—I’m not sure I know, Siobhán says, frowning. It was hard to stay close after she left—after we both left London. We spoke by phone. … I wrote her letters.
—Was she well? I ask, aware that what I’m saying doesn’t make sense, that she and Aidan may not even know about my mother’s illness, let alone think of it constantly, as I do.
—What do you mean, Elena?
At her concern, so distant and clean, my anger boils over.
—Did you know my mother was institutionalized twice? Did you know before giving me those journals? I ask, my jaw clenched, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
Aidan looks down at his plate. Siobhán stares at me in confusion. I hold her gaze.
—Are you putting me through it on purpose? I whisper, my mouth close to her ear.
Siobhán’s face drains of color. In the silence that follows, she gets up from the table. With no excuse, no hint of anger, she pays our bill at the bar, then walks out of the restaurant.
I look at Aidan, half-hoping he’ll give some other reason why she had to leave so abruptly. But of course, she feels accused—after she has done so much for me.
Aidan’s partner looks amused.
—If we all did just what we wanted, it would be a beautiful world.
Aidan starts to say something and then stops.
—The journals, he says finally, shaking his head. Still so sensitive. It has been six years.
He lifts his head to look at me, sizing me up.
—Ella’d be about your age now. How old are you?—no, don’t answer. I’m being rude.
—I’m twenty-nine, I say. I don’t think it’s rude.
He cups his face in his hands.
—You do look just like her, he says.
I blink.
—Like your mother, he adds.
I was sure he would say Ella.
—A press is such an odd choice, he says disjointedly. She could’ve acquired a dozen paintings for the price.
15
PAIN BEHIND THE EYES, sheets clinging like a second skin. The space around me came alive, vaguely familiar. Sunlight clamored against the shutters, leaving strips of light on the floor.
Surge of nausea as I sat up, looking around wildly, trying to work out where I was: brown couch where I’d slept, sheets, a pillow. Dressed in a T-shirt. Not mine. Underwear. Mine.
Panic surged, shadows settled into patterns, and the room came into focus: Seb’s living room. Fresh wave of nausea. How had I gotten here? I crossed the carpet to open the shutters, then the window. Sky blue, scooped clean of clouds. Too-bright sun.
Seb was reading in his hammock in the shade. He was the last person I wanted to see.
—How’re you feeling? Okay, yeah?
I fought the urge to vomit.
—Just some water and I’ll be great, I said, making my voice cheery.
—There’s some cold in the fridge, he said.
His voice was untroubled. If something had happened between us, this wouldn’t be so. Fury at myself for drinking too much. My mind lurched through what I could remember: At the discotheque, I kept falling. It’s a forty-five-minute drive to the university. Seb was fucked up, too, and probably didn’t want to risk driving so far. More logical to bring me here. Did I try something? Did he? Nothing is more terrifying than a loss of memory—the texture of reality gapes and the self in rags is reduced to nothing. I wanted back every lost minute, to be sure of myself and how I got here. I drank from the chilled bottle in the mini-fridge. Cold water buzzed through my brain.
—I’ll go to Anthony’s soon, Seb said through the window. You still coming?
Anthony was cooking Sunday brunch. There were plans for Scrabble. We’d agreed—early in the night—to meet at noon. Bad as I felt, I wanted to go. The thought of a songteow ride home and then stewing alone all day in embarrassment seemed terrible.
—Yes, I said. Give me a sec.
It was 12:15. Seb had set a towel for me on the coffee table. I took a cold shower, brushed my teeth—after some hesitation—with Seb’s toothbrush, and joined him outside.
He rolled out of his hammock into a patch of sun. He was reading Emerson.
—You okay? He asked again, solicitous, too polite.
If he mocked me, things would feel normal, intimate. His hair was wet. He had shaved and looked more boyish than usual.
I nodded, aggravating the pain in my head.
—One too many whiskeys, I said, trying to draw from him a sense of how embarrassed I should be.
—We were all stupid. You were charming. I’m glad you’re feeling okay, he said, as if he didn’t quite believe me.
