Story: Dancing With My Soul. Chapter 1.

by Andy Engines

It was one of those balmy afternoons where the sun was not too hot and the wind perfect as it tickled over my body cooling just enough to satisfy as I lay basking in the Adriatic sun.  Thoughts of the week before in Vienna played out in my mind as I remembered the magical touch of the music as I danced during the Concordia ball. I was used to extravaganzas, used to money and its power but this had been so much more. One hundred and fifty three years of history gave it something money could never buy back home. It was deeper, soul soothing in its beauty, and … oh so elegant. The past two years had been a black hole in my life and this had helped close the hole in my soul.

Marije had helped me choose a dress and prepare. She had briefed me, taught me and helped me blend in with the old money of Europe. It wasn’t that I was uncouth as I was used to mixing with society. I had grown up with the American elite in privileged money built cocoons; summers in Martha’s Vineyard, the Hamptons, skiing in Aspen, boarding schools and then finishing schools, but I believed the old families of Europe did it better. They did it more elegantly, they didn’t believe bigger was better and ultimately, I believed, they were more cultured. They had the depth of history that we lacked. They observed time honoured traditions and believed that money didn’t necessarily make a person.

Marije had served for old families in Europe before coming to America and ultimately to me. She had a vast knowledge of European etiquette. It was not just her knowledge that I found I desired, but her company as well. She was fast turning into more than a maid to me, I saw her almost as a companion on my travels. My partner in crime. My friend.

It had been a frantic two years since the death of my parents. I was thrown into a funeral I never wanted, thrust into a mountain of paperwork and legal documents by countless lawyers as they acted on pre-defined orders from my father. I was the heir to the fortune, the business and all that my parents had amassed in their all too short lives. I remember sitting and crying as papers were laid in front of me wanting to throw everything away and to crawl sobbing into a dark space. Instead I had dutifully signed every last document until my hand was numb and my mind a warring mass of emotion.

The funeral remained a dark blot on a horizon that refused to disappear and I shrunk from the world. I laid my parents to rest but rest did not come to me. Anguish, despair, depression and grief became my new friends. I gave orders to sell everything, the stocks, the business and released everything that reminded me of what I had lost. It didn’t dawn on me that each sale signified a rise in my fortune. Each sale handled perfectly by the advisors employed originally by my Father made me that little bit richer. Money released was transferred from currency to currency, quietly people followed a deadman’s instructions. They made me ever richer whilst I became ever poorer as the threads of my mind unravelled.

After a year the world had become a distant stranger and I took to wandering more and more around the huge house I once looked on as a home but now saw as a painful reminder of everything I had lost.  It had become my prison. The staff were gone, meals were delivered and I did only that which was needed, the house was a failing mess closely followed by my life.

I fail to remember when exactly it was but I remember it was raining when a constant banging caught my attention. Walking down to the hallway and into the rear of the house I followed the noise to the rear most door of the kitchen. With a start I realised someone was outside and peering out into the rain I could see a girl.

“Can I help you?”

“Miss Valentina Van Den Berg.”

“That would be me.”

My social skills had declined in my isolation and standing looking at her it took me a full minute to realise with a start that she was standing in the rain.

“Please come in out of the rain. Excuse me. I don’t receive callers very often.”

That was my first meeting with Marije Zuzic.

I remembered looking at the puddle forming on the floor as she explained that she was looking for work as a housemaid and that she had heard that I was in need of one. I was affronted as the words left her mouth but as my eyes wandered from the puddle to the unkempt and dusty room I realised for the first time that I did need someone. I did need someone to help in the house. I needed someone to help me.

She was the catalyst that started to open my eyes.

Step by step the house started to change. Curtains long since closed were swept aside and light flooded in to reclaim the darkness. Dusty covers were pulled away exposing beauty and colour. I never realised it but slowly as the house changed I changed; it was so subtle that I didn’t notice until one day I remember waking and a foreign feeling was upon me. I felt alive.

