The Fool

Chapter I
 The Fool

“Miss Veil?” The voice sing-sang over the phone.


“Yes?”

“Pardon me for calling on Saturday.”

“Not a problem.” I was sincere. I had nothing to do anyways.

“We carefully considered your application and in our opinion you would be the ideal candidate to help us with this year’s festival. Congratulations!”

“Um… The festival?”

“The film festival. You applied for the external event consultant position, didn’t you?”

“Goodness! Oh God!” Got the hiccups. Silly.

“I’m pleased you are excited. We value passion most of all.” The voice laughed friendly.

“Of course I am excited! Thank you so much for the offer. I will be honoured.”

“I’ll talk to you again before we start, Miss Veil. We’ll have to discuss a couple of minor details but we have no doubt with your experience you won’t need much guidance.”

“You’re very kind. I’m looking forward to working with you. I wish you a joyful, happy, lovely summer… Vacation… Yes.” I managed to stop before I turned out an idiot. But yes. YES. I, Helena Veil, thirty five year old, lonely and lacking any plans – I was still one of the top ten event organizers in this city. My career was reimbursing me for everything. Everything.

***





It all started in June when I realized there was no chance to go anywhere on a proper vacation. Living thousands of kilometers from where I was born had its advantages but surely made vacationing with my few old friends difficult. I had no new friends, which was kind of a bonus one got for being considered “good looking”. Men I rarely trusted as friends for they had proven unable to stop at the friendship stage and with women I had never been able to get along easily. I had two closer girlfriends and that was it. Being thirty five and single, despite the numerous relationships and even marriage in the past, made it hopeless. The previous year I went on holiday alone but it only convinced me there were few things people pitied more. I came back overwhelmed with memories of men circling me like I was for sale and women inspecting me as though they wanted to memorize the sight and later file it under the category “Whom I Should Never Become”. Staycation was the big thing anyway. So, I took a deep breath and started writing. The bronze lipstick gracefully glided on the mirror surface.



1. Reading. I loved to read and had barely had the time over the past few years. Being married to this husband turned out to be a very exhausting experience. Somewhere between the laundry and the evening table setting, my books fell behind. Years passed in watching movies I disliked and playing board games I hated. Now I could indulge myself without a sense of guilt.



Somewhere from afar the beeping sound tried to reach me but I ignored it. I had to do this plan; I had to get my life back on track.



2. Beauty. Time was passing quickly and my constant mimicking didn’t help much. Deep wrinkles on the forehead were noticed approximately three months ago but spring made me irresponsible and proper care was not taken. My nails were in a terrible condition due to the continuous washing and biting – both being signs of hidden nervous tension, the therapist said after the divorce.



The louder ringing of my cell phone was annoying. It couldn’t be anything important. Write, write.



3. Emptiness. There seemed to be no “3” actually. I was too distracted already and had to force my brain. Maybe “3” should be to work on staying positive and finding my own way through life. No dating, therefore no disappointment, therefore no fear of failure. But for how long?



The sound was already piercing. I cursed the raising tone option I had turned on long ago. Rushed to get it from my purse. The living room was bathing in the warmth of the summer afternoon and carried the scent of the lake. I loved the white leather, the lilac of the silk curtains, the hammock on the terrace overlooking the water. It was the home I had worked so hard for, my keep, my victorious independence. Yet, I shuddered. It was an empty home.



“Yes? What’s so urgent?” I almost yelled at Jemma who was eyeing me from the screen.

“Why are you yelling?” She twisted bright red lips.

“I’m not. I was busy.”

“Really? With what?”

“Plans.”

“What for?”

“Well… Summer plans.”

“Oh… Are you going anywhere?”

“No.”

“Snaky?” She called me “snaky”. When I was young I had the tendency to be mean and to hiss, according to her. Nonsense, of course, but she was unwilling to stop. In fact, she was the one hissing.

“OK, I was planning a staycation. Happy?”

“It shouldn’t take you long to plan doing nothing.”

“Thanks. Very supportive.”

“You must leave all this rubbish behind. Get a real life!”

