Cinnamon Twigs (33 page)

             
The doctors at Bethsabe Recovery Homes helped me get over drink and cocaine by encouraging me not to attend celebrity bashes in the future, eliminating my psychological dependency on those substances. Detoxification ensued, which was assisted by some mysterious medicine I never questioned, and then seemingly countless meetings with doctors to prevent relapse through lengthy discussions. The classes and occasional massages helped relax me, to focus my thoughts and come to certain decisions about my life, what I wanted to achieve, and the best way to escape the rampaging lions out there in the media.

             
I particularly liked Doctor George Harding, who showed a lot of patience despite suffering the blunt of my pretentious outbursts.

             
‘The pressure of being famous obviously has a massive impact.’ He smiled at me on the last morning I spent at the center.

             
‘Undoubtedly.’

             
‘Tell me, do you often have feelings of unhappiness that never seem to go away?’ He raised his black acrylic pen to his lips.

             
‘It’s part of the human condition to be discontent,’ I said. ‘We all strive for the unobtainable. And if we obtain the unobtainable, we strive for something more. We want what the confinements of reality forbid us. Happiness is an illusion.’

             
‘Do you ever burst into tears, or feel like bursting into tears inexplicably?’ Doctor Harding’s voice had a hypnotic quality.

             
‘Yeah.’

             
‘Do you ever make plans that are grandiose and impractical?’

             
‘I do, but I usually achieve them.’ I grinned.

             
‘I think I’ve come to a conclusion. I take it you’ve heard of Bipolar disorder?’

             
‘Isn’t that manic depression?’

             
‘Yes, it’s sometimes called that. From what you’ve told me, it appears that you tend to oscillate between feelings of elation and intense depression. Your circumstances make things worse. You’re under a lot of pressure from the media. Thankfully, you’re over your addictions. At least that is what I can surmise. Nevertheless, a very severe episode may cause you to lose contact with reality.’

             
I nodded dully.

             
‘The only form of prophylaxis that I can subscribe is Lithium.’

             
‘That accounts for all the blood tests I’ve had.’

             
‘Partly, yes.’

             
‘Well, I’m not taking it.’ I folded my arms like a stubborn child.

             
‘Why not?’

             
‘Lately, I’ve been building myself a nest of cinnamon twigs.’

             
‘I don’t understand…’

             
‘According to ancient mythology, a phoenix builds itself a nest of cinnamon twigs.’ I gazed at the oil paintings on the walls, the muted colors designed to soothe patients. ‘John Donne once wrote a poetic line that’s been in my head lately: “For every man alone thinks he hath got to be a phoenix”.’

             
‘I see…’

             
‘I’ve been thinking about my life. About immortality and rebirths.’

             
‘You’re being rather ambiguous.’ Doctor Harding furrowed his brow.

             
‘Immortality, like happiness, is unobtainable. It’s an illusion. I always believed my name would be immortalized by others. But that was just nonsense. My name’s been distorted by Chinese whispers.’

             
‘These are intriguing thoughts you’ve been having.’ He consulted his notebook.

             
‘I’m glad you think so. I believe in the power of narrative, and that our lives are stories. The media has written my story for me. You wanna read my biography? Buy a newspaper. Peruse the gossip columns.’

             
‘Go on. This is very interesting.’

             
‘Stories change in time. And every story dies. There are so many forgotten narratives out there. It’s pointless for an artist to seek immortality through his or her craft. I think you’d agree that there’s a great deal of interest in my story at the moment?’

             
‘I would. The public is
very
interested in you.’

             
‘Everything ends. Everything’s transitory. Stories are forgotten, like I said. Readers always anticipate a conclusion. That’s what keeps them reading. You agree?’

             
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ The doctor nodded.

             
‘And then, when the reader has learned the outcome of a story, he or she forgets it in time. That’s all I have to say on the subject…’

             
‘Well, let me just tell you this. If you don’t proceed to take medication there’s a good chance you’ll experience further episodes.’

             
‘I’m not taking it, and there’s an end to it.’ I stood up and moved towards the door. ‘I think it’s time for me to leave this place.’

