The Holocaust of Roses

The Holocaust of Roses

  by Thyerik

  (website – in french - https://thyerik.voila.net)

  Alison took a big breath and immersed into herself. She was sitting in the living room. She looked through the window at the burned leaves into the garden. It was automn, and she had been unemployed for a year now. She let the letter fall on the table. She was sitting in that big house, she shared with Mark. He was not her husband yet. He could have been. He didn't ask. He seemed to wait for something which had not happened yet. She didn't mind. It was her life. Had it to be satisfying ? Did she need more ? She began to stare at the red leaves falling silently in the pool. Everything was so silent now. Maybe, it really pleased something in her. She wanted to forget the letter, dismiss the offer. Imperceptibly, she turned to the large mirror hanging on the white wall. She examined her odd look through the automn light, her blonds curls softly coming down on her shoulders, her too white face, her eyes always too dreamy. Suddenly she anxiously remembered the letter. It would be hard to dismiss the offer. She had been taken lessons for so long. Now, a first offer had come, unexpectedly. She had made nothing to provoke it. She would have avoided such a moment at any cost.

  She heard a breath behind her. She turned abruptly. She was so much within, she didn't hear anything. This was the hour he was coming back from work, naturally. He was condering her looking so vaguely at herself in the mirror. He had still his keys in one hand and in the other a pile of letters full of unpayed bills she imagined. She should get up and kiss him. But it didn't happened. They remained silent, quietly staring at each other. Mark looked deeply unsatisfied. And in an instant his eyes glanced at the letter on the table. "What is this ? What is this letter ? What is this seal ?" He grasped the letter. Alison was in utter shock. She couldn't think at anything but would she, she would have taken it off his hands and throw it in the fireplace. Mark was radiant : "This is the seal, the seal of Parma Opera, in Europa ! We've made it my dear ! You've made it ! It's your dream come true !"

  She looked at him unbelieving. Did she ever want such thing to take place ? Maybe, when she was young ? Maybe, she was still young, but hope was out of her feelings. And she knew it was to remain so. She smiled at Mark. A smile is a so little thing. She replied quietly :

  "They just ask at me if I can be the cover. The lead singer is an huge star. She won't cancel, my dear. My agent once told me I shouldn't accept such offers. They just mean you're worthy for a second hand cast."

  "Did you manage to get a real part yet ? Where is this agent now ? He left you last year after all your auditions in the US went to fail. We can't go on very long loaning such an expensive house near to the sea this way, can't you understand that ?"

  "I'm totally aware you're right. But isn't there another way ?" She perfectly knew there was no other way but she wanted her mind to flee again in the realms of her inner all-poised poetry.

  Late at night, in the deep darkness of their bedroom, they were making love. Mark was skillful as usual. It wasn't all over. Mark began to whisper near to her ear repeatedly and so softly : "You will go...You will go..." At the end, almost unconsciously, she responded :"I will..."

  At dawn, she awaked but Mark had already left, surely at work. "Mark is a trickster, she thought, I will go, and I..."

  At the airport, a few days later, he carried her luggages. They smiled so happily looking at each other with stunning delight. Perhaps, all wasn't fake. But when they came off, he was surprised, she didn't glance behind like she was merging in strange thoughts absolutely unknown to him. What was she feeling now ? She felt : "Some kind of poised poetry is on its own now, why did I avoid it so much before ?".

  Anyway Mark turned on his heel almost unconcerned.

  She sat in the plane. The flight was quite long. And after a few hours she began to look around her at her co-travelers. All of them were asleep. Businessmen for the most part and suddenly, her heart was transfixed when she noticed an old lady. Maybe, she was asleep, her eyes seemed to be closed. This old woman reminded her of her old singing teacher in Baltimore. She was an old glory of opera who had had her moment in the last years of communist russia. At first, she remembered the long funeral procession under a winter rain. But the whole burial had been very quick. This strange woman wasn't the kind of person people would keep a fond remembrance.

