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A Touch of Sorrow
She
had heard once that when one slept they would lie naked on sheets of white
satin and their senses—the evening breeze feel of the sheets, their vibrant
white almost blinding to the eye before the darkness of sleep, the sibilance of
fingertips gliding across the silky surface, the taste of salt on the tongue,
the smell of human body in the raw—would luxuriate in a maelstrom of hedonistic
pleasures. As a child her parents had told her stories about the times
before Haohouim. She had never been able to understand how humans, once
upon a time, could devote themselves to a god that allowed such profane
indulgences, one that promoted modesty and sacrifice, yet incited impiety and
sin. She had despised the very idea of such a deity, but there was one
thing about the old religion itself that had aroused a morbid fascination in
her—its obsession with beauty. She had heard rumors about the statues of
the old saints, the stained glass in the cathedrals that told their stories.
These relics, which she was sure were destroyed long
ago, had been evidence of their god’s predilection for beauty.
As she secured her cocoon for nocturnal slumber, sealing the
small chamber securely around her being, she wondered why parents would tell
their children stories that romanticized sensuality. Nothing but
cautionary tales, she thought to herself, to demonstrate the importance of
sacrificing the senses to Haohouim. Bypassing the darkness of sleep, she
was led directly to the isle of dreams—a place where the minds of the
unconscious congregated to worship Him. Because the isle was so silent
and so drearily achromatic it seemed as if she never left the real world.
* * *
When
the old man awoke he felt the aching of his muscles and joints and knew that
soon he must lie upon the altar of Haohouim as an offering of the blessed—a
tribute that very few men were able to present. He stumbled from his
cocoon into the bath where, upon releasing the ever-unpleasant gases and fluids
of the human body, a heavy mist rose from the floor, which disintegrated his
soiled garments and cleansed his skin (removing all bacteria as well as
rendering the hair follicles useless), bringing with it a numbness that caused
even his early morning aches and pains to subside. He stepped from the
bath into the wardrobe, which replaced the layered garments—first a latex-like
covering to keep all organic particles contained, then a neoprene-like
insulation to regulate body temperature, followed by common synthetic clothing,
which varied according to the fashion of the day—concealing every area of the
body with the exception of his face. Once he was clothed, a flexible, transparent
plate of plastic was applied to his face, which was allowed solely for the
purpose of identification. Having dressed and prepared for the day, the
old man left his apartment never to return and entered into the world, which to
him, and to so few others, was nothing, if not darkness.
* * *
As
she swallowed the tasteless mush, which slid easily down her esophagus, she
reflected on the tales, told to her by her parents, of the feasts man once
devoured like savage creatures—various dishes of flesh, prepared in ways that
only made it rot their insides that much more quickly. She thought of the
vegetables that accompanied the flesh, the fruits and nuts, the fermented
drinks they conjured up and greedily consumed—like a plague of locusts they had
ravaged the sacred life of the earth; they had stolen from the temple of
Haohouim. They deserved the fate that befell them.
It’s
too early to dwell on such morbid stories, her husband thought to her.
She
ignored him, rose from the table and placed the meal container in the disposal
where it immediately disintegrated.
You
look lovely this morning, he thought.
I
always look lovely, she thought back.
Every
morning since she had been offered to her husband he had complimented her on
her beauty, praised her the way a barbarian would a golden idol. She
would find him foolishly gaping at her, sometimes kneeling before her, wishing
with all of his heart to be close to her, perhaps even to touch her, but he
never would. He did not dare. It was a transgression to admire
something so completely—although she could not blame him. She admired her
own beauty just as much, if not more, than he did. She felt that it was
all she had, that she had no claim on him, on their possessions, no claim even
on herself. She was his, so a priest of Haohouim had decreed, and he
would adorn her the way one would an invaluable piece of jewelry that one kept
in a glass case, afraid to even breathe on it should its beauty become
tarnished. She had always known that her life would be like this, that
she would be admired by many, but bound to one, with nothing but herself to
love and cherish for all time.
