This story is written by my aunt. She has no watty account so I posted it here using mine~
cr: iam.jin@yahoo.com
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written by: 0:00 AM
"Be patient my damsel.
Here i come,
In the falling summer rain."
"L."
CHAPTER I: MAN UNDER THE UMBRELLA
Nephesh Chaiyah POV: I am Nephesh Chaiyah, and unfortunately, this is not Japan.
It’s needless to say that I am country bumpkin chic who'd rather stalk at the street for unusual spectacle of vogue than roam in runway gatherings for I believe "odd springs from the street” and so I was sitting on the railings of Sangsu-dong, Mapo-gu Street a suede-looking lace-up vintageshirt under long knit sweater, layered with rust-colored stockings, and leather flats while holding a canvas bag taking a good look at the traffic among the drowning plethora of the blue-collared Korean men and spring suited women.
Along this walk, one tall man who excels not only in height but also in aura walking lazily, with his hands buried in his pocket, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He was wearing a plain black hem-torn tee shirt, loosely hanged in his tight bleached pants. One can't say if it is style or simply worn out by usual wearing. His shoes is a plain black sneaker and in his shoulder, hung a gray mackintosh. He looked like a Choseon, was fashioned like an Englishman, and had the aloof air of Japanese,-a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes including mine eyes to look curiously after him, not because I like him but because that man is familiar. The man is no other than Caleb Near, International Crime Analyst. I hurried forward to meet him. What fate !
"Caleb, is it really you? Yai!" cried I, swinging myself out of the railings, and hugging him so tight to the great scandalization of “conservative Koreans” who fixed their startled disposition, lest they should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of this “Gothic Lolita”.
Presently, he strolled out of the crowd upon hearing me, and stood a moment at the crossing. "Miss Chaiyah? " He looked at me blankly, as if undecided whether to approach me or stand still where he was at. "In Seoul? Why?"
"Couture"
"Voguish." said Caleb. He looked me with a dismal look; I am not certain whether he disapprove of my garments or my occupation or he wasn’t really glad to see me.
“I am looking for a place to stay. Where is your home here?” There's something odd in his manner, though I couldn't tell what.
"My house at Villa Franca?” he offered.
“I’ve been pining too! ” and so he guided me on the bus station although it astonished me that he hasn’t car of his own but I didn't inquire. He led me on the last seat and he sat at the middle when we could have sit next to each other for a talk. He avoid conversations, perhaps and I slumbered during the whole trip.
By three of that afternoon, we reached Villa Franca at Jeju Island after five hours of dozy trip. He went off the bus and led the way. Oh My HEAVEN! Is this Villa Franca ?!!”
This is the dreamiest and the most enchanting bit of melodramatic and romantic landscape in all the island of Korea. What is the chief element it employs ? There stands the pile of 'praying' rocks, yellow dancing flowers, each swaying as the wind gently breathes against their smiling petals the sounds they produce are the quietest thoughts of lover's memories who had visited them in their shadiest fullness of affection; and there after being reproduced had grown in a lovely field of flowers; and up from yonder cottage, deep into this distant mazy way of Villa Franca is a woodland, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this cherry-tree shakes down its sighs hymn of the Corsica sea waves, yet all were vain, unless your eye were fixed upon the Schubert's Tower. That lovely road of Villa Franca stretching toward Caleb's home, where goes a sleepy smoke is the grandest thing to see but with my each light happy step, I felt the heavy footsteps of the man in front of me as he led the way to his house door way.
Creaking my feet on the wooden floor, I made my way upstairs wherein one room is open while he went his way out to the garden instead. As I entered, the homelessness reached my heart and such emptiness is apparent in Caleb's eyes. As I was checking over the wooden chairs and removing the white fabric sheets to dust off, a sound echoed the living room; - A piano. I lifted up the lid and a music sheet fell. I reached for it and saw the title "Schubert's Serenade" with a message on the bottom of the page, "Wait for me. I may be a little late, but I shall surely come."
