Girl in Profile (2 page)

“It needs reinforcing, see, at the corners.” Adam smoothes over the cracks, strengthens the frail edges, covers holes with strips of clay. His hands are long and fine like mine. No wedding ring. I keep mine in a tiny box in a jewellery box in a drawer of my dressing table in a corner of my bedroom (like mother, like son). His fingers are curious, intense, teasing, tormenting. We're in bed already, there's no preamble, no date, no candlelight, nothing to say. We're making love in an art class under a naked bulb in front of my son and a bunch of pretentious still-life grapes. It's not decent, not civilised. What's wrong with me?

A woman wants to know if Adam could kindly take a look at the colour of her daughter's serpent, someone wants more clay, the little girl sat next to us is glaring at her grandmother's knitting pattern, her fairy still deep in dog shit. I'm in deep dog shit and I want to be seen. I want to cry and then be consoled by this man, this man I've never met before, the first man in creation. Transformed by him into something I've always been and never known. Until now.

Two days later the box hardens and goes brittle. Four days later a side falls off. Four and a half days later the rescue puppy licks it into oblivion. We're calling him Clay these days.

Elizabeth

Death Row

“Elizabeth, did you manage a log this morning?”

The swallows had flown from the eaves of Castle Banfi and the grapes were turning a slow vermilion. Chiara thought –

“Did you pass a motion this morning, Elizabeth? The doctor wants to know.”

I can't hear you. I'm deaf, remember, and in any case I'm trying to read my book if it's not too much to ask. I don't have many pleasures left. It's about an old woman in Italy whose personal details have been deleted from the municipal database. She has officially ceased to exist. Don't I just know how she feels. Old and mouldy, losing my marbles apparently. Two left on the solitaire board. My eyes. Pick 'n' mix. Shit, pop, spit out the gumball machine. I've eaten them. Orange, blueberry, spinach.

“With difficulty.” It's best to be honest.

Tinkerbell waves her magic wand like this and prescribes melon for my pudding tonight and, if necessary, a firework laxative. “That should do the trick.”

“The tits…” Peter Pan is wheeling away to the window in a thundercloud of Imperial Leather and last night's sardines. “The tits on those balls. I've never seen so many.” Peter Pan is a dragonfly. At least he knows the language of dragonflies. And birds. And poems. Nurse Tinkerbell, for example, is a common darter and exhibits some seriously crepuscular behaviour. Like now for instance.

“Ten minutes, the Blue Room, we shall have the opportunity to write to some poor unfortunates on death row in America.”

How ironic. Aren't we all dead already? They just ain't thrown the dirt on us yet. Look at me losing my whataretheyagain? Dragooned, euphemismed, metaphored in here by my own children (my son has three houses; you'd think I'd fit in one of them). What a view of Caldey Island and the sea. Yippee. And Wendy over there, photosynthesising in her chair. Wendy is a stephanotis. She was given a cutting from her dear friend Eleanor ten years ago and now she obscures her own light. I think I shall go back to my book if it's not too much to ask.

Chiara thought that the tragedy of old age was that at last one knew what to do with the youth one no longer had.

Oh, how poignant and true. I know what I'd be doing now if I weren't so fucking moribund. Constrained in every decade I've been. Stoned in my teens; pregnant and insecure in my twenties; husband, two children and a springer spaniel in my thirties; midlife crisis in my forties; age-defying creams and faradic machines in my fifties; and now in my sixties losing my marbles. Shit pop spit a cormorant pecked them out on the beach. What a view of Caldey Island and the sea. Lucky me. Where the monkeys live. They do a good chocolate fudge and ice cream. God, I wish Minnie would visit.

“Oh, my son.” Peter Pan is twirling around in a cirrus of soap and sardine. “You should be on a bottle of cider, my son.”

“What is it?”

“A green woodpecker.”

“Oh.” I told you he knew the language of birds.

