Mirror Bound

Chapter 1

Have you ever fallen in love with a guy that you know is trouble, but that you cannot resist?

I always thought I was too smart to do that, but as it turns out I was the biggest fool of all. Not that he was a bad person, not at all, he was totally loveable, but trouble followed him wherever he went, still does. Let me tell you how I met him.

It was a beautiful spring day in the city, the stately trees in the street where I lived were budding, grass and flowers were springing up between the pavement and in the parks. The neighbourhood that I lived in was old-fashioned and just a little run down, but not yet shabby.

I rented a top-floor apartment from an inventor, a slightly elusive young man who used his basement to make innovative things, useful objects and beautiful as well, and made a good living out of that. Having just finished my studies and started working my first job I had my own money and some spare time, and I decided to go out and buy some stuff to brighten up my little house.

I had not lived in my apartment long, but I already had a secret fancy for my landlord, who, rumour stated, was from quite a respectable family, though one couldn't call his lifestyle exactly upper-class. He lived on the second floor of the same building, in what was, all things considered, not a prime neighbourhood.

In his basement, he experimented with steam and electricity, and a lot of cutting and welding, forging en fusing was always going on in there. When I first moved in, he had given me a tour and I was really impressed by his creations, made of cast iron and bronze and copper, with levers and gears and bolts everywhere. They were things of beauty, but with a function as well. Heaters for bathwater, pumps, fountains, you name it, he made it to order.

He was just testing a new boiler, and steam was coming out of all kinds of seams and openings, making a lot of noise. That still needed some work, he said. He had proudly shown me an apparatus which he called an electrostatic generator, glass disks that produced beautiful flashes of lightning with nothing but human power. His slim figure was shown to its advantage with an unbleached cotton shirt and sturdy linen pants. He wore high protective boots and a nicely tailored leather vest with bronze buttons and a chained watch in one of the many pockets.

I guessed him to be in his late twenties, his hair was brown and curly, and his face was slightly longish, with large, long-lashed grey eyes and a shapely, full lipped mouth. His nose was just the right size, and his jaws square despite his boyish looks. He had the distinct stubble of a man more interested in his work than in appearances. He smelled really nice, of smoke, and fuel, and something wholly male of his own. Unfortunately he didn't seem in the least bit interested in me as a woman, though he clearly liked to discuss modern technology with me.

In the following weeks we started to socialise a little, I invited him over for dinner a few times, and he did come and seemed to enjoy himself in my company. We talked about studying, city life, friends, family, modern architecture and of course, steam and electricity, and I found myself listening to him with sincere interest. He showed interest in my study and my work too, but he never seemed interested in me romantically.

He did tell me his first name was Paul, and I introduced myself as Melissa, because that is indeed my name. From that moment we were on first name basis and we kind of became friends. We visited concerts together, but still we didn't get intimate. I would so have loved for him to take the initiative, and if I had thought I had any chance with him I would have taken it, but I had no hope at all to be able to compete with those shiny machines that he seemed to have thrown away his family's prospects for. So I just forced myself to be satisfied with being friends, and hearing his secret hopes and dreams for a future of technology, instead of sweet compliments and tributes to my lovely physical assets.

Still I was happy, being useful in my work and having this nice apartment in a spacious modern building, with a nice landlord and neighbour who might be a bit noisy, but never complained about any noise I made either.

Going out as planned to get some ornaments for my place, I decided to go to a flea market a few blocks from my own house. I still like old stuff, with a history attached to it, but back then I couldn't really afford new things, I was still paying back a student loan to my patron. In an excellent mood, I skipped down the stairs, and after the first set I ran into Paul on the landing of the floor where he had his living area.

Despite our socialising, I had never been inside his personal apartment yet, we usually met in mine or in bars and pubs. 'Hey there beautiful', he said with a big smile, 'feeling the arrival of spring?' And I was, so I told him: 'I am indeed, I love to see green things again. You going out?'

He answered: 'I don't know yet. I heard you on the stairs and thought I'd ask where you are going and whether you'd like a companion.'