As Marije worked I found myself gravitating to her and realised I yearned the companionship of another human being. Initially I would sit in a room close to her and happily listen to her humming whilst she worked and slowly we started to talk more and more. She was a simple, beautiful soul and had worked her way from a humble home in Croatia to the employment of a very old Viennese family. She had risen from kitchen staff to personal maid and then after 10 years service at the age of 26 she had left with blessings to travel to America to seek her fortune.

The house regained its beauty and yet a true miracle happened that I never would have believed possible. Somewhere in its transformation it became a home again.

The more Marije and I talked the more her timid character slipped away and she shared stories of the family she had worked for. There was no gossip but rather stories about the parties, the balls, events that she had glimpsed through curtains. I found myself spellbound. It was as if a whole world existed that I thought had died out over century ago. It was during these stories that an idea occurred to me, a fledgling idea that grew from the ashes of my despair.

Planning something gave me passion that I had forgotten existed, all too soon I wanted to live, I wanted to savour the world. I wanted to be who I used to be; I wanted my life back. Somehow Marije had breathed life back into first the house and then me. Her stories inspired me and I decided that Europe was calling. I so wanted to witness and taste at least a little of the stories she had told me.

“Mistress, please you will burn.”

Brushing memories aside I looked over my shoulder to see Marije looking over at me with concern. She had arranged everything as she always did, a picnic in a hamper lay prepared on the blanket, sunscreen that I always forgot to use, towels and all the little silly things we all forget to take and then wish we had.

“Val. Its Val or Valentina Marije.” I said to her for the thousandth time, a smile on my face.

She stubbornly refused to use my first name. It was always Miss Van Den Berg or Mistress. I was equally stubborn in that I continued to insist but I knew I had lost this battle months ago. Some things will never change.

She came over to me and started to rub lotion into my body and I could tell by her eyes that she was unhappy at my lack of skin care, but I was young and immortal and worry could come later. Her hands gently massaged the lotion into first my feet and then legs slowly reaching higher. Her touch was so soothing and my eyes slowly closed as I savoured her touch on my sun kissed skin. As her hands reached my inner thighs I found myself expectantly holding my breath wanted her to push a little further.

The afternoon was slowly drawing to a close and I looked over the Adriatic as the sun travelled lower in the sky. We had flown down to Croatia after Vienna and although it was somewhere I knew nothing about I had soon fallen in love with the simple yet breath-taking beauty of the land. Islands dotted the coast and we had rented a small speedboat to explore the beaches and islands, it truly was paradise on earth.

I remembered again how I loved the feel of the wind against my face and hair as I pushed the boat faster as we raced parallel to the beach. Two people on horseback charged across the beach as if in a race with us. I could see the girls hair streaming behind her head as smiling she looked over at us, a hand raised in cheer as we danced over the water. My soul sored even higher and a smile formed on my face that came from deep inside. All those hours playing at the lakes with my parents came back to me as if to pour shadows on the day. My mind flew back to Daddy teaching me how to water-ski and then how to drive the small launch we owned and I felt a tear of emotion as I pictured him teaching me.

A loud bang and an instant lurch of the boat brought me out of my reverie. Without thought I pulled back on the throttle and registered Marije still sitting next to me, she was ok. The boat came to rest and I made my way to the stern and looked out to see what we had hit. There was nothing there.

I had no idea what I had collided with but then memories of hitting a log in our boat with Daddy resurfaced. He had showed me the checks to carry out. All seemed to be ok, we weren’t sinking and the engines were still running. Slowly I engaged the drive again and at a more sedate speed we headed the last 5 miles back to the dock.

As I lay in the soothing bath there was a knock on the door and Marije entered, I could tell there was a problem by the look on her face and assumed there was something wrong with my dress for the evening. I knew Marije had been concerned about the wine stain on the back.

“Marije, don’t worry about the dress, it will be ok.

“Its not the dress Mistress.”

Her face was white and I could sense her shaking.

“What is it?” without thought I sat up in the bath concerned. “Marije what is the problem.”

“Andrija, one of the dock boys, his body has washed up on the beach.”

“Oh my God, the poor soul. What happened.”

I could see her shaking and a sense of dread descended on me.

“He was run over by a boat, his body was cut up by a propeller.” She looked at me for the longest time. “5 miles north of here.”

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