The City, the Keys: Book One

By Claire Galisson

Have you ever been caught up into another dimension? Would you be able to describe that experience? Was it a journey deep within your being, or were you teleported? No one really knows, perhaps not even you. . . And yet you are certain of having experienced something. Such a happening erupting into your normal life cannot leave you indifferent.<

• Language: English
• Publisher: ARAVIR
• Release date: Dec 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9782491627034

Claire Galisson

Claire GALISSON, born in Angers (France) in 1981, is part of the new generation of multipotential writers. She has been inspired and enlightened, and has learned to listen to and observe the world around her differently, grasping life's moments and carving out memories. She invites us into this world of marvel and fantasy that is so unique to her via the medium of music, photography, and now literature. Her talent and pertinence enable her to awaken a special something in each of her readers.

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Editor's Note

Having your work published is always a delicate matter for an author. Self-expression requires boldness and humility, regardless of the person’s nature. Claire GALISSON is divulging part of her heart to us, as well as her perception and pen. We are grateful to her for inviting us to share in this adventure and for entrusting us to promote her written work. May she inspire and open up a way in this generation of authors to a new – or very ancient – artistic aspiration.

You are holding our first published novel. As Publishers, we have opted for the world of Wonder, Marvel and Fantasy. Is it really so senseless to want to excite our contemporaries and cause them to dream? We have no idea what tomorrow will bring but one thing seems certain: your various forages into this book – late in the day, at night or between appointments – will usher you into a magical world, with Claire GALISSON as your guide.

Is this an invented, an imaginary or a parallel universe? That mystery is waiting to be unravelled.

I invite you to trust Claire GALISSON as you move your way forward alongside the hero, in the same way I did as I advanced through the pages of this first volume. Maybe you will soon surprise yourself dreaming, or imagining yourself wandering through this City. Somewhere deep within you, doubt and desire will intermingle. . . Have I been there before? Can actually I go there?

And that’s what our editorial line is all about, seeking to shift or dismantle everyday barriers – whatever words we use to describe them and whether they are cultural or intellectual – between the material, real, natural world and the others.

To Claire: thank you.

To our readers: enjoy the journey!

To our next writers: to be continued. . .

Mehdi A. André

Associate & Executive Editor

To the four men who share my life:

Fabien, my husband,

and our three sons

Laël, Lévi and Isaïah;

and to my daughter: Éléanore.

"Growing up is not enriching yourself with new things,

but discovering what is already inside you."

Alexandre Jollien

Prologue

23th december 2043

The following story began as I was turning fifteen. . .

Actually, in retrospect, I now realise that it all began earlier.

You’ll understand.

Let me tell you about the day when my eyes began to open onto an unknown world.

This story is my story.

But ultimately, it is our story. . .

Chapter 1 - The Key

20th october 2019

Looking toward the fireplace, I pretended to watch the flames flickering. I knew what my father wanted to hear, and I just wanted to get it over with.

It was a beautiful autumn day, cool but sunny. Dusk was falling and I had just come home from playing soccer with some friends.

I don’t understand, Laël. Explain! My father was sitting in the armchair behind his desk, and I was standing in front of him.

I was not worried. He hardly ever got angry with us. But what made me uneasy was that I knew full well I was in the wrong. Inside me rose a nagging feeling, because I was sad I had let him down.

Look at me! he said firmly in his gentle voice.

I raised my eyes but it was difficult to keep eye contact with him. I had always found my father’s gaze intense and deep, as if he were not afraid of what anyone might see there. I was worried I might see pain.

We had an agreement. You could go and see your friends, but you had to take Raph with you. Mum and I were counting on you.

I know. . .

Your brother was disappointed, you know. And what’s more – imagine if there had been a problem while we were away. . .

I did not want him to continue, I was already feeling ashamed. I knew my father, and even if he hated to rub it in, I sensed that this was one of those days when he wanted to get to the root of the problem. Today, I had gone further than usual.

He can’t play soccer with us, and anyway, they’re my friends, not his.

Laël. . . His voice trailed off into silence. The only sound was that of the fire and distant echoes from the rest of the family in the house.

