The Girl with the Peacock Harp

by Michael Eisele

  ‘Don’t you know how thin the walls are here, darling?’ Ruthie put a finger the size of a small sausage alongside her nose. ‘Oy oy oy, the yelling and the screaming!’ she said, rolling her eyes, doing a burlesque exaggeration of her Flatbush origins so that all the ‘g’s came out as ‘k’s.

  ‘Stop it,’ pleaded Meryl, looking around nervously to see if someone was within earshot. ‘There wasn’t anyone, I was probably having a nightmare,’ she said in a near whisper.

  ‘A nightmare?’ exclaimed Ruthie, as if that referred to some kind of exotic animal, then raised her eyes to the ceiling and declaimed, ‘God should only send me such a nightmare!’ Then when Meryl did not respond she dropped the badinage and took her by the arm. ‘Seriously, darling, you look a little pale. Whatsa matter, you’re not sleeping well? They work you too hard at that place, those momzers, you should take a little holiday somewhere, get some sun.’

  The image was too perilously close to last night’s dream and for a moment Meryl feared she was going to break out in hysterical laughter right there in the lobby. With a shiver she collected herself and apologising for having to rush off, she gripped her briefcase firmly and pushed open the heavy glass door to the glare of the street.

  Later, riding the N train to Manhattan she regretted her brusqueness. In spite of the fact that Ruthie was really only a dozen years older, she had been almost like a surrogate mom and confidant. When Meryl had moved to the apartment in Queens following the disastrous failure of her marriage, Ruthie had knocked on her door with cups of tea and—she had hardly believed it, such a cliché!—Tupperware containers of chicken soup, listened with an excellent imitation of breathless attention as Meryl poured out her woes. Ruthie had in fact behaved like the ethnic stereotype of a Jewish aunt, a persona that Meryl came to realise was a shield that Ruthie held up against a world that had taken her husband in Vietnam and her children in the bottomless swamp that was San Francisco in the 1960s. Sharing their dual grief had made them friends, and Meryl resolved to apologise for her hasty departure that morning. Wasn’t it Ruthie’s birthday next week? She must be sure to get something really special, perhaps that new fragrance Yves St Laurent was advertising.

  Thus occupied she stared sightlessly out of the train windows as they approached Queensborough Plaza, and as the train slowed she glimpsed the familiar sight of the Manhattan skyline, its tall towers glittering in the hazy summer sunlight.

  Only suddenly the skyscrapers were not the usual concrete and steel towers but brutal shafts of weathered stone, and against the deep blue of a sky devoid of the usual smoky pollution she could see huge winged forms circling to land, birds too large to be natural, birds the size of jetliners they looked to be, and the stone pillars kept tilting, this way and that as though she were seeing them from a plane window, except that there was no sound but the wind whistling through her feathers with each beat of her wings which . . .

  ‘Hey Lady! You OK?’ Abruptly Meryl sat up, seeing before her an elderly Hispanic man in the uniform of the Transit Authority, his face a mask of concern. She must have fallen asleep, right there in the plastic seat, she thought distractedly. She shook her head, and checked automatically for her handbag and briefcase, emitting a silent sigh of relief that nothing had been taken from her. The man standing in front of her seemed apologetic. ‘I thought you was gonna fall lady, is all,’ he said, ‘You OK, you no gonna sleep? Only, is not a good idea on these trains, you know? You can get robbed, stuff like that. OK?’ he repeated, this time evidently seeking reassurance as to her state of consciousness.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Meryl managed to say. ‘Thank you, I must have dozed off somehow. I’m fine!’ she insisted when he hesitated, then looking dubious nevertheless made his way to the connecting door to the next car and was gone. Meryl, her heart beating as though she had been running a marathon (or flying over a canyon by flapping her arms, she thought half hysterically) sat up straight in the seat and remained that way until she reached Union Square, transferring to the downtown A and finally reaching Wall Street.

