the dance of the narcissists

!Taylor Cade West 2011

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The Dance of the Narcissists

A short novel



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Chapter I

Pain filled their hearts and they walked with hurt. Promenading, slightly

inebriated, our couple journeyed home. Their only companion in the puritan’s

metropolis of wealth and toil, which they call New York, the hellish glow of street

lamps. They were a thoroughly modern couple, which is befitting seeing that this

is a most modern tragedy. The hour was not late but tomorrow lay before them

an arduous day’s work, a fact ever present in their minds and a constant stifle of

relaxation.

As they entered their spacious apartment, situated in a well to do

Manhattan neighbourhood, Max immediately switched on the large television. He

had, for all practical purposes, exhausted his desire for conversation that evening.

As he starred blankly and passively at the images flashing before him a small

smile crept over his somewhat stern face, the largeness and quality of his

television were for him, a sign of wealth and more importantly, success; for him a

source of pride.

Valentina, feeling somewhat lonely and neglected, took solace in tending to

the house, which to be honest, she had done a more than adequate job decorating.

She had a certain style, and in the furnishing of her home she strove to create an

experience of chic and elegance. She had not altogether failed in this endeavour

but there was a visible comercialness to the place that she was not aware of.

Her personal look was that of the elegant chic model as well and the lady of

the house had not been seduced by the comfortable and altogether casual style so

present in America. No, she did maintain an air of dignity, a certain look that was

both urbane and unique. The only problem was she had recently put on a small

quantity of excess weight, which in an obvious way detracted from her natural

beauty and sophisticated presence. The source of this extra poundage was for

her, a bewildering mystery.

Max himself had not escaped the modern scourge of affluence and had

recently lost his sportive build; to put it more bluntly, he had become slightly fat.


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Currently though, neither Max nor Ms. Valentina had the time to maintain their

physiques.

The two companions had met in university, back in the glorious days when

Max was not distractingly large and Valentina possessed a striking beauty. She, in

her day, was quite the bohemian, loved the arts and reading and dreaming. Her

personality was in many ways a stark contrast to Max’s more conventional

business like persona.

What was undeniable was the fact that they both had a great zest for life

and infinite interest in the mysterious world around them. But things change, the

world is in constant flux, as some have said, and such treasures were slipping

away. Valentina’s youthful zeal faded with the years. And so our faded maiden

directed herself to her bedroom, before leaving she kissed her love on the cheek.

His response was more an instinctive gesture than a real attempt to convey love

and doting affection; he simply inclined his head.

As she lay down, she mechanically turned on the TV; some pointless,

mindless program was to steal her last moments of wake. Her husband in the

living room had already fallen asleep with a crystal class filled with whiskey in his

hand, and the bottle open on the table before him.

Their minds drifted off to other worlds. Worlds free of the unhappy

arrangement that was their lives. Sleep, their only refuge from what was slowly

becoming a saddened world of pain.

Chapter II

Their unhappy existence had not always been thus. In the beginning, the

two were quite happy. Memories of these bygone days were as elusive as the

dreams of happiness the desperately chased in sleep. For they had no time to

reminisce, to look back and remember why they once loved. Such activities are

luxuries not usually afforded to the career class.

Valentina could nevertheless remember their first meeting. It was in the

university library, they were seated across from each other and a delicate, New

England, autumn light penetrated the room. She glanced up, peering just above a

novel she was reading (Henry James’ The American).


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He, very confident, spoke to her in a hush, “Hello, my name is Max”. She

looked at him then went back to reading but offered a smile as a gesture of

approval.

Noticing her receptive language, Max pressed on. “I very much like the

book you’re reading,” he whispered.

“Do you?” she responded.

“Yes, I read it in high school, what class are you reading it for?

“Oh no class. I have the awful tendency to read books that don’t pertain to my

courses. It’s a fatal flaw.”

“It’s not so fatal.”

“And you, what would you be studying?” she inquired.

“I have a French paper due and I’m having a rather difficult time with it.”

“Why is it so difficult?”

“Don’t get me wrong I very much like the language it’s only that I lack a natural

gift for foreign languages.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“I suppose.”

“Shh, I’m trying to study,” a student to the right of them peering through thick

glasses in a very serious tone ordered. “If you insist on flirting with each other go

outside,” he continued. Both Max and Valentina couldn’t contain their laughter.

They managed to utter an apology.

“Well,” she whispered her voice floating angelically to her new source of interest,

“I speak French fluently. I will help you on one condition.”

He laughed. “And what might that be?”

“You invite me to a coffee and a cigarette. I’m afraid I’m all out,” pointing to her

empty cigarette case.

“My God, really you must be quite,” exclaimed their thoroughly annoyed

neighbour.

Max didn’t even give an answer, being completely mesmerized by

Valentina’s elegance and grace; he swept up his books, took her gently by the arm

and led her out of the library.

Having entered the café, that in the coming years they would frequent

religiously, Max ordered coffees. “So how is it that you speak French?


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“First the cigarette” she insisted. He passed her a cigarette and as he lit it for her

she looked up, in a glance that was both innocent and seductive; her green eyes

veiled behind flowing white smoke.

She smoked a bit before responding. She held the cigarette effortlessly, and

in an elegant way he had never seen before. Most people, especially 18-year-old

university students, smoked in an awkward and somewhat gauche manner.

Valentina smoked like a lady. It was so pleasing and right to watch her smoke; it

added an air of sophistication and mystery to her already extravagant presence.

Finally she spoke awakening her new companion from his daze. “Well my

grandmother is French, from Paris. She insisted I learn French. At the time, it

was a nuisance but now I’m quite thankful!”

“And have you been to France,” he inquired.

“Yes, of course,” she assured him. “And have you been to France,” she asked after

a thoughtful pause.

“Yes, to Paris but only for a short while,” he stated somewhat regretfully.

She kept one hand propped up near her face holding the cigarette and the

other hand on the table, and very gently Max reached across the divide and

grasped her down turned hand.

Chapter III

The six o’clock alarm woke them both. Max scurried out of bed neither

kissing the love of his life nor grasping her hand as he always had done. His mind

was occupied with other things. This daily sign of affection had long since faded

much to the internal anguish of dear Valentina. Very soon he was leaving for

work, he managed to utter a listless goodbye.

But how can one love when people’s lives are devoted only to money, to

work? How can one feel, and think, and communicate when one’s time is robbed

in exchange for a meagre wage? Can there be truly happy dreams, real dreams, in

a purely material world?

These issues, if you will, where very real sources of the couples problems.

They never overtly manifested themselves but always worked behind the scenes

aggravating and undoing the bonds of love they had forged.


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Max made the commute to work, only 20 minutes or so. He was an

investment banker, a very time consuming but lucrative profession. He was a

model employee and identified himself as an investment banker; he found worth

and meaning in his office. He prided himself on his work ethic and was always

willing to work long hours, even weekends if necessary. He had very efficiently

convinced himself, or was convinced, whatever the case may be, that such extra

efforts would lead somewhere, to where, he wasn’t exactly sure, but increased

material compensation was a key element of this illusionary destination.

Cognitive dissidence is a very necessary characteristic for the workingman.

And as he toiled and became wealthier, each quarter whisking by, the golden age

of his youth was slowly slipping away.

The blame for the lack of devotion and time spent together could not be

placed entirely with Max. Valentina too, was entirely involved in her job and

devoted the grand majority of her time in seeing that she and her firm were

successful.

After university, she had done an unpaid internship at a New York

advertising agency, where, though she no longer remembers it, was entirely

exploited.

At the end of the internship, the firm perceiving that she was willing to

sacrifice, hired her on. Her ascent up the corporate ladder had been somewhat

stunted as of late; she had only reached a middle management position, even

after some five years of devoted service.

Max sat looking hazily at his computer screen. He wondered where the

happiness had gone. The slightest hint of pleasantry in their mature relations had

all but vanished. When had their fierce bonds, their bridge of affection been

severed? When was their amorous citadel sacked? Now they resided in two

separate islands, they were two abstract, incoherent beings walking, unable to

find one another in perpetual and crippling mist. What depths of contentment

they once felt, what infinite joy their conversations afforded them. Such reason

and clarity was touched with their being together, with their thoughtful

conjecture and jest. Such things were only distant memories.

