The Case of Lena S.

by David Bergen

  One day after school Mason walked home with Turbine. They cut through the grounds of St. Mary’s Academy, walking along the sidewalk of the west side where the windows of the main hall allowed a view of girls bending over books and beakers. In one classroom a tall girl with long black hair was making a presentation. Turbine sighed and said that there was something very carnal about a private girl’s school. Mason agreed. He said that in the mornings the girls huddled together and smoked in the park across the street and on cold days some of them wore jeans under their skirts. “You wouldn’t think it,” he said, “but it’s quite erotic. It’s like you know that the girl isn’t going to keep both the jeans and the skirt on and that it’ll be the jeans that she’ll slip out of and that’s what makes it erotic.”

  Turbine looked up at the sky and grinned and said that Mason might want to teach at a girl’s school some day. Or, failing that, be a janitor.

  They passed along the curving drive of the school grounds and down the street through the park to Turbine’s parents’ condominium. There was an electric gate and cameras and a guard at the main entrance who said hello to Turbine. Up in the condo Mason lay down on the leather couch in the family room and stared at the art on the wall. Turbine stepped out through the French doors that looked out onto a small green space. He smoked a joint and came back inside. “There we go,” he said.

  “All inspired then?” Mason asked. Turbine grinned.

  “That’s such horseshit,” Mason said. “You know Jackie, that girl who was in our Bio class last year? She claims it frees her mind, makes her write things she’d never think of otherwise.”

  “Possible,” Turbine said. He lay down on the rug, looking up at the ceiling through his spread fingers. “Love that stipple.” He sat up and said, “An ugly invention but a great word. Stipple.”

  “Why don’t you write a bad poem about it?”

  Turbine said, “I was at a party the other night, Brent Knight’s place, and there was this guy in the basement shooting up. I was looking for the bathroom and I stumbled across him. His girlfriend was helping him. There was the belt and the wild-eyed guy and the needle and the smell of sulphur and I thought, Whoaa, this is a Tarantino film. The girl told me to go away. So I did.”

  “Who was the guy? Did you know him?” Mason asked.

  “I didn’t. But the girl was Crystal. You’ve seen her around. The thing is, most people don’t think. You ever noticed that? They care about zits or hair or abs or fucking or the football team. Really important stuff. I took a survey at that party and asked each kid who Baudelaire was. Only one person knew and that was, guess? Yes, that’s right, Nurse Crystal. She was standing by the dry bar, her addict boyfriend nowhere to be seen, and I approached her and asked her the question and she looked at me as if I were way too fat and said, ‘I’m reading Baudelaire.’ She took this book out of her purse and waved it in my face. It was Baudelaire, all right. Flowers of Evil. I fell in love with her. Even though she’s probably got tracks running up her forearm and is sure to have full-blown something. I mean how often does that happen? It was sublime.” He sat up and reached for his backpack by the couch, took a book out, and held it up. “Here it is. She left it on the table and I picked it up and later I couldn’t find her.” He opened it and read, “To Crystal, Love Dad.”

  Mason held out his hand and Turbine passed it on. The inscription inside the front cover was faded and smudged. Mason fanned the pages. He said, “Jesus, Turbine, you took it.”

  “I’ll return it to her. I will.” He stood and asked, “You hungry?”

  “No,” Mason said. Turbine went into the kitchen and Mason could hear him going through the fridge and the cupboards. When he returned he was eating a salami sandwich and holding a can of root beer. He sat back down on the floor and said, “I saw Seeta Chahal at that party. You still seeing her?”

  Mason shrugged.

  “What a great name,” Turbine said. “Chahal. Sounds like a steam engine getting ready to go.”

  The book was still clamped in Mason’s hand. “Was she at the party by herself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mason saw that he was lying. A resignation settled in. He said, “Her sister Sadia,” and then he stopped.

  “What about Sadia?”

  “She’s okay,” Mason said. He was remembering her smell but he didn’t want Turbine to know that.

