I am an artist who fears silence more than blindness.  A certain kind of silence.  Stand alone in the middle of a forest and you still hear birds and wind and the music of water flowing over rocks.   But stand in the middle of a room full of people critiquing your work.  Bloody wounds would be preferable to the barbed words generated in their silence.  Such words drove me into the night, down dark streets that boded no good.  I sang as loud as I could to drown out what the silence had bred.  That’s how he found me.

I thought him an alcohol-induced dream.  He stepped out of the shadows like an extension of the night.  His black hair billowed around him like a cloak.  Even as I pressed myself against a wall in fear, my fingers ached for charcoals and a piece of paper. He grabbed me, searching my face. Like the layers peeled from an onion, I felt my soul bared beneath that gaze. 

"Do you have a name?" he asked.

"Isabel," I gasped.

"Isabel, you should be more careful of when and where you sing.  Songs can be an invitation."

I remember gathering my tattered courage and asking, "What have I invited to my side this night?"

He bowed.  "My name is Mathias."

Entranced, I led him to my empty apartment.  Since then, he has appeared each night by my bed. He rarely speaks but his silence is that of the forest.  Whether it is the sound of his hair sliding across my silk sheets or the soft sighs slipping from his mouth as I nibble his ear, he is constantly generating earthy music.

A sweet aroma fills the air.  He has brought evening primrose this time, draping the hairy stems over the headboard.  I finger their lemony blossoms.

"Do you like them?" he asks in his soft voice.

He watches me intently with his clear blue eyes.  Such eyes!  The floor of my studio is littered with charcoal sketches of his face.  All discarded because none can capture the beauty I see before me, that I have held in my arms each night for a week.

"You are so beautiful," I needlessly point out again.  He smiles and closes his eyes.  Lashes like butterfly wings fan his cheeks.  His lips part in invitation.  I caress them.  I have wandered the markets trying to find rose petals as soft as his lips.  It would be so much easier if he were with me.

"Where do you go during the day?"  I ask once again.

He frowns.  Then, as always, he distracts me.  Somehow I am beneath him and my thoughts are scattered to the night breeze.  His mouth roams over my body and his hands dig into my flesh. When he rides me, I weep with the pleasure.

And, in the morning, I wake alone.  A bouquet of night blooming jasmine lies on his pillow.  I throw them on the floor and crush them beneath my bare foot.

Pieces of broken charcoal fall to the floor as I fail again to capture his elusive form.  I move on to watercolor and then acrylics.  But no combination of colors produces the rich shades of blue and rose and ebony that I desire.  If only he would remain during the light of day.

He finds me weeping in a heap of crumpled paper and discarded paints.  He gathers me into his arms.  I push him away.

"No flowers tonight, beloved?" I ask bitterly.  "I went to the market today. I described your gifts to the florist.  He says they are all night blooming flowers.  Why not bring me hemlock so that I may end my grief in the morning?"

He sighs, the sound of wind rushing over water.  Once he strips, I use the paint brush to relieve my frustration.  An entire palette swirls across his body and still when he looks at me, the blue of his eyes eclipses every other color in the room.

And in the morning I find the moon flower.

It wilts as sunlight fills the room.  I consider putting it in water, but my limbs refuse to respond.  I lounge in the musty bed, trying to remember how he enters my room.  Except for the first night, through the window, I think.  The tiny kernel of an idea forms.  By the time he slips into bed shrouded in shadow, the seed has taken root.

That night, his perfect face reflects my torment.  His eyes shimmer with tears.  I draw his face down to mine to ease his pain.

"There is another flower that I have seen in my travels," he says softly. The sound of his voice ripples through me.

"Tell me of it," I beg so that he will keep talking.

He rests his head on my breasts.  "It grows only in the wild, ignored because it resembles the dead.  But then for one magical moment each year, it opens as true night falls.  Its fragrance is so exquisite that kings and queens have sold kingdoms to capture it."

His arms, wrapped around my midsection, tighten.  "They did not realize the fruitlessness of their effort."

I smooth his sweat-dampened brow.  "They just used the wrong tools."

He stiffens.  "Perhaps," he whispers.

The next morning, there are no flowers.

My disappointment is fleeting.  I fling open the bedroom window.  Light revives my senses.  I have much to do before his arrival. It takes hours but finally I am done.  Exhausted, I rest in bed.  When I open my eyes he is, of course, naked and ready.  His body gleams like marble in the dim light, its perfection marred only by the frown on his face.  He takes his torment out on me.  Near dawn, I can take no more.

"Please."  I strain impotently against him.  I’m no longer sure for what I beg.

He buries his head against my neck.  When I try to console him, he rolls away to stand by the bed.  With his head hung, his hair resembles a horse’s mane.  His chest rises and falls rapidly, in passion or frustration, maybe both.  He covers his face with both hands.  I fear what words will slip from his mouth.

"I’m sorry," he says softly and walks toward the window.

"There’s no need to be sorry."  I jump from the bed.  Startled, he stands frozen, eyes wide as I reach the window before he does.

"Stay with me," I beg.  "Until I finish the picture."

He looks at me perplexed.

"Don’t you see?"  His lack of understanding is disappointing.  "Once I complete your picture, my life will return to normal.  I do not wish to make you my prisoner, but I need light to capture all those things that I love about you."

He shakes his head and tries to reach past me.  Turning my back to him, I shut the window and lock it. When I turn around, he stands at the door.

"That won’t work.  I nailed it shut."

Frantically, he pulls on the door handle.  The brass hinges protest but hold.  His shoulders slump.  He refuses to look at me as he falls to his knees.

"I hoped you would understand."

I gaze at him happily.  Light is beginning to fill the room.  I can already pick out nuances of his skin and hair that I have missed in the night.  A quick glance out the window and I see rose-tinged clouds streaking the sky.

"See, Mathias, this will work out so much better for both of us.  Look!  That light is the same color as your lips."

I turn to him, my heart nearly exploding with joy.

He rocks himself, watching an arrow of light make its way toward him.  His mouth opens, but no words come out.  Just a keening noise, like the air escaping from a child's inflated toy. At the end, he reaches for me, but how can I hold ashes? I gather the soft white flakes into a jar. They dissolve quickly into the paints.  His portrait will come along just fine.  The colors are finally rich enough.

Copyright © 2002-2003 Cynthia Staples. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.