She looked at the box with pursed lips. I waited.
"You would do me a favor?" she asked, suddenly lifting her eyes toward me.
What did she expect from me? Would she ask me to tell her what I could not disclose to anyone: who I was? A truth that I never, ever wanted her to know!
"It depends."
"It's not much," she promised me.
I waited - my curiosity back.
"Could you tell me if you decide to go away again?" she said slowly, her eyes fixed on the box, her finger tracing the square edges.
So, being away from me was unbearable or unpleasant...
I smiled.
"That is a question that seems possible to satisfy."
"Thank you," she said, raising her head.
The relief could be read clearly on her face and I felt so slight that I felt like laughing.
"My turn to obtain a favor," I solicited with hope.
"Just one then," she allowed.
"Since when are you attracted to antique shops? I'd say you spend your days visiting them."
My eyes shone with anticipation. I wanted to know everything about her and I did not have enough time. I had wasted my last forty years taking care of things without interest. And today, I wanted to catch up.
"Well, I studied Restoration at the university. I've always been attracted to art, I think. Although, sometimes, other ideas have invaded my mind for a short time, but they eventually go away as quickly as they appeared. At first it was painting - this may be due to the fact that my mother owns a gallery and I spent my childhood wandering around between the paintings."
Her face brightened and a sad smile appeared like a cloud to clear all.
"She always had this gallery?"
Frowning, she raised her hand to her face and closed her fist. Her fingers relaxed, gently, one by one, like the petals of a flower. Her lips pinched a low breath, inaudible, which came out as if a kiss was hidden there, invisible, only waiting for this impulse to fly to its destination. Her hand fell motionless on her knees; her face was frozen, dull. She seemed elsewhere.
Confronted with her sadness, I was helpless, I did not know how to react, what to do to help.
"Alma?" My voice was a whisper.
I was afraid of rousing her suddenly, such that she lost the thread of her story. The source of her sadness? Would she confide in me? Would she ever trust me?
"I... My mother always made this gesture. I remember the day I left for school the first time. The sun was shining, it was a beautiful morning in late summer and she was sitting at her desk. I went to school with Vera's mother. That day, she accompanied us both. My mother sent me a kiss; the sunlight coming in through the large window created a halo around her head. I have never forgotten that image. I thought she was an angel! Ever after, my mother sent me kisses. I never understood why, and now that you ask me, I believe that at this time, no, she did not have a gallery. Seven years later, sometimes I danced among the paintings scattered around a room behind the shop. They were everywhere, piled on the floor, hung on the walls. They were partly protected by large white canvases. I hid and I got out unexpectedly, shouting to scare her. How I loved to do that! She resumed immediately, saying: 'Stop Alma! A young lady does not play games so childish! Go review your French! Keep it up and you are going to swing like a turkey! What will I do with such a child? How to get you to…' She never ended her sentence. She stared over her shoulder and walked away, seeing some customers. Up until my baccalaureate, the routine remained unchanged: cocktails most nights of the week and evenings with guests on Saturday - where my father would accompany her with pleasure, because his clients were also hers. On Sunday it was time to check my school week, my duties and my book review."
"Why Restoration, then?"
"I viewed it as a challenge to myself at first. Afterwards, it was to annoy my father, I think. I did not want to do what my parents had decided for me, and I wanted to prove I could do it. Here, the number of places is limited, in a highly rated university," she said with a grin. "I sent my file and I was called for a final interview. I found it easy. Afterwards it was something else..." Her face was sad and her smile lit up the bit. "My father does not like contradictions. They are uncomfortable. That's how it all started, when I announced my decision to change studies. 'You're not gonna fuck your life away like that! I can not tolerate that you are wasting your high school years like that!' I tried to make him understand that it was more a decision than a whim. 'I do not agree!' he gasped, and glared daggers at me. I ended up proposing to him to follow two courses at the same time, reluctantly. 'You commit yourself! I want to see that degree!' he continued, still angry." She sighed. "And now I am finishing the visual arts - restoration – with a specialty in the Middle Ages."
"Hmm!" I sighed.
Her hair was completely covering her profile, with only the tip of her nose sticking out. Turning her face toward me, her gaze caught mine, seeking understanding rather than compassion.
"Well, now you know how—"
"Yes, I know, but... why then the antique shops?" The look she gave made me burst out laughing. I finished, smiling silently and fighting to prevent my palm from touching her cheek to comfort her. "Excuse me. I can... still..." I shifted my gaze without giving her the opportunity to change her mind. She looked at me, her lips parted without a word. "Open that box!" I said fervently.
