Lilith

By Philip Matthews

A woman should have written this novel. A man could get lost in all the fantasies, not having direct access to a woman’s soul. So bear this in mind when reading LILITH.
The story is simple. A man has a purpose in reuniting his incarnated and spiritual entities, of profound significance for the destiny of mankind. The woman has a role here as a kind of midwife, her gift a special light to help man find his path in the dark. A woman might want to imitate the man and seek to unite her incarnate self with her spiritual part. This is not possible, but that would not keep a woman from wanting to unite them anyway.
LILITH tells the story of one such woman. It will show you the source of her overwhelmingly powerful desire and detail the extraordinary lengths she will go to achieve her goal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Matthews
• Release date: Dec 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370202171

Philip Matthews

Writer's life, hidden, frugal, self-absorbed, no TV or social media, a few good friends - but the inner life, ahhhhh. Recommend it to anyone.

Book preview

PREFACE

A woman should have written this novel. A man could get lost in all the fantasies, not having direct access to a woman’s soul. So bear this in mind when reading LILITH.

The story is simple. A man has a purpose in reuniting his incarnated and spiritual entities, of profound significance for the destiny of mankind. The woman has a role here as a kind of midwife, her gift a special light to help man find his path in the dark. A woman might want to imitate the man and seek to unite her incarnate self with her spiritual part. This is not possible, but that would not keep a woman from wanting to unite them anyway.

LILITH tells the story of one such woman. It will show you the source of her overwhelmingly powerful desire and detail the extraordinary lengths she will go to achieve her goal.

It might be that this woman is completely deluded, and yet she might even so achieve something of lasting value, if not for herself, then for other woman who might be tempted to follow on this path of Lilith.

2 October 2017

THE CHATEAU

‘Fortitude. You reach for grace and all you get is fortitude.’

This is an example of what I had to listen to at first here. I was told this was a routine assignment, just another biog of another nut. The trouble is, this woman is not mad. No one will want to know about her. I mean, she is still strange, but I have never met a more cultured person in my life. Like she carried all her knowledge so lightly.

So far, I have had coffee with her. It took an hour, no less. She is a queen in her composure, a servant in her ministrations, a beautiful woman in her mind. She reaches so well – you suddenly think you are the only man alive – her long hands moulding an airy world for you. Everything was lit so clearly, a golden glow – hackneyed as that image is – and she moved through this floating world with grace and candour.

We will dine in an hour’s time. But before that, I’ll fill you in on what I have learned so far. She is rich, as might be expected, in fact very rich. She is of Anglo-French origin, fifty nine years old, and famous for precisely nothing. She says that there will be only one audience for this work, though she has not so far told me anything about this audience. But I have managed to dig out a few facts about her. She is by profession a solicitor, one that came into a large fortune in her mid-thirties. I’m still surprised there was no news about that at the time. I’m mean, Dan, this woman is a virgin. She didn’t marry for it. When I asked her – the first time – about it, she just said ‘One gets what one needs.’

I admit I was irritated by that answer. I could not believe that she was so selfish – not when she is so generous to me – so that I felt strongly pressed to ask her again, referring to the possibility of theft. This time she came and sat by me. Her perfume raises you, slowly but steadily, on a bed of roses. Her hand hovered over my wrist, so that I was afraid she was going to clutch me, which I would hate. And I think she was – no, she was not going to touch me. It was like there was a barrier of some kind between us. I think she drew some an energy from me. Not frightened at that stage, for I could see how she used that energy to make herself seem impossibly close to me, shaping herself to the barrier that seems to surround me. Then she said, deliberately:

‘Two rules: take what you need, give nothing in return. And that’s about all it is."

And still I wonder, you know, could she possibly be so selfish? In my experience, Fred, selfishness is always offset in one way or another. There seems to be no offset here, unless you think culture is a virtue. Is she being ironic in an exalted way – she has the cast of mind for it? I told you that she is a very beautiful woman. You need to grasp that fully. You would never tire of looking at her, no matter her condition. She is not dried out, in the way that the mean-spirited become.

