To Matthius, who Denise believed veered on the chronic side of desperation, the publisher was a friend.
Sidra became an afterthought, which was hardly a shocker. Privately, Sidra fumed at Denise’s decision to accept the new tenancy. Not unlike Denise, she tended to hold grudges far beyond a natural expiration and had been resentful of Matthius for the past year. Matthius, to his credit, did not deliberately lead her on; his natural manner of calm through storm—excepting any thought of his deceased cat—was a perfect complement for the oppositely inclined Sidra, and she became hopeful of a new, and in this instance much needed, friendship. Though he did leave the phone message for Denise days following Persia’s death, letting her know of his late change of plans, he did not extend to her adopted daughter the same courtesy.
~~~
And so . . . Matthius’ innocent act of negligence will soon effectuate the most severe of storms, a storm that, in its eye, will embattle and seduce a dispirited alcoholic artist named Sidra . . . whose world will forever change upon unconsciously attempting to prove her worth to a man she hardly knows. To succeed, she promises herself that she will capture a photographic image of an entity that has never before been captured . . . and he will pay the price.
THE COMEDY CELLAR
GREENWICH VILLAGE, NEW YORK CITY
3:00 pm.
The skies are messy; scattered dark gray clouds fight for attention with incoming streaks of bloody red spears that emanate from something other than the sun.
Sidra adjusts her camera as she speed walks toward The Comedy Cellar, a nondescript comedy club in the basement of a venerable red-brick building on Houston Street. Only a sloppily taped and tattered sheet of white printer paper, affixed onto a phone pole, lists the location’s name and address. She looks up in response to a blare of car horns.
Denise, making a her usual noise, this time speeding through a red light.
Christ . . .
Sidra ducks her chin into her shoulder. Once Denise has passed, she walks on.
They haven’t spoken in months, again, which is fine for them both. Theirs was not a falling-out; the relationship is just too much trouble.
Denise will do what she can to beat the traffic before the imminent downpour—work from The House of Usher later this afternoon is on the docket despite repeatedly informing employees of her “insane schedule of meetings for the rest of the day”—and she will be sure to park her car in a secure indoor lot, as safe as any from flooding. Her staff shares in neither luxury; in a group briefing earlier this morning they have been ordered to stay in the office until the completion of today’s duties.
“What’s a little weather?” Denise asked in response to a male employee’s objection. “Where do you think you are? California?”
She has been working as though possessed of late and has been edgier than usual as a result, but the extra effort is paying off. A second employee’s—a female’s—more polite request that Denise should reconsider angered her all the more.
“Let me get something straight,” Denise admonished. “I don’t give a damn about anything that’s gone on in this company or your life before. If you don’t like it, there’s the door, and good riddance. If you have the sack, the skills, and the finances, you can start your own publishing company. Or find a boyfriend, let him support you and live happily ever after. If not, you can crawl back to work. Next time I won’t be so nice.”
With Tom gone, Denise has upped the company’s PR, acquired four titles from new authors with bold voices, and projects 2015 to double last year’s sales. Anything less than the aforementioned would represent a failure, and that’s just not acceptable.
And . . . she always keeps her eyes open for replacement security blankets, until those eyes close on their own from her increasingly frequent bouts of mental and physical exhaustion, not that anyone would ever know. When that happens she’s usually behind locked office doors or otherwise alone.
Uncharacteristic of Denise, she cannot prevent a budding regret. Thomas is clueless; she has never told him of Sidra. A secondary reason she latched onto her top writer as she did is because her family drama is not all that much different than his back-and-forth with his own daughter, Samantha.
She fights to lose the invasive thought and presses harder on the accelerator. “Fuck him,” she says to herself as she speeds. “Yesterday’s dead, and Mama’s doing just fine without you.”
Sidra resumes her saunter to The Comedy Cellar. This afternoon she begins a freelance photo essay of underground New York comedy clubs, something she has looked forward to for a while.
As an observer who records the world through photography, she has a thing for tortured artists. This sense of affection knows no bounds and has never been something she could easily explain. Sidra is a self-described “hippie could’ve been” and not the most conservative dresser, is well known in the neighborhood . . . walls talk, and so people are naturally curious and drawn to her. Just not the people she wants. When she’s been asked in the past about her predilection for artistic freedom, she’s delivered her rote answer, the one she created for self-preservation:
“Everything is art. Everything. Any decision you make is art. A human being does whatever it takes to survive, and sometimes they come down from their shame with drugs, sex, or alcohol, or some real terrible comedy . . . being human, that’s the greatest art there is.”
Her statement is considerably more candid than it sounds. She wrote it to use for the infrequent media interview, but uses it also in public whenever necessary.
The Comedy Cellar is a workshop for new and often desperate comedians and, for Sidra, the occasional home away from home. For her new photo essay, however, she is less interested in the stereotype of the tortured comedian and much more so in the audience that attends to hear them. She’s close enough to her head trip; she’s more interested in theirs.
“Sidra Ghioto,” she tells Jerry, a partner in the club. She shakes his hand. “Thank you so much for this—”
“Face matches the voice,” he responds. “I was right about you. Take a seat.”
