Episode 33
“But.”
Monica took out a check and looked through it, then suddenly asked.
The man, leaning back and smoking a cigar with an utterly slovenly attitude, glanced at her. It seemed to signal she should speak. Monica hesitated before opening her mouth.
“How long have you been unable to sleep?”
“It’s been about two days.”
“Two days?”
The man’s blue eyes narrowed, as if questioning her meaning, then blinked dimly. Monica felt uneasy for no reason, as though she were staring at the flickering light of a gas lamp running out of fuel.
He lightly rubbed his forehead with the hand holding the cigar, lost in thought.
“Do you sleep well?”
“I fall asleep as soon as I put my head on the pillow.”
“That’s fortunate.”
The man chuckled lightly and slyly. Monica glanced at the door, wondering if she had said something inappropriate in front of someone struggling with insomnia.
Andrei, the secretary, returned, placing a glass of amber liquid and a glass of water in front of them before leaving silently.
Enrique stubbed out the half-smoked cigar, crumpling it casually and placing it in the marble ashtray.
Monica’s thoughts wandered to Garcia—the man who smoked cigars down to the stub—and contrasted him with the nobleman in front of her. The difference in temperament was stark.
“When I lie down, the night feels impossibly long. My temples grow heavy, yet my ears become sharply sensitive. Once, I even considered marrying Miss Mollet. Do you know why?”
Monica blinked, confused by the sudden shift in conversation. The man tilted his glass, took a sip, and continued.
“I’ve never lived in a townhouse. At night, lying in this townhouse, I can hear the barking of a dog from three blocks away. That noise keeps me awake. I find myself missing the quiet of my family home.”
“…The Sollivan family estate must be peaceful.”
Enrique chuckled, the smile deepening in a way that made Monica fidget.
“The Sollivan family has commanded the kingdom’s military for over three centuries. We have several estates, but my grandfather, six generations ago, decided to build a castle instead of a mansion.”
“Your family name is Sollivan?”
“Yes. Are you familiar with Eridrea Castle in Asmara?”
“Oh, I know it.”
Eridrea Castle. Even Monica, who had spent her life in the capital, knew of it. A magnificent structure, often featured in newspapers and fairy tales, more splendid than the royal palace.
Looking at the man again, Monica felt her impression shift. He raised an eyebrow at her gaze.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Ah, I thought only princes lived in castles.”
As soon as she spoke, Monica’s cheeks turned bright red, realizing she had essentially called him princely.
If it had been anyone else, they might have taken it as sarcasm, but Enrique was undeniably handsome, his demeanor aristocratic. Even lounging arrogantly in a fine silk shirt, his carelessness with cigars and drinks seemed almost theatrical.
His blue eyes narrowed in amusement, and Monica felt her resolve falter under his gaze.
“My mother never thought of selling this mansion here in the resort district, even as others fled to La Spezia. I can’t decide if I should blame her or be grateful that she secured this townhouse.”
Monica tilted her head, genuinely curious.
“Have you tried physical work? If you’re tired, you might fall asleep.”
“I was in the military.”
“Of course, you’d know how to use your body better than I do. But there’s a difference between noble exercise and real, hard work…”
She trailed off, glancing at Enrique nervously. He tilted his glass, signaling her to continue.
“…You can’t work, can you?”
The nobles viewed labor as degrading. Even as some lower nobles turned to business and the middle class rose, work remained a taboo for many.
Monica hesitated, then pointed to the bottle of sleeping pills.
“Would the ‘green pill’ help you sleep better?”
The man answered immediately, as though anticipating her question.
“Andrei claims I have nightmares. Nonsense. But at least with the pill, I sleep deeply and wake up. Though when I wake…”
Monica understood the unspoken words: even with the medicine, his temperament didn’t improve.
“Usually, after two sleepless nights, I collapse from exhaustion and sleep for two or three hours. When I wake, my mood inevitably shifts.”
“It sounds difficult,” Monica said cautiously.
“It’s the worst for someone like me, expected to marry this fall. I’m meant to visit potential brides in broad daylight, chat with them, and propose.”
The last statement carried a tone of self-mockery. Monica fidgeted with the check in her hands before blurting out:
“Have you considered asking your secretary to sing you a lullaby?”
Enrique’s expression twisted, and Monica quickly backtracked.
“No! I meant some children fall asleep with lullabies. Or maybe holding their hand until they do…”
“They’re children. And Andrei is my secretary, not a nanny.”
He snorted, glancing toward the door where Andrei had left. Monica silently apologized to the absent secretary.
“You should marry soon. Perhaps your wife could…”
“…Miss Offen.”
Enrique interrupted, his tone sharp.
“This will all be resolved once you deliver the ‘green medicine.’”
Though tempted to argue about the medicine’s risks, Monica sighed, shrugging her shoulders as she pocketed the check. Enrique chuckled.
“I won’t take it away.”
“No, I’m just afraid I might lose it.”
She paused, as if remembering something.
“I have a question.”
“What now?”
“You just gave me money.”
“So?”
The man frowned, and Monica could sense his irritation growing. But she was too curious to stop.
“Now that you’ve paid me, can I worry about you?”
Enrique’s face contorted as if he’d heard something utterly absurd.
“Earlier, you said someone who’s paid will worry better than someone who isn’t…”
Monica added quickly, “I don’t mean I’ll sing you a lullaby! If I did, the neighbors three blocks away would hear it!”
The man sighed, resting his chin on his hand, then waved dismissively.
“It’s late. You should go home. Andrei will escort you.”
Monica hesitated, then stood and bowed slightly.
“I’ll take my leave.”
Enrique didn’t look at her, merely waving his hand again.
When she left with Andrei, Enrique’s eyes fell on the table. He noticed Monica’s gray bonnet lying there.
Picking it up, he studied the modest, worn fabric. For some reason, the sight of it filled him with a sense of nostalgia.
Pulling it over his face to shield against the light, Enrique sighed.
“I’m not saying I’ll sing you a lullaby.”
Her words echoed in his mind as he finally felt the pull of sleep.
—