Is
that such a bad thing, he asked.
No,
she thought untruthfully, it is not a bad thing at all.
* * *
When the old man entered the small showroom, the dealer
briskly strode to his side as if he were a servant who had been beckoned by an
impatient master. He felt the dealer approaching and waited for
assistance.
Good
afternoon, sir, the dealer thought. Do you see anything you are
interested in?
Nothing,
the old man thought.
Pardon
me, asked the dealer.
I
see nothing, he replied.
After
a moment of hesitation the dealer asked, What is it that you are looking for?
You
once sold a sculpture of a girl, the old man thought. A beautiful girl
whose appearance, cast in stone even, was more stunning than any woman in the
flesh.
I
believe I know the one you mean, thought the dealer. Who was the buyer?
The
old man told him the buyer.
Ah,
yes! A martyr and most venerable man he was. And, I believe, he was
one of the blessed.
I
must find the artist who created that piece, the old man thought.
Why,
of course, thought the dealer, and he told him the artist’s name and where he
could be found.
The
old man stepped back out onto the boulevard, listening to the thoughts of those
around him, using them to guide himself through the streets of the city.
His friend, the man who had owned the sculpture, had been blessed with the gift
of blindness since birth. He had confided in the old man shortly before
his death, describing to him the immaculate beauty his eyes would never
behold. His friend had transgressed innumerable times, having removed his
clothing to touch, with his bare skin, the countenance of the girl whose face
had been carved into the lifeless marble. His fingers had traced the
crescent of her jaw line and continued on up and over the arch of her eyebrows,
down the smooth bridge of her nose, through the ravine of her philtrum, to her
slightly parted lips, which his friend swore were soft to the touch, even in
stone. Before his passing, his friend constantly lamented not having been
able to see the girl so that he could forever imprint her image on his
mind. To him, his blessing had been a curse, as he had
fallen in love not with the girl herself, but with an artist’s rendering of
living beauty.
The
old man knew that soon he would receive his summons and he did not intend to
leave the world as his friend did, with regret weighing down his heart.
Before he willingly became a martyr to his god, he promised himself that he
would see this girl.
* * *
She
knew that she had been thinking far too much about the stories she was told as
a child, but she was simply not able to shut them out as easily as everyone
else had upon entering adolescence. She had become consumed by her
obsession and found it difficult to concentrate on her studies. What had
it been like to see hues and shades in the natural world, to see the light of
day, the dark of night and all that existed in between, before Haohouim altered
their genetic makeup, blessing them with colorblindness? How did it feel
to hear the susurration of a mountain stream or to smell the fragrance of a
springtime meadow before the insertion of sensual obstructers? She
wondered about these things because they were something to distract her from
her studies, but also because she wondered just how beautiful she would be if
others could see her in color, if they could hear her voice and feel the
softness of her skin. Would these things diminish my beauty, she thought
to herself, or would they make me appear even lovelier than I already
am?
The more she matured and studied the sacred texts, the more
she began to understand that there was no need for beauty such as hers in the
world of Haohouim. No man, without defying His laws could appreciate what
little aesthetic pleasures their limited senses allowed them to enjoy. No
man could ever feast upon her beauty.
And
yet that is what her heart desperately desired. She wanted to be admired,
to be praised. The worship of her husband would never be enough.
She desired something more. She wanted to be . . . She remembered
the rumors, how men had once carved the faces of their saints into stone and
how those monuments had survived far longer than any of the men that inspired
their creation. Perhaps there was something that could satisfy her
desire. If Haohouim knew what it was she craved she most definitely would
receive the severest of punishments. But at that moment it did not
matter. Her thoughts had driven her far beyond repentance and
retribution—she was now obsessed with the idea of immortality, consumed by the
burning desire to see her beauty live forever, never to be sacrificed, not to
any man, not to any god. She knew what she must do.