Suppressing a little thrill of excitement, I said: 'Sure I'd like to. I'm going to the flea market in fifth street, browsing for good stuff to decorate my apartment. Care to come?'

He answered: 'Yes please, let me get my wallet in case they have some copper or other metals to sell,' then disappeared into his apartment, to return a few minutes later.

And so we walked arm in arm to the flea market, enjoying the sunshine and the warm air. Birds were singing, and there were a lot of people about. I had a really good feeling about this trip, arm in arm with the man I secretly admired, chatting with him, touching him, catching a hint of his exciting scent every once in a while.

Soon we reached the market, and it was nice and large. After a long, cold winter, a lot of merchants had chosen this first really warm day to try and make some money, and they had set up their booths on the fifth street square. The market was busy with people negotiating deals, some already carrying their purchases. Boys with hand-carts were waiting to make a few pennies carting the larger stuff to people's homes, and a stray dog was checking out the street to see if someone had left something edible lying about.

The buildings around us were quite tall, at least three stories like Paul's house, but the square was sizeable and the sun was at its highest, so there were some sunny patches amongst the stalls, giving the market a very pleasant atmosphere.

I looked at Paul, thrilled that he had sought my companionship, apparently radiating some of my excellent spirits, for he looked at me in amusement and asked: 'Where do you want to start?' 'Right here,' I answered, and I proceeded to the nearest booth to check out its contents. Together we browsed a lot of stalls, he bought a few pieces of brass and copper, ugly ornaments mostly that he made a stiff bargain for. I knew he'd melt it down for its metal content, so I didn't tease him with having bad taste. He'd make beautiful and useful things out of the purified metals.

I did wonder how he managed to carry all that weight around the market, for he must have had quite a few pounds to lug around already. Quite probably he was a lot stronger than he looked, physically demanding work does that to people.

My mind started to imagine him bare-chested, working the bellows to heat his furnace, muscles rippling under his sooted skin. Too bad my common sense decided not to go there, stopping the thought short. My common sense was very much in charge of things then, but unbeknownst to me, events were already unfolding to change that.

I had picked up some little knick-knacks myself, an embroidered cushion, a nice lamp, a colourful rug. Paul called over one of the boys with a hand-cart, and he was clearly glad to unload his trophies on the cart. I added mine to the total, and we paid the boy a little extra to guard our stuff whilst we continued browsing. My excitement over this trip was quieted down a little by now, having already found some of the things I wanted. I was feeling quite satisfied so far, but still eager to see more and buy more.

First of all, Paul decided he wanted to get something to eat at one of the regular stalls, one that sold sausages with fried potatoes. As we were a few hours further into the day, I immediately agreed to let him treat me to his favourite fast food. We sat down on a bench at one of the long tables, enjoying a beer. The service was quick despite there being quite a lot of customers, and we soon got our servings. Paul was not wrong to be a regular here, this was good food, especially for a guy working really hard in a forge all day, for me the portion was quite large, I'm not a type that can eat limitlessly.

But Paul didn't mind finishing my portion as well as his own. I had been amazed before at the amount of food he could process without getting any fatter but I guess his body worked differently from mine.

That reminds me, I didn't tell you about myself yet: I was, and am still, quite tall, and certainly not skinny. My figure is very feminine, with ample roundings and quite enough cleavage to make men check me out a lot.

I never enjoyed wearing dresses, feeling uncomfortable with being judged on appearance instead of personality and merit, so I usually wore a long skirt with a bodice, or a women's suit, or even lady's trousers. This may also have had to do with my profession, having studied to be an engineer I was usually in the company of men, and I found that with my luscious body, wearing dresses tended to distract men, make them take me less seriously. A suit gives a business-like air, and when I finished my studies I successfully applied for job as an independent building inspector for the city council, wearing a suit, so I stuck to the practice.

I have some lovely dresses, but I save them for special occasions, when turning every man's head and most women's is an advantage. To complete my picture, my hair is coppery brown, slightly wavy and very long, but I usually keep it confined in a braid or even put up. My complexion is very light, I tend to burn quickly in the full sun, and I'm always battling a few freckles on my nose.

