Tiger (A tale of unspoken love) – (Part 6)

And here is part 6. This is the body of the subject. Thanks to all my readers, who patiently waited through the other parts. Thanks to Rae, Giuseppe, Beatrix, Katlin and others for their nice comments. I hope this part will not disappoint. Also, this part introduced the Queen of all tigresses: Isma

Isma – Pastel and pencils sketch by F. Marincola, July 27th 2015, Potomac, Maryland “…Paul was learning to look straight into Isma to discover that beyond those beautiful eyes rested an infinite horizon over which sailed a sound of uncontainable beauty that was not played by vocals or instruments and could be heard even by the deaf”

***

As for Adam with Eve in the Gardens of Eden, and for Richard Parker with Bagheera in Paradise Island, destiny was about to change the course of Paul’s life…

***

Love takes unforeseen appearances and penetrates through the thinnest fissures. Like the stealth steps of a tiger, it prowls onto the unaware, which will not know until it is too late.

One morning, Paul received a dispatch from a renowned publisher, who contacted him because he wished to publish his authorized biography. Paul reactively declined. The reason was simple: there was nothing remarkable about his life besides a piano and what came out of it. He did not want to be bothered with the wishy-washy rubbish that journalists scavenge to embellish the truth. All there was to say about him could be learned through his music.

But the publisher insisted: Paul did not need to discuss anything that made him uncomfortable. The publisher suggested a preliminary interview by a young yet experienced disciple of a famous biographer, who was gifted with very agreeable manners and could spend a fortnight in Paradise Island. All that necessitated was Paul’s corroboration of the accuracy of the research. Paul would only have to say “Yes or No”.

Paul retorted that he did not buy the notion that somebody would come all the way to Paradise Island just to give him a test. To which the publisher patiently countered that the biographer had experience with celebrities and knew how to extract information without being intrusive. Therefore, no efforts required from Paul’s side, just a few interviews to clarify and confirm the research already done leaving room for spontaneous disclosures would they emerge voluntarily.

Paul brought up the concern that his life, save for the music had been a complete blunder. He had no friends, no family: his parents had died and there were no siblings or progeny. The only acquaintances consisted of an unsophisticated ranger who just got married with his servant, a Thai teacher in the mainland who was nice (bless her hearth) but talked too much, a kitten, and a few tigers.

This final argument, rather than deterring intrigued further the publisher, who pointed out that tigers, granted that they are less ferocious than critics and definitely more tameable, still represent a respectable challenge and, therefore, his close relationship with a few of them could make a story on its own.

For the sake of argument, the publisher also suggested that Paul’s music could not be completely dissociated from the rest of his existence pretty much as the rain originates in one way or another from clouds; even Paul might value a few unpretentious conversations with the young writer that may give him an opportunity to better appreciate the worth of his own life through its product.

In the end, Paul, caught in the debate and drained as expected by his hopelessness in sustaining it proficiently gave in.

***

Around three in the afternoon, on a windy day, Paul went resignedly to receive the young writer at the berth. The wind was strong and produced a festive choppiness causing the irreverent waves to resound under the berth with splashing sounds and gurgles. As the seaplane negotiated its route toward the downwind side of the cove, Paul turned toward the house to make sure that Richard Parker had not sneaked into the safeguarded territory. He had remarkable experiences before when unaware visitors were greeted by an approaching tiger. No matter what he would say to reassure them, they froze at the end of the berth, as caryatids of the Parthenon, till somebody would return Richard Parker to the other side and defrosted the visitor with a triple vodka. A panic-stricken visitor even jumped at sea missing completely the point that tigers are great swimmers. On that occasion, Paul concluded stupefied:

“I guess it takes time to get used to tigers,” missing on his own account the point that there are ailurophobes who wet their pants at the proximity of a kitten!

The door of the seaplane opened and the young writer was helped to disembark onto the pier.

As Isma lifted her face from the suitcase, holding against the wind her black hair away from her face with the hand and walked the first steps toward him, with her tiny body, her elegant and confident posture, an irresistible smile and two big brown eyes gaped like those of a startled fawn, Paul freaked and wondered what could be summarily fabricated about his life worthy of such vision. Even more dreadful than having to talk was to have nothing to say.

By the time Isma reached the end of the berth and stretched her arm to shake his hand, Paul was ready to ask her to go back: he did not want to waste her time. Fortunately, the same shyness that made him lose opportunities with women in the past came to his rescue this time by freezing his tongue. Therefore, he smiled, grabbed forcefully her backpack to transfer it upon his shoulders and managed to put together a:

“Thank you for coming to Paradise Island”

“The pleasure and honor is mine,” replied Isma and continued: “I have adored you since I can remember and I finally have the opportunity to meet you in person!”

