CHAPTER 19. ETERNAL CHOICE

April 19, 2000.

Twenty-seven-year-old French musician Gerard Merchan was suddenly interrupted by a knock on his door. Who could it be? Was Gerard perhaps expecting someone? No, Gerard Merchan was alone in this world—alone, like all truly creative natures: few were able to understand him—even fewer were able to grasp him. Approaching the door with a considerable tremor, Gerard froze for a few moments—was it worth opening this door? Very likely... no, it had to be opened—Gerard Merchan loved to open the door to all that was unknown, of course, if it did not in any way violate some permissible, sacred, threshold of his solitude. In another moment, an extraordinarily charming form of young Alexandra de la Colline appeared before his eyes: at the moment Alexandra appeared before Gerard's being, she was nineteen years old.

Looking at her, Gerard was no longer able to tear his gaze from such charm—she was so enchanting that his reason, for a certain time, the time spent next to her, lost the reins of control over his being: it was an exceptional beauty—it was a devilish beauty. He loved Alexandra, he truly loved her—with her appearance before his face, feelings of the gentlest qualities, once forgotten under the shadow of time, were resurrected in Gerard's soul with the same pride with which Peter had once resurrected Tabitha: the burden of the past weighed on him just as a yoke weighs on the neck of an Etruscan ox—that fool once again intended to erect on the flesh of his being a colossus of feelings on feet of clay, which, in turn, were the immeasurable admiration for Alexandra's carnal, and consequently mortal, charm. Her delicate lips, with the sweet, trembling tremor of a blade of grass when a light summer breeze affects her young flesh, uttered the first word, which, with the slowness of the day, was followed by other words—the sprouts of her words broke through the light-scarlet soil of Alexandra de la Colline's plump lips in a very original way. Realizing the price of her previous mistake, she wished to return to him—to the one who often created exceptional musical compositions while silently gazing at the unique sophistication of Caravaggio's paintings. No! It was by no means Alexandra, it was the devil himself, who in those moments spoke of the material, who in those moments tempted him with transient beauty, who, having grasped the facets and forms of his spiritual purity, wished to take away from him everything that he had achieved with such hard, long, and languid labor—such a thought suddenly struck Gerard Merchan's consciousness like lightning... Ah, but how charming her eyes were, even if they had no soul—only emptiness resided there! Her soul was indeed something similar to the dryness of the Taklamakan, at the very hour when her flesh was like the picturesque Tuscan fields—Gerard could look at her endlessly, but listening to her was unbearable: communicating with her was as pleasant for him as eating stale marshmallows for breakfast...

Gerard Merchan was caught in the snares of doubt—one sensual glance from her and he had already let Alexandra de la Colline into his apartment: settling down barely perceptibly on the corner of the bed, she, completely covering her face with her palms, quietly began to sob—she wanted to resurrect from the ashes that very phoenix that had been completely burned long ago. Gerard Merchan suddenly felt his power and authority over her—over the one who had previously controlled his thoughts and feelings quite willfully: one word from him could make her happy—one word from him could ruin her... Looking at her one more time, he admired her, and then... and then he despised her—truly sensual love perishes at the very moment when mutuality arises between people: the one who was exalted on a pedestal loses their value, because communication with them becomes accessible... She was extraordinarily charming at this minute, but she was right next to him—now possessing countless wealth, Gerard Merchan, due to the feelings in his soul, stopped realizing the qualitative and quantitative characteristics of that wealth, and therefore desired more: it was for this reason that he did not feel happy now—possessing the best, he was no longer content with it and wanted to acquire the very best... She was the first to show feelings for him now—this is what ruined her: when a girl agrees with you in everything, she soon becomes irresistibly hateful to you... But... he had strived for her for so long! Is happiness in this world really impossible? Alexandra was perfect—perfect as passion and flesh, but not as love and soul: passion for a woman is truly more terrible than a drug for any true man, for it is capable of casting him down into the deepest holes and abysses of this world, but never of elevating him. For some time, this drug is able to grant a person a certain amount of inspiration, some peace and tranquility, but... but it is destructive—Gerard Merchan, as a man of creativity, understood this perfectly well...

A few moments later, there was another knock on the door of the twenty-seven-year-old musician's apartment—at this moment, Alexandra shuddered: Gerard also shuddered. Not having made the appropriate decision regarding Alexandra, he had not chosen a definite position in building or destroying a relationship with her—exactly so, because with the acquisition of a certain position, we never again hesitate, of course, until the moment of losing that position.

“Don't open it...” Alexandra said, quietly sobbing.

Gerard hastily headed towards the door.

The door opened. Before Gerard Merchan's eyes at that moment appeared Angelina le Febvre—a twenty-five-year-old girl who lived in the neighboring apartment. Silently looking into the labyrinth of Gerard Merchan's eyes, Angelina discerned within its limits not the Cretan Minotaur, but lifeless corridors, where the bones of both long-deceased and fresh memories were scattered everywhere: her smile, which seemed at first glance to be Ariadne's thread, was unable to lead anyone out of that labyrinth, because at this hour there was no one to save there. What did Gerard feel at this moment? What was he thinking about at this moment? At the sight of her, preliminary blueprints for understanding Angelina's nature immediately arose in Gerard's consciousness—the nature of the one on whose face a wonderfully delicate blush was now spread: these were pure lilies on the exceptional flesh of a gentle pond.