A Tragedy

June, 2004

The streets outside Britain's famed Oxford University were dull and served no significant importance, in terms of refining its beauty. Why, it looked like every other street in England, the same morning rains still leaving sheen on the gravel and a fresh aroma of turned mud in the air. The trees were scarce around the area, but Mel had long alienated herself from matters of nature. The green dying and the ozone depleting did not concern her anyway as she had bigger problems in life right now. She had yet to find a room for herself, she hadn't had breakfast yet and the only sleep she had gotten was in a two-hour train from Leicester, and as luck would have it she had been sharing the compartment with a loud family of four. So she was sleep deprived, very much hungry, and walking towards one of the most prestigious universities in the world to deliver an hour long lecture which would definitely drain her to the bone. Should have packed myself a sandwich or something, Mel thought, eyes cringing as she felt her stomach rumble.

She had only just entered through those massive gates, having shown her credentials to the guard who let her pass with an offhanded gesture, when her phone started ringing again. Mel sighed and picked it up.

"Hey, Melbourne! Waddup?! I miss youuu."

Mel had to smile. Her husband was such a child.

"Did you arrive at Oxford?", he asked.

"Yeah, Matt, I'm there. Reached just now actually." Mel whispered to her phone. Her smile was quickly fading to annoyance as she checked the campus map only to find that the cafeteria was a considerable walk from where she stood.

"Look, I gotta go."

And closing her phone thus, she made her way towards where food was.

All the students and professors had already gathered in the immense auditorium when Melbourne entered, stuffing sweet bread in her mouth with one hand and carrying a coffee in the other. Some students at the front row laughed at the sight of her and Mel made sure to smile back at them, her mouth still full, which produced more laughter. Uncaring, she proceeded to the stage and waited for a student to get her mic.

Finally done with her bread, Mel stroked her short hair into something she hoped was more presentable, and took a massive gulp of her coffee before she began.

"So, having a good day, you lot? Hell, I am obviously not. I am in Oxford again, aren't I?"

Some dry chuckles.

"When I was here, what some eleven odd years before, studying literature just like you all, I always thought Oxford was too grim."

She took a sip of her coffee.

"I still think that. I guess all of you know, by now, that when you chose to pursue literature, you made a lifelong commitment. No one really knows how to use words, not in a way that could connect through everyone, and no amount of studying would make that simpler. But elegance through words can be achieved, we have so many examples of that. Shakespeare, Elliot, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Whitman, Guy de Maupassant. The list goes on. Poets have reached a point where they made us feel. One could say literature makes you feel again, that it is the fire for the soul. But literature is also the calm of the mind, it can also make you un-feel. So tell me, what is your Literature?

"All I'm saying is that graduating Oxford isn't the end of the journey, lads. It's the beginning. Alright then, I am Melbourne Barkeley, and let's start with today's lecture about what to pursue beyond college."

There was some clapping and then Mel didn't even know how the time went by.

One and a half hours later, the lecture finally finished, the thirty-something lady found herself in an isolated washroom. Splashing water all over her face, to cool herself off no doubt, she looked at herself in the mirror.

Her parents had named her Melbourne because she was born there. Stupid reason, wasn't it? But Mel had always liked her name, it was unique. On the other hand, Mel wasn't want of more uniqueness, owing to the fact that she was already as different as she possibly could be.

As a teenager, she had soon discovered that she looked better than other girls. The way her honey colored hair fell around her slender neck in short straight waves and the way her eyes had that tinge of smokey grey, even without any makeup, and the way her waist twisted as she turned, a slim delicate thing, and the way when she walked her hips swayed with no hindrance, all these suggested at a regal refined woman of sophisticated tastes.

As a woman, Melbourne had discovered that she was smarter than the rest too. Ambition had a special place reserved in her heart, a place that used her name softly, gently, like no lover ever had. For her, making a mark on the world meant everything; if Melbourne were asked what made her afraid, she would say being forgotten.

