The Lost Umbrella- Part III

Open gates of such royal mansions are always a bad omen. They welcome you with open arms to unravel their secrets hiding inside large mahogany doors with rusty locks and dusty handles, and slow poison you with curiosity until you decay with a mundane finality into boney ruggedness. Mr. Hansen was never a curious man and hence was immune to such open gates. But tonight, his hands were shaking with curious anticipation when he pushed the gate. The cautious hands took an eternity to open it. He slid his body through the little gap it offered and paused, his body taut, expectant. There was no one around. Hurried steps pattered away along the zigzags towards the façade of the “House of Sharpe.”

Although Mr. Hansen’s brain was already fuzzy with logics and counter-logics about his recent actions quite contrary to his persona, he couldn’t help but notice all the cactuses here and there, carefully nurtured, by the natural instinct of a gardener. Never had he seen such a large variety of cactuses at display inside a mansion of such stature. The owner has a queer taste of gardening, he thought. Or he might just be like those cactuses. Mr. Hansen shivered a little at this thought, but his legs didn’t pause or retard.

The magnificent edifice stood tall with all its loneliness and haunted glory. As he neared, he saw that through the window of the ground floor room of the east corner that was facing him, a shimmering light emanated, mystical, enchanting, and most of all, alluring. Mr. Hansen approached towards the light like a possessed somnambulist on an awakening quest.

The window was at a fair height for a plump and short man like Mr. Hansen. He need not duck. He could stand there and eavesdrop without getting caught unless his impatience pushed him towards some tomfoolery. And so he did. For a brief period of 10 minutes, trivial orders and tinkling of tea-cups slowed the time painfully. Mr. Hansen was afraid whether he would finally give in under the surging impatience.

But a tap on his shoulder made his head spun and look up with alarming speed. The scream that left him the next moment was unlikely from a man of his size, enough for the windows to swing open the next instant. A man of towering height and lean physique was gazing down upon him with a scythe whose blades shone proudly under the lights through the open windows. A pair of surprisingly still eyes was fixed upon him bulging through the hooded void. The man did not kill him. It kept gazing. He now looked up. A man with a long neck and velvet bow-tie was staring at him through the window. He seemed amused. A somber voice asked,” Who is it, Solomon?” The long neck answered with a shrill, high-pitched voice, ”A man without sharp features, master.” “Well, he is a guest of ours, untimely, but still, a guest. Bring him in.”

Mr. Hansen, for a moment, contemplated running as an option until he looked up to see the shining scythe. A side-door opened. Long neck came out with the rest of his surprisingly thin frame. The shrill voice announced with an assuring smile, “Master wants you to be our guest” and extended his hand.

Mr. Hansen was now a man trapped by open gates and fewest choices. He took slow, fearful steps and entered through the door. It had to be a small room for the pensive moments of the owner. The “master” was sitting cozily on a couch of finest Morocco leather with his back turned towards him, with newspapers over his face, as he scrutinized them intensely. The door closed. Long neck was standing waiting for his master’s order with mechanical obedience.

But the next order was for Mr. Hansen. “Come, Sit”, the voice said, “you look shaken. Suffering of an old man, I presume? Solomon, bring him a glass of pomegranate shake. The guest must be tired with craning necks and long journeys.” Mr. Hansen took measured steps and sat down on the couch before the “master”, his face reddened with guilt.

Refreshments arrived in due time. He drank to his heart’s content, completely forgetting the embarrassment for few seconds. All these time, he was sitting silently on the couch looking at the man with curious eyes, waiting for the veil of Evening Times to come down to reveal the man. But the man seemed to possess some other plans.

Just as Mr. Hansen put the glass down cautiously with a soft thud upon the glass table, the sound of folding papers made him look up. He was still holding the glass when the man looked into his eyes and asked with an eerie solemnity, ”So, Mr. Hansen, I assume you are looking for your umbrella?”

The Lost Umbrella: Part II

A wailing gale ran errands as nature was slowly harnessing its eccentric torrent. They found Mr. Hansen an easy prey, helpless, clueless yet restless. Oddly enough, the man shortened and slowed his steps in a rhythmic pattern to Mr. Hansen’s momentary delight which took little time to shift to horror and bewilderment. His home was nearing fast. Surely this man cannot be approaching his home? That would be too much even for such a queer turn of events.

But dreads and anticipations again took a back seat as the man calmly walked past the tiny house with oak doors and a little garden, a lonely widower’s muse. Mr. Hansen was never a curious man. He believed curiosity was the mother of destruction. He loved his little world of few neighbours and fewer headaches, which is why Mr. Hansen was having a particular trouble with this man. For once, Mr. Hansen was curious about a person without a face. And he was following him religiously.

Mr. Hansen’s disturbingly distracting dilemmas met a premature end as the man came to a sudden halt at a distance. Good god! Time is a fickle friend. They had arrived at the town border. Mr. Hansen was surprised that he had walked a distance within a few halves of hours which he wouldn’t have done in quite a few weeks of afternoon walks. Oh, procrastination, thou evil! Mr. Hansen rubbed his glasses clumsily with his thumbs and put them on to get a better vista of what was awaiting him along this winding path of events.

The vista was terrific, may be terrifying too. The man was standing before a colossal mansion with Victorian architecture standing alone like some prehistoric animal left behind with urban haste. The long, curved slants of the entrance gate met at two modestly high pillars with pointed ends. Interestingly, the pointy ends were of metal finish and that looked like a recent addition. He needed to be discreet now.  Crouching behind a magnolia bush, Mr. Hansen looked closely again. Even though his body twitched a little protesting against childish eccentricities and voyeuristic nuisances, he couldn’t help but notice a portly man was waiting in front of the gate on the other side of it. The gate opened. The possibility of that person being a servant was next to obvious. Mr. Hansen understood that the possibility of regaining the possession of his precious was becoming thinner, as once the gate was closed, he was left with no option but to return home with a vain and foolish attempt that would only strengthen his singular belief - Curiosity is the mother of destruction.

But the man who was without face all these time lowered his umbrella as his servant had held his own over his head and turned towards the magnolia bush. He was looking at it intensely. Mr. Hansen held his breath nervously. He surely didn’t notice him? He was keeping a more than safe distance. No, he didn’t. The man turned again and then walked briskly along the pebbled zigzags towards his home, palace rather. The Servant took a few seconds to look around before closing the gate in a carefully slow manner and walked away in pursuit of his master. Mr. Hansen, although remained cynical of it, felt as if the servant took an extra second to look in the direction of the magnolia bush.

On another day, he would have walked away with dejection and defeat without taking another step ahead. On another day, Mr. Hansen would not have gone out for an evening walk. But today was not another day. He collected himself and walked hurriedly towards the gate for one final clue. On the right side of the entrance column, a steel plaque had these words Curved-“Maison de Sharpe, 1867.” Sharpe, it rings a bell, he thought harder. Lost in thoughts, Mr. Hansen looked at the gates now. His body went numb, his eyes wide, his legs stoned to ground.

The gate was not locked. It was still open.