She sits and looks around. The club could be its own essay in minimalism, a gray old stage and thirty-five folding chairs. No tables. Beer is sold from a vending machine and allowed in the stage area.
“Ever consider an interior decorator?” she asks.
Jerry smiles; he likes her straightaway.
~~~
Minutes later, over glasses of wine. Sidra has elaborated as to the goals of today’s shoot; Jerry mentions that the expected crowd for the first show, about twenty people, will begin arriving within the hour.
“I was supposed to be in Egypt January last year, but it wasn’t the right time,” Sidra says.
He’s intrigued. “Can I ask you a question?”
The wine has relaxed her. Just a tad. “Why do people, when they get serious, begin a question with ‘Can I ask you a question?’ It’s like the rest of the conversation doesn’t matter—”
“Do you like the wine? I only open the bottles on special occasions—”
“That’s your question?”
“My warmup. How do you make money?”
Sidra smirks. “Easy enough. Exhibitions, some magazine sales.”
“Looking for more work?”
“Maybe. Always—”
“I can hire you. Small hourly and we’ll split tips. Fifty-fifty.”
“Doing what?”
“Ever dance?”
Nothing shocks her anymore. “I figured. I don’t know. I may have a conflict—”
“No pressure. You let me know. What sort of conflict, if you don’t mind me asking—”
“I’m a sub aide for Performing Arts.”
“The high school?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“You’re joking?”
“No . . . I’m not that familiar with people I just meet—”
“Well, I hope you like the wine.”
“Very slick, I mus
t say.”
“Performing Arts, huh? Not quite the dancing I was referring to—”
“Art History, the regular aide’s out on maternity leave until March. Look, to be honest I wouldn’t mind making more of my own money,” she said. “Crawling out from under Den—my mother’s shadow isn’t necessarily a bad thing—”
“Feeling familiar now?”
“Contemplating the family legacy. A much more effective sell.”
“So . . . is that my yes?”
“That’s your I’ll think about—”
“You too . . .” He sips. “You’re not all that close, I gather?”
“Don’t know her. Never have . . . next question.”
“Ms. Ghioto?” They turn in response to the unexpected interruption . . .
SOMERS TOWN, LONDON, WINTER 1797
Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin of Somers Town, London, is four months old today, and she has been sleeping in her cradle for most of the afternoon. The study in which she is cradled is modest and comprised of minimal decor —walls of dark oak bookshelves holding tomes of philosophy and poetry, an antique painting of the main hall of the Library of Alexandria on the sole bare wall, a sturdy mahogany desk and carved oak chair of matching color. The window is open, and rays of light shine upon the baby girl. The weather is agreeable, sunny, and mild, and in the unusual absence of outside stimulation or battle, another is as tired as she.
To celebrate the occasion of Mary’s first four months, her father, writer William Godwin, whose Inquiry Concerning Political Justice and its Influence on Morals and Happiness cemented his reputation and troublesome influence as a political utilitarian and anarchist, completes the memoir of his late wife, Mary’s mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, the pioneering feminist philosopher and author.
The title page reads:
Memoirs of the Author of
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
William has saved the first chapter for last. He inhales deeply and exhales slowly, then again lifts his pen.
“As to my justification,” he says, as he dips his pen in ink and writes . . .
MEMOIRS.
CHAP. I.
1759–1775.
It has always appeared to me, that to give to the public some account of the life of a person of eminent merit deceased, is a duty incumbent on survivors. It seldom happens that such a person passes through life, without being the subject of thoughtless calumny, or malignant misrepresentation. It cannot happen that the public at large should be on a footing with their intimate acquaintance, and be the observer of those virtues which discover themselves principally in personal intercourse. Every benefactor of mankind is more or less influenced by a liberal passion for fame; and survivors only pay a debt due to these benefactors, when they assert and establish on their part, the honour they loved. The justice which is thus done to the illustrious dead, converts into the fairest source of animation and encouragement to those who would follow them in the same carreer. The human species at large is interested in this justice, as it teaches them to place their respect and affection, upon those qualities which best deserve to be esteemed and loved. I cannot easily prevail on myself to doubt, that the more fully we are presented with the picture and story of such persons as the subject of the following narrative, the more generally shall we feel in ourselves an attachment to their fate, and a sympathy in their excellencies. There are not many individuals with whose character the public welfare and improvement are more intimately connected, than the author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.
The facts detailed in the following pages, are principally taken from the mouth of the person to whom they relate; and of the veracity and ingenuousness of her habits, perhaps no one that was ever acquainted with her, entertains a doubt. The writer of this narrative, when he has met with persons, that in any degree created to themselves an interest and attachment in his mind, has always felt a curiosity to be acquainted with the scenes through which they had passed, and the incidents that had contributed to form their understandings and character. Impelled by this sentiment, he repeatedly led the conversation of Mary to topics of this sort; and, once or twice, he made notes in her presence, of a few dates calculated to arrange the circumstances in his mind. To the materials thus collected, he has added an industrious enquiry among the persons most intimately acquainted with her at the different periods of her life.