This dangerous combination of beauty and intelligence had soon taken over the country. By the time Mel was twenty and five, she already had published three international bestselling novels. A year after that she had taken a spurge into screenwriting, and had excelled in that too. At twenty-seven, she had had her first major fight with her publishing firm. The lawsuit ended two years later, and when it did, it was not so surprising to find Melbourne, again, on top of everything.

Newspaper articles, media coverage, being invited to the best of the best balls, sitting in the company of the intellectual, of the command, of the authority, all this was preferred by Mel - in fact, she thrived in it. Every time she saw her book in the centre display, with flashy decorations around it, in book stores and libraries around the country, she found proof of her success. Needless to say, she had a bloated ego, and no one could deny her that for her arrogance came deservedly so.

Drying her hands with a tissue, Mel heard her phone ring once again. She sighed.

"HEY DARLING GIRL!"

God, why is Matt so... extra. Mel sighed again.

"Did you kill them at the posh college?"

"I did, when do I not? My lecture went fine, Matt."

Matt then proceeded to say hundred things about how perfect she was. His usual behavior, he liked fawning over her. She let him talk, and made replies when they were required, but mostly she was only half paying attention. Her eyes wandered around the stark walls of her old college, and those faded trees, so few. Looking around, Melbourne was suddenly hit with the fact that this was the first time she was actually seeing Oxford for what it was. Brick buildings, trees, the sky, the people, this was the first time Mel was actually noticing them, for the last time she had been here, eleven years ago, she never had the time to look at anything other than her books. She was too busy rushing into life to ever bother... looking.

"... hey, girl, get on the next train, we will go have fancy food at a fancy restaurant and then maybe get ourselves into a fancy hotel, enjoy a fancy night, you know?"

Mel could imagine exactly how Matt would wink at her while saying this. For some reason, that didn't make her smile like it usually did.

"Hey, Matty," Melbourne said, "I was thinking, like, I will stay here for a night. Haven't been in Oxford for a long time, kinda feel like staying. Just to get to know the town more."

"What? You hate Oxford." She could hear him chuckle over the phone.

"I'm just tired. I will probably find a hotel and rest for the night. Can't journey anymore."

"Rest? You? Okay," He was being sarcastic now, and slowly making his wife angry, although Mel knew he didn't know that part. He seldom knew what angered her.

"Look, Matt - "

"Hey, its fine. If you gotta rest, you gotta rest." He was still talking lightly, so Mel presumed it was fine.

"Okay, see you tomorrow."

"See you, babe."

He made a ridiculous smooching noise over the phone before hanging up and Mel had to laugh. He brought so much joy to her, he was such a good friend. And that was very important in a marriage, at least Mel's friends said so. Being good friends was more important than even loving each other, they said, to make a marriage work. And she agreed.

There was a sudden tear in her eye, and she angrily wiped it off on her cardigan. That was odd, she hadn't teared up since she had been a girl. In fact, she had never had any need to cry. She was brought up in a beautifully loving family, she had studied in one of the best schools, she had married a man who cared for her unconditionally. And yet...

She reached inside her bag for an old dirty book; some pages of it were falling apart but somehow it still held together miraculously. The title of the book read:

"A Tragedy"

"What's your fucking tragedy, Dan?" She asked the book.

"What's that?"

A man wearing a black coat and a black scarf walked towards her, a cup of what Melbourne assumed to be coffee steaming in his hand.

"sorry?"

He sat next to her without her having asked him to, and started quite casually,

"That's Dan's 'A Tragedy'. Unusual book."

Mel looked at him, already exasperated. She was feeling off today; it was one of those days, she told herself, and it would pass. She didn't need a stranger to ruin her rare day of self-retrospection and suffering an existential crisis.

"Do I know you?"

"Nope. But I was there at your lecture though. Those were my students you were entertaining."

He smiled. Melbourne's frown only deepened,

"I was hardly entertaining than enlightening."

"I only meant that my students enjoyed your lecture", he said defensively, "My name is Adam, I'm the professor of literature out here," he rolled his eyes around him.