Nurse Tinkerbell hands out the photographs. Mine is James C Smith number 1240668, Potosi Correctional Centre. Aged forty-two. Killed his girlfriend three years ago. Dear Lord. On his second appeal. Orange overalls, shaved head, very blue eyes. Like butter wouldn't sizzle. Wants to correspond with a woman between thirty and forty. I can do that. I remember it well. Still a stunner to be honest. 36, 24, 36 even after one husband, two children and that dreadful Freckles. On the verge of an affair. Sometimes I wish I had, though my late husband was a dear—

James
, I will write,
let us not talk of your crime. We've all done things in the heat of the moment and then regretted them or not done things in the heat of the moment and regretted that. Not that you shouldn't regret what you've done, of course…
God, I wish Minnie would come. We could talk about her latest infatuation. Some Eton mess. Cream, meringue and strawberry cheeks. Lucky cow. Giving her kittens. That's what boys from Eton do, apparently. Give you kittens. My late husband never did anything like that. Only that wretched Freckles from the pound and two ungrateful children. (At least they flew, I suppose.)

Wendy has turned a conifer colour. “I shall make myself do it. I shall write to this poor unfortunate. Eleanor would have wanted it. That was the thing with Eleanor. She could get on with anyone: a criminal, a member of the aristocracy. She had the common touch, you see.”

“Bunch of tits.” Peter Pan has discarded his photograph and is wheeling away to the whatsitcalled. “Bunch of hoodies after fatballs, those tits.”

Flew like arrows, my children. But my bow was too strong and they flew too far. Sometimes I wish I'd been a Maori in New Zealand with a couple of boomerangs. Then I'd know the language of butterflies. Then I know they'd come back.

Gwen

Rodin

Ma petite amie,

I am sincerely enrhumé, in bed with a steam kettle and beef lozenge and that is why I could not keep our engagement. I am saddened by your accusations. You must remember I am very old, alas, and find it difficult to keep step with your demands as well as my work. You can be quite immoderate in your desires, dear Gwendolen, and I am an ancient vase that will crumble if touched too much. (I should be kept in a museum already with my own sculptures.) Try to rein yourself in like the thoroughbred horses you English girls, pardon, Welsh girls, race along the seashore, the cool breeze turning your cheeks a violent hue. Be tranquil, be calm, I implore you. Visit the bibliothèque, take a promenade, have a bath in the rue d'Odessa, draw a picture of your cat in charcoal with her tail straight up like a tree à Noël. And remember to eat well – eggs are good for your constitution as I have mentioned – your digestion will pay you later. I will bring a basket of plums from the Villa des Brillants the next time I come. Yours in tenderness, A.R.

Elizabeth

Autobahn

I am tired this morning and my stomach hurts a little as it always does these days. Too many marbles. Fuck pop squit. I'm dying of a very long and complicated word and I don't really mind apart from the grapefruit. Please let there be no grapefruit in the mornings. Just a nice cup of tea and a round of toast, like I had after giving birth. What a strain that was, despite the pethidine and the birthing pool Freckles nearly drowned in. What a life it's been, and now it nears its end and I don't really mind apart from the dying. Gurgle, gurgle, then it's curtains, Tinkerbell said. Not that my late husband gurgled much. Just went off on the autobahn. German word for motorway. Eight letters, two across. Found him stuck on the crossword. Never a linguist, poor man.

“Grapefruit, Elizabeth. Sugared segments just as you like it.”

I can't hear you. I'm deaf, remember, and in any case, I'm trying to sleep, though the light is streaming from the fingers of those Caldey monks, stretching through my lace curtains and trying to tickle me under the chin as though butter wouldn't sizzle. Where's my book?

“Blue Room when you're ready. We have some replies from those poor unfortunates.”

Ah, yes, our comrades on death row. Lots of waiting around still and trying to be civil. After you, my dear. Oh no, after you. (Peter Pan will be the first if he starves himself as he intends. One Brussels sprout a day now that he is “on the continent”. He can't bear the smell or the embarrassment.) Just reading, sleeping, breathing, dying, in littler or larger rooms depending on your bank balance. (My son has thirty-three including his greenhouses. You'd think I'd fit in one of them. I could squash up next to an auricula if I had to.)

Tinkerbell hands out the letters. Wendy is visibly wilting. Mine is from James C Smith number 1240668. Ah yes, I remember.

Dear Elizabeth,

Hi, good to have the chance to know you. I'm not real good with words but will give it my best shot. If at any time you don't understand me or have questions, feel free to ask. I have little to hide and pride myself on my honesty and respect people for theirs.

