Two Loves

Chapter 39

CYMBELINE

Isaac does not come home that evening. Or that night. Or that morning. Of course I am worried sick for him. It's not his thing to just disappear, and slowly, I get nervous. What if he was robbed? What if he is slowly bleeding out somewhere under a bridge?

Then again, maybe he wants me to be nervous and worried. Maybe he is completely fine.

It's such kind of thoughts that kept me up last night, so I didn't sleep very well, and as soon as I collect the post, my headache is joined by an additional, gnawing, bad conscience. Under the rejection letters from other newspaper offices, I find a small post-card.

On the front, there is a pretty little picture of "Two Boarding School Friends", as the caption says. One of the girls is sitting on a bench in a forest, her antiquated dress swaying around her like a cloud, and the hands on the hips of her companion, who bows over her lap and kisses her on the mouth passionately. Friends, sure thing.

Against my will, I have to grin. There is only one person who would send me such a post-card. When I turn it around, I immediately recognize Ada's handwriting.

"My dear Cymbeline" it says, "Since you don't seem to open my letters, I feel compelled to send you a post-card.

I hope you can imagine how much the headlines about you infuriate me. As I have heard from Miss Cecily (her sister works as a nanny for the children of the cousin of a friend of Wilhelmina), you have also lost your employment. For shame!

Please come to me, I am sure that we can find a solution. The Buckingham Palace, as you call it, will only be too happy to help you in this situation. Give Isaac my greetings and best wishes - bring him along, if you want to!

But my dear, I am worried sick for you. Please visit me.

I miss you. Ada.

PS: Forgive me that this message is so short. They really should print larger postcards!"

The style is uncommonly sober for her – maybe because she knew that anyone who has the card in their hands can read it. She must have felt terrible because I don't reply to her letters.

For a second, my pride tells me not to go. I should go and search for Isaac. I should stay inside to avoid meeting reporters.

But the longing or talking with someone who understands me takes over, so I tell my pride to go screw itself and get my mantle.

Already in the street, I try to think of an excuse why I didn't read her letters. I wanted to, I really did, but in the end, I always thought that tomorrow is also a day. Maybe I didn't want to think of how much I miss her, maybe it was because I had to solve a whole lot of other problems first. That is no real excuse, is it?

The weather is still cold, and the wind blows, so I put up my collar against it and against the stares of Mrs Leaf, who just comes into the house when I unlock the chain on my velo. She recognizes me nevertheless and gives me a disdainful look from beneath the brim of her ugly hat. Of course, she lives just upstairs, she must have heard the whole drama yesternight. No doubt, the whole house already knows that a man was sitting on my doorstep yesternight, begging his lover for forgiveness. Great. I love to entertain you, Mrs Leaf.

Then the chain finally opens and I can get out of here. It's a thirty-minute drive to the house of the Callaghans, but my headache gets better the more I breathe the fresh air. Isaac is nowhere to be seen, though I try to look out for him. But among the flocks of people, of women with handbags and mantles or men in grey suits, not even among the more ragged people that press themselves into the street-corners, selling news-papers or matches – I can spot my brother's tousled, hatless head nowhere. Where is he? He cannot be that far away, can he?