She breathed heavily.
"Hmm."
"Do it!"
"It is you who tends to confuse me," she reminded me.
She scored a point there.
"Come on," I continued gently. I tried again with persuasion. I plunged my gaze into her eyes - they were so deep that it was a breeze. "I beg you."
She blinked, her face lost all expression, fading, visibly. Well! It was not exactly the reaction I expected.
"Uh... pardon?" she stammered.
She seemed dizzy. But I had not said my last word.
"Please, the box—"I pleaded, devouring her eyes.
To my great surprise - and satisfaction - it finally worked. Her trembling fingers untied the royal blue ribbon artistically surrounding the box. Hesitantly, she opened the lid as if she feared that the dancer would wake up early. A sigh escaped from her breast, her fingers started to touch it, but she held back.
"Why?" she murmured.
"Well, well ... she has chosen you."
"She has chosen me? How so? And before me? It belonged to whom?"
Now, I could see exactly why she thought she could not accept it. I chose not to lie to her. I wanted to tell the truth.
"To my mother." I sighed, thinking of her.
"And what was it doing in the antique shop?"
"I put it there, with other cases, after the death of my father. I wanted to seal my past."
"How could you?"
"Not very original," I grumbled. "I know."
"Sorry," she said, offended. "How did it come to your mother?"
Her question relieved me. I could start talking without fear.
"She died at my birth. I never knew her. But strangely, I remember the dancer as if I saw it through the eyes of my mother. My father told me that she watched her every night, at the same time, lying in her rocking chair, when she was pregnant with me. And she made him promise that he would continue to rotate it every night, always at the same time, until I reached the age of three. Even if she was no longer there. Apparently it has been part of my mother's family for a long time. She said that the dancer was special, it protected her and she hoped that the dancer would protect me, when she was gone. For her, I had to have protection in life. A totem, I call it. When I hear its music, it fascinates me and I find its dance hypnotic. She bewitches me every time with the same force." I spied Alma's eyes with a sideways glance. They were eagerly riveted to my face. "But one day, she stopped dancing, the music did not play. It was after the death of my father. I decided to change my life... and... I have stored it in that shop ever since."
Images filled my mind with the horror of war, those related to the death of my father, the ordeal of my loneliness and sadness of that time - only memories...
"She knew she was dying?"
Her question brought me back to earth and I turned my head, stunned. I looked at her with wondering eyes and smiled, surprised.
"Yes. She always had a gift, my father said. She guessed. She always made the best choice and even directed my father's choices. She felt that change and the future was not a riddle."
Silence fell. I held the wheel with my left hand, my right hand resting on my thigh. I saw her fingers caressing the dancer and her face clouded.
"And your father..."
I smiled.
"My father has always been for me both my father and mother. I do not know how he did it, but I have good memories of him, quite distant however."
I stopped the car outside her home. I looked straight ahead. Alma said nothing and I did not want her to go away. Night was falling. She looked at me sadly. Her hand slowly rose and approached the mine, but returned to the box. I turned my head to the left - I did not want her to see my eyes. I pressed the button to open the door. The seat groaned as she lifted her long legs out, gently holding the box with both hands. I stared at the wheel and my eyes were like black holes, gaping. My throat was unable to release the cry of fear that was building in me: she will go away and I never see her again! After all, it did not matter if I left - because Alma could never see me as I wanted. She does not consider me someone she could fall in love with. Never, ever.
"Tomorrow?" she asked - barely audible after her head rose up out of the car.
Tomorrow?
I said that today would be the last day. Did I need to leave tomorrow? I could stay another day, to see her one last time.
Or two...
I found my smile.
"Tomorrow? You remember why I'm here, right?"
"Mmm... Yes. The disappearance."
"Yes. So, tomorrow I have to go 500 km from here, looking for a track or some trace. I'll be back later, I think."
I clenched my jaw to keep my smile in place.
"The day after tomorrow, then," she said, and her features collapsed.
"Yes."
The door slammed. I was left with only her perfume. I quickly lowered the window and called her. "Alma... After tomorrow."
"Yes, Estrange."
My fingers clutched the wheel like claws. I could not tear myself away. I was frozen. No muscles moved. I had to do the right thing. Now, I could not pretend to be just about to love her. Because it had become a burning reality.