Effortless

by Marina Raydun

  “Ms. Levit, Ms. Levit, can you take a picture of me here?” Veronika screamed over the whoosh of the traffic when we were finally deposited near the Houses of Parliament and made to jog across the street, the Big Ben calling us through a fog just dense enough to appear ominous. “Mr. Sola, come be in a picture with me!”

  Jamie and I had awkwardly parted ways at my hotel room door that morning, cautiously looking up and down the hallway before allowing ourselves another dry, childish peck. We’d boarded the bus about a minute apart, as agreed. Now Jamie stood snapping a picture whilst shielding his camera from the rain with his tattered blue umbrella (an exercise that was surely pointless given the downpour). He turned just in time for Veronika to hug him by his slim waist. She pressed her awkward little body against his and, as if on command, Jamie produced a beautiful smile that appeared to be equal parts dutiful and delightful. I couldn’t tell if any of it was aimed at me or, instead, intended entirely for the benefit of his enamored student. Unsure, I nodded noncommittally and took the photo, feeling my stomach twisting in on itself. Watching the two disassemble, I wished I were still peacefully asleep on Jamie’s chest, far from life.

  Reluctantly, I posed for my own photo against the foggy backdrop of the English Parliament as I tried to tap into that euphoria I’d felt in the early hours of the day. That giddiness that had tickled my stomach then, it was there—I felt it just beneath the surface as I flexed my facial muscles into a toothy smile. But the more I watched Jamie busy himself with our kids, his wedding band catching the less than generous London sunlight here and there, the more I felt that same elation drain away with the rainwater, swirling down into the gutter along with the dry leaves and random litter of this old city. It seemed downright forgotten by the time we all lined up to watch the cavalry gallop across the square in front of the many densely populated rows of vacationers congregating along the perimeter of Buckingham Palace.

  “Do you miss Paz?” I asked Veronika when it was time for us to begin to elbow our way through a group of Swedish tourists en route to our meeting place with Nicole.

  “Do you?”

  Sarcasm didn’t sound natural coming out of Veronika’s scrawny frame, but there it was—angry and barky.

  “Oh, well, you know you’ve always been my favorite, Veronika,” I swore, always too slow on my feet. “Have you talked to her?”

  “I did, she’s fine. It’s not fair what happened, but, on the other hand, her agent just got her some sitcom audition, so it sounds like she’s better off back home,” Veronika shrugged, skipping up the three steps to board our bus. She swung herself onto a seat in the front row.

  “And now you get Mr. Sola all to yourself,” I muttered, only half expecting for her to hear.

  Our gray-haired driver smiled coyly at us, as if, just like Sage and Wisdom, he were unsure if we would understand his native tongue if he spoke (simultaneously wondering if we knew that he could understand ours).

  Before I could pass by Veronika, she pulled me by my sleeve, throwing me off my balance for a split second. I caught a hold of the back of her seat, my face as close to hers as she clearly intended for it to be.

  “Ms. Levit, I don’t want Mr. Sola all to myself. And Paz was lying. Well, kind of….”

  Her mouth was still open when she shot a look over my shoulder and nodded hello to whoever seemed to be boarding behind me.

  “I don’t know about you, Ms. Levit, but I am liking London better than Paris!” Veronika, apparently the expert spy, exclaimed. Ofir nodded in agreement as he passed me.

  Confused as to who knew what, I nodded.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I muttered as I took a step away from Veronika to plant myself in the next row.

  ~ ~ ~

  I fiddled with my wallet at the Clinique counter at Harrods an uncomfortable minute too long, trying to calculate how much I could realistically spend on gifts without sentencing myself to an extra month at my parents’ house. I had already bought my nephews matching t-shirts bearing some French insignia back in port at Calais, where I’d also bought my dad a tie that I knew he wasn’t ever going to wear (it was sprinkled with an odd number of miniature Eiffel Towers). Now I only had my mother, brother, and Alla left; my budget was fifty dollars, split three ways.

