The 'Sound' of the Rainbow (Chapter 3: Rachel) (standard:mystery, 1769 words)
Author: KShaw	Added: Sep 10 2005	Views/Reads: 3429/2287	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Through the darkest gloom comes the light. Rachel.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

cast over it. 

I was curious to see what else was in the trash can, and emptied it onto
a crusty, paint splattered rag. There was an invoice for groceries, a 
theatre ticket for November, ‘Cyrano de Bergerac', with Jack Cuddings 
playing the role of Cyrano. I smiled to myself. Jack was ‘nose' perfect 
for the part. What I found buried in the trash shook me cold; the hairs 
on the back of my neck didn't just rise up, they pricked. It was a 
photo of Rachel, screwed up and cast to the trash can. She was a 
beautiful woman, stunning, vibrant, and in love. Her death, five years 
previously, was far more shocking and hurtful to Frank than even their 
first meeting. I studied the photo, trying to flatten the creases out, 
and in doing so began the process of remembering... 

After the surgeons had finished with Frank, someone had to tell him that
it hadn't been possible to sew his arm back on. For a couple of hours, 
and semi conscious, I think he believed it possible, even if he 
couldn't use it he wanted it sewn back. The surgeons said no. I'm not 
sure when Frank hit the depths of despair, but hit them he did, and 
hard. He never spoke for days, just lay there, thinking, wondering, but 
about what he wouldn't say. I stayed with him for every day of his 
three months hospitalization, hardly leaving his room, watching him go 
through pain, physical therapy, more pain, and finally seeing his face 
when they brought him the prosthesis. He refused it point blank. 
Another week passed and doctors, seeing there was nothing more they 
could do, signed off. The rest of his treatment continued at my home in 
Nook, both mental and physical. 

When Blackie called from Amsterdam, telling me the news, I damn near
collapsed. 

“She's alive, Richard.” He just blurted it out. 

Instinctively I knew to whom he was referring. “There's no way, Blackie,
I saw her go over the side.” I said. 

“I'm tellin' yer, man, the bitch is alive. She was dead when they
hoisted her into the chopper, dead, blue, and covered in ice, but they 
brought her back, she's alive. The Dutch immigration authorities are 
holding her. She says she wants asylum!” 

“Bloody hell, man, I think you've saved Frank's life.” 

“What the hell are you talkin' about, she sliced off his arm for
Christ's sake!” 

“Never mind, Blackie, trust me, you've saved his life. Send a chopper
immediately; log it as picking up wounded volunteer.” I said, and put 
the phone down. 

Frank didn't object when I told him we were required to go to Amsterdam
and fill in a report about the whole incident. 

“I guess I've been expecting something of the sort,” he said, resigned
to an investigation. 

The chopper descended from a pale, January sky. A couple of puny kids
looked on from afar, excited by the turbulence, and waved as we chopped 
back up into the sky. I waved back. Frank did not. 

The Immigration Authorities had moved the woman to a small, high
security detention centre inside the Dutch Embassy. She was awaiting a 
decision from the Minister of Foreign Affairs as to whether she would 
have her case heard.  Martini, a short, fuzzy haired member of staff in 
Amsterdam met us when we landed, and handed me a brief case holding 
various documents. He made the awful, but understandable goof, of 
holding out his hand out to shake Franks missing arm. Frank simply 
ignored the gesture. Martini, clumsily, apologised, for which he 
received an icy blue stare before Frank turned away and ducked into the 
waiting taxi. 

I quickly read through the paperwork. The documents we needed were all
there. Frank, still unaware of where we were going, just went along. 
He'd never properly focused on anything since the day he woke up from 
the operation. 

Entering the Embassy I could sense the solemnity of the place, it
smelled pious. I told Frank to take a seat, this could take several 
minutes or maybe several hours. He didn't even question why we were at 
the Dutch Embassy. Less than an hour later, led through several 
corridors, we came to a grey door, with a brass handle. It was door 
seven. 

The official told us to take a seat at the small table. We waited
several minutes till the door on the opposite side of the room opened. 
Two smart officials escorted a small, clearly anxious woman. I looked 
at Frank, who was looking at his feet under the table. 

“Frank,” I said, “meet Rachel Ivannikov!” 

Frank looked up. The first thing that happened was tears, they ran
freely and fast down his cheek. He put his arm across the table, 
letting his head fall onto it, and he sobbed uncontrollably. The young 
Russian woman stared in disbelief, till sorrow and regret, too, 
overtook her. She came around the table, and rested her arms across his 
shoulders, uttering words I never understood. They were the first words 
she ever spoke to him, and they were words of regret and sorrow. They 
wept together, long and hard, not looking into each other's eyes, but 
holding each other for comfort. 

Rachel was a beautiful woman, her face stained glass, and filled with a
child's tenderness. Frank could smell her skin, alive, not frozen, not 
dead, and warmly dressed in calico, with deep brown expressive eyes.  
He held onto her as if he'd never let go, and I understood why. She had 
no English to speak of; just this Russian word, “ñîæàëåþùèé” which her 
eyes, and hands on his face translated. 


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