“Listen, I’m not in the mood…”

“No, you listen! Get out. Get someone. Go together on vacation. Enjoy life, stroll the beach hand in hand…”

“Terrible. Seems we are all doomed if we have no one to stroll the beach with. The therapist…”

“Screw the therapist! I know you. There may be people who don’t need a partner, although I’m very much in doubt, but you function normally only in duet. Loneliness reveals your worst side.”

“Right now I think the other way around. The therapist you despise…”

“Psycho.”

“Psychologist! She is helping me reconsider my life and value myself as an individual, not as someone’s accessory. I have a good job, enough money, I don’t look bad, I have a nice place…”

“You’ve completely lost your mind! Is she telling you all these? You, Helena, are beautiful, smart, totally insane but in a fascinating way, and you will be a fool indeed if you don’t get your dividends.”

“From whom?”

“From fate.”

“Didn’t know she was paying dividends.”

“Only to those who ask for them. Back on the topic – happily attached or a spinster?”

“Divorcees don’t belong to the spinster category. Happily attached is no longer a reality to me.”

“What’s the point of all those movies you watch – The Secret and similar, if you don’t use the ideas? All is possible, right?”

“Why did you call? To have a friendly chat or to teach me how to live my life?” I got annoyed. She was so… happy! What did she know?

“Both.” She grinned. “Did they call you from the festival?”

“Yesterday. They’ll hire me.”

“Gosh! Unbelievable! Tons of stars will fall straight in your lap!” She shrieked.

“Um, not exactly. In my lap, I mean. Besides, no one pays attention to the staff, I can assure you. And what would I need a star for? Another self-loving, selfish, looks-obsessed…”

“It depends on the person. Don’t generalize. Make an effort, be beautiful, cheer up, radiate this energy of yours… I haven’t seen you glowing for years. The spark is gone from your eyes. Use the opportunity, embrace the change!”

“OK, I agree I’m not exactly as glamorous as I used to be but to me this is just work, you know that. It’s not the first, won’t be the last event of that sort. Besides, it’s highly unprofessional to get involved with guests.”

“You’re hopeless… No one says you should make out on the red carpet! But I guess you won’t do anything again… Think of coming here, please.”

“I will.” No I wouldn’t. Partying and dating men she had found for me was out of the question.



She disappeared from the screen. My Jemma - a fighter and a mirror which I was often afraid to look at. We used to fight and achieve together. Now her drive for love and happiness made me feel sad. Why? Because I wanted to be her… At least in her tireless pursue of new emotions, new excitement. Yet, I couldn’t find the desire to go on.



***



In July I began working on point one of my staycation plan. The bookstore was selling discounted items. Treasures written by Tolkien, Bronte, and Jane Austen could be found at ridiculous prices. On my way out the cashier put all my purchases in a bag which I never checked, as usual.



It was only three traffic lights later when, waiting for the green, I once again went through the books - Unfinished Tales, Emma, and Pride and Prejudice. Had lost the latter two while moving around and about and crossing oceans back and forth. Then, at the bottom of the bag, I saw a book I had never purchased - Gypsy Magic. Stared at it suspiciously. Being born where I was, I knew quite a bit about the Romany culture but had never intended to further educate myself on the subject. And still, the fatalist I was, I tended to trust fate more than I probably should. Kept the book.



Drove straight home and took the Gypsy Magic. When the fortune telling section began, I knew this whole story was no accident. Now, don’t tell me about the scientific blah-blah. I knew a woman in my home country who told me I was going to marry when it seemed far beyond possible. At the time I was pursuing my career with the energy and enthusiasm of a cheetah focused on a goat’s bottom. I wasn’t even going out. Still, I got married the next year.



Half a bottle of wine and two hours later I knew I was going to buy a Tarot deck. I could know the future now. I was going to search my soul and find the light within. That’s what the whole thing was about, the websites for Tarot dummies said – self exploration and inner growth. Yet, my mind kept going astray and wishing for answers. When, how, where…



The whole month I spent the evenings laying in the hammock and learning to read the cards. I even found my favorite card of all times – Nine of Pentacles. Lovely, abundant, beautiful card of self-sufficiency. I stabbed it to the leather headboard of my king size bed. Each night before I laid down, I spent five minutes reciting affirmations: “I will be happy on my own. I don’t need anyone to be happy.”