                                          *

I went back to Marbella. Things stayed the same with Lauren. We drifted apart, became strangers to each other. Our marriage couldn’t be saved. I didn’t want to hurt her anymore. Everything had changed. We would have been fine if I hadn’t wanted fame so bad. We could have lived a simple life, but our marriage had been destroyed by my vain ambitions. I’d changed too much, forfeited my soul.

             
I entertained thoughts of running away with Lauren, of escaping the material world together. But I decided to go alone. She could never be happy if she stayed with me.

             
Stories are forgotten. In the end, they die, along with the final whispers of a generation. But some stories are remembered for longer than others. Those narratives retain their mystery. They transcend meaningless gossip. I couldn’t stop the media from telling the world about my private life. Fame is superficial. It’s an illusion. I would deny the tabloids their final story and deprive the world of an epilogue. An abrupt ending, that’s what they’d get. The time had come to escape, to leave it all behind.

             
During this contemplative time, I learned of my father’s passing. He had died of lung cancer. I’d lost both parents in such a short space of time. But I’d never experienced a father’s love. I’d turned my back on him at my mother’s funeral.

             
I would never know why he left my mother. His absence would always be a mystery. That chapter could never be written in my life.

             
I decided to go to the funeral home, alone. It would give me an opportunity to reflect on what never was, what could never be now. I still owned the fat brown teddy bear he’d bought for me. The bear with one eye, which he’d held in his arms in that single childhood memory I had of him. I would always dream of knowing what it would have been like to have had a dad. I hadn’t forgiven him. That could never happen. But I was still his son, no matter what. I’d visit him one last time, just as he’d tried to visit me. Too late.

             
I didn’t know anyone at the funeral service. I’d never met any of my dad’s friends. I knew nothing about the man, but I still cherished his smile. That smile he’d given while leaning over my cot. If only his smiles had lasted. I wondered how different my life would have been if he hadn’t left. How different I’d be as a person. A million questions filled my mind. Questions that would never be answered.

             
I clutched the teddy bear in my arms and gazed at the coffin as it was carried into the building. I wanted to speak to someone, to acknowledge my father in some way. But I couldn’t bring myself to follow the shuffling crowd inside. I just stayed there, listening in on the ceremony. Through a flecked window I could see candles flickering in the sparsely lit room, projecting shadows on the mournful faces.

             
I imagined what I would say if I’d known him. If he’d been a part of my life. Anger rose like a fiery ball in my chest for the briefest of moments, causing me to shiver. I couldn’t stand in front of his friends and loved ones and tell them he was a good dad. I couldn’t tell them that he cared for me and read me bedtime stories as a child. We didn’t have that. We didn’t have anything like that. Those people in there knew him better than I did. And I was his flesh and blood. His path in life crossed theirs, not mine, and that’s why they were all seated before the coffin and I was stood outside, gazing through the window.

             
After the funeral, and just before my dad was taken away in a shiny black hearse, I laid a hand on the smooth surface of the veneered casket. I placed the bear next to a grainy picture of the man whom my mother had once loved. Always loved, probably. I smiled inwardly at the sight of the bear’s sad fluffy face pressed against the window. The vehicle turned a corner and it was gone. Forever.

             
The next day, I let Jonathon know my intentions. I told him I needed his help. He resisted and said I would be making a mistake. But I’d come to the end of that life. I needed to be reborn.

             
Jonathon organized everything for me. He helped me plan my death. A death that would be forever enshrouded in mystery. The flames flickered and I got ready to ascend, like a phoenix from the ashes.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Isla Lacuna

Lauren will never know how much I miss her, how much I regret my decision. I honestly believed it would do her good if I left. I’d only hurt her if I stayed. She didn’t love me anymore. How could she? I’d made her life a misery, tainted our vows with greed and restless determination. I’d cast her aside and sought the so-called Holy Grail. Immortality, the hope of being remembered after death, had meant more to me than love because love, like life, is temporary.

              And now I was going to deny the world the final chapter of my story. But I was still determined to have my name remembered. I’d make it difficult for the world to forget me. But what about the marriage Lauren and I had worked so hard for? No. Best not linger on that. Too late to seal the void.

