Rosette - The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

I raised my face to the mild wind. That light breeze seemed to be benevolent, almost a friend, a sign that my life was changing its course, and this time in a better way.

With my right hand I firmly tightened my grip on my suitcase, and resumed walking with a renewed confidence.

My destination wasn’t far away, according to the encouraging directions of the bus driver, and I hoped he had been honest and not simply optimistic.

Once I got to the top of the hill I stood still, partly to breathe again, partly because I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Was that supposed to be the modest home? That's how Mrs McMillian had called it when she talked to me on the phone, with the naivety of people accustomed to living in the country. It was clear that she was joking. She couldn’t have been speaking seriously; she couldn’t be that naive about how things really were in the rest of the world.

The house stood majestically and royally as a Fairy Palace. If the choice of that position was motivated by the desire to disguise it between the thick and lush vegetation surrounding it, well... the attempt had miserably failed. I suddenly felt intimidated, and I missed the enthusiasm with which I had travelled from London to Scotland and from Edinburgh to that picturesque, aloof and quiet village of the Highlands. That job offer arrived like a boomerang, a godsend in a pitiful and hopeless moment. I had resigned to moving from one office to another; one more anonymous and shabby than the other, as a dogsbody, destined to live only of illusions. Then I casually read an announcement and made the phone call that triggered a radical change of residence; a sudden, but strongly desired move. Until a few minutes ago it seemed like a magical thing to me... What had changed, after all?

I sighed and forced my feet to move again. This time my stride wasn’t as proud as a few minutes ago, but rather awkward and hesitant. The real Melisande emerged again, stronger than the counterweight I used in my attempt to drown her.

I walked the rest of the road with exasperating slowness, and I was immensely pleased to be alone, so that no one could guess the real reason for my hesitation. My shyness, a protective cloak with a life of its own, despite my repeated, unsuccessful attempts to get rid of it, was back in the limelight, reminding me of who I was.

As if I could forget it.

I reached the iron gate, at least ten feet high, and there I was overcome by a new paralyzing hesitation. I bit my lip, considering my alternatives. They were very few, indeed.

Going back was out of the question. I had paid the expenses for the trip in advance, and I had very little money left.

Very little, indeed.

Plus, what did I have waiting for me in London? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even my roommate struggled to remember my name or, at the most, she distorted it.

The silence around me was absolute, resounding in its stillness, broken only by the dull thuds of my heart.

I set the suitcase down on the path, unconcerned of grass stains. Anyhow, they meant nothing to me. I was destined to a black and white universe, devoid of any hint of colour.

And not in a metaphorical sense.

I brought my hand to my right temple and exercised a slight pressure with my fingertips. I had read somewhere that it helped to reduce tension, and although I found it stupid and basically useless, I did so; obedient to a ritual I didn’t have any faith in, only out of respect for a consolidated habit. It was pleasantly comforting to have some habits. I had discovered that it helped me calm down, and I never got rid of any of them. Well, at least not until that moment.

I had violently turned in an opposite direction than my usual one, letting myself be carried away by the flow, and now I would have done anything to go back in time.

I missed my room in London which was as small as the cabin of a ship, the distracted smile of my roommate, the pranks of her plump cat, and even the peeling walls.

Suddenly, without warning, my hand again grasped my leather suitcase, and the other one let go of the gate I was unconsciously clinging to.

I don’t really know what I was going to do - leave or ring the bell - but I never got the chance to find out, because in that same instant two things happened simultaneously.

I looked up, attracted by a movement beyond a window of the first floor, and I saw a white curtain fall back in place. Then I heard a woman's voice. The same I had heard a few days earlier on the phone. The voice of Millicent Mc Millian, dreadfully close.

“Miss Bruno! It’s you, isn’t it?”

I turned abruptly in the direction of the voice, forgetting the movement at the first floor window.

A middle aged woman, skinny, wiry and mild-looking, was still talking, like a river in full. She overwhelmed me.

“But of course it’s you! Who else could be? We don’t receive many visits here at Midnight Rose House, and we were waiting for you! Did you have a nice trip, Miss? Was it easy for you to find the house? Are you hungry? Thirsty? You’ll want to rest, I presume... I’ll call Kyle right away to bring the luggage to your room... I chose a nice, simple but delightful room on the first floor...”

I tried, with poor results, to answer at least one of her questions, but Mrs Mc Millian didn’t stop her incessant flow.

“Obviously you’ll stay on the first floor, and likewise Mr Mc Laine... Oh, but of course, he doesn’t need your help. He already has Kyle, who is his nurse... Actually he's a handyman... He's also a driver... Of whom we don’t know, since Mr Mc Laine never leaves the house... Oh, I'm so glad that you’re here! I really miss the lack of female company... This house is a little gloomy. At least inside it is... Here, in the sun, everything looks wonderful... Don’t you think? Do you like the colour? I realize it’s daring... But Mr Mc Laine likes it.”

This, I thought bitterly, was a question I was happy I didn’t have to answer.

I followed the woman inside the courtyard, and then into the enormous hall of the house. She didn’t stop chanting for a moment, she sounded like the sound of a bell. I just nodded here and there, giving a quick glimpse to the surroundings as we went through them.

I realized that the house was surprisingly huge. I expected a more sober and rigorous decor, masculine, considering that the owner, my new

employer, was a man who lived alone. Obviously his tastes were all but minimal. The furniture was sumptuous, elegant, and antique. 18th century, I guessed, although I wasn’t an expert in antiques.

I quickened my pace so as to not lose the housekeeper, for she was as quick as a cheetah.

“The house is very big” I murmured, taking advantage of a break in her long monologue.

She glanced at me over her shoulder. “That's right, Miss Bruno. But half of it is closed. We only use the ground floor and the first floor. It's too big for a man alone, and too tiring for me to take care of. Apart from the heavy cleaning, for which a cleaning company is hired, I’m the only one here. And Kyle, of course, who has plenty of other tasks. And now, you.”

Finally she stopped in front of a door and opened it.

I reached her, slightly winded. I was already out of breath and exhausted.

She walked into the room with a warm smile on her lips.

“I hope you like it, Miss Bruno. By the way... do you pronounce it Bruno or Brunò?”

“Bruno. My father was of Italian extraction,” I said, while I contemplated the room.

Ms Mc Millian began to chatter, telling me various anecdotes about her brief stay in Florence, Italy when she was young and about her vicissitudes as an art history student with the rigid local bureaucracy.