Her Fearful Symmetry

by Audrey Niffenegger

  Come now, my darling.

  Robert laid Valentina down carefully on his bed. At first he put her down crossways, so that she was parallel to the headboard and her feet stuck out over the side. He unwrapped her and threw his coat over the bedroom chair. Her little black shoes seemed to be levitating above the floor, as though Valentina's legs had nothing to do with holding them up. Robert frowned. That's no good. He gently gathered her into his arms and reapplied her to the bed, this time in the conventional position for sleeping. He smoothed out her dress, placed her arms comfortably beside her body, massaged her fingers. Valentina's head lolled on his pillow as though her neck no longer had bones. Robert took her face in his hands and turned it until she looked content, not broken. He stroked her eyebrows.

  The room was cold - every night that June had been cold. That morning he had filled the bedroom with flowers. He had hesitated in the shop: lilies or roses? He had decided on pink roses, because the smell of lilies always made him queasy, and because Valentina had once said something mildly approving about pink roses. Now the roses sat in vases, in old tins, in pots borrowed long ago from Elspeth. There were roses on both sides of the bed, on the window sills and radiator covers. The roses were the pink of ballet shoes, the pink of old ladies' dressing gowns. In the chill of the bedroom they seemed to shiver, and remained furled, scentless. Robert had bought a shopping bag full of candles from a street vendor in Hackney. Each one had a picture of a saint on it. She had explained to him that the candles had to burn until they expired, and then the thing you had prayed for would be granted to you. Robert hoped it was true. The candles stood next to the roses, burning away.

  Robert sat next to Valentina on the bed, watching her. He found it astonishing how perfect she was. He tried to remember what Valentina had said about the Kitten's revival. There were dark circles under Valentina's eyes, and though she was rather bluish in some places and too red in others, she was not like the medical-school and police-morgue corpses, which puffed up and oozed and discoloured and stank. The morgue corpses led active existences; they were trying to transform themselves as quickly as possible into unrecognisable beings, not to be mistaken for people any more. Valentina was still essentially Valentina, and he was thankful that this should be so.

  He wondered if he should talk to her. It seemed unnatural to be in the room with her and not to say anything. Her hair was tangled. To distract himself, Robert began combing her hair. Very delicately, so as not to tug at her scalp, he began to work the tangles out. Her hair was like dental floss, slippery handfuls of white. The comb burrowed in, separating, smoothing. At first his hands shook, but then he became absorbed in the repetition and in the beauty of Valentina's shining hair. This is almost all I want. To sit here forever and comb her hair. The slight resistance of the hair against the comb was like breath, and without knowing it Robert combed Valentina's hair at the rate of his own breathing, as though this could communicate breath from his lungs to her hair, as though her hair were now going to take over the task of breathing for her.

  He made himself stop, finally. Her hair was perfect and to do more would disturb it. Robert sat still and listened. Outside the wind was coming up. A dog barked nearby. But Valentina was silent. Robert looked at his watch. It was only 11.22.

  The phone rang, once.

  Julia was tired. Over dinner Edie and Jack talked about the funeral; about London as they had known it twenty-two years before; they offered to stay in London with Julia, to take her home to Lake Forest; they recognised that she was too overwhelmed to decide right now, then stared at her eagerly as though they might whisk her off before she had finished eating her steak frites. They spoke of Valentina carefully; it was difficult for each of them to refer to Valentina in the past tense, so they talked around and around her. By the time Julia had seen them into a cab and walked back to Vautravers she wanted to crawl up the stairs on all fours. But Martin asked me to come stay with him.

  When she came into his office Martin was sitting at the computer, but the screen was dark; he sat with his hands folded and his head bowed, as though saying grace.

  'Martin?'

  He roused himself. 'There you are. I was getting sleepy.'

  'Me too. I just wanted to say goodnight. I'm going to bed.'

  'Oh, don't yet.' Martin held out his hand. She relented and went to him. He said, 'I was thinking ... I might leave tomorrow.'

  'Leave?' She couldn't take it in. 'How can you leave? I wish ... Couldn't you wait?'

  Martin sighed. 'I don't know. If I wait, will I be able to do it at all? But perhaps tomorrow is too soon. I don't want to upset you.'

