Phantasmagoria

He ran his fingers gently over the rough grey wall while trying to soak in the beauty of the structure to which it belonged. Churches always fascinated him, but this one, for reasons he couldn’t explain, felt special. He looked around. The lawn was so green that it looked alive. The spire of the 17^th century fortress in the distance made him forget that he belonged to the age of the iPhone. The moat snaking its way around Churchill Park made him happy in a way that only a vast expanse of water could. He walked slowly around the periphery of the church, afraid to go in. He then decided that since he had all day, he could come back later if he so felt like it. He took one last peek inside before turning away.

As if in a trance, he began to make his way across Churchill Park; across fountains, monuments and even a museum dedicated to the Danish resistance. He stopped at a lonely spot, where stood a bronze statue called Valkyrie. Within seconds, flashes of a furious Fuhrer and a one-eyed man were replaced with a sense of hypnosis that even looking through a viewfinder never caused. He was mesmerized by the dull green hue of the century-old statue, the expression on the face of the Norse Goddess who was the subject of the statue and the sheer force of the composition of the sculpture.

He stood still, absorbing every tiny detail of the statue, for much longer than he realized. It was only when the blue of the sky began to change hue that he realized he needed to move on. He decided to make another visit to St Alban’s Church, to see if he could muster the will to enter it.

He looked towards the grey limestone-and-flint structure in the distance, overcome by its power. He walked towards it, excited and nervous at the same time. The tiled roof reminded him, strangely, of home. He couldn’t shake off the inexplicable feeling that nothing would be the same once he entered the church. He stopped, pondered over whether he wanted to enter or just leave the park for the day. In spite of a strong, almost cowardly urge to leave, he plodded along.

In the distance, the entrance to the church looked like a black hole. Human shapes began to materialize in the blackness as he neared. When he reached the entrance, he paused. Finally, he decided that he was going to go ahead with it, even though he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do once inside. He looked upwards and began walking. As he passed under the arch, the dull grey ceiling covering his field of vision felt like a strangely cinematic transition. He looked straight ahead. And then he saw her.

He stopped in his tracks, unable to believe it. It had been years since he had spoken to her, perhaps a decade since he had laid eyes upon her. It felt like reading a long-forgotten page from one of the earlier chapters of a monumental epic; a page gently dog-eared because of one beautiful, life-changing sentence contained within. A few moments later, she saw him. She stopped too, staring at him like how he was staring at her. No one knew who spoke first, but the first word said was,

“Hello…”

The other responded. After a pause, they walked closer to each other. He knew nothing of her life now, but he didn’t ask her why she was in Denmark, and more importantly, why she was alone.

“How have you been?”

She smiled and replied,

“I’ve been good, and you?”

“I’ve been great. Doing what I love doing, traveling and…”

He paused and chuckled.

“…and eating,” he finished.

She smiled again. They began walking together, without saying a word. They walked in complete silence for the longest time, each not knowing what to say, but neither willing to say goodbye just yet.

Eventually, they made their way out of Churchill Park and onto Esplanaden. They walked along the cobbled sidewalk, still silent. Suddenly, he spotted a quaint little bakery. The delicious smell of baking bread wafted its way gently over to them, making each of them smile a different smile. He looked into her eyes, opened another page in his mind, unfolded another dog-ear, and asked,

“Pastry?”

She stopped walking, smiled and nodded in the affirmative.

A few minutes later, they were seated on old, rickety, wooden chairs, with steaming hot coffee and delicious looking pastries in front of them. Still, no one spoke.

Finally, she said,

“He got busy with some work. Hopefully he’ll be done in time for dinner.”

He smiled.

“Where do you live now?”

“Perth. Australia,” she replied.

He sipped his coffee. He could sense that she wanted to say something. But he didn’t try to get her to say it. He had the feeling that, one way or another, he would get to know what was on her mind before they parted tonight. One’s eyes, after all, said far more.

Suddenly, without warning, she stood up. She hadn’t touched her coffee and pastry. She looked directly at him with a surprising lack of any emotion whatsoever. Gently, in the only manner she knew how to speak, she spoke.

“You know, I get the feeling that you have not changed one bit. I do hope you are really happy, no matter what. I know for a fact that you are with someone. I don’t know how she had it in her to trust you, but what I do know is that as long as it lasts, she will feel special.”

With that, she left money on the table and walked away into the dark. His eyes followed her, and he did not avert them even after she was long gone.

He opened his eyes, lying still for longer than he realized. Eventually he got up and walked over to his bathroom. He could hear birds beginning to chirp. He paused to hear all those familiar, morning sounds of his overcrowded city; ones that he had been hearing for the past seven years day after day, every single day. He looked into the mirror, paying special attention to the dark circles under his eyes. Then, he smiled, thinking of what had just happened.

“Brutally honest, even in a dream. What a woman.”

He smiled again and turned his back on the mirror.