felt herself one among many, as if she were a single stalk in a field of wheat.

She noticed that she was not really different. Her wings had seemed to set her apart but now she believed that all the people in the street had wings. If they wished they could fly too.

Julia returned home. She began writing a new story on the white wall and, as she wrote, intent on her thoughts, her wings spread behind her.

 *   *   * 

Next day the sun was golden in a blue sky. Julia went for a stroll, trying to find shade in the streets. She passed by a house that had a crack in the outside wall, as if the heat had split it open. It was not a big house but, in the surroundings of this little town, its modesty seemed substantial.

She remembered that this was the house of the musician who had died; Ian, a man from overseas who by the power of his voice and personality had formed the town’s band. He had joined together young people into the band and they had gone to the city to triumph in a competition. Perhaps it had been too much for Ian. He had died in the coach on the way back. The whole town had mourned the absence of his personality, and now they felt the absence of his music; the absence of music.

Julia stopped and looked at the crack. She found she could put her finger in the crack, so she did, and she moved it, exploring the space.

As she did so the crack emitted a musical sound. What was it? It sounded like a low note blown on a saxophone. She removed her hand and the sound stopped.

A lizard climbed up the wall and disappeared inside the crack. Its tail could still be seen as it made its way upwards. Again she heard the saxophone sound but this time the notes changed from low to high as the lizard moved.

From the window above she could now hear the sound of a guitar playing. The strumming was a simple sequence of changing chords, falling, then rising.

She walked on, and now it seemed that she heard music everywhere. The door of a house opened and it played like a clarinet. From the roof came the noise of a trumpet although no trumpeter could be seen. And her footsteps on the road provided the rhythm of a drum.

As she turned the corner into the town square, the music grew louder, and no wonder, when she saw the town band gathered to practise in the square. As one boy lowered the flute from his lips, she asked him what had happened. “I thought you had all stopped playing.”

“That’s true,” said the boy with the flute. “But we decided that the music had to go on. With the music, we’re alive.”

Julia listened for a while and the sound thrilled her. She walked back towards her house with music still playing in her ears.

She stopped at the house with the crack in the wall. The lizard popped its head out and stared at her. Then it slipped back into the crack in the wall; as it did so the crack sealed over and the music tapered off to a sad, low but celebratory sound. 

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