Work Text:
Blessed be the pure in spirit for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
Matthew 5:3
I
1949
He checked the contents of his inside pocket and, making sure that everything was alright, went along the narrow gravel path towards the alley. The day was fine, and the sun, warming the bright green grass, shone in his back. A small man, he seemed to be completely lost among all this abundance of marble. The man barely had time to take a few steps towards the car, when his uncle called out to him.
“Won't you come with us?”
“Sorry, Uncle Kevan, I’m already waited for.”
Tyrion Lannister gave a last bleary glance over the low earthen embankment, and briskly strode away. Behind him, casting their majestic shadow over Calvary's cemetery, the skyscrapers of the Big Apple were raising.
Climbing into the black car with difficulty, he slammed the door shut and said to the driver to drive home.
“You mean…”
“Right there.”
Rows of granite slabs flashed through the window like a kaleidoscope. Many and many strangers who once held this world in their hands; now their only friends were birds, grass, and worms. Tyrion turned away and, after checking his inside pocket nervously once more, said casually .
“Uncle Kevan’s gone completely nuts.”
The driver, whose face could be seen in the rearview mirror, furrowed his eyebrows in question.
“An epitaph,” the younger Lannister explained. “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do," he shook his head. “It's like she hasn't done enough. Let's show everyone here.”
“That suits her,” said the man at the wheel.
“And she left a letter!” Tyrion persisted. “The're enough of them for a fat book. When you're young, they assume you know nothing. But I knew you, playing hide-and-seek and giving me your weekends . How did she even come up with writing that?”
“You said it yourself, she was out of her mind.”
Tyrion chuckled uncontrollably.
“Out of her mind! Putting it mildly. She was writing something like: And when I felt like I was an old cardigan under someone's bed, you put me on and said I was your favorite. What nonsense!”
“You read them all, didn’t you?”
Tyrion was momentarily taken aback, and remained with his mouth open, not uttering anything.
“I had to,” he bristled.
“Undoubtedly. I don't blame you, do I?”
“Damn you.”
They drove the rest of the way in tense silence, occasionally exchanging meaningless phrases.
Finally, the car turned onto the right street, and Tyrion flinched. There, almost at the very end of the road, frightening and delighting the neighbors at the same time, stood an old house. It looked almost deserted - no flowers, no bushes - just a carpeted lawn. The car stopped.
“You haven’t been here for a long time,” the driver said.
“I wouldn’t come here as much again,” he broke off, fell silent, and then continued muffled. “I want… to be alone.”
The house met him with dust and silence. No servants, no waiters, no men in tailcoats, hurrying to retire as soon as possible to their father's office. Furniture, paintings and sculptures were covered with white cloth, and only the absence of a thick layer of dust on the floor indicated that sometimes someone was still coming here. Without looking around, Tyrion made his way upstairs with quick steps.
There was no fabric in his father's study. On the contrary, apparently, there were even certain signs of life: a lone glass of thick glass, an unfinished bottle of whiskey and letters ... Many letters were folded into several neat piles, standing out against the background of a dark oak table with white envelope paper.
Plopping into a chair with a confident leap, Tyrion pulled the cherished envelope from his inside pocket. Exhaling with a shudder, he took a letter opener, opened it, and, taking out a piece of paper folded in three, began to read. His eyes quickly ran over the lines written in a twitchy, barely distinguishable handwriting, while his lips were soundlessly uttering the words.
When he finished, he poured himself a whisky, drank it, and read the letter again.
Toward noon, Tyrion left the house and got back into his car. This time the driver went without instructions. The afternoon sun was much hotter than in the morning, and they had to open the windows to let some fresh air into the passenger compartment.
They were moving down Broadway toward Fifth Avenue when they got stuck in traffic.
“Just what I need,” Tyrion protested, already complaining about the smell of gasoline all the way.
“We’ll get through quickly,” the driver shrugged. In response, Lannister mumbled something under his breath and leaned back in his seat.
After several tens of tedious minutes, during which the car horns did not subside, he could not stand it and cursed properly.
“Be patient.”
“I am bloody patient!” Tyrion perked up, immediately calming down. “I’ve been putting up with my family for so many years that I could get a medal for it.”
“Well, now you have nothing to worry about.”
“I don’t think so!” He slammed his hand on the seat. “Uncle Kevan got a lawyer.”
“I didn’t think he would.”
“He wanted to play the head of the family before his death. Nonsense! Nothing will come of it.”
“I'm sure you have no reason to be concerned.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Am I?”
Laughing, Tyrion hid his face in his hands. Somewhere to the left, the car horn sounded again, signaling the end of his patience. After informing the driver that he would walk, he slammed the door and stepped out into the hot bustle of the street.
The Empire State Building, as always, was humiliating with its monumentality. Tyrion grimaced as he looked up at the sky-piercing spire before entering. Here it is, the crown of human creation, as it might seem - a whole city in one concrete anthill. He didn't need to introduce himself, and with a buttery smile at the receptionist, Lannister stepped into the elevator with a group of people heading upstairs as well.
Despite the abundance of office workers, that man was sitting alone. Short haircut, light gray at the temples and a triangular beard - and he looked more like a traveling salesman than a journalist. He even wore a suit of maroon inwrought fabric, as if he had just stepped out of a country club for London dandies and not out of the newsroom. Tyrion grimaced in displeasure and sat across from him without a greeting.
The man was reading a book. Realizing that he was not alone, he reluctantly looked up from the pages and looked up to meet Lannister's gaze.
“I’m very glad that you came,” Petyr Baelish smiled with his lips alone, and cunning wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. “By the way, an interesting read.”
He lifted the book slightly so Tyrion could see the title.
