Beautiful Strangers | amores
From across their little coffee-table, Valentin lost himself in her deep-dark eyes.
From across their little coffee-table, Valentin lost himself in her deep-dark eyes. She was gazing outward, head tilted a little, her feathery locks half obscuring a little keepsake at her throat. He thought of the split second before, when he traced her silhouette behind dusty carriage windowpanes, listened for her light step above the creaking boardwalk. He convinced himself that he was relaxed. His fingers traced the patterns of the polished tabletop. The cabin was steady. There was little sound from beneath them.
He should say ‘Hello’. He should reach out his hand in a gesture of cordiality. But every time his mouth moved to speak, Valentin felt his inner-being cringe at the idea of being so cruelly thrust in front of this unknowable girl. Because she was a stranger, he reasoned, and a beautiful stranger too. And the more he observed, the bow of her brows, and the grace of her figure, the more he realised his own insufficiencies. Like a bumbling wretch before the gleaming court of magistrates, or a vagrant tucked under of the vault of the Sistine, the vast flying buttresses of the Notre Dame. What kind of absurd lust, drove him to agree upon all the decisions which led to this point? When was the precise moment in time, that his self-decency crumbled to a degree that allowed himself to be exposed like this? Was this torture or love? And the memories of nights and nights alone at his table, of midnight frenzies, of self-pitying confessionals; all these reminders of his loneliness came pouring into his chest like a summer night’s rainstorm, leaving his mind clammy and earthen. Valentin lowered his head. There was a shuffle, and then the girl spoke.
“You’re the writer Ivan told me all about; Valentin, no?”
Ivan. His mind rang. Her voice, rounded and toned. Lightly accented. Melodic. Valentin looked up. She leaned forward, inquisitive. She returned his gaze gently and steadily.
“Ivan, yes. Undoubtedly he must have said something rather horrible for you to remember my name?”
Valentin was painfully aware of the way he sounded, the croak of his dry throat and the his vain attempt at a jest. Wondrous. Now she will politely tourniquet their brief exchange, and resume her attention with the scenery.
What he did not expect, was for her to smile. Her face softened, she brushed away the hair at her cheek and only then did Valentin notice a little pendant of an orthodox cross at the base of her neck. And as much as he resisted, he suddenly realised how absurd he had been before. How self-indulgent and intentionally distant he made his person seem, in front of someone whom he yearned to understand.
“You do not have enough faith in your friend! Ivan was generous with all manner of praise, toward your work and your character, although he mention your inclination to pessimism,” She paused, “ Oh, and my name is Polina. I should have introduced myself…”
She trailed off a little, and Valentin knew that some thought must have seized her mind. He was familiar with this kind of pause. He oftentimes had them, during long academic debates or occasionally at the lectures, when words he intended to communicate suddenly appeared infinitely less significant, and mental flight takes its place. The girl held both hands in her lap now, but made no attempt at further introduction. Under the strained light from above the table, he could only see her dark lashes, which obscured her eyes and made them impossible to understand.
The air felt still, not suffocatingly still, but tranquil. This was not uneasy silence, but it was a silence he felt compelled to hold. For her sake, and for his own. Turning to the window, Valentin was vaguely aware that, outside, the wind clattered against rattling windowpanes, the train rushed headlong into darkness, that they would soon reach the mountains. But what remained of the valley still stretched before them, snowfields grey under the moonlight. He felt peaceful again. The raw chafing of his heart subsided a little. All because of this young lady, no — Polina, who sat before him.
