“You sure, Courtney?” says Deepa. “I’m happy to take you home.”
“Is that what you want?” Wes says to me.
All I know is that I want to get away from Frank and those—memories, or whatever they are. And from the disappointment in Wes’s eyes.
“I would like to leave with Deepa.”
“Pity,” Frank says, eyeing me as if I were a tray of rout cakes. Then he has the assurance to take my hand and give me a soul-searching “trust me” look as he takes his leave.
“I’ll call you,” is all Wes says, his hands at his sides, his attitude that of one who would like to stop me but knows he is helpless to do anything but leave.
The door closes behind the two men. Deepa arches an eyebrow. “You’re not still with Frank?”
“Apparently, I ended our engagement. I believe I found him with another lady.”
She nods and purses her lips. I can see that she is not in the least surprised by this intelligence.
“You said I was unhappy when last we met. May I ask, was I unhappy about Frank?”
“Understatement. You said you were tired of his ceaseless flirting with other women, which had got much worse lately, and which, I might add, he was putting on a fine exhibition of at my party. I asked you why you put up with it. And you know what you said? That Frank was under a lot of pressure. And that you were so overwhelmed with wedding plans, you simply couldn’t deal with anything else.”
“What sort of woman would tolerate such conduct?”
“Hey, I’m not one to point the finger. I put up with that cheating sod of an ex I married and divorced. Only thing I can say in his favor is that he left me very well off. Though I was the one who left him. Best thing I ever did.”
I admire her confidence, the same confidence all the women of this time seem to possess, with all their talk of self-will and marriage and divorce and independence, as if the whole world has been laid out for them to manage and rearrange as they wish. I cannot imagine any woman of my acquaintance even thinking, let alone speaking, in such a manner. I’ll wager even Mary Wollstonecraft would be rendered mute in their presence.
Deepa regards me kindly. “So you’re with Wes now?”
“I am not; I mean—”
“Hey, don’t look so shocked.”
“He is a friend.” I can feel my face crimson.
“I don’t know him very well,” says Deepa. “He’s a friend of a friend. But he always seemed like a decent guy. Sweet, you know? And easy on the eyes.”
“I do like him. Very much. But my friends Paula and Anna say he’s not to be trusted. That he, in fact, lied to prevent my finding out that Frank was . . .”
“Ah.”
“But I do not remember any of it.”
“Considering what you’ve been through,” she says, “a good memory would be unpardonable.”
I cannot help but smile at this quote from my favorite book.
“But you’re sure it’s true?” she says.
“I have no reason to doubt their word. Yet he is so very kind and”—I give her a wry smile—“one does not know what to think.”
“So why don’t you just ask him why he lied?”
The idea of confronting Wes is so unthinkable, so contrary to everything I have ever been taught about social intercourse, that I cannot even respond. Yet here I am, having only just made Deepa’s acquaintance—though she says we have met before—and I cannot help but marvel at how easily I unburdened myself to her about my supposed past with Wes and Frank. I have never before been so unguarded with anyone of my acquaintance. Even Mary, whom I regard as a sister, never heard a word of what had passed between Edgeworth and me. Not that I had any mistrust of her; quite the contrary. It simply never occurred to me to speak of such things to her. The fact that she was his sister was an added obstacle, but in truth I would have kept silent even were she not his relation.
As for Wes, I hardly know the gentleman; questioning him about the past would be an impertinent freedom. And he has been so kind to me that I want to believe he is honorable. He must have had his reasons for doing what he did. Besides, this is not my life. If I do not remember Courtney’s history—save that memory of Frank, if that is indeed what it was and not some wild fancy—then how real is it to me?
I meet Deepa’s eyes. “That is out of the question.”
“Okay then,” she says, opening her reticule and taking out a comb, which she runs through her glossy black hair. “Then how about this for an idea? Something to take your mind off those two. Come with me to the club. A little music, a little dancing, a change of scenery—I promise you it will be excessively diverting.”
