Shadow in the window.

The first time Henry had felt the shadow, he experienced an eerie sense of dread, but he knew that fear before he ever saw the shadow. The strange oppression he felt, he easily interpreted as the vibration of an unfamiliar environment. Slowly, that sense of oppression gave way to a feeling that forced him out of himself. 

Wait a second, dear reader. I am getting ahead of my story here: forgive me!

Allow me to start again: from the beginning this time:

Henry lived with his wife Elisabeth in a small house on Cherry blossom Road. There was nothing pretentious about the house. All the houses were the same on Cherry blossom Road. But this was "his" house! His own house. He was immensely vain, and it meant a lot to him that the house really belonged to him: it emphasized his being to himself.

The house had two floors, was built of wood, and was whitewashed. A green mansard roof came down over the small green shutters. On the lower floor, the windows were larger, and a gravel path led to the front door. Two hanging willow trees stood on either side of the house.

His aunt had left him the house. He had not been particularly successful before that. He was a hardworking journalist and nothing more. Never had he aspired to become anything else. He had always believed that the work he did was good enough. He was never aware of a lack of success. But now something began to heat up in him; as if something was preparing him, for something long destined to come. He told himself that in this small house, far from the noise and clutter of the city, he had found time to write, be himself, and express what he knew he was. That was six years ago...

Now he was incredibly famous. No one doubted his genius anymore. His books were read with interest and enjoyed surprisingly favorable comments. There was something attractive and special in all his works.

Henry was extremely vain in his success, and he would never have admitted it for anything in the world, but he never understood the thoughts behind what he wrote.

One evening Henry sat at his desk, blank paper in front of him, pen in hand, eyes bulging in the dim light. The lawn among the hanging willows was covered in dark shadows. He fixed his eyes on the window of the house across the street. Somewhere in that house, there was the sound of a clock striking the hour.

Henry walked to the side of the desk and leaned far out of the window. A wave of heat came to him from the earth. He kept his eyes on the window across the street.

The door behind him was thrown open. Henry turned to see Elizabeth's figure standing in the doorway. She grabbed the shell of a burning lamp.

"It's so dark in here, Henry," she said as she walked into the room.

-"I don't need that." Henry snapped impatiently.

-"It's not good for your eyes." Elizabeth said quietly.

-"And I tell you I don't need a light. Put that thing down. I have better things to do than argue with you. You have no respect for my genius. Do you have to disturb me all the time?" Henry roared.

Elizabeth walked to the center of the room and placed the lamp on his desk: "Genius, did you say?"

Henry sat back, picked up his pen, and dropped it into the ink. He had decided that his new book would be bigger than any other. He would write something amazing. Elizabeth had to cough for a moment. She startled Henry.

-"Be quiet!" he snapped.

-"Is there something wrong?" Elizabeth asked.

-"What should be wrong?" he muttered angrily. He looked again at the house across the street and began to write. Soon he tore the paper and threw it from him.

"Henry," Elizabeth began, "I don't want to bother you, but..."

-"Woman man shut up and sit there on that chair." he snorted contemptuously.

Elizabeth sat in the chair in silence.

There it was at last: the shadow. With a sigh of relief, Henry began to write. It wasn't until he got almost to the end of the page that he suddenly became aware that Elizabeth was standing directly behind him.

His self-esteem had become excessive, stretching far beyond physical vanity. There was absolutely nothing captivating in his hunched shoulders or the thin blond hair that covered his head and his bulging blue-washed eyes. Not to mention the stocky affair of his nose being too long. His mouth looked like a strange stain: thin, colorless lips. And yet he was vain about his appearance, but it was his egotism that was the keynote of his whole being. There were, of course, those who could not forgive even an acclaimed writer.

Henry was spoken of in literature as a mystic and a poet who possessed a genius subtlety. In real life, however, he was a materialist through and through.

And Elizabeth? She was a slim, tall woman and not unattractive. Kind of inconspicuous, except for her green eyes which were a little oddly set apart and heavily covered. One could rarely see them.

They were both incredibly young when they got married. She had become a meaningless figure, a natural result of Henry's persistent habit of ignoring her. It was impossible to assert oneself with him. Her character was dominated by her husband's selfishness; she had to erase herself constantly. She was curiously passive in the face of his conceit. If it ever annoyed her, she never showed it. If he ever noticed her at all, Henry just continued to patronize her stupidity. Elisabeth was essential in supplying all his physical needs, which were of immense importance to him. There was no camaraderie between them. He had never been able to enjoy anyone's company.