They had, while in university, erected the tradition of meeting in the café

after classes. The café was a bit off campus, more European than American, dim,


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with cigarette smoke filling the air. They both were full of exuberance and were

always eager to recount to each other the happenings and discoveries of the day;

moreover, each wanted to listen to the other. One such conversation came racing

back to our daydreamer’s mind.

“So do you believe in God?” Valentina boldly inquired, setting her bag down

beside her and getting a cigarette ready. Neither she nor Max were fond of the

American standard of avoiding talk on religion or politics. Max remained

thoughtful.

“Well, do you?” she asked anew.

“I’m thinking. Yes, or I’d like to believe in him,” Max responded and then asked of

Valentina, “What about yourself?”

“Yes, and today I’m most convinced,” she said with certain frankness.

Max laughed, “Is that so?

“Quite so!”

“And what is the cause of today’s certainty?”

“I was informed of a proof, a proof of the existence of God.”

“A proof?” asked Max a bit confused.

“Yes, just that.”

“And where, may I ask, is the proof?”

“Well it belongs to Maimonides.”

“And who might that be?”

“A philosopher, naturally. He’s from Spain if you didn’t know.”

Max sat before his Valentina, his firm guide in this world of uncertainty,

who was boldly leading the way into new things. He sat before her mesmerized,

transfixed. She continued on for several hours informing our dear Max of

Maimonide’s proof. How God is the beginning, the ultimate cause, the unmoved

mover.

He sat in his Manhattan high-rise attempting desperately to recall the

essential points of the Jewish philosopher’s theory; he could no do so. Such

thoughts had been lost, lost to time or robbed by an uncaring, disinterested

disposition, as the case may be.

Silence brooded over their evening meal, which despite being respectable

educated people, they took to early. Silence, a deafening, gripping silence. It


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provoked between them a notable discomfort. They sat looking at one another

and suddenly Valentina could look no more and turned away in quasi disgust;

looking down and to the side her brown hair veiled her beautiful face.

To be fair, who could ever blame them? After so many hours of work who

could summon the slight energy needed to engage each other? Max didn’t even

take lunches; instead he hurriedly and piggishly devoured food at his desk. It was

made clear to him early on that taking lunches out for an hour, for example, was,

in this oppressive and conforming corporate culture, inappropriate. Yes, an hour

for oneself was too much, too selfish, too costly. So the army of workers ate

unhealthy food, in an unhealthy manner, neither speaking to one another nor

resting.

And so they ate. They no longer cooked, that activity about which they had

for so long bonded was long since abandoned. Wherefore was the time?

What really was there to talk about? What ideas had the come across, what

knowledge of life, of this mysterious world had they, they who only look to work,

uncovered. What books had they consumed or consumed them? They no longer

peered into the depth of knowledge created by man. Perhaps, these dark

happenings would not have panged them so if before they had not been so very

different, so utterly happy. The contrast was a sharp knife that pierced

venomously both their hearths, both their beings. It was as if they were different

people, from different worlds and what remained was only a vestige of their

former glorious selves.

One change which I, the relater and transmitter of this tale, can give you is

literature. In the days of their youth they were both avid readers. This was I am

sure a result of both will and education. Their interest, obsession even of the

literary world stimulated and spurned them to think, to share, to dream. No book

was taboo and nothing was impertinent. Their openness, so uncharacteristic of

their nationality, was beautiful, beauty itself; it swept them along the sea of

knowledge, into the great depths of knowing, the profundities of feeling. They

read as much to each other as they read to themselves, discussing vividly and

passionately the merits and failures of their literary subjects. And they never

watched television but spent every moment sharing, and loving, and experiencing.


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Now what have they become? Their free moments are not spent for the

edification of their persons but rather are wasted watching a TV show. If they do

read, it is only on mindless subjects. Celebrity news or business; business, a

subject that always changes but is always the same: gains and loses, loses and

gains.

Valentina arose elegantly and removed herself from the table and left the

room, she could no longer bare the oppression of indifference. Max not even

noticing her premature departure continued eating.

Valentina retreated to her bathroom, which was spacious and luxurious.

White lilies placed strategically about, leaning gently, sweetly over large vases,

these, brought in the presence of nature, a noticeable absence in the jungle of

steel and concrete, which was their neighbourhood.

Candles were burning, the golden flames swayed like blades of wheat

bowing to the swift wind. The warm shadows bounced off the white marble walls

and incense floated through the air. It was her sanctuary, her only place of

happiness. Her tabernacle of light. And she went unto her alter, the alter, that

giveth to her a feeling of joyous youth. Here she could dream, she could touch

and in her sleep remember her better self.

She drew a bath, the chandelier of white Venetian class watching over her

and the voluminous silk curtains partially covering the large window that stared

out into darkness into nothingness.

She disrobed, her curvaceous body and her silken legs glided to the

immense, high, freestanding bath. She ascended the two vast steps, moved her

leg over and slowly lowered herself into the bath; the warmth arose around her

and comforted her to the last. Two flowers floated about whose white petals and

yellow centre, in their childish innocence, smiled up at her. She always took baths

amongst flowers; they made her feel loved beautiful, like a goddess or a woodland

nymph bathing at the font surrounded by flowered banks.

Valentina, the beautiful and once joyful Valentina, but now a suffering

maid, slid her body fully into the water. Only the two curves of her full and firm

breasts hugged the surface. She laid back the bubbles swimming about her, her

head fell to the pillow and her eyes closed and her mind drifted away, drifted

back, back to the cause of her gaiety, to her deep and consuming love.


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Of all her guarded memories, one deep from the recesses of her mind, the

dark temple of her subconscious, came like a shade flying back to her. The image

projected itself on the screen of her closed eyes. She remembered when she took

her love to see her aged but still dignified grandmother. The septuagenarian

occupied an apartment near to where they studied. Her doting grandchild visited

more than frequently and wrote often. Her grandmother who’s name was Marion,

was a lady, a lady from another age. An age where knowing and beauty were

glorified and the virtuous were crowned or crowned themselves with laurels, an

epoch in which greatness was in doing, in being, in experiencing and not in

possession. Madame Marion was of exquisite taste both in her personal

appearance and her surroundings and she imposed a presence like only a true

lady could.

Valentina and Max knocked lightly and entered. Max was slightly nervous

and the thought that he would rather be somewhere else stepped into his mind.

To enter the home of Marion was to enter another world, a haven of history and

beauty. She warmly rushed to meet them, her age never affecting her physically,

she showered kissed upon her granddaughter and bestowed two amicable kisses

on her new acquaintance’s cheeks. Placing herself between the two loves, she

took both their arms and lead them to a grand salon, full of light and vivacity

despite the antiques she had as furnishings. An air of wealth, opulence and care

pervaded her abode. She sat them down around a small table next to the window

where coffee or tea, as one may prefer it, awaited to refresh and relax them. Mrs.

Marion being a dame of breeding and taste had rich curtains, they were drawn

back, naturally, allowing in the soft light of day, their vastness framing this

intimate and happy encounter. The curtains unfurled on the marble floor like

frozen waves with endless and intoxicating folds.

Between pleasant sips of tea the lady inquired about them, about their

interests and in her inquiries she moved to understand them, to feel them, to peer

for an instant into their very souls. Superficiality was simply an attitude she

could not adopt. Marion was a woman of deepness and sought always to

establish deep foundations with others. Be assured, her investigation was not an

oppressive affair. Max opened himself freely to this again women. She related to

him numerous stories of her free and happy youth. Of the gaiety and happiness,


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as she travelled and came to know Europe, its beautiful languages and its

theatrical and varied inhabitants. He listened earnestly dreaming of such worlds

and longed to have seen them. “And so what brought you to America, if I may

ask,” ventured Max.

“Nothing else but this beautiful flower,” she said as she stroked a lock of

Valentina’s hair. “This amazing child, my little Maus.” Max let go a small laugh

and smiling innocently asked, “Mouse?”