Satisfied, he pulls himself away from his work. He stands, kisses his daughter on the forehead. “They’re going to persecute me for this in equal measure to the others,” he says, “maybe even more so,” and wipes hair from her eyes. “Your mother left us too soon.”
WINTER 1807
“Mother left us too soon,” Mary says from the doorway of her father’s study. “I wish I knew her.”
The room is well preserved; nothing has changed save for some new books and a messier desk.
“You can come in, you know.” She enters but remains standing, wandering the room, observing its contents. “She would have been very proud,” William responds. “Though . . . sometimes I’m convinced she reaches from beyond the grave and holds a remarkable influence over you. I was thinking earlier you can be as stubborn and as cold as she.”
Mary is puzzled and turns to her father. “Is that an insult, dear father?”
“I’m teasing you. Mary, I thought you told me you were taking a nap.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking too, about her . . . I feel closer to her now, Father.”
“And why is that?”
“I would not dare question the truth or intent of your remembrance. But Mother cannot defend herself, and so I feel . . . inexplicably drawn to her.”
“She was a good woman in heart and mind, Mary. My obligation was to set the record straight, despite the repercussions. And you . . . as I’ve said, you very much remind me of her.”
“I know now I was not responsible. I read up on puerperal fever, better ten days in my life than none at all . . . do I remind you of her in any other way?”
“As a matter of fact, when I had written Things as They Are—”
“Caleb Williams—”
“Caleb Williams . . . I envisioned the character forced to flee his contained universe due to his knowledge. I must have been prescient. You are as inquisitive as Caleb and your mother, and to that extent I worry.”
“Please don’t worry about me, Father. You will have no need to worry about me. I will honor you both—”
“That’s what frightens me.”
“Frightens you? What do you mean?” Mary inquires.
“I have raised you to be a daughter of reason,” he says. “I saw what you did.”
“What I—”
“I saw you . . . experiment,” William dryly responds.
“Experiment? Father, I don’t—”
“I saw you take my quill and scribble. Do you deny—”
“No. Now I’m teasing.” She smiles.
“What, may I ask, were you writing?” Mary squirms. “I’m waiting—”
“I love Charles Dibdin.”
“Dibdin? You know Dibdin?”
“Silly. I love Mounseer Nongtongpaw.”
“I see . . .”
Mary mocks puzzlement. “Monsieur, je vous n’entends pas.” She smiles broadly. “Monsieur, I don’t understand you . . .”
“No?” William plays along. “You don’t understand me?”
“I was . . . trying to write my own prose version of Mounseer Nongtongpaw.”
“Another writer in the family, then?”
Mary places the middle finger of her right hand under her left eye and her index finger under her right. She pulls her skin down and rolls her eyeballs up, exposing the whites. “I think I want to be a writer, arrgghh . . .”
“You look like a ghoul.”
Mary removes the fingers from her face. “Thank you. Hurts the socket bone . . . I thought I looked like Mrs. Godwin.”
“This I will not engage.”
> “Well, she’s not Mother. She will never be Mother—”
“Mary!” His daughter is startled at the outburst. William softens his tone in response. “Mary, she’s going nowhere . . . it’s been how many years?”
“Too many.”
“Six years, and that’s all I’ll have of it.” He slowly calms. “When you were three years old, if you had any inkling of my stress, of my heartbreak . . . any at all, when I traveled to Ireland and left you and Fanny with Mr. Marshall. Debt dictated my actions, and I so hoped to remarry so that none of us—you most of all, Fanny nor myself—would be forced to live on the streets. You should be thankful that you and Fanny still have a roof. I’ve worked too hard to put up with—”
“Then you should have married Louisa the housekeeper.”
“And Fanny? Your mother’s daughter with Gilbert Imlay I let starve? Wouldn’t that be disrespecting her memory?”
Mary holds her emotion. “I have no issue with Fanny, truth to tell. Nor the other children in this house. I have no issue with anyone, Father—”
“So, my best advice to the writer, then?”
Mary completes her sentence. “—save for the witch. I’m done now.” A difficult but successful change of subject. Mary sighs. “Yes, Father?”
William waits a moment before continuing, ensuring that the argument has passed. “Read. As much as you can. Milton, Blake, Dante . . . fill your mind and spirit with scientific and political jargon and the souls of man, ponder them.”
“This is why you take us to Library. I understand this.”
“To my advice?”
“Sorry, Father.”
“Accept what’s necessary, and from there construct your own creations.” Mary nods; the words are penetrating. “My Mary, you are an old soul. And you are a natural teacher. You must read and show them the way . . . as your mother and myself have done.”
“My mother . . .”
“You are the blood daughter of a Godwin and a Wollstonecraft,” William tenderly explains. “Nothing will ever change that. Fanny Imlay will suffer no such complications . . . nor Charles, nor Claire . . . William . . . you are my only daughter by blood, and I love you dearly, but I cannot envy you.”
Chronicles of Ara: Perdition Page 7