They shook hands; Melbourne a bit unsure, Adam a bit assertive.

"Actually I have read many of your works," Adam continued, "and have to admit, they are a class apart. The depth you achieve with your characters... it’s just impeccable. I'm a fan."

Saying so, he lifted his cup in salute. Mel smiled awkwardly.

"Well, thanks. Glad you liked it. I was just about leaving now so... "

"oh, well, let me walk you out at the very least. 'enlighten' a fan."

Her eyes only narrowed a bit further, but he had insisted now and she didn't see a way of refusing him without being outright impolite. So he fell in step with her, walking at a leisurely pace. For a long time neither the tall man in black nor the woman with sultry eyes spoke, and the purpose of even bothering to walk with her was lost on Mel. But the good thing about Oxford was it made for many long walks, and Melbourne and Adam were on one of them.

"The book you had with you," he smirked, "didn't think anyone would have read it apart from me. 'A Tragedy' was never a successful book, and Dan was never a successful author."

Mel was interested in this.

"I am actually surprised you have read the book too. Not many have heard about it."

"Yeah, I read it," he said, "Kind of sudden, don't you think?"

"The ending? Yeah, that book is so unreal, it just doesn't make sense."

"She had everything, didn't she? I mean what was Dan thinking, making a character like her?", Adam's eyes had lit up and Mel sensed a submerged passion in him, "I mean one second we are reading about a loveless girl who meets a man and then for half the book there is literally no 'tragedy'. It's just her falling in love with him, and marrying and having children together and through it all we are shown this protagonist's inner psyche and her constant turmoil to find happiness. But it makes no sense, because wasn't she already happy with her love and her children? And then she becomes sick, predictably so, and we think, so that's all? That's the tragedy."

"But she gets better", supplied Melbourne quietly.

"Yes. And there is nothing predictable about what happens next. She had been sick for years and years so when she comes back from the hospital, she realizes her husband had already become used to a life without her, her children had already grown up. Even though they had visited her often in the hospital, even though they hadn't stopped loving her, she - "

"She realized she had actually wanted to die with her sickness, she had actually never wanted to live. So she killed herself. And that was the tragedy." Melbourne said.

"What was Dan thinking, I wonder," Adam thought out loud, "to write a book like that. I mean it’s just nonsense, she never had a real reason to be unhappy, but throughout her life she just remained sad. She had a husband who loved her, children who needed her, and she decided to kill herself."

"Yeah, well," Mel continued, "you know how Dan wanted to write his story. She had everything but at the same time she had nothing. She never really loved her husband so her entire life was built on a lie. I think that's the paradox Dan wanted to reflect in his 'A Tragedy'. I think it's beautifully written, although, yeah the protagonist was very selfish in everything she did. That's how I feel anyway."

Mel fell silent after that. They were nearing the gate now.

"We are the only two people who have read the book in the world and we both think it’s a bunch of beautifully written nonsense. What a tragedy", Adam exaggerated with a smile.

Mel laughed. They stopped near the gate. In a way both realized what the other felt. Yes, Dan's 'A Tragedy' was a shitty story, but that was the entire point of the story, to make you feel and then un-feel, and that was good enough literature to make one talk so heatedly about it to a stranger and the other to carry the tattered remains of the book in her handbag. Both noticed it and both left it unspoken.

"Well, Adam, I gotta admit, that was an interesting conversation. I don't think I would be talking about that book with anyone again for a long time, so thank you."

"Why don't we continue our interesting conversation over a cup of coffee?" he said, taking a sip of the coffee in his hand.

Mel would never take the bait; she had a ring in her finger that Adam had either not noticed or had decided to overlook, depending on which he would either be stupid or dangerous, neither being to Mel's liking. And yet she found herself answering his question with one of her own:

"Why not?"

---

The table clock read six in the morning when Adam woke up. The chill morning air made him reach for his blanket over his naked body. His eyes strained to find Melbourne and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he found her in the corner of the room, wearing her shirt unbuttoned over her petite body and searching for her pants among the pile of clothes scattered about.