             
I would be flying to Wales from Marbella early in the morning. Without Lauren. I was supposed to meet my agent, but that meeting would never take place. I kept my eyes on Lauren’s graceful form as she slid into bed, the soft velvet enveloping her skin. It would be our last night together. I got into bed with her and switched the light off. The curtains fluttered in a cool breeze and silvery moonbeams shone through the window. Lauren’s sobs mingled with the melody of oncoming waves. She cried into her pillow. I’d caused her enough pain. I turned her over and wiped those tears away, kissed and undressed her.

             
I just wanted to comfort her, to let her know she didn’t need to cry anymore. I would be gone soon. She could be happy without me.

             
But I couldn’t tell her I was leaving.

             
As I entered her, finding myself deeper and deeper with every thrust, seeking the rhythm of her body - each movement, moan and sigh creating another kind of music, a melody we’d played together so many times before and both knew so well - I saw a light glimmer in her eyes that I hadn’t seen for a long time, an overwhelming happiness that I could feel too. I wanted to cry. Knowing it was the last time. It felt like our first as I gently kissed her neck, her eyelids, her soft breasts. I felt the electricity in her body as we came together, that light shining so bright, explosive energy igniting the room, and then a calmness washing over us, as gentle as the waves outside our window.

             
‘Good night, princess,’ I said when our lovemaking had subsided.

             
‘Good night, Daniel,’ she whispered her final words to me. ‘Sleep tight…’

             
The tranquil morning held new promises, a new life. But I felt cold as I got out from under the sheets and left Lauren’s comforting heat. An imprinted valley on the bed where I’d slept. All she’d have left of me. She sighed in her sleep, soft breathing, no snoring. Hair spilling onto the blanket, her body turned away from me. I was tempted to move to the other side of the bed so I could look at her face one last time, but didn’t want to stir her.

             
The engines whined expectantly as I boarded the aircraft. The cigar shaped body was soon floating among the clouds. When it finally landed in Cardiff, I caught a taxi to Barry without any disruption from the paparazzi.

             
I paid the fare and strode towards the beach. I wanted to see it one last time. An image of Michael standing before the sea of clouds, like the wanderer in Caspar Friedrich’s famous painting, lingered in my mind. The pearl-grey sky reminded me that I would never see Marbella again. The clouds descended on the incoming tide and the wind moaned in my ears, a thousand ghostly whispers reminding me of the past. The cold air pinched my cheeks as I thought about my journey up to that point. The past was inaccessible, lost forever.

             
The roar of a car engine cut through the wind.

             
‘Are you ready?’ Jonathon touched my shoulder when he reached me.

             
‘Yeah,’ I whispered.

             
‘Are you sure? You’re really going ahead with this?’

             
‘I’m really going ahead with this.
Terminat author opus
.’

             
Jonathon furrowed his brow as if to say ‘That’s Greek to me’ and I got into the Mercedes, took one last look at the pebbled beach, and left that world behind.

             
The plan would be ruined if a photographer snapped us, but Jonathon managed everything with fastidious care. The journey culminated in us sailing on a hydrofoil, the last of various methods of transport we’d used. The gas turbine engine roared as the vessel broke through the waves with an arrowy swiftness. Islands surrounded us. Jonathon and I were amazed by the multitude of shifting colors above one isle inhabited by parrots. The sun scattered a myriad diamonds on the waves.

             
We traveled across the South Atlantic Ocean and breathed a metaphorical sigh of relief. We’d escaped the clutches of the media. For all they knew, I’d walked into the waves and drowned. Everything had been intricately planned. Evidence had been planted on the beach in Barry, such as articles of clothing similar to the ones I’d been wearing. The public would assume I had committed suicide, but they’d never know the truth. Lauren had woken without me in her life. I thought that once the furor had subsided she’d understand I’d set her free. No more tears on her pillow.

             
My new home was known as Isla Lacuna, a small island not far from Brazil. Unlike such wealthy places as Isla Bonito, Isla Lacuna wasn’t famed for its amenities. But I looked forward to evading the materialistic shroud of my previous life.

             
‘This is Soraya.’ Jonathon motioned towards a beautiful girl standing at the foot of the white sands. She was smoking a liquorice-flavored cigarette.