I remember that message. Talitha was asking Caleb to report their drafts before the deadline yet Caleb has to fetch Citadel at the airport , so he noted for her to, "Wait for me. I may be a little late, but I shall surely come."
I looked at the window upstairs, for it was cloudy, and the attic is perfect to overlook the sea. A restless spirit possessed me, and the odd feeling came again, not bitter as Caleb was, but a sorrowful patient wonder why as I saw the owner outside lying down buried himself in the field of flowers.
Did Citadel broke her heart? It can't be true; I knew that, and tried to put the thought away, but the natural craving for was strong as tempest inside his heart which he has been trying hard to hide, and I know I've seen that hungry longing and loving warmth for someone named Talitha Cumi who used to say that she wants "to love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them be together."
Since Caleb is with Citadel, does that mean God did not let Caleb and Talitha together?
I decided to go out and talk to Caleb before it's too “late, that he cannot come anyumore”. I went at the garden to talk, sat at the chair looking over the sea while he lay in the grass. "Now tell me Caleb N.E.W.S? The last I heard of you, Talitha wrote at her letters you're with Citadel as a crime analyst? Your profession? "
"Not profession. I met her here and asked if i could be of any help. That's just it. "
I watched him, and felt a new sort of aloofness over him; for he was changed, and I could not find the mischievous boy I left in the moody-looking man beside me. He was handsomer than ever, and greatly improved but he looked tired and spiritless, - not ill, but older and graver. I couldn't understand, and did not venture to ask questions.
"Mweo ra goh haeya halji morugaettda." I asked, airing my Hangul, which had improved in quantity, if not in quality.
He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up. "Nice." And he closed his eyes again
I smiled, but inside somehow the compliment did not satisfy me like the witty sermons he used to give me at class, when he told me I was "proud that is a conceited dignity," with a concern smile. I didn't like the new tone; for it sounded different in spite of the hospitable look.
With curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, I looked at the tower near us said,- "There's a Schubert's Tower just below the lovely road to Villa Franca, and speck far out to sea is Corsica, right?" He frowned as I continued. “Schubert Serenade reminds you of Schubert’s Tower and my Lingua Franca reminds you of Villa Franca which is why you played me the song. At first I thought it was for me, too late I realized it was for Talitha. Talitha said she likes the song for it speaks of his adoration for a guy under the umbrella. When I asked you, if you know the man she loves you answered me that the man lives in the heart of citadel. It was Citadel you like and not her? Is there any change? Do you remember? "
"I remember; it's not much changed," he answered, without enthusiasm.
"Why Citadel? Is it fine for me to inquire in personal things like this? "
"Don't." was all he said as he turned and strained his eyes to look at my dress instead. "I never imagine you as a fashion designer? You see, no offense; it isn't what it should be, but you have improved it. What do you call this? “he asked, as he examines his tee shirt with a worn-out hem. " I like this kind of shirt having hems running out and it gives my dress a rugged style. “He raised his eyebrow expecting my answer.
I smiled. "You call it -
ILLUSION. "
"Nice name for it; it fits me - new thing, isn't it?”
"It's not new. It's as old as the hills but since you didn't learn illusion before as I do, which accounts for my mistake of saying it old, I understand. So when did you learn this sort of thing?“ I asked sarcastically for the "it fits me” line is perhaps not for the rugged shirt but for the "illusion” of the changes that occurred on him.
"Would you kindly explain what 'sort of thing' it is?” he avoided the question knowing perfectly what I meant, but wickedly leaving me to describe exactly what had changed in him.
“The solitary look, the aloofness, and the - illusion - you know." I said as I watch him trying to take the thorny chrysanthemums in despair since he could not part it with its stem.
“I didn't learn it. I experienced it? “He briefly said, and eagerly put his finger in his lips when it was pricked after his vain attempt to capture the wild thorny chrysanthemum that grew just beyond his reach.
FIRST DRAFT