YD6-99(-2 Cradle)—Vampire’s Hush and nestling the Capricorn bicycle squeal

 

Epigraph: A hush lingers in the marble house—Nyx still breathing through its cracks—when the Capricorn arrives, wheeling his squealing bicycle like an omen of work and destiny. Between Aetheria’s vision and the brute Earth of tools and hands, the excavation begins. The house will yield or resist, but its awakening has already been decided in light.

The Preamble: Aetheria is the lens of consciousness—a rhythm seeking its ultimate form. These pages unfold as she begins to reveal herself, leading me not through a zodiacal forest, but through the physical architecture of memory—the derelict Belle Époque house we now inhabit. In this space, where reality is constantly drawn and erased, Aetheria moves toward the name she will one day claim: Sunshine. This journey clarifies the path begun in my earlier philosophical memoir, The Code: Horizon of Infinity.

YD6-99(-2 Cradle)—Vampire’s Hush and nestling the Capricorn bicycle squeal

As Victoria’s gaze wedges past, he leans aside behind the dormant door leaf, and she steps down, squeezing past the relentless mid-twenties handsome man—handsome, polite, yet tethered in fixation on me. A few strides on, she halts, head turning briskly—caught in a curious grip—as if dawning on her—while I speak: “Renovating isn’t a fairy’s morph—manpower is needed.” I’m scrutinizing the man—a bodybuilder’s chest filling his shirt sleeves and jeans. I wonder, ‘Wasn’t I once bred in the callused industry, a youngster among adults and old trade profanity?’ 

I lead Rudy’s gaze with mine toward the crystal cottage portal shadowing Nyx—the door I’d left ajar, revealing the tenebrous entrails of the house. “Rudy,” I ask, “[Es-tu prêt pour ça ?]—are you up for the job?”

Rather than flinch, Rudy steps forward blindly to task, replying: “[Puis je commencer maintenant ?]—Can I start now?” Cutting me off, he adds, “[Ca c’est le travail]—That’s the job!”

I ask. “[Connais-tu ton signe… Quelle est ta date de naissance ?]—Do you know your birth sign… What’s your birthdate?” After answering, I reflect. “Humm!”—‘A Capricorn—Element of Earth, a steadfast nature.’ The man had beamed down on our doorstep as I was prying through the shell of procrastination. Still I press on: “[Sais-tu manier une pioche et une pelle ?]—Can you swing a pick and shovel?”

Without hesitation, Rudy says. “[Oui !]—Yes!” His eager eyes outreaching around my forearm, “[Je peux commencer maintenant ?]—Can I start now?” 

Rudy—sturdy as a marble statue—stands firm while I forestall the monster of a task. Victoria, distracted, her pixie-haired head turns away, declares with a flick of impatience: ‘I’ve heard enough, seen enough.’ Resilient in her trajectory, she steps off—sunrise jubilant across the avenue, starry pixels peeking through the hedgegrowth foliage of the park thickets before her.

Rudy’s eyes persist, bright with the unspoken vow, ’I’ll show you what I can do.’ He asks, “[Je peux commencer maintenant ?]—Can I start now?” 

I reflect. ‘There are no utensils here…’ 

Sill fixated on the house’s entrails, Rudy insists. “Can I start now?”

Victoria steps down the curb through the interstice of the chain cars, crossing the asphalt dim field—night lingering along the avenue against the woods and thicket hedge. She reaches her blue boxy Panda. Slips inside, and behind the driver’s window pulls out amid the night’s parked silhouettes, heading downhill toward the glazed bus shelter at the park’s sunlight gaping access—the golden gritty path edging the pooling lawns. 

She vanishes from Rochefort Square, dissolved into the faint stir of foot traffic toward the tram platform, with cars disappearing through the cracked hedgerows of fenestrated brick townhouse facades.  

I hint at Rudy’s punctuality: “[Vient demain at sept heures]—Come at seven in the morning.” And to myself, ‘I’ll have time to show what needs to be done.’ 

Rudy exhales—like a boy who’s found his favored toy again—and says, “I’ll be here at seven in the morning.” His eyes drift aside; both hands reach for a bicycle salvaged from a heap of discarded metal—crutches of a sentinel resting by the dark-green, peeling, dormant door—anchored to the pillar where terracotta brick the party seam to a sand-yellow facade of number 13’s barn doors. 

