Prompt Lost
Farina
Delicate and undulant, Farina’s voice swam through the room and wherever it was heard guests stopped and listened. Her’s was a sound outside of time, born of the dance of light on the Bosphorus in the city of life.
By the time her performance was finished not a single person in the ball room gazed elsewhere. They burst into applause, some into tears.
In the midst of the applause, Harvey Kincade walked on stage and went to her with his unparalleled focus.
Kincade was meticulously, if eccentrically dressed in a three piece slate suit and bolo, matching anaconda skin boots and gloves. He wore, as ever, a dark brown leather cowboy hat. The suit was assiduously fit and highlighted Kincade’s impressive, lithe musculature. He looked a young forty. He was much older. Today was his birthday.
With his left hand he silenced the crowd and with his right he reached out and, very gently, touched Farina on the cheek. She responded with more grace than even the richest man in Europe required, inclining her head in the slightest hint of a bow.
Kincade marveled at her complete beauty. “Farina,” he whispered first, and then, loudly to those in attendance, “Farina!”
A new tidal wave of heartfelt applause washed over the small stage arranged in the center of what Kincade referred to as the Grand Hall. Kincade looked again at Farina, who demurred her large eyes with characteristic grace, and thought how lucky he was to have found her – and how he might come to have her.
Another act began, an Indian string trio. The wiry modulation of the citar collided with a sarod and flute and the sounds melded together like colored inks in water. Slowly, the crowd began to mill again as Kincade’s carefully selected evening of global performances continued.
Kincade invited 1000 of the most impressive, wealthy and influential guests to his estate in the French Riviera for what he promised to be the celebration of a lifetime. He did not disappoint. Every culture on Earth was represented, whether in food, art, dress, flora or fauna. And, throughout, to account for Kincade’s American roots, the most indulgent spirit of hedonism money could buy.
Kincade finished another round of mingling, speaking with two dukes, two prime ministers and the King of Denmark, until attention was drawn away by another parade of animalia, this time from the South American continent. A flock of flamingos was herded in through the wide, heavy doors, beginning the display of exotic life, surrounded with handlers and dancers in colorful dress.
The timing was perfect. His feet hurt. The facade of youth Kincade maintained, tonight and always, was taxing to be sure. He took his seat on the absurd gold encrusted platform at the far end of the Grand Hall, and assessed his birthday party. Kincade’s eyes scanned the room in all it’s splendor, a feast of flavors and scents and colors and sensations unlike anything the world had seen since the reign of ancient Rome.
And yet, Kincade was distracted. His mind was drawn to a single mote floating in the chaos. She stood with great purpose, her wide, emotive face composed and sure, and looked back at him. Farina. Farina.
She called to him. He had to have her. Before he could gesture, she began to walk over! Kincade had butterflies. He was a boy again, Farina his fountain of youth.
Down stepped Kincade from his exalted seat and there stood Farina awaiting him. Without a word Farina stole Kincade’s gaze and held onto it. Kincade knew to follow.
Step by enchanted step Kincade went after her, watching the muscles of her back pass through the visual chaos and insanity of the party. Every guest vied for his attention, but Kincade paid them no heed. In all his long life he had never found himself so called to another human being.
Once they reached the main hall the sound of party dimmed and Farina turned to face him. She gave a firm look at a member of the wait staff and he took off swiftly. Then, still silent, she took Kincade’s hand and together they walked up the grand staircase to Kincade’s bedroom.
Standing there beside his bed, fully clothed before the silent might of Farina, Kincade felt naked. The sensation was not unpleasing and he dare not speak for fear of breaking the spell.
Farina stepped forward, raised a slender arm, and placed a single, graceful finger on Kincade’s mouth, bridging his lips. Together they stood in total silence for what seemed to Kincade an erotic eternity.
Then came the first muffled screams, hardly audible but for the silence the room. Kincade blinked and felt something lift from his mind. He smelled smoke on the air. Instinct brought him to the window which overlooked the Great Hall.
The thick crystal windows of the Great Hall appeared to him like open portals into hell. Inside, the mahogany floor, the drapes, the suits and the dresses, everything was burning. Men and women, heads of state and captains of industry, smothered in flames, battered against the unyielding crystal and the wide, heavy doors, which had been barred from the outside. Kincade imagined he saw some of the white tuxed servants standing outside, on their knees in what looked like prayer.
“Jesus.” Kincade spun around into Farina’s blade. He could feel the cold metal tip distinctly as it plunged through his heart.
Farina wore the same expression of passive ease, but now with a hint of sadness.
Kincade tried to process his abject confusion, and failed terribly. The blade still inside his heart, the muscle beating feebly around it, Kincade said the first thing that came to mind.
“But, it’s my 80th birthday.”
Farina leaned in very close, so Kincade could feel her warm breath on his ear. When she spoke it was the same as her song, only even gentler, a voice from the depths of time.
“It’s my thousandth.”
With a tug Farina pulled the knife from it’s lodging and allowed the hot arterial blood to cover her, fulfilling the ritual and, along with the guests, ensuring another millennium of a life hard earned. Hard earned indeed, but worth it.
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