The Wind.

They say he’s too young for her and that he’s just some hyped up, superficial kid. But he loves her, you know? He told her that he did; swore it, even.

And, besides, James is not so young and stupid like they all think, he reads a lot of books and he can talk about anything; he could hold an intelligent conversation about a piece of dust if you wanted. Lynette is old and rich but that doesn’t mean he’s in it for the money. He doesn’t care about fast cars and lavish houses and he feels awkward in suits, but, boy does he look good in them. You should’ve seen him in that black one with the silk lapels, he caught all the old hens’ eyes that night, but he left so early, without Lynette. She was glowing all evening, and even if having him hang off her arm like a shawl or a handbag just drew contrast to her age, at least people were looking at her, at least people were using the word ‘beautiful’ and her name in the same sentence, like back in the glory days.

He’s stretched out like a stage for the sun, the first they’ve seen of her in a week. They had to escape on a plane to get away from all those grey clouds and smoggy buildings and those awful people with their stinging words.

He’s just gotten back from the beach, so he’s all sand and blue skies, his skin’s still pale and grey, but a couple more days in Italy and maybe Paris and his yellow skin’ll be gold.

Laid out on the front porch, blinded by his dark hair and thinner then usual, he turns and looks at her through heavy lidded brown eyes, half closed in the light. He is the image of some sickly and nicotine-hooked god who’s lips are reddened not by vintage French wine or the ambrosia of Olympus, but by the constant, nervous chewing of a shy and Byronic boy who yearns for some consolation and, finding no solace in the paintings of the Louvre or the pyramids of Egypt, is resolved to sit and destroy himself, a storm brewing within, attacking his inner peace with demons and visions of death.

She stands in the doorway and looks back at him, hoping the lines around her eyes don’t show as she smiles. She’s all dressed up in a creamy linen dress, because he hates beige, but white isn’t flattering to her sagging figure and she doesn’t want him looking elsewhere.

A long time ago, Lynette was very attractive, she wasn’t like the other girls her age, and she wouldn’t wear make-up because she didn’t need it. All the boys would chase her around, but she had eyes for only one man, Werther. Now, though, her body is doughy in places, even if she works out three hours a day. She wears all sorts of make-up, too; eye shadow, blush, lip liner, lip stick, liquid foundation, powder foundation, etc. And that’d be only after she’s applied all her anti- aging creams that’re so full of vitamin e, b, d; all the way to z, just so that she can walk outside.

Her hair’s gone grey but she had it dyed wheaten, like it was when she was young and in love with her first husband, Werther.

Werther, who left her rich, with a huge estate and luxurious parties but still so alone.

Werther looked nothing like James. He was a serious man who was fair skinned and fair haired with eyes the colour of autumn leaves. He was quiet and reserved but easy to read, easy to understand, not like James, who’s so difficult sometimes, so mysterious, disappearing for entire weeks to go strolling and drinking and other things as well.

They say that’s why Lynette loves him.

Even if Vivian Miller can swear she saw him run off with some peroxide girl, the pair of them drugged up and delirious from the neon signs. Some of Irvine Warburg’s not-so-clean friends say that James sells all of Lynette’s gifts so he can afford drugs and strawberry liquorice rope.

A hundred miles away from all that, though, Lynette can smoke and watch James dry himself, still so pale and too-thin with his ribs poking out. He’s missing the shell necklace she’d bought him at the market that very morning, but she doesn’t say anything, lest he run away.

“Enjoyed your swim, James?”

She chirps, raspy and old,

“I would’ve liked it better if you could’ve come along,”

He says, taking her stick of cancer and putting it in his own mouth; the cigarette hangs so easily and so relaxed between his lips, not all stiff and strict like with hers;

“It was beautiful. The way the waves crashed against the cliffs and the moan of the far-away boats carrying too many tourists.”

He exhales, not coughing and spluttering blood all over the place, like he had heard her do in the bathroom earlier.