  Julia bent and clasped her arms around his neck. She did it impulsively and Martin reacted as he often had when Theo was small: he pulled Julia onto his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder. They sat this way for a long time. Martin thought she might have fallen asleep when she said, 'I'll miss you.'

  'I'll miss you too,' he said. He stroked her hair. 'But don't be so tragic; I'm sure I won't be gone long. Or, you can come and visit.'

  'It will be different. Everything will be different now,' she said.

  'What are you going to do?'

  'I don't know. What do people do by themselves?'

  'Come with me,' he said.

  Julia smiled to herself. 'That's silly. You're going to Marijke. You don't need me.'

  'Don't I?'

  She raised her face and he kissed her. The kiss progressed; he broke off, panting, and took her hand away from his belt buckle. 'That's no good,' he said.

  'Sorry.'

  'No - that is, I would if I could ... Julia, the Anafranil - one of the side effects is--'

  'Ohh ...'

  'That's why I never liked to take it.'

  'It's like a chastity belt.' She began to giggle.

  'Minx.'

  'I guess Marijke doesn't have to worry about me.'

  Martin said quite seriously, 'In the larger sense, no, she doesn't. But Julia, you aren't meant for an old man like me. Your lover should be what I was thirty years ago.'

  'But, Martin ...'

  'You'll see,' he said. He moved to stand up and she slid off his lap. 'In the meantime, come along and let me sing you a lullaby.' He took her hand and led her to his bedroom. 'Ah, wait; let me just check something.' He took out his mobile, pressed 2 on his speed dial, let it ring once and hung up. It was 11.22.

  She watched him curiously. 'What are you doing?'

  'For luck,' he said. 'Come along.'

  Robert checked to make sure that the keys were still in his pocket. He laid two of them on his dresser and kept the key to the twins' flat. He gathered up Valentina and lifted her off the bed. He caught sight of the two of them in the mirror, an image out of a horror film: the candlelight flickering from below, dark shadow cast across his face, Valentina's head thrown back, her neck offered up, her arms and legs dangling. I am the monster. He felt the absurdity of the situation, and then deep, unspeakable shame.

  He walked through the flat as quietly as possible. Valentina's foot banged against a wall; Robert flinched, then wondered if she would feel it when she was back in her body. He opened his front door an inch and listened. He heard traffic, wind rattling the windows. He eased Valentina through the doorway and carried her upstairs. At the twins' door he had to shift her; he stood with Valentina draped over his shoulder like a suit collected from the dry-cleaner's while he fumbled with the key. He realised after messing about unsuccessfully that it hadn't been locked in the first place.

  He carried Valentina into the dark front room. His eyes adjusted, and he laid the body carefully on the sofa.

  Softly: 'Elspeth? Valentina?'

  No response. He sat peering at Valentina's body by the glow of his wristwatch and the moonlight, waiting.

  Elspeth was there. She felt Valentina frantically squirming in her hands. Is she trying to escape? She was afraid to open her hands, afraid that Valentina would disperse, that she would fight or thrash around. Be still
, darling. Let me think. She could not put off the decision any longer.

  Robert watched Valentina's chest. He waited for her to breathe.

  Elspeth knelt by the body. It was cool, profoundly still, alluring. She felt Valentina go quiet. She felt Robert sitting close to her, eager, unhappy, frightened. She looked at the body, lax and waiting. Elspeth made her decision and opened her hands.

  A white mist gathered over Valentina's body. Elspeth watched it hover, waited to see what it would do. Robert saw nothing, but the air became suddenly cold. He knew the ghosts were there. Breathe, Valentina.

  Nothing happened.

  After a while he was aware of a change in the body. Something was present. There were faint sounds, gurgling, liquid; he had a sense of something far away coming closer.

  The body opened its mouth and took a jagged, asthmatic breath, seemed to hold it for a long time, let it out and began sucking at the air again with horrible rasps. It lurched sideways and Robert caught it; it was convulsing and the breaths stopped. Then suddenly there was another agonised gasp. Robert held Valentina's hands pinned on either side of her torso. He knelt next to her, braced her with his body. The sofa was slippery and he tried to keep her from falling onto the floor. Something like electricity wracked her body; her limbs contracted; her head swerved violently back and forth, once.