“Seriously?” He was genuinely surprised. “You have nothing else to do or..?”
"Oh, I'm exactly doing my job," he took a sip of coffee from a small snow-white cup. “I didn't know your brother was such a romantic.”
“He was .” Tyrion waved a hand at the waitress. “A long time ago.”
He ordered an iced bourbon, and when it arrived, Baelish put down the light-colored book, folding down the corner of the page where he had stopped. He clasped his hands in the castle and, with the same sly smile, looking at Tyrion, slowly, as if deliberately drawing out the words, said:
“There are many missing pages in the history of your family,” he looked at his interlocutor with an unblinking gaze, and devils were furious in his eyes.
“One of those I certainly turned with pleasure,” Tyrion answered cautiously, even fearfully.
“And I, you know, would gladly re-read it again.”
“You really love to drag things out, don’t you?”
“Try it,” Baelish’s eyes lit up with a sly light. “You might like it too.”
“Dubious adventures were on my brother’s part, not mine,” Tyrion’s face became more and more dissatisfied with each new answer, and he sat tensed.
“Why did he leave New York?”
It was a simple question, and Baelish asked it with all the sincere interest he was probably capable of.
“War changes people.”
“A champagne problem!” Baelish laughed and Tyrion winced.
“Jaime used to say that a lot. And did that make him happier?”
“I was hoping to hear that from you.”
Tyrion laughed, drawing the attention of clerks in starched collars.
“About what?” he asked through laughter. “About what made my brother happy?” He stopped laughing and his face darkened immediately. “Come on, you're not a fool, Baelish. You've read the book.”
The journalist's eyes widened and he theatrically covered his mouth with his hand, feigning surprise.
“So it's true!”
“I don’t know what you thought, but you won’t get a word out of me.”
“Come on, Mr. Lannister, you know you need me,” Baelish's confidence bordered on farce.
Tyrion took a long sip of the bourbon, chewed through the remaining pieces of ice, and set his glass aside.
“I need a lawyer, not you.”
“You know, when Napoleon decided to capture Moscow, the Russians burned the city, leaving him nothing but ashes.”
“And I don't want to know what you're getting at.”
Crossing his legs, the Baelish threw off his frivolity, like a snake's skin, and said insinuatingly:
“I know what your uncle wants. But would he want to be the head of such a family?”
Tyrion narrowed his eyes.
“And what do you want?”
“Oh.” For the first time in the entire conversation, Baelish’s smile was sincere. “All at once.”
II
1922
In the northern foothills of the Alps there was a large three-story hospital, immersed in the greenery of forests. It was equipped in an old mansion, which the former owner had to sell due to debts. In front of the main entrance there was a round artificial pond, in which birds were often seen swimming, and behind, barely noticeable, there was a path leading to the lake.
This place was especially picturesque in summer, when huge tree crowns with elastic green foliage covered everything like a blanket.
The young doctor, barely having time to climb to the second floor, stumbled upon Cersei Lannister, who was leaving her room.
“Father is waiting for me,” the young woman told her psychiatrist from the doorway. Her tousled hair was adorned with a feather, and she was wearing a white and gold dress that did not hide her sickly thinness. “You know he hates me being late for dinner.”
“Your father is aware of our meetings, don’t worry.”
“Still I have to go.”
She walked out of the room and reached the stairs. Dr. Diver met the worried nurse's gaze.
“Could you…?” Cersei came to a doomed stop in front of the steps.
“Yeah, of course," Dick hurried.
The doctor obligingly offered her his hand, and she followed him, stepping timidly and cautiously. Downstairs, she briefly thanked him and went outside, heading towards the lake.
“Sweet summer child,” the nurse who followed them shook her head. “What a shame she went mad. Be careful, doc,” at the last sentence, the woman laughed, pushing Dick in the side.
“I have a lot of things to think about,” he assured. “That scorpion stings when fighting back,” Dick smiled guiltily.
“I'll send someone to look after her.”
“Don't,” Diver shook his head. “I'm sure she's gone to look at the lake.”
In the afternoon the doctor put down his papers, put on his jacket, and walked down the path himself.
She sat there, hugging her knees and looking at the still water. Her lips moved, her hands occasionally twitched, but there was not a single living soul nearby. Dick's eyes were tired and gloomy.
Noisily rustling his feet in the grass, he approached her, but did not sit down, only folded his hands in the castle, looking in the same direction as she.
“The postman will come tomorrow,” Dick said casually, as if he were talking to water. “Have you prepared a letter?”
Cersei looked up at him, then looked down sharply, ripping out a patch of grass beside her and tossing it aside. There were clods of earth on the tips of her fingers, but without noticing it, she again hugged her legs over the light dress.
“As soon as I sit down at the table, the letters scatter to the sides,” she answered through clenched teeth. “It doesn't work out.”
“I thought you liked writing.”
“I can’t write letters anymore,” she turned away, and Dick saw only her fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress. “When can I go home?” she looked at him frowningly, quite childishly, with the naivety of a person who sincerely wanted to get a simple answer to his simple question.
“Think you're ready?” Dick raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“My children need me!” Cersei stated peremptorily, leaning on her palms.
“And who am I to take their mother away from them? Come. It's time for lunch.”
***
She stared silently out the window for a very long time, tirelessly picking at the small wounds on her fingers, before finally speaking.
“After Tyrion was born, my father sent us to England to stay with Aunt Genna for the whole summer.
“Why did you recall this?”
She couldn't help but chuckle nervously, and then she calmed down again and explained in a slightly hoarse voice:
“Windermere.” Her expression was filled with childlike immediacy.
“Sorry, but I still don't seem to understand you.”