“Yes, she is my Maus. It’s my name for her. It’s German my dear.” Max smiled, it

sounded very foreign but he liked it very much.

“So yes, I came for her and for her, I would go to the perilous ends of the Earth!”

“And why was she here?” Max asked looking at Valentina, wondering why she had

never told him this story.

“Tragedy my sweet dear, tragedy. Valentina’s,” and she stroked lovingly her arm,

“parents died suddenly in an accident, leaving this poor child alone.”

Valentina clasped her grandmother’s hand looking for comfort, the mere

mention of those awful moments pulled viciously at her loving heart.

“So I came and have not left but only for short holidays and summers. My home

being wherever is my sweet girl.” Valentina smiled her innocence capturing them

both and colour came to her cheeks. Such beauty, they both thought.

Max entered her bathroom. He beheld her eyes, eyes closed to the world,

her hair half wet, a shimmering brown. He loved her, he knew absolutely and

desperately that he did. And for a moment he wanted to please her, to do

something nice, but he was tired.

“Valentina!” he barked. “Valentina!” he said again. “Valentina, wake up! Where is

the toilet paper, I don’t have anymore.” She awoke suddenly, startled and peered

up at him. His brusqueness caught her off guard and frightened her.

“What?” she responded?

“Where is the goddamn toilet paper?”

“Is there none? Did you check in my bathroom?”

“Yes, I wouldn’t be asking you otherwise!” He said in a condescending and hurtful

tone. She had felt it and he knew that his unprovoked anger invaded her. She

looked down at the bubbles and the tranquil water.

“I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to get some,” she offered meekly.


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“My God Valentina, you keep this house so badly.”

“Well we have paper towels.”

“Yea, you go wipe your ass with sandpaper,” and he stormed out slamming the

door behind him. He stood with is back to the closed door. She began to cry,

painful sobs clouded the air and as the tears ran down her angelic check she slide

under the surface of the water.

Chapter IV

Valentina eventually ventured into the bedroom. She placed herself in

between the sheets of cream coloured silk and as close to the edge as possible,

her lover had done the same. They were like two armies who had positioned

themselves at the extremities of a valley, reluctant to engage one another and

eager to avoid this sting of war.

Max felt her presence and strolled near the gates of slumber; in his half-

conscious state he remembered one event that had brought to his meek and

feeble heart, great pain.

Some years ago, though things had by that point soured, he schemed to do

a great kindness towards his love. It was their anniversary, he went to great

lengths to prepare everything and he found a beautiful ring of white gold. A

simple band, on it, was engraved a garland of flowers, so minute and detailed it

brought a smile to his face each time he regarded it; it reminded up of his love.

The evening arrived, he had left that morning before Valentina had awoken,

and so he rushed home, happiness on his heart, joy quickening his long steps. He

arrived and found the house dark and empty. A strange sentiment took hold. He

quickly phoned his Valentina.

“Hello.” She answered.

“Valentina?” he sent to her from across the distance.

“Yes, listen I’m busy, I’ll be working late, what is it?”

“Umm nothing…”

“I’ll see you later.” And she hung up. The click resounded in his ear. He was

stunned. Max, looking at the roses that lay on the table and taking the ring in his

shaking hand, began to cry and fell to the floor, overcome with grief. That


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moment had changed him, had hardened what was once a loving heart and forced

him to create barriers and take up arms of wrath and hate in order to defend

himself in the future.

Valentina too, drifted into a dream, and the current brought her to another

time. The film that played earlier in her subconscious mind resumed. She and

Max had parted from her grandmother’s home and decided to walk to the way

back to the university. The northern world was on the cusp of spring and the air

had lost its harsh frigidness and new sights and new sounds and new smells were

given birth.

Max affectionately placed his arm around her as they walked and moved

close to her and whispering in the sweetest tone in her ear said, “My Valentina,

how are you so beautiful? I love you!” Valentina smiled serenely to him and

kissed his cheek the warmth of her breath lifting his mind to a higher state. The

continued walking and Valentina inquired, “So did you enjoy my grandmother?”

“Very much. You have to take me again to see her. If you won’t, I shall be forced

to go myself.” She laughed, in her beautiful and uninhibited way and replied, “Of

course, you’re always welcome. I know my grandmother and I know she liked you

a great deal.” He smiled, he was happy to be liked.

Valentina could almost smell the green grass and the freshness, cleanness,

and happiness of that distant moment. She suddenly awoke and the dream fled

from her mind into a dark abyss only to be summoned at the ceasing of her

conscious mind. She felt a great pain in her stomach, a nausea that was revolting.

Knowing she would be sick she rushed to the bathroom leaving the door

open, she become violently ill, scarcely making it to the toilet. Her boyfriend,

awakened by the sounds of vomiting screamed, “Closed the damn door!” The

words arrived to her, bringing tears to her eyes. When she had finished her

unsightly affair she rose and closed gently the door. Still uncomfortable, with a

great weight in her stomach, she laid herself on the cool marble floor, covered

only in a blacken silk robe. She drifted again into sleep not moving until the

morning.

When she woke, the house was empty. She was stiff and sore from her

night spent like a beggar on the ground. The heavy discomfort had not

abandoned her and she again become sick. She resolved to go to the doctor.


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After begging her work to forgive her for her uncommon absence, she started for

the doctor. After some wait, she was invited in by a kind, gentle, middle-aged

nurse. They ran various tests, asked the routine questions and drew a small

quantity of blood. And after another wait, the nurse returned accompanied by an

elderly doctor.

“Ma’am,” the doctor addressed her.

“Yes?” she responded curiously.”

“We have some great news” and the doctor looked at the nurse and they both

smiled, “You’re pregnant.” She could not respond, she could not think, she

simply stared before her and blinked repeatedly.

Chapter V

“Claudia? Claudia, it’s Valentina.”

“Oh my God, Valentina, I was just thinking about you.” I have been meaning to

call you, I’ve just been so busy.”

“Yes, its fine. Listen, listen, I must see you. I have to talk to you, to someone

please, meet me!”

“Valentina what’s wrong, is everything okay?”

“Yes,” she said half-heartedly.

Claudia was a long time friend of Valentina’s. She was a friend from

university who, like Valentina, had eventually made her way to New York. They

met at a coffee shop, which in reality, could not be distinguished from thousands

of others that dotted the country. They hugged affectionately when they met, for

they did love each other, only lately, it was that they had both notably neglected

their friendship. “Claudia, I’m pregnant!” she exploded, no longer able to contain

herself.

Claudia let forth a shrill scream, so loud that not one single soul in the

establishment did not turn and look. She, impervious to the glares, reached

across the table and hugged her friend who cowered under the weight of the

staring eyes.


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“How exciting, Valentina, how exciting!” I’m so happy for you. Is it a boy or a

girl? What are you going to name it? Valentina, I insist, I want to be the child’s

godmother!”

“Claudia, you are not even Catholic and please calm down!” she exclaimed,

somewhat relieved by her friend’s contagious enthusiasm.

“It doesn’t matter, I’m fun and your closest, dearest friend.”

“Claudia, this is a disaster, what am I going to do?”

“What do you mean disaster?” she said taken aback.

“Things are going less than well with Max and we aren’t even married.”

No, they weren’t married. After school, they had, in perfectly modern

fashion, moved in together. No ties binding them, only hopes which dangled on

fragile strings. And they lived thus for the past four years.

“Oh Valentina, I had no idea. I’m so sorry!” she uttered with a genuine feeling of

remorse.

“Perhaps things can be worked out, perhaps this is exactly what will reunite you!”

she offered up as hope.

“I don’t know, I don’t know. I don’t know what I will do…” and she began to cry.

She was moved by her friend’s hurt and uncertainty. She went close to her,

placed her arm around her and kissed Valentina’s forehead, assuring her that

everything would be fine.

“You must tell Max. You will not be alone in this don’t worry, you will never be

alone.”

And tell Max she did. She resolved to tell him plainly and quickly that very

night, to mill over it any longer would simply make her nervous. So, when Max

arrived and ventured an abrupt, “Hi,” she told him in a kind voice, “Sit down. I

have something share with you!”