"Hey", she said.

"Are you leaving?"

"I have a train back to Leicester in an hour, Adam." She said, like a matter of fact.

Adam sat up and reached for his cigarettes. Lighting one up, he looked at her, swirling tendrils of smoke about.

"Why are you with him, if you don't love him?"

Melbourne made a pained expression.

"I don't love you, Adam."

He took another puff.

"I know that, that's not what I asked. Why are you with him?"

"It’s not that easy, okay?" Mrs. Barkeley massaged her head, "Matt and I go long back. He has always been my editor. Besides, I do love him."

Adam picked up the old book kept on his bedside table. They had been reading their favorite passages from the book earlier, before lust took over and Adam showed her what she was lacking: love.

He picked up the book and in one motion threw it across the room, missing Mel by an inch and hitting the wall behind her flat.

"What a tragedy", he said returning to his cigarette, before Melbourne flashed her middle fingers up at him and left.

---

December, 1972

Franco Dan'Lewitt was an exceptional man; it wasn't the way he dressed or even the way he carried himself that made people turn their heads, for neither was worth mention, if a bit out of ordinary - he dressed himself simply and carried himself like a man who had just woken up, no doubt owing to the copious amount of ganja he smoked each morning. Even so, there was something off putting about the man, as if approaching him was not exactly a good idea, as if it was better to leave him alone. This aura that he emitted was of his own free will, Franco knew, pushing back his long dirty black hair and reaching into his pockets only to spin his bike keys in his fingers. Blue shades protected his eyes from the sun, and his constant demeaning stare protected him from other people, walking next to him. Pushing past the crowd, he reached his old motorbike, dusty and dented, but the orange paint still showing here and there. Franco loved his bike, despite its state, and he prided in being the only one to start it in one go. And that's exactly what he did, and he was off.

Franco liked to imagine retro electronic music playing calmly, like the drawling speech of a wildlife commentary, in the background every time he was on his bike, and he liked to think that's what everyone around him heard. And the odd part was, it was somewhat true; people would turn their heads and somehow know he was different, that he was untouched and he wanted to live that way, and they would hear the music from him.

So, shifting the gear into third (he wasn't a man who rode for the joy of speed; he rode his bike for the joy of the ride), and increasing the pace till a chill breeze blew past him, Franco rode away. It wasn't until forty minutes later when he finally stopped his bike and got down at a farm.

A balding man greeted him, by show of hand. Franco made his way towards him, through a path between the crops.

"Oi, Franco lad, how was business?"

"As usual. Your cut." Franco handed him a fat envelope. The other man opened it right there and started counting the money. When he was done he looked up and winked at him.

"Eh, man, you're always so formal. Come on in, see how the weed's growing."

Franco removed his shades, pushed back his hair once more, and followed the farmer to a greenhouse. Inside, rows and rows of marijuana plants were lined up.

"Still take 'em a week for them buds to grow fully. You want them mature, no doubt?"

"And potent" Franco replied.

"They will be, Franco m'lad, they will be" The balding man positively gleamed with pride. He looked at the younger man when he said nothing now, somewhat unsure.

"Hey man", the older man continued, "I'm glad you put money on me and helped me raise this farm, and I understand how this works - I grow the pot, and you handle the business. But you have always been so tight-lipped about everything. Like i would like to know about your side of the stuff too. Thought we were partners."

Franco's bored eyes inspected him lazily.

"We are not partners. You are the farmer, I am the entrepreneur. You get a share of the money from the weed you grow. Do you think you are the only farmer I do business with?"

He looked angry, but in the next instant Franco saw him eating his rage, for the farmer couldn't afford to piss him off, he was the only dealer he knew. And Franco knew that.

