Ruin, Creation, Regret

 Ruinen

The sun lost sunk low, the wind died down, chirping of insects dilated and depressed, disrupting the uneasy silence in the workshop. Jonas weaved from room to room gathering essential belongings into a medium sized messenger bag. The Instrument Maker watched him make his rounds at the front door, picking at her nails, tapping her toes, her heart was wound tight. She knew this was coming, she was ready to see Jonas go, but the onset of night and loneliness was near. The Instrument Maker contemplated the invitation.

What if this was what she needed?

To flee yet again.

That refrain.

The ache of her failure.

The memories of that girl.

No.

Even within this house, the Instrument Maker could hear it clearly, see her face.

Distractions weren’t enough.

She knew there was no such thing as a fresh start.

Jonas came out of the bedroom, jacket dangling from his forearm. He dawdled and eyed his workshop, his usual bright expression turned steely and serious. A slight smile peeled from his lips as he looked to Instrument Maker.

Jonas spread his arms wide. “It’s all yours! Take care of it while I’m gone; I trust you can do that.”

“Don’t lie to me; we both know you’re not coming back.  A runaway doesn’t return to the place they fled; make it double for a hole in a wall like this.”

Jonas clicked his tongue. “This place will suit you until you settle back into yours; it’s your second home anyway. Oh! My records! I wish I could bring them along. Dust them and listen to them to your hearts content!”

“I wish you could take them.” The Instrument Maker lifted her hands in the air and shrugged. “Speaking of which, make sure you have your train ticket. I doubt they would let a straggly old man like you onto the train without it.”

Reactively, Jonas checked the front pocket of his bag to make sure. “It’s here. And would you stop calling me old. We’re nearly the same age—is it the grey hairs? I can’t control that!”

“Nah. It’s much more than that.”

“Aren’t you brimming with insight? Say, what can you glean about yourself? Anything?”

The Instrument Maker made agitated sound from deep within her throat, leaned back onto the front door, and crossed her arms. “Hurry up and leave.”

“I don’t hear my motor escort outside. Do you think I’m going to hoof it to Rostock from here?” Jonas grew quiet and checked his watch. “There’s still some time left. You wouldn’t have many things to fetch and take. Leave with me.”

“And what?! Sift through the rubble?! What’s left for me in those ruins, Jonas?”

Jonas advanced toward the Instrument Maker. “The old world is gone. It’s gone, understand? Burned away, bled dry. Right now, the new world is being created by those who survived. People like us. The wound is open and throbbing, but through our efforts, it will heal. You’re right! Much was lost, but you survived!”

The Instrument Maker averted her eyes. “I survived? What makes you think I survived?  Is it because you can touch me, hear my heart beating, my warm limbs? I’m no better than the corpses buried beneath the bricks of Berlin. I still have my body, but what’s it worth if I lost myself?!”

Jonas reached out to the Instrument Maker and cradled her face. “This pain. Your tiredness! Your fire! You’re very much alive, but you would rather play dead. Your spirit is scattered; not just within you, but it lies elsewhere. You can’t be a coward anymore.”

The drone of an engine grew louder as it drew close. Pale gleams wavered on the window and skated across the walls. Jonas and the Instrument Maker stood still, he looked to her with kind eyes.

Resting in the corner behind the Instrument Maker was Schattenriss rolled neatly, tied in twine. Jonas took it. The Instrument Maker skirted away from the door. He took a moment before opening it. “You made it clear nothing I say or do will make you budge. Do you know what I saw while I sketching you; when we made this painting together? An illustrious soul shackled in a form unbecoming of her. You’re suffering. I want what’s best for you, I want you to heal. I’m inept. From the first day I arrived and knocked on your door until now, I haven’t been able to help you heal. I don’t want you to be this way forever; you have much to offer for the world, me, and most importantly, yourself. My invitation still stands. Once you’ve sorted out your affairs…please come. All of  Berlin and I will be waiting.”
            His words weighed heavy on her. Paralyzed by the sincerity, snared by the adoration, captivated by the cadence of a harsh truth.

Say something.

Move.

Reach out to him.

Follow.

The Instrument Maker simply watched.

Jonas stepped outside; his shadow scrolled in the workshop diminished as the heavy door of a car slammed.

The Instrument Maker stood alone.

 The remains of the sun were absorbed by moon and night.

The cry of the engine grew distant.

The Instrument Maker closed the door and walked deeper into the workshop. Colorful fabric, stains of paint, empty cans, wet brushes, and record player were all that gave her company. 