* * *
The
old man stood silently in the doorway of the artist’s studio. He knew
that the young man was deep in thought, calculating the dimensions of the piece
before him, contemplating his next stroke, deciding, with meticulous
deliberation, which instrument he was to use. The old man had once been
told how the sculptor shaped the stone. He would stand before it,
carefully weighing the density and breadth of the slab, and he would extend a
channel of empathy—the same way one would when communicating with another
being—directly into the heart of the stone, allowing it to guide his mind while
he chiseled away at the raw material. Naturally, the artist, like any
other laborer, did not use his hands. They rested at his sides during the
process, and yet sometimes—so the old man had been told—the artist would make
subtle gesticulations as if he were orchestrating the movement of the
instruments with his hands and not his mind. The old man wondered if this
artist performed as he worked or if he stood as lifeless as the stone before him
while molding the marble into his vision.
I’m
sorry, the artist thought, I did not hear you come in.
I
did not wish to disturb you, thought the old man.
What
is it you want?
The
old man told him about the sculpture.
Yes,
the artist thought. I remember it well. The girl’s husband had
commissioned that piece. Unfortunately, when he saw the finished product
he refused to compensate me for my time. He claimed that I was not
adequately able to portray his wife’s beauty in the stone.
The
old man sensed hesitation in the artist’s thoughts. He became aware of
the conflicted feelings the young man seemed to have when speaking of the
piece.
I
wanted to keep the sculpture for myself. I was captivated by the beauty
my mind was able to reproduce. Because the law of Haohouim forbids
idolatry in any form I was forced to sell it. It’s like the old saying,
out of sight, out of mind, but I never could forget that piece. I never
could forget the face of that girl.
The
old man smiled at the saying.
The
man that owned the sculpture had it destroyed for that very reason, thought the
old man. I was hoping you would have another one, a duplicate, or perhaps
another carving of the same girl.
Regretfully,
I do not, thought the artist. I may have some holographic images of her
still stored in my projector, but nothing set in stone.
Those
will do me no good, thought the old man.
If
you like, thought the artist, I could create another piece for you. I
could offer it for a small fee.
The
old man could feel the desperation in the artist’s thoughts. He must be
experiencing trying times, he thought to himself.
I’m
truly sorry. The sculpture I wanted was of the girl.
I
know, the artist thought. She contacted me shortly before you
arrived. She has commissioned me to create another sculpture. It
will be no trouble to make a duplicate of it for you.
The
old man felt an unfamiliar rush of exhilaration spread throughout his
body.
She
is coming here?
Within
the hour.
The
old man, overjoyed by a sudden revelation, shared his feeling of elation with
the artist. The young man smiled at the silent approval of his patron.
I
shall wait for her, thought the old man.
* * *
Tomorrow
is the day of my birth. I will forfeit my life in the name of Haohouim,
thought the old man.
She
did not understand why he was telling her this. When she arrived at the
studio the artist had excused himself from the room, leaving her alone with the
old man. She had been frightened at first, having not known whom the man
was or what his intentions were. There was something desperate about him,
something dangerous. She almost found it thrilling. Then the old
man told her why he had come.
My
sculpture, she thought.
Yes,
the old man replied.
Are
you the man who bought it?
No,
he thought. I have only heard of its radiance.
She
remained silent. She did not know whether to express outrage at his
audacity or gratefulness for his admiration. She dared not accept such
flattery, for it would only feed her vanity and plunge her deeper into
transgression. And yet, she was curious as to what it was that the old
man saw in the sculpture, what it was that drew him to it. Why had he
sought out the artist who created it? Why had he been waiting here for
her—specifically for her—when she arrived?
What
is it you want, she thought.
I
have never seen beauty, he thought solemnly.
She
did not understand.
I am
blessed, he thought. He did not have to explain any more.
She
looked more closely at the old man’s face and noticed that his gray eyes did
not focus on her or anything else in the room. They wandered slightly
from side to side as he spoke, most likely an involuntary movement caused by
nervousness.
I
have come to see you, he thought.