So, without waiting for the other man to come up with a reply, he walked away towards his bike at a casual pace. Once there, he was off again, leaving a cloud of dust behind his wheel. It was evening when he arrived at his place, which was a small apartment, albeit exquisitely decorated – the sofa was an artistic thing, the walls had well-done graffiti, there was a statue of Lord Shiva above the television and there was an expansive wall-hanging of his favorite football club, Como no te voy a querer, canticos Real Madrid. And how could he not love Madrid, it was his city. He was born here, amidst the beautiful white walls and red roofs, amidst the Cocido Madrileno in the winters and the blooming of trees in the spring. He had grown up in these streets, played here, studied here, fell in love with his first-girlfriend, smoked his first weed.

He loved this city, but sitting in the dim light of the single lamp in the corner and rolling a small blunt for himself, he realized the city was done with him. He had become older, much older than when he was nineteen and made his first big weed deal. He had made money, good money, but it was time to move on. There were enough pictures of him in the Spanish policia, and he knew it was a matter of time before they get bored enough to catch him. He was a marijuana-dealer, he didn’t have any protection – he wouldn’t even know what to do with them if he had it. This business was all about the ingenuity, as Franco liked to believe.

Taking a drag from the joint and letting the ganja hit him, he realized his ingenuity was running out. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hide inside the city and continue on, it was just that he didn’t want to anymore, that he was tired. He was thirty now, and it was about time he quit the drug business, he reckoned. Where would he go? He didn’t know that yet; leaving Madrid still felt unreal to him, but sitting in his fancy but small apartment he realized a decision had to be made. This was perhaps Franco’s best quality, the ability to sit back and inspect all his viable options before making a decision, unbiased and impartially.

That night Franco spent in a cloud of smoke, trying to access all that could happen and all he could do to avoid them through the power of the mind, thinking through well into dawn. By the time the horizon saw its first light though, Franco could be seen outside on the road, with his battered but trustee bike beside him, and a heavy looking backpack on his back. The sound of his throttle was loud that early winter morning, but other than that, Franco Dan’Lewitt’s bike wheels left no print on the city of Madrid, even as he left for the final time.

From then on, life was an adventure for him. He lived long, although whether one could call his life happy should better be left for him to decide. There were several things worth mention in Franco’s life, notably being the book “A Tragedy” written under the pen name ‘Dan’, although it never was a hit. His children gathered around an old Franco, at his deathbed at the age of sixty-two, dying from an inexplicable incurable disease, to ask him a question.

“Hey, dad”

Franco thought his son was every bit as handsome as he had been, as he slowly turned towards the young man.

“Yes?” Franco’s voice was a whisper. Talking through all these breathing instruments was hard and took him much effort.

“I read the book you wrote. ‘A Tragedy’?”

“What about it?” Franco coughed. His son looked at him with concerned eyes. His daughter was there too, Franco’s tired eyes noticed now, behind his son, wearing an expression of pain.

“Well”, his son continued, “Why did you write it?”

Franco wanted to laugh, but alas, he could only cough some more. His daughter came near, to sit beside his bed, while his son just looked at him.

“It’s a long story, I do not think there is time left for that.”

“Why do you say that, dad, come on, think positively. We’ll get through this.” His daughter was a good girl. He thanked his stars to have raised his children right. His son remained silent.

“Dad”, he said after some time, “why did you write it? I just need to know that.”

“I used to live in Madrid, used to love that city.”

“We know, dad,” his son said, his eyes downcast.

“I didn’t want to leave, not really. But I had to; it was one of those things. I had hard times after that, but I have to admit I was enjoying myself. Then there came a time I had to stay at Barcelona because I had run myself out of money, you see? I got myself a job, I was a smart lad. And I found myself a place to stay – a flat above a bakery. The bakery owner happened to also be the landowner and a widow. And she was the most beautiful, elegant and saddest creature on the planet.”

Franco noticed his son share glances with his sister, a slight smile on their lips now listening to Franco talk about women before he met their mother.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love you lot’s mother the most. But I met Mrs. Reed long time before I met her, and I think I loved her too, back then. Hmmm,”

“So the book was about her? This widow you fell in love with?” his son asked.

