His manner is so encouraging and gentle that I find myself blurting out, “I do so very much wish to know how a car works.”
There. I’ve said it. And he does not look at all shocked. On the contrary, his smile is rather pleased. Perhaps he, like most of his sex, does not object to an opportunity for demonstrating his superior knowledge to an ignorant female.
“I can explain that to you pretty well,” he says, “but let’s try it the fun, do-it-yourself way. On your computer.” With that, he leads me over to the table in my bedchamber with the glowing box that is not unlike those in my former place of employment. So that is what it is called.
He seats himself to my right, and I must say his scent, which is reminiscent of lemon and freshly laundered linen that has dried in the sun, is both pleasing and distracting. I school my thoughts to focus on the rectangular screen, as he terms it, before me. He tells me to click on something called Google, which makes me giggle, but it dies quickly in a most embarrassing gasp when he puts his large, gentle hand over mine and places it on something called the mouse—causing another laugh to bubble over—and manipulates my fingers to click and point until, sure enough, the word “Google”—what a silly-sounding word—appears on the screen.
I barely hear Wes’s softly spoken instructions as to what I am to type onto the screen, I am so alive to every touch of his large, beautiful hand on mine, the pressure of it, the feel of his palm on the top of my hand, the pressure of his fingers atop mine. His hand is beautifully shaped, a sculptor’s hand. It is reshaping my hand, this hand that is not mine yet is, transforming it into—
“Courtney, you’re trembling,” he says, and leaps up to get me another glass of water. “Are you okay?” he asks, placing the glass before me.
I will my hand to steady as I pick up the glass but do not trust myself to bring it to my lips. Silly goose.
“Should I offer you something stronger?”
Why should I be so undone by a mere touch of the hand? “What happened to your admonishments last night about not mixing vodka with a concussion?”
“Since when do you ever listen to my advice?”
He is altogether too charming. I feel my face flush. “Perhaps a bit of something stronger would set me to rights.”
“I suppose a little couldn’t hurt,” he says, already reaching for the colossal bottle in the upper part of the fridge and pouring a tiny glassful, “long as you drink down all of that water with it.”
I give him what I hope is a saucy smile. “Yes, sir.” Dear me, I am a shameless flirt. But I don’t care. Do I not deserve this little taste of vodka? Have I not done a good day’s work in quitting Courtney’s unsuitable situation with that dreadful David whatever-his-name-is?
I raise the glass to my lips. “Will you join me?”
“Oh, what the hell.” He grabs another glass and pours himself a drink. “To you,” he says, and consumes the entire thing.
For my part, I shall only allow myself a ladylike sip, which is enough to spread a pleasing warmth through my bones. My hands hover over the keyboard, as Wes called the rectangular white object topped with raised alphabets and numbers. Keyboard—just like a pianoforte—and all at once my fingers move as if of their own accord. It is indeed like playing the pianoforte, for my fingers know where to go on the keyboard of this strange device as well as they know where to go on the keyboard of the instrument in my father’s house.
“See! I knew you’d remember.” Wes is jubilant.
I am even moving the mouse and clicking and pointing in a manner that reveals all sorts of heretofore hidden lists of words and pictures on the screen with just a touch of my finger. This is truly diverting. I know not how I could possibly be so proficient at playing this keyboard without any memory of ever having learnt it. I click and point, and my hands instantly summon pictures and words. Could it be that these hands will remember other things as well, things I cannot possibly know or even imagine? The very idea of it is an exciting adventure. Here I am, almost two hundred years after my own time, sitting before a machine I could never have dreamt existed, and my hands know exactly what to do.
Wes’s voice rouses me from my thoughts. “You might want to check your email. I got at least five messages from Paula and Anna complaining you’re either not checking or not answering.”
Without a thought, my right hand automatically guides the little arrow on the screen to one of a row of symbols at the bottom of the screen. I click on it, and a little rectangle appears: “56 new email messages.” Instantly, the rectangle disappears, replaced by a screenful of single lines of text that appear to represent a summary of mail delivered to me, but where are the actual letters?
Some of the names in the “From” column are unfamiliar; several are from Paula, Anna, and Wes. There are about ten from David.
“That’s a lot of mail,” says Wes. “Looks like you haven’t checked it since Friday.”
“Would you be so good as to tell me how I might fetch the letters? And their cost?”
“What?”
“Or perhaps the senders have had them franked?”
“Courtney, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Oh, sorry; I thought because you were pounding away at those keys that everything had come back. Here.” He gently removes my hand from the mouse and moves it around the table. “All you have to do is click on whichever email you’d like to read—but you don’t need to read that one,” he says, indicating the latest one with his name on it. “Just throw it in the trash.”
“I certainly shall not,” I say, directing the little arrow to the email in question—what a strange word, “email”—and clicking the mouse, causing a message of sorts to appear on the screen:
Courtney, guess I thought we’d put all that behind us. But it looks like Frank isn’t the only one you want to avoid. Can we talk?
Wes
Wes clears his throat. “Speaking of mail, there was so much of it in your mailbox downstairs that it was practically spilling onto the floor. So I brought it up and put it on the table when I picked up the food. Couldn’t help but notice you had a couple of those pink envelopes in the stack.”
