Iris
By Kevin Ma
Achromatopsia - a non-progressive and hereditary visual disorder which
is characterized by the absence of color vision
Iris Regenbogen saw, and would see, the world in black and white. It was, and would continue to be, a world viewed through a polaroid lens, devoid of the attribute of “color”. Iris herself realized long ago that the way she viewed the world around her was fundamentally different, that there was some common quality of being that she could not quite grasp.
People often tried to explain the concept of color to Iris once they discovered her achromatopsia. They used abstract concepts and emotions to illustrate the idea of “color”, while adopting a pitying undertone in their explanation. Red was fire, passion, anger, love. Blue was tranquility, calmness, the ocean and the sky. How could the ocean be the same “blue” as the sky? How could a sweet apple be the same “red” as a deadly fire? Iris did not understand, and as she grew up, she became more and more apathetic to these descriptions.
At a glance, one might say that color was not needed in Iris’s life, that Iris had discovered a way to replace the romantic expressions found in color with the many shades of grey she saw. Iris had long since accepted the fact that she would never understand color. She decided that any attempt to do so would simply be a waste of time, and so she resigned herself to satisfaction with her monotonous world, just as a middle-aged salaryman might be content with his nine to five office job.
Iris woke up in the comfort of her bedsheets. Just last year, she had tied the knot on her engagement with her husband, donned the Regenbogen name, and prepared herself to gradually blend into the newlywed lifestyle. The two Regenbogens had retired to the outskirts of rural England where Iris’s husband purchased a luxurious resort villa and hired gardeners and interior designers to create an aristocratic pure-white Edwardian mansion.
Fast-forwarding a couple months into their new life, Iris frequently found herself seated at her piano bench while her husband went in and out of the house for business ventures. Iris knew it wasn’t his fault. All his departures were important, yet Iris was still disappointed that her newlywed life wasn’t exactly how she’d expected it to. But seeing all the accommodations her husband had apologetically gifted — a nice Fazioli Brunei piano and a set of tacky Buccellati jewelry — Iris decided to pardon her husband’s unfortunate lack of presence and tried to enjoy her newlywed lifestyle. However, one year after her marriage, as the rays of the sun pierced through her window, the man sleeping by Iris’s side was, in fact, not her husband, but instead David Regenbogen, the man who just one year prior had become her brother-in-law.
One week prior, Iris’s husband had informed her that he would be departing for a business venture and that he would need Iris to attend to his brother, who would be visiting them from Germany, in his stead. He had apologized profusely for his sudden departure and promised that once he came back he would release himself of any work-related responsibilities to indulge in whatever Iris wanted. Iris had let him go, but deep down she had felt a slight irritation by her husband’s abrupt abdication of responsibilities to engage in business matters right after he’d returned from a previous venture.
Iris had no recollection of her brother-in-law besides the fact that he was among the masses of individuals that had attended her ceremonious wedding, nor was she particularly eager to meet the brother of her husband. But now, as Iris glanced at her brother-in-law’s sleeping face lying by her side in the present, she could only lament how today would be the last day of David’s visit, and that by the time the sun rose the next morning, she would have returned to her newlywed life.
At first, it felt wrong. No matter how egregious his lack of attention was, Iris discerned her husband to be a devoted and caring man, and had felt a pang of guilt in her affair. But eventually this guilt was appeased by Iris's belief that once her week with David ended there would be no evidence, no chance of her husband — or anyone for that matter — discovering her short tryst. Her husband could not be hurt by what he did not know. And so Iris had let David lead her by the hand, steepening the depth of their sin before culminating in the events of last night.
It returned to Iris in a haze. For one night, she had let her carnal desires overtake her. Something David did, the way he ran his fingers across the curves of her body, reminded her of her husband, but the thought had vanished as soon as it came as David wiped any notion of her husband from her mind. Her honeymoon seemed lackluster in comparison.
Upon recalling the happenings of last night, Iris was promptly reminded of her nudity. She rose from her bed and made her way to the bathroom, where she completed her morning ablutions and slipped on a white dress. When she returned to the bedroom, she found David sitting upright against the bed frame, reading a book.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” Iris said.
David glanced out the window and smiled. “It’s quite a lovely day, isn’t it?”
