Suite d'Existence - 14. Atto primo - Scena III

For the first time in nine years of leaving the building behind him, someone was waiting for him to come outside.

Mara was leaning against his bicycle, smiling a well-meant smile. Tristan found himself unable to appreciate her gesture, though. She’d intruded his privacy, even though he had told her so many times he didn’t want her to come here. Outside the hospital, where he was at his most vulnerable, he didn’t want to be seen by anyone he knew. That included his sweet and understanding wife, who was now walking towards him.

The proper thing would have been to accept her presence. He couldn´t, however. Beneath a grey sky that was waiting for the right moment to release its moisture, Tristan found himself unable to be nice.

Avoiding the touch of two slender and welcoming arms, he walked past his wife without looking at her. His anger made him fumble with his keys, long enough for Mara to catch up with him.

“What’s wrong, Tristan?”

He didn’t answer. It was a childish thing to do, but for some reason it seemed more appropriate than the range of positive emotions that were available to be felt.

“Tristan! Answer me, why are you acting like this?” Mara’s patience had ended sooner than he’d expected.

“What do you think you’re doing here? I told you not to come here, ever. For god’s sake, you didn’t leave Saar and Daan alone, have you? Christ, Mara, what did you even think you were doing?!”

Mara now seemed more angry than surprised at the accusations of her husband.

“What was I thinking? What the hell are you thinking, Tristan? Of course I didn’t leave the kids alone, your mum paid an unexpected visit. For heaven’s sake, you’ve been crying, I can see that. Why don’t you want me to be here?”

“You aren’t supposed to see me like this.” Tristan almost whispered, his tears synchronized with the first raindrops announcing a heavy shower.

“Why? Seriously, Tristan, look at me!” Mara almost screamed.

“No.”

“Look at me!”

The key of his bike had found its way to the lock, enabling Tristan to remove himself from the unwanted confrontation. As he raced away from the parking lot, he felt guilty about the things he’d said to her. The guilt didn’t match his anger, though. No one was supposed to see him in this state, no one.

-

He must have looked awful, judging by the hesitation with which he was handed the key he asked for. Only when he showed his membership card, something he hadn’t had to do for a long time, the woman behind the desk had been more or less convinced of his sanity. God knows what he’d done if he hadn’t been allowed access to the harpsichord.

Now the black wooden keys underneath his fingertips weren’t able to synchronize with his racing emotions. His playing was uncontrolled, ugly, which made him even more angry than he already was. Even the easiest of Inventionen Bach had composed were too difficult to get right at this moment.

A final attempt at J.C.F. Fischer’s Chaconne in F left Tristan in tears. It wasn’t even his bad playing that screwed everything up; it actually sounded rather nice. No, it were the moving harmonies, the illusions of breathing in and out the piece created, that had moved him to tears. Defeated by reality, he gently put the lid down onto the case, returned the key and left the building for what would turn out to be four hours of aimless cycling.

-

He knew he had to face her as soon he returned home. His words had been too harsh, his actions unreasonably rude. As long as she wasn’t aware of his reasons to be mentally screwed, he was willing to apologize as much as she wanted. He didn’t not trust her, that was not the problem; he just wanted everything to end without having to talk about it. Besides, he couldn’t possibly discuss his thoughts and wishes with her, considering she would be heartbroken as a consequence.

When he finally arrived at his own doorstep, Tristan was dripping from the mood swings that the weather was suffering from. Of course he’d forgotten his raincoat. It wasn’t as if he could actually remember anything practical anymore. While searching for his keys and a sense of self, he could hear the soft click of the front door unlocking. As he looked up, he saw Mara standing in front of him. Her eyes betrayed her slightly forced smile; she had cried.

“Hi”, she whispered.

“Hi.”

The only thing interrupting the silence was the continuous downpour from heaven. Summer hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to obey the laws of meteorology.

“I’m so sorry”, Tristan finally managed to say as he stepped forward to embrace his wife. She let him, though she didn’t hug him back. It was painful in the least.

“It’s okay”, Mara answered after she’d closed the door behind them. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have done that, Tristan. Look, there is some dinner left in the kitchen. I think I’m going to bed now.” She didn’t allow him to formulate an answer, but gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and went upstairs.

There he was, standing in the corridor of his home, still troubled by the confessions he made earlier, slightly heartbroken by what just happened. He wasn’t hungry for anything apart from mental clarity, so he skipped dinner and went to Daan’s bedroom instead. His son lay sound asleep, surrounded by darkness and stuffed animals, seemingly unaware of the trouble his father had caused. Tristan stood at his bedside for a while, before sitting down to make himself more comfortable.
He was going to mess with his son’s life if he’d keep acting like he was now. He was going to disappoint the little boy, make him angry and confused. Hell, if he wouldn’t change soon, Daan would probably blame himself for making his dad sad. Psychological child abuse? Guilty as charged.

He had a hard time battling his self-destructing thoughts this unfortunate night. Sitting next to his sleeping son, there was nothing he wished more than to be normal. To press life’s ‘reverse’-button and to start over again from the moment he met his trigger.

“Dad has messed everything up, Daan…” he whispered as he reached for his son’s hair. Stroking it made him realize even more how deep he had sunk into the waters of heavyheartedness.

“But from now on, things will get better. I’ll never leave you, or Sara, or your mum.”

Daan didn’t wake up from his father’s incomprehensive apology. He probably floated on the edge of unconsciousness, marveling at the sight of large teddy bears and talking toy cars. He couldn’t care less about his dad’s mental agony.

“I’ll never leave you. Never.”