“Indeed,” I say, wondering how much reassurance would be proper for me to give Wes in light of this letter.
“Do you want me to dig out those letters for you?”
“Wes, I am sorry if my flight last night caused you any pain. It was not my wish. I was confused, and—”
I am once again mortified at the thought of my conduct last night.
Wes puts his hand on mine. “I’m sorry you read that one. I sent it from my phone last night, before I found you at Awakening.”
“Oh.” I venture a glance at his face and am instantly warmed by his gentle gaze.
“We don’t ever have to talk about it again if you don’t want to.”
I give him a grateful smile.
And then I realize his hand is still on mine, and I feel myself blushing. As if reading my thoughts, he looks down at his hand and removes it, clearing his throat.
“I think I’ll have another drink,” he says, pouring himself half a tiny glassful of vodka.
He offers to pour more into my glass, but it is then I am struck by what he said about the letters. “Do you mean to tell me that I receive mail on paper as well as mail on this computer?”
“Is that a serious question?”
“There are fifty-six letters in this computer, and another stack, you say, of letters on the table. How many would you say were in that stack?”
“I don’t know; maybe thirty.”
“Today is Monday, is it not?”
He nods.
“And since Friday I have received almost ninety letters? Assuming there is no post on Sunday, that is thirty letters per day. How can anyone find time to earn her living, keep house without servants, and read and answer thirty letters per day?”
“Since when have you had servants? Wait, don’t tell me.”
“I meant it only by way of il
lustration.” I really must watch my tongue. As I run my eyes over the long list of email messages, it occurs to me that I may have the chance to learn much about Courtney’s life, her connection with Wes—and everyone else—from her letters. And perhaps even more from a journal, should she keep one.
Best to be direct. “Do you happen to know if I keep a journal?”
“I did buy you a blank one for Christmas. You don’t remember that either, do you. I only bought it because you said you wanted to start writing things down. I have no idea if you ever used it. It was shiny, orange fabric, with embroidery and sparkly things on it.” He runs a finger along the spines of the books on the bookshelves, stopping when he reaches the lowermost shelf. “Here it is!” He brings it to me.
I open it to the first page, which bears Courtney’s name, address, and some numbers. Before I have an opportunity to peruse the journal, the little phone atop the bookcase emits the music from the Pride and Prejudice movie.
Wes looks over towards the phone. “You’re not gonna get that?”
Would I even know how?
He seems to read my thoughts, for he steps over to the thing, picks it up, and shows it to me. “See? It tells you who’s calling. It says ‘Paula,’ with her telephone number below the name. See here? You have two choices: Finger-click ‘Answer’ or just ‘Ignore.’ ”
I point to the word “answer” and press it with my finger. Wes places the phone in the palm of my hand and guides it to my ear.
“Say hello,” he whispers.
“Halloo!” I shout, hoping she can hear me.
“Whoa, can you turn it down a notch? That hurt my ears.” It is Paula’s voice, or rather, a sort of ghost of Paula’s voice.
Wes motions to me. “Just talk normally,” he whispers.
“Sorry,” I say to Paula, but how can I be talking to Paula? How can this disembodied voice be hers when she is not in this room, or even in the other room?
“Where have you been, Courtney?” It sounds as if she is standing in a windstorm. “Anna and I have been calling and calling and emailing and texting and it’s like you’re blowing us off or something. I was forced to call Wes, who told me about your job. Bravo, girlfriend! You haven’t changed your mind and started panicking, have you?”
“I have not.”
“Good. Anna and I are taking you out tonight. There’s no way we’re letting you sit home and start second-guessing yourself like you always do. Dinner. Drinks. Whatever you want.”
I suppose now that she has paused to draw breath, I should say something.
“S’okay, darling. You’re in shock. We’ll be there at eight, okay?” Her voice is muffled, and there is a crackling sort of noise around it.
Perhaps the miracle of talking to someone without their being physically present comes with a price: noise. Indeed it is a small price to pay.
I wonder how far away a person can be and still have a conversation with me.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Sorry, the service sucks on this stretch of the 110. I’ll see you at eight, okay?” More tissue paper crumpling and windstorms raging.
“Okay,” I say, and the next thing I hear is not Paula’s voice but a short sound followed by silence. I remove the phone from my ear and look at the pane of glass upon it, which says “Call ended.” I can hardly believe I have actually had a conversation in such a manner, yet it is true. I smile, feeling almost like a bona fide citizen of this world.
Fifteen
Wes takes his leave shortly after I inform him of my evening engagements with Paula and Anna, but not before he alludes to the aforementioned pink envelopes by saying that if I need help with them, I can count on him. He also informs me that there are messages for me on my answering machine—yet another machine in this land of machines—and shows me which so-called button I need to press to listen to them. I thank him and promise to take care of all of that directly, but as soon as he goes, I turn my attention back to this marvelous thing called a computer, where I set about pointing and clicking and absorbing as much information as I can about phones, cars, refrigerators, lights, and movies. A good deal of what I read on the screen I do not understand, as there is so much in the modern world, and thus in the modern lexicon, that one must know in order to understand, and these screens of information are written for those who are fluent in the lexicon, which I am not.