“Fucking lake in England,” she said half-turned with a mixture of malice and nonchalance and fixed her gaze out the window again. “Jaime was chasing swans there.” Her face softened a little. “One even almost bit him.”
“Do you remember that summer well?”
“Better than any other. She deceived me so nicely.”
“Who are you talking about?”
Cersei let out a tired sigh and, without taking her eyes off what was happening outside, quickly chattered.
“In the evenings, I would go down to the kitchen and threaten the servants if they told where I was, and then I would hide under the table and cry. Soon Jaime found me, and I could no longer threaten anyone with anything, ”she clenched her hands into fists. “He told Aunt Genna.”
“Are you mad at your brother?”
She frowned, but ignored the question.
“Aunt Genna took me to the lake and said that the lake fairy lived here. And I can tell her everything that I would like to tell my mother, and the fairy will definitely tell her.”
“You didn't believe her?”
Grasping the arms of the chair tightly, she turned and looked the doctor straight in the eyes. He only raised his eyebrows inquiringly in response, although his skin, covered with goosebumps, betrayed him.
“Worse,” Cersei chuckled bitterly. “I believed her so that I still go to any damn lake. And now I want you to go away. Today I am too tired.”
***
“Do you know what is the saddest thing about this?” Cersei spat angrily.
Dr. Diver, who was making notes in a notebook, looked up. His look, dreary, full of regret, apparently cheered up the young woman. She straightened her shoulders, forced a sour smile, and blurted out, without the slightest hesitation:
“They all did exactly what they wanted for a long time — got rid of me.”
“I'm sure,” Dick began timidly, “your family lov…”
“I'm sick, not stupid,” Cersei shook her head. “There is only one Lannister who loved me,” she said doomedly. “My brother.”
Her words, apparently, embarrassed Dick, and he hastened to delve into his notes again.
“I'm not sure that's true,” he shook his head. “Did your brother force you into that relationship? You see, this is not such a rare occurrence as it may seem to…”
“Occurrence?” Cersei narrowed her eyes. “Have you ever had a person who haunted all of your what-ifs?” She smiled wryly. “And then Mom died, and…” She stopped and shuddered.
“Please go on.”
“Everyone says these awful things about us,” she shook her head, “but no one understands the main thing. My brother,” she raised her eyebrows, “is the only person in this whole vile world who cares about me,” Cersei breathed. “And why should I care what others think?”
“Love can be different,” Dick shook his head. “Often it doesn’t heal at all.”
“There is a church here, you know?” Cersei asked matter-of-factly. Doctor looked down at his notes, letting her speak. “I go there every Sunday. The holy father is preaching a sermon, and I look at Jesus and think: “If your Father thinks what is happening between us is a sin, then why did he make us twins?”
“Sorry,” Dick said without looking up, “but not all twins have that kind of relationship.”
Cersei wasn't listening to him anymore. Smiling dreamily and madly, she hummed under her breath:
“All the king's horses, all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again.”
Dick sighed.
“I have to take you to the ward.”
“Well, no,” she said. “I want to see the children first. You keep making promises.”
Dr. Diver's lips twitched into a smile, though he never raised his sad eyes.
“Of course,” he replied. “Just give you an injection. You don't want to scare them, do you?”
***
Dick pushed the boat harder, jumped in at the last moment and, having sat comfortably, strained on the oars. Cersei sat quietly, staring at something in the water with childlike spontaneity, and only glanced sideways at her doctor with contented eyes.
“What lovely weather,” she began cautiously, “don't you think?”
“Don't blame me, but I have already regretted a dozen times that I succumbed to your persuasion,” Diver’s hair and shirt were wet, and he himself frowned — either from the sun, or from tension.
“Why should I live near such beauty if I can’t enjoy it to the fullest?”
“I remember something like that in the Bible,” Dick smiled out of the corner of his lips. “It doesn't seem like things ended well, did they?”
“I don't like you today, doctor. My father had a yacht. He never took me with him, only Jaime. He said that sailing is not a woman's business. And where's he now?”
She smiled broadly, openly, eclipsing everything else with her smile. Dick was taken aback, unable to continue rowing.
“Became worms’ food!” Cersei burst out laughing, rolling at first, but after a while her laugh became more and more like a mad bark.
Dick dropped the oars and, rocking the boat, moved over to it. There was genuine horror on his face.
“Mrs Baratheon!” He tried to catch her hands and look into her eyes, but Cersei dramatically turned her face away and, pushing Dick hard, crawled back a little.
When Dr. Diver plunged into the water, her laughter was heard again over Lake Zug.
“Worms’ food!” she was repeating, as Dick's wet head emerged from the water. “Give me your hand, doctor. The water is cold, I don’t want you to catch a cold.”
***
It was raining, covering everyone with its measured noise. Dr Diver glanced at his watch and then back out the window. A black car stopped at the very entrance, and a tall man in a light raincoat got out of it. He did not have an umbrella, which is why the man immediately got wet, and looked very miserable.
Taking a suitcase out of the trunk, he said goodbye to the driver, and, with difficulty stepping on wet gravel, headed for the door. The sight outside the window immediately bored Diver, and he threw a short glance towards the decanter of cognac. Muttering something under his breath, he turned away from the decanter, sat down at the table and straightened his tie with a confident gesture. There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Dick said, in a voice a little rougher and lower than he usually spoke.
When the man entered, for a moment the doctor's eyes widened in surprise, after which he straightened his back and, clearing his throat, said:
“People don't lie. You do look remarkably alike. Good evening.” He stood up and extended his hand across the table to the man.
In response, the man smiled and raised his right hand. The sleeve dropped a little, revealing a wooden prosthesis.