I am a CP (capital punishment). I am forty-two years old, white, obviously a male. I killed my girlfriend. I am very upset and embarrassed by my actions. I have always had a drink problem which has helped me to fall short of most things, including being a father. I have two kids, Skyla and John. I adore my kids but, as fate would have it, I may never see them again. I have spoken to them a few times since I caught the case, but I don't speak with my ex-wife much.

I was raised in a poor family with little or no supervision. Mother worked her tail off to give me what I had. I am the eldest of two. My home town is north of Hannibal, Missouri (boyhood home of Mark Twain). About forty miles right on the muddy banks of the Mississippi river. I am a true river rat. A river rat is someone who lives or was raised on or around the rivers. Potosi is about seventy miles south of St Louis, about two hundred miles from home. I hope you're still with me.

My work history is very widespread. I've done everything from farming to trucking and most everything in between. I've done welding, mechanics, some electrician, pipe fitting, air conditioning and carpentered on occasions. Trucking is where I finished the last several years of my free life. I drove all forty-eight states and visited Canada as well. I pulled dry vans, tankers and flatbeds. The last years I pulled flatbeds and enjoyed it very much. I took life very serious and swore by the almighty dollar. I know now that money can't buy happiness although it is a big help. I was always afraid of not having money and now I accept not having it.

We get rec six times a week, sometimes mornings, sometimes afternoon. My house is an honour dorm so to speak. Not mandatory, just our choice. Some days when we have morning rec, I don't make it out because I get up at 2.45 a.m. for work. We're normally done by 6.30, but rec's not till 8.30 so I get tired and go to bed. I do make most rec though.

I prided myself on baseball. I'm a big Cardinals fan. That's the legacy of my grandad. I also had a brother, Maximilian, who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge when he was 22. I don't know why. I think God caught him. I also like Westerns. You can't hide nothing in the desert. Even the birds pick you clean. It's a land of truth and revelation. I know now why Jesus was tested in the wilderness.

You say you're a teacher and a dancer. Boy, that must keep you busy. Next time, I need to think about it some, and ask you more questions.

May God bless you, James.

“Are you well, Elizabeth? You look pale.”

Oh my weary pincushion eyes. I weep for this man and what he has done or not done and the choices we make and what is life after all but burping and hurting and above all waiting in littler or larger rooms. My daughter in her laboratory, chasing viruses. And here I am having to endure them. She says they look like flowers under the microscope. She knows the language of flowers and butterflies, my daughter, as well as viruses.
Viruses don't read notices
. I lost her somewhere magical, somewhere intellectual, like that Botticelli angel of a girl in
Picnic at Hanging Rock
. She never came back. And now my granddaughter in some Eton mess or other. Just hope she's not preggers. Preggers with kittens.

“He wants me to send pictures of my intimate bits,” the stephanotis is stuttering. “Says I sound like a real horny bitch. Says that his cellmate points at his genitals in the shower and makes kissing noises with his mouth. Says if I send money he can get soups and sodas…”

Nurse Tinkerbell waves her magic wand like this and prescribes a teddy bear tranquilliser.

“Shall we go to lunch?” Peter Pan is all saddle soap and spicy Sardinia to disguise the smell of being “on the continent”, but his feathers are warm. “For one Brussels sprout.”

“Yes, thank you, Peter.”

Gwen

An Eroticised Terrain

L'Homme Femme is wearing overalls and a coral necklace. No sitting in the ribs of a whale, no stays, no symbol of repression. She taps her ornamental watch – I am unpunctual – set by the clock at Montparnasse station. The room is a frozen stream and my heart echoes the stagnant cold. She will not light the stove. She will wait till I turn blue then make me do acrobatics – tuck, pike, straddle, star – to warm myself up again. At the end of the session, she will pad over on her pink puffy Pernod paws like a St Bernard dog and revive me in this alpine weariness. All for the sake of her rather mediocre painting:
Madonna in Repose
. I am a perfect Madonna with my oval face, my little hands and feet, my eternal smile of apology. Reined in like a thoroughbred. Gathered in like a fruitful harvest. Collected like a cowrie on the seashore where I trot my collected trot.