  “If you buy any perfume, you get this gift bag free of charge, ma’am,” the girl behind the counter, whose nametag read Donna, suggested. She’d read my pained expression correctly. “There is a lipstick, a mascara, and a bronzer compact in there. And the bag itself is very nice, too! You can use it to carry your cosmetics,” she added, helpfully, in her smart London accent.

  “If I get man’s cologne, do I still get the goodie bag?” I asked, seeing potential.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Wrap it up!”

  Fifteen minutes in the world-famous department store and I was done. I had an hour to waste before we were all due to meet Nicole outside to have her take us to dinner. I could just imagine the girl—standing at the corner, waving her orange umbrella around, maniacally, as she usually did, petrified of not being noticed in time.

  “There is a great sushi restaurant downstairs, allegedly,” I heard Stephanie announce behind me. Outside the time she ran into my room in Paris to inform her boyfriend that Paz and Veronika had returned from their infamous trip up the Eiffel Tower, this was the first time I heard the woman speak.

  “Isn’t the food here outrageously expensive?” I smiled politely as I handed Donna my college Visa with a credit limit of a whopping five thousand dollars.

  “My treat,” Stephanie winked.

  My branded plastic bag in my grip, having no other plans, I agreed to follow Stephanie as she expertly navigated her way through the crowd of tourists who looked just about as equipped to shop there as I was.

  “Been here before?” I shouted to be heard.

  “Oh, yeah, many times. Just never had sushi,” she called back without turning to face me.

  Multiple turns and escalator rides later, we were finally amidst the aromatic food courts of Harrods. The term itself isn’t fitting, at least not when one flashes back to the fast food joints of the suburban American malls of my childhood. This, by contrast, was a floor of gourmet restaurants with price tags to match. Having apparently reached our destination, unsure as to what to expect, or even how to behave, I hung my purse on the hook next to my knees underneath the counter at which Stephanie placed me; I wrapped the strap around my fist a few times.

  “So, where is Jamie?” she asked as she settled in next to me, atop one of the dozen brightly colored mini-stools situated at the sushi bar manned by three chefs who looked authentic enough for the gig.

  “A bunch of our kids wanted to check out shops around Camden. It’s in north London, or so I was told. There are lots of alternative, Goth-type shops and stuff up there. He decided to come with. He’s also been here in London before, a few times, with different bands, so he kind of knows his way around,” I reported, obscenely proudly, hoping that the blush that I could feel begin to materialize on my cheeks at the mere mention of his name wasn’t visible through the thin veneer of makeup that I had hurriedly applied that morning before having popped in my contacts. “Where is Abbott?” I asked this mostly to keep her too busy to pay much attention to the color of my face.

  “Oh, Sophie didn’t feel well, so he took her back to the hotel. He just called me to say he’s going to stay back and take a nap, but he’ll meet us for dinner. He’s just been so tired lately.”

  Stephanie’s teeth had remnants of her hot pink lipstick on them, while her actual lips had only lip-liner left (and even that was slowly seeping into her tiny wrinkles). Her face looking as if it were painfully pulled by likely scars behind her ears (I had to restrain myself from attempting to confirm this suspicion), she smiled as if her life depended on it.

  “Oh no, did I give Sophie my cold?” I gasped as I scrunched up my face (rather uncomfortably), knowing full well that grimacing theatrically would not help me
get away from this woman any faster.

  Stephanie shrugged, confused. For all I knew, she hadn’t even realized that I’d been sick all this time.

  “He cares a lot, don’t you think so?” she asked me, her crow’s feet surprisingly prominent behind her glasses.

  “Who?”

  “Hamish.”

  “Oh.”

  I wasn’t sure.

  I’d known Hamish Abbott since my first day as a student teacher at Talents. Actually, he’d introduced himself with a hearty handshake the day of my own very first introductory faculty meeting.

  “Ah, such a spring chicken you are!” he had said to me that day, immediately insisting on taking me out to lunch, his Scottish accent endearing to my anxious ear.

  He’s been kind to me, helpful all these years. He’s a good man and, rumor has it, he isn’t so bad at French. He certainly always seemed popular enough with his students, always the “Teacher of the Year” elect.

