In French, the word for ‘moth’ and ‘butterfly’ is often the same. Papillon. And it was in the wintry haze of the long, dark night that those moths first began to gather — ushered in by the soft candlelight to make their bed among the books.
…
When I arrived at The Stables in Normandy, the house appeared to be empty. Night had fallen during my drive out from Paris and, in that dusky light, there was an eerie solitude to the place. Wandering through each room of the converted stables, I found not a soul about — though there was plenty of evidence that they had recently been there. Paintbrushes and knitting needles, cake tins and notebooks, were all strewn here and there. A coupe of champagne appeared to still have a bubble about it, while the oozing cream of a half-eaten brie suggested the wedge was abandoned mid-snack.
Through the long corridor I walked, poking my head into one dimly-lit room, where an easel was set up and the paint still wet on a pretty landscape. And into another, where a candle was left burning and pages of cursive handwriting were strewn all about the floor.
There was a bite in the air; a cold draft presumably invited in from a window left ajar somewhere. Feeling that chill move through my bones, I stopped for a moment and began to hear the delicate notes of Vivaldi floating upon the breeze. Immediately I was transported to my childhood and the sounds of my mother lulling us to sleep of an evening.
Without even realising it, my feet began to move towards the sound. To step one in front of the other, as if of their own accord. Tracing the music into an open living space at the back of the building, I realised where everyone had gotten to.
A fire was crackling in one corner of the room and about fifteen other creatives were strewn about the space, huddled up on couches or sitting cross-legged on the floor. All of them transfixed by the most bewitching woman I had ever seen. The woman playing piano on a baby grand positioned in the centre of the room.
Though the music itself was dazzling, I was struck first by this woman’s voluptuous beauty. Her thick black hair, braided down her back to her waist, and the scarlet corset of the dress she was wearing — which hugged her shapely curves, then fanned out into layers of ruffled red silk that swept down to her ankles.
There, in the middle of the room, she sat statuesque as her fingers danced lightly across the keys. All around her the audience seemed to be in a trance and not one of them noticed as I slipped into the room and became, myself, enveloped by the music.
From Vivaldi, our majestic pianist flowed on to a beautiful piece I had never heard before. A sweeping yet meditative melody that I guessed was an original composition. And I found myself lost in the world her chords could create. In the lifting sense of transcending the earthly plain and arriving, at last, in peaceful harmony with oneself.
I had the vague sense that my cheeks were wet — with the tears of either nostalgia or augury, I wasn’t sure which.
And then she stopped.
The keys ceased to fall and the room held its breath, as our pianist gathered her composure and took a long, slow sip from her champagne coupe. The coupe that she then proceeded to raise just a little to the room, as if in thanks for our patronage.
Almost as quickly as the music had ended, the cacophony of chatter and laughter took up, bouncing off the walls and back into the centre of the room, where the pianist still sat.
Unsure if it was the taboo thing to do, yet compelled to do so anyway, I began to approach her with my praise for the performance.
‘Hello,’ she greeted me emphatically, as if expecting my arrival.
But before I could respond, a sandy-haired man interrupted to congratulate her.
‘Maryam, that was your finest performance yet. You are going to sail through the recital.’
He embraced her in a tight hug and then returned to his prior conversation with a pixie-like blonde that was standing behind us.
‘You liked it?’ Maryam asked me, then, taking my hand and drawing herself up to a standing position.
‘It was transportive,’ I replied and proceeded to tell her about my mother’s love of Vivaldi and how it had shaped much of my childhood.
As I was telling this story, Maryam picked up a bottle of champagne and began to refill not just her own coupe, but also those of the people standing nearby to her — the short, ruffled sleeves of her scarlet dress fluttering about as she did so. Seemingly out of nowhere, she procured a coupe for me as well and, before I could blink, we were toasting to the night.
‘Tonight is the winter solstice,’ Maryam told me, then. ‘Each year I compose a song especially for this occasion. And that final piece was it.’
‘What a beautiful tradition,’ I raised my glass to clink with hers.
‘It flows through me, as though quite outside of my conscious creativity,’ she explained. ‘So it is less of a tradition than a creative necessity. It usually begins with a dream one or two nights before the solstice and is only fully realised once I play it on the night itself. But I was especially hesitant to play this year.’
At that moment, we were interrupted again by another well-wisher, kissing Maryam on both cheeks and singing their praises of her performance.
I found myself swept up in the conversation of our sandy-haired friend from earlier, Pierre, who was talking to his pixie-like companion Inès. Pierre, I gathered, was a sculptor and Inès a celebrated novelist.
‘Last year,’ she whispered to Pierre just within my earshot, ‘Maryam’s composition told the tale of a young ballerina who would draw her final breath and be swallowed up by a sibling. Then one week to the day later, our Celeste — a principal ballerina for the Paris Opéra Ballet — died quite suddenly in a car accident.’