I know it’s not always easy for you. Mum and I are trying not to put too much on your shoulders in the current situation. But there are inevitably restrictions because of Raph’s illness and even though it’s not fair, these affect us all, whether you like it or not.

And that was exactly the problem. My problem, which, I thought, prevented me from having a free and easy life like other teenagers.

Raph was sick and there was no cure. Anomalies had been found during the pregnancy, and three months after his birth, a diagnosis had been reached. He had a rare disease: renonculus. According to the doctors, he would never be able to use his legs. He was in a wheelchair and quite frail; he fell prey to the slightest virus he came into contact with. That was why he could not be left on his own.

My parents were convinced that one day Raph would get better, and encouraged him to live everyday at peace, while holding onto the hope of eventually being healed.

When he was little, I would listen to them and dream it was possible. But as the years went by I stopped believing in fairy tales. And now that I was older, they relied on me for Raph to be able to join in with some activities. My activities. I knew he was not to blame for the situation, but I still felt angry with him. I could not help it – I focused my feelings of injustice on Raph.

We had never been close, in spite of the affection he showed me. Sometimes I even told myself that I didn’t love him. What I would have liked was to have a normal brother, who would grow up like everyone else. Someone I could have played with when we were small, as you do when you have a brother two years younger. I felt closer to our little brother Uriel, even though he was six years younger than me.

My parents had planned to take Uriel out for his birthday. They liked to make a special thing of our birthdays and had established a family tradition of spending some time alone with the one who was turning a year older. We would choose what we wanted to do on this occasion and, as he did every year, Uriel had asked to go to the cinema with them.

As for me, I had planned to play soccer with some friends, and rather than arranging for someone to come and look after Raph, my parents had asked me to take him along. I knew that my brother would be pleased and that he enjoyed my company. But in the end, I had decided to go without him. I had walked past his bedroom without stopping and sneaked out. After all, it was only for two or three hours, no more. Once on the field, I gave it no more thought. It was when I got home and saw my parents’ car parked in front of the house that I remembered the agreement I hadn’t honoured.

My father was about to say something else, but the telephone rang in the lounge next to the office. I could make out my mother’s voice and I saw my father straining to listen, trying to guess who was calling. My mother knocked on the door and came in with the receiver in her hand.

Chris, she whispered. It’s Elias. It sounds urgent, but I can tell him you’ll call back later.

No, it’s okay. Pass him to me. I needed to talk to him.

Elias Fedeli was one of my parents’ close friends and he and his family lived in our area. My mother handed the telephone to my father and left without looking at me.

Laël, we’ll continue this conversation later. Take some time to think about what happened today.

I nodded and left the room.

* * *

I found my mother in the kitchen.

It was when she first stepped into this room that she fell in love with the house. My mother was often to be found in here, chatting with her friends over a cup of tea, or playing a board game with Uriel. Warm and welcoming, this room was like the soul of the house.

She was washing vegetables with her back to me, and did not see me. I sat down behind her at the large, unvarnished wooden table, scraping my chair over the floor so the noise would not leave her in any doubt of my presence. I hated heavy silences and was hoping she might be the one to break this one. I stared at her long, brown hair, pinned up in a bun. It was the end of the day and a few strands had broken loose; some floated down her back while others rested on her temples. I waited to see a clearer indication of some movement in my direction.

Her name was Léna, Léna Delépée, to be precise, since her wedding day. She was a slim, attractive woman. My father told her every day how beautiful she was, even if she had just got out of bed. It made her laugh and she would reply that he was clearly biased. She was, despite occasional impatient moments, one of the gentlest women I knew. She forgave easily and my father often encouraged her to wait a while, to give us time to realise what we had done wrong before coming to comfort us. I knew that this was what was going on inside her at the moment. She was most likely also disappointed. But she would often put herself in our shoes, showing too much empathy and, according to my father, this got her into trouble. I was sure she knew how bad I felt.

I could hear Uriel playing nearby, and I wondered what Raph was doing. Our house was single-story for practical reasons. I decided to go to my room, certain that my mother was refraining from speaking to me by pretending she hadn’t noticed me.