  I’d naturally gravitated toward older professors, older teachers, more comfortable around another generation. George thought that it was because it made me feel young and, therefore, invincible, at least by comparison. He said it was because I was afraid to compare notes with someone my own age, afraid they’d come off more accomplished; therefore, he reasoned, by surrounding myself with the older folk, I could always tell myself that I had more time to become less of a loser.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  “Why do I teach high-schoolers, then? And at an art school?” I’d ask him whenever he’d go on too long with his hypothesis.

  “Hoping to trap more younglings in your stagnation,” he’d reply with a playful tap on my behind.

  Was he wrong?

  Given even my judicious use of the term “friend,” I’d say that Abbott and I were more than simply good acquaintances—we really were friends. But I couldn’t tell how much he actually cared, if at all. Come to think of it, besides this trip, I had never even seen him around this many students at once (not counting school assemblies and graduation ceremonies). Most of our communication always took place inside the teachers’ lounge or in one of our respective offices.

  “I guess,” I shrugged.

  Stephanie nodded, listening attentively, pensively.

  “It’s just that he was so upset about the whole situation with that girl—Paz. You know, how she threw out some vague accusations about your friend—”

  “Jamie? He’s hardly my friend—”

  “Oh, dear, I don’t care what goes on behind closed doors. I hear you’re not engaged, after all, and his situation is also somewhat complicated, from what I gather.”

  “What do you mean?” I raised my eyebrows in between forced sips of green tea.

  “It’s not my place, sweetheart. Settle that amongst yourselves,” she whispered as she gave me a wink. “Anyway,” she continued, folding and refolding her napkin in her lap, her eyes on her immaculate French manicure, “Hamish was just so upset by that whole incident. He knew he just had to convince the girl’s parents that her staying out late was simply unacceptable so he could justify putting her on a plane back to New York. He did that for your friend,” she implored.

  “But my friend didn’t do anything—”

  “Right, but I’m sure you know what rumors can do to a teacher’s career. He’s a musician and all, but the D.O.E. is the D.O.E., so, if he intends to continue on as a teacher…. Well, anyway, he did the right thing, my Hamish did, I mean,” she said with a nod to herself. “He just cares so much about everybody,” she sighed. “He told me she’s very talented—that Paz girl. And so beautiful, too. But of course, I could see that for myself. He said she sounded drunk when he called her that night at curfew—you know, the night you guys took them all to that awful club. Hamish got so worried, he went to check on her right away. I was asleep already! You see, that’s how much he cares,” she whispered, earnestly. “Anyway, I guess he feels responsible, or maybe even guilty for cutting the girl’s trip short, so he insisted on spending time with Sophie now that she’s sick. Wouldn’t let her go back to the hotel alone! He’s barely slept a wink since this whole Paz thing, so I don’t blame him for staying back for a nap now,” she summed up in time for our food.

  Trying to digest the woman’s rapid supply of information, I slowly sipped my tea, my teeth biting down on the ceramic cup. When I put it down, I looked at her fleshy thighs. The seams of her jeans seemed strained. Really, I did not see Abbott with this lady.

  “So, Paz’s parents weren’t the ones who demanded she go back?”

  “Oh, no. That was my Hamish.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three: As Warranted

  His dark clothes blending with the carpet, Jamie almost fell into my room when I swung the door open to let him in. I guess he wasn’t expecting me to answer so quickly.

  “Come in,” I shooed, peeking out to make sure that no one saw him.

  “I don’t know why you’re so afraid that someone may find out I’m in here. In Paris, everyone knew we shared a room,” he noted as he walked in and folded himself down to straddle the ottoman by the mirror.

  I sat across from him, on the bed.