Pierre drew in a sharp breath, but I quickly realised that it was intended in jest.
‘Do you know how common car accidents are, my dear?’ He tossed an arm around her shoulders with affectionate teasing.
‘Yes,‘ Inès responded a little huffily. ‘Well, anyway, her sister Solene has Celeste’s position in the Paris Ballet now and she was understandably reticent to come along this evening.
‘Coffee?’ I felt a hand upon my forearm, then, and turned with just the slightest start to see Maryam standing before me. She was smiling widely and whisking me away towards the kitchen quarters.
…
In French, the word for ‘moth’ and ‘butterfly’ is often the same. Papillon. And it was in the wintry haze of the long, dark night that those moths first began to gather — ushered in by the soft candlelight to make their bed among the books.
…
When I arrived at The Stables in Normandy, the house appeared to be empty. Night had fallen during my drive out from Paris and, in that dusky light, there was an eerie solitude to the place. Wandering through each room of the converted stables, I found not a soul about — though there was plenty of evidence that they had recently been there. Paintbrushes and knitting needles, cake tins and notebooks, were all strewn here and there. A coupe of champagne appeared to still have a bubble about it, while the oozing cream of a half-eaten brie suggested the wedge was abandoned mid-snack.
Through the long corridor I walked, poking my head into one dimly-lit room, where an easel was set up and the paint still wet on a pretty landscape. And into another, where a candle was left burning and pages of cursive handwriting were strewn all about the floor.
There was a bite in the air; a cold draft presumably invited in from a window left ajar somewhere. Feeling that chill move through my bones, I stopped for a moment and began to hear the delicate notes of Vivaldi floating upon the breeze. Immediately I was transported to my childhood and the sounds of my mother lulling us to sleep of an evening.
Without even realising it, my feet began to move towards the sound. To step one in front of the other, as if of their own accord. Tracing the music into an open living space at the back of the building, I realised where everyone had gotten to.
A fire was crackling in one corner of the room and about fifteen other creatives were strewn about the space, huddled up on couches or sitting cross-legged on the floor. All of them transfixed by the most bewitching woman I had ever seen. The woman playing piano on a baby grand positioned in the centre of the room.
Though the music itself was dazzling, I was struck first by this woman’s voluptuous beauty. Her thick black hair, braided down her back to her waist, and the scarlet corset of the dress she was wearing — which hugged her shapely curves, then fanned out into layers of ruffled red silk that swept down to her ankles.
There, in the middle of the room, she sat statuesque as her fingers danced lightly across the keys. All around her the audience seemed to be in a trance and not one of them noticed as I slipped into the room and became, myself, enveloped by the music.
From Vivaldi, our majestic pianist flowed on to a beautiful piece I had never heard before. A sweeping yet meditative melody that I guessed was an original composition. And I found myself lost in the world her chords could create. In the lifting sense of transcending the earthly plain and arriving, at last, in peaceful harmony with oneself.
I had the vague sense that my cheeks were wet — with the tears of either nostalgia or augury, I wasn’t sure which.
And then she stopped.
The keys ceased to fall and the room held its breath, as our pianist gathered her composure and took a long, slow sip from her champagne coupe. The coupe that she then proceeded to raise just a little to the room, as if in thanks for our patronage.
Almost as quickly as the music had ended, the cacophony of chatter and laughter took up, bouncing off the walls and back into the centre of the room, where the pianist still sat.
Unsure if it was the taboo thing to do, yet compelled to do so anyway, I began to approach her with my praise for the performance.
‘Hello,’ she greeted me emphatically, as if expecting my arrival.
But before I could respond, a sandy-haired man interrupted to congratulate her.
‘Maryam, that was your finest performance yet. You are going to sail through the recital.’
He embraced her in a tight hug and then returned to his prior conversation with a pixie-like blonde that was standing behind us.
‘You liked it?’ Maryam asked me, then, taking my hand and drawing herself up to a standing position.
‘It was transportive,’ I replied and proceeded to tell her about my mother’s love of Vivaldi and how it had shaped much of my childhood.
As I was telling this story, Maryam picked up a bottle of champagne and began to refill not just her own coupe, but also those of the people standing nearby to her — the short, ruffled sleeves of her scarlet dress fluttering about as she did so. Seemingly out of nowhere, she procured a coupe for me as well and, before I could blink, we were toasting to the night.
‘Tonight is the winter solstice,’ Maryam told me, then. ‘Each year I compose a song especially for this occasion. And that final piece was it.’
‘What a beautiful tradition,’ I raised my glass to clink with hers.