Startled, for nothing real had been shared between them in months, he sat

down. Upon hearing the news he grew happy and warm. The wall of ice that had

grown between them slowly melted away. This was what was desperately needed,

a common cause, a uniting force. He leapt up and rushed to her sweeping her

into his arms. His reaction caused her to cry, tears of immense joy and

comforting relief. And the cause, the child created between them, proved to be

the uniting force that they had hoped for.


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Chapter VI

For a moment, they were swept up, infatuated with this new presence. They

began to spend more time together, to prepare for the baby and buy endless

supposed necessities. They frequently went to lunch together. New

conversational abilities were extended to them. They spoke endlessly of the

beautiful child and the joyous things to come. The months passed and on the

surface new life breathed happiness into their putrid relations, covering it with a

glossy veneer.

The higher-ups of Valentina’s corporate world caught wind of their

employee’s state. They dreaded the added cost of hiring another worker and

paying maternity leave, so they conspired to strike pre-emptively and terminate

her. They informed her that her department was being reconstructed and her

position removed. Valentina, with child, sat before her five senior bosses dressed

in a red, tight fighting jacket and was delivered the destructive news. Her green

eyes peering out, searching the cold faces in front of her, hoping, begging for aid

in her defeated hour. She could not gather the strength to protest, knowing full

well the moral injustice being propagated against her. She left wondering the

busy streets of New York, a million souls racing about her, indifferent to her

plight and suffering. This child that was to come, this child of light in her

existence of darkness, had suddenly become a burden.

Max was indignant but they comforted themselves. They assured each

other that now, Valentina, could dedicate time to the new baby. The firm, in its

infinite benevolence, the told themselves, had given them a gift.

It was true in a small way. Money had ceased to be an object. It had

amassed apace. Numbers always change, always increasing, wealth made from

nothing, wealth infinite. Their financial situation was far from precarious, they

had entered the élite ranks of millionaires. And as the coming of the baby neared,

they found new ways to enjoy their wealth. Apart from purchases for the baby,

they bought new things, material things. They didn’t gain free time with their

new material power, only new possessions. They took no trips, learned no new

things, bought and read no new books.


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On the other hand, they had, in their home, created a futuristic world.

Technology and machine reined, its gaze was ubiquitous and omnipresent. The

new gadgets they had acquired become necessities; to live without them was folly,

antiquation, impossible.

The most destructive of these new devices was the blackberry. The new

opiate of the masses, leaving all distracted and overwhelmed with stimulus and

information. None, could escape, none could flee its pings, its beeps its hideous

never-ending messages. It ripped Max and Valentina from their reality and forced

them into a virtual world of false and shallow communication.

Suddenly, the moment appeared before them, landing in front of them like

a swift swallow coming down from the heavens, and the child, a beautiful boy

with deep blue eyes, blue like the vast sea, and golden locks was born. The name

for this divine being was James.

Chapter VII

How can I, I, with my humble and limited words, describe the love that was

shown towards the infant, the care, the sacrifice, and the will. How can I recreate

a moment, which can only be lived, how can I paint the portrait of a spirit

invisible.

Such meaning come into both their lives. Hope and dreams were projected

onto the child, new bonds forged uniting parent to child, but not parent to parent.

Eventually, tensions arose between the two castaway lovers, currents that

pushed apart their small boats, thrusting them adrift on a deep and lonely sea,

the child, floating helplessly in the middle.

Arguments arose about duty and time as Max eventually returned to his

former ways of arduous and long labour.

“Will you be eating with us tonight? You haven’t eaten at home the past three

nights!” said Valentina.

“I don’t know. Stop pestering me,” screamed Max who had heard this discourse

before.


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“All, all you do is work! You have a child, a child, Jesus Christ! Can you not see

him?” she said in a fury gesturing to the angelic babe. “Can you not see that he

needs his father, I need his father, I need you?”

“My God Valentina, you are dramatic, and you are vain! Do you think that I don’t

know I have a child? I’m working for us, for him! This life we live takes work,

these things we have, we have bought with money, maintained by money.”

“I can’t do this alone,” she screamed tears dropping off her once sweet emerald

eyes. Emotions had become uncontrollable.

“You aren’t doing anything alone. Don’t be so selfish. I give you so much. I work

myself to death and I help you. I have had enough of your ridiculous lies and

your ridiculous behaviour.”

The child stared up from the divan where he lay, wrapped in beautiful white

blankets, which made for his delicate body, a soft bed of clouds. His large blue

eyes peered up from the sea of whiteness, feeling the hate that flooded and

corroded the air.

Valentina threw herself on the divan next to her startled infant and

screamed, “Leave! Leave! Go to your work, for she, you bastard, is the only one

you love.” He moved to kiss the innocent boy. “Leave us! Leave us!” she begged

sobbing and broken.

Max left and that evening Valentina, distraught, brought the child in her

arms, his gold hair shimmering in the soft candlelight, to her bathroom. His blue

eyes gazed at his hurting mother. He smiled and giggled, filling his protectress

with lightness. She drew a bath and looked at the flowing water and looked at her

smiling baby. She was mesmerized by the water’s power. She felt released,

unburdened. She would destroy this hurt. She was outside of herself, she

plucked two flowers from the bouquet, which poured out of an immense

porcelain vase, ending the lives of the two blooms.

She brought the flowers to the child’s face and gently brushed the petals on

his infant cheeks, the softness delighting him. She placed the flowers at his little

nose and he inhaled the sweet perfumes. The new smells filled him with wonder,

and knowing no other way to express his delight, he laughed happily. She

undressed, tossed the flowers into the warm bath; they floated on the water’s

rising surface. Valentina unwrapped the carefree boy and took him in her arms to


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the great bath. The child, looking over her shoulder, caught his reflection in the

immense mirror; he extended his little arm and tried to touch the fleeting image

before him. He laughed again. His mother was startled and brought back from

the trance, from her daydream. She was torn away from what she had wanted to

do. She stood on the step gazing into the water. She stepped in slowly and

placed the child on her stomach. The happiness of the moment seized her fully

and undid the pain from before. She watched him and loved him and sprinkled

flower-scented water about his beautiful body and his pretty blond head.

As the unhappiness was washed away and her mind purified from hurt and

distraction she was able to think and remember. She remembered standing in the

airport of JFK and looked back. Max was engaged in deep conversion with Marion,

her grandmother. She was informing him of all that he would do and see in Paris

and the other destinations that they would see further afield. Over the last three

years, Valentina’s grandmother had become very close to Max. They wrote each

other often and Max almost always accompanied Valentina to her grandmother’s

urbane sanctuary.

The aging mother figure of Valentina decided to take Valentina and Max to

Europe. She was beginning to feel her age, and desired desperately to touch again

the land of her birth, to breath again the air of the happy and mysterious

continent. At the side of their noble guide the two were admitted into the most

well to do establishments and frequented the highest circles. Those moments in

Paris with Max and her dear grandmother were for her, the happiest of her life.

She was with her two loves, the two most important people in her life. She arrived

again to the unhappy present.

She exited the bath, her child on her hip. At the sink was a picture of Max,

her grandmother and herself at Maxime’s of Paris. Her grandmother displayed

her eternal dignity. She was startled by Max’s former beauty; his tan skin and

deep gaze, his chestnut hair flowed with streaks of gold. And she looked at

herself, she saw in those eyes four years younger, such happiness, such

confidence, and such hope. Had her dreams come true? Or were her illusive

dreams rare escapes from a living and perpetual nightmare? She loved her child

but her love, her companion? What pain, to have loved and had your love wither

away before your eyes. To have given all, to have truly believed and had faith,


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only to find her god false and shallow, as shallow as she now was. For they were

once both gods, they were breathing divinities; they had both lived and felt. Now

that thing that they both possessed could scarcely be called life.

Chapter VIII

Valentina laid her child to sleep. She kissed his soft forehead many times

and whispered into his ear words he did not know but surly felt. Sweet nothings,

filled with love, to fortify him and occupy his heart. She went to her room and

pulled out a sheet of thick and beautiful cream paper. Pen in hand, she began a

letter of defeat, of pain and an urgent request of aid to her grandmother; her

grandmother, who she had notably neglected and not spoken to in some time.

