The Professor and the Vagrant - Prologue

Author's Note:- This story was inspired by the weather and my study days but I am not sure what I am trying to convey in this story and where I am getting at. Writing is therapeutic to me and helps me focus on something specific because I think a lot. If you had enjoyed this story and would like me to continue, feel free to let me know. I will try to devise a plot and continue it to the best of my ability.

Lily

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THE PROFESSOR AND THE VAGRANT

Prologue:- Cobbled Streets under Sunless Skies

Narrow streets greeted the world with greyish bricks with each cautious step I took under the sunless skies. There were chunks of bricks off the medieval houses, the pavement and the canals below where the water barely flowed. This was not known as a city of bricks; yet for all I did know, it could very well be famous for one.

It was the last day of everything really. Half the day was already gone and the other half coursed through baited uncertainty. Three quarters of the sky were devoid of blue, and last frontier of the was gradually losing any semblance of brightness. The wind blew; mercilessly stoic and strong. I tried not to cringe; by cold or by despair.

Part of the prestigious but ancient university was scattered around the historical center. The town itself was an influx of old and new. Students, tourists and locals flocked the narrow cobbled streets daily. Throughout the years of my lecture series here, I have been smart enough by now not to wear my black high heels. They wedged into spaces between the uneven bricks and I had to be extra vigilant not to trip and lose my balance.

I inhaled the scent of winter. We were into the first few weeks of the year and it seemed that winter flaunted its cold; unleashing it without airs and graces. I knotted my scarf tighter around my neck as I strolled cautiously. I immersed into the scent of people amongst the musk of bricks and the sharp chill of freshness intermingled as one. I saw my own breath condense in front of me; puffs of clouds so clear yet inconsequential. I remembered how I used to be amazed at this, and I noted how indifferent I was towards it now.

I am in between spaces; neither here nor there. Two worlds; the West and the East. Home is where the heart is; but I had no place I could emotionally call home. I flitted through spaces between continents; for my university days and for work. After getting my hard-earned doctorate in a non-practical area befitting of real life (what a mouthful!), I drifted in the waywardness of thoughts. I thought so much that I could barely keep myself in check. I lost track of keeping up and now my outright lies could not be sustained for much longer if they were to be believed. I knew how it would seem to others; and I knew how I would seem to myself- a liar not worth redeeming.

The sun was about to set soon although it was only half past four in the evening. The short days of winter used to terrify me as I was afraid of being alone in enclosed spaces. When I was out in the open; be it on the streets or in nature, I felt fine. But when I was in my own hotel room, I felt suffocated by the darkness outside because I was in this box they called a room.

As I navigated my way through the alleys, I felt like I was a creature prowling in the dark. I grappled with my flared coat; trying to keep it straight in place from the billowing wind. The Church of our Archangel Gabriel was located some distance away from the historical center. I had to cross a park and from there it was a long straight lane surrounded by oak trees. The moment I saw a speck in a horizontal line at the far edge of the horizon signalled the first sighting of the church from half a kilometer away.

The park and singular lane were devoid of people, and it was hardly surprising as it was a dead end right where the church was. It was the only destination to be reached from the lane. The grand entrance was closed so naturally I strolled into its quiet compound; its stocky structure of greyish bricks made everything seem to be viewed from the lens of a monochrome filter. I reached the rose garden within the church yard. Sitting on a bench with his legs crossed, his back faced me. I saw something black by his side and it was a pitiful image of a backpack which had seen better days. My eyes turned misty. I could not remember when I had experienced a better day and I knew that each passing day lost the little luster it had. Yet I also knew I could not blame meaningless days. I could only blame myself for taking the easier way out; it had been my voluntary surrender. I had almost given up on feeling any semblance of the living. I was but a ghost of the past and present; drifting further into God knows where but he...

His ears actually tingled and flapped slightly, like those of a rabbit. From the bricked arches of the rose garden, he turned to look at me. His greyish coat flapped in the wind. The sound of the worn, rough fabric against his shoulders I heard as a faint rustle in my ears.

The bricked arches of the rose garden and the church dome had done more than just amplify low sounds in the howling wind. It had made us starkly aware of the presence of the other in the burgeoning darkness.