Near the corridor leading to the bedrooms I came across Uriel, wearing a superhero outfit and pretending to climb the wall. He had inherited the costumes I used to collect when I was younger, imagining myself as those iconic heroes, from noble knights to men with extraordinary superpowers, not forgetting nimble ninjas who could fight better than anybody! Even though I thought I was too old for that sort of game now, deep down I still secretly wished I could be one of those heroes who had been such an integral part of my childhood. When I woke up in the morning, I was sometimes surprised to recall having dreamt that I was an unbeatable superman experiencing incredible adventures.

Look out, I’m Spiderman! shouted Uriel.

I pushed him away. I don’t feel like playing.

He followed me down the corridor, trying to draw me into his story.

Leave me alone!

I went into my bedroom shutting the door in his face. I settled onto my bed, from where I could see out of the window. Night had fallen and street lights lit up our street.

We lived in a quiet part of Angers, a city three hours from Paris. Some serious events had just occured in the capital, and the authorities were calling for vigilance in the rest of the country too. The Insurgents had carried out attacks. It was their way of opposing the current government. Up until then, they had been content to denounce what they considered as abuse of power. Now they had begun taking action which overstepped the line. Political and financial buildings had been targeted and three of them had been partially destroyed by explosives in the space of a few weeks. Although there had not been any fatalities, in a recent speech our President had spoken of more serious threats from the Insurgents. My parents did not seem that frightened by these events. My friends and I did not speak about it among ourselves. None of us dared to reveal our worries concern, not wanting to seem more fearful than the others in the group.

For now, quite another issue was occupying my thoughts. A thin wall separated my bedroom from Raph’s and through it I could hear music coming from his computer speakers. He had chosen a classical piece with a background of frenetic violins. We all loved music, it had a special place in our family and we all played an instrument. Even though we were all musically sensitive, Raph had always been the most receptive and enthusiastic of us all. I was sure he knew the name of the concerto that was playing in his room and, unlike me, he was interested in all styles of music. As soon as he heard a few notes, his face would light up and he would look around to see if they struck a significant chord in whoever was with him, so they could share the musical moment. He was brilliant on the piano. No doubt, not having the use of his legs, he had wanted to develop the parts that worked. As for me, I played the guitar a little. Uriel was an unrestrained drummer, and also employed his exceptionally wide vocal range.

I found Raph’s enthusiasm for music exasperating. Even though I hated to admit it, it brought home to me the fact that deep inside I felt that nothing really interested me that much. He was gifted, whereas I felt that I didn’t excel at anything.

The minutes were ticking by and everything was jostling around in my head; I was unable to find any real clarity. I sat there on my bed, trying to work out what answer I could give my father when we took up our conversation again.

My thoughts turned back to Raph and what he might be doing or feeling. How was he? Did those violins playing so frantically reflect his anger and irritation, a desire for revenge? Or did he feel sad and depressed? I was surprised to find that I felt empathy, like my mother. I decided to go and see him, to ask his forgiveness. It didn’t require much effort on my part to realise that I had hurt him, and I felt bad, even though we weren’t very close.

I got to his door and took a deep breath before knocking timidly. Saying sorry had never been easy for me. I did not know why it was so difficult to get those few words out. My heart started thumping harder when I heard Raph’s voice.

Yes?

It’s me. Can I come in? I have something to say to you.

Silence.

Please, can I come in?

Once again, there were several seconds of silence, followed by a simple, Yes.

I opened the door and found him at his desk, in front of his laptop. He had not turned round and was pretending to browse the Internet. Or maybe he really was; I could not tell.

My parents had always urged me to look at the other person when I wanted to apologise, so I came closer and stood beside him. I was staring at the ground because I did not yet feel ready. As soon as I raised my eyes to look at him, I could see very clearly, by the light of the screen, that his face was soaked with tears. They were running down his cheeks. I observed it for just a few seconds, just long enough to follow a tear as it slid down and fell off his chin. What struck me most was realising that he had cried so much his shirt was soaked. I could no longer speak or move. It was the first time I had seen him react like this. I had upset him before, and ever since he was born I hadn’t always been very nice to him. I didn’t understand why. . . I couldn’t help it, that’s just the way it was. Usually he didn’t hold it against me; he had the ability to put it behind him and welcome me with a smile only moments later. But this time, I was certain I had gone too far and had hurt him deeply.