And what if she is being sincere? Why should it not happen that way? As a reward for help given, I mean. What help could she give that was worth a fortune to some man – and it was a man, I’m sure of that? It makes me curious. I could not see what this aging woman could give me that was worth anything at all. Perhaps I am not that kind of man. To me, this woman is a fantasy, only that. I am already fascinated by her, but I know that by next weekend I will be back in Ontario again. Yes, it is an indulgence. And yes, one that I am enjoying very much.

But, seriously, what could this spoiled nun give me, who seems never to have given a man anything at all? That is what she said: give nothing in return.

It has to be theft, one way or the other. Probably cajoled it out of some old lad in a home somewhere. No. I cannot believe she is that callous. Look, believe me, lads, that this woman waits on me with a curious kind of equality. It’s like she has been waiting for me for a long time. It’s like she thinks that I am a fantasy too!

Yes. There’s something in that, Dan. It has that kind of feel here, like we’re in the same place, but watching different movies.

Must go now. Speak to you later.

Don’t think it will work here, Dan. I mean, we’re floating around here. There are servants of all kinds, always one at my elbow. Such grace and deference. We sat for an hour in a large room filled with pictures – both photos and paintings. We sat side by side on a divan, covered by a satin brocade coloured the merest pink. The wine was weak, a Loire rosé of exceptional subtlety, that lingered on the palate. Our glasses were never empty, yet we spoke not a word. There was a peace I had never experienced before. I have never felt so rested in my life. And when she moved to go, believe me but I was at her side instantly. I was so alert in myself, and yet there was only silence.

She carries herself in a curious manner. It must be her French heritage, but I could see her as though we walked the sand of a Mediterranean beach. You know how a woman swings her body, breasts forward, when fully relaxed. Like that, only she seems also to walk as though we were both on parade. I walked close beside her, but all the time I wondered how I appeared to her. She looked at me often, and I could tell that her eyes did travel over me, very discreetly.

You guys know what a scruff I can be. But I did clean myself up for this gig. Samuels made that very clear to me. But even so, how must I look walking at the side of this woman. Do you know what wet crimson is like? Hard to match, but her dress was of that colour. A kind of taffeta, I’d say, the dress composed of layers of very fine cloth. This must be how she can achieve such a bright and intense red. The colour is that livid. Barbara advised me to wear black, tight and loose. You’d want to see those two colours together, lads. But I don’t have her serenity. I feel I am tumbling along in her wake, like dust on her heels.

Oops. Not sure I should put it quite like that. It was strange that I could see her so well – when the park we were crossing was dimly lit, though the pathway was clear – and see how her body moved. My intuition that she is a virgin I think is true. She moves her body as though it existed in a world of its own. No man had even laid claim to her body. It was the flow of her body that captivated me: the thrust of her hips, the suppleness of her neck, the utter exposure she permitted to my gaze. Yes, a body like any other, but so alive just then.

But a face is a strange and wonderful thing to behold. The surface of the soul. Always look for light in the faces of others. It’s not always there, even so, still look for light anyway. Some hide their light from others, fearing some unimaginable loss. The face beside me spoke a noble soul, patient, expectant, ready to greet. And again I wondered: how does my face seem? Is there even light there in my face? In her crimson dress, she looked just like a birthday candle all lit up. How do I appear, ashen atop a dark stump?

Then she said to me, turning her head so she faced me:

‘In the evening air, you see, dear man, you see the ease of the Earth."

I did falter then. I’m not stupid, so I know the limits of my own intelligence. I simply did not understand her. I knew what she said to me. I even knew much of what she meant there. But in her face I saw so much more. Not that she did not express herself well, but what interest had I in the Earth when I could see into Heaven in her face? What could I say to her? She already knows that I am dark and deep, not at all worthy. But I am here with this woman – that must count for something. I know this is an assignment and must be finished by Friday. But you do not know this woman.

I see eternity in her face.

I am in a small Chateau in the Midi. Beautiful countryside all about. Tomorrow morning I will ask this woman a lot of awkward questions. If not altogether true, a biog must at least seem true. Will I see eternity in her face again tomorrow? What will I do then? I would be a slave to this woman, a heavenly slave. So all I can say is, speaking as calmly as I could,

‘We can trust the Earth to have ease."