But now, back to the market, for Paul had finished my potatoes as well as his own, and we were ready to continue our shopping spree.

Several of the booths were taken by merchants that I had not seen before, which made them especially interesting. In one of these stalls, occupied by a creepy looking fellow with stringy black hair and a likewise beard, I saw a piece of folk art that immediately drew my attention.

It was a depiction of a mirror framed in a living branch. And out of that mirror came the head and one hand of a man with a rather narrow face and some decidedly goat-like features, like an impressive set of he-goat's horns, a deeply dented lip and pointed ears, as if a man were changing into a goat and the development stopped not even half-way. His nose was quite long and his eyes were set a bit high for a man's.

It was a slightly disturbing work, but I fell in love with it instantly. Paul noticed my interest, and sarcastically said: 'You know he-goats are known for their randiness, don't you?' Of course I must have looked like a fool, for one moment I thought he had seen right through me, had read my lustful thoughts about him from my posture, maybe straight from my mind.

The merchant, eager to make a sale, used my moment of stunned silence to get a word in: 'Beautiful paper-maché folk art, misses, and only a tenner. That is practically for free.' That was way cheaper than I expected, and the figure seemed to encourage me to take him with me.

Next to me, Paul laid a hand on my arm in a familiar way and looked at me disapprovingly. The merchant quickly said: 'Eight pounds, that is my final offer.' I did wonder why Paul was so set against my buying it, but I told the man: 'Sold!'

After buying the goat-man I was ready to return to my apartment, and asked Paul: 'Shall we go home? And why were you so set against my buying this?' He laughed and said: 'I wasn't, that guy thought we were a married couple, so I pretended to thoroughly dislike it so you'd get it for as little as he would sell it for.'

Of course the logic of that statement was clear to me immediately, so I told him: 'You're really smart, and subtle, I never even noticed that. Thank you.' He looked at the thing thoughtfully and even touched it briefly, then stated: 'It feels vaguely sentient, I have a certain sensibility to magic. I hope I won't regret helping you buy it.'

I did not understand that last remark, why would he regret something I bought? But he mentioned another word that sounded positively ridiculous to me: 'Magic?,' I cried, 'this piece of painted paper? You're not serious!' By this time, we had reached the cart with the rest of our purchases, and after laying our latest buys carefully on top of the others, we set off for home, the boy following with the cart.

Back home, we shared the cost of the cart, and after taking his metals into his basement, Paul helped me take my stuff upstairs, and even find a nice place for everything. We saved the goatish man for last, and decided to place him over my small hearth. With a big iron hammer from his workshop Paul drove a nail into the wall of his house, and hung the mirror-like piece on it. Taking a few steps back to admire his handiwork he said: 'Nice and straight. Seeing him here I think he suits your place, he looks well on your wall and he'll feel safe here.'

Again, I had a feeling he knew more than he let on, more about this work of art and more about me. I must admit I felt a bit disconcerted, I regarded him as a down-to-earth craftsman, a gifted craftsman surely, even an artist, but not a spiritual person. But now he seemed to see right through me. 'You are so silent, aren't you pleased with the new man in your life?' he asked when I just stood there, looking at him in surprise and yes, even dismay.

Shaking the feeling of another world touching mine, I looked about my room with its new inhabitant, and I was more than pleased, I was thrilled. This was the piece I had in mind when I set out this afternoon, a real focal point, and just quirky enough. So I let all my satisfaction resound in my voice as I replied: 'Yes, I am very happy with him. He looks right at home here, as you said. Thank you for your help.'

Still I couldn't help feeling that he knew I had a crush on him and wanted to let me know he did. Not wanting to show my disturbance I asked him: 'Will you stay for dinner?'

His reply startled me again: 'I don't think so. I think it's time I made dinner for you, in my place. Let him get used to the place on his own'. The last remark was made looking at my new piece of art, which he seemed to almost regard as a real person.

