CHAPTER 228: LIFE

The door closed.

Outside the wagon, Baptiste stood, his back bent in a graceful bow.

"It was a grand pleasure to host you in our humble establishment."

Marianne stared at him from inside the car, unflinching as ever. A hint of suspicion floated about in her head. But she did not voice it.

"I hope you enjoyed your time, dearest patrons of mine. Please, visit again—" He retracted his lowered head, a mischievous grin on his face. "—our Château du péril."

His gaze was directed at Charles. Slyness slithered within.

"I will await your patronage."

With that, the wagon departed.

Throughout the journey, neither Marianne nor Charles spoke.

The former had her eyes closed, while the latter’s gaze was stuck to the lights passing by.

Charles could not think or care about what his fiancée’s head was occupied with. On his mind, on the other hand, was only The Lady.

No matter how courageously he tried, he could not decouple his thoughts from the memory of her.

She was like an art piece—full of interpretations.

He wanted to grab her by the hand and study her lines.

But was that even possible? Just like the subject of a painting, she appeared elusive.

Who was she?

’Baptiste must know.’

But he couldn’t ask him. The man seemed less than ordinary.

Suddenly, a conversation sprang to mind. On the surface of the pond that was his memory, two words resurfaced.

"The Lady."

A frown creased his forehead.

’Was that her?’

He had little to go on, but the possibility was indeed encouraging.

He needed to plot a course of action, but his mind kept drifting. Her artistic splendor, her contours, her gaze, and her smile kept him from thinking straight.

She was a painting.

No.

She was art itself.

Then, will she mind being a picture?

She won’t mind being a picture.

Thoughts. The Photographer was plagued by thoughts.

It was hard to distinguish where he was going and what he was doing.

"Is something the matter?" Marianne asked.

He looked back at her. "No."

"Why haven’t you touched your food, then?"

’What food?’ his stupendously stupefied expression seemed to relay.

When he lowered his head, he found oysters and all kinds of seafood on a fancy, little round table.

The sound of subdued chatter graced his ears. The heat of the lights prickled his skin. He found people in formal wear sitting around similar tables.

It was a restaurant. He was in a fancy restaurant.

When they had arrived and sat down, Charles could not recall.

Marianne stirred her glass of red wine. "Eat."

Yes, he needed to eat before he spaced out again.

He wasn’t a foodie or a big eater, but he was afraid another night of canned food wouldn’t do his taste buds any good.

Maybe he wouldn’t have cared a fortnight ago, but today he did.

The briny taste couldn’t overthrow the thoughts that had consumed his thoughts.

On the screen of his irises, neon lights flashed.

"Well?"

He looked back.

Leaning against the door of the wagon was Marianne.

There were no guests, no waiters, no bright lights, and no smell of food.

There were only neon lights—the familiar purple, pink, and blue. To think they seemed foreign not long ago.

He was back on the lower floors. Their filth and silence seemed calming to him. This was his comfort. This was his home.

They were parked in front of his apartment building.

"Here we are."

"Yeah..."

"How was it?"

"Marvellous."

"Inspirational?"

"Verily."

She knocked twice on the wooden panel. "Get to work."

The door opened, courtesy of the chauffeur.

Charles slowly descended.

He climbed the stairs, crossed the corridor, and opened the lock.

As his lifeless figure entered the dark room in a wide shot, he dropped the bag by the door.

It was almost ritualistic.

The same pattern as before.

The same setup as before.

The same lighting as before.

In a set of smooth movements that connected flawlessly, he removed the glasses, suspenders, and hairband.

The cascade of hair brought color to his otherwise pale complexion.

The neon lights covering the ceiling bathed his silhouette in a lively pink hue.

The sound of the leaky faucet didn’t go unnoticed.

He tried to turn it off, but once again, it didn’t work.

A drop per second, the leak persisted.

He opened the fridge, looked inside, but didn’t retrieve anything.

He filled a glass with water and leaned against the window.

When his gaze fell on the satchel, he fetched the pipe and the little silver lighter.

He stuffed the pipe full of herbs, lit it, and inhaled the sweet relief.

A chill passed over him and soothed his body. His mind drifted back to the stage, the lights, and the woman standing on it.

He tapped the pipe against the glass of water. It gave birth to a quiet beat, which continued despite his stilled hand.

Light electro music kicked in as he took a puff.

The signboard of the woman with her leg in the air flickered irregularly. A faulty fuse seemed to be the cause.

He turned to face the fridge.

The picture was still there.

Mon Égérie.

The words were still there.

In the depths of his foggy eyes, a sign of life sparkled.

The closer he drew, the harder it became to observe the beauty in it.

On the grand stage of his mind, a different woman occupied the lights.

She was an inspiration, a muse, and a thought.

She was the embodiment of something precious.

She was the wish of writers, painters, and filmmakers—an art brought to life.

Who she was didn’t matter in the face of what she was.

Charles dabbed his face with cold water, rubbed his eyes, and glanced at the picture again.

Instantly, he vomited.

The music turned playful and unsettlingly cheery as the light coming inside flashed and flickered.

Over the sound of a lazy tune, The Photographer graced his sink with the rancid batter that was once expensive seafood.