13. Guest v. Finbow Day Two
GUEST V. FINBOW: DAY TWO
When I think back to Lawrence’s words that day, I can’t help admiring him slightly for his reluctance to let us work together. Back then, I thought he was only a snob, but he sensed something dangerous about the combination of Mary and me. And that half impresses me.
I’ll have Augusta.
I would like to paint her.
It is a comfort to remember that, at least at one stage, I was her choice. That Mary once possessed the capacity to make her own decisions. Even if that moment seems very long ago.
There had been another girl, back when I was in school, who chose me.
Her name was Polly. Her parents were actors in a touring theater production, and when she arrived in the middle of the year, we were paired together.
After our lessons ended, we hung around in town, waiting for her parents to finish their rehearsals.
We’d listen to her iPod or take turns jostling the vending machine until it yielded Galaxies or Twirls, which we split between us.
I loved her music taste, the elaborate doodles she made on her schoolwork, and the fearlessly affectionate way she’d take my hand in public.
No one, not even my mother, had ever done that before.
My parents found out about us when we were caught together in the school toilets.
It was the summer—exam term—so our act was referred to as cheating.
But my parents, who both worked at Kingsfold, understood exactly what Mr. Greening meant when we were summoned into his office for questioning.
Until only five years ago, this had been a faith school: an institution that frowned upon black bras and that coached us to organize our time so we completed our homework before Sundays.
A girl, caught with another girl, was unspeakable.
Sitting beside my parents, who were mute with fury, I apologized through tears.
It was explained to me that I had risked not only my education, but also their jobs.
We all agreed it would be better if I left Kingsfold after the summer.
Mr. Greening organized a separate room for me to sit my exams. I was treated like a contaminant.
“The counseling is highly effective,” he said, handing my parents a pamphlet as we stood up to leave. “We’ve seen it in the past. There are excellent therapists who are very well trained in this exact problem. ”
Polly and I kept in touch online for a while, but never saw each other again. In times of intense stress, I still find myself dreaming of her, and the night before Mary’s evidence, Polly came back to me again. This time with Mary.
My dream rendered her differently from the girl I knew in school.
Her face and body were older, now more regal and voluptuous.
Together with Mary, she sat on a white horse, a terrifyingly large creature, more like a riot horse.
The two girls were clothed, but with the sleazy, loose-hipped posture of Lady Godiva.
I unfurled backward onto the floor and, in full view of Justice Larkin, the horse trampled over me.
The girls took off together without a backward glance.
I woke up clutching my ribs and gasping for air.
There would be no more sleeping, I knew.
In my stuffy hotel room, I lay and watched the dawn light creep into the room, thinking of what Mary’s cross-examination might bring.
There was a time when I wrote my dreams down and analyzed them in forensic detail, but there was no point in that now.
My night terrors have nothing left to reveal.
I am already well aware of my defective parts: the delusional tendencies and petty jealousies. My stubborn inability to let go.
When I enter the courtroom early the next day, my nerves jump alive. Already, Mary is sitting below in quiet conversation with Jean’s lawyer.
Her appearance causes my heart to stop. Mary used to be an inventive, provocative dresser, but now she wears a loose tunic which looks hand-dyed.
Her long hair is cropped, with a fringe that hardly meets her forehead.
Although she is transformed, the sight of her still takes me back to those Melrose parties in Rome.
Strong drugs in abundance. Borrowed antiques worn as fancy dress.
Me on the periphery. They happened all over the city: on rooftops, in private courtyards, on the banks of the river or right above the Piazza di Spagna.
It is difficult to decide when I’d been lonelier, then or now.
I linger at the back of the gallery, which is slowly starting to fill with observers, resenting all the legal reasons that prevent me from shouting down from the gallery and greeting her.
But what would I say to her, anyway? No small talk could bridge the delta that stands between us.
All I want is to see her laugh like we used to.
To tell her how sorry I am for everything.
The door bangs behind me. It’s only some journalists filing in, but Mary startles at the sound and she glances up toward the gallery, then at the clock, and, finally, her gaze falls on me. We both freeze.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she lifts her chin, and an expression of warmth passes over her face.
My eyes burn with tears. We gaze at each other, even as doors begin to open around her, with lawyers and clerks filing into the courtroom.
We keep on staring. She raises a hand, not high, just near her waist: a wry What the fuck .
For a short moment, this nightmare is suspended, and we are back in that dusty classroom in Rome where the air is heavy with the smell of oil paints and the musty odor of the students’ bare feet.
I’ll go with Gussie.
It was during my Roman residency that I learned how to read signals like these, the almost invisible gestures that mattered the most. Time and again, I learned that affection emanated from those around us. We just had to tune in and raise our awareness to its existence.
Today, I saw it. And for a brief moment, up in that gallery—our eyes locked together, Mary’s hand raised in greeting—I felt drenched in happiness.
Someone can say your name a certain way, give a wave, or simply look in your direction, and it’s like the sky bursting open.