1832

“How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?

”

― Leonard Cohen, Beautiful Losers.

When I signed up to the creative writing course, several miles from home, I had no idea that the description “accommodation in an old building” referred to a real castle.

Well, not a real castle, but a mansion from the 19th century ― 1832, to be more precise ― it was as close as I had got to a medieval castle, without considering the engravings in the history books.

Thanks to the lack of vans or even taxis from the bus station to that isolated part of the city, I had to hitch a ride in a tourist bus with elderly people smelling of mothballs and caramel candy to get to the mansion where I was supposed to have my three-week course. The bus was surprisingly crowded, and I sat the whole trip next to an eighty-year-old woman who needed to take off her dentures every minute to remove the candy from her teeth.

I was the attraction of the day for being the only person there without a pin on the knees and couldn’t get up to go to the bathroom without having someone pulling me to talk about their grandchildren and great-grandchildren or asking me to explain about some problem they were having with their cell phones.

“Beautiful grandchildren, they have your eyes. Excuse me, I need to sit down now.

“Your cell phone did not break, Mrs. Lurdes, it’s just out of battery.”

So when the bus finally made its stop in front of the grounds of the mansion ― now a school of vocational courses ― I breathed in relief the sweet scent of nature.

I pulled my humble wheel case with me down the bus stairs to the sound of a goodbye chorus behind me and landed on the muddy floor, soiling my sneakers in a way that I knew would take hours to clean.

“Shit.”

I lean to rock my foot and try to get rid of a piece of mud that has gripped the bottom of my All Star as chewing gum on asphalt.

“Oh, come on!” I groan and reach for a stick on the floor to poke at the monstrosity.

In the end, I give up, throw the stick away and roll up the jeans, just in case. I hug the wheel case to my chest so as not to soil its wheels and start the long and muddy walk to the mansion, cursing and grunting all the way. As I walk, my feet sink into the ground and I feel as if I have to make more strenght with each step to unearth them, the mansion towering above me and seeming to grow even larger than it already appeared on the dirt road from which the bus had come.

It took me about ten minutes to get on the large ― colossal scale ― front door and some more looking for a doorbell. Then I figure out that there wasn’t one; I would have to announce my presence the way people did in 1832. With the lion-shaped brass knocker fixed on the wooden door.

It wouldn’t have cost them anything to have worried a little more about modernity and installed a buzzer. Just because the house was old didn’t mean they had to stick to the old ways ― like grandpa Nilson, who could not stand the fact that women were independent and used to do the greatest of dramas when I asked him why he wasn’t able to do the dishes, seeing that grandma had a problem with her knees and couldn’t stand for a long time.

I roll my eyes and putting the braid on which I had tied my hair up one shoulder, placing the suitcase on the porch floor to knock on the door with that old thing.

This is ridiculous, I think, feeling like I’m in the middle of one of Guillermo del Toro’s movies. Why had not I signed up for a writing course in a seaside town or somewhere that did not look like a horror movie scenario?

I fold my arms and wait.

All that ancient air ― the mansion, the land, the knocker ― was not exactly what I had expected for my next three weeks, and surely, if I had known it would be like this, I would not have bothered to save for two whole months in expenses only to pay the registration.

I feel an icy air on my exposed nape and turn to cast a suspicious glance at the property’s garden.

There was no breeze, the diversified flowers in the garden barely moved, but I could have sworn I felt as if someone had breathed into my neck.

“Miss?”

I jump in place and turn to the door again to face a man standing in the doorway. The fright with his sudden appearance was so much that I almost knocked over my wheelie bag.

The man was tall, graying, and dressed in a black suit and bow tie. His face was thin and expressed a disconcerting seriousness.

“Oh, hi,” I smiled, ashamed by the shriek I had given. “You scared me.”

He does not reciprocate my smile and does not seem to have any intention to.

“I tend to cause this effect on people” his tone didn’t contain any humor and I immediately felt bad for him “I’m sorry, miss, but the visitation is closed indefinitely.”

“I signed up for a writing course.” I hasten to say before he went ahead and shut the door in my face “My name is Sarita Weihermann, I got in touch on the phone yesterday.”

His thick eyebrows gathered above the bridge of his nose and he squeezed his eyes at me, as if analyzing to verify the truth of what I was telling him.

Why would I lie about such a thing?

“Here,” I draw from the pocket of my trousers the confirmation of the inscription I had taken care to print, though now it was kneaded and totally unprofessional.

I give it to him.

The man minutely examines the paper, pressing his lips in a horizontal line. When I start getting anxious about the delay, he looks up and hands me the paper.

“Follow me please.”

Oh no. Was there something wrong with my application? Would I be arrested? Would my name be marked for the rest of my life?