  The early morning noise and bustle of the subway platform surrounded her in its familiar embrace and she made her way to the stairs that led to street level in the midst of a crowd of commuters that carried her up into the sunlight as if she had been on a human escalator. Briskly she turned right and set off for the office, squinting a little as the bright June sunlight leaped at her from the windows of honking taxicabs and trucks which hurried through the lanes between the towering skyscrapers like hordes of scurrying beetles. It was a relief when she could turn off into a street where there was still shade until the sun had risen high enough to illuminate the canyon walls. Suddenly nervous she looked up as one of the ubiquitous pigeons flapped close overhead, then simply stopped where she was and stared upward.

  What was she doing here, skulking around like some helpless fledgling that had fallen from its nest? The bottom of the canyon was forbidden territory peopled by packs of the Gurakk, scavengers that lived on her people’s leavings, ordure and scraps of decaying food which were routinely flung over the edge . . . she must take to the air! But there was hardly room to spread her wings, how could she . . .

  ‘Hey, lady, ya wanna move it please?’ Meryl’s breath froze in her throat as she looked down to see a young man in a ripped t-shirt holding onto the edge of a large wheeled hamper full of wrapped shipping cartons which he was attempting to manoeuvre around the gap between a fire hydrant and a rusty dumpster.

  ‘I’m . . . sorry, I was just. . . .’ she mumbled in confusion as she turned sideways and edged past him, clutching her briefcase to her chest.

  ‘Ya wanna lookit the tall buildings, whyaincha take a tour?’ the young man called after her with no particular rancour and pushed his unwieldy load onward, shaking his head. Geez, outatowners!

  Meryl stood for a moment next to a lamp post concentrating on breathing normally. That did it, she said to herself. She was going so short of sleep because of these ridiculous dreams that she was starting to hallucinate. She compressed her mouth and took a firmer grip on her briefcase. First thing on her lunch-break she’d go down to the health food store and get something herbal to help her sleep. A quick glance at her wristwatch jolted her into sudden motion. This was no time to stand around daydreaming! The presentation was at ten! With a feeling of relief she set off into the flow of pedestrian traffic adding the staccato clicking of her heels to the familiar morning rhythm.

  The morning passed in a blur of activity, though she detected a few curious looks directed at her by her team members. The client was someone who used the company’s services often, although this was the first time she had encountered him personally, and she was gratified by his unqualified acceptance of the marketing approach her team had developed. A large portly man with some sort of asthmatic condition that made his breathing distinctly audible, he approached her as she was putting away her laptop after the presentation. Would she be willing to discuss one or two points about her approach . . . perhaps over lunch? She replied carefully that as she was part of a creative team, it might be more efficient to set up a meeting, perhaps tomorrow, with all of them present.

  She sensed his disappointment and hoped she hadn’t offended him, but he simply shrugged and named a time the next day. After he had left, Gail, the executive secretary who had been assisting gave her a meaningful look and nodded. ‘Watch yourself with that one,’ she advised in an undertone. ‘I know he’s a big shot client, but I’ve heard stories.’

  ‘Letch?’ said Meryl, surprising herself by the epithet.

  Gail’s perfect eyebrows rose a notch and she grinned. ‘Sounds like we hear the same stories,’ she said, ‘No, nothing definite, but you know what it’s like around here. “Money talks. . . .” ’ she trailed off meaningfully.

  ‘ “. . . and bullshit walks”.’ Meryl said without thinking, then felt her face redden. What had made her say that? It had been one of Paul’s favourite expressions, which her ex-husband had used to ju
stify his lack of success in his career or at just about anything. ‘Excuse me,’ she added hastily, ‘I don’t know why I said that!’

  She was prevented from further apology by Gail breaking out in a peal of laughter. ‘And here’s me thinking you needed a head’s up!’ She looked Meryl up and down in frank appraisal. ‘Hey, you’re pretty savvy for a big exec. Why don’t you join the bunch of us up in the roof garden over lunch?’

  Meryl was startled at the sudden invitation. She was a relative newcomer to the firm and hadn’t had much social contact with the other employees outside work hours. She was about to make some excuse, pleading the pressure of work, but the notion of being on the roof, thirty storeys up in a sort of glassed in aerie the company maintained as a private retreat for senior employees, was suddenly irresistible. ‘I usually just get a sandwich from the deli,’ she said, temporising, but Gail waved her hand as though dispelling invisible smoke.