So
it is a pilgrimage, she thought to herself. He has come for me. He
has come to experience my beauty before he gives himself to Haohouim. She
felt a powerful current of adrenaline spread through her body, causing her to
tremble with excitement. This man had come to praise her. One of
the blessed had come to pay her tribute. It was as she wished—she was
like a god. This man was there to immortalize her, to capture her image
for his mind. She was to be honored by this man, to be revered, but how
could he do it? How would he be able to see her?
As
if in answer to all the questions that muddled her mind, the old man stepped
forward, holding out his hands, raising them in a non-threatening manner, with
his palms faced upward. He slowly extended his fingers toward the edges
of her faceplate until they barely touched the rim of the plastic. It
seemed like an eternity for them both as he peeled away the transparency and
placed it in her open hands. Then the old man removed his gloves,
painfully slow, pulling at the fabric finger by finger, and tore away the
layers of rubber underneath, revealing the knobby knuckles and pink flesh of
his aged hands. With the tips of all ten fingers, he followed the same
outline that his friend had traced on the sculpture—up the sides of her cheeks,
down the slope of her nose, his fingers lingering on her lips. His touch
felt like a surge of electricity, singeing, prickling, tickling its way over
her face. She kept her eyes shut as the old man did it, imagining him to
be chiseling her portrait on his mind. Finally she felt him brush
the back of his fingers against her cheek and, having felt a moisture that
hadn’t been there moments before, he withdrew his hands, covered them again
quickly, and stepped away from her.
I
have seen beauty, he thought simply, bowing his head as he left.
She stood, a solitary figure in the middle of the room,
tears streaming down her cheeks, holding the faceplate in her hands.
While the feeling of his touch should have been crawling on her skin, it merely
lingered there, creating a sensation that was like nothing she had ever felt in
her lifetime. She should have felt violated, unclean. She should
have felt remorse, dishonor, derision . . . But she experienced none of those
things. Instead she felt exaltation. She felt purpose and freedom
and pleasure beyond anything she had ever before experienced and she knew it
would not last, like the gods of old, the saints, the martyrs, the almighty and
forgotten, she knew it could not last, but for this moment she would cherish
this feeling, before she buried it deep inside of her forever, where no man or
god could ever take it from her. It was a secret gift. A sacred
gift. One that would ultimately cost her her life.
* * *
As
the old man stumbled down the boulevard, mustering all of his strength to
simply place one foot in front of the other, he felt nothing but
emptiness. He had an image of the girl in his mind, but it failed to
kindle any kind of passion that his heart had been craving. I have seen
beauty, he thought to himself, not caring anymore if anyone on the street
around him was listening to his thoughts. This is what I have desired for
so long and it is done. He wandered aimlessly, heading away from the artist’s
studio—anywhere so long as it was away from that place. I have seen
beauty, he thought again, and now I cannot offer myself to Haohouim because of
my transgression. I am impure. I deserve only a dishonorable death.
The
old man continued to walk, still without destination, although unconsciously
drifting away from the city, away from the people, the thoughts, the cold,
colorlessness of it all. As the thoughts around him became more scarce
and the emptiness began to thoroughly envelop him, he suddenly felt a burning
in his eyes that he had never felt before. Shedding his faceplate, he
felt something warm trail down his cheek. Again he removed his glove,
this time letting it fall from his hand, and touched the wetness on his
face. He put the tip of his finger to his lips and although he could not
identify what it was he tasted, he imagined it to be bitterness. I have
seen beauty, he thought, for the very last time, and I have nothing in the
world to compare it with.
Jeff Tannen was born and raised in the San Joaquin Valley
and therefore constantly suffers from asthma and the lack of anything fun to do.
He has always known that he didn’t want to work for a living, but it wasn’t
until the end of his undergraduate degree at Fresno State that he decided to be a writer.
He is currently finishing up graduate school and although he still has to work for a living,
someday he hopes to be a full time storyteller.
Email: Jeff Tannen
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