The Fireplace - Chapter 4

He lay in bed that night, shivering from the cold like he had in years before, but there was something different this time. His mind was better equipped against the stabbing cold; his feet were cold to the bone, and he tucked them against his shins, but his mind was racing, and it coursed joyous warmth down his thighs and shinbones, down to the tips of his toes. Soon, his shivering turned to excited trembling.

He was overjoyed. He was so secretly overjoyed that he thought he wasn’t at first. He didn’t shout, didn’t pump his fists like he would’ve done if he was a few years older.

He lay there silently, thinking about how he could contribute to the group. There were so many more activities in TSNC that he was informed of by the bartender. First, they had a large garden plot of their own that they tended to year-round, and it was this garden they relied on for a living. He had gone and visited this garden plot – it was a big place, around four times the size of the café itself. Unfortunately, it was still covered in snow from the winter season. He looked forward to the planting season – he didn’t know much about these things and hoped he could help.

And every two weeks on Sunday they would have a sort of party where they – everyone in the café – would share their work, whatever it might be. He tried to calculate the time it would next happen; the last sharing had happened one week before, and this was a Thursday – so it would be ten days from now. He looked forward to sharing too.

There was so much that he thought about: how he could write poems and share them, how he could participate in their activities, how he could spend a happy time there-

He fell asleep that night with fierce, fiery happiness burning in his veins.

The next morning, he organised some of his writing and visited the café. The day after he went again. Again and again, he trod the crooked path that led him to the café, and it had been implanted with his footprints. Every time he walked this trail, there would be several footprints that were dusted over with a thin layer of new fallen snow.

In the first week of his arrival at TSNC, he had got to know where all his fellow poets lived; some lived near his apartment (they could afford their apartments because they were free – this was an old and unused building, and some wealthier people had evidently done a good bit of charity so they could live there free and only need to pay their water and electric fees, which Fern hadn’t paid in a long time because he didn’t use anything electric), others lived nearer the city itself. Sage seemed to live in TSNC, as nobody had ever seen him leave or arrive at the café, but he was always there before everyone.

And then it was the long looked-forward-to Sunday. Fern wasn’t sure if he would share any poetry that day, as he wanted still to see what the others could write. He did bring with him a short little thing that he had written long ago – only six lines:

“Fifty thousand shades of night,
Contained as one in Neptune’s eye,
In the depths of dreams my secrets I keep,
Keep them where stars and shadows lie,
Through waves that cradle memories deep,
Where time crackles into the sky.”

He wouldn’t say it was his best poem, but he had written this when he was young, at a night beside the sea with his parents. He thought that the memory made it more precious.

The tables were rearranged. They’d been stacked one on top of another in the corners of the café except for two that were huddled in the corner like Sage, who was curled on the mini sofa behind one of the tables.

The rest of the creators were in the middle of the café, sitting in a circle. There was much squabbling, screaming and almost hysterical, hyena-like laughing. The agenda was to start around one in the afternoon, as some of the creators had part-time jobs in the city that they would only finish by around noon. For now, the café was a free-for-all. One of the painters was stone-drunk, hugging the bartender across the shoulders while the young woman tried to make others their drinks.

Fern took this chaotic opportunity to sidle up to the piano. There was again something laid over the piano like the first day, and Fern was startled to see that it was in fact, somebody. This person was dressed in such a total black that they blended in perfectly with the black colour of the piano as well as the covering. Fern tried to back away, but the person had noticed him already.

With a yawn, the lanky body lying on the bench moved, and it sat up. A pale face was extracted from a pile of raven clothes, and a pair of green eyes looked up at Fern, who was frozen in place.

“Hello,” a groggy but suave voice greeted Fern, “Am I needed?”

“Uh,” Fern said eloquently.

With a sleepy groan, the youth blinked and rose to rest one elbow on the cover of the piano and opened it seemingly unconsciously. With a finger drumming on some notes, he looked Fern up and down. “You’re new here,” he said.

“I’ve been here a week,” Fern protested.

“I’ve been here three years,” the youth replied.

He blinked and then gave Fern a hand to shake, “I’m Venice. Spelt like the city but pronounced to rhyme with knees.”

Fern introduced himself and asked Venice what he did. Secretly, Fern thought to himself that Venice rhyming with knees sounded French.

“I’m the…” Venice yawned, “…in-house composer and performer when I’m not too drunk. I can play something for you. Are you interested in Mozart?”

Fern said that yes indeed he was.

Fern stood in silence as Venice started playing. At first, his long fingers drew across the keys lazily, almost as if he was urging the piece to be over. But halfway through, Venice stiffened his back, corrected his posture and raised his wrists, lunging into a lively, flowing passage that had Fern’s hair rising on end and goosebumps rising, Close to the end of the playful piece, Fern was almost unable to hold himself back from clapping.

As the last notes were brought to a short stop by the lifting of both pedals and fingers, Fern clapped and was astonished to see that behind him, around the piano, almost the whole house was paying attention, and the clapping was uproarious. Diaz was sitting on top of the counter, and she clapped so hard her hair bun came undone. Her chestnut hair streamed down her back in the warm honey light. Clover and Artemisia were sitting side by side right behind the piano, in front of the crowd. Even Sage was looking over intently; it was the first time Fern had seen his green eyes wide open.

The only person not exploding with joy was Florence. He clapped with polite sincerity but otherwise looked unfazed. Fern was puzzled, but he had no urge to pry and ask about it.

And as Venice started to wave everybody away, the clock neared twelve. Diaz brought forth food and drink she had prepared with the help of some artists the morning. They all dined rowdily, and in that mess and noisy chaos, Fern lost sight of the musician.

The sharing finally began. First came the artists because their works were easily damageable and some of them had to be stored away soon. There was one bust of Apollo Fern had particularly liked; but as he deemed himself not an artist, he didn’t get much from the display. However, Artemisia looked greatly interested.

The second group were the short stories writers, and one story that moved Fern the most was a piece called The Sunset, which was a collaboration between Florence and the writer, Jaqueline. It was about a writer who had been chased away from society by family feuds and social issues. The short story was only around a thousand words and documented how the writer, in her hermit life, suddenly encounters solitude, and the next day dies from pneumonia. He loved the story.

And finally, it was their group. Fern shared his poem hesitantly, but surprisingly it got more cheers than he thought it deserved. The praise and cheers – the wholehearted commendation of those around him suddenly made him guilty of not paying more attention to their works, and he swore he’d do better next time.

Alder and Clover both shared a poem of theirs, one about the sights of snow and the other about the life of a tree in Britain in the nineteenth century. To Fern’s surprise, Sage had padded over for some time and had handed Florence a slip of paper. This was his poem, written in simple language, about the quill compared to that of the sword – a half-analytical poem which Fern thought was interesting but nowhere near polished.

And Florence stood up. He told everyone that it wasn’t a finished poem, but he wanted to know what everyone thought about it. The poem was:

“We are the savage ones,
We are the dropouts,
We are the ones who grunt and groan
And who in dark caves dwell,
Who in the race of maturity tripped and fell.

We are the lost ones,
We are the strangers,
We are the ones who forsook fame and fortune,
And who suffer through endless dangers,
Praying and praying and praying still to our long-forgotten angels.”

After Florence’s voice faded away, for a moment, just for a moment, Fern sat in silence with the rest of the house.