“It won't be hard to tell. I’m Jaime,” the blond smiled, “Jaime Lannister.”
Dick froze, not knowing what to say, still holding his hand outstretched for the failed handshake.
“But that’s not a big deal,” Jaime continued, “there was a guy in the army who had his balls sh…”
“So you are a military man?” Dick slowly withdrew his hand, squeezing his fingers slightly.
The mock playfulness vanished as soon as Jaime heard the question.
“I was once,” he did not look at the Diver, and it was not clear whether this phrase was addressed to anyone at all.
Doctor hurried to sit down, motioning Jaime to the chair across from him. He regarded him with a fixed, cold gaze, waiting for Cersei's brother to speak first. Jaime himself looked around.
“Where's Cersei? Has she already been told I'm here?” he asked impatiently.
The Doctor stared at the pile of written sheets in front of him for a long time before he looked up hard at his interlocutor.
“There will be no meeting,” he said in a tone that suggested no objections.
Jaime only smiled out of the corner of his mouth, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
“I heard my father donates a lot of money to this hospital.” He straightened his back, crossed his legs and raised an eyebrow in surprise. His whole appearance spoke of the fact that, despite the injury, he is still a lion, and he got his place in the food chain for a reason.
Dick's eyes widened and he froze, but when his fright brought a satisfied smirk to Jaime's face, he narrowed his eyes and smiled back.
“It's good that you remembered your father first. On his behalf, I’ve been given rather clear recommendations about the circle of people who can visit her.” Dick's tone, calm and confident, made Jaime clench his left hand into a fist. “Written recommendations,” the doctor explained, nodding somewhere in the direction of the safe, “and, alas, I didn’t notice your name on the list. Be you the son of the devil himself, I…”
Jaime narrowed his eyes.
“Forgive me,” interrupting the doctor, he shrugged his shoulders, “I didn’t immediately recognize you as one of my father’s hounds.”
“Choose your words, Mr. Lannister. Your father's “orders”,” he openly scoffed at the word, “mean no more to me than your threats. I am a doctor, and all I care about is the condition of my patients.”
“She's my sister.”
Diver smiled broadly and kindly.
“Why didn't you think about it before?”
Jaime stood up, about to say something, when a nurse entered the study.
“Dr Diver,” she said to Dick, looking alternately at the two men frozen in front of her. Jaime loomed menacingly over Dick, but he did not look like the man who won the argument. “Mrs. Baratheon is already waiting for you in the laboratory.”
“Thank you," Dick nodded. “We'll be there soon.”
As the door closed behind the nurse, Jaime walked over to the windows, peering at the circles on the water that the raindrops left.
“In the laboratory?” he asked half-turned, narrowing his eyes tensely. “Do you know that experimenting on my sister is illegal?” His smile and gaze said that the lion went hunting.
“If there's anyone in this study who has given a damn about the legitimacy, that person is not me.”
Jaime's eyes widened in rage.
“You are walking on very thin ice, Diver.”
Dick sighed wearily.
“Come, and you will see,” he answered, pointing to the door with an inviting gesture and took a brown folder from the table.
The room into which Dick led them was small, and the table and two chairs that stood there could hardly fit in it. Two pairs of headphones hung on the wall, and right in front of the table was a large window with slightly tinted glass, one glance through which for Jaime was enough to immediately rush to the door located to the left.
Dick blocked his path with an enviable reaction.
“Don't do this, for heaven's sake!”
Jaime listened with half an ear, looking excitedly out the window. There was a look of bewilderment on his face. There, in another room, was his sister, intently examining her own fingers. For a moment, she lifted her head, looking straight at Jaime, and then returned to her hands again.
“She can't see or hear you,” Dick explained calmly. “She doesn’t need it now. Be seated, Lannister, and… watch, I guess.”
Leaving Jaime alone, Dick went out, locked the door, and after saying hello to Cersei, flipped a few switches on a small panel by the door. The tape recorder spun as it started recording.
“What are we doing here?” Cersei asked. She looked at the white walls and the huge glass warily, tapping nervously on the table with the fingers of her right hand.
“Just talking,” Dick smiled as he sat down across from her. He opened the folder he had been holding in his hands all this time and, peering at the page with the photograph without much interest, asked the first question.
“Your name?”
Cersei laughed, looking questioningly at Diver.
“Is this some kind of joke? You know my name, doctor.”
“Say your name,” Dick's words sounded more like an order than a request.
Cersei huddled in her chair. The smile vanished from her face, and she replied, looking around apprehensively.
“Cersei Lannister.”
Dick sighed.
“Your age?”
“I was born at the very beginning of the century. What year is it now?”
“One thousand nine hundred and twenty-two.”
“So I'm twenty-two. Easy to count, right?” smiling again, she looked at Dick, stern, impassive, and, not finding an answering smile on his face, she turned away.
“Tell me about your family.”
Cersei leaned her head back against the back of her chair, grimaced in displeasure and held out her arms, holding tightly to the armrests.
“Please, let's get out of here. Maybe the rain has already stopped, and I can look at the lake?”
“Sorry, but today we need to talk,” Dick was adamant.
“My father is Tywin Lannister,” she began, looking up at the ceiling as if remembering. “My mother died a long time ago. I told you, didn't I? I don't remember anything from your injections.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“Two brothers,” Cersei breathed. “Tyrion and…” She grimaced as she buried her face in her palm. “Jaime!” the girl laughed. “Jaime! My twin brother.”
“And what about husband?” Dick continued imperturbably, methodically going through his own notes in the folder.
“I had one. Robert. He didn't like it when I screamed.”
“How long have you been married?”
“I got married as soon as Jaime left. Father said it would be better that way.”