She understood me at once:

‘And the heavens have their depth?"

That’s when I knew I liked her, regardless of the business between us. That’s how we connected – with a falsity that was in fact a code. Like there is a middle ground where truth cannot enter. The façade of deceit, where the real is disguised, but naked to our gaze. Her soul is like a long hallway, dimly lit, a warm room at its end. My soul – just to keep a balance here – is like a pool at night, still and dark.

You need to keep a balance here, Dan. Bear in mind that I am myself unchanged – as you will see early on Saturday morning – simply that I see in her everything that I have ever wanted to see.

I said to her anyway, pausing on the path for a while – wanting to look about me:

‘The heavens have their delight, dear lady."

She liked that, as I knew she would. Do you understand us yet? Is our love real or pure fantasy? Do you know the answer yet?

She has stopped by me, to my right and a little forward. She raises her left hand in a mild flourish, the soft light of the garden scintillating on her nails.

‘And we are here in its pale light?"

And suddenly it was real. I was in the company of a very beautiful and accomplished woman in a garden in the moonlight. And I knew I had only three days to get to know her. How could this be done?

No. We did not embrace in the moonlight, swearing everlasting devotion. No need. As I have said, I have only three more days with this woman.

But we both knew that we were already in eternity. That is what we discovered a little while ago. You see, while for me the heavens are full of light, they are a sink of darkness to her. Yet more, she finds a promise in that darkness. And what do I look for in her Heaven? Nothing, strangely. I am content to see Heaven. That is sufficient.

So we went on into the house by the side door that leads into the private room she likes. There we awaited the call to dinner. Should I describe the room? It is a perfect cube attached to the Chateau by a short corridor. The walls are white, the ceiling is white and the carpet is wet crimson in tone, very active. We drink a thin sherry from little glasses. The paintings she showed me were very vivid, mostly modern but some interesting old masterworks.

There’s a feature of pictorial art that always unsettles me. I look at a painting and I always ask myself, What is missing? You know, to take your eyes off this world and be content with a painted substitute seems very strange to me. What would draw you out then?

I asked her:

‘Do you have any movies?"

I was surprised at myself then. What is a moving image but an act of deferring. There is no end to the moving image; there cannot be, for how can we have stillness now, when we have broken the spell?

The woman moves away from me then, brushing down her dress with spread hands, nails like meteor flashes. She turns then, pivoting on a heel, her hip swinging towards me. She smiles at me.

Get the picture? Yes. The woman is the movie.

I smile, of course, feeling myself slipping back down into fantasy. And who am I in this movie? Yes, I move darkly: an absence and yet so near to you. Not Beauty and the Beast, more like the Prince and the Doe.

Does the woman understand that, do you think? An arrow, for instance. Pierce her and bring her down to earth. Yes, she does, for she answered:

‘As needs to be entered so that Beauty can tame the man."

This is the woman’s tale, a catalogue of closures. Does a woman see only the mirror? Where the man reaches for what he sees as in a window, is the woman content to be a mere receptacle?

I ask her as I turn away from this particular daub,

‘And what if the man is content to witness your beauty?"

Not as cavalier as it might seem. I’m telling her that the man might not be enraptured by her beauty. I don’t contemplate seduction. I am happily married, my wife waiting for me at home, used by now to my excursions. And it seems the woman can accept that fact without the merest qualm.

The Housekeeper greeted us in the hall, very civil and composed. The hall is a relief from that utterly utilitarian annexe. A timeless quality, a study of mastery in a way – how we try to write some heaven into the Earth’s permissive soil.

I mean, you see the perfection and know at once that it is simply not true. It is only imagery. I could see then why the woman could like the annexe and its greater reach. That’s not real, either – should you think otherwise – but it seemed for her that all the movement in that room had a direction.

We were very quiet as we followed the Housekeeper into the Dining Room. The chandeliers are meant to seem as though too heavy. It was that sort of room: where there is no protection at all.

