Worlds Without End

15

"Well, that went pretty well, I thought," said Caimbeul.

We were sitting in the Dublin International Air- port waiting for our flight to Tir Tairngire. Well, we weren't going directly to the Tir. I wanted to stop over in Austin and take care of a few things there first. Rubbing my eyes, I tried not to snap at him. How he could have thought things were going well was beyond me.

Oh, we were certainly given the royal treatment. But underneath I could feel the tension. The hostil- ity. Things were changing and the Seelie Court knew it. They just didn't want to face what was happen- ing. And he'd said barely a word the whole time.

But isn't that always the way of it? We hate change. Consider it the enemy. Yet it is the one con- stant in our lives.

I pushed an impatient hand through my hair, which had grown out just enough to be a nuisance. Sticking out every which way. Even in these dire times, I was vain enough to be concerned about my appearance. Or maybe it came from spending so much time alone with Caimbeul.

Had it really been almost two hundred years since we'd been together? I wondered at the thought that time could slip away so quickly. Why didn't I do something to stop it? I shook my head.

Stop what? Stop us from hurting each other? Stop us from being who we were?

"Something wrong?" Caimbeul asked.

"No," I replied. "Nothing much. I was just… remembering."

His eyes were bright and curious. Oh, Caimbeul, you wicked creature to make me remember such things.

"Paris?" he asked. "That cafe on the Rue Saint- Jacques… what was it called?"

"Well, Monsieur Rimbaud called it 'L'Academic d'Abomphe.' But I can't remember what it was re- ally called."

He laughed. "I almost had a heart attack when I saw you there. You were wearing the most peculiar outfit…"

"It wasn't peculiar. It was the height of fashion.

Besides, I had to keep people more concerned with my dress than my nature. Unlike you, it hasn't al- ways been easy for me to pass through human soci- ety. The color of my skin made it difficult at best. And my hair… I guess those are things people might remember."

"I remember," he said. His voice was soft, and suddenly it was as if we were all alone. That was a gift of his, making you feel as though you were the only person in the world. "The dress you wore was gray silk, shot through with jet beading. You had a hat on which had an enormous feather on it. Ostrich. Or was it peacock?"

"Peacock," I said softly.

"And you were drinking absinthe. I remember it looked as though you were embracing a lover when you drank."

I shut my eyes…

The first clear day of April. Paris, 1854. I sat in a cafe on the Rue Saint-Jacques. At the time, I didn't know its name. After a while, I wouldn't care. I had found something powerful enough to distract me from the horrors of living: absinthe.

My own sweet mistress. My dearest friend. The green fairy in the bottle who would steal a little bit of my mind every day. And how I adored it.

The rituals I'd built up. First, a stop at the bank where my pounds would be converted into francs. Then on to the small bakery for a pastry before I went to my first real appointment of the day. I told myself that as long as I ate something before I drank I was fine. Hence the obligatory croissant, most of which I threw away on my way to meet my little friend.

That's what I called it: ma petite amie. Perhaps I should have said mon amour, for that was indeed what it had become: my dearest friend, my closest confidant, my love. And, just like all lovers, we had our rituals.

There were a number of cafes that sold absinthe, and I was well-known at all of them. In the spring and summer, I would settle myself at one of the outer tables. To take the air, of course. The air was very important-far more healthy than the smoky at- mosphere indoors. In the winter, well, I just endured the smoke and noise. The things you will go through for a loved one.

After I sat at a table, a waiter would come over with the jade bottle, a water jug, and a glass. He would line them up neatly in front of me, then fill the glass with water. I tipped generously, and they knew what I wanted.

From inside my reticule, I would pull my silver absinthe spoon. It was slotted and diamond-shaped, intricately carved with flowers and scrolls. The spoon was placed over the glass. Plucking a sugar cube from the jar on the table, I would place it neatly atop the spoon.

Next came the moment I liked the best. First, I uncorked the bottle. The aroma of the absinthe floated to me. Licorice-scented and bitter.

Then I slowly poured the absinthe over the sugar. It dripped through the spoon into the water, swirling the color of new leaves, turning the water cloudy like a stormy day. The sugar cube sometimes wouldn't completely dissolve, and I would take it into my mouth, sucking my first bit of ecstasy from it.