Whole chunks of the night couldn’t be lost entirely. Effort would coax them back. I closed my eyes and saw dancing, colored lights, images out of focus.
—I had to put you to bed, he said.
His expression was overly kind. He was holding nothing over me, just exonerating himself: a nice guy who’d put my blackout-drunk body to bed. Building my truth on Seb’s story made me feel out of control. I wanted to remember, to know for sure.
—Thank you, I said, looking away. Shall we go?
There were two routes through the village to Anthony’s, and we went by way of the rice fields. The tips of the crops were green, fields verdant in the sun. A cow poked its white head out of its pen. A man with a leathery face passed, grinning with few teeth. A motorbike sped by. Bougainvillea splashed hot color, and the smell of frying eggs and bacon reached us in the street.
Beyond a screen of papaya trees, the long table on Anthony’s veranda was set for brunch. Anthony, in his apron, was bringing out plates from the house.
—If it isn’t the revelers. You’re awake before Mr. Koi. I can’t rouse him. I’ve been at it for the last hour, HAVEN’T I, KOI? he called into the house.
We removed our shoes. There were people in the kitchen, a friend of Anthony’s I recognized from the university with his girlfriend, a Thai woman who was toying with the handle of a coffee press. Béa kissed me hello, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. She put a hand to my cheek. Was it obvious—my barely being able to stand?
We sat down at the table. The Thai woman offered me tamarinds, miming how to spit out the seeds. The sourness made black dots squirm before my eyes. She told me she didn’t speak English. I asked how she talked with her boyfriend, who didn’t speak Thai. She laughed, as if I were a fool. We surveyed the spread: steaming brown eggs—Anthony had fried them in bacon grease—browned bacon, pieces of toast beside a tub of butter. Next to the foreign food, papaya and dragon fruit looked like a color-enhanced photograph.
—You must eat something, Anthony chided her as he began serving.
—Im laao, she replied, putting a hand to her thin stomach.
Anthony served her anyway, distracted, and began talking about how much it would add to the veranda at night to hang Chinese lanterns.
—We should hang those lovely paper lanterns we saw, SHOULDN’T WE, KOI? Anthony yelled into the house.
Koi, fully awake, was watching us, a pale shadow behind the glass door.
—What rough beast is this? Anthony asked, turning.
Koi drew up next to him, blinking in the sun, his hip against Anthony’s shoulder. He wai’ed to us, smiling easily at the Thai woman. As Anthony twisted to keep Koi in sight, the muscles of his face slackened around the mouth. Then the expression, a momentary weakness, vanished, and Anthony said in his stage voice:
—After centuries of stony sleep … you must be ravenous! Come, Koi, eat.
He opened his arms, and Koi settled on his knee. Anthony’s gaze softened again and settled, vacant, on the bougainvillea. From those shirts drying in the breeze on the day I met Koi, I’d built a narrative that wouldn’t complicate my impression of Anthony as a proper gentleman. Mr. Koi, the young man from Bangkok, dancing last night with such abandon, was hired help. All the signs I ignored: tenderness in Anthony’s gaze, the way he spoke of Koi when he wasn’t around. Everything fit ef
fortlessly. Anthony. What could I call him, now that I knew? Gustav von Aschenbach to Koi’s Tadzio? Socrates to Alcibiades? Was Koi a kept man? No label seemed to fit their bond, which was just itself, entirely particular.
Was it good? Koi was my age, legal age, Anthony four decades older. He had money. What of Koi’s household chores? Were they performed for wages—to make it clear that any funds passed to Koi were for laundry, cleaning, shopping, or watering the garden only? There was clearly strong feeling between them. My Manichean order began to jitter and sway.
A shade fell from the veranda, sun shooting pain through my body. Koi squinted, raising a hand to block the glare. Seb got up to fix the shade.
—Best leave it off, Anthony said. The eyes will adjust, and it’s nicer with the light.
—Too bright, Koi said.
—Oh, but you’ve been in your cave for twelve hours!
—Six! Koi cut him off. You make me look lazy. It’s not true.
Anthony looked questioningly at Seb.
—We left around five, Seb said. He was still there.
Koi pointed at me, laughing.
