The wind was blowing heavily in the cold winter night of London. The roads were empty. Occasionally, one lonely double deck bus would cruise the roads half-empty like a foggy contour ghost, its windows dimmed by an icy veil.

High up in a stately apartment suite building, Anataalie was sitting at her desk trying to write a letter to her mother, trying to find words kind to convey gently that she would be a bit delayed for Christmas, but that she would be in France for New Year.

Anataalie, was a young French artist and had been in London for almost a year now. She had been admitted in the famous St Martin School of Art.

She was enjoying her time there, every student was so talented, the teachers were patient and helpful and she felt that every day was bringing her a new well of knowledge. London was in its own right a trendy city when it came to art. Popular art was very much alive, and it could even be seen walking along the roads, when least expected. Yes indeed. Art did mix blatantly too with the traditional business suits and hats, and the orange robes of the Hare Krishna's band that were very active this time of the year. It was hard to refuse to give some money to someone who went out in such light clothing. Suddenly someone passed you that took your breath away long long white hair with mauve velvet dresses, and a make up of glitters. It warmed the heart, like a sudden rainbow. The street art was young and fun ; the funk culture that missed nothing, from the pin in the nose to the hair tainted vibrant green, yellow, and red…

It was so much more refreshing in a way than the seasonal fashions trends of Paris, which were rigorist and categorized. You had to be in, or you would not do.

Here none really cared. London was unique in its laissez-faire attitude. Even Anataalie remembered a peculiar reaction to an event with a smile: recently there had been a fire in the Playboy Club, nothing grave but staff had to be evacuated immediately. All the bunny waitresses waited outside in their club outfit and….., none looked back or stopped to have a glance at the beautiful girls. Ah, it would have been an entirely different story if this did happen in Paris or Milan.

Anataalie felt safe in her isolated place. The fireplace was glowing in the dim-lit room. It was a lovely room functional yet the carpet and tapestry on the walls gave it a warm look. On the mantle piece, there was a copper urn, and around its contours, the flames of the fireplace seem to do a magical dance. Anataalie was wearing a long woolen home dress, light purple on which she had thrown a pure white shawl over her shoulder.

On her oak wood desk, there was a tall study lamp and a penholder, a tray with a sterling coffeepot, a creamer and a white and gold porcelain coffee cup. She rested her hand around the cup absorbing the heat of the liquid through the lifelines of her hands. She was conversant with relaxation techniques; this was the easiest and her favorite too.: wrapping her hands around something warm in times of stress. Her hand seemed as fragile as the porcelain she was holding.

Her face encased by her long chestnut hair was pale, milk and roses and her fawn eyes had a dreamy look about them, that always made you wonder whether she was truly following what you were telling her, whether she was listening at all.

She seemed always near and yet so far away, unreachable.

Everything else was quiet, with a lingering mood of loneliness. Anataalie had stayed inside for a week now, it was the holidays. Some of her student friends had dropped by, had come up to her door, they rang but she did not open that door. Anataalie was playing the exquisite game of being confined in her own magical and lonely island and so she was careful not to make a noise.

She wanted everyone to think that she had left. And yes, she thought with inner pleasure and a sense of deep safety that everyone had assumed by now that she had left for France. Her phone was even disconnected. Yes everyone she knew in London had by now believed that she had gone home for holidays, though her visitors left disappointed not to have had the opportunity to greet her before she left. People liked her so much at school and around where she lived or shopped or went. She radiated a warm and discreet charisma.

Anataalie at first appeared shy yet when one came closer one could grasp the decisiveness of her character. She was chic and friends liked to invite her out too.

Her dress was always elegant yet very formal, like a barrier against others. People would stand a bit away from her in instinctive deference. She was a delicate and beautiful woman

And so on this winter night, Anataalie was writing on, as she had been doing so for nights now. She would work all through the night and sleep during the day. She felt a great inner pleasure in ignoring normal timings. Yet, she would observe that one rule "yea shall rest on the seventh day".

It was dark and she felt at peace, she stretched herself and went to the kitchen. Everything was immaculately clean and she went on to check on the food that she had in store. Yes, she would have to ration herself. Not much food was there, but it would do just fine, she was no great eater anyway.

Well she could certainly live on biscuits and coffee; there was enough as for other things, well nevermind.

As she counted the biscuits, she realized that the sugar was over, and she had forgotten to replenish the stock. Well it was too late for that and yes ,she would drink her coffee unsweetened.

She took a biscuit, broke it in too, and then pounded the other half into powder. She opened her window and put the powder in the icy windowpane.

Soon sparrows came from the nest they made on the tree in front of the building and started singing and flying around.

Anataalie observed fascinated the sparrows taking the crumbs hurriedly and flying back to the nest to feed their young chicks. It was not before the 6 or 7th journey that the adult sparrows stayed on the pane and fed themselves in full view of Anataalie.

She had warmed some water and had put it in a small water bottle cap; she placed it besides the crumbs, the sparrows did not leave their spot, they did not mind Anataalie, and soon they drank the warm water, and bathed their wings hurriedly. Anataalie gently caressed the soft back of the sparrows. All was well with her special friends, and she closed the window on the winter night while the sparrows winged away to their nest.

The sparrows knew that every night there would be a treat for them.

Anataalie returned to the kitchen she had made a fresh pot of coffee and placed some more biscuits on the plate and she carried the tray all through the long corridor. She did not switch the light on so that the neighbors did not suspect that anyone was at home.

She needed full and complete rest from the world. She felt an acute pleasure knowing that none knew of her existence. She felt as if she was the Outsider.

