Read Everything Beautiful Began After Online
Authors: Simon Van Booy
Everything Beautiful Began After
EVERYTHING BEAUTIFUL BEGAN AFTER
A NOVEL
Simon Van Booy
Dedication
For C
Les vrais paradis sont les paradis qu’on a perdus.
—Marcel Proust
Epigraph
I am not I: thou art not he or she: they are not they.
—Evelyn Waugh
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
BOOK TWO - NIGHT CAME WITH MANY STARS
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Nine Years Later Paris, France
Everything was already here and I am the last to be born.
Small questions fill her mind like birds circling. Skeleton trees, stripped of their flesh by frost, are changing again. Green tips harden at last year’s final moments.
She waits at the wild end of the garden, leaning on a gate in her coat—the one she wouldn’t wear. But now everything about it seems beautiful—especially the buttons; small tusks discolored by a thousand meals. The mystery of pockets.
At the farthest end of the wood, where no one comes, is where her life begins and ends.
A sea of new grass will soon flood the fields beyond the gate.
It’s her birthday too. Ten years old; suddenly allowed to venture to the far gate alone; old enough to lie awake in her bed, listening to the applause of rain on the window. Even her dreams are older: hair cascading, she digs with her father for treasure in faraway countries; then fleeing the storm of growing knowledge, she escapes into morning and forgets.
Her father is in the woods looking for her. Dinner is ready and waits in the pot to be eaten.
Her mother is lighting candles with a single flame conjured by her eyes.
Her father is out calling the name she’s been given.
But her real name is known only by the change in light that comes without sound, and by worms pushing up through the soaked crust of soil; they glisten and swing their heads in blind agreement. Her father raises them by tapping the ground with a stick. They think it’s rain.
Her father used to pretend he’d found
her
in the garden—that she wasn’t his daughter, but some creature of nature—that she appeared in the wake of a few early daffodils—that he pulled her from the ground the way he finds all ancient ruins, with luck and enthusiasm.
Her mother has long hair. She ties it up behind her head in a soft nest. Her neck bears the silence and freshness of dawn. Years have spun lines around her eyes. Her mouth is small and moves with the promise of kindness.
Her father said this morning that snow is coming.
But in her mind it’s falling fast. She can’t stop it. Soon, everything she thinks will be covered by what she hopes will happen. And at midnight she will peep through lifted corners and marvel at the glowing shroud.
Sometimes when she cries out in the night, her father comes in. He holds her hand and rubs it until her eyes begin to soak and slowly she sinks, leaving behind small questions that float on the surface of her life until morning.
She knows she came from them.
She knows she was held aloft—a hot, screaming ball, with tiny arms flapping.
There was blood.
She knows she grew inside. She knows that people grow each other.
Once there was a tree upon which she found something growing. Something shuffling inside a small, silken belly webbed to the rough bark. A white sack spun from fairy thread. She visited her magic child with devotion. She spoke quietly and hummed songs from school.
Words at their finest moments dissolve to sentiment.
She couldn’t be sure, but her child in its white womb was growing, and sometimes turned its body when she warmed it with breath.
She imagined one day, a surprised face peering at her from inside. She would peel her glowing baby from the tree, give it milk and a matchbox crib until it was big enough to sleep in her room, and like all children—confess everything with questions. She imagined its tiny body wriggling in her hand. The black dot of an open mouth.
But then one evening after supper, she went to her child on the tree and found the chrysalis empty.
The dreamlike skin, the gossamer veil ripped open in her absence. She waited until dusk, until crows barked solemnly at that distant fire beyond their understanding. Her eyes were red too. She walked slowly through the garden to the house.
Just as she was too afraid to tell anyone she had borne a child, she was now too proud to share her grief.
One day in summer, as she lay against the tree, her heart full of emptiness—a butterfly landed on her bare knee.
Its wings rose and fell—two eyes staring at her in their blindness. Her eyes staring blindly back. Nature’s victory is seamless.
She can hear her father now.
His voice is clear and sharp. It rings through the damp trees.
There was a time before he met her mother.
It was before she began.
It was a shadow world with no significance. A world that was breathing but without form.
She hadn’t even been thought of. She was dead without having died.
As her father calls out to her now at the edge of night, she wonders how he found her mother. Did he call her name in the dark woods? Did it echo through him before he knew, like some lost science of attraction?
She will ask tonight over dinner for the story of what happened.
Do we love before we love.
She knows her mother fell—not from the sky like threads of lightning silently over hills, but in a place called Paris. Her camera in pieces. Spots of blood on the steps.
Her father is very close now.
She considers falling to the earth, but instead remembers her name—a hook upon which she is carried through the world.
On the walk back home through the dusk, she’s going to ask her father for the story of how he met her mother.
All she knows is that someone fell, and that everything beautiful began after.
For those who are lost, there will always be cities that feel like home.
Places where lonely people can live in exile of their own lives—far from anything that was ever imagined for them.
Athens has long been a place where lonely people go. A city doomed to forever impersonate itself, a city wrapped by cruel bands of road, where the thunder of traffic is a sound so constant it’s like silence. Those who live within the city itself live within a cloud of smoke and dust—for like the wild dogs who riddle the back streets with hanging mouths, the fumes linger, dispersed only for a moment by a breath of wind or the aromatic burst from a pot when the lid is raised.
To stare Athens in the face is to peer into the skull of a temple. Set high above the city on a rock, tourists thread the crumbling passageways, shuffle across shrinking cakes of marble worn by centuries of curiosity.
Outside imagination, the Parthenon is nothing more than stacked rubble. And such is the secret to life in a city ravaged by the enthusiasm for its childhood. Athens lives in the shadow of what it cannot remember, of what it could never be again.