The Trabuoules Secret Passages, which were an aggregrated number of hidden (at least to foreigners) walkways hiding within premises, were originally a way to allow silk workers to travel efficiently during the 19th century. Their first encounter was behind a large, black metal door on one of the alleyway leading to the Lyon Cathedral.
The light fell on them looked organic in a way that was ironically the result of man-made buildings; It was natural light that came from the sun, but through the blurry angles of the interior made it seemed different from what it originally was. The light was not sun-soothing, Cay had wished for it then, but it calmed their minds as they stayed within the passageway as random pedestrians and tourist seeking hidden scenery passed by. The shape of the interior prompted the two to imagine how it had been two centuries ago: The bustling of carts with their unrefined silk running pass each other, the beads of sweat running down a French workman in a cool afternoon, and the same feeling of ease setting upon them as they go through the passageways (would they had notice when they were all busy with their tasks at hand?).
They took some photos with their phone (“Memory won’t last, better we leave some on our phones.” Said Cay) before moving slowly towards wherever the passageway took them, a solemnness dawned on Cay’s aching shoulders albeit it eased their minds. Judas would not stop for a break until his companion insisted, and they left their backpacks on the cold stone floor, taking in more of the indoor freshness. It was a rare occasion for them to stop by a place as calming as a workmen tunnel, the passers-by were blurred out for they were too exhausted and too mesmerized by the upward scenery. The latter was a tunnel itself with the other end being the sky, small windows with the metal crosses holding together the small glasses since the time they were built. There were small pillars painted in mellow yellow shooting out across one end to another, which Cay could not guess the purpose for their existence.
The exit was just a mere walk away, with two back doors leading to kitchens with their busy cooks preparing pre-theater and evening meals. After coming out from the hidden walkway through the other end of another black metal door, they were greeted by another alleyway and outdoor tables belonging to cafes and pubs. There were people already on their first pints and the merry atmosphere that came with it, alcohol induced.
The two were certain that there was much to see before the setting sun completely disappear. Confidence aside, they were at the part of Lyon unfamiliar to them; Besides growing excitement, their curiosity led them to walk through the alleyway. A small plaza that had similar establishments (more cafes and pubs) on their left and a bookstore with imprinted French words in large containing books that looked more like antiques than actual readable materials. So fragile half of the item look, but the prices on them gave away how an antique should be worth.
They have reached the end of the alleyway, further away from the bus stop where they originally arrived that afternoon. The air was colder where the sun had not been able to shine itself on, the light dimness contributed to their cool minds and backs. The emergence of more outdoor tables and aluminum chairs replaced the cold stone pavements and the small water fountain in the center of the small plaza stopped what it had been doing--- Veux-Lyon was closing to and end but a new life has started afresh.
*
Alexandre Marshal, originally Alexandre Ramonovich Orlov from Saint Petersburg, came to England when she was married to Haze Marshal. They had arrived at Heathrow airport not long when she just turned twenty-eight years’ old, an age not prime for starting a new life nor old enough to understand the full wisdom of growing older.
The woman who carried the surname “Eagle” was not much of the animal at all, she lived her live in a humble manner without much change, and excitement. Life in Russia was not as bad as foreigners perceived, although some truth was held behind the rumors.
She was always the normal one throughout her educational years (she did not start her higher education until she was twenty-four): pretty but not beautiful, hard-working but not smart, enthusiastic but not passionate. Years without too much care of the world, the only worth considering about were her current job or field of study and what came next. It was only natural for her to what came spontaneously, what you reaped would be what you sowed.
Enjoyment only came from walks that she eagerly took part on her own time, and delight. To walk almost everyday and seeing changes in season was a refreshing seasonal start for her: The greening of spring, the warmer cold summer, the forseen coldness of autumn (with lessening green as evidence), and the bitter cold white that covered every rarely treaded territory. She would take her time outside of the house, not that she dreaded going back and seeing the family nor did anything that prompted self-guilt (she had been careful not to anger father, who was prone to violence when drunk).
Another one came recently when she attended the local university, where warm classrooms and even warmer libraries within the campus awaited her arrival. She was a lover of American literature, especially fiction where she thought creativity laid within the authors from the states. Ernes Hemmingway (of course) started her curiosity and imagination of the United States of America (not until Augusten Burroughs brought her into a deeper, darker state of the country).
Music was uncommon for her albeit seeing her friends listening to them during the journey to class, rock and roll was popular amongst the Russians when artists were able to officially release their work. She did not like the bulkiness of the MP3 players (they were hardly convenient to carry although were called “portable”, silly Americans), the aesthetically-unpleasing sight of one had her rebuked from owning one of them. The libraries were all the fascinations she could have where sometimes book uncovered with her own hands smelled like mothballs and rotting wood, the savory of finishing and grabbing another book from the tall shelves would be plainly exciting for the younger Alexandre.
The realities of her country had not suited her well, even when she was a born and raised Russian like anyone else. The books offered freedom (the types that could be owned since the opening of Russia and the growing pressure on the Soviet government) for her thoughts; the American literature gave her more to add in her imaginations. Her parents had never really minded about her mind wandering outside of where it should have been, which she had been grateful for.
The now permanent American resident of Russia had been recalling these memories of old along with the one of her son when she heard movements behind her chair. She turned and saw Judas staring at her. She had been tearing during her thoughts and was caught by surprise when her son appeared during one of her weak states. She tried calling out to him when he started turning his back on her, only managing to let out a pitiful yell of her sons’ name as he slammed his door shut. Enclosing her back to the original position.
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