She went to the study room, and sat down again at her desk. She continued writing all through the night, all in long hand, and pages after pages were filled with her inclined handwriting.

At dusk, she stood up and went to take a silent shower, regulating the shower flow to be weak so that none would notice the sound in the pipes in the building she lived in.

She then put on her night clothes and without food went to sleep in the bunk-bed that she had kept for visitors in that same study room.

Six days had gone by in that fashion. The life of Anataalie had become very precisely planned so that all her energy was to be spent on her writing. She did not seem to be tired. Her resolve and speed of writing was the same.

Then three days before New Year, when dusk came again for her to leave her desk, she did not go to bed as usual. She plugged her PC and connected with British Airways. She reserved a seat, first class, London Paris for the next day. In twenty-four hours she would be at home to her family celebrating New Year. Everything had been packed earlier, presents and all. Then she proceeded to connect to a new web address, the page on the screen was blank and demanded a password. She filled it in. The screen showed a message board and she proceeded to simply type in: Done. Collect tonight 3am. After entering this message she switched off her PC.

She turned herself towards the mirror and thought it was time she pampered herself a bit. She took her beauty case, and started applying a seaweed beauty mask on her face, she checked her hands, did a manicure, applied hot oil to her hair, and in one hour, she was as beautiful as could be.

She went to the kitchen and made some coffee, there was but one biscuit left. She smiled, yes her food management had been perfect, and she fed the birds half of that last biscuit and then herself with that last biscuit. Again she felt an acute pleasure in this minimalist feeding.

She went to sleep, relaxed. She dreamt of the nest and the birds, she felt at peace.

She woke up as usual, and got dressed as if for a dinner party. She had put a long ball gown and wore pearls. She looked ravishing. She walked to the desk and proceeded to tie up her manuscript with a red ribbon. As she was done, she looked at the neat file and smiled; she was pleased with her work. It looked pretty, she liked it.

She sat in the sofa and casually returned to more mundane pursuits. She went through some Paris fashion Magazine. Yes she would buy some great clothes and matching bags and shoes and jewelry from Place Vendome, soon. She was vain, and loved beautiful things. She smiled. She loved to draw the attention when she walked into any room.

At 3am exactly of that same morning, there was a small knock at the door. Anataalie went quickly to open, an old lady entered.

She kissed Anataalie on the cheek and waited until the door was closed to ask her in a low voice:

"How are you? Is it done?"

Anataalie replied:

"Madame Le Poete, my work is always done and perfectly done too."

She gave the manuscript to the old lady with gray hair. Madame Le Poete took a pair of glasses from her bag and said:

"Yes, Anataalie, your work has always been excellent and you have been paid in consequence."

Anataalie said:

"Yes, Madame, indeed, I was always paid as promised."

There was a silence as the old lady read quickly through the handwriting of Anataalie. The old lady said:

"None of this is recorded anywhere yes? It is not on your PC either, is it correct?"

Anataalie replied smiling:

"Well, yes. Why do you ask?"

The old lady said:

"Oh well, just to make sure. I am as thorough in my job as you are in your writing. Nice piece Anataalie, he will be very very happy."

Anataalie said:

"When is he coming, Madame Le Poete?"

The old lady replied sharply:

"Not sure, you know we are not told such details"

Anataalie said:

"Of course".

The old lady rose and said:

"Anataalie, you are a wonderful writer, you are very talented. I must take leave of you now."

"Yes, Madame Le poete", of course"

Anataalie replied as she rose.

As usual the old lady plunged one hand into her handbag, as she had done many times previously. She always paid Anataalie generously, and always put the bundles of the 100 Sterling Pounds notes in one scented envelope. She would do so again today. Anataalie waited, Madame Le Poete was getting old. She felt affection for the old lady.

Today she noticed how her hands trembled. She remembered the first time she had met her at a poetic symposium in Turkey, they had told her she was 68, it was a year ago.

Madame Le Poete told Anataalie:

"Please let me kiss you farewell on this end of the year."

She pulled Anataalie towards her, and soon the limp body of Anataalie dropped to the floor, with blood oozing from her chest.

Madame Le poete kneeled in front of Anataalie. Anataalie was still breathing, and she smiled at Mme Le Poete, she seemed so happy. The old lady recoiled in fright and shock and recharged her silencer gun. She took all her courage and opened the mouth of Anataalie, and shot her again, mercilessly.

This time the brain fragments flew in all directions. Madame Le Poete had quickly taken refuge behind the bathroom door. Only one or two drops of blood were on her bag, she cleaned them up with a piece of tissue. And without a second look, she left. Outside a black limousine was waiting.

The driver opened the door, and she entered the car. There was an oriental man sitted in the back seat.

Madame Le Poete sat besides him and gave him the manuscript. He asked:

"Is it any good? "

Madame Le Poete said:

"It is an excellent piece for the Peace conference. It is written in a wonderful purist French. It moved me to tears too."

Then the oriental man told the driver to stop at a gas station, as he felt starved. He said:

"Madame Le Poete, come you might use a cup of coffee."

She said in an exhausted voice:

"Yes, it is a good idea."

They went to the coffee shop and they had their coffee. As always Madame Le Poete asked to be excused and went to the ladies to repowder her face. This was a classic with her, he knew it.

He followed her, and shot her 6 times, in the back, with his silencer.

He checked: she was dead, he took her handbag and long coat and left by the back door.

He went quickly into the limousine, and he addressed the Chauffeur:

"Your Excellence, may now sit in the back seat, the job is done. The peace conference shall be a success."

 

Copyrighted Rahman, Brigitte Arlette-2000 -All rights Reserved.