Nina In Utopia

by Miranda Miller

  Nina’s tears turned at once to smiles. I’ve never seen such rapid changes in mood in anyone over the age of seven. I told her to go and get dressed.

  ‘I cannot dress myself.’

  I looked at her sharply. ‘So you’re going home in my bathrobe?’

  I don’t know exactly when we both realized she wasn’t going to leave. I lent her a pair of old jeans and a white T-shirt, explained, as if to a Martian, how they were to be worn and sent her to the other side of the screen. I tried not to think about the underwear she wasn’t wearing, about the friction of my cotton and denim against the soft white flesh I had glimpsed.

  When she stepped out from behind the screen Nina looked so young and slim and modern that I gasped. She was a pretty girl with a lot of hair, and instead of that formidable hour-glass the figure beneath my borrowed clothes was quite boyish. She shed some of her embarrassing gentility as she helped me mop up the mess she had made and seemed as amazed as me by the size of her corset and her black dress, the pod from which she had just emerged. The vast black dress, the corset and the elaborate white underwear filled my flat. She joked that she had brought her clothes to furnish my bare garret, and somehow this turned into a petticoat fight, a wild, giggling game that left us both weak with laughter. Once you’ve thrown a woman’s knickers at her (however enormous and majestic Nina’s version of that garment was), you can’t throw her out. And she didn’t want to go.

  So I made more coffee and turned on the television. Nina’s squeals of amazement and horror made me laugh again. I stopped asking myself if she could be genuine and just enjoyed her company. I’ve always thought it must be fun to be an anthropologist, looking at familiar worlds through fresh eyes. Nina was so upset by an item on the news about a car bomb that had killed eight soldiers in Basra that I had to reassure her that it wasn’t true.

  ‘It is a fiction? But why would anybody wish to write such a beastly, ugly story? It is the mission of art not to repel but to invite and please. Those poor men!’ She sobbed, dissolving into tears again. She had already used up all my boxes of tissues and was consuming my loo paper.

  ‘Nowadays people quite like ugly stories. There aren’t any car bombs in London, you know. Not many, anyway. Basra is a long way away, in - I think you’d call it Mesopotamia. We’re fighting a war there.’

  ‘We? The dear old British nation?’

  ‘Please, Nina, you sound like the BNP. Oh, never mind. Yes, there was this tyrant in Mesopotamia, and the Prime Minister and the President of the United States thought he was developing dangerous weapons, so they invaded his country.’

  ‘So it is true? I thought you said - Oh! No! I cannot bear to look!’

  ‘Oh, those are people in Sri Lanka - Ceylon - who lost their houses when there was a tsunami. A tidal wave.’

  ‘How dreadful! That poor woman! She looks so sad, and her children are weeping. Their great eyes are beseeching me. They must need food. Can we not do something?’

  I turned off the television. Nina made me ashamed of the cynical indifference with which I usually watch my daily dose of reality. What use was our reality to her anyway? She sobbed and writhed on the sofa beside me, grief-stricken. So I told her a story, just as I make up stories to comfort Ben when he is hurt by the world.

  ‘As I said, it is all a fiction. These things only appear to happen, to remind us how fortunate we are in our prosperity.’

  ‘They are not real people? Thank goodness! Last night, as I wandered through your London, I was so happy to see that you have banished poverty and sickness. I could not bear it if they lurked still in distant lands, if it turned out that the glory of your civilization was but a thin veneer -’

  ‘It’s all right, Nina’, and I put my arm around her shoulder. To calm her down. Then withdrew it as I felt her shoulders and back tense as if she was still wearing a corset. No touching, no television, no exposure to unpleasant facts. Yet I didn’t want her to leave. ‘We could go shopping. Would that amuse you? We could take my car.’

  She jumped up with a shriek of joy. ‘To travel like the wind, as if by magic! I should like it of all things. Oh, Jonathan, my dear staunch friend, how good you are to me!’

  I mumbled something and got my car keys.

  ‘But I cannot go out like this. I have no hat or gloves. I am barefoot and dressed like a street urchin -’

  ‘You look fine. I’ll lend you some shoes until we can buy you some.’