  She was hard, she was presence. Was she sometimes kind or even affectionate ? No clue.

  She had secrets, that's the sole thing one could say.

  Suddenly, Alison felt out of breath, was the plane going through an air pocket ? She looked around her, her eyes wide open, but everyone was quiet and calm. It must have been a temporary faintness. No, she was still feeling again that slight burn around her neck. And Alison remembered : She never parted from her old singing teacher necklace. And it was as if meeting her memories again Alison was thrown into a buried hole full of heat and danger. Was this old woman a singing teacher either ? She would master many realms, higher and lower too. She sheltered wolves and owls in the cellar of her house in Baltimore. Maybe she still had friend or lovers but no one would know. She was despise and passion.

  When did she gave that necklace to Alison ? Alison was chilled. The old woman was dying. Many of her pupils were around her last bed. Many of them became famous singers, most of them sopranos. Alison knew perfectly well she wasn't one of the old woman favorites. Alison has been a poor singer, good voice but no skills. She was there just to put an appereance at the last moment of a Lady who had somewhat enhanced her view of life. All the girls were like demonstrating how much she cared for the old Lady, crying, caring for her pillow, and so on... Alison was just alone looking through the window. She was there, it was the only thing she could be. Suddenly the old woman stood up and turn to her with a face full of a grinning emotion, abruptely she shouted at Alison :

  "I have a curse for you ! Take that necklace of mine and put it now. Believe your fate, it will find its purpose one day."

  Alison found the strength to reply : "Which one ?"

  "Don't ask. There is no name for everything on earth. And for powerful dreams I'd rather not say !..."

  Alison took the scarlet neklace and put it around her neck. She found she was genuily smiling, whereas the other pupils were looking at her with incomprehension and greed.

  A few hours later the old woman lost her mind, and in the night she was dead.

  She remembered things she said when they were all alone, learning arias, the old woman playing piano. She smoked so much she couldn't sing at all anymore. She wouldn't have kept pupils like Alison if she hadn't been in need of money.

  Alison had sung once at the wedding of her uncle when she was a child and had thought it was pretty. But as she grew up she began to dream she was singing again and again. And while she was hesitating about her whole life, she decided to take singing lessons. The old woman was living too in Baltimore. So it was the way they met.

  Alison was too dreamy, her voice could have been good but she was often out of tune; her support was often unefficient, and the pitches of her voice were random. After a few months, it was obvious, whatever beautiful her sound might be, she would only manage to take second part in provincial theaters. But Alison's choice was to go on singing. She knew she was bad but she didn't know what else she could do.

  After a year, Alison results' were always the same, the power of her voice had increased but the random quality had taken the same way. Her teacher was out of hope, so after a while, she began to speak to Alison as if she were speaking to herself. So Alison knew her more closely. She realized she could understand what the old Lady could never explain. Yes, there was no way to unveil the past temple of her dreams and shades. She had been a daredevil of stra
nge feelings, impressions and mind. She had been an absolute creative being, she had been evil, no limit to her range of beaty and difformity, she was still mind, crazy mystery of her compelling feisty heat.

  One day, after a Rachmaninov's song that Alison had cruelly underperformed, the old woman stopped playing the piano before the end of her part, and remained smiling looking at Alison, she said : "You're a very poor singer, my dear, but you own me. You're the bleeding heart of my doomed chapel."

  She paused and while staring far away at the wild clouds through the window, she added, smiling like in never lost paradise : "You're so poor, my black poetry will be your only all magic."

  Yes, she was utter wildness, yet she died.

  Alison was tired and fell asleep for the rest of the flight. When the plane landed, an employee of the opera company waited for her at the airport. After a while in the taxi going to her hotel, she noticed he was a bit nervous.