She began:

Dear Grandmother:

I write you distraught, I am desperate and hurting. I have neglected you but

I hope the wrong I have done you has not struck to deep and implanted seeds of

bitterness, I hope you still love your Maus, for I still love you.

You must come to me. Me relations with Max have deteriorated, nothing

lies between us, only angry words and resentment.

Please come to me, you must save me from the pain that has taken over me.

Such strange and dark thoughts are driving through my mind. Now I ask not for

happiness, but simply to breath, to live.

If you cannot bring yourself to come for me I beg you to do so for my child.

You are so good, he needs good now, he needs smiles and laughter and love.

There is only poison in this house and its suffocating me, do not, I beg you, let it

smother him.

With all my love,

Your Maus

The snow fell outside in great blankets and Marion went to her door.

Standing before her was a postman with a special delivery. She took the letter,


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with its read seal and ornate letter V and seated herself in her salon. She quickly

read the letter and let the words fall over her. The message that was sent to her

brought up a sharp pain. Marion had felt the neglect of her grandchild and had

felt it most deeply. She reached for the phone. “Hello,” Valentina answered in

sobs.

“Valentina, my Maus I’m so sorry.”

“Grandmother, please come.”

“My child, don’t cry any more, don’t worry any more, tomorrow when you wake I

shall be at your side.” They hung up and the noble Marion made the necessary

arrangements to get to New York.

But the fates had united against our couple. Aid was not to arrive at their

camp. Destiny showers blessings not on the narcissist, on those consumed by

selfishness. Marion, that evening laid down her sweet head on a soft, feather

filled pillow. Her gentle mind vexed with sombre thoughts of her granddaughter.

She was not to awake, but to expire and never to come out of the realms of the

subconscious.

Many agonizing hours passed before Valentina could discover the

whereabouts of Marion. When those painful words entered her ears and recreated

her reality, she fell to the floor unable to think, unable to move, paralyzed by loss

and loneliness. She immediately phoned Max, distraught and overwhelmed.

“Max,” she cried, “my grandmother has died”.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, “Send me the report from the Miami office and email Mr.

Black with the new account information.”

“Max please talk to me,” Valentina protested.

“Honey,” he said hollowly, “tell me when the funeral is and I’ll be there, I’m

working now.” He had hung up before she could respond.

After contacting her grandmother’s younger sister in France, she parted to

prepare for the funeral. The day arrived; she was accompanied by her dear friend

Claudia and her child. The small but beautiful neo-gothic chapel was filled to the

top with flowers, a forest of flowers, a tropical paradise bordered by stones

saints, with kind and protecting faces. The priest, arranging flowers with the help

of an alter boy in lace and scarlet and a head of black her hair, looked up and

went to meet the grieving women. “Listen,” he said has he moved closer to her,


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“I’m sorry for your loss, and we don’t normally do this, we don’t usually have so

many flowers but I’m making an exception. I have known your grandmother for

many years and I loved her very much”.

The alter boy, a child of six or seven, had taken an interest in the blond son

of Valentina and played with him as he sat on his mother’s hip.

“Thank you,” she said tears flowing from her tired eyes and Claudia holding her

by the arm. Slowly, a few mourners arrived draped in black, but the turnout was,

to be honest, not impressive. Before the ceremony began Valentina looked

amongst the flowers. Who could have sent these, these hundreds of beautiful

flowers? She read:

“My condolences. Lily was my dearest friend...”

“I have miss you all these years, you were a great light in my life”

Another card read, “I will never forget our trips to Morocco. I had so many fun

times with you. I will cherish those memories forever!”

And as she read, Valentina realized something, which on some level

perhaps she already knew. Her grandmother had left great things, amazing

friends, wondrous places to come to her aid in her hour of need. She had literally

left her life, given her everything and Valentina had in turn given her neglect and

coldness. The ugliness of her sin against her saintly grandmother clouded her

thoughts. To repay such devotion with cold disinterest is a truly dark offense.

They took their seats and the priest began, his words riding on the rings of

incense, his prayers rising to the heavens. “Introibo ad altare Dei…” And

Valentina began to cry, Max was not at her side.

Chapter IX

It was months before Valentina could regain her person; pull herself out of

the depths of despair. One evening, Max insisted they go to a party at Claudia’s

flat. Valentina consented and having hired a babysitter the two found themselves

speeding through Manhattan streets in search of entertainment. They arrived

somewhat later and Claudia greeted them warmly, as was in her nature. It was an

eclectic mix, a cross section of New York society. Some aspiring artists with

questionable talents, a few journalist who worked alongside Claudia etc; mostly,


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there were business élites. Though none present would have admitted it, the

gathering was a thoroughly bourgeois affair. Valentina found herself talking with

a group of ladies, or females rather, who were slightly elder than she. One with a

more of a reddish complexion and vast amounts of makeup started, “I’m on this

new diet and I have already lost two pounds. It’s great, I feel so healthy. I only

eat potatoes, potatoes and water. You all have to try it!”

“I’m on a diet too,” said another not wanting to be excluded.

“Me too.”

“I’m starting mine next week!”

“I’m on a diet but tonight I’m cheating!

“What diet are you on,” asked another in a high-pitched strain.

“I eat only 500 calories a day. It’s perfectly safe,” she asserted, her emaciated arm

shaking slightly as she took another sip of her Martini, her fourth by the way.

Valentina having not frequented such superficial circles in some time,

didn’t know exactly how to contribute to this mundane and substanceless

conversation. So naturally, she lied.

“Yes, I am also starting a diet. I only eat carrots. Puré of carrots, raw carrots,

cooked carrots. It’s great!”

“Oh, how healthy!” interjected another.

“Yes, yes I know!” said Valentina smiling. If my faithful reader ever finds oneself

at a loss of words with an American women of a certain age, simply, mention

diets and you will have created fuel for a lengthy and vigorous conversation.

Max too, found himself in stiff company. These were accomplished

businessmen in expensive but not tasteful suits. They had, as accessories,

expensive Suisse watches. They all held their glasses of whisky or wine

awkwardly and were all noticeably uncomfortable, so they continued to intoxicate

themselves. “So the markets,” ventured one attempting to break the momentary

silence.

“Yea, they took a beating yesterday didn’t they,” another tall and altogether

gauche gentleman added.

“Microsoft just can’t catch a break can they? They have been going down for the

last week!”


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“It’s Apple. Apple’s it right now! I love that company! And Steve Jobs, he’s a

great guy, a real go-getter. I always buy Apple stuff. Whatever the sell I’m going

to buy. I just got the new Iphone. Take a look!”

“How are things with you Mark?” asked a plump gentlemen with such an

atrociously large stomach, so inflated by endless quantities of whisky that he

could not even button his jacket. His bloated mid-section was of such a nature

that one suddenly had a desire to punch it repeatedly.

Mark wishing to conceal the recent failures of his firm and his own financial

ruin responded, “Ya know, not all bad the markets are down of course but we’re

looking to expand.” The word expansion rang in the men’s ears. To expand

implies conquest, to conquer was to succeed, to succeed was to be virtuous, to be

virtuous was to be chosen. They smiled and sighed and wondered if they too

would be chosen by the mysterious god of the market. If one may find oneself in

the company of North Americans and conversation beings to wane one must

simply mention business or the markets; for no other thing dominates so

absolutely the American mind.

He suddenly saw her, their eyes met from across the room. He was

stunned; he had never before noticed her beauty. He had met this one before,

numerous times actually. He knew he wanted her and decided that he, Max Sell,

would have her. The women who had caught his wondering eye was Ann

Ferguson, the unhappy wife of the CEO of some bank. She dressed well and not

so much to impress as to seduce. She wore a black jacket, which formed a tall,

stiff collar around her slim neck and left her chest very bare. Her breasts were

powdered and looked as if they were begging to be touched. He needed to touch

them. She saw him and smiling turned her back and drank her champagne. Her

short blond hair excited him. She looked back over her shoulder to see if he was

still watching. Her cold, green eyes cutting at him.