  ‘So go get your sandwich and bring it up!’ she said, ‘See you at one!’ Without waiting for an answer, the trim blond picked up her paperwork and breezed out of the door in a waft of Chanel. Meryl was left bemused. You didn’t have to be a long term employee to realise that the roof garden was sort of like an exclusive club for the high echelon p.a.’s, and she had been in the business long enough to know how important the approval of the supporting staff could be. Well, well! She gathered up her laptop in its bag, added her notes and powered down the room’s projector.

  She was halfway to her office when she remembered in consternation her fear of heights. What had she been thinking? Even her apartment in Queens was on the ground floor! The next moment she smiled, chiding herself. Time to grow up, indeed. Just when her career seemed to be going someplace was no time to be thinking of neurotic fears and dreams.

  When it came time for her lunch break she walked briskly first to the health food shop, where a bespectacled and frighteningly knowledgeable young lady sold her a box of Valerian tea and spent a disproportionate amount of time explaining the best way to prepare it for maximum effect. Then at the deli she ordered the usual watercress and cucumber on pita bread and while waiting for the sandwich idly examined the meat laid out in the butcher’s section. Usually she was revolted by the glistening raw red surfaces, but a cut of liver caught her eye and she suddenly thought of taking home a slice for HobNob to make up for the fright she had given him that morning. She had meant to ask for a separate bag but the deli man was busy with lunchtime orders and both the sandwich and the raw meat in its plastic wrapper ended up together in her carry bag.

  By then it was close on one o’clock, and Meryl walked quickly to the lobby and waited with a frisson of excitement by the express elevator, and when it came unhesitatingly pushed ‘R’.

  Once when they were first married Paul had more or less dragged her to the observation platform on top of the Empire State Building, making bad jokes about King Kong all the way, and she remembered shrinking inside herself with terror as the floor numbers in the special elevator changed to figures charting the thousands of feet above street level. Then when the elevator door had finally opened she had stayed pressed against the wall beside it until Paul had roughly picked her up in his arms and carried her to the broad glass windows, to the amusement of the other tourists, while she cowered in near panic, her head pressed into his shoulder. . . . Meryl grimaced at the memory. That had been her ex all over, she thought bitterly: all brawn and no brains. What a fool she had been to fall for him in the first place!

  Well, all those childish fears and dependence were in the past, Meryl told herself with satisfaction, watching the floor numbers click upward in prosaic progression. Why, she was even looking forward to a view of the city from thirty floors up. If it wasn’t too hazy perhaps she could see Ellis Island where her great-grandparents had landed, or even the Statue of Liberty.

  The elevator doors opened on a blaze of sunlight that made her squint, reflected from the white tablecloths and glassware on the scattered tables. As she stood there waiting for her eyes to adjust she heard her name called and saw Gail waving from a large table where a group of other women were already seated. Clutching her carrybag in both hands Meryl threaded a path to where they waited, and seven pairs of eyes lifted in appraisal as Gail stood and drew out a glittering stainless steel chair (my goodness, thought Meryl distractedly, Bauhaus!).

  ‘Girls,’ said Gail proprietorialy when Meryl had seated herself, ‘meet Meryl Gordon. She’s heading the group that designed the new ad campaign for CombiTech and,’ she paused and looked around the group meaningfully, ‘they liked the presentation so much this morning that Darth Vader asked her to lunch!’

  The entire table hooted in appreciation as Meryl sat taken aback until she remembered the black armoured villain in the Science Fiction movie Star Wars. Someone called out, ‘Unfortunately he isn’t old enough to be your father!’ and someone else added ‘As if that would matter!’ which set them all off again. Meryl hadn’t understood the reference but joined in as though she had, feeling a warm glow at being included in the group. She saw three open bottles of wine on the table and guessed that accounted for the relaxed atmosphere, but still . . . glancing around her attention was drawn to a nearby window.

