Pastiche by Brigitte de Valk

First published in Lunate vol. 4

This moment

There is a pinprick of red at the centre of each blossom. It is a red-rimmed eye. It is a clot gone unnoticed. The branches are pale and muscular with blossom. Each tree is rabid, frothing with white. I limp a little. The path is dusty. Quiet unravels. I place a hand on my sternum and sit. The wooden slats of the bench creak. A thin volume peeks out of my pocket. It is written in a foreign language. The letters curve senselessly. They form sounds I can’t pronounce, deep in the throat, guttural.

The cover is plain. Its title is embossed in gold. He will read it when I’m gone. A city stands to attention in the distance. White rectangles next to a wide river. The mountain path slopes. I pull out the book. Hardback. I trace its spine. My inscription decorates its first page, marring its emptiness. The English letters look thin and unappealing next to robust Hangul. Petals fall, pig-pink. I brush them off my knees. An elderly woman steps into view, hands clasped behind her back, rim of a cap shielding her face. Slowly, she ascends.

My flight looms. The woman pauses, resting her palm on a tree. Her wrinkled fingers merge with its bark. I open the book and pretend to read. He is unattainable. My eyes follow circles, lines, dashes. I feel the woman’s gaze. The pale contours of the city are soothing, although on certain mornings pollution thickens the air like heated milk. A visible haze can be seen, coating the horizon. The woman resumes her slow shuffle.

I wear a dress with thin straps. I tug at one. My ankles are crossed. I fear squandering this sensation. Sweat gathers beneath my armpits. I want to find something adhesive and press this moment to it. The branches are a deep brown. Each petal is a pale ear, listening. I try to speak but my tongue is red origami. The woman leaves my peripheral vision. She will wind up this mountain like she is winding up a clock. I half close my eyes and imagine the fallen petals as smashed porcelain.

Two days ago

The night is soft. His coat is navy. In the dark, the blossoms appear charred. Orbed lamps seem to float, white blood cell-like, as we enter a narrow strip of park. A dog yips. The fur on its head is cut into a perfect circle. Tiny black eyes glance at us. Shadows cling to the path’s edges. Tulips stand erect, their colours muted. Words clog up my throat. They taste like cottonwool. He draws them out of my mouth by a thin thread. I could choke on tenderness. I feel the ripped interior of my pocket. Language pitter patters. It is white noise. It is the sound of locks being clicked. Petals drift. My mind is already creating a pastiche of this moment. Cafes are visible through the boughs of the trees.

He sits opposite me and leans forward, elbows resting on the table. His coat hangs on the back of his chair. The outline of his shoulders is clear. Our coffees are placed in front of us. It is 9pm. The back of his head is reflected in the window. I see myself only as a vague silhouette. I carefully tug the saucer towards me. He watches to make sure no coffee spills, his hand touching the other side of the cup. We talk a little about the décor. Our conversation has covered such vast topics this evening that we settle into a little silence. Two women sit near us. The younger of the pair is wearing a red blouse, her left hand curled into a fist. Rat-a-tat-tat. Her shoe taps the floor. Her mascara is slightly smudged. She dabs at it with a tissue. I study her reflection in the dark pane. She takes a sip of her drink, lips pursing around a straw. Plants grow in pots, their leaves splaying over our heads. A triangle of cake sits on her plate. Sliced strawberries are stuck to a thin layer of cream. With her right hand, she picks up a tiny fork and pierces a piece of fruit. She pushes it into her mouth. The knuckles of her left hand are pronounced. I wonder if she’s holding something in the kernel of her fist. She begins to talk. Her fork clinks against china. Her voice contains C sharp notes. I look at him. In a whisper, I ask him to translate.

He tilts his head. His eyes half-close. Our faces are close.

‘I used to knead bread,’ he says. ‘Each morning, in pale light, I’d wake up and knead. I loved it. I’d knead and knead and knead.’ Her fork keeps time with her words. He pauses. ‘She’s talking about her past life. She saw a physic in Europe.’ The woman sighs. Her hair flutters. She looks down. The white interiors of the strawberries are calcified bone. He touches my wrist. ‘I slit each oblong of dough with a blade. They were perfect creations. Rural France was my home.’ Notes gush from a large speaker. He concentrates to catch her words. ‘My hand got crushed in machinery. It became a weight at the end of my arm, a mangled swan’s head, limp. Useless.’ I feel his breath on my cheek.

She unclenches her fist and touches her plate. Nail marks are embedded in her palm. Her fork delves into pliant cream.

*

Yesterday

Sunlight blanches my apartment. The furniture is burnt-white. The sky is a starched sheet, washed to coarseness. I rearrange my towel and dip a spoon into a tub of yogurt. It was expensive to purchase. My hair drips. A mirror pings with light. I squint at my diary. Thoughts cluster like cellulite around the meat of my intention. I want to describe him. I swirl the spoon. Goosepimples dot my shoulders. I woke early and fell back asleep. Morning dreams pulsated. My jaw is sore from clenching. In the thick white, I see that I’ve drawn a spiral of raspberry compote. I place a sweet teaspoon in my mouth. My ringtone rips open a sachet of silence. Noise particles float across the kitchen-cum-dining room. I can’t see my phone through all the light. My hands scrabble for it under some magazines. I hold it to my ear.

