Love in Twenty Tongues

Chapter One

*One Week Prior*

        L'appel du vide.  A French phrase that translates as “the call of the void.”  L’appel du vide is that voice in our head that all humans have, urging us to jump when we get to the edge of a cliff.  In other words, it’s a constant reminder that complete self destruction is always the easiest solution.  Sane people, normal people, are able to resist that voice, but some of us aren’t that strong.  Weak people like me stop resisting the call after a while, and once that urge of self-annihilation takes over, anything could happen.

        I don’t remember when it happened- months ago, maybe.  It became hard to keep track of time after they sent me to the institution.  Fall turned to winter, winter turned to spring, and then I was free.  Physically free.  Not mentally.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be free inside my own head.

        There was blood, my blood and her blood mixing in the salt water, turning the crystalline waves to a deep maroon.  The ocean cracked through the glass, seeped into our cuts and our mouths.  My hands on the steering wheel, my fault, my fault, my fault.  She said it would work, together forever, I could’ve said no but I’m weak.

        “Miss Tarasovna?”  

        Silvain’s voice jerked me out of restless sleep hindered by terrible dreams.  I’ve never slept well in cars.  I don’t like automotive vehicles anymore, period.  Too many bad memories.  The dim light of a quavering sunrise seeped through the tinted windows of the car, the rain outside making rainbow patterns on the leather seats.  I took a moment to admire the dance the light makes, getting lost for a few moments as I dragged my fingertips over the light show.

        “Saskia?”  Silvain’s voice was more patient that time, and the use of my first name after traveling to such an unfamiliar place calmed me.  I looked up at him slowly, making eye contact via the mirror.

        “Yes, Silvain?” I answered, my voice barely more than a whisper.

        “We’re here.”  

        I already knew that.  Even with the window closed, I could smell the salty wind blowing from the ocean.  Warwick Harbour was tiny, its only claim to fame being the surrounding seems that were teeming with fish.  Nobody in Warwick starved, that was for sure.  I glanced out at the cobble shacks and sad little lean to’s.  They were so different from the manors and penthouses I had been dwelling in for the past twenty years of my life, but I felt oddly happy.  There would be nobody to impress here, no reason to put on a show.  For once, I could just be Saskia.

        I’ll need to figure out who Saskia is, first.

                                                                                ***

        “That’s the last of your bags,  Saskia..  Mrs. Bramburt will check on you within the hour, I believe.  I’m sure she’ll have food in hand- on the phone she seemed very enthusiastic at the prospect of looking after a “little lady”, as she put it.  Do you need anything else?”  Silvain dropped the last suitcase on the creaking plank floor, then looked back at me as I sat down heavily on the window seat overlooking a nice little garden..  His English, though heavily accented, was much better than mine will ever be.  

        That’s my dilemma.  Moving to Adderbury Harbour was a decision that I didn’t make for myself.  My parents decided that keeping me out of the public eye would relieve most of the stress that had caused The Incident in the first place.  Adderbury Harbour, a tiny fishing village located in Devon, England, had seemed perfect in their eyes.  For the first time, I hadn’t argued with them.

        This cottage, albeit small and old-fashioned, was perfect.  

        Barely two floors tall, the cobble cottage had almost smiled at me as I walked inside.  The best feature was the bay window jutting out from the backyard, flower bushes brushing against the glass.  A bench was built in to it, and I had immediately pictured cuddling up in that seat in the winter, a handmade quilt sewn by some fisherman’s wife in my lap with a mug of hot chocolate in my hands.  The rest of the cottage was beautiful, as well.  A tiny kitchen with antique appliances was attached to the left of the hallway, while a small sitting room was to the right.  Everything was musty, flowered, and far too comfortable for my own good.

        I never wanted to leave.

        “No, that should be fine, Silvain.  Thank you.  And before you say it, yes, I promise to be good.  I don’t want any more trouble.  Don’t worry about me, okay?  I can see you worrying,” I responded, in French.  Silvain sighed, shaking his head slowly.

        “In English?”

        “Can’t,” I said, still in French.  I could’ve answered in countless ways- Russian, German, Polish, Swedish, Dutch, Icelandic, even Spanish.  But not English.  Language is a talent of mine- my parents introduce me as a polyglot to strangers.  I’ve lived in hundreds of places in my twenty years of life, and I’ve been able to pick up the speech of countless countries.  But not English.  I could understand it, but speaking it?  No.  I don’t know why, and I’ve truthfully been trying.  It’s just so… boring.  French is the language of love.  Russian is beautifully dramatic.  German is a bit harsh, but still entertaining.  English is completely bland.  It was never necessary to learn until now- my mother was born in France, my father in Russia.  My first years of life were spent in Russia, and then Germany.  Other countries followed, but never a country of English-speakers.

        I seriously doubted that there were many bilingual people in the tiny and painfully simple village of Adderbury Harbour.  Therefore, I began English lessons.  Rosetta Stone could only do so much, however, and it was still a struggle.  Hopefully it would be enough to get by.

        Silvain sighed again, and shook his head with a smile.  “What am I going to do with you?”  His aged face sobered, suddenly, and I could tell that he was looking at me as a  little girl again.  Silvain had been with my family since before I was born, as a driver and bodyguard.  He was more than that, though, acting as a father when my own wasn’t present, which happened often.  He’s the only one who truly knows what happened that night.  

        I smirked a bit, but it was a sad smirk, not mirthful, as it usually would be.  “I have no idea.”

        “Oh, stop that.  You’re going to be fine.  You’re a big girl.  Did you see that ocea-”

        I swallowed, hard, and nodded.  “I don’t like to swim.”

        “I know, Saskia, I’m sorry.  But you’ll have fun here.  Take walks, go visit the market.  Buy a pet, do something.  Mrs. Bramburt mentioned that there was a girl a few years younger than you who lives next door, you should look into that.  Make friends.  Learn a craft.  Read-”

        “I get it, I get it!  You can stop.  I’ll be fine, Silvain, I swear.”  A laugh bubbled up from somewhere far inside of me, but I shut my mouth before it could escape.  

        The hug took me by surprise.  I pressed my face into the sharp smell of leather and cologne, just for a moment, and then stepped back from him.  Silvain smiled at me sheepishly, and I could’ve sworn that I saw a tear escape from the corner of his eye before he wiped it away.  He would never admit it, of course.

        “I’ll be going now.  If you ever start to feel… bad, again, just call me.  Please.  You can always come home.”

        “That’s not home,” I said softly, but he doesn’t say anything back.  The silence communicates more to me than words do.  I watched as he left, and moved to the window to watch the car pull away.  The rain kept falling and falling, and the crunch of tires against gravel was the last sound I heard before the silence fell.  Only feet away, people were sleeping and dreaming as the sun rose over the ocean.  Maybe there was someone else, restlessly staring up at a water-stained ceiling, but I never had a way of knowing.