A Chequerboard of Collected Memories is the bold proclamation on the cover page of her sketchbook, followed by an explanation of the title. Black for night, the subject. White for day, its opposite. A chequerboard because they're separate pieces that make the whole. Because it's her male and female memories that she's exploring. Because two halves make the whole.
The old woman smudges the scarf on the last page, softening the image so that the charcoal becomes wool. She's no longer the young graduate who had walked straight-shouldered out of art college and hadn't looked back. A lifetime had passed since then, and know she knows that it is memories that make the person, not the other way around.
Before she puts her final submission into storage for her family to find one day, she flicks through the pages, and the years, one last time...
"
Ad Astra Per Aspera," says her father. They stand together on the top of the hill in the crisp, black night. She is dwarfed by his
woollen
pullover, from which only her eyes, reddened nose and a hand emerge. This hand is guided by his, and together they trace
patterns in the sky. Although she doesn't understand his words, and is too young to have heard of
latin, her eyes catch the glow of the
stars and for a moment,
she wishes she could fly...
He watches the woman at the bar. She's a mess: eyes weeping
mascara tears, hair tumbling into knots, her oversized top slipping off a shoulder. There's a grim desperation to her movements as she throws back round after round of
vodka. Every few seconds, she glances towards the
cellphone that lies on the countertop next to her empty glass. She's waiting for something, he can tell, and by her resigned motions, it won't happen. It's like
praying for rain in the middle of the desert, this much he knows. Not wanting to see any more or get to know her more than he already has, he leaves a
tip for the
barman, throws his coat over his shoulder, and leaves. Back out into the night, and all the other hurting, anonymous people.
She went, in the middle of the night, to a
one-horse town to discover herself. She stole the horse, and rode into the dawn.
The
chessboard between them might as well be
no-man's land. He's refused to cross it, remaining aloof in his superiority at one end. Forcing her, the timid one, into attacking. He's always liked to twist people around him to behave against their nature. This, not
chess, is his real game. He simply looks at her with infathomable eyes, and she can no longer see the
charisma that used to make him so attractive. Having let her suicidally throw her pieces at his masterful defence, he now makes several moves in efficient succession.
"Yes?" she says, hating him for making her say it, and herself for being too weak to wait him out. His face creases into a smile, but it's the smile of victor to vanquished, and there is no easiness between them.
"
Check..." he says, savouring the word, drawing it slowly off his tongue, "...mate."
She slides her chair back, the metal base discordantly scratching along the wooden decking, and leaves the pool of light the lamp above the small table provides. She walks to the end of the verandah, and leans her head against the wall, searching the savage night. The stars above are as unanswerable as the man who lounges behind her.
"Don't touch it," warns her mother from behind. She ignores her, skipping forward along the path towards the interesting plant. She flops on the ground beside it, unmindful of her clothes as only a child can be, and observes quietly how the
light shimmers through the curiously
furry leaves. She strokes the plant gently, thinking that perhaps it is a magical animal of sorts, then pulls her hand back with a whimper. "Now look what you've done," follows the reprimand, "I warned you, didn't I?"
She nods, and slowly sucks her sore finger. Her mother is always right.
At bedtime, it still hurts a little, so she makes a
wish on the first star she sees that the pain in her finger will go away.
He crouches amongst the branches, and tenses his muscles one by one. And releases them. Anything to not get cramp, not when the
deer are so close... Very slowly, he moves the barrel so that it is facing his target, and looks through the
crosshairs of his sight. On his first hunting trip with his dad, so long ago, the older man had warned him to take his time, and get the shot right. "You must respect the animal," he'd said, clear eyes reflecting twin moons, "And get the
vital point first time. That way, the animal will have less distress. We owe it that much, at least. Always be mindful of consequences..."
He breathes out slowly, finger tightening on the
trigger, and makes sure that he doesn't jerk the
gun as the
hammer is released. The crack splits the night, and the
recoil distracts him momentarily, as the gun judders against stiffened muscles. In the eerie quiet that follows, the
doe jerks a few times, then lies still, and he knows he made a good shot. From the shrubbery nearby, a frightened
fawn springs across the clearing. The man's eyes half-close in resignation and pity.
"Walk with me?" he says, hopefully, the grin he knows will disarm her resting lightly on his face. With a sigh, she gets up and re-arranges her
scarf. He's always hated to
smoke alone, yet persists in asking her, someone who doesn't smoke, to accompany him. Still, he's in the mood to be a
gentleman, and opens the door for her, then stands back at the top of the concrete stairs to allow her to descend first. He knows her well enough to know that this will score him points. He flicks his silver
Zippo into a flame off his slacks, and soon the only way of distinguishing the shadow-clothed figure that walks beside her from the night is the glowing tip of a thin
cigar. Neither of them
speak. They don't need to.
She blows the last of the charcoal off her fingers, and stands. She stretches her back, not as limber as she used to be, and lets the light play across the final sketch for a moment before snapping the sketchbook shut. The sound has a distinct finality to it.