Iris looked towards the pastel grey leaves that fluttered like snowflakes outside her window, then back at David. David bore a remarkable resemblance to her husband when they had first met: David’s toned muscles and messy hair, which her husband had exchanged for an ever-so-slight potbelly and a straightened seven-three cut over the years.
“Get up. I’d hate to see our last day together be wasted like this,” Iris said.
David climbed out of bed, stark naked, and walked into the bathroom. Iris went to the kitchen to fetch an assortment of breakfast confectionaries and to brew a kettle of Darjeeling.
They sat down at the dining table. A strange silence coated the atmosphere. The sun now shone bright in the sky. David had showered, changed into a clean pair of clothes taken from Iris’s husband’s wardrobe, and now gave off the aura of an impeccable gentleman. It was the same aura that constituted Iris’s first impression of David, the first facet of his personality that she uncovered when he had arrived on her doorstep one week ago. After a while, David broke the silence.
“Tonight…. I’ll be leaving. As wonderful as this last week has been, I suppose all good things must come to an end,” David said.
Iris remained silent and avoided meeting David’s gaze.
David reached across the table and grasped Iris’s hands, “You’ve really made this visit enjoyable for me. I can’t imagine a better host for my short stay in the rural outskirts of England.”
“Of course.” Iris tilted her head and smiled a bittersweet smile, and despite David’s apparent dissatisfaction with Iris’s response, the conversation came to an abrupt end.
It was the evening of their first meeting, just a couple minutes after David had arrived on Iris’s doorstep with his messy blonde hair and wide smile. After exchanging formalities, Iris had guided David into the living room and seated him on a couch in the living room while she went to fetch a cup of Darjeeling. Upon her return, David redirected his attention from the fragrant boutiques and ornate architecture that decorated the Regenbogen living room to Iris.
“My brother tells me that you’re a pianist, and that you’re colorblind,” he said as he gazed into Iris’ eyes. “Frankly, I can’t even imagine living without color, but it certainly appears as if you’ve embraced your monochromatism. How poetic, that the black and white beauty would turn towards the black and white keys for a lifestyle!”
That was Iris’s first encounter with David’s magical eyes, a pair of eyes containing a rare quality of understanding. There was no pity, no sarcasm, no desire to explain that “fire was red” and “the ocean was blue” reflected in his eyes. His gaze shone with understanding and some strange, unidentifiable quality that pulled Iris in and entranced her. It felt as if his gaze understood everything about her, even the desires embedded deep in her conscious — desires forgotten by the world, the people around her, and perhaps even herself — and then regurgitated its infinite understanding into the infinitesimal abyss of the iris. And in that moment, when Iris stared into the abyss of herself within David’s gaze, she found herself once again staring at some strange, unidentifiable quality.
And as Iris lost herself in the memory of David’s magical eyes, time rushed forward to the memory of their third day together. Iris sat still on a pedestal while David busily scratched a sketch of her visage onto a piece of paper.
“My dear sister-in-law, it’s almost as if you have no need for color,” he said. “Your monochromatic beauty is astoundingly praiseworthy. In fact, I’d wager this piece is most beautiful in greyscale.”
That’s right, Iris had thought, no need for color. Iris knew that she was closely tied to monochromatism, perhaps even symbolic of it. Her pitch black hair, a rarity among European descent, paired with her pale skin and white dress reflected the perfect image of a monochromatic girl, drained of any sort of color. It was something that people often remarked about her, and although none carried any grievances in their words, their words hit Iris in a place she didn't think she could be affected by anymore. She recalled that while her husband had gone through great efforts to get their commemorative wedding photo shot in color, he had jokingly noted that the presence of color in the photo only served to isolate Iris’s monochromatic nature, like a square among triangles. But David’s words made Iris feel proud of her monochromatism, taught her that there could be beauty in lacking something, which was something that had never crossed her mind.
In her memory, Iris looked over at David’s sketch. It was indeed beautiful, more beautiful than the elaborate and expensive paintings her husband had hung up on every corner of their house. As Iris stared at David’s sketch, the linings of her figure blurred and imperceptibly blended into dozens of scenarios.
A picture of the stained glass windows inside the King’s College, which Iris had taken David to on their fourth day. Iris had visited the King’s College many times, but as she directed David around the grand structures of the chapel, it felt like the reverse. Observing the way David examined and elaborated about the antiquated architecture and monochrome murals, Iris took a glimpse as to how David saw the world: a world which struck Iris as marvelously expressive, artistic, and intriguing.
