by Lee, Tanith
Jaidis, Emily would have said, was a Negress – that title which, like Jewess, has had so many awful connotations, that, at one time it could not be employed without grave and unforgivable offense. However, Emily would internally have reasoned, the basis of the word had such intrinsic power – the two images of essence – Black (Negra) and She (the feminine ending), that for Emily it came at once. Guileless, clad in splendor, and empty of anything banal, let alone criminally insulting.
For Jaidis was like an empress. She was the Queen of Night.
Her blackness was deep as the sea. And from the blackness flowered the two black eyes that had in them, from the soft light of the terrace, hints of amontillado, even claret, and two crimson lips – the features of a fire god. Her hair was thick and woolen and grown long in plaits, through which sequins were woven. She wore a white dress, cut low, and over that a tight white waistcoat of silk, stitched with silver coins and stars.
Emily had been in love before, and already – the two authors – love was in the air. But oddly she did not recognize it. Even so, as she watched the hands of Jaidis on the opulent body of the golden guitar, her blood began to tingle. It made itself known to her that the black girl made love to the instrument, and this was how the music came. And so at last, even in the last chords, it occurred to Emily’s flesh, if not to Emily, the question as to how it would be if she were the guitar, so plucked and stroked, so coaxed by those sliding fingers with nails of mother-of-pearl, so quietened, so tantalized, so brought to a final aching cry.
Emily got up. Her cheeks burned and she took a gulp of wine. And then Jaidis, smiling politely at the applause, glanced at her. Emily went forward, childishly, innocently. What might have been oppressive, even threatening in intent, was not, from her.
“That was so wonderful. I loved the Bach. And was it Rachmaninov? And the last one.”
“The last one was mine.”
“Oh,” said Emily. It was as if she had seen her first Christmas tree, all bright with lights. And Jaidis it seemed had the wit to know that here was genuine praise, the true response the profound artist deserves and seldom receives, and then perhaps misunderstands, for it has come in the wrong dress.
But there Emily was, white as a feather in her black frock, and there black Jaidis in her white gown.
“May I get you some wine?” said Emily.
“Or I could share yours,” said Jaidis.
Emily gave her the glass. As Jaidis’ warm red lips touched the place where her own had been, the night blew up like a tent of fires, revealing all.
But though the two authors, he smiling and she laughing, got into the same taxi and were born away as if on wings, Jaidis and Emily parted at the door of heaven, with only a lunch date for the following day.
And after the lunch, at which Emily ate two mouthfuls of each course, and Jaidis rather more, and they had opened two bottles of Pinot Noir, they parted again, with only that dangerous flimsy thing between them, the number of a phone.
However, Jaidis rang Emily that night, just as the rosy sun was going down.
“Were you okay?”
“Oh yes. What do you mean?”
“We had rather a lot to drink.”
Emily vaguely remembered floating about the bookshop all afternoon, particularly expert with the computer, almost to the point of the psychic. And then how a faint depression came, about five, and then the journey on the tube, and how the world had not seemed real, nor her room, and perhaps not herself, now.
Emily said she had been just fine.
Jaidis said, “I have to go up North tomorrow. A couple of bookings. I’m back next Saturday.”
Emily tried to grasp the notion of the city, empty of Jaidis, therefore crumbling, falling, wrecked, until Saturday came.
Then Jaidis suggested that they have dinner tonight. And Emily said that was a very good idea, but it was her turn to pay for dinner, as Jaidis had paid for lunch, and Jaidis began to laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” asked Emily.
Jaidis stopped laughing. She said Emily’s name. And when she said this, Emily knew that never in the world before had there ever been a woman called Emily.
The dinner was a foolish affair. They drank a little, but it was champagne, ate one course, or Jaidis ate it, and Emily inhaled it, toyed with it, left it in peace. A waiter arrived – it was a good restaurant – and asked if everything were quite all right.
“Quite all right,” said Jaidis, “but we’re in love.”