  Later that night he and Turbine went to the belfry, a small room in the gable of the Rehabilitation Centre for Children. The hospital was on Wellington Crescent and gave onto the river and the room was accessible by a metal ladder attached to the rear wall. They climbed the ladder and sat on the flat-tarred roof and looked out over the river. An ambulance passed over the bridge. A dog barked. Turbine was going on about the film Down by Law, which he said got better with every viewing. “Seen it sixteen times,” Turbine said. “And each time I expect the dance scene at the end, with Waits and Barkin, to get sentimental and wrong, but it doesn’t. I think it’s her. Barkin. She’s very sexy.”

  “Anybody with breasts is sexy to you,” Mason said.

  Turbine agreed. He was smoking a joint again. Holding the smoke and closing his eyes. His face was wide and empty. He said, “I get desperate. I mean, who’d want to have sex with a fat guy like me?”

  “You’re not that fat.”

  “Fuck off. I can’t even see my dick when I’m naked and standing. Gotta use my mom’s compact to see what’s there.” He looked out into the darkness. “Don’t worry.” Then he said, “I could have a party. My parents are off on one of their jaunts. Gone for two weeks, all kinds of depravity down in Barbados. I could call up some girls and we could party. You, me, and the girls.”

  Mason said, “Girls. A few weeks ago I was at Lonnie Finkle’s party with Seeta. And she ignored me. She left with someone else. It’s as if I’m this extra arm she notices once in a while. Oh, hey, hi there, arm, why don’t you come out of the dark and scratch my back.”

  “Did she ever say she liked you?”

  “Not exactly. But she held my hand and we kissed.”

  “No shit. You kissed. I figure you’re in deep water.”

  Mason didn’t answer. He heard the traffic on the bridge, the call of a child, a boat splashing by. He saw himself as a fool, as having offended against propriety, decency, and modesty. This was the definition of shame. He’d looked it up the day before in class.

  The following Wednesday, the day he was supposed to play tennis with Seeta, she didn’t show, and then the next Wednesday Sadia came alone. She was on the bench and Mason sat beside her. “Where’s Seeta?” he asked.

  “Out.”

  “Oh. So, she sent you?”

  “No, I just came.”

  “Out where?”

  She looked at Mason, eyes black like Seeta’s. “My father says you’re birdshit.”

  “He does?”

  “He finds things out.”

  “Is that why Seeta didn’t come today?”

  Sadia looked away and shrugged, and in that brief shrug Mason saw her sister, the slight movement of her clavicle, the pushing away of all worries. “No,” she said, and then she said, “She likes your brother.”

  “I know,” Mason said, too quickly, for he didn’t really know, though he had sensed something. He asked, “How long?”

  “About a month now. Right after that dinner at your house. She goes out with Danny. Not every night, but enough. My father is going mad.” She paused, considered, then said, “Seeta’s a lot older than you.”

  “Only a year.”

  “Two. Anyway, that’s not what I meant.” She had slipped out of her sandals; three silver toe rings and her left ankle hennaed with what resembled a figure eight. “Your brother went after her. Brought her flowers, took her to dinner, bought her things. What’d you ever do for her?”

  “We played tennis,” Mason said. “I didn’t know she wanted anything else.”

  Sadia smiled and said, “Girls always want more. Achyb
reaky heart. Don’t you hate that?”

  Mason said, “Danny can’t be trusted.”

  Sadia said she had an uncle in Vancouver and that her Dad was going to send Seeta to live there until Nietzsche showed up. She said the name Nietzsche as if he were real, like he deserved being named after a famous philosopher, like he’d done something special and lived only for pessimism and passion.

  Mason said it didn’t matter. “Anyway, I’m seeing another girl.”

  Sadia was surprised and hurt. “Who?” she asked.

  “Lena Schellendal,7 you don’t know her.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s very casual,” Mason said.

  “So, not serious.”

  “Well, sort of serious. You can tell Seeta if you want.”

  “You’d like that, then, wouldn’t you?”

  Sadia looked so small, so helpless, sitting beside him. He said, “Yeah, tell her.”

  The following week Mason saw Seeta only once, a brief encounter at the checkout at Charlie’s, he holding a loaf of bread and asking her when she was leaving for Vancouver while an old man wheezed impatiently behind him. The man smelled of cigarette smoke and jingled his change in his pocket and Mason wanted to hit him.

