A burly looking surly officer lumbered towards the fireplace, and took a seat in its closest vicinity, with the ensuing screeching shriek. He was hardly in par with the yardstick of masculinity, with his behemoth physique and boisterous disposition.
Leaning forward, he presented me with his first question of the interrogation session.
"For how long have you known the Nelson Publishers?"
His close proximity frazzled my nerves, and I staggered back on my seat. Seeing the pallor spreading on my face, he mouthed an apology, and leaned back onto his arm chair.
"Just a few months. I was in the process of completion of my novel 'The Unexpected Return,' dedicated to my late husband," I replied confidently.
The officer gazed at me pensively, supporting his chin on his knuckles, and thought for a while. Dragging the chair forward with a screech, he stopped before me, invading my personal bubble.
"Ah! I've heard about that book!" he exclaimed, spitting out his saliva in the process.
I grimaced at him, and turned away to look at the wall. At that moment, the wall seemed more soothing for the eyes. I was never anthrophobic, but people such as the uncouth officer sitting before me, always managed to disconcert my nerves.
"Your book states something about your dead husband's unexpected return. I know, the book hasn't been published as of yet, but somehow I came to know its summary by word of mouth," he said enthusiastically.
I glared at him, my gimlet gaze enough to get him back to his sang froid mode. But the very next instant, he retrieved his obnoxious attitude.
"The title itself indicates your eccentricity. Which normal person would expect her dead husband to return to her? Moreover, the idea of rampage killing of a whole publishing team cannot stem from a normal mind," he continued..
I tried hard to keep down my petulance and said, "Elaborate your implications."
"This conversazione here," I said, rotating my finger to show him the whole room, "is for a steady conversation, not riddles or unpleasant innuendos."
The officer burst into an acerbic guffaw that spent chills down my spine.
"Pardon my brazenness. I tend to be informal even at my workplace. It is my belief, that spontaneity is the key to being successful at your workplace."
"However, when spontaneity gives way to lecherous behavior, it becomes unprofessional of you," I replied calmly.
The smug look on his face faltered, giving way to a grim expression. He hefted himself up from the chair and started walking towards the door.
"Sometimes, you need to cross the toed by your profession in order to get your work done. It's either by hook or by crook."
I slammed the door shut shortly after he had left and returned to my safe haven - my wicker rocker, the root of my creativity - one that incites my imagination and contemplation.
I'm Azra Morath, very azure eyed, the deep ocean likened to the inaccessible abyss of my mind and gaze, extremely homely, yet comely by word of mouth. I'm the daughter of an Ottoman seamstress, who had married me off to a Captain Lieutenant Alexander Morath. I was barely out of my teenage, when I was thrusted into the domestic world, that weighed me down with its responsibilities. I was still wet behind the ears about the conjugal duties of a wife, for I was neither sensitized to it during my puberty, nor was my husband ever around to guide me properly.
My purportedly halcyon days were completely wasted on a futile ladyship, futile ostentations before propriety and a frustrating solitude in a large estate. My late husband was always overseas and hardly ever paid any visit to me, which took a toll on my health. I was shunned by the propriety as my husband's prolonged absence from home raised questions on my fertility and fidelity.
To exacerbate my misery further, the news of my husband's death was broken to me during the lowest ebb of my life. His ship was attacked by a British foe ship mid-ocean, and reportedly none of the crew members had survived the attack. However, the fact that his body could not be found gave away the possibility of his survival.