On the table sat a sketchbook.

 On top were envelopes tied together with violin wire. The Instrument Maker took them.

She switched on the record player and went to the window to watch the night sky.

The first passage of Liebeszauber disrupted the quietness.

This Night will be Sultry

The Instrument Maker tried to find comfort in the glint of distant stars, and yet, comfort wasn’t found. Profound guilt. Her eyes flushed red with regret; streaks of white salt painted her cheeks. She dipped her fingers in paint, she spotted her legs and arms with colors unknown, she contemplated.

Alone.

A blockade of darkness surrounded her.

Grains of dust flaked from her form

Without his presence, the world was quieter. She could the hear melody and waves. Without his presence, she was left no distractions, no escape. The Instrument Maker looked away from the window and crawled; she gathered the cloths scattered on the floor, stained with fresh paint, she continued toward the hole in the ceiling at the corner of the room.

A stool was waiting for her, she climbed it, balancing on the tips of her toes; the Instrument Maker pressed the cloths into her chest with one hand and reached into the hole with the other; she escorted a small bag to the floor.

The Instrument Maker hopped off the chair and joined the bag. Setting aside the cloth, she placed the bag  in her lap, untying its messy knot; producing  four misshapen candles, a carving knife thick with wax, and a box of matches. She arranged the candles in front of her, the knife before her knees, matchbox in hand.

The Instrument Maker produced a match, holding its head over the comb.

Swipe. A pop of yellow glow, orange ember tails; subtle light flashed onto the Instrument Maker’s face, it lingered in her eyes, threads of shadow pulsed. The beauty of an infant flame’s dance. Not fierce enough to incite fear. A ring of tender warmth cast the darkness away. The Instrument Maker could see herself in a haze.

Matchlight glazed the three candles in front of her. Crooked wicks, malformed forms. The Instrument Maker refused the touch of wood and wire, yet her hands still longed to bring shape. Candle wax didn’t resist her; they shared gashes and wounds.

She lit the candle on the left; helpless faces embedded in a leaning spire.

She lit the candle on the right; a cavernous gorge.

She lit the candle in the center; a field coral spiraling downward.

A bubble of candlelight, the Instrument Maker found comfort in her own world. She shook the matchstick, extinguishing its flame; a ghost of smoke discarded to the lulling breeze. The Instrument Maker spread out the pieces of cloth and layered them together—she grasped two ends, flicking them overhead; the cloth fluttered down onto her, she tensed her fingers and pulled, covering her body completely, she lowered herself to the floor—peeking out at the flames, watching them.

She saw something. Within each flame was a different image; ones of herself—she thought so, at least. Who was she?

A creator.

A painting.

A sculptor.

A composer.

A quivering child.

Those were all swept in the dust of the past.

Sediment in the sea’s depths.

Who was she now?

The Instrument Maker’s vision trembled in waves. The comfort of flame and cloth diminished by cool tears. Wax streamed from the burning candles, rivers of red and white converged onto the cloth. The Instrument Maker hummed her cradlesong.

What did others perceive her to be?

The fragmentary lullaby didn’t bring her peace, only the fog of regret.

Carry her into flames. Char her into ashes. Cast her into the depths of the darkest sea.

The Instrument Maker desired to rid herself of herself. The candlelight trembled, a distinct shadow welled within the wax, a body formed inside the flame. Something pressed against the cloth; the Instrument Maker tightened her grip—a tiny silhouette sat before her; the cradlesong ended; a gentle refrain.

Memory followed ceaselessly.

The little girl always knew where to find her.

The Instrument Maker wished to find her.

Enough.

The Instrument Maker sat up; the shadow stepped back, she removed the cloth, the shadow became one smoke, she wiped her eyes of tears, the flames were clear, nothing was there; splattered with paint, caked with wax, she rubbed her hands.

Alone. The Instrument Maker couldn’t stay inside. Without Jonas, it felt all too hollow.

Get your affairs in order.

            She licked her forefinger thumb, leaning closer toward the candles; the leftmost flame fizzled in jade, the rightmost was quenched in rubrum. The final light begged to remain; a reflection of herself stared back at her. The Instrument Maker pinched the flame’s crown; a drop of paint dripped off her fingertip; violet burst, embers crackled, the workshop succumbed to night.

            The Instrument Maker took to her feet and walked toward the window. She gathered the gifts of Jonas’ departure, climbing outside into the moonlight.