  ‘Jonathan, I cannot possibly allow you to go to any expense. I have no money. I do not understand your money.’

  Once you start lying it’s so easy to carry on. ‘Oh, we don’t use money any more. We use plastic. Don’t worry. We’ll just pick up a pair of shoes while we’re out.’

  She looked baffled but delighted by the money-free economy I had just invented. I finally persuaded her it was socially acceptable to go out without a hat or gloves, but she was anxious about her hair. I gathered she usually had a maid devoted to brushing it and dressing her. She spent so long trying to force my comb through her tangles that I started to look at my watch. Nina was in a panic at the thought that she was keeping me waiting (Kate would have told me to sod off and mind my own business). In the end Nina produced some hair pins from the pockets of her voluminous dress and balanced a tower of hair on top of her head.

  At about midday we went out into the dazzling sunshine in search of lunch. As soon as we hit the street Nina lost all self-consciousness. Nobody stared at her. What would you have to wear or do to attract attention on the streets of London? But she stared at everything, and her delight was infectious. I became a tourist in my own city as she walked beside me, Chaplinesque in my shoes, which were several sizes too big for her.

  ‘How clean your streets are! And how free you all are - ladies and gentlemen both. Indeed, I cannot tell the difference. I wonder where the elephant is today.’

  ‘What elephant? Oh, you mean the Sultan’s Elephant?’

  ‘Do you have a sultan now, instead of a queen?’ Her face lit up, she smiled so broadly that I thought she was going to tell me another of her awful jokes. ‘Now I understand why I saw so many veiled ladies yesterday. They must have been the inmates of his harem. How very exotic. I hope he is a benevolent despot. I thought it was some kind of religious ceremony, that perhaps you worship elephants now?’

  ‘Well, in a way.’ It seemed pedantic to keep correcting her. This new London we were concocting together was far more attractive than the lonely city in which I had been living.

  ‘And you dine upon the pavement! How enchanting! My dear husband was in Paris many years ago and told me that they also eat alfresco. Does your sultan have French blood?’

  ‘Um, I think he might,’ I mumbled, wondering about her dear husband, whose silence was deafening. Was it really the silence of the grave, or was Nina just a wild fantasist?

  We sat at a table outside a café on Marylebone High Street. It was so warm that most people were in summer clothes, a display of bare flesh that Nina found shocking. She couldn’t take her eyes off the procession of tanned flesh, tattoos, tousled hair, cut-off jeans, shorts and short skirts. She stared at them, defensively clutching her arms, as white as the T-shirt I had lent her, while I stared at her. Nina’s face expressed delight and amazement while her crossed arms seemed to be trying to protect herself from the hedonistic parade. She commented in a loud stage whisper as we ordered brunch.

  ‘And this person is almost naked. Is she, or he, exceedingly poor?’

  ‘No, she’s exceedingly rich. Armani.’

  ‘Oh, Jonathan, do look at that poor crazed fellow talking to himself. Should we offer to assist him?’

  ‘I don’t think he needs our assistance. He’s telling his broker in New York to sell some shares.’ I showed her my mobile and tried to explain the concept, realizing to my embarrassment that I have no idea how or why it works. I took some photos of her on my mobile and then passed Nina my phone to show her.

  ‘And does this tiny box poss
ess such power? To throw voices over the ocean and capture living faces in a frame hardly bigger than a postage stamp? What a fright I look.’

  ‘You look good.’

  ‘I do not feel good. Do you think I am very wicked to indulge in worldly pleasures, far from my husband and child?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I know Henrietta would say so. She would scold me and quote some horrid psalm.’

  ‘Then I’m very glad Henrietta isn’t here. And that you are.’

  Our food arrived, a burger for me and an omelette for Nina. We drank Diet Coke, mineral water and cappuccinos. I didn’t want to ply Nina with alcohol; she was quite overwhelming enough sober. My intentions, as she might have said, were honourable.