Not knowing how to respond to such a touching comment, Paul spouted a deep sigh and replied:

“You know, I live with tigers, I hope you do not mind”

“I know, I read a lot about you! I am looking forward to meet Richard Parker the Second” and she added:

“You know? I did my research. I am not here to ask questions. I am here to listen to you, particularly to your silence.”

By the time they reached the house, which was two hundred yards up the hill, Paul’s angst over Isma had dissipated and, opening the entrance door, he said with a smile:

“Welcome to Paradise!”

***

The first encounter between Isma and Richard Parker was not ideal. As Paul took her to the veranda facing the ocean and the jungle, Richard Parker was absent because he had gone grocery shopping in the pen.

Therefore, Isma had the privilege of observing the gigantic animal step confidently toward a chicken perched on a wooden console. She saw the tiger leap elegantly onto the console and grab the bird that stood motionless, mesmerized by the allure of the tiger and subdued to his power. Richard Parker tightened his jaws and carried the carcass few feet away from the veranda. Slurped some meat with his rough tongue and left the rest for one of the cubs.

Isma, who thought she had prepared herself for the encounter with the beast, did not feel so confident anymore and turned her gaze away from that vision to encounter under the old teak tree Bagheera’s eyes staring at her.

Isma vaguely recollected the reason to come to Paradise Island. Now all seemed so different and distant from what she had ever experienced before. In truth, what she foresaw in preparation for this encounter was not far from what she was actually experiencing save for the fact that now it was tangible and the scene was not projected on an imaginary screen but was being played live and she was in it.

She turned to examine the hero of her youth: the great composer. He was tranquil in that feral environment. He looked so different from the person of culture depicted by the tabloids. Yet, as she looked at the actual man made of flesh and bones, she did not feel disappointed. In fact, she forgot about Paul’s music and the buzz around it and instead at that moment she saw in Paul just exactly the man, a magnificently strange and enigmatic man.

***

At dinner, Richard Parker came to the veranda to greet Paul with the usual head rub and he also greeted Rawan who had joined. Rawan had instructed Isma to act natural and relaxed should Richard Parker approach her. Not feeling threatened; RP would quickly become accustomed to her. But even though the tiger had noticed the newcomer, he did not pay attention to her and rather retreated a few feet away to lie between Paul and Rawan.

Mimi, on the other hand welcomed the female presence and without preambles pounced from a couch onto her lap, tapped a few times her necklace with the left forepaw, purred proficiently and finding her velvety skirt quite suitable for a nap, she kneaded for a little while, curved her body, wrapped her tail around it all the way to the head, closed her eyes and fell deeply asleep while Isma rubbed her ears.

Principally was Rawan, who always had stories to tell, to hold the conversation! One joke triggered a cheerful laugh by Isma. That unusual high-pitched sound prompted Richard Parker’s curiosity. He, therefore, rose, circumvented Paul’s side of the table and went to check the source of that shrill call. As the tiger approached, Isma stiffened trying to act calm as instructed, while Paul reassured her by touching her tiny wrist and gently squeezing it.

Richard Parker sniffed a few times the newcomer, starting from her hand all the way to her shoulder. With his cold and humid nose touched her forehead. Paul worried that RP may lick her with his rough and unpleasant barbs and, therefore, he confirmed:

“No” in the third Chinese intonation.

Richard Parker immediately stopped, turned toward Paul, walked into him, rubbed his head against his arm and then lied in between him and Isma but not before sending a skeptical glance to Paul that appeared to say:

“If this is what you like, …suit yourself!”

Evidently that little human thing emitting strange sounds did not impress Richard Parker at all. Nevertheless he acknowledged that Isma for the time being was going to be part of the family.

***

“Paul has done an incredible job with this tiger.”

Interjected Rawan “He is always aware of what RP is thinking and has turned this wild animal into a most docile pup. He can talk, mumble, whisper, hum, whistle, click his tongue, snap his fingers or simply budge and RP knows exactly what he is communicating to him.”

“Can you believe it?” He continued, “Paul understands tigers so well that he knows what they listen to. He even wrote a song for them. It is full of strange rhythms and provoking sounds …you have to see it to believe it … Richard Parker, Bagheera and the cubs turn around when he plays and listen.”

“Tigers crave noise and sound,” intervened Paul entering unexpectedly the conversation “particularly sounds that suggest motion or animals’ calls. When we think they are lazily sitting in the shade and appear distracted, they are interpreting the voices of the jungle pointing their ears in different directions and if one turns in the same way and redirects the echoes by caving the hands around the ears, one can catch the unceasing symphony of their life.”