The waiter grinned. He seemed pleased with them.
Never before had Emily heard anyone say anything so honest. And never again during the following months, did she hear Jaidis say anything of that kind or sort.
Not even when, curled in Jaidis’ bed, among sheets like fires, Jaidis’ skin upon hers, black, smooth, curiously sandy, caressing at every shift and breath, revealed the strawberry of her mouth, her inner mouth, rose in ebony, her hair that could slap and sting and tickle and slide, her strength, her sureness, the rasp of her cry, the beating of her live heart, not even then, not even after the song of Emily’s orgasm, the stillness, the darkness, the dawn, not then, or after, the honesty: I love you. I am in love with you. My love. As if said once, never again need it be said at all. And Emily could honor this. It was almost unique. Like a comet. Once in a lifetime, yes, that should be enough.
In the morning, Jaidis went north.
A few weeks later they began to live together, Emily moving into Jaidis’ flat. The area was better, and oddly it was easier to reach the bookshop from here. Jaidis had explained, she needed a little space of her own, a small physical space. To see to the boring bookwork of the self-employed. To practice, and to compose. From that room came the patter of the old typewriter, the marvelous convolutions of the guitar, a phrase hummed, curses, and affirmatives, silence.
Once or twice, Emily knocked, to offer coffee or tea, to inquire, in the first days, what Jaidis would like at the shops. These advances withered. Once in her chamber, the Queen of Night was isolate. True, it was only an hour or so, in the evening, a little more at weekends. And then too they would go walking, jointly shopping, to the cinema. And in the nights they would make love.
“I love you,” Emily wished to say. It is natural to the child, the loving child. But she was cautious. A cautious child. A well-mannered child.
Of course, they talked a good deal of other things. Times, places, people – even, a little, of past affairs. Emily had been hurt now and then, and though she never complained, it seemed to her that Jaidis had not experienced hurt at all, had somehow avoided it, and did not refer to it ever because it was absent. This then gradually, as the days shortened, and the tube journeys became more neon and dull, formed an incoherent shape in Emily’s mind, the shape perhaps of things to come. For if Jaidis had never been hurt, had she never loved enough to hurt, and therefore did she now? They were new lovers still. Fires flamed in them. And they were companionable. And Emily was all admiration – the beauty of Jaidis, her music, her independence – and Emily was so sweet, yes, so she had been told by others.
We are in love. She wanted to say to Jaidis in the black night that was her kingdom, “Do you love me still?” Like some girl in a tight bodice from an old romance. But Emily did not want to offend, or engineer. She did not want to force a lie, or worse, a painful truth.
Just before Christmas, Jaidis was away for four days, a lucrative assignment for the guitar. Emily, left alone, was a model of fortitude, although she could not sleep more than an hour or so each night, made mistakes on her friend the computer, broke a heel in the street, burnt out the kettle, and caught a cold.
Every night when Jaidis phoned her, Emily said nothing of all this, and was serene, loving and encouraging. She bought Jaidis an extra Christmas present, a long scarlet scarf shot with black and mauve. The evening when Emily came in and Jaidis was there, having caught an earlier train, some enormous tension seemed to let go of Emily’s throat, and she burst out coughing
for almost five minutes.
In the new year, Jaidis was away again, although only for two nights. Emily was much better at it now. She had even found some herbal stuff that helped her to sleep.
In February, a letter came.
Always, Jaidis would verbally dismiss her letters, some rude or importunate ‘fan,’ some tax demand. Now she said nothing, brooding over the single sheet of lined and tired-looking paper.
“Are you all right?” Emily said at length.
“Yes. It’s this. I can’t let you read it, it’s very personal to her. A girl called Tina. Someone I used to know.”
Emily for a moment felt as if far off, floating on a warm cloud of indifference, sorry only that Jaidis had been annoyed. And then the little needle came, that pierced her like a burning wire.
“Tina?”
“Tina. I haven’t seen the woman for years.”