August was tough. The rain was falling too often; my hair was suffering the humidity; I looked dull; everyone was going on vacation somewhere with someone. Jemma was getting over excited as the festival was approaching.



“Hi,” I muttered when her face appeared on the screen.

“What’s up?” She gave me one of her glowing smiles showing Hollywood white teeth. “Are you getting ready? When are you having your hair done?”

“God... I have to work.”

“I’m worried.” She muttered.

“What for?”

“You, for example.”

“Why?”

“It’s been years since the divorce. You look dull.”

“I’ll do something. I had it planned already. It’s number two of my staycation list.”

“Have no idea what you’re talking about but it’s good to hear there will be improvement. No doubt you will attract the appropriate attention! I’m already excited for you!”

“We’ll see. I have no intention to welcome men in my life any time soon.”

“You’re throwing a glove at a powerful force.”

“Speaking of fate, I got this book last month…” I told her about the Gypsy book and the following purchase of Tarot cards. She wasn’t happy.

“Another one of your insane obsessions… Do you still write on mirrors?”

“Um… no!” Was I blushing? Hopefully not!

“Good. It was scary. Stabbing your dresses too. But this new endeavor will only bring more lonely nights. I’d be happier if your hobbies were more social.”

“Instead, be happy with my new commission now and stop preaching.”

“You will write about the festival, won’t you? I’m dying to know all behind-the-curtains gossips.” She grinned. Resembled a cat facing a cup full of cream.

“Deal. I’ll dig deep and mercilessly in their laundry baskets, I promise you.”

***

This whole last week of August I kept getting the Ace of Cups and couldn’t help but burst into hysterical laughter. The cards were apparently mocking at me. What emotional beginnings, what love perspectives? The Ace was surely wrong and its persistence irritated me. I stopped reading to avoid seeing this glorious imagery picturing senses so full with everything one can desire, that it was all pouring on the ground.



Instead, I began reading “Pride and Prejudice” for the second time in my life. The rain was falling in curtains and strings and when Darcy finally told Elizabeth his feelings and intentions were unchanged, I felt my tears rolling down. As Freddie Mercury once sang “my make up is flaking”…



When I cried, I did it properly as everything else – I cried for myself, for my ex-boyfriends and husbands, for the purposeless expensive clothes and designer shoes, for the fading features and body, for the last wrinkle, for the unnoticed never-gaining-weight figure and ballet-polished-movements – for all that was lost, for all done in vain… I tended to be dramatic.



Then I would start thinking of throwing myself in the arms of a best childhood friend. Wait, he became a boyfriend later, so no, not a good idea either. Then I would switch to maniac thoughts of the type “just anyone”, but the “anyone” concept would soon turn into a “man who would love me forever like a real Mr. Darcy if you have any available left”. At the end I would realize I was dreaming of a book character and burst into even worse tears.



Jemma knew. She didn’t even need to see the hysteria to guess how much I truly wanted to find Him. She knew things I refused to admit. Yet, it was over. Love was so overrated. Relationships were so damaging. People were wasting their lives in pursuit of dreams while reality was knocking them down on a daily basis. I could spare myself the pain. I should stick to my plan and learn to be content. The therapist said it was perfectly attainable.

***

September came. I kept going to work as usual, being “such a valuable contribution to our team, dear!”, smoking more than I used to, switching to French wines in an attempt to indulge myself, returning to Tarot, and reading Jane Austen. The cards went crazy. Aces of Cups and Wands for love and passion, Cups cards for unions and relationships, Pentacles for stability in future positions – a display of all one could dream of. I didn’t know what to do except to consider them all reversed and myself - a total loser. Then the festival began.



It was at the premiere of an anticipated documentary movie. We were welcoming the talent to the theatre when I slipped on the stairs behind me and was going to fall rather ungraciously, when a hand caught me from aside and lifted me with ease. I looked up to find the face and express gratitude. He was tall. With broad shoulders. Piercing dark eyes. Lips like a bow. I couldn’t say anything. Gazed only.



“Are you OK, Miss…” He was looking at my badge which had turned again.

“Helena Veil,” I whispered through dry throat. Killing British accent...Aaah!