Strange amber eyes gleamed against my own. For a second, I saw my reflection quivering like an apparition in the very depths of his eyes. But still the woman reflected in his eyes stood still; refusing to flinch more than she already did. I wondered whether this was how I looked like; impossibly fragile. I reminded myself that it was not the time for fragility or whims.

"The church is closed." He said.

I was amazed at how deep his voice was, but I was not sure whether it was because the howling wind had made him sound like that.

I was dumbstruck. I had played out my own version of how it would have happened, but always with me making the first move and initiating the first words; never him. I had never envisaged him speaking to me before I was ready for it.

"Do you speak English?" He asked.

Amber coloured eyes which shifted shades in the lighting widened against the ubiquitous plainness of the dark brown in mine.

I nodded.

The ethereal quality of his eyes expressed doubt for I had failed to speak. If I did speak, would he be able to take in what I really wanted to say?

"I want to know..." I began.

I had to start somewhere. I had forgotten how many times I had rehearsed the scenario in my mind's eye.

"Yes?" He trailed.

He sounded very disinterested but his eyes scrutinized me from head to toe. He took in the expression I had on my face, my flared coat which almost went down to the length of my knees, my low beige pumps and the briefcase which I clutched in one hand.

"...what time does the church open again tomorrow?" I asked.

I sighed then. It was ten times more difficult to articulate the words for real.

"Nine to four." He answered.

His answer was solemn and precise. There was no room to conjure small talk.

"Thank you." I said.

This came naturally enough.

He stood up now; moving towards me. His gaze never left mine. I felt a pang of something rising in my chest, pulling me in opposite directions. Fear was scaring the daylights out of me; yet foolhardy bravery called me out like a siren.

Despite what little light remained in the darkness, we stared at each other face to face in full sight.

I inhaled the musky chill in the air in a sharp gulp. My breath made puffs of clouds in front of me.

His presence had unearthed me.

"I see that my hideous face has startled you." He said, in a controlled voice.

He was overcompensating with politeness and I saw through his disastrous attempt at civility.

I had not thought of his hideous face. In fact I would have described his disfigurement somewhat differently.

I heard and felt the small greyish stones rub against my low heels in one screeching friction. Belatedly I realized that I must have taken a step backwards.

"Since you have shown great interest in my face, would you also care to know that I was disfigured in a fire eight years ago?" He asked.

It was strange. I could not comprehend the sudden change in his voice. It was now husky and low, almost with a seductive insinuation. Yet it could not be, could it not?

We were both strangers at a rose garden in an empty church yard. Dark winter skies must have played havoc with my perception. The darkness of thought had enveloped me too. I did not trust my judgment.

I raised my face a little higher to look at him. Men here were almost always so tall. He lowered his face; his lips almost grazing my cold cheeks. I felt the heat of his lips lingering inches above my skin.

My overthinking mind went blank for a second. I could not say anything intelligible to ease the situation. "I am sorry" seemed a bit too overused; while "I see" seemed callous and cold.

Instead I shook my head, somewhat in frustration at myself and at him for his unexpected remark.

"I was not staring at your disfigured face." I said.

Despite this, how had I shamelessly entreated my eyes on him and held his face with curiosity- those unmistakable scars; the raised welts which grazed his lower right eye; skittering down the same cheek in a rogue line. They had the colour of chapped lips; dotted with whitish marks amongst flesh. They looked weather-beaten; just as the man who possessed them.

It was only natural that I faced him when I spoke, I thought. The scars were in the way, but it was not why I looked at him.

"Then why don't you look elsewhere and let me be?" He whispered into my cheeks, with the same lilt in his voice.

I stood very still. His lips had accidentally touched my cheeks, causing me to shudder.

I wanted to say that I was a tourist who understood only a smattering of English but that was too late now. He had heard me speak. Sometimes I used my skin colour to my advantage to play the part of a clueless tourist. However much I abhorred generalizations, I bended at will when it suited me. I detested this.

"I have not seen you before this week." He said.

I nodded; wary about what he was going to say next.