“Better…” Dick repeated after her thoughtfully. “Better for whom?”
“Of course,” the girl smiled slyly, “for me.”
Dr. Diver scowled into the glass.
“Tell me about your kids.”
Cersei, who until then had not wanted to sit still, and spun in her chair, froze, clasped her hands in the castle and looked fearfully at the doctor.
“Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen. They are good children and they miss me.”
“Describe them.”
Cersei went limp in her chair, twirling her arms nervously.
“They have golden hair and green eyes.”
“Just like you and your brother do?”
“Stop,” she almost cried.
“Tell me about your relationship with Jaime,” Dick was insistent, and clearly wasn't about to back down.
“We… You won’t understand it anyway, doctor,” she looked at him with a bored look, now and then distracted by the glass.
“Who was the initiator? Did your brother force you?”
“I… We… I don’t like this conversation!” quite thin, fragile, she looked at Dick with genuine horror.
“Are you telling that the father of your children is your brother, Mrs. Baratheon?”
“Stop it!” She slammed her hand on the table, raising wild, furious eyes to Dick. “Enough!”
She jumped up from the chair so quickly that he fell, and she just stood there, leaning her palms on the table.
“All you say is a lie,” Cersei hissed, “you only promise, but you don’t give me anything. Where are my children?! I want to see them imme…”
“You don't have children, Cersei,” Dick said calmly, folding his arms over his chest. He still continued to sit at the table with an open folder, and looked at the girl openly and tiredly. “Don’t have and never had. I told you.”
“Don't lie to me, please!” Evil tears poured from her eyes and she, grimacing in disgust, abruptly tore her hands off the table, as if it had suddenly heated up to an unbearable temperature.
“You had a miscarriage last year. This is what I told you too.”
“Stupid Dick!” She laughed and shook her head. “You won’t fool me. Jaime and I will take kids and go to England where no one will find us. No one!”
She abruptly rushed to the second door, pulled the handle, but, finding that it was also locked, she began to thoughtlessly pound on it with her fist. When she had no more strength left, she burst into tears, pressing her wet cheek against the wall.
Hearing Dick's footsteps approaching, she sank to the floor, shielding herself from him with her hand.
“All the king's horses,” Cersei muttered, “all the king's men.”
“Nurse!” Dick shouted somewhere at the door, continuing to stand near the girl at arm's length.
“Couldn’t put…”
“You're safe, I promise.”
“.. together again.”
“Nurse!”
Following the sound of the key turning in the door, a nurse entered with a syringe in her hand. They exchanged glances with Diver, and he, shaking his head slightly, sat down next to the girl.
“Hush,” he whispered. “Close your eyes.”
Cersei, who was hiding her tear-stained face, obediently withdrew her outstretched hand and closed her eyes.
“Imagine,” Dick’s voice was soothing, as if it weren’t he who was now questioning her with such predilection, “that you are by the lake. You're not afraid of anything when you walk there, are you?”
She shook her head, and Dick, deftly grabbing her wrists, nodded to the nurse. She made an injection with a perfect, almost mechanical movement; after a few moments, Cersei's tense muscles relaxed, her breathing became even, and, still sobbing with her eyes closed, the girl muttered:
“I want to sleep.”
“Come on,” the nurse gently pulled her hand, “I’ll help you.”
When they had gone, Dick sat for a few minutes longer, examining the toes of his boots. Then he straightened up, straightened his tie, took the folder from the table, and, taking the keys from his pocket, opened the door to the room where Jaime was.
Jaime barely had time to get up, taking off his headphones, when Dr. Diver, looking with disgust at his whitened face, grabbed his left shoulder and hit him in the face.
***
The closer the time came to departure, the more he began to talk.
“As a child, she was afraid of thunderstorms,” his face acquired that smiley, tortured expression that happens to fairly drunk men, to whom he belonged. There was a huge bruise on his cheekbone, to which Jaime, wincing slightly, pressed a piece of frozen meat wrapped in a handkerchief.
“She never told me about it.”
“Of course she didn't.” Despite the pain, he had the strength to grimace in Lannister haughtiness.
“I am her doctor.”
“And you definitely don't want to end up in her bed,” Jaime chuckled.
Dick narrowed his eyes.
“It's unprofessional. Amateurish.”
Jaime pursed his lips.
“Don't take me for an idiot. If all the men in the world acted according to the rules, both of us would not be here.”
Dick frowned, but did not answer.
“How did you know she loves lakes?” Lannister asked, as if casually.
“Windermere,” the doctor seemed to suddenly sober up, listening to the interlocutor’s words, “she was telling me about Windermere.
Jaime frowned, set aside his compress, and taking the glass, took a long sip.
“The lake where all the poets went to die... She dreamed of going there all her life.”
“Dreamed?” Dick was worried.
“Our aunt Genna lives there. Cersei kept trying to visit her, but it didn't work out.”
“Excuse me? Didn’t work out?”
“Father always said the time was not right.”
“And you've never been there?”
“No.” Jaime looked at him like he was crazy.
“She said that you went there after your mother’s death.”
“How old do you think we were then?”
Diver could not contain the laughter that burst free.
“Look what you've done to her.” He looked at Jaime warmly, almost paternally. “Did it ever occur to any Lannister that she was a living person and not your toy?”
Jaime grinned.
“I love her,” he said softly, narrowing his eyes slightly. “However, you, Diver, won't understand.”
“Why,” smiled the doctor. “Maybe I believe in the healing power of love.”
“Have you ever had a sister?”
“We are not talking about me now,” the doctor smiled.
Jaime grimaced and tipped the whiskey down as if the bottom of the glass contained the answers to his questions.