  “Saturday,” Seeta said. She smiled, but the smile meant nothing.

  “This?”

  “No, next.”

  “Are you in love with Danny?” he asked.

  Seeta slipped two quarters and a dime into Mason’s hand. She shook her head. She sighed. “Oh, Mason.”

  He went up on tiptoes expectantly. “I’ve been calling. Did your mother say?”

  “You shouldn’t, it just makes my mother upset and then she tells my father and he threatens to shoot people.”

  “Tell him to shoot Danny.”

  Seeta lifted an eyebrow. It was thick and black and there didn’t exist in the world an eyebrow more beautiful.

  “I’m more interesting than him,” Mason said. “He’s not as smart.”

  “Oh, is that right? Remember you said you were going to teach me English poetry? Well, it turns out Yeats is Irish, not English. Danny told me that.” She passed a hand like a dark leaf through the air. “Anyways, Sadia says you have someone else.”

  Mason was pleased that Sadia would have passed this fact on. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Congratulations. I’m happy for you.” She motioned for the next customer. “Bye, Mason,” she said, and she turned away.

  That same day after supper Maryann came by the house and sat with Mason on the front porch. They watched the traffic on Academy, and Maryann talked about Paris. She had just come back. Her eyes were tired and dark and her lips were dry, as if she was sick. Mason liked sitting beside her; it gave him a place above the world. She was wearing new jeans and she slouched in her chair and rocked one leg back and forth.

  She said that she was still interested in seeing Danny, though Danny seemed to have other things to do. “Even when I’m out of the country I call him but he’s never home and then when I come home I can’t find him. I wish he was more like you.” She took Mason’s hand and held it and said, “Sweet and kind and careful. Danny likes to gobble things up and then spit them out.”

  Mason said nothing. Maryann’s fingertips were ragged and raw. This went against the fact of her beauty and Mason liked it.

  She said, “We should go play pool. Would you like that? I’ve got my car. Are you doing anything?”

  They went to Pockets on Bannatyne. Mason thought there might be a problem with his age but Maryann said that he should just act older than he looked and she would buy the beer. When she said this they were walking from their car towards the bar. Maryann was the same height as Mason and he was aware of the shape of her jaw and her wide mouth. As they passed other people Mason wondered if they would notice Maryann’s beauty. She took his arm at one point and this encouraged him to move closer to her just to show possession and she didn’t mind. She knew she was being watched but she was smart enough to pretend she didn’t know and this gave her an aloof and intelligent air and it was this confidence that Mason borrowed from. She was wearing a short leather jacket and she carried a leather purse that, when opened, smelled of Dentyne.

  They played two games of pool. Maryann called all her shots. She bent at the waist, her legs straight, and eyed the lay of the balls. Mason thought that his brother was a fool and that there would be no reason to treat Maryann badly.

  When they were done, Maryann bought them each another beer and they sat looking out at the street. She asked him about Seeta and the way she asked indicated she knew nothing about Danny and Seeta.

  Mason said, “Seeta’s fine.”

  Maryann crossed her legs and swung her foot, banging it gently against Mason’s shin as if to remind him of her presence. She said, “If I were a boy I’d go for Sadia.” Mason tried to recall Sadia’s face but all he could see was Seeta and then Maryann and then Seeta again. Sadia didn’t exist. “Sometimes,” Maryann said, “You have to be happy with what you get.” Then she said, “Your brother’s a pervert. You know that?”

  Mason picked up his glass of beer and then put it down. Maryann was looking upwards to stop from crying. “Oh, Christ,” she said.

  “Did he hurt you?” Mason asked. It wouldn’t have surprised him.

  “No,” she said. “It’s not like I didn’t enjoy everything. He’s very inventive. But you don’t want to hear about that. The thing is, he’s just a chef, he’s nothing, and what do I do, I go crawling around after him.” She lit a cigarette and then bit at her finger. “He’s a zero. I’m grovelling in front of a zero.”