I am not a meek man, but my regard, let me say, is open to all. On the table was a red candle, already lit. At once, I was the glow that encircled that candle. We did not speak throughout the dinner, only eyes to meet across the table. But the thing about eyes – if you think about it – is that they are windows into the soul. How my soul appeared to her as hers opened me to everything I could not tell. Should I trust her? Do I want her to tell me who I am?

Has she done this before? That’s what I thought at once. But I am not rich, there’s nothing she can take from me. Why would she do that for me for nothing? Perhaps because she has everything now. Whatever about the ostentation, she has not been changed by it. Still always the first girl for anything. As she told me, if you need it then take it.

That’s when I first began to think about what I might have that she would want. I don’t know what she wants. Is it just to be seen, do you think? So she can smile and do grace very well. Does she want to see herself in me?

Why am I impressed? What if she comes to me, what do I say? Only that I don’t believe it. Yet I ask, why does she do this, knowing it is only a mask. So I ask,

‘What do you want?"

At once, the room went quiet, servant withdrawing quickly. She leans across the table and asks ardently:

‘Can you help me. Please."

How could I have expected that? Not that the universe shifted or anything, but it was a transportation even so. Like I was donning a new skin. I think I would have gone down on one knee if I had not been sitting at the table across from her.

It wasn’t that I mastered her, nothing like that. I’ll tell you the secret of this woman now, just for the record. She is not worth it. That is how she thinks of herself. Even so, I felt close to her. Not love, in case you are thinking that. No, more like we had known each other always. A simple familiarity. So I said frankly:

‘How could I help you?"

‘Advice, if you will."

The candour is real, believe me. And when I said I would certainly help in whatever way I could, the change in her was almost instantaneous. Gone was all the charm and vanity, and in their place she was alert and ready.

You have no idea how this woman presses forward as she rises from the table, drawing the skirt of her dress carefully in her wake. She is still a very beautiful woman, no less. She reaches for my hand, so that I must scramble to my feet to meet her. She smiles for me:

‘Come and I will show you."

Oh, but her hand is warm in mine. As though our blood ran together, warm and lively. Could you really be so close to another? She draws me away, smiling again for me, and I am no more than a wisp of cloud in her wake. There was a lift. I hadn’t expected that. I don’t how many floors we ascended, but we must be very near the top.

Again a very utilitarian atmosphere, quite a lot of electronic gear, screens everywhere. Like an office at the weekend, that sense of waiting. A lonely life, you see. And again I wondered what help I could give this woman? I’m only a jobbing writer. I could only create a fantasy for her.

Isn’t her own fantasy not enough? Ah. Got it. Bear with me here. The fantasy we are in is not hers, but that of the man she stole it from. You see that I am in a rich man’s fantasy, all the style and luxury that surrounds me here. What of her own fantasy? Where is it now?

Strange that I could see where it is, though I couldn’t point it out to you just now. I don’t have the map.

This must be her office. It’s imposing, a lot of red leather as you might expect. The dress hampered her in the confines behind her desk, so she ripped it away and threw it into a corner. She was wearing a silken shift that only hinted at her body. Then she loosened her piled up hair, let it hang about her shoulders for a moment before tying it back out of the way.

The shift unnerved me completely. Was it going to be seduction, after all? But I don’t feel I need at this moment to let that worry me. After all, she seems to have problems of her own. Keep her to her problems and I will be safe.

After she is seated she points to a chair on the other side of the desk for me. I stiffen, slightly flummoxed. What planet am I on? What’s to keep me from laughing out loud? I look to find something I could scrutinise for a minute or two. I would rather she got the message that way.

Her name is Vivian. Vivian Palmer. She has letters after her name. Some of her essays have been published, though not really journalism, only stray articles here, there and nowhere. And yet they seem interesting. I ask her as she searches her crowded desk,

‘When did you write these?"

Her glance was initially strange – as though she didn’t know me at all – then she smiled again for me.

‘Over the last few years. Don’t think I was rotting away in this pile all those years."

She stops searching and straightens up in her seat. She beckons to me.

‘Please. Will you sit down so that I can speak to you."

She stands up as I approach and only sits again as