My mother’s voice is a perfect replica of my memory of her voice. I haven’t heard it in a decade. She repeats my name.

‘Yes?’ I say.

She is ill. She is with my sister. She doesn’t know where I am. My phone warms my cheek. I don’t respond. I reach up and pull on the wooden blinds. They partially descend. The sunlight is cut into thin strips. I let her speak. She is speaking at me. She passes her phone to my sister. My thumb slides to the end call button. It pauses for a second. I press the red icon. I put the phone on the table. I bite my bottom lip to stop its inevitable wobble. I swallow. The walls look like a convict’s attire. I focus on the stove.

Ten years. My cupboards are clean squares. A cloth dangles from a handle. It is damp. I watch a bead of moisture fall. Ten years. The tap’s neck is arced… I am a child. The world’s proportions differ. My mother is in front of me. Her mouth is a red knot constantly untying. The capillaries in her face are broken from drink. Her words are strange gifts. She has a deep urge to insult. The back of her throat is an O. It is night with extra layers of black. She wants to stop any noise I can make. Her hand is pressed against my mouth. I taste the salt of her fingers. Sometimes she enunciates with a large wad of spittle.

I press my palm flat against the tabletop. The oven is pristine. The oven is pristine.

*

He is a navy silhouette. His coat buttons are undone. He stands in the doorway. My balcony is behind him. The dark wool of his coat merges with the sky. I have been in my apartment the whole day. Earlier, I fried bacon. Pink strips charred. I threw them out, then opened my windows to get rid of the smell of grease. Nausea whisked up my stomach. I hunch over a counter. I wear white cotton shorts and a vest. Before he arrived, I managed to throw on a cropped, silk blouse. Its sheen reminds me of uncooked fat. I avoid glancing in the mirror.

He tilts his head at me. I shrug on a fleece and join him outside. He’s placed two shallow bowls on a round table. Tall buildings sprout from the ground. Shadows are embroidered with flecks of reflected light. I sit. He has brought makgeolli wine, chestnut flavoured. It is made from rice. Its bottle is opaque, and its liquid is white. He pours a little into each dish. It fizzes on my tongue. He speaks of the Han River. It is a vast ribbon. He has spent the day next to water.

Sadness clutches my throat. Finger by finger, he peels away its cold hand. I breathe more easily. He smiles at me.

I tell him arbitrary things. I let my voice fill the space between us.

He listens quietly. I hold the bowl in my lap. Night’s girth overspills into the apartment opposite us. The occupants are going to sleep. He touches my shoulder. I blush unnoticeably in the dark.

*

This moment

The blossoms are pale apparitions. They ripple in a breeze. A bucketful of cream has been kicked over their branches. Each petal is the width of a baby’s palm. Clouds scud, smearing the sky. I think of our last meeting. It will be tonight. My clothes are folded into neat squares. I have wiped the floors and the bathroom tiles. The cups are stacked, and the fridge is almost empty. My fingers trace the spine of the book. It serves as a reminder of me. It is the need for there to be a little something of our encounter in his room. The cherry blossoms form inaccessible cliques. Their red moues move. I don’t listen to their whisperings.

Childhood is crystalline. It is my past life. It is a closed door. My mother puts her eye to the keyhole. Going home is going backwards. Familiarity is weight. I slump on the bench. I feel its hard, wooden slats. He is a tenderness that I’ve never encountered before. Bunches of blossoms are the corpses of hands, causing thin branches to droop. Her illness is illogical. She was always so robust, her footsteps heavy on my stairs.

I hear a cry. I sit up. It is singular. I leave the bench and stamp away the pins and needles in my feet. I stride up the path and around the bend. The elderly woman is dusting the legs of her trousers. A prick of red bleeds through the material.

*

It rains that night. The blossoms fall and they fall, and they fall.

Brigitte de Valk won the Cúirt New Writing Prize 2020 (adjudicated by Claire-Louise Bennett), and the Royal Holloway Art Writing Competition (2014). She was awarded second place in the Benedict Kiely Short Story Competition (2020), including being shortlisted and longlisted for the The Alpine Fellowship Writing Prize, 2022 and 2020 respectively. Short stories submitted to the Bournemouth Writing Prize in 2022/2021 resulted in publication. Her short story submission was discussed in the second round of selections for The White Review Short Story Prize 2022. Brigitte’s short fiction is published by Crannóg Magazine, Sans. Press, Happy London Press, Aurelia Magazine, Polyester Zine and Reflex Press. www.brigittedevalk.com

Twitter: @BrigitteCrossdV