"But these past few days you have been here in this church. Just perhaps you are stalking me and not doing a very good job at it." He continued.

He took a step back from me. Now he spoke as if he were hacking wood; the tone of his voice all curt and splinted to drive me away.

Amber eyes stung mine with ferocity.

The seductive lilt in his voice was all an act.

"The church may be closed, but the rose garden is not." I said.

I stated the obvious. This was not his private property. I had every right to be here the same way he had.

This was really getting out of hand. I had roused him into anger, and I wished I came better equipped with words or had an alternate plan had he approached me first. Retrospectively, nothing had ever worked out the way I wanted them too. In my life, he was a mere tumbling block in the collapse of dominoes; one after another.

"What do you want to see here; the roses?" He asked.

His voice sliced through the wind. The tone of his voice was hard and he had a disbelieving expression about him.

I could not say the roses. They were all gone in winter. The last rose succumbed ages ago at the first signs of frost. Since then it had been snowing on and off. The erratic snowfall was cumbersome even though earth brightened up with a lovely coat of white.

"Everything is dead here. Is that what you want to see; death?" He asked.

Amber eyes; this time with golden hues due to the specific angle, pierced mine. His voice was low as he hovered above me. He viewed me as prey.

"Perhaps." I said, my voice was soft.

He arched out his neck closer to my cheeks.

"Perhaps what, Mademoiselle?" He said; murmuring inches away from me again.

I wondered if he was trying to be funny and taking me for a fool. Why the French when he was most certainly not? I would rather that he called me Madame if I had any say in it. I knew very well that the French government had issued a circular in 2012 to avoid any distinction of married and unmarried women. Madame was to be the equivalent of Monsieur. The beauty of Monsieur was that it gave no indication of a man's marital status. Why should a woman's marital status matter anyway? Furthermore how could he assume that I was unmarried? Perhaps I looked the part of one.

I felt his warm breath on my skin; tingling erratically.

"Perhaps I want to see death." I said.

My voice was steady. I did not betray my unfurling emotions. My sight was drawn into the amber which challenged me. A spark of gold dilated in his pupils.

"Why would a woman like you say that?" He questioned harshly.

His expression darkened as his words cut through the howling wind like knives slashing through worn fabric. I felt a slash in my heart which would not go away.

His voice could not be more grounded.

"What do you mean a woman like me?" I asked, feeling defensive.

"A woman who has everything she could possibly have." He said.

His voice was clear and blunt.

"And how would you know that?" I questioned.

"You are dressed sophisticatedly and you have a fancy briefcase." He said.

I took a look at my leather briefcase dangling from the nervous clutch of my palms. I did believe that I had a fancy briefcase, but I had never considered myself one who dressed sophisticatedly because I never paid much attention to how I dressed.

"But mostly you have the gaze of the world about you." He said.

"I am afraid I do not understand." I replied.

I felt my blood pumping through my heart erratically but its flow was restrained.

"I am complimenting you." He merely said.

He did no justice to his proclaimed compliment. His voice was gruff. With that same tone, he could have been snarling at me. I caught the irony of the situation.

"What is the gaze of the world?" I asked.

I had never heard of this self-conjured phrase before.

He looked at me with his chin upturned.

"Someone who knows about why things happen, how they happen and what is going to happen." He said.

He spoke as if he were giving me a lecture. He would have made a brilliant speaker. He paused at the right places and emphasized the right words.

I had to smile. What a preposterous presupposition! Yet come to think of it, it came with my work. There was no escaping it. That was why I was so good in making plans. However I have to add that my plans never quite went the way I wanted them to.

"You agree with me." He said, as a matter of fact.

What had descended upon me I did not understand myself. I could not help a slight smile.

"You are being utterly ridiculous." I said.

"Am I now?" He asked, in that husky voice.

He seemed to be alternating between how he wanted to present himself to me.

It was not to my advantage to answer his question. I felt observed thoroughly through a microscope. It was not what I had bargained for. I had wanted someone quiet, docile and in need of what I could offer with minimal questions asked.

His eyes pried into mine sharply. Seeing that I was not one to be dragged into conversations not of my own will, he changed the topic.

