INTRODUCTION

     Here is the second installment of my short story “The Petal” which is inspired by the events narrated in Maria Cristina Mena’s “The Vine Leaf”, told from the perspective of the painter. While thinking what works I should choose to work with in my creative project, Mena’s story was always very present. This short but entertaining tale caught my attention from its first comical but highly critical line:  “The poor have no family secrets or none that Dr. Malsufrido would trouble to carry under his hat”. This form of provincial hilarity runs throughout the narration, and along with the peculiar characters, it provides a soothing relief amid the tension of the story. This charming style is what made me love Mena’s story which, as I previously stated, differs greatly from other gothic writers.

I’ve been a fan of British and American Gothic since I was nine, when my mother introduced me to the delirious genius of Edgar Allan Poe and his renowned “Tale Tell Heart”. As a way to celebrate my admiration for this genre and all things horror, I decided to implement a format that resembles that of the Penny Dreadful, an old characteristic platform for frightening stories.  Penny dreadful were sensationalistic stories about murder, jealousy, monsters and other scary subjects which were presented to the reader in a segmented manner, over a number of weeks. Each installment would cost only a penny and thus it was easily afforded by the lower class which had recently seen a raise in literacy rates.  Some stories were inspired by real crimes while others were simpler interpretation of popular novels such as The Castle of Otranto; the novel that many believe is responsible for gothic literature. The Victorian penny dreadful saw the birth of some characters that transcended this medium and time, Sweeney Todd, the murderous barber was one of them.

The third and final part of my short story will be coming this week.

“THE PETAL”

III

         Our next meeting happened to coincide with the farewell ceremony for father Vicente. The violence of his death had prevented an open casket and so we had to make do with distant caresses through the smooth surface of the oak wood box, a fitting choice for the man it guarded. Many guests greeted me with the excited but vigilant attentiveness that is often reserved for the masters of art and lunacy. I engaged in their plebeian conversation merely to be civil but their eagerness to socialize displeased me. No one, it seemed, was interested in fulfilling the rites, paying their respect, mourning the soul that had abandoned them.

While talking to a tiresome surgeon, I saw a figure dressed in august garments approaching the box with painful slowness. I recognized her immediately, my lady of the blessed mystery. The disturbing candor of her sorrow, the graceful tears anointing the coffin with the dripping honey of her hazel eyes, the contrast of her spectral skin against the silky darkness that concealed it, her wrists laying awkwardly on top of the polished wood in a gesture of utter impotence, the fine veins exposed like delicate blue branches in the snow— her entire being brought life into the sepia stillness of the gathering. Her hushed cries were protests of realness amid the false ceremonial speeches about the glorious dead. She was accompanied by a tall man with skin as luminous as copper. His features betrayed years of confidence and wealth. He introduced himself as the Marquez only, as if the title rendered any other name unnecessary, and expressed his admiration for my work.

I then realized that I was dealing with the famous Marquesa, celebrated for her beauty but universally despised for her aloofness. The couple vacationed spent half the year in our lonely town, secluded in their impressive white mansion. The Marquez often participated in the balls, posadas and social events that populated the surprisingly busy calendar of this spirited town. But his wife stayed home and even when she did leave the idyllic hill of her confinement, a wall of silence guarded her. This distance, along with her beauty and privilege, surrounded her with a mythical aura. She was out of this world, foreign in her taciturnity and consequently a figure of enigmatic appeal. There were many theories explaining her preference for seclusion; though some attributed this nasty quality to excessive shyness, others argued intensely for more sinister reasons. She was accused of suffering from the most common female maladies: silliness, unconquerable passions, jealousy and infidelity. Yet, there were few who saw her as a suffering woman, trapped in a prison of condescending kindness. It was rumored that her first child had died soon after birth and she had not been able to conceive after the incident. Whether it was her decision to remain away from society or if she was being punished for her motherly failure no one knew, and this mystery fed the town’s obsession.

Her presence in the funeral provoked a hushed agitation amid the society ladies and the eager men. Those who respectfully greeted the Marquez looked perplexed when they encountered her and were forced to perform awkward bows with  haste and confusion.I had never seen her before that fated night, our common seclusion prevented us, but the tales inspired by the reserved Marquesa had assaulted me ever since I’ve arrived from England.

The Marquez continued to compliment my work while the Marquesa tried to cease her crying. His flattering comments were sincere but curious; it surprised me to see how different his view of my work was from his dutiful wife’s. He distinguished an almost visceral realism to my work, a sensuality that transcended the limitations of the canvas to convey life with absolute faithfulness. My lady saw, as I learned on our first meeting, the subtle insanity of my compositions, the horrors hidden behind a tenuous smile, a long, expectant neck.

They left that night soon after our conversation had ended, with words of friendship on his arrogant lips. He promised to come back by the studio, despite my obvious discomfort. My lady said nothing throughout our meeting, she kept her eyes down and her trembling hands folded in her lap. I was waiting for a sign, a brief but intelligent gaze that reassured me of our growing connection but she gave me nothing. …