Jaidis poured herself another coffee, and sat back, frowning. She had her lion’s face, lean and fierce. She explained that Tina had been someone she had met, briefly. She did not say what had taken place between them, but perhaps, probably, this was obvious. Now Tina was in dreadful trouble, of some unspecified kind. Alone, distressed, reaching out.
“I’ll send her fifty quid,” said Jaidis. “It might help.”
Although, up to a point, they pooled resources, their earned money was their own. Emily had no idea that the donation might be wrong. And yet, she did not like it, this sending of warm red notes to a secret woman called Tina.
But she said nothing; they did not discuss it further. Presumably the money went.
In the next week or so, Emily found herself looking out for an envelope in that disjointed yet sloping writing – the writing that had been on the envelope from the woman Tina, the envelope Emily had pulled out of the waste-bin. Nothing came. Nothing seemed changed.
February passed and was gone, and on the dark wet first Sunday of March, Emily and Jaidis walked over the common in their boots.
Emily stared about her. How bleak the trees before the buds, which were perhaps very late. And there a snow-drop crushed in the mud. There had been horrible frosts, and the early daffodils had died on the balcony.
“What’s up?” said Jaidis.
“You could be lost here,” said Emily, without thinking.
“No, I couldn’t.”
“Not you then. Someone. I could. Lost and never found.”
“Let’s walk over to the pub,” said Jaidis. “You’re cold.”
In the pub they drank double whiskies and ginger, and there was a greyhound the color of a bullet, gentle as a dove. The mood changed.
Back in the flat waited muffins and butter, and lemons and cinnamon for the tea, but as they got in through the door, the telephone was ringing, and all at once, Emily stood aside. Jaidis answered the phone. She said, sharply, “Tina—”
Emily felt all the air go out of her, or was it her spirit? She became a flaccid skin dangling in the room.
She went to the bed behind the screen, sat down and pulled off her boots, and stayed still, listening.
“Yes,” Jaidis said, over and over again. That was all. Yes. Finally the receiver was put down.
Emily came out and went to put on the kettle.
It was as she buttered the muffins that Jaidis came up into the kitchen and stood on the tiled floor and gazed at her.
“Look, Emily,” said Jaidis, “I’m going to have to go off for a while. I don’t mean an engagement to play. It’s this girl, Tina. I have to, there isn’t anyone else.”
“Isn’t there?” said Emily.
“No, I’m sorry. I can’t break the confidence. It’s foul. But I have to go. A week, a bit longer. Do you understand?”
Emily thought she did not, but how could she? Or did she only understand entirely? She wanted to say, Don’t go. I don’t want you to go. But that would be selfish and obtuse. She said, “No, of course.”
Later, during the evening, they talked about how it would all be managed, and Jaidis said that, while away, she would phone, and Emily told her that it could be awkward, she had better not, and Jaidis became angry, which was perhaps some sliver of guilt over Emily piercing her armor.
That night, as Jaidis slept silently in their bed, Emily lay awake, as awake as when Jaidis had not been there. She thought, I shan’t sleep at all, once she goes. But this did not seem so very awful, only like a tiny scratch when a sword had already gone through her vitals.
A few days after, Jaidis left. She took a cloth bag with her. She did not take the guitar. She wrote down a number where she might be reached, not, apparently the number of the woman Tina.
Emily had had a long talk with herself, a long continuing talk, through the sleepless nights, as Jaidis slumbered by her side, smelling of silk and sand, night and stars and blueberry soap, and – distance.
Emily had said, You’re being a fool. Tina is a friend. Jaidis wants to help her. This makes Jaidis just and kind. But Emily said to Emily, Your time is done. Tina is the true love. The real love. Everything is over now.
Emily knew that others had left her before and not come back. But Jaidis was like no other.
To consider that Jaidis would really leave her for ever was unthinkable. Emily could no more take it in than imagining that one day she would die. But one day she would, she would die. So why not this?