Nevertheless, after I don’t know how many minutes or hours, I feel a degree less ignorant than I was when I began. I know, for example, that electricity is what fuels the wondrous machines in my apartment and the lights in the city. I know that gasoline, or gas, is what fuels the car, and that movies consist of a succession of tiny images—twenty-four of them in a mere second—created by something called a camera, a word not wholly unfamiliar to me, having read about the camera obscura employed by the great painters.
I now also know that England battled Napoleon for another two years before enjoying a final triumph over him, that Napoleon’s madness was exceeded by two world wars—a horrid term—and that England and America have long been allies. And how can I look up English history without also searching for my own dear village? Is it possible that I could find it? Yes, there are screens of information on my village, and it is indeed the very place, for there is an eighteenth-century drawing of the church and high street next to a recent photo, which does not look all that different from the drawing, if you do not count the row of cars or the tall poles with electric lighting.
Finally, I notice a clock at the top of the screen, and I realize that I have little time left to open the mysterious pink letters as well as change my clothes.
Aside from determining that the pink letters are demands for payment, I can make neither heads nor tails of them. “Final shutoff,” they say. But of what? It takes me some time to determine that one of them is a notice to shut off electricity. Ah, well. I suppose the worst that could happen is that I shall have to light a candle at night, and be hot in summer, neither of which would be new to me, though I grant the weather here is, at least from my limited experience, a good deal warmer than it is in my own country.
Questions of comfort aside, I cannot abide the thought of being in debt to anyone. My poor father was most scrupulous about never exceeding his income and held in contempt our so-called betters who used to flee to France, leaving their debts behind. Therefore, I must determine the extent of my resources and settle these matters posthaste. And, truth be told, I would not like to be without the computer, as I value its vast repository of information, so useful to someone in my situation. Besides, I would so much like to see the Pride and Prejudice movie in full. To have machines, one must have electricity. In fact, I do believe electricity is indispensable.
I remember that I must listen to the messages of which Wes spoke earlier. I press the button he indicated, and after an inhuman-sounding voice announces a date and time, I hear: “Courtney, it’s Mom. Why haven’t I heard from you? It’s been over a week. Are you okay? If you’re avoiding calling me because you don’t want me to know you’re broke again, don’t bother. I saw this coming, but you wouldn’t listen to me. Do you ever listen to me? And don’t think I’m sending you any money, because I’m not. Call me back, okay?”
Call her back? The very thought is terrifying. Though I have never heard the lady’s voice before, the very sound of it has given me a pain in my stomach.
I press the button again. There are two more messages from the same lady, each increasingly frantic, each proclaiming her steadfast refusal to send money.
Well, at least this message tells me that if I am unable to pay the bills, I will need to go somewhere other than to family for help. I hope it is not as bad as Courtney’s mother thinks, and the pink envelopes suggest, it may be.
But how shall I determine the extent of my fortune? Perhaps I might ask Wes to help me discover if any funds exist beyond what is in my purse at this moment, though I am sensible of the delicacy with which I must approach such a subject. He
is, after all, not even a relation. But did he not offer his services with respect to the pink letters? I dare not approach Paula or Anna, who would no doubt take a fright at what they would consider to be my lack of memory. As for Deepa, I do not think she knows enough of Courtney’s history to be of much help in that regard.
I look again at the other pink letter, and I make out that it is for the shutoff of telephone service, which, I believe, would be no disservice at all. No one would be able to intrude upon my peace and demand that I speak with them even when they cannot be bothered to pay a morning call as civilized people do.
Then again, at least I have the choice to answer or ignore the summons. Although I do hope that if ever I choose to ignore a call, the caller would have as little idea of my true state as she would if the footman said, “Miss Mansfield is not at home.” Perhaps the phone and the computer, therefore, have done away with the need for servants.
Ah, well. I suppose that if I am to be a bona fide lady of the twenty-first century, I should have the requisite accoutrements, including a phone.
Yes, I shall ask Wes for his counsel in these matters. Furthermore, initiating that request will be an opportunity to test my newfound knowledge of how to operate the blasted thing. In the meantime, I take the pink notices, replace them in their envelopes—so clever this extra envelope that is quite separate from the letter itself—and position them under the stack of mail on the table, far from the prying eyes of the two ladies who should be here at any moment.
I am now, after being whisked away in Paula’s round blue car, in Anna’s apartment, which is at least four times as large as mine and graced with a spectacular view through bar-less windows of astonishingly tall buildings, all lit up like fairy castles. Anna is bustling in the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by a sort of half-wall with a counter and tall stools, where Paula sits while Anna mixes up a drink concoction in something called a blender. Paula is wielding what I now know is called a remote control, pointing it at an enormous rectangular screen which is situated above a chimneypiece and is, like the smaller screen in my own apartment, emitting images as lifelike as those of the Pride and Prejudice movie, yet the scenarios keep changing as Paula presses buttons on the device. This must be television—TV—which I also read about while looking up movies and how they work.
Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict Page 13