When it crumbled into nothing, I would take the spoon from the glass, then slowly lift the glass to my lips. What wonders will it show me this day? I would think. What sweet remembrances from the past would come to me? What memories would be cre- ated to fill my mind and keep me from the truth?

And as I felt the warmth rush through my veins- sliding into my mind, seducing my thoughts-I would smile. Sometimes men would come to me and tell me how beautiful my smile was. So I would smile at them until they became nervous and went away.

And so, on that clear spring morning in April, when I saw Caimbeui for the first time in many a century, I thought, at first, that he was a product of my imagination. That I had conjured him up from the pretty places I went in my mind.

"Hello, Aina," he said.

I smiled. He smiled back. I didn't say anything;

neither did he.

He didn't go away.

"I suppose it really is you," I said at last.

"I'm wounded," he said as he touched his chest over his heart. "Have you forgotten me so easily?"

I poured more water into my glass and put the spoon on top.

Sugar cube.

Absinthe.

"No," I replied. "Not so easily. Would you care for some?"

He took his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and opened it with a little click.

"Isn't it a bit early for this sort of thing?" he asked. "I hadn't figured you for the type."

The sugar cube crumbled in my mouth. My tongue was already numb and felt a bit grainy. Wonderful numbness.

"What type is that?" I asked. "The type that in- dulges in pleasure? Think of it, Caimbeul. All the years and years stretching ahead of us. All the ones behind. And it doesn't mean anything. Nothing we do matters. It all keeps happening again and again. I've spent plenty of time worrying about what has happened. And far too much concerned with what will happen. So, now, I don't care.

"This"-I raised my glass-"gives me a brief taste of happiness. I have had far too little of that."

Silently, I toasted him, then drank. Ah, nectar. I was borne up by angels into clouds of gossamer and silk.

He said nothing then. Just sat down there with me as I drank, then walked me home as the sun sank full and red into the gray twilight.

Every day he came and sat with me as I drank. Sometimes, I would go to a different cafe, but he al- ways managed to find me.

One day I woke and discovered that I no longer wanted to go to the cafes. Caimbeul's presence had muddied the pleasure of the absinthe for me. I hated 120

him for it. I dressed hurriedly, rushing out without my hat.

He was waiting for me at the cafe on the Rue Saint-Jacques.

"I hate you," I said.

"I know."

"You've ruined everything."

"Perhaps."

I stood there, frustrated, not knowing what else to say.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" he asked.

I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"

"Because it's a beautiful day," he replied. "And I'd like you to come with me."

I saw the waiter coming toward the table with the absinthe and water. My hands started shaking and I felt my mouth go dry. Caimbeul and I didn't say anything as the waiter put them on the table and left.

"Well," he said. "Are you coming?"

I looked at the absinthe. Ma petite amie. My life,

Just one more, I thought.

I could feel my mouth pucker, anticipating the bite of the sugar, the anise bitterness of the absinthe.

Caimbeul held his hand out to me. Slowly, very slowly, I took it.

"Why did you stay?" I asked Caimbeul.

"When?"

"When you found me in Paris at that cafe. You could have left. It might have been better if you had. It was certainly out of character."

He looked out at the drizzling rain. The sky was overcast and made the greens outside brilliant and a little surreal.

"I suppose it was the shock of seeing you there. You looked so… human. It surprised me. I had al- ways thought of you as indestructable. No matter what knocked you down, you just kept getting back up. But there, in that place, you weren't ever going to get up again. I just couldn't stand to see the waste of it all."

The light from the fluorescents gave his skin a corpse-like pallor. It seemed almost incomprehensi- ble to me that I had once held him in my arms. I felt like that had happened to a different person. A dif- ferent Aina.

"Did I ever thank you?" I asked.

He turned toward me and smiled. The smile was crooked and made his face look lopsided. And I found it utterly endearing.

"Yes," he said. "You did."

"Good," I said.

And we sat there wrapped in our memories until the announcement came for our flight.

You have been hiding from me, Aina. You must know there is nowhere you can run where I cannot find you.

No place that will afford you sanctuary. I am coming. Coming soon.