She winks at me, and my heart lightens. A dance. I wonder what a ball would be like in this strange land. “I am much obliged to you for your kindness, but I am hardly dressed for a dance.” I regard the white trousers and sheer white bodice over the pale pink one that I have been wearing all day.
“Nonsense. You look gorgeous.”
Deepa rummages in her brown spangled reticule. “All you need is a little lipstick.” She produces a shiny silver tube, which she uncaps and twists to reveal a cone of a sparkly pink substance. Without further ado, she applies the pink substance to my lips. She is so close that I can smell peppermint on her breath and a sweet floral perfume on her skin. Her eyelashes are thick and black and curled; now that I think of it, I have noticed similar eyelashes on Paula and Anna; I believe it is the effect of some sort of cosmetic.
“And some mascara,” she says, producing a longer tube that is dark blue with a golden cap. She unscrews it, and the cap is a wand with a bristly spiral at one end, coated with a black viscous substance. “Look off to your right. That’s it; don’t close your eyes.” And she’s applying the bristles to my eyelashes. She surveys her work and smiles broadly, revealing a dimple in one cheek. “Regard. Tu es très belle.”
Sure enough, I do look pretty. Or at least the blond, dark-lashed woman staring back at me with shiny, sparkly pink lips does.
Eleven
When Deepa and I emerge from the public house into the fresh air, I am suddenly sensible of how strong was the drink I had. No wonder, as I have had almost nothing to eat since breakfast.
Her car is sleek and black and shiny, and the first thing I notice when I take my seat is a picture of what appears to be a Hindu goddess in a stand before the front glass.
“You are from India?” I ask, hoping my question is not impertinent.
Deepa glides her car smoothly into the illuminated street. “My grandparents came from India. But my parents were born in London, as was I. I am now, however, as American as you.”
American? I, an American. That is diverting.
“My parents still haven’t come to terms with it. They’re very English, you know. And these barbaric Americans will never live up to their standards. No offense,” she says, smiling.
“There is none, I can assure you.”
We arrive at a place that must indeed be the public assembly where the dance is to be held; there are young people clustered in groups outside the building, men and women talking, laughing, and smoking thin white tubes of tobacco—the women smoking as well as the men. Shocking indeed, yet the smell of the smoke is almost intoxicating. I find myself slowing down to take in the scent and even imagining myself smoking. Except that I would never do such a thing. How very odd.
None of the ladies or gentlemen is dressed for a ball, which I half expected to be the situation when Deepa insisted that my own attire was not improper. Nevertheless, it is shocking indeed to imagine a ball where women are in trousers or tiny skirts, bare-legged and most with wholly bare arms, and where the men are still without coats and neckcloths. The only indication that this is an evening party is in the abundance of spangled and glittery trimmings on many of the women’s bodices; indeed, some of them are fashioned wholly of shiny or glittery stuff. And there is an abundance of sparkling jewelry.
That this assembly will certainly be li
ke no other I have had the honor of attending is further reinforced by the pulsating, pounding rhythm—I cannot even venture to call it music—which can be heard before we even open the doors, or, shall I say, before the two solicitous men who preside at the entrance, and who greet Deepa and me as if we are royalty, open the thick black double doors for us.
We enter the assembly rooms to a crush of people and a deafening, rhythmic roar which penetrates my skin and vibrates my very bones. My fingers tingle; my chest and stomach quiver. Though my understanding tells me I should be frightened by such a cacophony, in truth it is strangely enticing and makes me want to dance in a way I have never even thought of dancing, though when we advance farther into the vast room and near the area where people are turning and gyrating in a manner that I imagine must approximate dancing, a cold stone of fear settles in my chest at the very thought of being so audacious as to stand up in this crush and attempt to move in such a manner. I am in no way equal to it.