‘It flows through me, as though quite outside of my conscious creativity,’ she explained. ‘So it is less of a tradition than a creative necessity. It usually begins with a dream one or two nights before the solstice and is only fully realised once I play it on the night itself. But I was especially hesitant to play this year.’
At that moment, we were interrupted again by another well-wisher, kissing Maryam on both cheeks and singing their praises of her performance.
I found myself swept up in the conversation of our sandy-haired friend from earlier, Pierre, who was talking to his pixie-like companion Inès. Pierre, I gathered, was a sculptor and Inès a celebrated novelist.
‘Last year,’ she whispered to Pierre just within my earshot, ‘Maryam’s composition told the tale of a young ballerina who would draw her final breath and be swallowed up by a sibling. Then one week to the day later, our Celeste — a principal ballerina for the Paris Opéra Ballet — died quite suddenly in a car accident.’
Pierre drew in a sharp breath, but I quickly realised that it was intended in jest.
‘Do you know how common car accidents are, my dear?’ He tossed an arm around her shoulders with affectionate teasing.
‘Yes,‘ Inès responded a little huffily. ‘Well, anyway, her sister Solene has Celeste’s position in the Paris Ballet now and she was understandably reticent to come along this evening.
‘Coffee?’ I felt a hand upon my forearm, then, and turned with just the slightest start to see Maryam standing before me. She was smiling widely and whisking me away towards the kitchen quarters.
…
“I had the vague sense that my cheeks were wet — with the tears of either nostalgia or augury, I wasn’t sure which.”
Once we were alone, Maryam set a little cezve saucepan to boil and prepared two tiny ceramic cups for us to drink from. There was pie upon the counter — baked by someone called Marc and arranged in the most beautiful rose pattern. It smelled as though it was infused with rosewater, too.
‘I love your dress,’ I told Maryam then, as she whirled about the kitchen.
‘Oh thank you! I make all my own clothes actually,’ she told me. ‘Because I got so sick and tired of never finding anything decent in my size.’
Having grown up in Egypt, Maryam explained that she learned how to sew from her mother — who made and mended all of the family’s clothes back home.
‘My mother was quite a troubled soul, though,’ she continued. ‘She frequently suffered from intense migraines, in which she would conjure up the most outlandish visions.’
Maryam began pouring the coffee, then added: ‘Visions she was convinced were prophetic.’
Once the coffee was poured, we began sipping the thick, dark liquid that was sweetened up with sugar. And she asked me quite out of nowhere: ‘Do you like moths?’
It took me a moment to process and respond to this question.
‘Yes,’ I said finally. ‘I suppose their markings are quite fascinating to me.’
‘My mother was Egyptian,’ she explained, ‘but my father has Celtic blood and he always told me to be wary of moths. That they symbolise a death in the family.’
There was a pregnant pause.
‘Oh, I have never heard that before,’ I said truthfully.
‘Yes, but it is so. And my solstice dream this year was of moths living in the bookshelves, laying a curse upon the commune.’
I let that sink in for a moment, unsure of quite how to respond.
‘Papillon,’ she trailed off — her fingers tapping upon the zinc kitchen counter, as if still keeping tune.
….
Once we were alone, Maryam set a little cezve saucepan to boil and prepared two tiny ceramic cups for us to drink from. There was pie upon the counter — baked by someone called Marc and arranged in the most beautiful rose pattern. It smelled as though it was infused with rosewater, too.
‘I love your dress,’ I told Maryam then, as she whirled about the kitchen.
‘Oh thank you! I make all my own clothes actually,’ she told me. ‘Because I got so sick and tired of never finding anything decent in my size.’
Having grown up in Egypt, Maryam explained that she learned how to sew from her mother — who made and mended all of the family’s clothes back home.
‘My mother was quite a troubled soul, though,’ she continued. ‘She frequently suffered from intense migraines, in which she would conjure up the most outlandish visions.’
Maryam began pouring the coffee, then added: ‘Visions she was convinced were prophetic.’
Once the coffee was poured, we began sipping the thick, dark liquid that was sweetened up with sugar. And she asked me quite out of nowhere: ‘Do you like moths?’
It took me a moment to process and respond to this question.
‘Yes,’ I said finally. ‘I suppose their markings are quite fascinating to me.’
‘My mother was Egyptian,’ she explained, ‘but my father has Celtic blood and he always told me to be wary of moths. That they symbolise a death in the family.’
There was a pregnant pause.
‘Oh, I have never heard that before,’ I said truthfully.
‘Yes, but it is so. And my solstice dream this year was of moths living in the bookshelves, laying a curse upon the commune.’
I let that sink in for a moment, unsure of quite how to respond.
‘Papillon,’ she trailed off — her fingers tapping upon the zinc kitchen counter, as if still keeping tune.
….
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