The chapel faded into the image of a small cafe, then the sleek shine of the piano, then the mossy brick paths of The Cotswolds as Iris recalled one by one the happenings of the past week.
David was special. He was different. The notion had struck Iris fairly early on, and had only grown stronger with every moment they had spent together. David embraced her monochromatism, appreciated it even. David saw her as “a pianist that was colorblind” rather than “a colorblind that was a pianist”, a paper thin distinction that the people around, her husband included, all failed to cross over. David intrigued her, the unique and wonderfully expressive world that Iris had seen in his descriptions, highlighted with a passion that his brother evidently lacked.
When David approached her on the night of their sixth day, she bore no resistance. She simply trusted his understanding gaze and gave herself up to his caressing hands, undressed as he undressed, and let him take command. And that led Iris back to the present, where she and David were busy eating breakfast in silence. Iris glanced upwards as David was about to finish his last cream tart.
“Is there anywhere you’d like to go on your last day?” she asked.
David smiled, “Why, yes. There is, actually.”
And so, under the harsh sunlight of the afternoon, Iris and David toured the Cheshire countryside. For the last time, Iris peered into David’s world. The vast green plains of the countryside, which had only struck Iris as dull and monotonous, sprung to life like a fantasy wonderland. The Chester castrum morphed from an antiquated cathedral to the White Queen’s castle. The overbearing willow trees stretched above Iris’s head like massive mushroom gorges, and as Iris visited one by one the locations that she was so familiar with, David one by one sprinkled his magical quality onto them and made them all vivid and wonderful. Finally, as the sun set, Iris and David prepared to return home.
It felt too fast for Iris. The sun dipped below the horizon. Iris sat in her kitchen brewing a last supper of Darjeeling. Soon, David would leave Iris’s grandiose fantasy in England, return to his studies of artistry or whatnot in Germany, and the week they’d spent together would fade into oblivion. Iris convinced herself that this was what she wanted, considering how lucky she was to be washed away of her transgression so effortlessly. Things would return to their natural order, and no harm would be done. Iris would take this secret with her to the grave, and her husband would never find out about this harmless affair. It was almost too good to be true, but Iris still felt the effervescent remains of sorrow bubble in her chest.
David would go, and Iris would stay. Iris had planned for it to end this way. Iris knew that only through separation could she preserve her peaceful and elaborate lifestyle. She could not forego the stability of her newlywed life, could not abandon the things she’d come to love in her Edwardian mansion, and could not bear the thought of betraying her husband’s loyalty and love any more than she already had.
Iris returned to the living room to find David admiring the detailed structure of the living room and placed a cup of fine china in front of him. An aura of somber regret oozed out of Iris like a thick miasma. David drained the cup of Darjeeling, as he always had.
“Before I leave, I have one last request I’d like to make,” he said.
“Of course. Anything for you,” Iris replied.
“Would you mind playing me Rachmaninoff’s Liebesleid one last time?” he said.
On the very first day of their meeting, David had asked her to perform Rachmaninoff’s Liebesfreud, and Iris had obliged after meeting the entrancing quality of his eyes. From then on, Iris would oblige to David’s daily requests, performing a series of sonatas and etudes.
This would be the final time Iris serenaded David with the slow pace of love’s sorrow. She got up and shimmied over to the grand piano on the other end of the room. She rested her hands on the glistening black and white keys of the piano and a soft interlude echoed from the piano. It was an improvisation. Iris sat herself with perfect posture, the graceful arch of her back and the waves of her hair complimenting the black silhouette of the piano. Her fingers moved across the keys fervently, imperceptibly blending her interlude with the opening chorus of Rachmaninoff’s Liebesleid.
As the moon rose into the center of the sky and the minutes of David’s departure drew near, Iris closed off her piece with an improvised cadence, drawing her Liebesleid to a close with an awkward diminished interval rather than her usual major chord. David rose from the couch and applauded.
Iris’s hands shook. Her final Liebesleid was undoubtedly her worst performance. She knew it, felt it in her trembling hands, heard its remnants ringing in her ears. Her final Liebesleid was strung with uneven tempos and erratic notes, lacking the mechanical and rhythmic motion that she normally embodied. Her Liebesfreud had been perfect. Each note had resounded as if its weight, length, and volume had all been calculated and tuned long before the note had been pressed.