I step down, pulling the door close, shaking my head in disbelief—watching a phantom of the house after the weekend’s move. His hands seize the saddle and the handlebar; with a deft lift, he whisks the bicycle up, swinging it off its wheels in a brief orbit before landing. 

My eyesight piggybacks his head and shoulders, leaving me quite baffled. He strides off, trots, kicks a foot backswing over the luggage carrier, and saddles to coast across the porte cochère’s apron—the interim cranking pedals, the chain rolling, whinnying, and squealing. He bounces across the gutter, hits the asphalt; his feet sporadic on the pedals. The figure crossing the avenue—the crank squealing at every foot’s treadle—curbs into the downhill toward the bus shelter, and floats away—folding into Victoria’s earlier stream of people and cars; in disbelief, I reflected, ‘This is too good to be true!’

I step away uphill, passing a few undulating cars, to reach my Audi—my thoughts at liberty, tracing a new route toward the highway, heading south toward work. I slip into my seat, tweak the ignition, pulling out with a U-turn across the avenue and turn away from the bus shelter - patter patter, patter. . . - cutting the cobblestoned square’s corner against the traffic, past the lopsided pointer with a highway insignia, the outbound artery through the trough of the valley of Forest. Losing the thread before downtown, a side street opens into a fork-square flanked by fenestrated brick facades, estranged by a generation’s absurd crotch; in the morning light, Aetheria’s breath styles destiny—mirrored in the glittering curtain wall that imprints upon my mind the prow of St. Eloi’s ornate splash.   

But it’s the hardware that resonates in my mind—a boy’s toyshop—as I regain course, passing the back-artery Volkswagen factory, breaching the night cast in the underpass to rebound into the morning’s skimming sunlight, weaving through a spiderweb of a countryside interchange to merge with the southbound highway traffic, the gantry flashing Paris-Parijs—Lile-Rijssle. 

Breaking free from the bilingual Brussels region, a trickle of tradesmen’s panel vans flick their indicators for egress and ingress ramps as Flemish Flanders’ gantry flashes—Parijs, Rijssel—Rijssel, fatigued, on the board, shuns itself to bifurcate its lanes away, drawing the traffic vanishing in the woods. I break out of Flanders, praising myself for holding to the speed limit; the gantry signboards hurls up, perpetuating Paris in a slipstream over the windshield to disappear in my wake—at the rate of finger-pointed signs dropping Walloon village names by the wayside.

I shunt off with the Paris lanes, curling beneath the wrought-iron bridge along the river, furthering into Wallonia—gathering the morning’s traffic toward Charleroi—until I veer into the industrial zone, amid Jumet’s scattered steel sheds. I pull to a halt on the apron before the facing brick wall. Stepping out of the car, the door swings shut behind me. In a few strides along the facade, I reach the office door, push the door swing open to the walk-up. The corridor launches into the dark glazed maze of a warehouse’s empty offices: I pass beneath the CEO’s spying regard. His unrelenting eyes follow me across the corridor until I settle at my table, crouched in a daylight gleam, diving into the Materne Bill of Quantities I’d left there before the weekend.

After a day of ruffling through subcontractors’ faxed-in prices, I turn to evaluate the construction site. In my mind, a holographic scene unfolds: the crane operator spreads the outriggers, raising the latticed boom. A cable thread through sheaves, maneuvering a hook that dangles a steel column down to the waiting steelworkers. They align and bolt the base plate to the concrete footing, perpetuating the modular rhythm—like soldiers outlining the factory. 

The crane heaves to interpose the tie beams, amid the steelworkers against the sky—wiggling, throttling, and trawling—they erect the trusses, then span purlins across, shaping an aired steel skeleton. The framework pilfers daylight from within, sheathing above with sheet-metal roofing; cladding sheets soldier and dress beside their neighbors’ wrap, boxing the space in. My eyes settle—falling onto separate items on the page, halfway through the ream—stipulating the framing of emergency doors and a cargo door, the shed’s skylights and ventilators. 

Underneath the sunlight, as the shade wiggles across the courtyard walls behind me into the afternoon, I rise, slide my Toshiba laptop along into Rico’s executive briefcase, and trace my steps back to the Audi. I slip into my seat, tweak the ignition, and pull off, weaseling out from the industrial zone through the Gosselies interchange, blending into the outbound stream of office-workers along the thoroughfare that ploughs toward a sun lowering over the horizon. After interchanges shed traffic to wayside villages, I’m engaged into the slip road that splits at the junction flashing atop the gantry signboard—“[Bruxelles]—Brussels”—beside the morning stretch reversed, to shun into the suburbs and pull up beside St. Eloi’s glass prow. I step out, enter the hardware store, warmed by the sense of honing in on tools—honey to the hands that know how to implement. 