Deepa grabs my hand and maneuvers us through the crowd to a long bar behind which are rows and rows of bottles, even more than those displayed in the public house where Glenn presides. “Have whatever you like,” Deepa shouts into my ear, “it’s on me.” And then she lets go of my hand and disappears into the crowd, leaving me at the bar, where I am jostled by the throng and swept into their wake until I somehow find myself in the center of a circle of gyrating dancers, whose concentration on their rhythmic movements is so intense, and who seem so unaware of my presence, that soon I am sensible of my own limbs almost emulating their motions in concert with the pulsing beat. I am moving in a manner I have never moved before, hips and knees bouncing of their own volition. And then the gentleman opposite me meets my eyes and gestures with his hand to come closer, a flirtatious smile on his lips, and I am suddenly so mortified that for a moment I cannot move at all, let alone commence with this nondancing sort of dance. It is bad enough to make a display of myself alone, but to find myself dancing with a man to whom I have not even been introduced?
What is happening to me?
I somehow manage to bow my head to him and turn back towards the bar, where I spy a long shapely hand with many rings waving to me, and I see that Deepa is now behind the bar, smiling at me.
Deepa, a server of drinks? Yet apparently in this country, in this time, a server of drinks must be an unexceptionable situation for a woman of influence who wears diamonds in her ears.
“What can I get you?” she shouts at me over the din of the pounding music.
I am debating whether or not to indulge in another glass of vodka when she puts her hand out as if to stop my thoughts and then puts her lips to my ear. “I know what you should have. Give me a minute,” she says, and then disappears behind a door that literally is built into the shelves of bottles and completely hidden from view.
The hidden door opens, and in slips Deepa again, a tall glass of pink liquid in her hand, which she places before me with a flourish. “Thank you,” I say, my words swallowed up in the wall of sound, and take a sip. Raspberry, strawberry, lemon? Whatever it is, it is delicious indeed. Sweet and tart and astonishingly refreshing. Instantly I am full of energy and life. Deepa smiles.
When I finish the lovely pink concoction, Deepa motions for me to follow her. She lifts up a panel at the end of the bar and emerges from behind it, then waves to me. Staying as close behind her as possible, we weave through the crowd and past dancers gyrating before a stage on which are now musicians, and a female singer with long red hair cut in jagged edges over her forehead, clad in a short-sleeved, tight black bodice which ends well above her exposed navel, which is pierced with a glittering jewel, and impossibly snug black trousers which sit shockingly low on her hips. Her voice is a seductive wail. The other musicians are young men, all very thin and in tight, low-sitting trousers. One of the musicians, however, is completely bare-chested, his glistening torso and arms encircled with what looks like thorny stems painted in green and black. I have never before seen a half-naked man, let alone one upon a public stage, and I cannot take my eyes off him. He looks as if he revels in the attention as he thrusts his pelvis into the low-slung instrument which hangs from a studded black strap over his shoulder. I do not realize I am simply standing still and staring at him, no doubt with my mouth open like an unfledged bird, until Deepa shouts into my ear, “Are you all right?”
I feel my face burn with shame, and Deepa grabs my arm and continues to steer me through and finally outside of the crowd, beyond which is a door that she pushes open, and all at once we are outside the building and away from the pounding noise.
“Thank you,” I say, attempting a feeble smile.
“You looked a bit overwhelmed. Are you feeling ill? Shall I take you home?”
“Thank you, no. I am well.”
Her eyes search my face. “What is it, then? You can tell me. Really.”
“You are very kind.”
“If you don’t want to talk, that’s okay, too. I know we haven’t known each other all that long. But I like you. And your ability to make me laugh at that disaster of a party I had two months ago was very welcome, believe me. So if you ever need a friend . . .”
I look into her large brown eyes, and I know that I can trust her. Strange as it may be, this absolute stranger, this Indian/English /American woman whom I have only just met, is someone that I know I can trust.
But how can I put into words what I feel? What can I say that will sound in any way rational to her? I think of the half-naked man on the stage, my memories of Frank which are not my memories at all, my letting him kiss me not an hour ago, my waking up as someone entirely not myself . . .
“It is just that I—I do not know who I am anymore. I have conducted myself in a manner that is wholly unfamiliar to me. And I do not know that you, or anyone, can help me.”
