Girl Reading (42 page)

Other commentators declaim it for a hoax, a manipulative publicity stunt.

Why me?

After mental repetition, Fernand’s answer has taken on a high, slippery polish. Because we are kindred spirits. Haven’t I told you often that you are exceptional? Don’t you hear me when I speak?

He touched his thumb to his own lips, then to hers. The jolt of real-world contact sent her heart thrumming. She was suddenly
reminded of her own body, its organs, its impulses, its uses. Has not been aware of this for a very long time. Can taste the richness of it.

Perhaps the Picasso would disappoint her in real world. Perhaps its abrasive transcendent imperfection is a lie. (To someone else, possibly, not to her.)

Sincerity touches the pearl ring processor—all the art objects in the gallery and many of its embellishments zip out of sight, leaving two colonnades supporting a dramatic glass roof open to the night sky. The stars are hidden by city pollution; dawn will arrive in a few short hours. In another time zone, her family is partway through their morning routine.

Yes, she hears him now. Sincerity Yabuki sees clearly what her life might yet be like.

Astrid has one blue i-ris and one orange, is experimenting with her appearance to improve her figure and her cheekbones, wears a plunging dress and astrology tattoos down her back. She talks about how
he
never let her true personality blossom because his identity dominated their relationship.
He
is never mentioned by name but spoken of in italics. Dinesh is a professional listener, and Astrid takes advantage of this.

I’m not bitter, no, definitely not. I am stronger. Definitely stronger. Some people might say those years were a waste, but I don’t think so. I’m like the inventor of the lightbulb or the telephone, I have found out how not to be in a marriage. I shan’t make the same mistake, shall I? I succeeded in choosing the wrong person to devote myself to, and now I am better prepared, more learned, in the ways of picking a mate. I’m very artistic, I have creative sensibilities, I like things to be just right. Not in an obsessive way, but I would describe myself as a perfectionist.
He
didn’t understand that about me.
He
was intimidated by it. What’s wrong with having a vision, I ask you?
With liking beautiful things? A home shouldn’t be totally masculine—straight lines and right angles. I will miss the lifestyle, though, I have to admit, I will miss the lifestyle. Who doesn’t want security and a nice house? But I am happier now than I have ever been. I feel free. (Astrid uncrosses and recrosses her legs, revealing knee-high boots with a pointed heel.) I’m still terribly vulnerable, and I think it’s a sign of strength to acknowledge it. I cry in the shower every day—that is my crying time, and afterward, no matter what I’m doing or how bad I feel, I can’t cry again until the following morning. I’m also extremely spiritual, but I haven’t explored that side of myself before because, well, I wasn’t allowed to. I can now, though. I started learning calligraphy about two weeks ago, and I write up these maxims and mantras. The New Astrid gets that stuff and is assimilating wisdom into her life. I want to be my own best friend because I treated myself badly before. And I want to share the New Me with someone. I do. I want to share this person with somebody who values her, somebody intelligent and warm. I’m glad we met up again, Dinesh. We should make it a regular thing, so neither of us gets too lonely.

Turning away from Sincerity and toward Astrid: Dinesh can visualize it.

Visualize it, yes. To do it—is that the kind of man he is?

An affair with her would be easy to handle; she would be a compliant, pleasing companion, but in his heart the prospect is tasteless, tawdry. It is not so much the example of his patients (their disastrous forays, the aftermath) that puts him off, or that he would hurt Sincerity’s feelings, or that one day he will have to explain himself to Cloud, although these are factors. It is the knowledge that no affair would match the best of his relationship with Sincerity, that by doing so he would once and for all reduce the worth of what they have together to something commonplace and expendable. Infidelity with a needy and attractive woman might be a welcome distraction, but he would be selling his greatest asset very cheaply.

He says nothing instigates nothing acts on nothing, takes a taxi home after a friendly platonic parting. Poor, cloying Astrid is easy to put out of mind.