Her eyes are distant and grey, he feels her exploring his soul and he doesn’t like it. Most of the time when Lynette is around he pretends that she is just a figment of his imagination; just a made up friend he doesn’t want to get attached to.

She notices a bruise on his left arm and touches it, delicately, lovingly, and he remembers his mother;

“What’s this?”

The concern comes out all wrinkly on her forehead, maybe all those creams aren’t working;

“Oh, this?”

He looks at the purple mark,

“It was just the wind, it blew so suddenly while I was swimming and I hit myself against the rocks,”

Lynette shakes her head and strokes his face. Her hands smell of an expensive cream imported from Berlin. The one she always uses that smells like his Grandmother’s soap. She says that it is a mix of rare and exotic flowers, but it just smells like Lavender to him. James is quite uncultured, Lynette thinks, and she likes that; she sees it as a sort of clean-slate situation. Because James is not able to think properly for himself, she is able to mould his arguments, his discussions; but that’s only if they’re about cultured things, James knows all about things that are not, and those conversations make Lynette afraid.

“Ah, James, be more careful next time! Now, go get changed. We have a party to go to at 3; I need you well-dressed and well-groomed.”

“I don’t want to go. I don’t like the people there.”

“Oh, James, these are different people, you haven’t even met them yet! They’ll be much nicer, I promise you.”

James believes her, but he doesn’t, really. He is not so naïve, like all the people at the parties think. He does as he is told, though, because he is grateful for Lynette.

There was a time when days were hard for James, much harder then they are now; he used to live on the streets and in gutters, all awkward and crooked in the corners. He used to mooch off this actor who had gotten so good at his job he’d forgotten who he was. His name was Devon, and he was Macbeth in the morning and Rick Blaine at night, but he was always lying. Then she came along. Lynette with her long white trench coat and sparkly earrings, she towered over him in the pavement where he was drinking beer that was more poison than it was beer; Devon told him that this was his chance out, that he should take it “Carpe fuckin’ Diem, man!”

James does not like to think back to Devon who was always lying and still does whenever he calls. He does not like to think about the mean friends of Lynette who flirt shamelessly with him and ask him degrading questions. No, no, James does not like to think about how Lynette is using him. In fact, James does not like to think at all; it has only ever caused trouble. Sometimes when he does, he begins to wonder about leaving Lynette, about running away; he thinks maybe he does not need all her money. But he knows better; a smart boy would stay and take what he can get. He can never be sure when he will next have to call Devon up to say that he needs somewhere to live.

She pats his hair, the metal of her rings clang together and hurt his ears,

“And comb this for me, will you?”

He turns, obediently, and makes his way towards the bathroom of the hotel suite, past the bed where they sometimes make love, but only in the dark.

She hears the turn of the tap and the gush of the shower head. Her ears prickle at the sound of water meeting skin; every droplet working together to create a metronome that exhilarates Lynette more then piano lessons or a world-class symphony ever could.

Later, Lynette watches James get dressed from the bed; she made sure to choose the best suit for him, even though she knows he hates them. But, my, he does look strapping in it; a charcoal grey one with a white shirt and black tie, if only he did not look so deathly thin he would look much richer. Lynette does not mind, though, James is already excessively beautiful but in a way that is not conventional, she likes that about him. He is damaged, she can tell, he needs her help, he needs to be put back together. He is like a puzzle; only not boring. She knows a bit about him, she often turns a blind eye to the things she does not like; after all, without James she is just Lynette again. And Lynette is not exciting.

“James, help put my dress on.”

She turns away from him and he zips the back of her dress up. It’s a black dress that’s not too loose and not too tight but she still folds over in places.

The party is crowded with rich people who all stare in awe and disgust at James and Lynette. They all gather together in small clusters and mutter amongst themselves; this is the most exciting thing that has happened to them in years. It is a wonder how, so far away from home, so far away from everything; how it is the people are still the same exact people. They’re all dressed in beige as well.