"I ask you again, why the preoccupation with death?" He asked.

His voice had gone hard again.

I refused to answer him.

"Are you here to taunt my disfigurement?" He asked.

Amber eyes flamed like copper daggers against my unshielded eyes.

I refused to be baited on like this.

"Do you know that I can hurt you if I wanted to?" He asked.

This time I wavered. I accidentally dropped the briefcase on the ground. I took in a deep breath.

"Yes." I said.

Then I attempted answer. I saw death in his eyes. I had felt him, and I had felt myself.

"Perhaps I am here for the same reason that you are here." I said, in a clear voice.

I had no inkling of my answer. It was spontaneous.

His eyebrows furrowed towards the bridge of his nose. He appeared to have lost some semblance of control he was trying to exert over me. He looked at me curiously. For a split second, it slipped his mind that he had been behaving crudely towards me.

He let down his guard. His amber eyes softened.

"A rose garden is bare in winter." I said simply.

Of course it was bare in winter. I had travelled enough, I had known. I was no fool. I was afraid now but the feeling of being with him was so surreal that it took precedence over fear.

"Did you expect otherwise?" He asked in rejoinder.

His amber eyes darkened as they narrowed into mine.

"In summer, the roses bloom again until the last. Till then, life goes on until the final end." I said.

I felt my spirit gravitate towards his; only that I had no idea if his spirit knew I was coming for him.

"The miracle of life against the futility of resistance against death. Till then, we await the inevitable." He said.

He whispered the words into my ear. His deep, low voice echoed beyond the arches, or perhaps they vibrated deep into my ear. Feeling a little jittery, I concentrated instead on his features.

I noticed how his partly blond and partly silver hair seemed to gleam with gold streaks in the dark.

"I agree with you." I said.

I was emotionally tired; it made me physically tired but I just went on and on keeping myself occupied. I could not stop; could not relax. I was always on a standby mode to do something; if not troubleshoot a problem.

"A storm is brewing. Don't tell me the woman with the gaze of the world has nowhere else she would rather be." He said.

He spoke in a harsh tone. His gaze challenged mine.

Perhaps I should abandon my plan. My mind played games with me. I had been unsure what I wanted to say previously, but now I was unsure if I wanted to carry on with this.

The first few raindrops started to fall sparsely on our tensed bodies. The rose garden; bare in winter, was all branches, twigs and grey pebbles on the ground.

An unexpected tear slipped down my cheeks, as if summoned by rain. Uncontrolled emotions were always the worst.

I could do better than this. I deserved better. I finally left him alone. I turned and started walking away from him, resolving never to glance back at him.

I had yet to reach the passageway of the ribbed vaults when his voice reverberated through the howling wind.

"Please do not go." He said.

My ears picked up shuffling of dried, crispy leaves against weather-beaten shoes.

He was right behind me; not touching me; just standing there.

I was resolute not to face him but my feet kept glued to the pebbly ground.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to be rude." He said.

I heard his voice, notches softer now, almost caressing against my hair like a silk sheet.

"Hardly anyone talks to me nowadays. It takes some time to adjust again." He said.

I wondered if he saw the tear slip down my cheeks and then he softened his stance. It was dark and raining after all. Otherwise it was my feminine weakness which had turned the tables. Or some would say charm because ultimately he did not want me to leave just yet.

"But it is true I have been observing you. It is not by chance that I am here today." I said, turning towards him swiftly.

He nodded in acknowledgement, if not understanding.

"Let us seek shelter first, then you can tell me why a man like me should interest you." He said.

He had generalized me as "a woman like you" but he also gave himself the same treatment. I wondered what it entailed to be "a man like him".

"Of course. I would rather avoid the rain." I said.

As if afraid to touch me, he spread his arms towards the pavilion in the middle of the rose garden. I nodded and picked up my pace. He followed behind me; adjusting his pace to mine.

We were in the pavilion when lighting struck the church dome and thunder roared over the vastness of space. For a while, we looked out in resignation at the heavy downpour. It was only a matter of minutes before inconsequential languid drops were replaced by gushing drops of rain.