  "Why are you so nervous ? I'm just the cover. Mrs D... is an huge star, she will sing that part magnificently. I've already heard her sing that part in Baltimore, she has no rival for your premiere, sir." The employee took Alison in the hotel's lounge and explained very quietly that Mrs D... was out of breath last day, all day long and had been found dead in her hotel room in the morning, an heart attack, it was sure. So the cover would have to sing the whole show tonight. A dread move went through Alison's whole being. She just couldn't answer, her voice immediatly felt so strained.

  But the employee had to return to his job for this day. After accompanying her to her room he greeted her and wished her a fine rest until the evening.

  Left alone, Alison stood like broken against the door. She was terrified. How could she perform tonight, such a poor performer in an all star cast. It was a nightmare. Her hands went dammy, her gut was full of fear, but more frightening, her throat was constricting. She fell against the door and remained motionless for long minutes. Suddenly she remembered Mark, she took her mobile phone in her back and called him.

  "Hello" a voice answered. Alison shaked awfuly. It was a fresh voice, a young woman voice.

  Alison tried to get over : "I would like to speak to Mark, please."

  "Mark doesn't need you anymore. If you call again, we'll claim against you." The woman hung up the phone. It came so out of the blue. Alison was destroyed. She couldn't think a single word. At times, she saw insects like figures slowly crawling over the carpet. Twilight was descending over the room. Suddenly she heard a knock at the door. She responded slowly : "I'm ill. I can't sing. I can't sing anymore." The employee of the morning pushed the door. When he saw Alison laying on the floor, he throwed her out of the living room into the bedroom. "Dress now as you were going to meet all your fans !". Alison couldn't feel any strength anymore. There were whisky bottles in a small refrigirator. She drank and drank until she was beginning to vomit. She opened wide the dressing closet : there were dresses, many dresses, not any of her own but what still mattered. Usually she would have chosen a black dress with a pinch of grey which was the utmost luxury she allowed herself. But there was a colorful leopard dress, tonight, she had to be wild, to feel all the unspoiled vibes of her life. This leopard dress would be her choice for her night.

  When the taxi left her at a corner near to the opera she saw the frontistipiece of the building through a dark empty fog. She could hardly walk and the employee sustained her to the changing room, throughout the wings, and then, she was on stage...

  Raising her head, she heard some timid applause. Suddenly all seemed to her quiet and overwhelming. She listened to the starts of the orchestra and prepare for her singing. It was strange. She felt so effortlessly committed. But the strangest was she couldn't remember a least word or musical note of her part. In an instant she saw again flowing in her mind all the images of the lessons her singing teacher had given her.

  And her singing began. An incredible sound filled the whole hall. Was it still an human voice ? But it was so perfect. At once the prompter went mad, she just didn't sing any of the musical notes that were written on the score, instead she sank in a strange sound poetry of her own, full of shades of quarter tone. This lasted minutes, hours perhaps, volutes of the all unheard descending from an unknown paradise.

  She gave more than her sake, she gave more than all blood on earth.

  Then, it was the end. It had to be an end. The curtain fell softly behind her and all the audience remains mute. Instead, they threw on her bunches and bunches of scarlet roses. This couldn't stop, bunches and bunches of scarlet roses again and again.

  And sometimes she picked them up from the stage to squeeze all these roses tight, they were made of blood clot.

  Anyway, she was smiling, she was shining. This had been her full night, not just the night of her strange singing, but the night of her most dark and intimate poetry.

  She had to part from her audience and ever smiling walked confidently behind the curtain holding tight the bunches of...

  But then she fell...

  Reporters told that at this moment, one could hardly hear her breathes and that her pupils were completly dilated and awfully burst throughout her eyes. Many thought then : "That girl will live now in the most complete horror till her end."

  But in her motionless mind, through a flow of scarlet roses, now she knows : she lives in the strange dream she forever delights.

  THE END

  The Holocaust of Roses

  By Thyerik

  Copyright 2014 Thyerik