  She cried out: 'Uh-uh-uh!' and he said, 'Hush, ssh,' as though she were an infant, but now she thrashed and her eyes opened. Robert recoiled at the blankness of her eyes. It was not even animal; it was the gaze of brain damage; it looked past him into nothing. Her eyes closed again. Her breath quietened. He put his hand on her chest. Her heart was beating.

  He was afraid.

  'Elspeth?' Robert whispered, to the room. There was no response. 'Can I take her away now?' Nothing.

  A harsh voice said his name in the dark.

  'I'm here, Valentina.' She said nothing. He smoothed her hair. 'I'm going to take you downstairs now.' She kept her eyes closed, nodded awkwardly like a child too drowsy to speak. He lifted her off the sofa; she tried to put her arms around his neck, but couldn't. He carried her to the landing. She was live weight now, dense and mobile.

  In his own flat he laid her back on the bed. She sighed and opened her eyes, looked at him. Robert stood over her. She seemed almost normal: exhausted, limp. Something about her expression was different, though. He couldn't think what it was. She held out her hand, palm up, quivering with the strain of holding up her arm. He took it in his; her hand was quite cold. She pulled his hand slightly: Lie next to me.

  'Wait a minute, Valentina.'

  He took out his mobile, speed-dialled Martin's number. He let the phone ring once and hung up. Then Robert placed the phone and his glasses on the bedside table. He took off his shoes, walked around the bed, sat down beside Valentina. She looked up at him and smiled, shyly, lopsidedly, a smile that happened at different rates of speed in various parts of her face. How ordinary she appeared: the violet dress, the white stockings. There were places where blood had pooled and made her skin deep red; these were becoming pink; bluish-white skin was beginning to flush. He touched his fingers to her cheek. It was pliable, soft.

  'What was it like?'

  Lonely. Cold. Insanely frustrating. 'I ... missed you.' Her voice cracked; she sounded like a ventriloquist's dummy, off kilter, high, raspy and stressed wrong.

  'I missed you too.'

  She held out her hand again. He lay down beside her and she turned her face towards him. Robert wrapped his arms around her. She was trembling. He realised then that she was crying. It was such a normal sound, the sobbing girl in his arms was so tangible, it was easy to forget the reason for the tears, it was natural to comfort her. He stopped thinking and let himself kiss Valentina's ear. She cried for what seemed a long time. She hiccuped; he handed her a Kleenex. She fumbled at her nose, dabbed at her eyes. She tossed the tissue over the side of the bed.

  'Okay, then?'

  'Mmm-hmm.'

  She tried to unbutton his shirt, but her fingers weren't working properly. He closed his hand over hers. 'You sure?'

  She nodded.

  'We should wait ...'

  'Please ...'

  'Valentina ...?'

  She made a little noise, a mewing sound.

  He undid the buttons himself. Then he undressed her. She tried to help, but seemed too weak; she let him undo zips and strip the violet dress from her, let him peel off her knickers and carefully remove her white lace bra. Her body was marked by the lace and elastic and the folds of her clothing. She lay with eyes half-closed, waiting while he removed his clothes. One of the candles guttered.

  'Are you cold?'

  'Uh-huh.' He carefully peeled the blankets and sheets from under her, got into bed and pulled the bedding over the two of them. 'Mmm,' she said, 'warm.' He was startled at how cold she was. He ran his hands over her thighs; they were like meat from the refrigerated case at Sainsbury's.

  Robert wasn't quite sure if he could bring himself to kiss her mouth. Her breath smelled wrong, like spoiled food, like the hedgehog he'd found dead in the heating system at the cemetery's office. Instead he kissed her breasts. Some parts of her body seemed more alive than others, as though her soul had not quite spread all the way through her body yet. Valentina's breasts seemed to Robert more present, less isolated from her self, than her hands; Valentina's hands were like badly wired robots. He chafed them between his, hoping to warm them back to life, but it didn't seem to help.

  Something is wrong, he thought. He drew her close to him. She was so small and slight that Robert thought of Elspeth in the last days of her illness; she seemed barely there, as though she might slip back to wherever she'd been.