***

After dinner Rawan left, the servants retired and Isma and Paul remained in the veranda at the flickering light of a gas lamp that framed the silence within which the cats, the two humans and, in an ice bucket, a bottle of wine reposed.

“This is so exhilarating!” burst out of Isma’s mouth “…To be with you in the middle of the Indian Ocean, with a tiger at my feet and with infinite time to listen to the sounds of the night.” And reciting a quote by Paul extracted from an old interview, she continued:

“You were so correct when you said …the deeper the silence the richer is the symphony of life. I think I can now hear what the tigers hear”

By then Richard Parker was wide awake, staring at the infinity of the night and surely listening to the concerto of the jungle.

Paul rose and held Isma by the arm. He guided her to the cottage under Richard Parker’s attentive eyes from the veranda and Bagheera’s from the old teak tree. By then, Isma was relaxed about the animals. Yet carrying Mimi still sleeping in the cradle of her arm, she followed with a throbbing heart Paul, the most majestic among all the tigers.

As they reached the peak that overlooked the Ocean, Paul stood silent listening to a myriad of sounds emerging from the darkness, which were crying to be heard. Then he said:

“You came from far, …must be tired. Do you want to sleep?”

Isma shook her head looking up straight into Paul’s eyes

Paul felt uncomfortable at the stare and turned his gaze toward the ocean. Then he continued:

“Should I play for you?”

Isma assented.

Sitting at the old grand piano and smiling, he announced:

“I will start with the tigers’ song”

It consisted of a repetitive tapping on the mid-keys of the piano as if wooden marionettes were dancing on a stage. The tapping was erratically interrupted by tweets, shrills and whispers interpreted by higher notes and rumbles and thunders deciphered by the lower ones. In its chaotic simplicity, the song was quite pleasant and could delight almost anybody age three and above.

As the notes came, Isma reclined on a couch that faced Paul’s back, the piano and the ocean in succession. Recollecting the purpose of the song, she lifted her body and twisted her waist toward the veranda and the old teak tree. In the splendor of the crescent moonlight, she could clearly observe both tigers listening to Paul and even the cubs’ ears could be seen at a shorter distance peaking as silhouettes in the darkness. Then, she saw Richard Parker rise and come confidently toward the cottage. He did not look toward Bagheera and leaped directly onto the stage where Paul was playing and Isma was reclining. Richard Parker continued straight toward her and she froze. Paul, turned toward the ocean, was concentrated on the music and could not notice.

In a second Richard Parker stood in his monumental posture in front of Isma, he looked at her half distractedly while she held her breath. She wanted to call for Paul but she did not have enough air in her lungs. Then, Richard Parker came closer and he thrust his head against hers giving a head rub before laying in front with the back toward Isma and facing Paul. Inadvertently, Isma had taken Richard Parker’s place on the couch and once again the docile RP had conceded just as he had done before with Bagheera.

***

In the following days, Isma and Paul spent every moment together from morning to bedtime. Mostly, they sat at the cottage. In the evening they favored the veranda hosting Rawan and his stories. Part of the day was also spent on strolls along the western shore. Richard Parker would follow occasionally from a distance while Bagheera and the cubs did not seem interested.

Isma learned to listen to the kaleidoscopic reverberations of echoes in the emptiness of the shore. Her ear adjusted to Paul and Richard Parker’s awareness in the vast solitude. As Paul had told her on the first walk:

“It is not what you hear that matters but what you listen to.”

She did not ask questions and silently accompanied Paul. The less she talked the more words sprang out of Paul’s soul. They arose in a melodious voice, mostly in low tones tuned to the surrounding hums from the ocean and the jungle.

Paul seemed more interested in her life story than his own. He maintained that there was nothing interesting about his and that was no affectation. He earnestly believed that besides composing music he had nothing to show. He did remember and talked with pride about the Tiger Fund. He thought that it could stand as a tangible outcome of a lifetime of self-indulgence. In the end, he was neither apologetic nor proud. He had just followed an internal voice that guided him from the day when he sat at mister Cheng’s side:

“No matter how hard we attempt to justify our existence, there is no true explanation for our actions and for their results. We follow our instincts and our fate. If it weren’t for an old teacher, who suggested to parents that I should study music I would still be there! …Trying to learn how to spell “Conneticutt”. If one wants to go into the root cause of everything, there is only the big bang to blame. Since then everything followed the intangible process of cause and effect. We are no masters of our own destiny; we cannot take credit for our achievements. I did not choose to become a musician. Music chose me.”