The attendant disappears from behind the counter, returns with the handles—standing them against the counter, a pick and a shovel—then sets down cement-sized construction debris bags, settling the purchase. Heavy in my grip, I walk out across the street. Lift the Audi’s trunk, and lay the utensils inside - slam - closing the lid. I slip behind the steering wheel, tweak the ignition, and pull away, weaving through the streets until I pull up before number 15 on the avenue. I step out of the car, remove the tools from the trunk - clang - and stride indoors. 

In the depth of the dark stairwell, I descend the flight of stairs toward the -1 landing—dead giant spiders hanging in the corner—reminding myself, the electric panel. I enter the basement and turn toward the street-front window. In the room, I lay the utensils beside the flank door before stepping into the crawlspace—into the dark age of gas lighting—tracing the supply lines of gas, water, finding the sewer pipe, and noting the ultimate bricking-up of the door that distances the technical shaft from the -1 apartment, feeding anew each individual apartment up to the loft. 

I head back up the flight of stairs to the +/-0 Belle Epoque landing, then up to the mezzanine swingback. I flick the pilot light on at the +1 landing, continue to the +2, and stop at the loft apartment. Victoria greets me, pecks a kiss on the lips; groceries finding their place along the chopping block, the stove its pots, a meal in its steam, onto a plate. We settle in, clear up, and tuck ourselves under the duvet for the night.

I awake to the hush of autumn light lagging, barely peeking through the mansard rooms’ hatches: Nyx’s skirt still hangs in the air, announcing a spell of winter. My mind returns to where I left off last night—the task of the upcoming novelty. I jump out of bed, dress, leaving Victoria behind, curled in the bedding. I step out of the dormer room, run my fingertips along the barn stair’s handrail, and, from the swingback landing in the somber glow of a dangling bulb, I count +2, +1—on track with the mezzanine. The rhythm of a shoe-roll dances down the nosing cascade, landing at ±0 of the Belle Epoque. 

At the sentinel of the panel door, I step into the dark, miserable derelict. A waft of stale air—the pet of the previous owners leaps at me with a foul embrace, its emotions welcome: ’You’re going to breathe life into us again?’ I turn toward slivers of daylight, pacing the linoleum through the tenebrous march toward the crystal grandeur of the interleading portal. I pace through the enfilade of rooms, approaching the distant, sketchy French door. Outside, a lizard-mirage crawls up from beneath the lopsided roller shutter. Squeezing through the gap between the door’s exterior kick panels, it rolls over the sill and through the pane—a fatigue crawl of light spilling into a reverence at my feet. 

I grope the French door’s right casement; the architraves offer the flat winder strap. I take hold. As my hand tugs, the wooden slats crack open—light seeping through the louvers from the top, multiplying downward, striating the door’s face toward the bottom with an arid, age-still cringe along the routed gliders. Reaching the crumpled wedge—lopsided bottom—the lizard crawl unfolds a wink—then morphs into a sluice of brightness spilling over the sill. Engulfing the French door as the slats - growl - roll onto themselves into the shadows of the stow box beneath the ceiling, the strap stops my hand - clicks - into the satiation of its steel hooks.

I sidestep and rotate the cremone, unlatching the transom and floor bolts. I pull, separating the twin door leaves—the park's first breeze engulfs me, light in tow, scouting the night behind through the enfilade of rooms. I pace into the embrace of the open door leaves, up to the doorstep parapet—the regal faux-balcony awaiting the knight on horseback—as sunlight’s starry rays pierce through the wooded thicket hedge, awakening the deserted avenue. My gaze glides down the asphalt and catches—Aetheria’s allure—glittering in the crystal bus shelter—resonates with faint treadmill squeaks until Rudy emerges from the shadow of the night. He crosses the deserted avenue into the sun’s glow, his bust low on the handlebars, arms widespread, waggling to the rhythm of the chain’s squeal as his feet grind the pedals, hauling himself uphill. 