He sat there for another hour or so, desperately waiting for the morning to release him from his thoughts. It hadn’t worked, though, so he gathered the courage to go to his own bedroom. As he quietly stepped into bed, he noticed Mara wasn’t asleep yet. She always ended up falling asleep facing his side of the bed, without exception. Now her body was facing the opposite side, her head turned towards an empty wall. She always faced him, because she’d hug him from behind as soon as Tristan had gotten into bed. Not tonight though. This night they didn’t spoon, and he missed the warmth of another body next to his.

He couldn’t blame her. It was all his fault.

-

The next morning seemed hopeful. Instead of arguing with her, he had apologized to Mara over and over again, and she had accepted his apologies. It was obvious she was still hurt by his inability to talk to her about his problems, but she had more or less forgiven him for acting like a stubborn child. Slowly but surely, Tristan noticed, his sea of seriousness became calmer.

Being back at school proved to be a welcome distraction. Apart from the unexpected but well-meant concern shown by some of his pupils, he hadn’t been focused on emotional instability that Tuesday. Sylvia had made it very clear she was happy to see him functioning properly again, though she didn’t seem convinced when he had told her he was fine. All right, he wasn’t entirely fine, but he wasn’t thinking about…

Well, who was he fooling. They had only said ‘Hi’ to each other that day, and it bothered him more than he was willing to admit. He had wondered for way too long why the situation was so uncomfortable, until he’d realized – during his 3^rd class of the day – that there was a clear reason. It was in the middle of an explanation on the subject of Gothic literature, that he suddenly remembered it.

“It’ll be two years next Wednesday. I thought you should know, because I’ll be a bit less happy than normal.”

Tomorrow would be the day that two years had passed since the dead of Ernest’s husband. Of course the man was going to act different than usual; he was suffering. Unfortunately, Ernest had already left when Tristan was finished for the day. He would support him tomorrow, though. He would try to make him hurt less.

-

The next morning, everything between him and Mara had returned to normal. His mood seemed to be a bit more upbeat as well. There was a relative absence of strong feelings, which was probably related to upping the dosage of his medication, but he didn’t complain. There were times where he wished he could feel a bit more…feelings. However, he preferred this apathy over the dark holes he had often found himself trapped in.
He had returned to his usual routine as well, which was a massive help when it came to thinking too much. Distraction was the key, and his work contributed a lot to that.

His 4^th and 5^th grades were unusually motivated. It probably had to do something with the fact that the summer holidays started in just a bit more than a week. Of course there was neglected homework and the occasional behavioral correction to be made, but the students weren’t using their crappiness-capabilities optimally. Tristan didn’t have any problem with the lack of motivation in that department.

Lunch break therefore came sooner than he’d expected. He hadn’t seen Ernest yet today, but he wanted to make sure his colleague was coping with the memories of his loss. Greeting some of his co-workers that he hadn’t seen since the staff-trip, he checked his bag for his sandwiches.
One shouldn’t walk without looking around them, obviously – a lesson he learned as he crashed straight into another human being. That person, who seemed to be digging around in his bag as well, turned out to be Ernest.

“Can you please look where… Oh hi, I’m sorry.”

“Hi. No problem, don’t worry.” Ernest said, as he looked up from the mess he made. He looked awfully tired, as if every bit of joy was sucked out of him by some sort of sadistic sponge. It wasn’t the enthusiastic man Tristan was used to seeing.

“Are you okay? You seem a bit tired…”

“I’m… Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”

Awkward silences weren’t called ‘awkward’ for no reason. They hurt a bit, too.

“Do you want to grab some lunch, or something? Talk a bit, maybe?”

The tall man didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture much, as he sighed and zipped up his bag.

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Tristan wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer, though. “Are you sure? Maybe it helps to think about…”

“I can decide what’s best for me, thanks”, Ernest interrupted him. “I’d like to go home now”, he added, not even looking directly at his colleague. The latter didn’t fancy arguing, so he stepped out of the way to let his friend leave. As he watched Ernest, he couldn’t help but feel guilty for trying to push him into something he obviously didn’t want. Even though he hadn’t really .

An unexpected hand on his shoulder made him jump a bit. It belonged to Sylvia, who had a weird look of compassion and sadness on her face.

“I hope he’ll be all right”, she whispered.

“Me too”, Tristan answered. “Come on, let’s have lunch.”

Rain seemed suitable for the situation. It was awfully sunny instead.

-

Even though the thought of his grieving friend had caused him more uncertainty than he’d wished for, he still managed to keep himself occupied that afternoon. The last thing he needed was to spiral into someone else’s negativity; he had done that enough in the previous years.

Therefore, instead of thinking too much, he played with Daan, talked and drank tea with his wife and found himself practicing etudes on the piano at seven o’clock. No, he wasn’t completely carefree, but he had missed his psychological rest dearly. It had been way too long since he had been able to completely concentrate on his music. He also decided he wanted to play a ‘real’ piece of music, instead of his obligatory etudes, so he decided upon a suite by Johann Jacob Froberger. It wasn’t really suitable for the piano, but it would satisfy his cravings for harmony for now.

Before he could finish the first five bars, though, the phone rang. “I’ll get it!” he called towards the kitchen, where Mara was making preparations for dinner, which included the daunting task of peeling beets. “Thanks!” she answered.

As he picked up the receiver, he failed to recognize the number that appeared on the display. He didn’t seem to remember being called by it before.

“Hello?”

He didn’t receive an answer instantly, but noticed someone sniffing at the other end of the line.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“I’m so, so sorry…” a voice replied. A voice, though very broken, he recognized immediately. A voice that had comforted him more than once already.