“Miss Veil.” The lips formed a light smile. The hand was still holding me firmly. I was dying right there in a very pathetic way.

“Fine, thank you.”

He turned swiftly on his way to the theatre.

“Mr. Darcy” just walked away from me,” I wept and leaned on the wall to prevent another dramatic collapse.



Two days later we met again at a screening for the press. I had spent been biting my nails all morning. A long forgotten excitement had come back into my life accompanied by growing fear. What to do? What if he asked me on a date? What if he had fallen in love with me? I was still beautiful, wasn’t I? The Ace… It must have meant that!



He came, passed by me with a little smile and a nod, and went inside. End of the story.



I waited in the foyer until the screening was over in case he went out. Nothing. Finally the doors opened and people started leaving. I checked once again if all the refreshments were at place. One had to be professional. The decaf had disappeared. Damn it! I couldn’t go right at this moment to order a new jar. What would my boss say if she could see me?! Feeling a bit guilty and irresponsible, I hesitated but the sudden rumor at the door ended my struggles.



He had just left the theatre surrounded by reporters. The movie was a dark documentary on human trafficking and he, as a producer, was very sought after. I thought about the abundance of females with mics around. Why did media hire so many young and good looking women these days? And what about the dress code? Since when were event organizers required to wear business suits while reporters could stroll in miniskirts and sexy tops? Life was becoming more and more difficult, I’m telling you!



Left the foyer disappointed to deal with the missing decaf and hide away my grimace. He wasn’t going to be available anytime soon if ever. Walking back the corridor a few minutes later, I saw his tall figure entering from the opposite door. Jumped at the unexpected chance like a wild cat (don’t say “cougar”, please!).



“Can I help you, sir?”

“You may, Miss Veil.” He smiled. I was so ridiculously pleased with him remembering my name! “Would you mind showing me the washroom?”

Well, not exactly what I would wish for but one had to deal with whatever was available. I walked him to the washrooms and was wondering what to do next to prevent him disappearing in this sacred space, when he went on.

“Are you organizing the gala on Saturday?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Would you mind if my assistant gave you promotional materials to be distributed at the event?”

“Not at all. We do that all the time.”

“How could he reach you?” Ah! Asking for my phone number! I know this game.

“Here is my card. This is my cell phone number and I always answer my cell.”

“Thank you. He’ll be in touch with you.” He entered the washroom while I rejoiced. “Mr. Darcy” had asked for my number! By the way, his name was Alverton but I could not resist the pleasure to call him “Mr. Darcy”. It wasn’t a common thing to find one!



The assistant did get in touch for my deepest regret as I kept hoping the card would remain in his employer’s possession and be used according to my wishes. I went to the hotel, even to his suite, took the materials, and had to leave. The room carried the scent of expensive male fragrance and cigars. I hesitated in the hallway, asked a couple of idiotic questions about the placement of the brochures, peeked in the corridor if he was coming back to his room but finally had to close the door behind me followed by the unfriendly look on his assistant’s face. Had become part of the “fans and stalkers” category. Plodded to the elevators and hung around for ten more minutes… He could still come. What if I chose the wrong elevator while he was coming up in the other one? My cell phone rang and, knowing it had to be him, I picked up with trembling fingers. My supervisor babbled in my ear, I missed most of it. Had to go.

***

The gala took place a couple of days later. It was going very, very well. I was once again to reprise my role of an arrow or a table.

“Miss, would you by any chance know where the toilets are?” Asked the guy from the “Life of The Mice” crew.

“This way, sir.”

“Thank you.” He walked away only to be replaced by the scriptwriter of the “Bee Houses”.

“Miss Veil,” at least he knew my name, “could you please hold this folder for me? I need to sign this book.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Ouch. The director of the award winning “Black Lives” just stepped on my toes.

“Beg your pardon…Miss…”

“Veil.”

“Right. Excuse me.” He pushed me on his way to the tables.



At nine my Mr. Darcy hadn’t showed up yet. I walked around uneasily, arguing with everyone.

“James,” I chased the waiter to the kitchen. “We are out of ham rolls.”

“There are two plates with various rolls on the tables, ma’am.”

“No, I’m sure there are not enough ham rolls. Everyone prefers them.”