What consumes Dinesh instead is the excruciating possibility that he and Sincerity are past mending, that he has left it too late. This cuts to the bone, gives him feverish sweats, makes him grieve like he did for his father.

From her room Cloud hears her dad come home, pay the sitter; the clunk of glass against bottle and he goes to bed. Quiet.

Quiet.

Her sheets smell of clean cotton.

She likes her toys and her clothes.

She used to be afraid of the dark, but does not mind it anymore because some animals prefer the dark and are called
nocturnal.
If it’s okay for animals, then it’s okay for her.

A boy at her school cried when his parents were getting divorced; it means they were married before but are not anymore. His face pops into Cloud’s head, like it’s mesh. Trouble is, he cries a lot anyway, it
is
tiresome.

Cloud’s parents can’t get divorced because they aren’t married in the first place, she explained in return.

He said his argue.

Well, Cloud’s parents argue—arguing out their clevernesses—they like An Argue.

The boy was upset because his dad had left already and would have nothing to do with his mum, and, and . . .

And what? You’ll never see him again? (Cloud was moved in that moment, but it transpired she shouldn’t have been because he
was
still going to see his dad, quite a lot actually—actually more often than she sees Sincerity.)
What?
Why are you making such a fuss, then? No point being vague when she just wanted to know.

He wailed, They can’t stand each other, they shout, they smash plates!

Cloud has a beautiful straight fringe that she can fluff upward if she blows from her bottom lip. She did this when he said that and answered him: If they can’t stand each other, and they’re breaking things, they’re probably better off divorced, aren’t they? How many plates, exactly, have you got left?

Then Cloud got told off by Teacher for being insensitive, which hardly seems fair, even in retrospect.

Her pajamas are very comfy and yellow. She has another set like this in lilac.

And now she feels like
shh-leep.

Cloud decides it is time to invite Maribel over to spend the night. They will do only real-world things like baking and swimming—and Maribel has already promised Cloud she can visit her on her boat.

Cloud reckons her parents will marry one day, because that would be very like them. Animals don’t marry. Many species form attachments, though, are loyal and loving for their whole lives. What is okay for animals is okay for her.

She dreams of a graceful crane that flies a great distance over wilderness over cliffs over the sea, which she greatly enjoys and instantly forgets. The bird becomes a muddled feathery impression in her memory.

On love: always the great gestures, or that it is incompatible with ambition and individuality. Rarely the small gestures, rarely that these make the other accomplishments possible. A work in progress. A chain of kindnesses fashioned a link at a time. Clumsy effort, but effort nonetheless.

It means—what?

That I will have breakfast today because I would want you to have breakfast today; I put on my good underwear; also, that I dress appropriately for the weather; I can do the activities of adults, which seemed mysterious to me when I was small; I know just what to pack in a suitcase without making a list because I can remember it in my head from our trips together (you taught me tricks like these); I pay for things out of an account with both our names on it, big things like flights; I am likely to treat myself to a new lipstick on the way, to know when a purchase is good value and when it is expensive and should be left in the shop (you would be exasperated if I spent unwisely, but you would be horrified if I began asking your permission); I am not scared to take public transport on my own because you don’t want me to go through life being afraid of what might happen; I use the minutes I am made to wait as an opportunity, I listen to music or I read something worth reading—on this occasion the film reviews, in case there is something on we both would like; I smile at people because I hope they are as loving as you, as lucky as me—when they reciprocate I know they must be our comrades; I am capable of following signs and instructions and monitoring announcements without your help, but when I am by myself I am more conscientious, because if I got stuck, that would worry you; I buy your favorite coffee and drink it for you; I can guess roughly what you would say about the sim-models advertising luxury brands strutting around the airport—you would be scathing and rather insecure; I go to the gate at around the same time we would normally go; when I am alone I have the window seat, whereas when you are here I tell you it does not interest me and you can have it; I watch the safety demonstration and I identify the exits, which I did not do before; though I am a woman of science, I want to get there in one piece for you, and on occasions like this I send out a plainly worded prayer; I will not bring you a plastic present, but at the other end, even though I am almost home and
I want to get there quickly, I will take a detour so I can arrive with something good to eat.