—I can’t believe I see you now. You were falling all the time.
I took a slow sip of orange juice, saw the black walls of the club, dancers on stage, high tables with buckets of ice, soda water, and whiskey.
—Well, 100 Pipers takes getting used to, Béa said kindly.
—Did I do anything awful? I asked, looking at Seb.
Something had passed between us. He was being too polite—or was I imagining things, half-mad with frustration and shame?
—Do you remember falling off the motorbike? he asked.
Flash of sensation memory: leather seat, concrete, bushes.
—It was in the parking lot, Seb said to ease Béa’s alarm. She was like a rag doll, kept falling and laughing, so we couldn’t get her to stay on the bike.
Anthony steered the conversation away from my embarrassment.
—Koi, we have eggs and bacon. …
Koi grimaced and said something in Thai. The Thai woman’s eyes brightened, and they drove off a moment later on Koi’s motorbike.
—They’ve gone to the market, insulting my cooking! Anthony said. Ella, will you fetch the board? And get yourself a glass of water, my dear. You’re looking pale.
Inside the house, it was dark and cool. The game was on a shelf next to Anthony’s books: practical solutions for waste management in developing countries next to Wilde, Genet, Yeats …
—From another of my nine lives, Anthony said, glancing over my shoulder.
His hands were full of dirty plates. He was carrying them through to the kitchen.
—I went in for the glamour of a law degree. My wife was a doctor. I had to keep up.
—Your wife? I asked.
—She kept the children. I’m so unsuitable, he said, squishing his eyes together as he smiled.
Behind his exaggeration, he was probing my reaction. He cared what I thought. I was moved. He went on:
—But the lap of luxury begins to sag, to reek of fish. So I became a doctor of philosophy in shit, with a minor in trash, servant of the Queen Mother’s institution of higher learning, and your humble host.
A pang of affection welled in my chest for Anthony, who could transform pain to humor at a moment’s notice.
—Sorry for the delay, Anthony announced when we reached the veranda, We were speaking of my past. It always takes up so much time, the past.
We drew letters. Anthony sighed, complained, then spelled JINN on the board.
Seb challenged and had to read from a frayed dictionary:
—In Muslim demonology, spirits who appear in human and animal forms to exercise supernatural influence.
—Your turn skipped! Now, Ella, you’re next. Don’t take forever.
Time weighed nothing that sleepy Sunday in the village. The sun drifted down through the sky as letters filled the board. I played on, the odor of whiskey in my sweat making me nauseous, dragging back scenes from the night before. One, buried and important, trembled at the edge of awareness. Anthony made a show of looking at his watch. I was taking too long with my turn.
—The strongest lack the power of their convictions, he told me.
—Don’t listen. He’s trying to rattle you, Seb said.
Rattle you. Seb’s voice tipped an image into focus: bodies on the dance floor, pulled by the attractions certain bodies have for one another. I was standing at a table and leaning on my elbows, hair falling into my drink, when I looked up to find Seb’s face so close that I could feel his breath. In his gaze was a mixture of weakness and something like anger. His eyes were devoid of their usual sarcasm, naked. Your eyes are naked, I told him. He squinted at me as if I were ridiculous. His look made me flesh, solid—a thing seen. Something shifted in me, opened. In all my dealings with Seb, part of me was always seeking that look. I don’t know where it came from, the pull of that look and my need to have it again.
The letter bag was empty. Anthony tallied our scores, moving his mouth as he added. Koi and the Thai woman, having returned from the market, sat on the steps, sharing pork and sticky rice. Gloating, Anthony announced his victory. I joined Koi on the steps.
—Good for a hangover, he said, handing me a piece of sticky rice.
The Thai woman patted my leg. We smiled. I asked Koi if he’d had fun last night.
—Okay, he said, but it’s not like Bangkok.
He glanced over at Anthony, who was still gloating about his victory.
—Here is okay, but not forever, Koi said, casting away a feeling with a flick of his wrist.
Béa came over to say good-bye. A moment later, I felt Seb’s hand on my shoulder.
—We’ll get him next time, he said, nodding at Anthony. Take care of yourself.