Outside the door of the hidden chamber, Jaidis’ study or office or music-room, Emily stood again with the silly excuse of the dusting camera brush in her grip.
No, she did not want to tidy the room, that was not it at all. She wanted to go into it, as if she were going into Jaidis, not merely the obvious loving and sexual things – tongue, fingers – but her whole body entering Jaidis’ skin or brain or soul. Emily was fully aware of this. She had already done the things that lovers did in novels – picked up an armful of sweaters from Jaidis’ drawer and buried her face in them, gone to bed with Jaidis’ summer jacket, in a vain attempt to sleep.
To go into the sanctum was somehow more finite.
She opened the door and entered, closed the door at her back, and was shut in.
Emily looked round. Of course, she had seen the room before, sat in it on the other chair when Jaidis had said, “Come and listen to this,” playing over to her a fresh skein of music.
How empty now, this room. It was a hollow shell. And though a dim memory of Jaidis’ perfume lingered, no real trace of her.
The guitar stood free, breathing, out of its case. The books on the shelves were in their usual orderly disarray. The typewriter had been covered against dust. Papers and leaflets, notepads and music paper and pens, littered the narrow table.
Emily sighed, for there was nothing for her here, and, against all common sense, she had thought there would be. She sighed, sighed, and half turned to go out again, and as she did, she looked straight at the little cabinet in the corner by the window. In there, she knew, were kept the adjuncts to the guitar, strings like strange hair, rubs and cloths to beautify it. And also, for once Emily had seen one placed there, certain letters that Jaidis wished to keep.
Emily had a dreary thought, a thought that was hurtful and drab together. She was acting like a girl from a book and was this because she had read so many books, and now could do no other? Could do no other than that which any heroine of any tale must now do.
She walked over to the cabinet and opened it – it had no lock. And there inside, was a pile of letters.
With a grimace – a genuine spasm of her facial muscles, which might have been distaste or anxiety or shame – or simply thoughtless fear – Emily drew out this pale heap and put it on the floor. She stood looking at it. The first and topmost letter was not that which had arrived from Tina. It was a friendly note from an arts centre in Birmingham, thanking Jaidis and asking if she would be free to come back in the summer next year.
Emily considered. After all, the cabinet had no lock. What could be concealed in it? But then, Jaidis would trust her. Emily had neve
r – she had been so careful not to – pried.
The three scenarios ran swiftly through Emily’s mind, like well-known playful rats. Jaidis would come back. Jaidis would come back and say, Soon I will be gone for ever. Jaidis would call and say, I am already gone.
Emily made a noise. It was repressed but hysterical. It mattered so much. Death was far away and could not be avoided, but this was life – this – this – this.
She knelt down and knocked the pile of papers apart, and found at their bottom a stack of typed manuscript, or so it seemed, held together by a large clip. At first she thought that Jaidis had written a short story, and felt a kind of wondering surprise, almost alarm, for it might not be very good, and had Jaidis hidden it for this reason, and after all she did not know Jaidis well enough – though they had been together for months – to guess if she might be a good writer or not – and anyway, what did this matter? And besides, it was not a story, for now she released the clip and turned the pages, she found the unmistakable ending of a letter, here, and then again, a friendly, loving letter, marked by something she herself had not used since childhood, in fact – two kisses written as X’s, and beneath, sprawled bold and arrogant like ferns or flames, the penned signature Jaidis.
However, the top sheet did not begin like a letter. There was no introductory ‘Dear.’ There was no name. Oh, but it did begin, it did. It said, My love.
And next, below, it said, ‘I loved you since I was a child. I loved you. How I loved you. And you never knew. Or did you know? But now I’ve looked into your eyes. Did you even see? I wanted to make you see. I’ll make you see.’
Emily sat back. Almost without thinking, she beheld a date typed efficiently at the top of the page. It was about two years ago. Two years. And Jaidis had said, had she not, “I haven’t seen the woman for years.”