“Sometimes it seems to me that she just left a part of herself somewhere.”
“Where did you leave yours?”
Jaime swallowed.
“Back in New York.”
III
1930
The first ray of sunlight, breaking through the loosely drawn curtains, divided the face of the sleeping man into three stripes - two gray, discolored, and one bright and full of life. The man grimaced, covering his face with his palm through sleep, and rolled over on the other side, offering the beam to decorate his light crown with different shades of gold. He barely had time to stretch his left arm forward, when he suddenly rose abruptly in bed, looking at the blanket lying next to him and blinking rapidly.
The blanket stirred.
“Damn,” Jaime swore under his breath, and ran his hand over his face, as if he was trying to drive away the remnants of sleep, which until recently had been so peaceful and serene.
The clock on the wall was half past seven before noon.
Jaime cleared his throat, looked under the covers, and breathed a sigh of relief, staggering out of bed. He looked rumpled - golden hair was disheveled, one eye was reddened, and his face was swollen. After taking only a few steps, he cursed again as he heard the tinkle of an empty bottle that had fallen, which he accidentally kicked.
This time the blanket stirred much more strongly, and after a moment a woman's face appeared from under it. Broad, with a flat nose, it was covered with freckles, and a mop of short straw hair gave it a completely boyish look.
“Are you alright?” the girl asked, looking at Jaime with her large, sapphire eyes like those of a cow.
Horror flickered across the man's face for a moment before Jaime regained his composure to clear his throat again.
“Who are you, woman?” this phrase alone instantly deprived the look of blue eyes of any hope.
“Brienne. Brienne of Tarth. Don't you remember?” She pulled the covers up to her chin, slightly pouting and blushing, while Jaime himself roamed the room in a futile attempt to find something.
Finally, he was lucky, and, carefully going to the table on which stood a decanter of water and a glass, he poured water and drank it in just a few greedy sips.
“I'm sorry,” he shrugged, frowning, “but you'd better leave.”
“But you said…”
“Lesson number one: don't listen to what men say. They lie,” he tried to laugh it off, though Brienne didn't look like someone who would get the joke.
She continued to glare at him sullenly, holding the blanket until he, having guessed, turned away and stared at the small pattern on the wallpaper with feigned fascination. She brushed a traitorous tear from her face as she dressed, but when Jaime turned around, her face was more of an aggressive look.
“It’s dishonorable,” she said point-blank, not embarrassed at all.
“I was honest once,” he chuckled bitterly. “I've been paying for this almost my entire life.”
“You! ..” she waved her hand in annoyance, but without finishing, she instantly slipped out of the room. As her footsteps receded and then the front door slammed, Jaime sank back onto the bed, curled up.
Hiding his face in his hands, he sobbed.
After a while, the sobs stopped, his body stopped trembling, although he continued to lie on top of the crumpled blanket, when the bell rang in the apartment. Jaime rolled onto his back, staring blankly at the low ceiling as the phone chimed and chimed, shattering the fragile calm of the cool morning with each new trill.
Finally, the ringing stopped, leaving only chilly silence behind, and Jaime rolled onto his side, staring out the window. The sun was already covered by clouds, and the light made its way through only a blurry shapeless spot. After lying like this for a few minutes, he lay down on his back again. The bell rang for the second time.
Finally, cursing, Jaime got up from the bed and, wrapping himself in a blanket, stomped his bare feet into the kitchen.
“Get up, ladies man!” A cheerful voice came from the handset. “Or have you forgotten that today we’re visiting a weaving factory?”
“You won’t let me forget,” Jaime muttered, looking around languidly. There was noise outside the window.
“Don’t be late!” the voice snapped on the phone at last.
Jaime sighed wearily, padded over to the fridge, pulled out a brown glass bottle of beer and took a greedy sip, ripping off the cap on the edge of the table with a simple movement. Beer poured down his chin, and he, wiping the annoying drops with his right hand, looked with disgust at the stump.
Forty minutes later, Jaime, clean-shaven and combed, left the house in a gray suit and white shirt. The street met him unfriendly.
“Fais attention!” shouted the man in the canvas jumpsuit. Jaime stepped aside, looking around without interest.
Workers, many workers with banners, walked down the street, pushing passers-by as they went, and involuntarily involving onlookers in their procession. Merging into the crowd, Jaime walked with them to the tram stop, squinting as the rare rays of the sun broke through the rare clouds.
The streetcar, the movement of which was blocked by the workers, was still. Seeing the driver smoking nearby, Jaime waved his left hand at him.
“They've been going since morning,” the driver shook his head, throwing his cigarette butt on the paving stones. “You can't get across the Seine except by car.”
“Well, they must finish sooner or later,” Jaime shrugged.
“Yeah, when they disperse them with batons,” the interlocutor smiled.
After exchanging a couple more phrases with the man, Jaime turned around and, this time going against the movement of the crowd, headed towards his house. Taking the keys out of the inside pocket of his jacket, he reluctantly opened the door and got into the car.
Inside, the noise of the street, now coming through the glass, sounded muffled, dividing the space in the car from the world around. Jaime's gaze fell to the passenger seat. There was a book in a simple light cover. An inscription in gray letters said: “The White Book. Jaime Lannister."
Starting the engine, he carefully turned the car around and drove out into the street that the procession had passed. Half a block later, the road was completely clear, and he pressed the gas pedal harder, made the engine growl, and drove the car to the bridge.
***
“I think that,” the black-haired man began, breathing on the lens and wiping it with the edge of his shirt, “if they decide to yell at the whole neighborhood about how bad their life is, then let them feel what it really is.
Jaime smiled, shaking his head.
“Violence is not the answer.”
“Never knew you were an advocate for peaceful negotiations.”
