tsvetoslav shalev

He stirs the meatballs and tomato sauce one last time, then places the pan’s lid back on, reducing the stove to medium heat. Dim half-light filters through the kitchen windows and the narrow skylights add softness to the otherwise monolithic nature of the design of the space. Granite, concrete, thick glass, and marble outline a work of modern minimalistic beauty. Warmth bows down and makes way for concepts of gravitas and permanence. The entire property is built to last, to withstand anything that nature or man can throw at it. Johannes Brahms’s Klavierstücke No. 2, Intermezzo in A major Op. 118 quietly carries on the fragrant afternoon air from someplace deep within the cavernous spaciousness of the house.

The dreamlike quality of the scene is broken by the man’s attire. If loosely fitting, a black poplin shirt, dark grey chinos, and black saddle loafers look neat on him. Their middle-aged owner is not quite aware of what constitutes a casual look. Judging by the faceless hint of a smile playing on his lips, he is enjoying the process of preparing dinner. A large marble-top dining table faces an outdoor patio. There are two sets of porcelain platters, silverware, an old fashioned whisky tumbler, and a single red wine glass. An antique gold drinks trolley stands a little to the left. Decanters holding mellow liquids of varying hues of apricot, honey, spice, and marmalade adorn the wheeled contraption. A subtle cradle of amber with an unopened bottle of Catena Zapata Malbec Argentino 2019 as its centrepiece.

He places a large pan of lukewarm water on the stove, adds a pinch of crystallized sea salt, and drops two handfuls of tagliatelle. “Oh, Arthur, what’s the matter, hon? You look so sad again,” in subdued feminine intonation. Its tenderness and good intent are unmistakable, but the volume is no greater than that of the music. His bushy brows furrow, eyes closing momentarily. He opens them again, and with this forced gesture, returns the weary smile. “Tired. That’s all. It has been a long day, but nothing that what I’m preparing cannot remedy,” a deep, albeit short outburst of laughter escapes his lips. A woman’s gleeful chortle follows, filling the space after his abrupt pause. The experience could be best described as something fleeting; its origin is acknowledged through sheer curiosity but nighs impossible to analyze with certainty, like discovering new planets and their chemical compositions based on barely-perceptible dips in the light spectrum during observation.

He drains the pasta and adds the tomato meatballs. With finely chopped parsley and a generous amount of Parmesan cheese, the only bit missing is some freshly cracked black pepper. Using a mirror-polished spaghetti tong, Arthur deftly portions out the contents of the piping-hot meal onto the platters on the table. Then, he proceeds to pour himself a 100ml of fine cognac by bringing the neck of the decanter close to his nostrils first. An audible pop follows the successful removal of the cork of the wine bottle and a series of glugs. The glass of wine is filled two fingers below the rim. Shadows of varying depths dance around the kitchen as daylight retreats and gives way to twilight.

Sitting at the table, one hand resting palm-down on the cool to the touch top, Arthur raises his tumbler with the other, looking in the general direction of an empty wheelchair opposite him. For an instant, the nothingness is transformed into a hint of a woman’s prepossessing features. A pensive queen, she returns his gaze with a pair of forest green pools, looking back at him searchingly. He shakes his head, his own hazel disks closed shut. The apparition is gone. Arthur sighs, then proceeds to take a sip from the fiery liquid in his glass. A large clock on the wall opposite the table shows 19:14 pm. Its seconds’ arrow vibrates back and forth, deliberating with each step as if in doubt of its own raison d’être.

“While still, I may, I write for you the love I lived, the dream I knew.“