James stared at me. We had worked together on many events but I had never been particularly fond of ham rolls.

“Very well, ma’am. We’ll bring more ham rolls.” He turned displeased.



I went back to the hall and started pulling the skirts. Thought I saw quite a few wrinkles. Then rushed toward the technician.

“Alan, are all the mics in order?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. Besides, the official part is over, isn’t it?”

“It is but someone might feel like saying a few words… Accidentally… You know…”

He looked at me doubtfully.

“No, Miss Veil. Have never seen such a thing. Except if they get drunk and want to sing.”

“Ah! That’s it! The mics for the band, are they fine?”

“In perfect working order. Are you OK?”

“Of course I am. I’m great. Terrific.”



Dashed to the hallway. It was already close to ten when the dancing began but half of the guests had already left. The lights were dimmed. I stood aside from the dancing floor, nervously peeking in the dark corridor, when he entered the hallway at last. Took a deep breath and pulled my little black dress. Should have put something more… daring. To hell with the dress code! Now it was too late.



“Miss Veil, good evening.” He said. “What a fabulous event!” Smiling.

Fabulous eyes! - I thought.

“Thank you. You missed the speeches.” Couldn’t think of anything smarter.



He said he wasn’t interested in speeches and instead of joining the others, stood next to me, hesitated for a few moments and finally asked me about my job. It turned out he knew my big boss (not very surprising, they were both British and almost the same age), then told me about his next book, and, among the other things, asked me if I would like to dance.



“Pardon me?” I stared at him.

“Would you like to dance?”

“I… Don’t know… Really…”

“That’s fine. You don’t have to.” He smiled a bit dryly.

“No, no… I would love to… I meant I am not used to…”

“I guess you are not. I am not either.”

“Then why now…”

“Just a caprice.”

“Oh…”

“I think this song would suit you well.” He held out his hand. I took it.



I had never seen such a thing happening at an event. This was all so… rightfully different.



I found myself in his arms. Felt the strength under the suit and the fit body while he was guiding me silently. Then thought I had to say something. Then thought I better not. Instead, buried my face in his jacket in a most unprofessional manner, inhaling him. Literally.



The song ended but I stood there, still close to him, like a complete idiot, until he finally drew me gently away from the dancing floor. I felt dizzy. Noticed a few guests staring at us in wonder.



“Are you always that silent?’ He asked looking aside.

“Um?”

“Excuse me.”



I woke up to see him heading toward the tables and starting a conversation with a stunning blonde actress I had seen in one of the movies couple of days ago. He handed her a drink. She smiled. I stood in the middle of the room swallowing my tears. She didn’t have wrinkles nor was she wearing a little black dress. She wasn’t silent. He had meant I was boring.



“Miss!” The technician called me and dragged me out of the fog. I plodded to his corner to discuss the rest of the musical program and the end of the evening which wasn’t far. No, it was close. Too close. I hardly managed to collect myself. Was such a pathetic piece. I’d always known love from first sight did not exist. Love in general – very doubtful.



The technician muttered his own things for long minutes before I told him to do whatever he found appropriate. I only asked him to not play slow songs. It was too late, I explained, and the guests needed something more refreshing. He agreed not recognizing my fear of a particular couple getting stuck in a slow dance. Normal people didn’t care about my insanity.



I escaped on the terrace in front of the French windows. It was a beautiful night. The early summer had brought warm and quiet weather. Then I froze. He was leaning on the marble parapet gazing at the garden below. I hadn’t noticed him leaving the hall. He must had come recently. Last time I saw him he was exploring the blonde actress in a bare-back silver dress. He turned and looked at me. My knees shook and I searched the support of the marble.



“Do you like the city?” I asked in the most civilized manner of a socially experienced young professional female.

“Yes, I come quite often. About twice a year.” He answered and kept eyeing me. An impulse to touch my hair betrayed the butterflies in the stomach. I’ve read women touching their hair in front of a man were considered easy prey. They were betraying their sexual desire, shrinks said.

“Do you have business here?” I forced it to sound casually and moved my hands to a safer position behind my back.

“As you see.”

“This is only one festival.”

“There are others. Besides, I don’t need a festival to come.” He stood up fixing me with his eyes.



