Sophie lay on her blanket in a secluded meadow formed by a clearing in the trees. Since she had accidentally stumbled upon it years ago, the meadow had been her own private treasure. Her school in the dreary city was too far away for quick visits, and today marked the first time she’d been able to return since starting college, but only after, of course, her mother had decided that she completed her daily “summer chores” to satisfaction. The weather was warm, humid, and Sophie found it difficult to stay awake with the lullaby hum of the cicadas. The ground, warmed by the sun, made her spot surprisingly comfortable. The peace this meadow afforded her, this withdrawal from her hectic life and overbearing mother, was so sudden that it brought her to tears. Feeling foolish, she wiped them away and dismissed such nonsensical thoughts. Within a matter of minutes, the book she was holding, her worn copy of Jane Eyre, had slipped out her hands and her eyes closed to slits.
At the moment she was closest to sleep, Sophie heard a large crashing in the undergrowth. Without warning, a man strode into the meadow. He was quite imposing, well built and wearing all black: black jeans, black v-neck, black ray-bans.
Sophie sat bold upright in fear, “Um, excuse me?”
“Oh sorry, didn’t see you there.”
“What are you doing?”
“Me? I always come to this spot when I want a good place to read,” he motioned from the thick book in his hands to Jane Eyre, “you know its peaceful, isolated…I’m surprised to find someone else here actually”
“Yep, me too…so, uh…”
“Pardon me, I haven’t said. My name is Dezi,”
“Sophie” she nodded her head curtly. She sized up her strange companion and wondered what his background could possibly be. He did look to be about the same age as her, maybe mid-20s at most. The name was probably short for something, although she couldn’t guess what. He looked vaguely Greek, or at least Mediterranean, with a dark tan and thick black hair, kept short, but hinting at curls.
“Well Sophie, it is a pleasure to meet you. Would it be okay with you if I just read silently over here?”
“Free country,” she rolled her eyes while he seated himself on a tree stump several feet away. He kept his sunglasses on while reading. After a few minutes of indecision, she picked up her own book, brought it up in front of her eyes, and began loudly flipping the pages, hoping to hint at her annoyance. Eventually her curiosity overcame her decision to ignore him.
“ Are you from, like, around here?”
“Oh yeah, I live really close by. Been here all my life.”
“Really? I’ve never seen you around. Where did you go to school?”
He looked her over for a few seconds before responding, “It’s no wonder you haven’t seen me around school. I’m much older than you.”
Sophie became unsure of her earlier observations, “you don’t look it. How old are you?”
He flashed a smile and responded with the same question, “How old are you?”
Flustered by the strange reply, Sophie could only think of an old-school phrase her mother often used, “it’s the lady’s prerogative not to reveal her age,” and said it aloud before she even recognized she had.
His smile grew even larger and he spoke in an affected British accent, “well it’s the gentleman’s imperative to respect the lady’s request, but also within his purview to not reveal his age as well.”
“Stop it. You’re making fun of me.”
He held out his thumb and index, close together, and teasingly replied, “Just a little bit.” Sophie smiled despite herself, and decided to let the matter go. Though still unnerved by his presence, she gave him the benefit of doubt and returned to her reading.
She had read little more than a paragraph when he broke the silence again, “ How do you find Ms. Brontë?”
“What?” a bit more harshly than she intended
“I said, how do you find her work?” he pointed toward the book she held, “do you like it?”
“Oh…oh yes I love it, it’s my favorite.”
“How many times have you read it through?”
“This is my fifth or sixth time, I think. Why do you ask?”
“Well I’m glad you’re well familiar with it. I have somewhat of a strange hypothesis about that book. Maybe you’ll agree.”
“Which is…?” she prompted, eyebrows raised. Although the conversation was awkward and stilted, such comments did make him seem intelligent. Sophie felt he must have been prompted by loneliness, or even a lack of well-cultured conversation in his daily routine, and she decided to humor him.
“Jane Eyre is in love with death.”
“Wait, what? That doesn’t make any…”
He cut her off, “think about it, all of the classical literary heroines are. Think of like, Antigone, Juliet, Scheherazade, even Nancy Drew,” he chuckled at her disbelieving scowl, “come on, I mean what is she doing shacking up with a mysterious rich guy who lives in a creepy mansion and locked his first wife in the attic?”
Sophie, now indignant, retorted, “Yeah, but it’s not like Mr. Rochester’s going to murder her.”
“True, true…so I guess when I mean by ‘loving death’ is not so much a death-wish, but a compulsion, a force totally outside of themselves, some dark urge…toward whatever end.”
Taken aback, Sophie reviewed the bizarre exchange in her mind, looking for some point of defense. When she finally thought of something, she gleamed in triumph and shuffled a bit closer, still sitting, with pointed finger to accentuate her point.
“Not Scheherazade.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You gave me four examples of ‘ladies in love with death’ or whatever, but Scheherazade doesn’t work. So your hypothesis isn’t very universal.”
It was his turn to look incredulous, “you think so?”
“I know so. I’m not a world literature major for nothing. The whole point of the tales in the Arabian Nights was to distract the king from killing her,” she laughed at her cleverness, “bitch wanted to live!”
“Yeah? And what about you?” he retorted, “Ms. World Literature, are you smart enough or powerful enough to resist death like Scheherazade?” The tone of his voice dropped and Sophie could almost hear a faint echo, as if his dramatic tone had empowered the syllables to reverberate in her ear. She swallowed and the ringing stopped.
“Yes,” she answered quietly, looking back over the line of trees toward where she imagined her house and her mother to be.
“I don’t believe you,” he teased.
“You don’t know me,” she turned back to him, serious, and locked eyes with his opposite, still mirrored by shades, “I would fight. I would fight death to the end, and beyond.”
He looked at her thoughtfully for a few minutes and then broke into deep laughter, “maybe I underestimated you Sophie.”
Bolstered by his admission, she drew even closer, “what book are you reading?”
He ignored her question. A shadow rolled across the meadow as clouds obscured the sun. Sophie realized that she was far closer to him than she thought. Her blanket lay crumpled behind her. The ground beneath had hardened, and she shivered from the sudden cold. Dezi took off his sunglasses and looked down directly. She found that she could not look away. His eyes were a deep gold flecked with black, intensely, unnaturally bright, gleaming like coins. Sophie knew she was close enough now, too close, and then she felt a curious sensation. She was merging into his eyes. Her skin was melting, pouring trough the membrane and forming shiny pools within his iris. As suddenly as it had begun, the connection was severed. He looked away, put his sunglasses on right before the clouds rolled back to allow sun on the meadow. Sophie felt dazed. She put a hand to her head, rubbing her temples while he reached into his pocket, and took out a small plastic bag filled with bright red seeds.
He smiled widely once again. It was so self-assured it made her nervous. “Would you like some pomegranate seeds? They’re delicious, very refreshing.”
Sophie automatically extended her hand to receive them. But a nagging doubt persisted at the back of her mind. She pictured her mother, arms sternly splayed on her hips, staring out the back door in the muggy twilight toward the hills and the meadow. She would wait for her daughter all night if need be, if only to berate her thoughtlessness.
Before he could release the handful of seeds into her palm, Sophie clenched it into a fist and cautioned, “but only a few.” Slowly she reopened her hand. Dezi brought his face close and slowly dropped five seeds into it, one by one, as he moved across, kissing each fingertip.
SM DEC 2010
