Paul Sandmann - Narcissus

“Tristan!” a voice suddenly brayed through the crowd – and Cirrus, the artist, appeared. He had opened his arms in a theatrical gesture as he mounted the two steps to their table. The smile on his face was the most radiant imaginable; even the moon paled before it. To Tristan the pupils of the man facing him appeared dark, and he was beginning to fear that he would be swallowed up by them when Marcus approached, drew up the other chair and laid his arm on Tristan’s shoulder.

“That was fantastic,” he grinned broadly. “Well? Anything caught your eye as yet?”

“I don’t know,” replied Tristan and reached for his glass, then called the waiter and indicated that he would like another drink.

“Tristan, Tristan...” Cirrus began, still with that appealing smirk around the corners of his mouth, “Tristan, I’ve just been chatting to Marcus about you in the gents.”

Tristan glanced at his watch and cocked his head to one side: “Well, you’ve certainly taken your time about it. What did you find to say about me?”

“You’re such a handsome chap, Tristan. I like the shine on your hair, the ironic expression in your eyes. Your chin, your physique. In a word, I have never before seen such perfection in a man!”

Tristan leaned over to Marcus, who nodded in agreement.

“How much did you pay him?” he asked in a whisper.

“In cocainum veritas,” he said with a sideways grin.

“Really, Tristan. When I first saw you my soul was stirred to its depths. In that moment I knew that the personality that seems to radiate through every fibre of your being is capable of changing what I am, perhaps even my entire life. So far I have created works of beauty, but now they seem nothing more than the prelude to the great work that I can now achieve. My art must make you my own. Let me paint your portrait!”

He paused, giving Marcus the opportunity to elegantly raise his glass and, with a grand gesture, drink a toast to Tristan. However, Tristan seemed lost in thought. His finely turned eyebrows were furrowed to form a dark shadow. Thin creases appeared beneath the corners of his mouth, though they were gone in a few seconds.

“Go on, Tristan, our friend here has been fascinated by your profile for weeks. Just think, he could make your youthful beauty immortal! Your face would age, but your image would remain as fresh as it is today.”

But Tristan was unconvinced and indicated as much with a hand gesture.

“Let’s change the subject. Sorry, Cirrus, but I haven’t got time to discuss it now.”

“I cannot accept this answer! Anyone else would be ecstatic to be immortalized by me!” protested the artist with vehemence. But Tristan could not be persuaded. There was a brief pause in which Cirrus, mortified, looked up at the moon with raised eyebrows.

Finally, Marcus, ever the diplomat, said “To our wrinkles, then,” and raised his glass. “They make us more handsome by the year, while the beauty of our women fades. So I suggest you paint our girlfriends instead, Cirrus, then we shall have something to remember them by when we end up marrying their daughters!”

Cirrus, though, after his disappointment, was in no mood for jesting. With suppressed rage he had turned his chair around and was focusing entirely on the scene that surrounded them.

“Excuse me,” said Tristan, getting up, “I’m going to get a breath of fresh air.” He took his drink and walked with measured tread in the direction of a young lady who had caught his eye during the conversation. In fact, the reason for his surprisingly dark looks just now had not been the artist’s offer to paint him. He would have thought this far too trivial to bother him. No, the reason had been the young lady who had walked past them without so much as a sideways glance and who was now standing at the far end of the roof terrace. He directed his steps quite slowly towards the long-legged beauty, as the ice-cubes quietly chinked against the inside of the glass in his hand.

She looked fabulous. Her dark-brown hair lay across her right shoulder, revealing her long, delicate, swanlike neck. Her skin shone white and cool against the moonlight, while the red of her evening gown, which scarcely covered her back, played around the contours of her body like a breath of warm air. Tristan stepped up to the railing beside her and grasped the chrome of the barrier with both hands.

He looked out at the city and took a deep breath. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed her look round at him, her eyes lingering on his face for an instant. So he turned towards her and smiled. Her face was even more beautiful than he had realized at first glance, when she swept past them. She looked at him searchingly with her big chestnut-brown doe-like eyes. Her eyebrows arched delicately above them. Her forehead was high and rounded like that of a child, whilst her straight and well-formed nose divided her face into two symmetrical halves, the sensuous focus of which was formed by her lips. These were so full and alluring that she really had no need of the lipstick that she had applied. As it was, they stood out from her alabaster skin like drops of blood in the snow.

“I thought it was incredible that a young lady like you had come here unaccompanied and I wanted to offer to keep you company myself. My name’s Tristan,” he said, as he bent his head to one side and the smile faded from his features.

She stared at him for a moment in astonishment, then composed herself, shook her head hesitantly and repeated slowly: “Keep me company?”

She cast her eyes down, then looked at him again and continued: “Thank you for asking, but I’m meeting someone.”

At that point he was struck by how fragile she looked. The thin material, which flowed down her body like water, only seemed to emphasize the vulnerability that he read in her face. Her body was so soft, quite unlike those of the fashion models that were standing around her. Her truly feminine form amazed him and he felt that his prayers had been answered. At the same time, however, he recognized that the others, with their sterile toughness, were stronger than this young lady here. He was afraid that if he touched her she would shatter into a thousand white pieces and be scattered over the floor.

“In that case I’ll wait here with you and leave as soon as your companion arrives,” he replied after a short pause. “I mean, of course, if I may.”

She had turned towards the city again, but at these words she politely looked back at him. At last she said: “All right, then please stay,” and gazed out into the night once more.

“Isn’t it a pity that it never really gets dark in London?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, I’m from the country. To be more precise, I’m from a village on the continent. And when night falls there it’s dark. Here, though, it’s never dark.”

“You’re not from here?”

“No.”

She beamed at him as if he had just made her dearest wish come true.

“My parents come from Italy. My name is Eco, Isabella Eco.”

“Oh really? Then your parents and my parents were almost neighbours. My name is Tristan.”

“Tristan – and what comes next?”

“Nothing. It’s just Tristan.”

“Good, I shall call you Tristano,” she said, laughing.

The waiter was just passing. Tristan stopped him.

“Two glasses of champagne – you drink champagne, don’t you?” he asked her casually and put his half filled glass on the tray. The ice in it had melted.

“Hmm,” she muttered, and turned away in embarrassment.

“Please don’t be offended if I buy you a drink, but I had to get away from my two friends. Can you see them over there?” He pointed to Cirrus and Marcus, who seemed to be in the middle of a heated argument about something. She saw his friends and nodded.