I forgot my words. Couldn’t prevent one of my hands from playing with the necklace. His eyes followed the move focusing on my décolleté. He made a step toward me. His shadow fell on my eyes. My breathing became quicker and the fresh night air turned into a sticky substance. A sudden wind blew out of nowhere and threw a few leaves on the terrace. One of them fell on his jacket. I reached to remove it but stopped halfway. Who was I to act like a wife? My hand remained hanging in the air, an inch from his shoulder. He grasped it and drew me closer. And then we kissed.



It was one of those kisses that come sudden but anticipated when you have danced too close to someone in the late night and there is not much to be said. You know nothing of each other and that is all you need. It wasn’t the logical development of a nice first date. It was a basic physical response to the Full Moon hanging like a giant lantern above the trees - a folly bringing relief like the rain after long hours of thunder and lightning. It was an insisting, demanding kiss. I remember the song they were playing at the time – “I’ll put a spell on you, because you’re mine…” It was simply the best kiss I had had in my entire life. Very embarrassing thought considering my age.



He then pulled himself back. He was probably going to say something but I, instead of stepping back too, cuddled in his shadow for a few precious seconds, while he, a bit confused I assume, just stood there without a word or a move. It felt secure.



I was, of course, making a complete fool of myself. Realized I was still at work, right in front of the windows, with a guest! A disaster. Peeked toward the windows but, thankfully, no one was close to the exit. Then the thought he wasn’t hugging me, he wasn’t even touching me, pierced my mind. I was a beggar for attention. Muttered an “Excuse me”, rushed down the stairs of the terrace, ran through the yard, jumped in one of the cabs in front of the building, and went straight home. Then called an assistant to finish the job there, threw the phone on the floor, buried my face in the pillow, and cried.



Never heard of him again till the end of the festival. Kept hoping he would send me an e-mail if he didn’t feel like calling. All my contacts were on the business card but nothing happened. I had to accept the sorrowful thought that Mr. Darcy, being found at last, the great dancer, the fantastic kisser, the most fabulous man of all times, was gone because I, in my schizophrenic absurdity, had left after showing him how desperate I truly was. Now he was in England.

***

One night I finally asked the cards the question burning me from inside: “How could I see him again?” As crazy as it may sound, I got quite an astonishing result. Had expected all kinds of beheading cards like Three and Ten of Swords. Instead, I got the King of Swords for him; the Devil, the Magician, and the Eight of Pentacles for the adventure itself. The King of Swords was the most difficult of all kings – cold, distant, a loner of a kind, but at the same time - fair, just, thinker, incredibly intelligent, and yes – passionate. His passion came more from his mind but it didn’t make it less intense. He was a warrior and a conqueror. One who would grab you and ride on, certain it was the right thing to do. No doubts for the King of Swords, no second thoughts.



The Devil was all about passion and temptation; the Magician was… well, a master and a trickster, and the Eight of Pentacles was implying I needed to work hard to achieve my goal… But it was possible. Who was I to doubt Tarot which had been in this world for centuries? And then I drew the outcome card. Death. Stared at it. My fingers trembled. No, no one was going to die, this was all prejudice but the card was a bad outcome for a love question. It was an ending, after all. Wished I had never asked for it. Struggled with the thought I had to follow the advice of the cards and leave it all behind. The squeezing feeling in my stomach crept to the heart and smashed my lungs before climbing all the way to my cheeks. Felt sick. My fingers reached for the deck. My mind was pulsing in an effort to focus on a last advice card. The Fool. Could I hope? Should I?

***

The Fool made the step toward the abyss. Like many important journeys, this one started with little thought and long before I fully acknowledged what was going on in my head. It had begun in my mind, in my dreams, and looked seriously insane.



Did I recognize the abyss at the time? Of course. I’ve heard many people wondering if The Fool realizes the danger ahead and I’m positive he does. What make him so special are his light heart, his faith, and his clearly drunken head which doesn’t care. “What do I have to lose?” he would probably ask. At worst, the journey would end where it began. At best, it could end at the same place or somewhere better. I certainly hoped for the latter. What I chose to ignore at the time was the most literal meaning of the card – being foolish.