  'How do you feel?' he tried again.

  'So cold,' she said. 'Tired.'

  'Do you want to sleep for a while?'

  'No ...'

  'I'll sit and watch you, make sure you're okay.' He stroked her neck, her face. Her eyes rested on his, questioning. Something is different. Her voice. Her eyes. She gave in, nodded. Robert got out of bed, blew out all the candles. So much for wishes. He turned on the light in the hall, left the door ajar so he could see her. Then he climbed into bed again. She was shivering. He lay pressed against her, watching the smoke of the extinguished candles disperse in the narrow band of light from the hall.

  'I love you, Robert,' she whispered. In the corridors of his memory doors were flung open and he almost knew ...

  He said, 'I love you too ...'

  She brought her clumsy hand to his face, watching him; stretched out her index finger, and with great concentration and gentleness touched the tip of her finger to the indentation above his nose, stroked it down and over his lips, over his chin.

  '... Elspeth.'

  She smiled, closed her eyes, relaxed.

  Robert lay with her in the dark, in his bed, as the knowledge and horror of what they had done spread before him.

  Martin sat propped against the pillows, smoking. Julia lay pressed against him. 'Sing,' she commanded. Martin stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. He sang, 'Slaap kindje, slaap; Daar buiten loopt een schaap; Een schaap met witte voetjes; Die drinkt zijn melk zo zoetjes; Slaap kindje slaap.'

  'What does it mean?' she asked.

  'Mmm ... "Sleep, baby, sleep; there's a little white sheep walking outside; it has little white feet and drinks sweet milk."'

  'Nice,' she said, and then she fell asleep.

  DEPARTURES

  JULIA WOKE BEFORE dawn. Martin was sleeping curled away from her. She got up quietly, went to the bathroom, dressed. She slipped out of the flat and went downstairs, shed her clothes and put on a nightgown. She got into her own bed and stared at the ceiling. After some time, she got up and took a shower.

  In the morning Elspeth woke up in Robert's bed. She put her hand out, but he wasn't there. Instead there was a note: I've gone to get breakfast. Back soon. R

  Elspeth lay in bed exulting in the smooth
feel of the sheets, the smell of Robert on her pillow mingled with the scents of candles and roses, the twittering of little birds and the sheer corporality of herself.

  Everything hurt but she did not mind. Her joints ached; her blood was sluggish. Breathing was an effort, as though her lungs were full of half-set blancmange. So what? I'm alive! She struggled to sit up, became tangled in the bedding. She had an idea of what her limbs ought to do but they did not respond as she expected. Elspeth started laughing. The sound was harsh and had an underwater quality and she stopped. She managed to stand and walk a few steps, clinging to the side of the bed. When she got to the footboard she stood swaying, regarded herself in the mirror. Oh. Oh ... There was Valentina. What did you expect? She imagined Valentina upstairs, alone and cold. I'm sorry. I'm sorry ... She was not sure what she felt. An indecipherable mixture of triumph and remorse. She stared at her reflection that was not herself; this was a consummately impressive costume which she would now wear as her body. This body was young, but the posture and movements were like an old woman's: hunched, lurching, cautious. Can I live like this? She put her hand over her heart, where her heart should be, then remembered and moved her hand to the right, found its slow beat. Oh, Valentina.

  Elspeth let go of the bed. She staggered to the bathroom, meaning to take a bath. When she got there she lowered herself slowly to the floor, reached for the taps and turned them on with effort. It's like the first days of being a ghost. I will get stronger. I just have to practise. Water gushed into the bathtub. She was unable to reach the plug, so it swirled down the drain. Finally she turned off the taps and sat on the cold tile floor, waiting for Robert to return.

  After breakfast, Martin packed his suitcase. He didn't put very much in it; he reckoned that either Marijke would spurn him and he would be back quite soon, or he wouldn't manage to get there at all, so why should he burden himself with extra clothing? Perhaps Marijke would let him stay and neither of them would ever come back. Maybe Marijke had found someone else, and in that case Martin knew that he would prefer throwing himself into the Prinsengracht over returning home, alone. He packed lightly.