When I reached the lobby I was aware of my inevitable ignorance. Where was the study? How could I find it, if I barely managed to get to the hall? Before sinking into despair I was saved by the providential intervention of Mrs Mc Millian who had a broad smile on her thin face.
“Miss Bruno, I was just about to call you...” She took a quick glance at the clock on the wall. “You’re on time! You’re really a rare pearl! Are you sure you have Italian origins, and not Swiss?” She laughed at her own punch line.
I smiled politely, adjusting my step to hers as she climbed the stairs. We passed the door of my bedroom, apparently directed down the hall, towards a thick door.
Without interrupting her chatter, she knocked on the door three times, and opened it.
I stood behind her, my legs trembling as she peered into the room.
“Mr Mc Laine... Miss Bruno is here.”
"It’s about time. She’s late”. The voice sounded rough and rude.
The housekeeper broke out in a loud laughter; she was used to her employer’s ill humour.
“Just by a minute, sir. Don’t forget she got here. I made her lose time because...”
“Let her in, Millicent.” His interruption was abrupt, almost like a whip, and I jumped in place of the other woman who, unscathed, turned to look at me.
“Mr Mc Laine is awaiting you Miss Bruno. Please, come in.”
The woman retreated, waving me in. I gave her a last worried look. Trying to encourage me, she whispered “Good luck.”
It had the opposite effect on me. My brain was reduced to a liquefied pulp, devoid of logic, or knowledge of time and space.
I dared a shy step inside the room. Before I saw anything I heard his voice dismissing someone.
“You can go Kyle. See you tomorrow. Be on time please. I won’t tolerate further delays.”
A man was standing, a few feet away from me, tall and vital. He stared at me and greeted me with a nod of his head and he sent me an appreciative glance as he walked past me.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening,” I replied, staring at him longer than needed in order to delay the moment in which I would make a fool of myself; I was sure that I would have let Mrs Mc Millian down, and lose my silly hopes.
The door closed behind me, and I remembered my good manners.
“Good evening, Mr Mc Laine. My name is Melisande Bruno, I’m from London and...”
“Spare me your list of skills, Miss Bruno. Which is quite modest, anyhow.” The voice was now bored.
My eyes lifted, finally ready to meet those of my opponent. And when they did, I thanked God for having greeted him first. Because now it would’ve been hard for me to even remember my name.
He was sitting behind the desk, on his wheelchair, one hand outstretched on the edge, touching the wood, the other playing with an ink pen, his dark eyes locked on mine, unfathomable. Again, I regretted not being able to see colours. I would have given a year of my life to distinguish the colours of his face and hair. But such joy was forbidden to me. Without appeal. In a flicker of rationality I realized that he was gorgeous: his face of an unnatural pallor, black eyes, shaded by long lashes, black, wavy and thick hair.
“Are you mute, by chance? Or deaf?”
I dropped back down on earth, precipitating from dizzying heights. I could almost to hear my limbs crashing on the ground. A loud and frightening rumble, followed by a scary and devastating crunch.
“Excuse me, I was distracted,” I whispered, blushing instantly.
He looked at me with exaggerated attention. It seemed as though he was memorizing every single feature of my face, dwelling on my throat. I blushed even more. For the first time in my life I longed for my birth defect to be shared by another human being. It would have been less embarrassing if Mr Mc Laine, in his aristocratic and triumphant beauty, couldn’t notice the redness flowing violently over every inch of my skin.
I swayed on my feet uncomfortably, under his blatant examination. He continued his scrutiny, gazing at my hair.
“You should die your hair. Or else people might mistake it for fire. I wouldn’t want you to end up under the assault of a hundred fire extinguishers.” His inscrutable expression got a little animated, and a sparkle of amusement shone in his eyes.
“I didn’t choose this colour,” I said, gathering all the dignity I was capable of. “The Lord did.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you religious, Miss Bruno?”
“Are you, sir?”
He placed the pen on his desk, without taking his eyes off of me. “There is no proof that God exists.”
“Or that he doesn’t exist,” I replied with a challenging tone, surprising even myself for the vehemence with which I spoke.
His lips curled into a mocking smile, and then he pointed to the upholstered armchair. “Sit down”. It was an order, rather than an invitation. Nevertheless, I obeyed instantly.
“You didn’t answer my question, Miss Bruno. Are you religious?”
“I'm a believer, Mr Mc Laine,” I said quietly. “But I'm not much of a church-goer. In fact, I never do.”
“Scotland is one of the few Anglo-Saxon nations to practice Catholicism with unparalleled dedication and devotion.” His sarcasm was unmistakable. “I'm the exception that confirms the rule... Isn’t that so? Let's just say that I only believe in myself, and in what I can touch.”
He leaned back on the wheelchair, tapping on the armrests with his fingertips. Yet I didn’t, for a second, have the impression that he was vulnerable or fragile. His expression was that of a person who had escaped flames, and is not afraid of jumping back into them, if he considered it necessary. Or simply, if he felt like it. I pulled my gaze away from his face. It was bright, almost translucent, a glossy bright white, unlike the faces I was used to seeing. It was demanding to look at him, and even listening to his hypnotic voice. He seemed a snake charmer, and any woman would be delighted to suffer his enchantment, and the secret spell stemming from him, from that perfect face and from his mocking glance.
“So you’re my new secretary, Miss Bruno.”
“If you confirm my job, Mr Mc Laine,” I said, looking up.
He smiled ambiguously. “Why shouldn’t I hire you? Because you don’t go to church on Sundays? You must think I’m very shallow if you believe that I’ll send you away or... keep you here on the basis of our short chat.”
“Likewise I don’t know you enough to make such an unflattering judgment on you,” I agreed smiling. “I’m aware, however, that a profitable employment relationship also arises from an immediate liking and from a favourable first impression.”
His laughter was so unexpected that I jumped. With the same suddenness with which it was born, it died. He stared at me coldly.
“Do you really think it’s easy to find employees willing to move to this village forgotten by God and the world, distant from any fun, mall or disco? You were the only one who answered the ad, Miss Bruno.”
The amusement was lurking behind the frost in his eyes. A sheet of black ice, broken by a thin crack of good humour that warmed my soul.
“Then I won’t have to worry about the competition,” I said, folding my hands nervously in my lap.
He studied me again, with the same irritating curiosity with which he would gaze at a rare animal.
I swallowed my saliva, displaying a fictitious and dangerously precarious ease. For a moment, just enough to formulate a