  “Guys are like that,” Mason said. As he said this, an image arrived, fluent and bright, of Maryann undressing. He wondered how small her breasts were and what exactly she meant by inventive, and if she was so willing, what was she so willing to do?

  She said, “It makes no sense for you to spend time with a girl who’s about to be married.” Then she wondered aloud where Danny was tonight and she stood and put out her cigarette and said she would phone him. “Do you think he’s at home?”

  Mason said he didn’t know. “I’m not my brother’s keeper.”

  Maryann lifted her eyebrows. She touched Mason’s knee as she stood. She went off to find a pay phone and when she returned she sat and clasped her hands between her thighs and said that she wanted to go dancing. Over at the Royal Albert just down the street. She said that the bands were sometimes good and she’d like to take a chance but most of all she’d like to get drunk and dance. She took Mason’s arm as they walked the two blocks over. In one of the store windows Mason saw a boy walking with a girl and for a moment he did not understand that it was him and Maryann. His own existence surprised him. At the bar, Maryann ordered drinks and brought them back, swaying between the chairs. She held the bottles away from her body, her elbows slightly bent.

  “Here,” she said.

  They stayed an hour, listening to a band of young girls while Maryann drank quickly and ferociously. When they left she had trouble walking so Mason held her arm. “I think,” she said, and looked around. Outside the bar she paused and pushed against Mason and said, “Danny.”

  “I’m not Danny,” Mason said. He held her arm and could feel the slight weight of her. Everything was clear to him. The slope of her shoulders and the softness of her hair.

  “No way.”

  Her elbow in his hand. Feet stepping on his. There was nothing to her.

  “Do you think I’m talented?” she asked. “Or am I just a beautiful body?”

  “You’re beautiful. That’s a talent.”

  “No. It isn’t, Mason. I have the genes for skinny. And long legs. It’s like blue eyes. What colour are your eyes?”

  “Brown.”

  “Same as Danny.”

  They’d reached the car. Maryann dumped the contents of her purse out onto the sidewalk. She raked at the pile, searching for her keys. She held them up and Mason took them. “I’ll drive,” he sa
id. She began to pick up the pieces. Tampons, lipstick, cinnamon gum, a marble-green compact, Band-Aids, tweezers, wallet, change, credit card, mints, cigarettes. “Oh, God,” she said. She sat down and hugged her legs, put her face into her knees. She rocked and wept and Mason picked up her belongings. When he was finished he handed her the purse. “Thank you,” she said.

  In the car she sighed and closed her eyes. She appeared helpless. He drove through the empty city, a chauffeur returning a child to her bed. The street lamps glowed yellow and the evening, the darkness, was suddenly magical. He was alone and in charge, happy in the moment.

  Mr. Ferry told Mason that when he wrote he shouldn’t worry about physical appearance. “Name things, yes, be concrete, but don’t go on and on with appearances. That’s unnecessary. Do we know what K. in The Castle looks like? If he has big ears? Rotten teeth?” Then Mr. Ferry said that he should read French writers. Rimbaud, Flaubert. The mud on Emma’s boots after her tryst with Leon. He recited a poem.

  Jenny kissed me when we met,

  Jumping from the chair she sat in;

  Time, you thief, who love to get

  Sweets into your list, put that in!

  Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,

  Say that health and wealth have missed me,

  Say I’m growing old, but add,

  Jenny kissed me.

  “Life can be full of regrets,” he said. “But you don’t want to hear that. You’re only sixteen and you have no regrets. Not yet.” He said that unrequited love wasn’t a bad thing. “Kierkegaard loved Regine, Stendhal loved Methilde.” He pronounced Methilde as a French person would. They were walking along the boulevard on Wellington. People passed, women with dogs, children on bikes, and Mason wondered when the man would shut up about dead writers.

  They walked on in silence with Mr. Ferry grasping Mason’s elbow and swinging his head back and forth until he asked, “And Seeta? How is she?”

  Mason didn’t answer. He thought about his brother. About Mr. Chahal threatening to shoot people. He recalled the joy in Seeta’s voice as she told him about Yeats. He said, “Seeta’s gone.”