The clock struck 9:55. In five minutes, David would be gone, and Iris would have to force herself to satisfaction with her distasteful farewell performance. She cursed her ineptitude and stood rigid as David approached her for what she assumed would be a final goodbye in light of her egregious love’s sorrow.
But David did not say goodbye. He continued clapping and said, “Wundervoll. It was the most beautiful one out of all of them.”
Iris looked up to meet David’s gaze, and found an absolute truth in his words. The indescribable quality in his eyes communicated it to Iris, that far from dismay, David was happy. Iris stared into the unidentifiable quality of David’s eyes, and for once it did not stare back at her. The abyss of herself that slept dormantly in David’s iris did not stare back at her for it was impossibly far away from her. Although they were but meters apart, the distance to the abyss of his iris was miles, years, worlds apart. It was then that Iris realized that she could not see the world like David could, that while David could understand her, and invariably intrigue her with descriptions of his fantastical wonderland, she would never be able to understand them. David’s world had seen an unidentifiable quality within her erratic notes and uneven tempos that Iris would never be able to grasp. It was a fundamental dividing line that should’ve been obvious, yet she had failed to realize.
While Iris had been admiring the silhouette of David’s figure touring the whimsical fields of Cheshire countryside, at The Cotswolds, at the King’s College, the cafe, the plains, David had been admiring much more than just her. David had been admiring a world unknown to Iris Regenbogen, a world filled with orange autumn leaves and green grassy fields, vibrant stained-glass murals and rich colors. Iris realized that perhaps the blink of an eye to her was, in fact, an eternity to David — an eternity in which he could satisfy a year’s accumulation of wants, needs, and wishes in but the span of a second. And as this epiphany struck Iris, for the first time in her life, longed to experience the thing called “color” as she realized that the pastel grey leaves and ink-black strokes of grass adorning her vision were what separated her world from David’s, her experiences from his.
As the clock struck 10:00, Iris led David to the entrance of her house, and the exit of their fantasy. She did not grip his hand, did not plead for him to stay as she pushed open the gates and watched as a rusty automobile parked itself in front of her.
David hugged her. It was time to exchange their final goodbyes.
David ran his fingers through Iris’s hair, the same motion that he had done one night ago, except filled with wholehearted tenderness and compassion.
“Iris. Don’t look so glum. That final performance was splendid, perhaps even colorful if I do say so myself,” he said.
And then he climbed into the automobile, and the foot-wide distance separating the two suddenly became a mile long. And for the final time, Iris locked eyes with David, and peered into the abyss of his eyes, and confronted the unidentifiable quality inside of them as David gave her one last encouraging smile before closing the door.
Ah, so this is color. It should’ve been obvious all along, the way David Regenbogen barged into her life and painted it with elaborate hues like the artist he was. She had loved this man for his elaborate understanding of color, and the inverse of that, an understanding for the lack of color. Iris suddenly remembered the creamy whiteness of her gelato, the heated red of their sixth night, even the eager orange hue in David’s eyes as he asked her to play Love’s Sorrow for the first time. Those were colors. She imagined the orange hue of the Autumn leaves, which to her were the same shade of grey as her husband’s cigarette ashes, except now Iris felt that they could not be the same, that the grey of the leaves fluttering outside of her window like snowflakes carried the same quality that she found in David’s eyes that made them completely different from the suffocating grey of cigarette ashes. It must’ve been color. Then naturally, the uneven tempo and erratic notes of her final Liebesleid was also color.
And as Iris came to realize color, she despaired, because she knew she would never see them again, because she could only see them through her love for the man called David Regenbogen. She knew that as soon as David Regenbogen returned to being her “brother-in-law” he would no longer ignite the flame of color that she saw now, and that the next time she greeted him as “sister-in-law” — perhaps at a family gathering years in the future — his eyes would no longer convey an unidentifiable, magical, mysterious quality that entranced her.
And so, as the automobile vanished along the horizon, Iris cried. She fell to her knees and tried to wipe away the stream of tears that assuaged her. As the shining white stars glittered upon the maroon sky and the full moon draped the landscape in a silver mist, Iris Regenbogen momentarily greeted her colorful world, and at the same time bid it farewell.