I had prepared an apology before coming in but now I could not seem to get the words out. I ended up stammering, I just wanted to. . .

I don’t want to listen to you, he interrupted, his eyes still on the screen.

There was a tremor in his voice and I guessed it was not easy for him to talk either. However, just as I had done before entering, he took a deep breath and turned towards me. His eyes were watery, but I could not detect any anger there.

I would just like to remind you of something. I am not to blame for the burden that the whole family carries because of my illness. And I refuse to bear that responsibility. And don’t worry, I’ve told Mum and Dad that I don’t want you to have to look after me either, since it’s so difficult for you.

He turned away and stifled a sob. You can leave now.

I was speechless. This was not what I had been expecting when I came in. I had intended to patch things up, I had wanted to apologise but I no longer knew what to say. I was walking towards the door when I finally managed to get out, Sorry, Raph.

With the door closed behind me, I felt sad and heavy. Just then, my mother’s voice called from the kitchen, Dinner’s ready!

I didn’t feel like eating but I decided to join the rest of the family at the table anyway. It was already set, and a dish of food lay at the centre, steam rising from it. Going by the smell that filled the room, the bread was fresh from the oven. It was not enough to give me an appetite. Uriel, who was wearing his normal clothes again, was already sitting at his place. I sat down and my father joined us. My mother, coming back from Raph’s room, announced that he didn’t want anything to eat. She tried to hide it, but I caught sight of tears in her eyes. She must have seen the state Raph was in and been really affected by it. That accentuated my feelings of despondency.

Apart from Uriel who, unaware of the situation, was enthusiastically recounting the film they had seen, the mealtime was silent. I forced myself to finish my plate. My mother began clearing up. My father was about to help her when he was stopped by my mother’s quick nod in my direction, as if she were suggesting that it would be better if he saw to the current situation.

Laël, join me in my office when you’re ready, please.

Okay, I answered sheepishly.

My father headed towards his office. My mother was stacking the plates on the table, and before picking them up to take them to the sink she laid a gentle, affectionate hand on my shoulder, without saying a word. The gesture did me good and gave me the courage to join him.

* * *

I knocked on the door to announce my arrival.

My father had just put another log on the fire and as I settled onto the couch, I watched him stirring the embers. I liked this room. It was cosy, even when there was no fire in the fireplace. Most of the furniture was wooden and Dad kept the ornaments and papers to a minimum. Nonetheless, there were a few mementos of old trips and some home-made gifts that my brothers and I had given him on various occasions. Such as the sculpture of a horse which I had long been proud of, until with age, I had realised that it took a lot of imagination to recognise it as a horse.

My father was of medium height, slender like my mother. He had large brown eyes. A few grey hairs were sprinkled through his hair and his dark brown beard.

The flames were dancing again and the sound of crackling wood could be heard. Fire fascinated me and I could spend hours watching its colours, enjoying the heat and the smell of burning wood.

Well now, Laël. How are you?

My father’s words pulled me from my reverie. I had not been expecting that question. How was I? Wasn’t it more important to know how Raph was?

Surprised, I did not know how to answer.

How are you feeling? His voice was calm and composed. It seemed to me that this discussion was not going to go in the direction I had imagined.

I looked down. Not too good.

For once, I did not wait for more questions, or for silence to fall. I needed to pour out my feelings.

I feel . . . bad. I don’t know why I did it . . . why I did that to Raph. I can’t seem to help myself. It was tough seeing that I’d made him cry so much.

Thinking about Raph and his tears again, I started to cry myself. I do not remember what I ended up saying, or in what order, or the exact words, but I cried and cried and cried even more. My father, beside me, with his hand on my shoulder, encouraged me to pour my heart out.

Why am I so . . . mean? I would really like to be a good person.

We were silent for a few moments, apart from a few throaty sobs that