I hesitantly pick up my wheel case and follow him to the entrance hall. The scent of the old house snatches me as soon as I enter, reminding me slightly of my grandmother’s house, which used to smell the same way. The mansion’s entrance hall was decorated in dark shades of red and grisly paintings of women and men in dresses that looked like from some Jane Austen book (the old house-dwellers?) hanging on the walls. There were two long stairs leading to the second floor, one on each side of the high-ceilinged room, and a few other doors that would probably lead to the kitchen and other rooms of the mansion.

“Wait here, please, Miss Weihermann.”

George Clooney’s look-alike disappears behind one of the doors, leaving me there alone, bewildered by the size of the place. Of course the outside gave a sense, but being in there was something completely different. Overwhelming.

I swayed in place, turning the weight of my body forward, tiptoeing, and then back on my heels. Looking around to pass the time, I notice a solitary pin next to the last painting, as if the frame that used to hang there had recently been removed.

I stop swaying to get closer to the paintings. I tilt my torso over the railing of the stairs, running my hands over it and feeling the softness of the wood it was made of.

There were many paintings, perhaps of the generation of an entire family, covering the walls side by side, giving the opportunity to compare and make sure that, yes, the physical similarities were too great to deny the lineage. The upturned aristocratic nose that many carried was notorious for the understanding that the family encompassed all those depicted in the paintings.

I smile, thinking how cool it must be to have someone painting you, especially in a world with so many modern facilities; cameras, camcorders and selfies. Immortalising yourself has never been so easy.

But in 1832, having a painting of yourself must’ve really been a revolution, something to keep your essence over the decades. And those pictures hanging on the walls showed me that, even with the advancement of technology, they were successful in telling stories ― the same ones that we now tell with pictures and Instagram stories.

Speaking of modernity...

Speaking of modernity...

I take my cell phone out of my pocket to send a message to my father and let him know that I am alive and with every part of my body connected, as he had asked me to do.

I just send it when I hear someone playing the piano. Surprised, I turn towards the sound, which was behind some of those doors.

I hadn’t realized until then the lack of other students, but perhaps they were already accommodated in their rooms. Curious to find out who was playing the piano, I follow the sound to the door and approach to listen to the music, touching the surface with one hand.

My knowledge of music was limited to what I usually listened from my Spotify playlist: Gavin James, The Script, U2. But nothing like that melody they played on the other side of the wall, sweet and melancholy. There was only one word that held the true feeling that gripped me as I listened to it.

Heartbreaking.

I step away from the door, bewildered.

“Miss Weihermann, I presume?”

Over my shoulder, I see a man entering the lobby followed by the gentleman in a bow tie. He must be a little younger than the second one because his hair still have some blond color and the wrinkles weren’t so deep in his features ― and he was wearing much more casual clothes ― but he walked with the aid of a cane and that added him a few years more.

“It’s me.” I turn and smile at him, who extends his hand to me cordially.

“My pleasure, my name is Fael Anderson, but you can just call me Fael, we’re among friends here.” He blinks and my smile grows with his affable manners.

“Then you can call me Sarita.”

Fael Anderson is flattered.

“Sarita, I apologize for the embarrassing reception of my butler, Julius, it’s our first time running a course and we’re still getting the hang of it. Julius was confused because you were the first student to arrive, so I ask you to forgive him for his nescience, know that they were by no means malicious or intentional.”

“Butler?” I raise an eyebrow, looking at Julius behind Fael, hands clasped behind his back and gazing at nowhere in particular.

Ah, of course. That explained the suit and the tie.

Julius does a kind of bowing.

“It is a pleasure to serve you, Miss Weihermann.

“Um,” I’m completely out of reaction “Thank you?”

“Julius will be at your beck and call now, Sarita, like any other incoming students.” “Fael says, solicitous “When you need something or if you feel a little lost, feel free to call him. ”

“You own this mansion?” I ask, interested.

“It has been my family’s house over a hundred and eighty-six years, passing from generation to generation.” You could see how proud he was of saying this, gesturing at the paintings on the walls “Selling the property would be like betraying my blood, my story, and my own life.”

“And you decided to turn the house into a school because...?”

For a moment I feared that I had been too direct and indiscreet in my question, but Fael laughed, delighted with it.

“An opportunity for young people to get to know the past, I think. There is a lot to be told in every corner of this mansion, a lot has happened here. And what’s more inspiring place for a writer like a house of almost two hundred years ?

My mouth curls involuntarily.

“I’m already scratching myself to write a novel.” I confess to him, who smiles too.

“That’s great to hear! In that case, Julius will show you your room so you can settle in. Feel free to walk around the property and explore if you wish.”

I nod my head, beginning to get carried away with the whole premise of that place. With my wheelie bag, I follow Julius to the second floor, and only as I climb the stairs behind him I notice that the music played on the piano ceased completely, as if it had never even existed.