James hates beige.

“Ah, Lynette, so nice to see you’ve arrived!”

A woman with a beige dress and red lipstick that gets caught in the creases of her lips comes over and kisses Lynette on each cheek;

“Oh, and who is this?”

The woman steps back and looks James from top to toe, her eyes moving at an uncomfortable speed that makes James shift from foot to foot;

“Oh, my; I almost forgot. Margot, this is James; James, meet Margot.”

Margot. Margot sounds like the name of an old woman; an old and bitter one who would likely spread rumour after rumour. Deep down, James makes a bet that Margot is divorced or is at the verge of it.

“Why, hello, Jamesss.”

She spreads his name over a second too long, like she is tasting it. Sampling it, even. This happens often, many of Lynette’s friends sample his name like they are sampling fine wine. It’s disgusting, but he says nothing and kisses Margot’s wrinkled hand.

“How are you enjoying Italy, Jamesss?”

“He is enjoying it very much, Margot, very much indeed. This morning he went to the beach, it was beautiful, he says. I bought him a necklace that one of the locals made completely out of shells.”

“Ah, is that so?”

Margot raises an eye brow, drawn on with a pencil;

“Do you have this necklace here, Jamesss? I do so love the work of the locals.”

He does not answer, knowing full well that Lynette will do that for him,

“Oh, no, he doesn’t. I believe he must have lost it this morning, while he was at the beach. There was a huge gust of wind that had him cast against the rocks. It must have broken and gotten carried away by the ocean.”

“Oh, dear.”

Margot cringes, her teeth huge and white and straight;

“The tacky workmanship of the locals, eh? I bet they do that purposely so you have to buy another.”

James leaves the party early to go to the beach and watch the sunset with the wind blowing around him, embracing him in its temporary infatuation. Urging him to leave, to run away. To swim and drown himself in all of eternity, and he calls Devon on one of the pay-phones to tell him that he cannot do this anymore, but Devon tells him he needs to pull through; he needs to stop being silly, Lynette is being so gracious and kind. James walks the dark streets of the city, the wind bringing the sounds of far away traffic and the bark of street urchins to his ears, and he remembers home; he remembers not living anywhere, not belonging to anyone. And, anyway all places are alike to him, he is the cat that walked by himself. This place is just another nowhere.

James makes the resolve that when the wind next beckons, he will leave. He will be free.

Lynette is a kind and loving master, but he is not a dog to be leashed.

He takes another shower when he gets home, and Lynette listens again, but this time the feverish music is interrupted by a timid and unsure knocking at the door.

It is a girl, mousy-haired and beautiful, with deep brown eyes and pouty lips.

Lynette doesn’t like her, doesn’t like her at all.

“Ah, hello Ma’am, ah, is James here?”

Her accent is thick and clumsy, just like her it stumbles everywhere over long, deer-like limbs;

“No. Why?”

Lynette growls in reply, her lips curl in and she tilts her head back and gives the beautiful girl a mean glare,

“Ah, well Ma’am, your son told me I could find him here, but since he is not present, could you give him my phone number?”

The girl takes a pen and scribbles large, round digits onto a highlighter pink post-it which she hands to Lynette, her brown eyes sparkling;

“Tell him I had a wonderful time, tonight. Tell him that our train leaves at eight tomorrow, and that I would really like for him to come along.”

Her teeth are white against gold as she smiles and saunters away. Lynette can hear the shell necklace she bought for James that morning rattling against the beautiful girl’s collar bone; ringing in her ears all the way down the hall and into the lift which the girl disappears into.

James emerges from the shower only moments later, as ever an alert and lithe sprite, in constant need to appear when he is least expected, that is also why Lynette loves him;

“Who was that?”

“No one, dear.”

And she smiles;

“Just the wind.”

-------------------------------

-- Mikee Sto. Domingo.

Did you spot that Dead Poet's Society reference?