Max disposing of good manners excused himself from his group and moved

closer to the shorthaired vixen. She broke off from her circle and moved close.

His heart began to race; nervousness grew with every approaching step. “Hello,”

he whispered.

“How do you do?” she said, parting delicately her violently red lips. She offered

her hand not to be shaken but to be kissed; he did so somewhat shyly. Nobody


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was privy to their treacherous game. Alcohol flowed to abundantly and self-

absorption was a universal affliction. They spoke only briefly as the festivities

were coming to an end. “And when can I see you again?” she asked with an

alluring air.

“Whenever you like,” he confidently countered.

“I’ll be at this café,” and she handed him the card with the address, “from 12,30 to

15,00 tomorrow.”

“Okay, it’s nice to see you again!”

“A pleasure,” she smiled picking her words choicely.

Max and Valentina reunited and hailed a cab. “What fun,” said Valentina.

“Huh? Oh yes.”

“Claudia looked nice,” she went on.

“Yea,” he was able to manage as his thoughts floated in clouds of carnal sin. I

must see her; I must have her he thought. And though they sat side by side and

were speeding home together, their minds galloped to different worlds and they

both looked out into the lonely city hoping not to be alone.

Chapter X

Things were in flux; a metamorphosis had taken hold and was enacting its

mutations. Throughout there long relations Max and Valentina had both been

loyal to one another. True, they had let loose many a poisonous barb towards

their exposed love but they had never resorted to treachery.

The romance had died out. They decided to experiment with an “open

relationship”. It wasn’t about love, or to hurt, it was simply physical. The only

problem with this new arrangement was the brown haired Valentina was not party

to such negotiations and was left to the darkness of unknowing.

Max intended fully to meet this seductress. He intended fully to be with

her. He needed it, he was unhappy he assured himself, he needed to revive his

happiness, he needed to taste new flesh, consume new love, posses another. What

bound him to Valentina? Long forgotten words and promises? A child? Dying

and wounded hopes? These things were quite real; they made their presence felt

and materialized in the hallow, uncultured conjectures of his mind. But was not


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his unhappiness enough to break such invisible ties? His desires must be

fulfilled, his will completed and so he moved to satisfy himself.

It only needs to be mentioned that they met and a relationship was begun.

The amorous details and deceitful acts need not be elaborated upon in exacting

detail. This is a tale of love undone, of hopes destroyed, not of an illicit affair,

which is simply a minor role in this play of selfishness.

The months fled on and Max divided his time almost entirely between work

and Ann. Valentina noticed these changes but exiled the thoughts of adultery to

the dark crevices of her subconscious. To alleviate her solicitude she began to

frequent new circles and adopted new hobbies. Her new and undying passion was

fashion. She lived for fashion, breathed fashion, consumed it and it readily

consumed her. Be not confused, dear witness to this doomed affair, think not

that she possessed a simply affinity of dress, an innate desire to look presentable.

No, this was something of another sort; what had overtaken her was more a

journey into loss, loss of oneself and of direction.

She read exclusively fashion magazines and occupied her putrefying mind

with what celebrities were doing and wearing. She was instructed, forced daily by

the dictates of her new bible on how to be, how to act, what to think, what to

believe. She followed the whims of fashion, was blown along the ever-changing

waves of the sea of popular culture. She ceased to be Valentina, a women of

quality, ideas, uniqueness. Now, she was consumed by this new world; it had

become her or she had become it. She was now simply another, one amongst

many.

One morning as she spent many hours preparing herself to look

fashionable, hours never regained, hours resigned to an impenetrable oblivion,

she looked at herself, her green eyes stared at the reflection, her gold earrings

shimmering like brilliant rays of the sun, she looked, searched. She was strikingly

beautiful; it almost took her breath away, away forever. She saw her beautiful

visage but could not find her soul. She saw herself; she was simply a beautiful

shell, with an extraordinary exterior and absolutely nothing on the inside.

Perhaps, more lamentable, more tragic was the fact that Valentina was not

the only victim of this excess, the only martyr of Valentina’s new lifestyle. Sweet

and innocent James was also to suffer, to be neglected. For the modern women


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"(!

has not the time. When two meticulous hours are required to create a mask of

beauty, who can follow the every changing modes, attend the most exclusive

events, be amongst her friends? How can one who lives such a life, be with their

child, love him, raise him, educate him, touch him? Something must give my dear

friends, and when a parent folds back only on themselves it is the child who

always is made to suffer. The child is the causality in this monstrous war

between the self and the god of egotism and his intoxicating charms. Valentina,

to fill the destructive void she and Max had created, hired a nanny. This assuaged

the nagging thoughts of neglect and allowed her to fulfil her baseless and useless

engagements.

And time raced forward and soon the child drew into himself. His only

guide was his nanny; a young women who had come to America as an aupair.

Though she didn’t dispose of great looks, she melted those around her with her

warm heart. Gracia was her name and she hailed from Spain, from the shores of

the Levant. In her homeland she had been raised and infected with the sweetness

and the air of the Mediterranean. She created a home where it no longer existed, a

family where such bonds had been severed.

Valentina continued her debouched existence, staying her overflowing

feelings of hurt and pain and anger with drink and purchase. Max, for his part,

had become bored with his new prize; the new flames had died out quickly and

what personality this snake had annoyed him tremendously.

One night, when Max was with the other woman in the apartment she

reserved for such amorous occasions, he began to dream and saw himself in an

empty theatre, with drapes and gilded vaults. A great balcony lay behind him.

And candles flickered, conquering the darkness. He was seated in the centre of

the theatre watching the wooden stage. An actor appeared accompanied by a

shorthaired woman. Two actors and they began their parts. “Is it I?” said the

man.

“You who? My dearest dear?”

“It must be I, I fear”

“Of what do you speak, of whom do you fear?”

“What doth pull me into the depths?”

“Why do you cry?


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“Is it I who troweth myself or am I pushed by forces known but unseen? What

moves my feet? What turns me round? I live only for myself and for my damned

self I do not even live! Can their be sweets fruits from this tree I have planted?

What building do I erect, what edification does now exist? I only consume and

only succeed in producing but producing emptiness. There, I see you now.” He

said now not looking at the women before him but rather in the distance.

“Happiness do not flee from me, embrace my cold frame. Oh what can come of a

world of narcissists?” The women began, “Fear not my dear, your time is drawing

close. The poisoned cup you have poured for yourself will now quench your

parched lips”.

And he, Max, was watching himself and the pale women. Suddenly, she

screamed a demonic cry and the woman, with her white teeth exposed, leaped for

the actor and sank her bite into his exposed neck.

Max flew forward, he found himself once again in the conscious world,

bathed in a cold sweat. He brought his hand to his neck and looked to the women

sleeping beside him. He dressed quickly and entered the streets, moved by an

indescribable feeling and untouchable motion. He journeyed home.

He arrived and saw Valentina drunk and asleep, she snored a repulsive

snore and looked slightly worn, used. He felt pity and remorse and his eyes filled

with tears and he regretted his litany of deplorable actions and in a fit of good

will erased all of her offences from his mind. He desired to recoup, to rescue

their fading relationship, which wondered like a sheep, blind, through a forest of

perils.

He touched her lovingly, gently. She let out a snort as she was brought

back to the realm of mortals. “Valentina,” he whispered. “I am so sorry, sorry for

everything, for you, for myself. I love you! Please be with me. Marry me!”

She quickly broke free from her drunken stupor. A smile came to her face and

radiance re-entered her tired eyes.

Chapter XI

This, whatever it was that lied between them, must be salvaged it meant too

much, it was too important. To live parted from it was to live with out air. They


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both knew it. This great leap forward was to serve as the rescue; it would offer a

newness, a legitimacy that they desperately needed and was noticeably lacking.

Max’s valiant act, his bold and adventurous proposal would not steer them

away from pending doom. Darkness had been lurking close by for some time.

The seeds that they had for so long tended would now germinant and yield their

asphyxiating plant. Trends had been set in motion, which could not be undone,

try as they might, they would be carried through to completion one way or the

other. In the mean time, Max did not rid himself of his secret lover. A snake in

the grass, a treacherous allegiance it was. It was separate, he assured himself, it

meant nothing he protested in his mind.