             
Soraya had deep brown eyes and long dark hair extending to her waist. Her arched eyebrows and high cheekbones gave her a distinctly European look. Reminded me slightly of Audrey Hepburn. She wore a black vest and an embroidered cotton skirt.

             
‘Thank you so much for this.’ I shook her delicate hand.

             
‘That’s fine. It’ll be nice to have a lodger.’ She revealed her brilliantly white teeth. ‘Let me show you the house.’

             
The house that Soraya referred to had slate roof tiles. The exterior walls were made of creamy colored sandstone. The natural stone blended in with the environment. Blooming inflorescences splashed intense colors across the fertile land, and the florid scents were breathtaking. It was an idyllic paradise, an Arcadia or Arden, inhabited by a beautiful young girl. The stuff of fiction.

             
‘Now this is the sort of place you retire to.’ I walked inside.

             
A marble fireplace stood in the corner of the cozy living room. Earth tones lent the room further warmth. Sunlight flooded through the shutters, dispersing across the oak wooden flooring. Soraya offered to give me a tour. We tread softly on the ivory sheepskin rug near the fireplace and under an archway that led us upstairs. The three bedrooms were modest and sparsely furnished. I was glad to get away from the ostentatious nature of my place in Marbella.

             
After the tour, Soraya made coffee. The three of us sat in the living room. Although Soraya was only in her mid-twenties she seemed very mature, at least a decade or two beyond her years. I knew I’d be happy living with her.

             
Jonathon considered what the world’s reaction to my disappearance would be. He knew he would be questioned. But he’d state that he was supposed to meet me in Wales, and I’d gone missing instead of going to a hotel. It was very important that he wasn’t seen as attributable for my disappearance in any way. Pseudocide, or doing a Reggie Perrin, is a form of misrepresentation. Tax avoidance. Wasting police time. Defrauding government agencies. There are all sorts of legal complications involved in the act of faking your own death, and I didn’t want Jonathon to be held responsible. 

             
‘I have to get back.’ He took a final sip of his coffee.

             
I nodded.

             
‘I booked us the hotel in Cardiff. I’ve planted the items of clothing on the beach. Now I just have to feign ignorance.’

             
‘Thank you, Jonathon. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

             
‘In seven years you can be legally declared as dead. I’m sure I’ll find your funeral highly entertaining.’ He chuckled.

             
‘Please, take care of Lauren for me.’

             
‘I will.’

             
‘Make sure she’s okay.’

             
‘Daniel, if you ever choose to come back…’ He handed me a slip of paper with a phone number on it.

             
‘Thanks.’ I put it in my breast pocket.

             
‘Goodbye, mate.’

             
‘I’ll miss you.’ I shook his hand, wondering if I’d ever feel that warm clasp again. Those three words felt so weak and anticlimactic.

             
‘Ditto, fella.’

             
And with that response, he left.

             
‘This is a lovely place.’ I turned to Soraya. ‘How did you come to live here?’

             
‘I was born here. My father was a businessman specializing in antiques. He came here with my mother and older brother.’

             
‘What happened to your family?’

             
‘My parents passed away.’

             
‘And your brother?’

             
‘He lives somewhere else now.’ She sounded resentful.

             
I thought it best not to pursue the subject of her brother.

             
‘It can get a bit lonely here,’ she continued. ‘But the island is my life. I’ve never known anything else. The furthest I’ve ever been is my favorite marketplace in Brazil. I travel there in my canoe whenever I need anything.’

             
‘Does anybody else live on the island?’

             
‘Not for miles. This land is private.’

             
‘It’s very kind of you, letting me stay here.’

             
‘Well, your friend told me a lot about you. I must say, you sound fascinating!’

             
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘But I imagine he painted a prettier picture of me.’

             
‘He told me he’d searched all sorts of places, but this was the best one for you.’

             
‘I daresay he was right.’ I beamed. ‘But surely, you must have hesitated to let a strange man live with you?’

             
‘Yes, I did at first. But Jonathon assured me you were a nice guy, and it
does
get lonely here. I’ve never heard of anyone like you. I don’t really understand the concept of celebrity. I guess that’s because I’ve never really left the island.’