Jaime placed the wooden hand palm up and nodded his head at it.
“I know what I'm talking about.”
“Violence is when you tout your trashy book to me,” the photographer laughed, and, removing the camera from his neck, put it on the table. He checked to see if the lens cap was closed and looked at Jaime. “ I don't like this knights’ stuff. You should show her to the kids from the orphanage.”
“How did you get hired to work for the newspaper?”
“ I don't write for them.”
They laughed together, and Jaime leaned back in his chair, surveying the city from the summer terrace.
“I love Paris.”
“You love the local women, not Paris,” Bronn muttered, but also sat more comfortably. “I don’t understand one thing - why would a prince like you vegetate in this bohemian garbage dump? What’s wrong with blue hydrangeas, cold cash divine and cashmere?”
“Yes, yes, red racing cars and sunsets,” Jaime chuckled. “You all think the same.”
“Am I wrong? You could live in a mansion with some queen of New York City. If I had such a father, I would not have come off his money in my life.”
“I'll tell you a secret,” Jaime began conspiratorially, “money doesn't buy happiness.”
Bronn snorted.
“I haven’t known you before, but you don’t look particularly happy now.”
“I have my own reasons for that,” he thought for a moment. “Have you heard of Black Thursday?”
“Of course.”
“My father didn’t survive it.”
This time, the brunette's grin was mirthless.
“Fainted right in the middle of Wall Street, didn’t he?”
The question remained unanswered.
A few minutes later, a pretty waitress, in whose blouse Bronn peered with special enthusiasm, brought them sandwiches with bologna sausage and a bottle of beaujolais. The brunet opened his mouth, obviously about to say something inappropriate, but Jaime interrupted him in time, thanking the girl with a smile, after which she left.
“You made a mess of things,” Bronn muttered when he was sure the girl couldn't hear them anymore.
“Find yourself a rich widow.”
“You’re right.”
They ate in silence. Bronn occasionally took a sip of wine, unlike Jaime, who almost drank the first glass in one gulp, and with each new glass his face grew more and more pleased.
“Why are you smiling?” The brunette frowned as he took a long sip. “If I were you, I would go easy on it,” Bronn nodded at the bottle. “Are the trams already running?”
“I'll drive myself,” Jaime waved him off.
“Oh, it won't do you any good.”
“Champagne problem,” Jaime smiled. “There is no adversity that breaks Jaime Lannister.”
“Here they are, the words of a privileged New Yorker!”
The men laughed again.
When Jaime finished the bottle, he paid the waitress who came up, and Bronn put a camera around his neck; they both got up and walked across the road to where the car was parked. When Bronn lit a cigarette, Jaime asked for a cigarette too. During the day, the clouds parted and the sun shone steadily, making the chrome parts of the car gleam.
“Nice,” Jaime smiled contentedly, taking a puff.
“You know, I’ll even take a walk.”
“Sure?”
“If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that you should come with me.”
“I'm going to the office tomorrow morning,” Jaime waved him off.
They finished smoking, said goodbye, and Bronn, waving to his friend in the end, left, whistling a simple melody under his breath. Jaime took one last look around the street, straightened his disheveled golden hair, and got into the car. He started the engine, looked at his book, still on the seat where Bronn had left it, and stepped on the gas.
IV
1917
He saw her lonely figure on the pier. The night was windy, the waves breaking against the wooden beams with a merciless noise. The spray flew in all directions, and it was clear that from the moisture her hair began to curl in thin rings. Jaime hurried off, stripping off the jacket he had hurriedly put on before.
Hearing footsteps, she turned around, and he had time to notice how the fright was replaced by some unearthly, detached joy in her eyes.
“You'll catch a cold,” he shrugged.
Smiling gratefully, she wrapped herself in his jacket and pulled him towards her. Without resisting, he sat down next to her, and she laid her head on his shoulder, hugging him with her left arm.
“Is it midnight already?” Cersei asked, pressing closer to him.
“Yes,” Jaime stroked her wet hair with his fingertips, and her sister gravitated toward the touch like a cat longing for human warmth.
“August slipped away into the moment in time.”
Jaime didn't say anything to her, just hugged her tighter, as if he didn't, she would disappear into the night, slip away like smoke through his fingers. The night still held echoes of their whispers.
“Are you sure?”
“Never have I ever before.”
His hand lingered on her cheek, and then, as if forgetting everything, he reached out to her face with a kiss. She answered willingly, passionately, and in a moment he was no longer in charge. Cersei climbed onto her brother's lap and was about to push him back against the wood floor when he gently stopped her.
"Shh," he smiled softly. “You need to rest. Why haven't we done this before?”
Cersei sat down beside him again, hugging her knees and no longer making eye contact with him. Jaime was about to gently brush the strand of hair that had stuck to her face, but she reached out to the side, putting on a mask of indifference.
“Are you okay?”
Her sad eyes darted from side to side, her jaws were clenched, but, finally, she turned to her brother, peering into his face, as if watching his reaction.
“We’ll always be together now, right?”
A second passed, two, five, the pause before his answer was unforgivably long.
“Go away,” she hissed, pushing Jaime away with her hand.
“I want to be with you!”
“Get the hell out of here and don't ever see me again.”
“Listen to me!”
“You're just like everyone else, Jaime.” Her breath was heavy. “Even worse.”
He didn't try to get any closer to her than she let, but he wasn't in a hurry to leave either. Finally, she wiped her tears away with her hands, and stepped into his arms.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm scared and I don't know what to do.”
“I'm here with you,” he hugged her, stroking her hair. “When I'm with you, you don't have to be afraid of anything. Let's go home, you're cold.”
