White Violin

2. Headless Angel

This space seemed dedicated to the castle in front of us. The trees and shrubs behind us came to an end, keeping a distance in deference to the holy aura enshrining this black, inanimate architecture. 

Marie stood still, her eyes fixed on the headless angel statue. The only angel statue that held a cross I could remember was the Angle of the Tiber, but this one was decapitated. Angel statues were said to be guardians of castles and houses, in the same way that there are guardian angels for every human being. When  I was younger I used to believe I had a guardian angel. Sometimes I would pretend to hurt myself with a scissor or trip on the floor. No one was there to save me or reduce my pain. When I asked other people why my angel didn't come out to safeguard me, they reprimanded me for trying to test the Lord's power. I still believed it for some time. I would sit around and let my eyes rest at a faraway point, and then suddenly spring myself up so wildly anyone human being or angel that was beside me was sure to receive a heart-attack. Later I was told that certain medical and unexplainable miracles were the act of guardian angels. Isn't God the only being that can execute miracles? Everyone seems to have their own understanding of angels, and I have long gave up to ponder about them.

"Is there anything wrong?" I asked Marie. She averted her gaze to me and widened her eyes, as if she was deaf. "I said, is there anything wrong?" She looked away and answered, "What is wrong?" Her answer sounded more like an inquiry to herself.  "Perhaps we got off the wrong place," I suggested. "No, we're where we should be," she stated quickly, without doubt.

I couldn't just stand here waiting for eternity though. I passed the statue and briskly trotted to the door. I looked behind me but Marie still stood there, unfazed. "I'm heading inside," I told her, "would you..." "Please don't mind me," she stopped me from finishing my question, "Knock the door to see if anyone is there, by all means." "All right," I said, a little dejected at my inability to find the source of her anxiety and nervousness. Whenever we see Marie perform in the academy's hall, we were captivated by her stoic, almost indifferent, posture as she articulated the notes in a military fashion. There were not a trace of feeling from her. She was a machine, her arms programmed to move up or down for each note, painting them at distinct intensities and colour. It felt odd, therefore, to see a human side of her leaking within her metallic shell.