  ‘That was the most exquisite meal I have ever eaten. Dear Jonathan, how fortunate I am to have found such a noble guide to your paradise. I think I owe as much to your manly kindness as Dante did to Virgil. And is that really all the payment that is required? Your visiting card? How glorious it is to sit here with you and bask in the sunlight of this pinnacle of civilization.’

  This speech, declaimed in a loud voice, did turn a few heads. I shuffled off to buy a Guardian, needing a break from her exhausting earnestness. I looked at the reviews and handed her the news section. This was a mistake, as the headlines, of course, were all about war and suffering. Nina’s post-prandial joy quickly turned to tears.

  ‘Oh no! What a catalogue of woes is here! Jonathan, tell me it is not true.’

  ‘It isn’t true,’ I muttered, wanting to finish reading a review of a Chopin concert. But it was quite impossible to concentrate on anything but Nina. Her modesty was as demanding as the most outrageous egotism. So I gave up trying to read and suggested a trip to the supermarket. This, usually the nadir of my dreary weekend, became a huge adventure.

  We ambled through to Wimpole Street where I had parked my car. Nina lowered her voice, as if afraid of shocking passers-by. ‘And do they still gossip about the elopement?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Why, Miss Barrett and Mr Browning. I understand her papa was quite heartbroken.’ She gazed up at a large house, as if expecting a sad old man to appear at the front door.

  ‘“Dear dead women, with such hair, too - what’s become of all the gold / Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old”.’

  Nina looked at me blankly. Her hair, not gold but almost black and full of red and blue lights in the dazzling sun, had come down from its mooring of pins and hung thickly around the small pointed breasts under her borrowed T-shirt. I couldn’t remember when Browning had written ‘A Toccata of Galuppi’s’. I did feel a little chilly, and my head was spinning as if time was a wine I had drunk too much of.

  My car delighted Nina, and I must admit her shrill admiration was gratifying. Buying a scarlet Lotus was my one big luxury after Kate threw me out, my way of advertising that I was single again. I usually drive it alone or with Ben strapped into the tiny back seat, so it was fun to show it off to her. I opened the doors with my key ring, pressed a button that made the roof zoom down and fed a Bach CD into the sound system. Nina’s astonishment and whoops of joy enlivened the drive to the Edgware Road.

  I usually dread my weekly trip to the supermarket. A middle-aged man shopping for one is making a humiliating public statement that nobody wants him. Me. I’ve failed at family life and can’t even find a partner to defy bourgeois conventions with. I imagine critical eyes judging the seedy contents of my basket and sniggering at the banality of my appetite. Of course, there aren’t any such judges; most people who shop in that supermarket are single, and the mothers with screaming brats certainly don’t fill me with envy. Anyway, Nina’s presence transformed this boring ritual.

  ‘What a magnificent emporium! And is this another car, to whisk us through the dazzling array?’ She tried to sit in the trolley.

  Nina explored each aisle with shrieks of wonder. Embarrassing, but a lot more fun than schlepping around on my own. ‘And to think that all these riches on display are free! That all may enter here and fill their cart according to their needs. Are they Chartists, these wonderful men who have abolished property? Truly I think you must be governed by angels not by men.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call them angels exactly. Definitely men, although as a matter of fact there are quite a few women in our government. One of them even became prime minister a few years ago.’

  ‘A prime ministress? Is it possible? And was she wiser and more benevolent than a gentleman?’

  ‘Not at all. A very tough old boot. All the men in her cabinet were terrified of her.’

  ‘I wonder she had the effrontery. Oh, Jonathan! How glorious this is, like a harvest festival in Heaven itself. May I?’ She filled our trolley with pineapples, melons, aubergines, green and yellow peppers and purple grapes - more fruit and veg than I’d normally eat in a month. I humoured her. They did look pretty, and it was my own fault for telling her it was all free. ‘If I had my paintbox here I would compose a nature morte. I have never seen such fertility. And I would paint your portrait, dear Jonathan, as a souvenir of our friendship.’

  ‘To show to your dear husband?’ I couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘Charles is - I mean, he was - I know he would understand our situation.’

  ‘I wish I did.’

  Then I felt like a curmudgeon because the clear bright stream of her joy stopped flowing. She was even silent for a few minutes.