Deepa regards me kindly. “We’ve all done things that give us pause. Myself included.”
“I am just so confused.”
“Well, you did hit your head.”
“This has nothing to do with a concussion, I assure you.”
I wish I could tell her of my true situation, without dancing around the matter. I drain the rest of the drink from the glass in my hand.
I pause for a moment, then say, “Deepa, do you believe in reincarnation?”
I cannot believe I have just blurted that out. It must be the drink.
Deepa laughs. “Where did that come from?”
“Forgive me. That was impertinent, and I am most ashamed.”
“Whoa, don’t go all Jane Austen on me. Not that I don’t love the girl, but hey, I said I’d be a friend if you needed one. Which by my definition means you get to ask me about what I believe or don’t believe. And by the way, the answer is yes. But may I ask to what these questions tend, as Mr. Darcy said?”
I smile. Could she have said anything to put me more at ease? “I was asking because I know someone who—what I mean is . . . Deepa, what if someone remembered having another life, but didn’t just remember the other life? I mean, what if that person thought he was the person from the other life?”
“And this person, he . . . is a friend of yours?”
I do not know what to say. I do not wish to lie to Deepa, but neither do I wish to have her look at me as if I am insane.
“It’s okay. I won’t think your friend is crazy. I wouldn’t think it even if he were a she. Or even if she were you.” She smiles, but she is not sporting with me. She looks into my eyes, and hers are nothing but kind. “I mean that.”
She takes the empty glass from me, and I realize my hands are perspiring.
“You’re trembling,” Deepa says, and puts her hand on mine. “It’s all right. Really. Listen, nothing you could tell me about yourself would faze me. I’ve seen some things that—well, let’s just say that there’s little that would surprise me.” She smiles. “Why don’t we leave it at that.”
I am flooded with relief to have spoken the truth—or as close as I could g
et to the truth—and more important, that she does not judge me for it.
“Feel better?” Deepa says.
I nod.
“Not that I’m an expert or anything, but I have heard of young children in India having vivid memories of what are supposedly past lives, and thus they are somewhat confused. But that’s generally sorted long before adulthood.”
“I see.”
But the truth is, I do not. For I am not merely having a memory of a past life; I know with my whole being that I am Jane Mansfield and not Courtney Stone, despite all appearances to the contrary, and despite all the friends and family in the world who might insist otherwise.
“Like I said, I’m no expert,” says Deepa. “But I know someone who might be able to help you.” She grasps my hand. “Come.”
She leads me back into the building, not into the assembly room where the music and dancers are, but through a glimmering silver curtain, behind which is another door, and down another corridor, at the end of which is a plain, unmarked door painted the same black as the walls.
“I wasn’t going to do this,” says Deepa, “and I won’t say anything else because then you’ll think I’m crazy.” She points to the door at the end of the corridor. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. But I never know whether or not she’ll be there. Sometimes she is, and sometimes she isn’t. But you’re welcome to try.”
“Who?”
Deepa gives me a tight little smile. “If you need me, I’ll be behind the bar.”
I regard the door for a couple of moments, then turn back to Deepa for more instructions, only to discover that she is already gone. I get a tingling sensation in my arms and chest.
“Deepa? Deepa?” There is no answer, only the muffled cries of the singer and the wail of the guitars.
I make my way to the end of the corridor; a faint glow of light is now pulsating from the tiny space between the edge of the door and the wall. The throbbing sounds of the music are fainter. I raise my hand and knock on the door. There is no answer.
I put my hand on the doorknob and turn it; the door opens, and inside the shadowy space is a pretty young woman with a gleaming cap of dark brown hair that reaches her chin. Her long bare legs are crossed at the ankle under a little table before her. Sitting opposite her, a tall young man wearing a rumpled shirt with a turned-down collar runs a be-ringed hand through his tousled brown hair. With a flourish the lady lays down on the table a card not unlike those used by the fortune-teller at the fair I attended with Mary two months ago. There are other cards on the table in a cross formation.
Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict Page 9