Dark Lady

I wrote this short story on 8 August 1987. It was shut up in my papers for a long time, and now it's the first time it's been published online! 

When Anna came into my life, it was like a fresh breath of spring. My being came alive, pulled back from the abyss of my own creation as I failed to accept divorce from a wife I thought was my world.

I didn’t eat properly; the weight I had lost had only increased the age of the reflection staring back at me, hollow-eyed, from the mirror. Routine had become automatic, which was probably the only anything domestic got done. But I had my work, and in that I lost myself, becoming obsessed with making a dollar any way I could. Even though I had no-one on whom to spend my accumulating wealth.

Anna appeared in my office one overcast day, in answer to an ad I had placed to rent out the room over the shop. She was not the first one to apply, but she had a presence, a strength of personality that made itself felt despite her shy manner.

I found myself examining this woman as she filled out the forms. She was not pretty, as a model might be, yet she had a grace that pervaded her essence, and lent her a unique, timeless sort of beauty. She wore no make-up, and yet needed none to accentuate her fine features and full lips. When she smiled sunshine filled the room. I had selected her to be my new tenant before she even completed the application.

She moved in quietly the next Sunday while the shop was closed, and, but for the things I began to notice around the place, I could likely have forgotten she was there.

I guess most men, when left to their own devices, are untidy creatures, and I was no exception. I often neglected to sweep the shop or even do my few lunchtime dishes. Yet now I would arrive in the mornings and the little kitchen would be tidy, every dish washed and regulated to its correct place. The floor would be swept, and only the tell-tale remnants of a fire in the yard incinerator would alert me as to the fate of the rubbish.

Anna left each day at 8, with a shy wave, and arrived home at 4, quietly make her way up to her room, and shut herself in. I didn’t neglect to thank her for her contributions, I simply didn’t find the time. And yet she continued.

One Saturday, after she had been there two months, I found a plate of freshly baked scones on the kitchen bench. Peter. My assistant, and I enjoyed them for a late lunch, and, as he locked up to leave, I took the tray upstairs. I knocked cautiously on her door; it would be the first tangible contact I had had with her since she had moved in.

Her smile was warm and genuine, and she invited me in for coffee, blushing slightly as I complimented her on her baking. She moved conservatively around her kitchen while I took in the décor of her room. She liked quality, and it showed in her choice of paintings and ornaments.

She had a single antique sideboard, full of books, and on which sat, incongruously, a new stereo, though I had never heard her play it. The remaining furniture consisted of two rattan chairs covered in silk fabric, a small antique coffee table and a bed with wrought iron bed ends. Pot plants filled the gaps, luscious ferns and oversized pots of ivy cascading down from hooks screwed into the exposed beams.

She handed me my coffee, and we sat in a pregnant silence.

“How long have you had the shop?” she finally asked.

“Only about 18 months,” I replied, feeling the tension lift immediately with her quiet question. “It’s one of a few enterprises I’m involved in, but obviously the main one.”

“Is that your trade?”

“No,” I smiled. “I never bothered to get a trade behind me. I haven’t really found the need for one. Things seem to have fallen right for me. Except for my marriage.”

I found myself laying out my pain for this quiet woman. She had a compelling nature; I felt she would listen without judging. She sat watching me, sympathy or laughter or understanding in her eyes at precisely the right moments. I felt comfortable.

Now that the ice was broken we often had coffee together. Peter joined us occasionally, and I could tell that he, too, watch taken with Anna.

She gave, but never asked for anything in return. She sat quietly often, watching us go about our business, and, when the need arose, would assist ably and without being asked. Then she would vanish back into her room; yet I still felt her presence.

I began to compare other women to her. While many compared more than favourably for looks, most seemed of shallow personality. I didn’t enjoy their conversation, and I didn’t enjoy their company. My Saturday night out ‘with the boys’ became tedious, yet the isolation and silence of the large house which only I occupied phased me. I couldn’t face it.

During my marriage I had never slept with anyone except my wide. Now I became celibate.

I began finding excuses to go to the shop, and would often end up in Anna’s room with a coffee, listening to instrumentals in the background and discussing anything from marriage to politics to the sharemarket to religion, and dozens of other subjects besides. Our conversation occasionally became heated, but she would always halt them with a soft little laugh before they could become bitter. Then she would place her hand on mine, say “Friends?”, and how could one continue to argue?

I began to concede that what I felt for Anna was more than friendship, but I was unaware if she felt the same. I had to find out.

That night, over coffee, I kissed her for the first time. She responded, her lips gentle, as I knew they would be. We made love on her white silk spread and lay quietly afterwards in each other’s arms. She was everything that my wife hadn’t been.

I have never forgiven myself for that night, nor have I ever found out the reason for her actions, for after I left she took her own life.

The note the police handed me the next day told me everything except why.

“My darling David, I waited so patiently for you to love me. Tonight was a dream fulfilled. Do not hate me for what I have to do. My life is nothing, and I have nothing to give you, but I shall keep your memory with me, wherever I go from here.”

That day I felt the chill of winter.