  Their table faced Uptown, and the serried rows of tall buildings almost took her breath away. What a magnificent sight, she thought in awe. To think that people had created all that! She felt a hand touch her wrist lightly and turned back to see Gail beaming at her. ‘Some view, isn’t it?’ she said, then indicated the white-suited young man at the end of the table with his order pad poised.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, I already have. . . .’ Meryl said, feeling suddenly gauche beyond words to be sitting here with her deli bag, but Gail grinned and gestured dismissively.

  ‘That’s right, you said,’ she looked Meryl up and down in mock approval, pursing her lips. ‘watching the pennies and the figure.’ Then to the waiter, ‘Just another wine glass here, please.’

  ‘Yes of course,’ he said, putting away the pad and taking a goblet from a vacant table and presenting it with a flourish. He poured a generous measure of white wine from the nearest bottle.

  Meryl had been going to demur but it would have been just too prissy to say she didn’t drink at this hour of the day so as the waiter hovered expectantly she took a cautious sip and nodded in appreciation.

  The conversation flowed around her, the usual office gossip and jokes and speculation. Hobbes up in Marketing was sure to be promoted, but if he didn’t watch his after-hours drinking he’d find himself back in the Mailroom; So and so was going to pieces since his wife left him, ‘. . . and I’ve covered for him at two meetings this week and I told him he has until Friday to pull himself together.’ Someone asked, ‘And after Friday?’ The speaker gave a little shrug and made a ‘thumbs down’ sign as though she were a Roman Empress passing judgment on a defeated gladiator.

  Meryl listened in awe for a few minutes until Gail signed for quiet and turned, her face intent and serious. ‘Look, Meryl—do you mind if I call you Meryl?—here’s how it is. You probably know the statistics; in spite of the Equal Opportunity bullshit there are still too few women executives in top positions.’ Meryl could only nod, tongue tied. To be honest she had little real interest in politics; like most of the women execs she knew it took all of her energy just to stay where she was.

  ‘Well, we’ve decided,’ Gail went on, ‘that’s all of us, the executive p.a.’s and so forth, that if we have to spend all of our time supporting our bosses, we’d prefer them to be women. Women like you, Meryl.’

  There was a great deal more, about how they’d been watching her since the day she was hired, how she was just the sort of executive material the company needed, and all it would take would be a word in the right ear, ‘And believe me, Meryl, you have no idea how much the boys at the top rely on us to help make these decisions.’

  She must have looked sceptical because a dark-haired woman across from her chimed in grimly,
‘They’d better. You see, dear, we know where all the bodies are buried.’

  At this point the food came, and the subject was momentarily dropped in favour of who was getting what and opening napkins. Meryl gingerly delved into her deli bag, trying to be inconspicuous about it, but inwardly her mind was whirling. There was the thrill of being part of something, well, almost illicit, but just imagine what it would be like if she wound up with a real career! What would these women want in return? She thought she could guess: advancing other women whenever she could. Well what was wrong with that? It was a man’s world, after all, the divorce had shown her that plainly enough, and maybe it was time someone did something about it!

  Intent on her thoughts she was chewing and swallowing mechanically and it took a few moments to register the quality of the silence that had sprung up. Then came the realisation that something was terribly wrong.

  ‘Ewww! Gross!’ came one voice in a shrill whisper. Meryl looked up to find all eyes on her and no wonder, for in one hand she held the piece of raw liver, half eaten, the bloody juice of which was dripping off her chin and onto the crisp whiteness of her linen napkin.

  With a stifled scream she clapped one hand over her mouth and looking frantically around the room she spotted the ladies and bolted out of her chair. Moments later she was bent over the sink, rinsing her mouth and her face over and over again after having been sicker than she could ever remember being, when the door opened silently and Gail came in, dangling Meryl’s purse by one elegant finger. Astonishingly she was smiling.

  ‘You poor thing,’ she murmured, patting Meryl on the shoulder, ‘Is it your first?’ As Meryl looked up in astonishment, Gail continued, ‘At first we didn’t know what to think, but Helen in Accounts said her last pregnancy was exactly the same, she had thought she was carrying a werewolf but it seems that a craving for raw meat is quite common, it’s just that you don’t often get to hear about it . . .’