The Princess In The Tower
By Richard Ong
Drawing by Richard Ong
“Excuse me miss, have you been waiting long?”
I hear the rustle of her clothes and the soft tap of her heels on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?” A pleasant voice and perhaps, a pleasant smile. I hope to play my cards right.
“I’m so sorry to have bothered you, miss. I didn’t realize that you were busy. I was just wondering whether you have been waiting long for the bus.”
A pause. Have I startled her?
“No,” she finally says. “No. I haven’t been waiting long.”
A longer pause. I wait and when no other words are forthcoming, I begin to wonder if my hand is all played out. I can smell her scent. For as long as the breeze holds, her perfume will be my guide. I try another tact.
“Sure is warm this afternoon. I think I’m a bit overdressed for the weather.” I laugh but she offers no opinion of her own. I count to twenty before trying another tact.
“Hey, listen,” trying to raise the tone of my voice with an upbeat note. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“What is it?” she asks.
“Well, I happen to be a writer and I just came upon this wonderful idea that I’d like to run by you to get your opinion. Interested?”
“Fine. What is your idea?”
Now that I have her attention, I regain my self-confidence and plow headlong onto the attack. I wait until the sound of a heavy vehicle and the rush of diesel suddenly choking the air around us passes by. I cough and clear my throat. She remains silent, seemingly unaffected by this brief interlude.
“This story is about a princess who lived within a tall, enchanted tower waiting for a prince to set her free. Years pass and many stalwart princes have tried and failed to her dismay. The enchantment is simply too strong to break.”
I pause and listen to her breathing. A sweet sigh to my ears.
After a few seconds of silence, I continue my story.
“Then one day, a poor farmer passing by happens to look up and is immediately smitten by the beautiful princess looking out the window of the tall tower. He calls out to her and asks for her name. She gives it. After learning of her predicament, the farmer scratches his head and sits at the base of the tower to think things through. Weeks pass and the farmer suddenly rises from his position and shouts at the top of his lungs, ‘Would you like to come downstairs this afternoon and have a spot of tea with me?’ The princess smiles and agrees to come down to have tea with the poor farmer.”
“What? What kind of a story is that?” she asks.
“It’s a children’s tale with a moral twist,” I reply.
“And what is the moral twist in that, may I ask?”
“What do you think it is, Miss... I don’t even know your name?”
“You never gave yours.”
“Touché. My name’s Bryan. So what’s yours?”
“Elizabeth.”
“A beautiful name and a lovely voice.”
Silence.
“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“No need. You haven’t embarrassed me. I’m simply immune to such compliments.”
“You are? Why is that?”
“It’s just... no, never mind.”
“No, tell me. I don’t mind listening. I’m rather good at it. Unless of course you don’t want to share your story.” I am pushing. I must pedal back else I risk being a turn-off, if I haven’t done so already.
An eerie silence marks the passing of the long minute. Not a single vehicle can be heard on the road. Even the birds are silent in this interval. I hold my breath, afraid to be the first to break the silence. Finally, I hear the rustle of her clothes as she shifts on her seat.
“Do you know that I’m blind?” she says.
I must admit to being taken aback by this revelation. My voice catches in my throat as I search for words to comfort her.
She continues.
“I lost my sight three months ago when a fire broke out in our house. I was alone at the time when it happened. It was a faulty leak in the gas main, I was told. They said I was lucky to be alive. I’m not so sure I share that sentiment.”
With an understanding borne of experience, I regain my courage to speak. The words flow with practiced ease. This is a situation that I’m familiar with all too well.
“I too have lived in the dark, for almost ten years.”
“Don’t. Please don’t patronize me, Bryan. I do not need your sympathy. You don’t need to pretend.” There was an edge in her voice. It makes me want to reach out and touch her.
“Elizabeth. I have something in my bag I want you to feel. May I... sit down for a second? Please don’t be afraid. I swear that I am just like you.”
I hear the rustle of her clothes as she shifts on the bench. The sound of a zipper opening (or closing?) startles me.
“If you try anything or take advantage of me, I am prepared to defend myself.” I hold my breath as I wait for her to continue. “You may sit down, slowly, here on my right.” I hear the tap on the wooden plank of the bench next to her.
I slowly release my breath and nod in the direction of her voice. I strike both the leg and the side of the bench with my stick to gain by bearings. I imagine its shape and distance from where I stand and slowly lower myself onto the seat next to her.
“Okay, Elizabeth. I’m going to reach into my bag and pull out a book for you to touch. Just a book. So please, don’t be alarmed.”
“Go on.”
I set my stick to rest on my right against the armrest of the bench and unclasp the straps of my briefcase on my lap. I pull out a heavy book and open it in random to a page in the middle. I reach over to my left towards Elizabeth. “I’m now holding the book in front of you. Now reach down and feel the bindings. Go on. Try to touch the top of the page with your fingers.”
She does.
“Do you feel the soft indentations? It’s written in Braille. Are you able to read it?”
“I can’t. I haven’t learned how–” I hear her voice break.
I know exactly how she feels. Three months is such a short time to adjust.
“It’s okay," I tell her. "I can teach you.”
She suddenly slaps the book hard and it tumbles down on my feet. I reach over to pick it up.
“I don’t need anyone’s help, okay? Who asked you anyway? Just leave me alone!” She cries, her breath catching with each sob. My heart aches each time she does.
I slowly take off my dark glasses and tilt my head up. The sun feels warm and comforting on my face. A soft breeze blows and I feel the wisp of her hair next to my cheek. I hear her blow her nose and clear her throat.
I remain motionless on the bench next to her with the book once again on my lap. I sit in silence, while I wait for Elizabeth to regain her composure.
Finally I say, “Do you want to know what the moral is behind my fairy tale?”
“What? What did you say?” She sounds confused.
“The princess in the tall tower.”
“I … I suppose that you’re going to tell me anyway.” I hear her blow her nose.
“You got that right, Lizzie. Do you mind me calling you Lizzie?”
She says nothing. So I continue in my best cheery voice.
“The tower is not really enchanted and it does not hold her prisoner. Oh no, she could’ve come down anytime she wanted to. But she didn’t. Do you know why?”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me.” Her voice has regained some clarity.
“Right, Lizzie. You see, the poor princess made a prisoner of herself. She had lost her self-confidence long ago and created an imaginary tower from which no prince could hope to scale. That is until she meets a poor lonesome farmer who sees her for what she is and not her impediments. Then poof! The enchantment breaks. And do you know what happens next?”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that they both lived happily ever after?”
“Good heavens, no! Nothing so cliché as that.”
“What then?” she asks.
“I’ll make you a deal, Lizzie.” I lean over to reach out and touch her arm. I make contact. She doesn’t flinch. The softness of her skin completes the image of the princess in my story.
“Yes?”
“Let me teach you how to read this book and I’ll tell you how it ends.”
That afternoon we decide not to board the bus in order to commence the first of her many lessons ... and mine for the rest of our lives.