How stupid it all is! But I am happy. I have found joy when Vere is dead. Yet I feel it to be a false freedom, an ivory liberty. I am happy, but it is only because I am away from the sitting room, the house, the village, the grave. Am I not delaying my sorrow and fury by kidding myself into a sham security? Will that make it all the more difficult when I return to cursed reality?
The truth is: I am still in the Yellow. Vere, she is in the Red. She may be dead and gone from this Earth, but how I do envy her for that. She is happy, really happy! And I am dull and mistaken. As always.
And for Blue-Cloak? He is in the Blue, surely, the misery and helplessness, the rain? No; it is Deanna who is in the Blue, stuck in Douitchurch. Or is she? No; she is in the Purple. Physically Blue, spiritually Red. And the blue-cloaked murderer resides in the White, the reflection, the phantom. He is not real, I tell myself. He has not power over me. Or am I imagining that, because I am away from the places I associate with him? Am I imagining his Whiteness because I can? Can I?
I cannot. He is all Blue.
No matter. I should enjoy this happiness, false as it is, while it lasts. For it can’t last. There is just a year and a half left before I am left school forever. Then what to do with my life? It is a mystery.
I would so love to be an artist, but my parents are both artists, and failed ones at that. I could not live without a certain and larger wage. The career of the artist is hard and one takes it on for satisfactory purposes, as opposed to monetary purposes.
Coming to that, I have never actually sussed where exactly Dad found the money to move us all to America. Where he found the money to pay the interested man in the suit – that, also, is an enigma. And one which has answer; yet I know Dad will never tell me. If only he wasn’t so reserved, I think to myself on occasion. But if he hadn’t reserve, he wouldn’t be my dad, and I wouldn’t be his son, his son for whom reserve is one of the greatest prizes.