Newsletter 8.26.2021
The Mortal Feelings of W. Somerset MaughamPart 12December came, and rain settled over the city, darkening the sky, and sending the citizens of Geneva ducking through the streets with their umbrellas pulled tight over their heads. A bitterly cold wind blew vengefully off the lake. Deep puddles of water littered the city’s streets, which fiacre wheels crashed through in noisy splashes while the horses grunted. The sun started setting in the early afternoon, and at night the city was eerily empty as the rain hammered down. Mornings slowly seeped out of the endless nights agonizingly – the top edge of the eastern sky would gradually lighten from black night until the sky was the color of a wet newspaper; and that was as light as it would get for the rest of the day.
For the first two days, Somerset and Aarav luxuriated in the solitude, staying in Somerset’s room, only leaving for meals, and sleeping for long hours after bouts of lovemaking. All of their troubles faded away – they were one. Despite the daylong twilight, they kept the lamps off, and milky light gently poured itself in through the windows. The staccato of the downpour was romantic – and it was like time itself had been washed away.
By the third day of December, though, even they were fatigued by the rain. After breakfast they made love, and while their passion had not diminished, a few minutes after they finished, Aarav sighed loudly and complained about the rain. They slept. In the early afternoon, pinpricks of blue sky appeared in the cloud cover, and shining sabres of light shined down on Geneva. Aarav lifted himself from the bed and took Somerset’s hand. The rain was over.
They dressed and left the hotel. It was two o’clock. While it was chilly outside, the sky was a cerulean blue, with blotches of slate-colored clouds slowing pushing to the east. The sun was in its full glory now, and the color yellow, which had been absent for three days, spilled across the city in an overflowing stream. People appeared quickly on the streets, some tentatively holding umbrellas loosely at their sides, and some so exuberant, they had left their coats inside.
Somerset and Aarav decided to take a walk down to the Jet D’eau where Lake Geneva met the River Rhone. The monumental fountain, Geneva’s most famous landmark, had originally been created further downstream in 1886, and it had been purely functional, relieving pressure on the hydraulic power plant. It had been moved here in 1891, when its function became less important, and its beauty became supreme. The Jet D’eau shot its white, foamy spray ninety meters into the air, where it seemed to float for the most transient instant, until falling in a haze back to the lake. Somerset and Aarav stood on the Promenade du Lac Léman, and as happy crowds flowed around them, they were silent – Somerset was tired; the rainy days had exhausted him, and he knew they had done the same to his lover. What he wanted to do was reach out and take Aarav’s hand, and squeeze Aarav’s warm flesh into his own. But such a thing was never to be.
“Look,” said Aarav, pointing at the fountain. “A rainbow!”
Underneath the spray of the fountain, where the haze took the shape of a phantom, a wide arch of color floated, beauty that was visible, but intangible. Now, Somerset did reach out for a moment and take took Aarav’s hand. Aarav’s skin was warm, and so soft, pulsing with his life. Their eyes met, and for the briefest second, Somerset felt an otherwise impossible happiness. But, aware of his surroundings, he quickly withdrew his hand, looking around to see if anyone had observed them.
“I have to deliver something to my associates tomorrow,” Aarav said.
“What is it?”
“I would rather not say. I could implicate you.”
“Implicate me? In what?”
Aarav looked away, fixing his eyes on the Jet D’Eau. “Forgive me my secrecy. I am thinking only of you.”
Somerset turned back to the crowd. He caught sight of a young boy in a green suit, run and stumble, falling to his hands and knees on the sidewalk. The boy froze for a second as he absorbed what had happened, and then raised himself halfway, examining his hands to see if he was injured.
“This… item you have to deliver. Do you have it now?”
“No. I am going to pick it up tomorrow morning.”
Somerset sucked in a deep, slow breath. “You do not have to do it.”
Aarav shook his head. “I do have to do it, Will.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I know why you do what you do. But I don’t understand why you would risk everything on an impossible mission.”
Aarav took an angry breath through his flaring nose. “You do not understand me.”
“Maybe I do not. But I do love you. Very much.”
“How can you love someone you do not understand?”
A cold tingle traveled down Somerset’s spine. “We never understand anyone completely. That is a youthful dream.”
“Like my dream of a free India?”
“We cannot divert all the waters in the world by ourselves.”
“History awaits those who wish to free the unfree,” Aarav argued.
“No,” said Somerset. “History cannot be trusted.”
Aarav scratched his cheek nervously. “You think I am a young fool.”
“That is why I love you,” Somerset told him. “I myself am a ruined, empty old man. You give me hope, Aarav. But when you are my age, you start to look at your life as a series of disappointments and agonies, and you struggle your best to avoid more.”
“I have to do something,” Aarav said quietly, looking in Somerset’s eyes.
“Why?
“Have you never felt like I do?”
“I am not as virtuous as you are.”
“You say I am virtuous, yet you condescend to me.”
“Now you do not understand me. I fear for you. But I also envy you.”
“Maybe history cannot be trusted,” Aarav says, clenching his hands together. “But we are history – it forms us, our perspectives, our fears, our social mores. The animal is in inside somewhere, but it is a blur, trapped.”
“If that is so,” said Somerset. “Where does history end and we begin?”
“I do not know.”
They were silent.
“Run away with me,” said Somerset. “We could go anywhere. Across the world. I have plenty of money. We can run away from all this.”
“And then would I be your possession?” Aarav asked.
“No! You would just be yourself. Without … all this.”
“Will.” Aarav placed his hand on Somerset’s shoulder. “I am… all this.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 13Fernanda Melchor
Fernanda Melchor is a Mexican journalist and novelist. I took a look at her first novel, published in 2020, on Medium.
Fernanda Melchor’s Hurricane Season on Medium
The Swirling Seas of Anna Kavan
My Anna Kavan short story is up and complete on Medium, here:
The Swirling Seas of Anna Kavan on MEDIUM
And that’s it.
Matt