“I tried. Despite all my charms, she just refused to be happy. It was as if the death of her husband was blocking her entire life’s happiness. I can understand, it sometimes feels that way. For months I stayed at her care; she served without question or thought, she was truly selfless. Whoever came into her bakery, she greeted them with a smile and some pleasant conversation. Everyone in the locality knew her and liked her; it just happened to be that she never liked them, or rather she had become a thoughtless mask, which she only removed when she thought she was alone. But I could hear her cry – all night, and every night, for all of the two years I stayed with her.

“There was even a time when I couldn’t bear it any longer. It became my primary motif to make her smile once each day. When I realized my feelings had transgressed into affection, I thought, well, I should just ask her.

“So on the day of fireworks in Barcelona, I still remember the reflection of all the colors lit up in the night sky on her beautiful pale face when I asked her to move on from her husband and accept me as a lover. I felt like an outsider stepping into their marriage, but on the other hand the vows entitled “till death do us part”, and that part had been, regrettably, fulfilled. Her husband was dead, so I thought she should be able to love another.”

Franco stopped to cough, then continued.

“When I asked her, she smiled and agreed. I felt overjoyed. Within a month, though, I realized she was still wearing her mask. God, I do not think I have ever felt pain the way I felt then, to be so close and yet be so far. She wore her mask all day, smiling at me when required to, nodding when required to, joyless. She used to cry at night, then hide it when I started to complain about it. Sometimes she would be gone from the house for hours at length, to remember her husband, I suspected.

“I started to regret ever asking her to be with me. On the other hand, I knew I loved her, so I tried everything in my power to make her happy. I did my part as a committed husband, I helped her out at the bakery when she needed me to, I found good jobs to support us. And she did her part too, as a caring wife. Only it was all a sham, for she refused to love, refused to be happy. I began to hate her, I began to avoid her. Making love to her felt like I was sleeping with someone else’s wife.

“The entire ordeal left me very disturbed. What started as an innocent love, developed into mental breakdowns. I was always angry now, a year into our marriage. I hated the world, and everything in it. I was about done waiting for her to show me a single sign of affection.

“Then one day I came home from work. I called out her name, and there was no response. I found her in the bathtub, the water turned into a murky red color, the wrists in her right arm slit and trickling blood.”

Both his children looked at him, horrified, but Franco showed no emotion, his face still as wood.

“When we reached the hospital, doctors told me a few minutes later and I might have had no wife anymore. Then I had to file many police reports, trying to prove to them that I wasn’t responsible for her attempt at suicide. When all was said and done, and we came back home, I went on about my business the same as usual.

“You have to understand, I couldn’t take the mental ordeal anymore. I loved her, but being with her was unhealthy for me. I had to leave. So when I went back home, I had decided. I had tried to show her love. It had failed. So I went back home, and I told her, “this marriage isn’t working , Mrs. Reed.” And for the first time I saw love in her eyes, meant only for me. We talked about many things thereafter, before I took my bike and left. She smiled behind my wheels, I would never forget that. Never went back to Barcelona after that.”

“And then you wrote a book about her?”

Franco nodded.

“It was a failed marriage and a failed book, what do you know?” the old man tried to laugh, and this time succeeded.

His son looked at him for a long time.

“Is loving someone that hard?” he asked.

“No, sonny, it’s not hard at all. That’s the point. If loving someone feels hard to you, you have bad news, she is not the one. I mean, people do wrong things all the time; some people marry someone they don’t love, some people marry someone who doesn’t love them back. Why make it hard, when love really isn’t?”

“I guess,” his son smiled.

Franco had only a few more days of telling his children his stories, and he meant to utilize them fully. The summer of 2004 felt like a good time for Franco to part ways with the world, and when he did, he had many people to remember him. Whether he had had a good life or not, Franco never got the time to decide.

It was many years before, when Franco had still been a young and depressed divorcee, that the book “A Tragedy” made its way to the bookstores of England, and at one of these shelves, a teenage girl named Melbourne picked it up.

----