Outsiders will consider what I have done inflated and romantic—you will repeat this story in the future—because it was impulsive and involved a journey and some expense, but, honestly, this is nothing special. I am not feigning modesty or being humble or trying to confuse you. I am aware in an ordinary way that this is a day like the rest since we met, where you exert your tender influence on me directly and indirectly. I am being myself. Without you, life is entirely feasible but hateful.

Dinesh wakes, sheets tangled around his limbs, to find Sincerity standing at the end of their bed in the illumination of morning. Unusual, though unsurprising. The hangover is horrendous, dulls his wits, slows him down. A lucid part of his brain forms the notion she has been waiting for him for some time, while another part, befuddled by alcohol, perceives an alteration in her appearance he cannot identify. A second sense perks into life: smell; there is coffee nearby.

She says, Good morning.

Morning.

Did you sleep well?

Like the dead. Dinesh rubs his eyes.

Sincerity comes close to him, lowers herself beside him on the bed; the mattress gives way beneath her weight—

Christ! You’re actually here (never so sober so fast in his life). I thought you weren’t.

Not wearing her gold i-ris and the natural brownness of her eyes revealed, her body firm and fragrant and complete, how can he have mistaken it?

Dinesh embraces her quickly, then retreats from her with equal vigor. Why are you here? Has something happened to Cloud?

Course not.

Are you sure? Where is she? God, I didn’t mean to sleep in so long.

She’s fine. I gave her breakfast. She’s doing some drawing.

He replies with mute astonishment.

Out of character for Sincerity Yabuki, she fills the gap with further explanation: Cloud asked me whether owls lived in woods, and then she wanted some pictures to copy from. I know we have an ornithology book somewhere—I couldn’t find it, though, that room’s such a mess. So we looked up photos on-screen of different species and . . . that’s what she’s doing. Drawing owls.

Research for her mural?

Yes, that’s right. “Just in case.”

Sissy, why are you here?

Because it was time. Sincerity scans the surfaces and the floor—the bottle of Jim Beam left on the bedside table with a used glass and a third of its contents missing; his untidy habits and personal effects have asserted ownership of the furniture and the carpet, shirts mainly, shoes, products; this, and his appalling appearance, as though he has been ill. Sincerity thinks privately it will not take long to put it right.

I would have collected you from the airport.

I know. I wanted to surprise you. Aren’t you happy to see me?

I’m bowled over.

Good. I’ll bring you coffee. She goes out to the kitchen, and by the time she returns with two cups, Dinesh has splashed water on his face, arranged the pillows so they can sit next to each other, flattened his hair after a fashion. She places them down on either side and climbs onto the bed, tucking her feet beneath her. Now Dinesh gives her the deep, longing hug he has waited for, kisses her repeatedly on her neck cheek ear—she responds with physical relief, informs him there are croissants for breakfast.

Still Dinesh Varma finds it unreal, as though some crisis has visited them, says he is sorry their library is a disaster.

It’s just unfinished business.

You haven’t changed your mind?

Sincerity blows on her drink, confirms between breaths it is still what she wants.

Has anything happened at the museum?

She shakes her head no, then amends it to: Nothing that can’t wait, we’ll talk about it later.

He sees it now: she has come back unannounced in order to break it off, to pack her possessions and move out. This is the charade to spare his feelings temporarily (his patients have told him all about it). A play. A palliative. Look, why don’t we discuss it now?

Because I don’t want to.

It’s about the other night, isn’t it? You can say if it is, I won’t be shocked or angry. I promise. I won’t intentionally make it worse. I’ll be as understanding as I can.

Sincerity glances at him sideways.

You told me you didn’t need me anymore.

Yes. That’s right.

You meant it, then? I didn’t misconstrue it. You aren’t here to take it back and make it better. I secretly hoped you would do that. I secretly believed you might.