In Henry's mind, he did not need anything from the rest of humanity. He was self-sufficient. If there had ever been love between Henry and Elisabeth, they both had lost sight of it long ago. He in his complacent conceit, she in her monotonous denial.

As Henry’s success expanded, he grew away from the kind of stuff he wrote about. People could never resist the temptation to discover some of his literary idealism in Henry himself. But he had a peculiar habit of constantly refusing to leave his house. After all, he had found his success in this house, so why should he leave it? Here he had made a name for himself.

A few days after his last book was published, his publisher approached him. Mr. Dafoe had an inexplicable disgust for Henry; the reason for his visit was to inform the author that the second edition of his latest book was about to be released because there was such great genius in the work.

"I never doubted that," Henry said in a businesslike tone. Mr. Dafoe bit off the end of his cigar:

-"Do you have an idea for your next book?"

-"I do not know yet." Henry answered, quietly tugging at his pipe. Mr. Dafoe was about to say something, but he swallowed his words as Elisabeth came into the living room.

Henry made an impatient introduction:

-"My wife Elisabeth. This is Mr. Dafoe who publishes my books."

Elisabeth walked over to the publisher and extended a hand to him:

-"Good evening."

Mister Dafoe never knew Henry was married. It seemed utterly impossible to live with someone like Henry. 

-"Why didn't you ever tell me you were married, Henry?"

-"Didn't I? let's talk about my book..."

1. Dafoe lowered Elisabeth's hand:

-"Your husband is a great author ma'am."

-"Yes." Elizabeth answered dryly.

-"You can safely call me a genius." Henry intervened.

Dafoe felt a strange irritation: "I have to go." he said. At the door, he turned and saw Elizabeth looking straight at him. Her eyes met his in a way he could not explain. There was something creepy about it.

Henry did not want to live a hermit life, but most people stayed away from him. His life was known to every man and woman who cared about the knowledge of his petty egotism, complacency, and colossal conceit. (And, of course, his genius.)

Despite Henry's impossible vanity, deep within his hard soul, there must have been an inordinate hunger for recognition from others in order to gain a self-affirmation that could not be denied.

Henry always wrote in the evening and very often continued to write well into the morning. When he first moved into the house, he placed his desk against the windowsill so he could look out the window without having to move. He held up the blinds so he could stare at the house across the street. He was very interested in that house, although it was heavily boarded up. It was already closed when they moved into Cherry Blossom Road. But every night in the window opposite he had seen a man's shadow rocking back and forth. He stared at it until he felt he should start writing. There was a certain mysterious immateriality to the presence of that shadow, and he had never spoken of it to anyone. That shadow was the only thing outside of himself worthy of his attention.

For six years every night had waited for that shadow to come. He could not explain it, but in his opinion, he didn't need to explain anything. He had come to see the shadow as a sign of luck or good fortune, embodying his genius.

Henry was extremely vain in his success, and for nothing in the world would he ever have admitted it, but he never understood the thoughts behind what he wrote.

One evening Henry sat at his desk, blank paper in front of him, pen in hand, eyes bulging in the dim light. The lawn among the hanging willows was covered in dark shadows. He fixed his eyes on the window of the house across the street. Somewhere in that house, there was the sound of a clock striking the hour.

Henry walked to the side of his desk and leaned far out of the window. A wave of heat came to him from the earth. He kept his eyes on the window across the street.

The door behind him flew open. Henry turned to see Elizabeth's figure standing in the doorway. She grabbed the shell of a burning lamp.

"It's so dark in here, Henry," she said as she walked into the room.

-"I don't need that." Henry snapped impatiently.

-"It's not good for your eyes." Elizabeth said quietly.

-"And I tell you I don't need a light. Put that thing down. I have better things to do than to listen to your stupid arguments. You have no respect for my genius. Do you have to disturb me all the time?" Henry roared.

Elizabeth walked to the center of the room and placed the lamp on his desk: "Genius, did you say?"

Henry sat back, picked up his pen, and dropped it into the ink. He had decided that his new book would be bigger than any other. He would write something amazing. Elizabeth coughed and startled Henry.

-"Be quiet!" he snapped.

-"Is there something wrong?" Elizabeth asked.

-"What should be wrong?" he muttered angrily. He looked again at the house across the street and began to write. After a few lines, he tore the paper and threw it from him.