Wrapped up in a blanket like a cocoon, she sat on a bed too big even for two. Jaime opened the window, letting some salty air into the room.
“I know what you think.”
She glanced at him, almost indifferently.
“I doubt it.”
“I'm not sorry.” He turned to her, blocking the moon with his back. “Don't even dare to think so.”
In the morning they went to have breakfast in a cafe, and Cersei was more cheerful than usual. She laughed out loud, poked fun at her brother, and made flirtatious eyes at the waiter, much to Jaime's annoyance. When he checked her, almost growling, Cersei said only one thing.
“You're scared,” a simple phrase, she amused her much more than yesterday's bottle of wine.
“Don't act like nothing has changed.”
“You are scared!” She laughed, making the sun shine brighter with the ringing of her laughter and filling the lazy heat of a September morning with her joy.
“Only fools aren’t scared of anything, dear sister. And I don't consider myself a fool.”
They sat for a long time, sipping cold coffee, and Cersei didn't try to hurt him again. She, on the contrary, seemed not to be here at all, hiding somewhere in her thoughts. Staring at the surface of the water, she missed her brother calling out to her.
“What?”
“I have something to tell you.”
The blissful smile immediately disappeared from her face, she cringed, looking back with a hard look.
“Don't say anything you'll regret, Jaime.”
“Father… America will soon enter the war, so he thinks.”
For a moment, her eyes widened from pure, even some kind of animal fear, but she continued to sit, fenced off from the world, and did not answer her brother.
“If this happens… It will be my duty.”
Her lips curled and she turned her head to the side.
“I can't lose you, Jaime, because you were never mine to lose.”
“Don’t.”
“You know, wanting was enough. For me it was enough.”
He clenched his right hand into a fist and clenched his teeth as he spoke through them.
“It's not for long. A simple formality. And then I'll get back to you. You will write to me?”
“Letters to the front?” she laughed.
“I'll be back and everything will be fine.”
“So that is your generous offer?” she bristled. “Living for the hope of it all?”
V
Nowadays.
She snapped her fingers at the melody and thought for a moment, then blurted out:
“No moon at all!”
Her companion smiled, lowering his eyes.
“Nat King Cole, yeah.”
“Such an old song.”
They nearly forgot to scan the barcodes of their e-tickets as they entered the big house, peering in wonder from the inside like lost travelers in an old castle. Jazz was playing in speakers hanging on the walls. The music was unobtrusive, rather creating the right atmosphere, and they, whispering like children who were up to something, hurried to go into the living room.
Her eyes shone as they opened the door and finally entered.
The room was spacious and bright, and in the middle of it, catching the sun's rays from the window opposite, stood a wide sofa. It was fenced off with posts connected by thin ropes, and next to it was a sign saying that this same sofa had something to do with Chippendale. However, the sofa was left unattended when the girl saw the real treasure of this room.
Almost the entire huge wall was covered with slightly yellowish glass, behind which hung many letters - the only thing left from the one who once lived here. As if forgetting about her companion, the girl came as close as possible, peering at the scraps of paper covered with different inks.
He dutifully waited beside her, occasionally glancing at some of the letters himself, when he met the black woman's eyes. She appeared as if out of nowhere, silently watching them.
The blond lightly touched the girl's shoulder, and she, throwing an inquiring glance in his direction, immediately noticed the woman who had come in herself.
“It’s exciting, right?” the woman smiled.
“This is amazing! Was I texting you?”
The woman nodded and stepped closer, also peering at the wall.
“Here it is, the whole life of a person. My name is Dilsey.”
“Taylor,” the blonde replied. “But will it be enough if I could never give you peace?” the girl read, turned to her companion and, finding approval in his eyes, silently reached out with her hand to his.
“My grandfather knew her,” the woman said thoughtfully. “He worked here when this family was still shining in the rays of its own glory.”
“The great American dynasty,” the blonde nodded in agreement.
“What brought you here?”
“Curiosity,” the man shrugged.
They spent the next hour wandering around the house with Dilsey. She was a museum curator, and she loved her work, which made the tour especially interesting. She seemed to know every plank in this house, every corner and every scratch.
The last room they entered was the old ballroom. Heavy curtains, floor-to-ceiling windows, an old grand piano - a bit of an imagination, and you could imagine how it is filled with people, a pianist plays bizarre melodies and the smell of champagne hovers in the air. Now there were old photographs. She stopped near one of them.
“They don’t yet know what lies ahead,” she shook her head.
The black-and-white photo was taken near a tree in the garden - in it the Lannisters were still children. Jaime grinned broadly at the photographer as he held his brother and sister's hands, Cersei squinted in displeasure, and Tyrion examined his own shoes, as if forgetting that he was being photographed.
“I wonder if one thing changed, would life be completely different?”
“We don’t get to know.”
They left the house when it was already evening.
“That’s so weird,” she finally said, already sitting in the car, after a long silence. “After all, they were real living people, but now…”
He turned to her, starting the engine.
“... now they are words and photographs.”
The girl shook her head.
“One can't put the whole history of the human soul on a pinhead.”
“You know what, I have an idea.”
She turned to him, her eyebrows raised questioningly. Her gaze was warm and tired.
“A story,” he explained. “Who is the best at telling stories?”
The car started moving, leaving behind the house, which became smaller and smaller every second, and then completely disappeared around the corner. He survived one war, then the second, and when all his old inhabitants left, he began to cherish the memory of them. This house remembered the boy who never backed down. Another boy who longed to find his place in the world. And a girl who always knew what mattered the most.
On warm summer evenings, if you listened very carefully, you could still hear their boisterous laughter and lively arguments. The story of their life and their love will be passed on just like a folk song.