  Nina caught sight of the escalator at the back of the food hall, and that, of course, was another celestial vision. So I decided to be an anthropologist again. I stopped trying to rationalize and just laughed.

  ‘Chickens! You still have chickens!’

  ‘Of course we do.’

  ‘Why is a hen walking like a conspiracy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you give it up? Because it is a foul proceeding.’

  I enjoyed her raptures at the cash desk when we were ‘given’ five bags full of food.

  ‘Now we’ll go and find you some shoes. Mine are far too big. You must be terribly uncomfortable.’

  ‘I think I was never so much at ease in all my life.’

  I took her arm and guided her to a tacky boutique near the supermarket, full of cheap clothes, shoes, rugs and brassware. Nina was delighted. ‘Why, it is like a scene from the Arabian Nights! If I take that coffee pot home and rub it, do you think a genie will appear?’

  ‘You might get arrested for shoplifting. Do you like any of those shoes?’

  ‘How brilliantly they sparkle!’ They were covered with nasty glitter, like the stuff Ben sticks on Christmas cards. ‘And how kind of this gentleman to offer me a pair.’

  The shopkeeper plied us with shoes and brought us some mint tea. Despite Nina’s protestations, her feet, when she took off my shoes, were red and raw with blisters.

  ‘You must have been in awful pain, Nina. You should have told me.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Only my feet. You cannot imagine how wonderful it feels to have no beastly corset biting into me.’

  I couldn’t imagine it. Pain, even the mildest headache, fills me with indignation. As I paid for the demure, flat black slippers she chose I felt the feebleness of my imagination. I also wondered why I was buying her shoes when her visit, if that’s the right word, could hardly last much longer. Yet while Nina was here I wanted her to be happy. I suppose I made Kate happy once, but it was so long ago that I can hardly remember.

  ‘We’ll get you something for your feet.’ I led her to Boots, asked the pharmacist for advice and bought Nina some kind of jelly popular with dancers.

  As I handed her the bag she thanked me effusively, and I realized I had never felt so protective of anybody, except Ben. Kate would have despised me, would possibly have even shot me, if she had known that Nina’s gentle helplessness appealed to a side of me I wasn’t even aware of. As if I have always been an outsider in my own time, a silent and futile critic of the prevailin
g amorality, a critic who flourished and kept his mouth shut - not one who risked anything. My marriage with Kate broke up because I had a fling with a colleague who I certainly wasn’t in love with, so I stood on the same moral quicksand as everyone else I knew. But Nina’s innocence and integrity were so touching. I wanted … why am I burbling on like this? What happened later that night was what I really wanted.

  As we drove home I took the roof off my car again, and Nina’s hair flew around her face. I parked in my mews (my richer neighbours were all away for the weekend) and locked the car. Nina stood beside me like a windswept Ceres, carrying four bags full of fruit and vegetables. I was totally charmed by her and by the city we had created together and grew shameless in my embellishments.

  ‘How strange that all the horses have gone. What charming little houses you have made of our old stables. And are you all architects and artists here? A community of idealists?’

  I thought how much more sympathetic that would be than being surrounded by plastic surgeons, artists of breast and nose jobs, who disappeared in the evening and whose names I did not even know.

  ‘Well, I suppose it is a bit like that.’

  ‘I knew it! And since you have abolished the demons of Mammon I expect you all live together quite contentedly, without rivalry or malice?’

  It sounded wonderful. How could I resist? I smiled vaguely, and Nina said passionately, ‘How I envy you your purified city. The cleanliness of your streets is mirrored in your beautiful minds.’

  It would have been callous to disillusion her. So I just smiled, beautifully I hoped, and we carried the shopping upstairs. As I stowed it away Nina gazed at me admiringly as if putting cheese and eggs in a fridge was a recondite skill. I was growing rather addicted to her admiration and no longer mentioned her husband. Nothing had been said about her staying another night, but I assumed she would. Hoped she would.

  Nina asked if there were still theatres and opera houses and museums, so I tossed her the ‘Guide’ section from the newspaper.