They hastily prepared for the day. The venue was picked, a quaint hotel

with a grass lawn overlooking the vast sea. Speed was vitality necessary. It was

best to trudge through; things would repair themselves once the proverbial knot

was tied. They would only invite close friends and family.

The day drew closer but little changed in their sordid lives. Valentina was

still enveloped in her material world. She adorned her person with a thousand

dazzling accessories, a thousand shades of colour, a thousand layers of dress.

She had to decorate her body to cover what was so bare down beneath. So she

continued on her infantile course, while no one could say she was not beautiful,

few could say that she was truly unique, interesting, truly, a person.

Max, for his part, continued his philandering and his neglect both of

himself and those he loved. He had taken a spouse long ago, Lady Labour. And

he loved her dearly. From her, he derived his worth; from their pairing he exacted

the meaning in his dull life. He worked endlessly, telling himself all the while that

there would be some reward. He knew not if it would be a material increase or

some promotion; he hoped for it, it was a hope that may never materialize. What

is your time worth? What is the value of memories, of moments lived? Yes, he

had taken a wife and he loved her, but did she love him? Could this fictitious,

immaterial entity add value to one’s person, morality to one’s soul, worth to one’s

existence?

And the child, the poor child, a child forsaken, tossed into a current,

abandoned in the storm of infancy and youth. The saintly Gracia was his only

refuge, his only protectress, his only link to reality. His young, helpless blue eyes


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watched confused as his mother and father left him abandoned and they

engrossed themselves in their own lives. Their lives were like mirrors from which

they could never look away. The self was the only subject of interest, the only

one they could love. So this child grew and was now some three years old. His

mind could not comprehend the neglect criminally, sinfully thrust upon him but it

was nevertheless stingingly felt.

The guest list was compiled and the invitations sent forth into the world,

which were to bring acquaintances to this horrendous event. What else? What

else you may ask, what more of their lives? Nothing, I tell you, for they no longer

lived. They displayed the appearance of life but they shared nothing with the

truly living. They roamed as spectres, which could only consume, yet give not.

Words escape me, what to name the decayed, empty children of America? I know

not. I only let the image burn as a hellish warning in your own mind.

Finally, the nuptial day arrived. The night before Max and Valentina

embraced each other. Their embrace filled them with renewed hope. The

bleakness of their lives became very clear to them, they saw before them the need

to change, the possibility to change. But could they seize it? Would they reach

out and risk themselves in order to touch the fleeting goddess of happiness?

Could they sacrifice in order to love?

Chapter XII

The moment arrived; this was to be the last dance. The dance of the

narcissists would come to an end; this spectacle of falsity was arriving to an

abrupt conclusion. The guests slowly arrived; some dressed impeccably, others

regrettably, casually or inappropriately.

Valentina was bathing in the hotel where the guests would stay the night.

She had sprinkled the petals of a dozen roses in a warm bath. Roses that were so

red, so dark, they looked as they though they had been stained with blood, as if

the blood of a vast army had watered their roots. She bathed in this rose water

calmly, lightly. She was determined to create a new life, a new Valentina.

Her retinue of bridesmaids and other ladies in waiting flitted gaily about

dressing and laughing. Valentina encouraged by the merriment, plucked a petal


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from the sea of red and kissed it, leaving it at her soft lips, feeling its velvet

texture. Her hair was tied up in an elegant bridal fashion and in an instant, a tear

welled in her eye and fell down her cheek and dripped into the rosey water. She

remembered her grandmother and her blond hair, always fixed perfectly, her kind

hands with their soft wrinkles. She remembered her grace and her style and her

poise. And most of all she recalled how she had abandoned her. She remembered

going to the funeral and Max characteristically not coming to be with her. She

looked at a candle, she suddenly remember her 13th birthday. Her grandmother

had thrown her an elegant and beautiful party. She saw Marion, she was dressed

that day in a deep violet sweater and gold earrings. Marion was smiling and

laughing so freely, she was so happy, so happy to give and to share. She

whispered to her grandmother, the tender hands of a young girl covering her

mouth so as none could hear and she asked her, “What do I wish for grandma?”

Marion looked down at her and in a loving smile told her, “Wish my dear, to be

you! For there is nothing greater in this world!” The tears flowed more freely.

She pushed the memory back, gently moistened her face with a sponge and exited

ready to don her bridal gown.

The bridal party, already dressed in creamish coloured dresses with green

sashes and flowers in their hair, was dancing about in a choreographed pass.

Arranging, dressing, adjusting. Happiness reigned; compliments flowed like water

in a swift river.

Max with his gentlemen stood in front of the mirror. He was happy, he

thought, though it was difficulty to bring the foreign emotion to his face. He was

tying his tie and in a daze saw himself and Valentina, the two heroes of old, the

adventurous duo. They were dressing for a party of somewhat formal attire. He

saw himself move to Valentina and kiss her soft whitened cheek. She smiled. “I

love you,” he told her

“Why do you love me?” she coyly asked.

“Because you, my fair Valentina, are so very noble and kind.” He was taken aback;

he had forgotten that once he was capable of such eloquence and such endearing

praise. “It is you who are noble, you who are kind Max,” she said turning to face

him, “always love me and never change. You are far to lovely, far to great.” Max’s

younger and noble heart was warmed with such words of kindness. He came back


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though, to the present and an unhappy tear came to his eye. Was she, this women

who he no longer knew, noble? He completed the task of tying his tie James; blue

eyes opened wide, sat with his hands folded in his lap, watching on.

White chairs were arranged in a row on a green lawn. Flowers were strewn

about, the scent carried in swirls by the light breeze of spring. The guests

whispering and waiting, the priest at the front, the groom beside him stood

anxious. Valentina waited just outside of the hotel, ready to play her part, when

suddenly a strange, frigid wind swept in. A cold wind, one that would bring in

death himself, riding on his hideous mount. This wind, a portent of evil darkened

the atmosphere and pushed a grey and sombre cloud over the amiable afternoon

sun. All shivered, and all looked about disconcertingly.

Valentina, the brown haired goddess, appeared, ready to walk down the

aisle. Music marked her gentle cadence and she beamed with radiance and hope.

Her brown hair wrapped high, her elegant and beautiful face protected by a veil of

white, her body adorned with a flowing and folding, white gown. She moved

forward alone and with confidence. “Such beauty! Look!” some said. Others

gasped, their breath being whisked away. All eyes followed her and watched on.

She arrived before her husband to be, they touched hands and he kissed both of

her slender hands, and they both turned to face the priest. The cloud had grown

darker and hovered in the clear blue sky, grey turning to black and casting an

ominous shadow on the affair far down below.

The moment in the ceremony arrived for their little boy to bring forward

the ring. He, his blond hair flowing, dressed in shorts and a jacket with a tie,

pranced happily down the aisle. A snake, as if brought about from nothing,

moved swiftly through the tall blades of green grass. It weaved its dark body

furtively amongst the chairs and feet of those present, ready to intercept its prey.

When the boy had made it halfway down the aisle the snake emerged from its

cover of people and met the innocent boy. The serpent, as if it had been created

only for this moment, for this purpose, struck thrice unhesitatingly at the boy’s

ankle. The child called James fell crippled under the stinging pain. As the mortal

poison moved through his veins and swept upon him like an unforgiving tempest

on the sea, he let out a painful and desperate cry.


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So sharp and strong was his shrill that it cut at the hearts of all those

present. They were all instantly gripped with fear. All turned to face the fallen.

And Valentina, knowing a great evil had arrived and knowing it had visited her

golden child, turned in terror. Her bridal glow, her carefree joy fell like a mask

from her face and shattered like bits of glass on the floor, forever broken. She

ran to her son, the bouquet of pink and white roses falling, tumbling to the

ground from her outstretched arm. She lifted her voluminous dress and ran.

Great moving waves of white hurried to the hurting child. She, after eternal

seconds, arrived sliding to him on her knees. His aspect caused even more alarm,

for he had grown so very pale, almost grey.