In a flicker of disconcert, I backstep—spreading my grip across the doors’ interlocking rolling stiles—to press them close, latching the cremone transom and floor bolts. I turn away, backtracking as the brown-marble—dressed in its white veins—stands across the crystal grandeur’s threshold, butler-proud: a mantelpiece with a caretaker’s plea long before the apartment turned derelict. ’Not now; there’s greater urgency to the core to resolve!’ I’m called into stride toward the opposite wall and step onto the somber landing—swivel on my feet, through the cottage-portal doorway the split-level down - click - a light crack opens, and daylight engulfs the vestibule. 

Framed in the glow, Rudy’s foot kicks back; he unsaddles and walks, wheeling his possession up to me. ‘Wait! You’re not intended to bring that scrap inside?’ I thought. 

After a brief greeting, I watch with a disdainful eye—a bike no one would steal—the front wheel - clang - as it rolls over the sidewalk’s coal-chute plate. The tire presses onward and across the doorstep, and I backstep from the doorway. Rudy pushes forward, squeezing himself through, the rear wheel rattling the disapproving metal plate—clanging. I’m left fixated, fearing the rusty projections might scrape the door or craze the marble floor—to my ridicule. Rudy passes the basement flank-panel door, heightening my dread as he leans the scrap bike—tire and handlebar smacking the marble wainscot, the saddle too—before stepping back, pressing the door - Kwock - into the frame, and shutting out the light.

Rudy’s steps follow me, past my hesitant waiting. My eyes grope through the stifled light to risers of the split level walk-up, through the hollow of the vestibule's crystal cottage portal. Beneath the upstairs flight, the floor opens behind the handrailing balustrade, and I reach the profound stairwell. With a hand atop the newel post, I wing my shoe around my heel—the shoe’s toe feeling for the nosing edge before stepping down. The other foot treads further below. My hand finds the swingback railing, groping down the hollow as Nyx oozes from the walls. Rudy clings close behind—in her skirt’s swarm of bats, he piggybacks me—fearful as a vampire in the underground. The shadow yields to the flight of cascading treads—and I descend—before my eye catches the dangling bulb’s meek light. The handrail slides beneath my palm as my feet gain the rhythm of the stairs, echoing the hollow wood to poldergeists meeting in the walls below. 

Alongside the shadowing, cloth-insulated spaghetti of entry and exit wires and blatant fuses leading to an open switchgear panel. I turn away—amazed by the invention of electricity—toward the sentinel of a door off the -1 landing. I crank its lever, opening into the derelict enfilade tunneling the basement floor. I head for the street-front window, its outdoor wrought iron grill scribbled scrawls, light lingering across the walls and casting a shine across the ceiling, revealing a symmetry of foundation plan that underpins the towering house. 

Off to the side, the embossed panel door lies in shade. The lever in my grip; I crank it open with a leftward swing that plants the leaf, and me a side step line against the load-bearing stairwell wall. Turning my back on the threads of the dangling bulb, and its timid reach of light shading the raw, whitewashed brick walls. I turn to fix the man in the gaping doorway. “Rudy! Are you up to excavate the floor?” I say.

Rudy doesn’t flinch. He eagerly slips along the flanks of the massive doorjamb—several bricks thick—into the vestibule’s crawl space. Assured and appeased by Rudy’s eagerness to labor, my mind toggles toward ducking to duty. I leave Rudy to the dozen pencil shafts piercing and resting on the raw, chiseled away foundation wall—the chute from the sidewalk’s doorstep lids. 

I backtrack from the pick, shovel, and debris bags—Rudy’s earlier glance lingering on the stacked utensils in the shadow of the window light—and edge back upstairs. My hips swing around the swingback handrail’s return. I pace along the Belle Epoque’s landing toward the darkness, through the crystal-cottage portal and down the split level. My gaze butts the entrance, sliding past Rudy’s bicycle. I unlatch the door into an engulfing daylight. ‘I’ve got to get you to roam free through the stairwell.’ The thought nurtures—Aetheria’s volition pulsing through my mind. 

I’m glad to step into daylight, scanning the line of parked cars for the Audi. Across the deserted avenue, I reach the park’s thicket hedge. Sliding behind the steering wheel, I tweak the ignition and coast downhill - patter, patter, patter. . . - veering through the prow of the most recent generation of apartment blocks, past the lopsided highway pointer, treading the trough artery by the Volkswagen factory, beneath the highway cast shade. I merge with a trickle of panel vans—men at the wheel, testing my patience along the hypnotic lanes flashing Paris, wailing for Charleroi to appear, then Jumet—and pulling up at the office, for another day striving beneath the skylight Helios peeking to finish pricing out the Bill of Quantities.