"Henry," Elizabeth began, "I don't want to bother you, but..."

-"Woman man shut up and sit there on that chair." he snorted contemptuously.

Elizabeth sat in the chair in silence.

There it was at last: the shadow. With a sigh of relief, Henry began to write. It wasn't until he got almost to the end of the page that he suddenly became aware that Elizabeth was standing directly behind him.

-"What is it? What do you want?" he barked at her.

The lamplight brought out a glinting streak in the expression of her eyes.

-"Why did you do that? Stop bothering me. Can you never leave me alone?" he ranted. "Can't you see I'm trying to write?"

-"Do you know why you write?" Elizabeth asked quietly.

-"Because I am inspired." Henry snorted.

-"Inspired when you look out the window, isn't it?" Elisabeth continued softly.

-"Look out the window? Why should I look out the window?" Henry snapped at her.

-"What do you see there? Elizabeth insisted.

Henry looked across to where the shadow moved back and forth. He got up so suddenly that his chair fell to the floor behind him. He looked at Elizabeth very angrily: "Why don't you leave me alone?"

-"I want to know." she replied.

-"Leave the room!" shouted Henry. "I have to write!"

Elisabeth walked to the door: "You have to write?" Her words came back to him with a curious urgency.

-"You have to, your have to, your have to. You must!"

He waited for her to close the door behind her and sat back down at his desk.

 This book was going to be the best he'd ever written. What on earth did she mean?

-"Elisabeth!" he howled. He heard her footsteps in the hallway, and she came back into the room. Her hands hung stiffly at her sides.

"I've endured you far too long, Henry. I never said anything, and if you weren't so vain, you would have realized long ago what a ridiculous and contemptible little fellow you are."

-"Elizabeth!" he interrupted her with a surprised tone.

-"Did you think I was blind?" Elizabeth asked. "You are so full of yourself that you can't see anything else."

-"Blind?" Henry stammered.

"I've sat here night after night in this room with you," Elisabeth said in a sad tone.

"What?" Henry asked.

-"The house across the street" Elizabeth suggested.

-"What do you mean?" Henry asked in a hoarse voice.

"It is not you who`s writing, you fool." she filled him in.

"Elizabeth, how dare you?" Henry nearly choked on his indignation.

-"How dare I?" Elizabeth asked scornfully. Henry had never seen her like this.

-"You are the fool here." he cried angrily. "I'm the one with the brain. You only want to hinder me with your stupidity." 

-"No!" Elizabeth's voice echoed through the room. "I won't let you speak to me this way. Shall I tell you the truth? Take it or leave it as you will. There´s no getting away from it for you anymore."

-"What are you talking about?" Henry asked.

-"I always hoped you had a soul, but you are smug and disgusting!"

Henry wanted to say something, but he couldn't find his voice.

-"The first night we were here I discovered that I could bring things to me. When I saw you staring through that window, I got down on my knees and prayed. That night I brought something to you. And you called it your genius.”

Elisabeth paused and looked at Henry.

-"I brought it to you because I wanted you to be great. I thought it would make you great, but you're too small for that. For six years I held it for you, and now I let it go because you're too small to be anything but YOU."

Henry walked to his desk and sank into an armchair.

-"I don't know what you're talking about." he whispered. "The shadow."

That shadow he had come to see as a sign of happiness.

-"What nonsense!" he exclaimed involuntarily.

It was his mind! His great creative mind wrote. For a moment Elizabeth's gaze met his, and then she closed her eyes. Those strange green eyes that hid all expression.

Henry stared at the house across the street. The shadow was not there.

"Elizabeth," he begged hoarsely.

-"Yes, Henry?"

-"It's not there." his voice trembled.

"I thought it wouldn't make any difference to you," she said softly.

-"It was luck Elizabeth." Henry muttered.

-"Luck?" she asked.

Henry made a desperate attempt to pull himself together: "It won't make any difference to my writing."

After a moment of silence, Elizabeth said, "Then write."

-"Naturally!" Henry cried hysterically.

-"Write!" Elizabeth ordered.

-"You don't stop talking, how can I write?" Henry stuttered.

-"I let it go, Henry. It's gone." Elizabeth said quietly.

Henry ran his pen back and forth across the paper. Now and then he lifted his bulging blue eyes to the window of the house across the street, then he fixed them intently on the paper again. The paper he was busily trying to cover with silly, meaningless little scribbles...