And she saw the snake, which lay coiled over his leg as if protecting his

conquest. She moved to hit the vile serpent away but the snake hit first, biting

her delicate hand. She acknowledged not the pain. “Baby, my baby,” she

whispered to the boy but he was already falling into sleep, beckoning at the great

gates of slumber.

“Help,” she screamed to those who, had curiously gathered about her. “Help!” she

pleaded again, “Please help!” But none moved, they looked at the boy with

distraught faces and tears in their eyes, knowing why they did not move.

The angel of death embraced the boy and extinguished his juvenile breath.

He lay limp and lifeless in the arms of his mother. The poison had massacred his

defenceless body; in the blink of an eye his life was undone. Valentina could not

believe that which had occurred. She shook him to bring him back to this world,

to catch his escaping soul, pin it down and wrench it back to the realm of the

living. She shook him again and again amidst the wails of a hurting and forsaken

mother. And she pounded his chest and gulped her breast three times the sound

resonating and echoing in the ears of the many, an acknowledgment of her

culpability. Some turned away. “No!” she cried. “No! No! No!” Max stood behind

her, mute in disbelief. Valentina, the goddess undone, laid her head on his chest,

“Come back to me! Come back to me! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” She showered his

cold face with kisses, hoping that perhaps they would restore to him the warm

breath of life, recall him to her presence. But he had already departed and

watched on from afar.


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Max bent down to pull her back. She cast him off, saying, “Don’t touch me!”

Tears pouring down her face, “Don’t you touch me!” She stumbled back, falling

over chairs, the crowd parting as if making way for passing royalty. “What is

this?” she wailed, many looked away, they could not stomach her raw emotion.

“Compose yourself!” said one in a tone puritanical.

“Who are we Max? We should not have come here! We have killed our child! Our

arrogance, our pride has murdered him!” she shrieked. “We are not who we once

were, we are simply shades of our former selves. You don’t love me!” tears

pouring down her face.

“You don’t love me!” she screamed painfully. “And I don’t love you! I have looked

only to myself. Can love exist in a world such as this, what room is there for

happiness and joy?” Max, though he desperately wished so, could not respond.

All stood before them confounded and repulsed. Repulsed by the young child’s

death and this mother’s overtly emotional display and probing questions. A wind

was stirred by the powers that be and rattled the leaves creating a laughing,

mocking sound. The wedding party stood silent, unable and not knowing how to

act.

Valentina faced them trying to ascertain her fate from the faces before her,

when her scanning, reddened eyes fell once again on the unfortunate boy. She

wept and wails once again haunted the air. She grabbed at herself and brought

her hands to hair head, pulling her long hair. A violent wave of grief overtook

this dying bride and she pulled savagely at her beautiful brown and flowing locks.

She pulled and left great quantities of her own hair strewn about. Max and other

of the group seeing that she was acting rashly, moved to subdue her. She

screamed at them and moved back, her roar paralyzing her approaching captors

and freezing them permanently in fear. Valentina was stumbling back, taking

steps down the road of her destiny. It was now sealed; her fate lay before her and

now there was no escape.

She saw now the ugliness and emptiness of their lives. This vacuous

existence had extinguished all and there was no point in its continuance. The

child James, who had appeared suddenly like an angle does enveloped in a gray

and moving cloud, had been a messenger of hope, a portent of good and change.

This child had been scorned. Why had she not heeded the message? Why did she


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drag herself under the surface of treacherous modern waters? She had held in

her very arms, goodness, she had kissed with her full lips the soft cheek of beauty

and caressed with her caring, motherly hands, happiness.

Max looked on in fear, the words of Valentina striking at his stone heart

and hurting his defiled conscience, her countenance evoking within him even

darker forebodings.

“Woe is me! Woe is me!” I have paid most dearly for my sins. I alone am the

author of my own misfortune.” And again she beheld the boy, his yellow head

lying lifeless on the soft inviting bed of green grass, and it panged her failing

heart as she marvelled at her child’s beauty. “Valentina!” Max protested wishing

to return urgently to the masked ball that was their lives. “Valentina come to

your senses.”

“I, a mother, have murdered my own child.” And the thought ate at her and undid

her. What more did she have to go back to? To what life was she to return? What

loving husband would dry her tears of hurt, caress her noble forehead and

whisper assurances into her fragile being? None, for she was alone, she had lived

only for herself and Max the same; alone they were to both remain. The futility of

such a life became clear to her. And again she stumbled back; back to the door of

the house of the end, to her final destination, her final act. She knew now what

she would do but every single person around her could not even conceive of such

brutality.

Valentina, the childless bride, turned herself to the right and saw the vast

blue sea that lay below. She then turned to the left and saw upon the table, which

was filed with infinite quantities of food, the instrument of her undoing. She

moved quickly to the setting, the crowd moved in around her. She placed her

long slender fingers around a handle of carved and flowing silver, the handle of

an immense and deadly knife. She grabbed the weapon fully and raised it slowly

before her, hand clenching the ornate handle. Most suddenly, she turned the

weapon on herself. The onlookers reeled back. Many women averted their eyes

and the gaze of the children was blocked by protective hands. The blade of the

knife stood pointed at her delicate and slender neck. The skin retreated back at

the knife’s destructive approach. And she announced to all, “Farewell cruel world,

you have beaten me and I have given myself over to be beaten. May my death


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undue the squalor and error of my life.” Saying thus, she plunged the blade into

her throat with all her force. And cold steel did part human flesh. The knife sank

unforgiving into her body. Her eyes looked of sock and pain and infinite remorse.

Her fingers, now stained red, touched the wound.

Great torrents of blood issued forth, cascading over her bare breast and

beautiful dress of white. She wheezed and gasped desperately and hopelessly to

catch a breath, a breath which refused to be caught and would allude this dying

huntress to the end. Valentina, now having lost her strength, fell to her knees.

Max looked on in utter disbelief, desiring to act but unable to do so. The dying

Valentina now in the last, fell back bracing herself with one arm, dyed a

murderous red. She held the heart wrenching position for some sad moments

and then her arm, no longer disposing of any strength, buckled under her dead

weight; she fell heavily to the ground. She lay there contorted, a bloody white

mass in a rapturous moving sea of green. She had expired, her soul rushing off,

eager to escape its sad prison. The life of the once great, feeling and loving

Valentina had come to its tragic and abrupt end. All beheld the lifeless mass, a

silver hilt protruding from it’s fallen victim.

“Such a selfish act,” one women assured.

“A waste.” Another muttered as he turned his back on the emotive display. Some

moved to Max searching their feeble brains for a way to comfort him. But how to

comfort he who has lost all? How to comfort the one who himself throws away

his life? A tall man moved to touch his shoulder; he touched him lightly but

could not rest his hand there and quickly took it off as if removing it from a hot

flame. He backed away slightly inclined as if to acknowledge his remorse.

Max drew his hands to his face covering his shame, covering his loss. And

in this confusing scene it all become clear; the spilled blood had washed away the

film covering his eyes. He saw his ugly part, he envisioned his vile role. He saw

that we alone weave evil into our lives, that we alone are the creators of our own

destruction, that the greed to satiate our selfish desires is our ultimate undoing.

He moved away from the dead bodies and towards the cliff. He went to its

edge. Moved his toes over the edge and looked at the jagged rocks below. And

he, in this great our of pain and realization, asked himself, “Is there room for love

in world of narcissists? Can one truly give and live for another under the yoke of


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capital? To give oneself to another, to share thyself and share all, to experience

and experience all is to live. By such a definition he had not lived, he had only

existed. Max Sell stood at the edge of a massive cliff, looking out into the vast

sea, his eyes burning with tears, his heart tortured with loss. He contemplated his

very existence; if mere existence was to be continued, to be kept alive.

The sun grew tired of this selfish affair and ceased to emit its warming

rays. It threw itself below the horizon, bringing with him his robes of light,

turning its back on this ugly scene, on this violent happening, this sordid

conclusion. His departure left the broken Max in an enveloping and real darkness,

a darkness that he was to not escape, for he had created for himself only a path of

solitude, only a way of pain.

The End

the dance of the narcissists

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