He didn’t ask if I wanted a ride—or look back as he walked down the drive.
I helped with the dishes. From Anthony’s sink, I made my way back to the table at the club, where Seb and I leaned toward each other, our words barely audible over the beat of the music. Broken chips of phrases. I said, Despite all odds, I—He cut me off: You just want someone. You’ll forget this by morning. God, if I kissed you, you’d break—Try me, I said. His face was still. Lemony dish soap brought back the present, comforting. I washed; Anthony dried. As I put on my shoes—Anthony would drive me home—we began discussing whether Thai divinities could appear as animals, Koi yelling that Buddha was not an animal as we set out in Anthony’s truck toward the university.
16
AWAKE BEFORE DAWN, I pass time mulling over Ella’s Singapore Airways flight in July. It’s the longest stretch without an entry, a gap, after which coherence vanishes. Where she went then seems key to where she is now. She wrote, I’ve come back empty, scraped clean of futures.
At nine, I walk to the gallery. Outside, the air is crisp, leaves yellowing, earth growing old. I love the smell of death in autumn. At home, we would smoke it out, building wood fires in my mother’s studio as I watched her work, a child with my little crayons and watercolors.
It’s urgent that I speak to Siobhán. I shouldn’t have said what I did at dinner, in front of her brother. Privately, I’ll ask what she knows. A laugh escapes me on the street. People turn. If her plan was to drive me mad in pursuit of Ella, would she tell me? When we’re face-to-face, I’ll sense if I can trust her. To fight the cold, I run to the gallery.
The door to the Ormeau is open. Inside, a woman my age is measuring the walls and making notes. She is absorbed in what she is doing. I go to the back room, locked.
I turn to the woman and ask if she has seen Siobhán. Her nails are painted candy pink.
—Siobhán left this morning, she says.
—Left Paris? Where did she go?
The woman shrugs.
I replay last night’s dinner, trying to push away the uncomfortable thought that Siobhán left because of me.
The gallery feels different—empty of artwork, yes, but I
’ve seen it this way before. It’s the press by the spiral staircase that makes the difference. It sits like a thing alive, a fat spider in the eye of its web. Its parts are jarringly intricate in the bare space. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it immediately.
—Impressive, no?
The woman’s English isn’t native. I can’t place her accent.
—Does it work? I ask, running a hand along its parts.
—I hope so—most artists here hate it, think it’s kitsch.
I stand between her and the press, defensive.
—Are you an artist or a friend of Siobhán’s? I’ve seen you here before.
—A friend, I say.
I’m sorry not to recognize her. Interns and artists are often passing through the gallery. I haven’t paid enough attention.
—Would you help me? she asks, tearing tape with her teeth and giving me two large cardboard cutouts. Just hold these against the wall so I can see.
Taking them, I go to the wall.
—Together like that, she says, backing up to the other end of the gallery.
—You’re showing your work? I ask her.
—My first ever solo show was here this summer. I was so fucking nervous. She laughs. It must have been okay, because Siobhán asked me to curate a group show. I’m Zoë.
I remember Siobhán’s description of Zoë, Franco-Portuguese, very promising. I tell I her I loved her painted photograph of the tree, gesturing to the patch of wall where it hung in summer, now bare.
—Nulle part ailleurs, she says excitedly. I made it as an experiment with this space.
She invites me to the vernissage, the show’s opening. Before going, I touch the wood of my mother’s sculpture, as I always do. Zoë looks at me curiously.
FEELING AT LOOSE ENDS, I GO TO A LECTURE. Bergson’s writings on cinema. Now, afterward, rain comes in fat, cold sheets, chopping at the surface of the Seine. I cross the pont des Arts, and it comes down harder, soaking the thin fabric of my coat. Ahead are the high, flat walls of the Louvre. The lecture was a mistake. Months ago, I would have hung on every word, but all I took from today is the vague notion that Bergson found cinema inferior to photography. I don’t know why. The audience asked questions, the theorist held forth, and the “dialogue” had been going for hours when I left, not wanting to run into people I knew, to have to say what I was or wasn’t doing. All that feels like a former life.
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