As he talked, Isma silently looked up into Paul’s eyes that in turn became gradually less resistant to hers. Slowly, Paul was learning to look straight into Isma to discover that beyond those beautiful eyes rested an infinite horizon over which sailed a sound of uncontainable beauty that was not played by vocals or instruments and could be heard even by the deaf.

On another occasion Paul said:

“I think humans have pushed evolution too far complicating everything: their own life, those of brother animals, they ruined the environment. …Anything that belongs to Mother Earth is dismissed by our civilisation. I believe we are pushing the evolution of our species too far. Now civilisation has reached a peak and we are testing how far we can go. But we cannot go an inch further and we should retrace our steps. We live a life dictated by artificial sounds that we call words, concepts, strategies, and goals; all things that bring us nowhere, things that do not exist in nature and that detract from the spirit of our own soul. I was never truly happy till I moved to Paradise Island. Sometimes I feel like going further. Move into the jungle, live with the tigers, the boars and the deer, return to the rich life of our ancestors capable of listening and interpreting their surroundings, a life where everything counted in its simplicity. Life can be so interesting when we relieve ourselves of unnecessary distractions. Music is just the same; to compose a symphony one has just to get rid of the background noise and let the overpowering logic of our internal music come to life.”

Then, observing Isma’s inquisitive silence he added with a smile:

“I have used such arguments occasionally. They are perfectly suited to invariably extinguish annoying conversations as the debater shuts up not as much because my jabber convinces anybody but rather he figures that there is no point arguing with a lunatic.”

And with a bigger smile he concluded:

“Do not worry Isma, I am not crazy, I am just pulling your leg. I am content where I am and I am not planning to take you into the jungle anytime soon!”

***

The next day, Richard Parker, Bagheera and the cubs were nowhere to be seen. Paul and Isma walked the usual path to the western beach where the white sand and the emerald sea were chiseled by coral reefs. The deserted beach spanned kilometers southwards with the jungle bordering about fifty yards from shore. They walked bare feet along the backwash; Isma collected shells and organized them in little piles along the path to wait for their return.

In an impulse she held Paul’s hand, which in response tightened the grip. They walked further hand in hand without words listening to the silence; that blank silence where no sound dominates clearing space for thousands.

Suddenly Paul congealed. Isma looked up and saw his unflinching gaze aimed at the distance and she recognized in his eyes the scrutinizing stare of the tiger.

“I cannot tell from here but I think he is teaching the cubs to fish!” Said Paul “I have never heard of such behaviour but this is exactly what it looks like”

Following the direction of Paul’s gaze, in the distance she saw the stripped orange of tigers mixed a few feet ashore with the emerald of the oceanic tide. It was Richard Parker with the cubs while Bagheera stood in her majestic posture at shore. As they approached closer …sure enough that was exactly what RP was doing! He would pounce in the water in different directions till he dove his head into the sea to come out with a fish in his mouth. Then he would carry it to the shore and let the cubs play with it.

“I have never heard of such behaviour,” mumbled Paul and then he added, “I guess RP is not just a chicken stalker. I never thought of him as a skilled predator. He must have taught himself just as he has done with the wild boars …or perhaps that Bagheera taught him! She is the one who has longed for beaches since I have known her.”

As they came closer, the tigers paid no attention but continued their play fishing or chasing each other in and out of the water jumping over the waves as if they were bushes in the depth of the jungle.

***

That night, after dinner Isma was listening to Paul’s music at the cottage. She reclined on the couch with Richard Parker at her side. It was a tranquil night with a gentle breeze and the murmur of the ocean insinuating a gentle harmony like a lullaby over which Paul’s music danced. All was natural and relaxing and as the night progressed she transitioned into a dozing state.

From there, Isma saw the tiger swooping over the piano. Then the tiger turned and came toward her confidently aligning step after steps as he had done with the chicken and staring right into her eyes. And like the chicken, Isma froze dazed by the hypnotizing power of his gaze. The tiger moved closer aiming his predator’s eyes into hers. Isma was paralyzed and could not move or breathe while the tiger came over her, with his mouth grazed her neck, with his paws grabbed her shoulders, and with his tongue leaked her mouth while his body pressed on hers. And she felt the power of the tiger when she hugged his strong body, and then she felt the warmth of the tiger inside of her. Like the chicken she felt at complete merci and she reckoned that her acquiescence was not just for that moment but also for the rest of her life wherever the tiger might carry her.

When she recovered from the trance, Paul was holding her hand tightly and without words lead her to the house into his room where they slept together from that night on.

***

Tiger (Conclusion)