Chapter 2

I went with him to his apartment one floor down, and had no idea what to expect behind that door. Would it be a bachelor's pad, with just a bed and a bare table? Or would it be stuffed with his family's heirlooms? Not much chance! Maybe a stylish ensemble with elegant minimalistic furniture? I had no clue, though I expected it to be in good taste, for his beautiful creations nearly demanded his home to be as beautiful.

But the reality was even beyond that. His apartment, as humble from the outside as my own, turned out to be a Gothic palace from the inside. The door didn't open on a hall with a living-room and several bedrooms leading from it, but on a kind of gallery made of wrought iron ornamented with bronze floral elements, offering a view on a large living-room one floor down.

I realized that he had two floors, my apartment being on the third floor and his workshop in the basement. Standing by the railing I saw a winding stairs, again wrought iron with bronze ornamentation, this time with reptilian creatures writhing down the railing and even through the steps. Dragons!

The walls were mostly wood panelling inlaid with a mosaic of differently coloured woods. His vide had an enormous Gothic chandelier hanging over it, suspended from a stark white ceiling.

Paul was observing my reaction to his little surprise with amusement. Of course no-one could enter here without staring in wonderment. At last he broke the silence: 'This is why you are my first visitor in a long time, it takes ages to get to the kitchen the first time I let someone in.' I still had no words for what I saw, just a pressing need to see the rest of it, all of it.

I followed him down the stairs, into the living area. The wood panelling was replaced by row upon row of bookshelves, stuffed with books of all shapes and sizes and ages. There was a sitting area with comfortable chairs and even a sofa of soft fabric in a corner of the large room, where the ceiling was decidedly lower. And there was a slim and elegant wooden desk. The floor was wood mosaic again, with deep red Persian rugs here and there.

There was no dining table, and the space, though really high in the middle, was not wide, but it did seem larger than my apartment. As if he could read my mind, again, Paul explained: 'There are no bedrooms on this floor, just the kitchen. The bedrooms are one floor up, where the ceiling is lower. Will you come and sit in the kitchen? I'll make us dinner.'

The kitchen was the most beautiful place yet. Its ceiling was lower than the living area, but all the cupboards were made of wood ornamented with copper silhouettes of flying dragons. There was a beautiful copper boiler, not hidden away but in plain sight. The sink was also copper, set in a beautiful piece of hardwood. The dining table was set up here, with four light chairs. The table had no cloth, but was polished to a high sheen.

Light came in from a window, opening up to the inner garden of our block of houses. I was stunned, not able to say a word. Coming from a lower class family, able to study only with the patronage of my parents' employer, I had never in my life seen such riches. It wasn't gaudy, and I knew he had almost certainly made every piece of metalwork himself, but the value of everything in this house was way beyond my experience. I was overwhelmed.

He led me towards one of the chairs, seemingly too fragile to sit on, but he assured me they were a lot stronger than they looked, and encouraged me to sit down. Then he moved one of the chairs close to mine and sat right next to me, laid his hand on mine and told me: 'I take it you approve?' Now I finally found my voice: 'It is beyond words. I've never seen something so beautiful. All the work you've put in, the materials, the style.'

He closed his hand over my hand, and said: 'Thank you. Do you want tea, or a glass of wine?' I opted for the tea, with all the strange things that had been happening I preferred to keep my wits about me, though alcohol generally didn't affect me strongly.

Paul didn't put on a kettle, but used a little tap that was part of the large boiler to pour steaming hot water into an old-fashioned china teapot. He measured out tea and put it to steep. Then he started busying himself peeling and slicing various vegetables, and he took what appeared to be noodles out of a cupboard. I offered to help, but he asked me to just watch him work and maybe pour myself and him some tea.

He had a strange way of making dinner, immersing the noodles very shortly in more steaming water from the beautiful boiler, then draining them in a sieve. He cut up the various vegetables very finely, as well as some white meat, poultry I guessed. Then he fried it in a large copper pan, over a high fire, in oil instead of butter. Several spices from little jars went in and then it was all ready.

I was amazed, again. And it tasted fabulously, light and savoury after the heavy meal of the afternoon. The combination with the smoky tea was also excellent. I realized that fried potatoes were not his staple diet, that this was what he usually ate. No wonder he was so thin.