  “That was because only one room was booked for us and there were no other rooms available,” I noted right back, my hands still shaking after reading all eleven text messages from George, where had quickly escalated to

  Jamie looked toward my large window, though with the tree in the way, I doubted there was anything but the dark of the night there for him to see. I briefly followed his gaze to confirm this before bringing my eyes right back to him. They landed on the rosebush encasing his forearm, his palms lying flat on the surface of the seat underneath his weight, his arms outstretched between his knees. Blood red, the roses looked almost three-dimensional, as if, would I step closer, I’d be able to smell their sweetness in the split moment before the spikes would remind me to keep my distance. The wedding band dug into the skin of his extended finger.

  “You know, had I met you in high school, I would’ve had such a crush on you,” I said, my eyes solid on the veins on the inside of his forearm. They protruded in a way that seemed anatomically unlikely. I was sure I would be able to see blood pulsing through them if I squinted just right.

  “Yeah?” he asked, speaking into the floor under his shoes, his hair loose around his face.

  Without looking at the latest message on my phone, I shut it off, turning it over, face down, just to be safe.

  “Oh yeah!” I declared, confidently, as I timidly traced my index finger across my chin. Still in my street clothes, I wasn’t sure how I was going to be able change into my pajamas now. And I wasn’t even sure if I’d shaved my armpits that morning, which only added to my perpetual self-consciousness. “I’d flirt the shit out of you,” I added, somehow braver, satisfied now that my skin burned.

  His eyes—his pensive, dark eyes were suddenly on me. It seemed their stare was aware of its penetrating quality, its shiver-inducing effect. It took pleasure in it. One simply couldn’t possess such powerful, almond-shaped eyes, naturally rimmed black by luxurious lashes, and not use them as warranted. I saw the way Paz acted around him, and I saw Veronika—we all squirmed.

  “If not high school, then college, definitely. I was more confident then, anyway,” I continued, not daring to move a muscle, not even to blink, afraid I’d chase my own brazen shamelessness away. “In high school, I would’ve just choreographed my entire routine around you, carefully calculating just when you’d walk down the hall on the third floor, after my math class or something. I wouldn’t be able to actually speak to you, but I would stop breathing for a second for fear of missing hearing you breathe as you walked by. In college, though, I would’ve probably just sat down next to you at the student union and asked if you wanted to hang out sometime.”

  “And what would I do?” I heard him ask, my eyes fixed on his perfect bow-lips as they seemed to move in slow motion. The
y appeared flushed, though it could’ve been the poor lighting in the room.

  “Oh, you’d probably be too cool for me,” I shrugged, summarily, feeling my chest finally expel the air that I’d failed to realize my lungs had been holding hostage in the first place.

  Hearing this, Jamie smiled for the first time since he entered my room. And then, he laughed.

  If you didn’t look at him any longer than a minute at a time, he looked young—really young. Boyish, or childish, even—a teenager no different than those who looked to him with adoration. But, if you kept your eye on him longer, you could see that he was tired.

  “I was a band geek, what are you talking about?” he snorted as he rose from his seat to join me on the bed, immediately pushing back to lean against the wall. “Like, not a band, but band-band.”

  “You? A geek?” I pretended to gasp. I swung my legs around to be able to continue watching him.

  “Oh yeah! Acne on my face, my ginormous guitar case on my back. I was all tall and scrawny and weird, though I guess I still am. And I had long hair down to my ass,” he reported with an indifferent shrug. “And I wore round, clear-lens glasses because I thought they looked cool! And I wore beanie hats before they were all the rage! Believe me, I was pretty hopeless.”

  It was hard to believe that someone who appeared so effortless in his skin, his stride, his posture now was ever hopeless, but his hardened gaze made it difficult for me to see much of anything beyond some exhaustion hidden behind those black pupils.

  “Well, I do always tell our students that today’s geeks are tomorrow’s rock stars. Perhaps I’m not the liar that I think I am,” I winked, my mouth speeding ahead of my brain, as usual, thankful that my phone was now in an induced coma.

  “Oh yeah, I’m some rock star, all right,” Jamie scoffed. “And anyway, you were probably too cool for me, if anything!” he continued, having rolled his t-shirt sleeves up and over his shoulders. The rosebush didn’t flourish past his elbow, I could see now, skin above it much paler by comparison. “You’re Russian, right?”