Читать книгу The Furies - Katie Lowe - Страница 10

The studio was covered in creamy paper, pastel drawings crawling from corners like creeping clouds of smoke. I felt a cool smudge at my elbow, a violet stain smeared across the cuff of my shirt.

Over the course of the week, those of us in the practical classes had filled the space, until it was impossible to leave the room without a coating of pink and blue chalk on our uniforms. Our hands left pastel prints in homage across the school: library books with green thumbs, a peach palm around a test tube, blue lips printed on coffee cups and each other’s cheeks. The lesson, I suppose (Annabel, the art tutor, rarely leading us to an obvious conclusion – or any conclusion at all) was that the artist leaves her mark on everything she touches. It would be many years before I would realize just how true that would turn out to be.

She sat on the edge of the desk, feet swinging just above the floor, while those of us in her Aesthetics class sat breathless, waiting for her to begin. Dressed entirely in black, her hair in silvery curls that hung heavily over her shoulders, she seemed drawn from another world. Even in memory, she seems possessed of a wordless authority: the power of one who could silence a room with a single breath.

‘Oscar Wilde,’ she began, at last, ‘described the discipline of Aestheticism as “a search after the signs of the beautiful. It is the science of the beautiful through which men seek the correlation of the arts. It is, to speak more exactly, the search after the secret of life.” And that is what we are here to do. Make no mistake. You may be young, and time may seem to be endless, but you’ll learn – hopefully before it’s too late – that those singular moments of illumination are what make life worth living. It is up to you to seek them out, to see them for what they are. And the sooner you begin, the richer your life will be.’

The door clicked open, a short, blonde girl in sports colours muttering a hushed apology as she entered. She sat in the empty seat beside me, mouthing ‘hi.’ I smiled numbly back, surprised to be greeted at all. Annabel looked at her coldly, and the girl looked away, abashed.

‘You should be developing your aesthetic appreciation of what is beautiful, or worthy of your attention,’ Annabel went on, ‘by creating your own philosophy – your own theory of art – that serves to explain your tastes, and the way these intersect with the rest of your life experience.’ She leaned back, rolling her shoulders; her silver pendant sparkled in the light.

‘After all, this is not a course for the lazy student who wishes to sit around and have me talk at them for four hours a week. Quite the opposite, in fact. I expect you to posit your own judgements, and explore your subjective appreciation of art. Those of you taking my practical course – which I believe is most of you – should take the opportunity to develop these ideas beyond what Wittgenstein called the “limits of language”, which, I am sure, you will grow familiar with in this class.’

A ripple of excitement ran through the room. For all their bitterness and dramatics, it is a fact known only to the very best of educators that teenagers are uniquely susceptible to the poignant phrase, the encouragement of their own, individual talents. It may be a cliché – but I am sure a great many creative spirits have been forged through the power of a single glimmer of inspiration at this age.

Certainly in the moment, it seemed as though each of us was alive with potential, though none of us knew, for instance, who Wittgenstein was (even now, I will admit my knowledge is rudimentary at best, his theories a little esoteric for my tastes), or why such a limit to language might exist. Or, for that matter, why a group of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds might be somewhat unqualified (to say the least) to create our own theories of art. No – in the light of this encouragement, we saw ourselves anew, thrilled with the sense of possibility.

‘Marie,’ she said, turning to face a dark-haired girl – recognizable as she spoke for her reedy, high-pitched voice, the shadow of a nervous laugh familiar from the canteen. ‘Give me an example of a work you find beautiful.’

‘Michelangelo’s David,’ she said, confidently.

‘Why?’ Annabel said, wry smile revealing gums almost white, fading into teeth.

‘Because it’s a symbol of strength and human beauty.’

Annabel said nothing, the silence deathly, yawning like a trap.

‘Is that what you think, or what I think parroted back to me?’ she said, finally, as she leaned over the desk and peeled away a sheet of paper, her book on Renaissance sculpture open underneath. The girl stared down, turning pale. ‘Though other members of the faculty may enjoy it when their students mindlessly repeat phrases they do not believe, the point of this class,’ she said, turning her back on the girl, ‘is not to give me the answer you think is right. It is to tell me what you really think. I already know what I believe, and I don’t need you to remind me.’ She looked around the room, eyes cast on each of us in turn. I felt my stomach lurch as she settled her gaze on me.

‘Violet.’

‘Yes, Miss.’ My breath caught a little, nerves shaking through. It was the first time she’d spoken to me directly in either class. There was some brightness to her, that seemed almost to glow from within; as though her blood ran silver in her veins, instead of blue, lighting her skin from below. When I look back, now, I wonder if she could ever have been quite as we saw her, or whether we simply imposed the light upon her, the force of our wanting turning her into something half-divine. On cool days – rational days, when the grey hush of autumn seeps into everything – the obvious occurs. It might simply have been a trick of the light.

‘Annabel, please,’ she said, without smiling. ‘Tell me, what would you choose?’

I felt the class turn to face me, expectantly. Marie glared, her fury at Annabel boring into me. I thought of things I’d read about, seen, their names lost to me in my panic. Finally, I alighted on an image: women laughing, raving furiously, at a town far below; the wild-eyed devil gnawing limbs. ‘Goya’s Black Paintings,’ I said, the words catching on my tongue.

She drew three circles in the air with her fingers, teasing out my meaning. ‘There’s just … There’s something about them I really like.’

‘You really like?’ Annabel said, eyebrow raised. ‘Surely you can go a little deeper than that.’

I felt my heart tumbling in my chest. The truth was, I’d seen them in a book when I was five, maybe six years old, and felt a strange thrill at the horror of it all. Mum had ripped the book from my hands almost immediately, but the images had stuck. Years later, I’d stolen the book from a second-hand shop, too ashamed to admit how much I wanted it, cruel faces grinning deathly from the cover. Three days after that, wracked with guilt, I’d returned with a stack of my dad’s old books – a donation that would cover the cost several times over.

‘Well, it’s not really an aesthetic thing,’ I said, slowly. ‘But he painted them on the walls of his house, just for him. So, even though he was known for his portraits, which are nice, but … Well, kind of boring …’ At this a flicker of a smile crossed her face, willing me on. ‘When he was on his own, he wanted to paint these horrifying things, like the devil eating a man, or the descent into madness. It was like a release he could only get when he was alone.’

She nodded, brushed a curl of white hair behind her ear. I almost felt as though she turned a little towards me, as though the better to hear something unsaid. ‘I assume you know The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters?’

I blanched. ‘Sorry?’

‘The etching. From a very similar period.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘No. I haven’t seen it.’

‘Look it up. You’ll like it.’ She turned away. ‘In fact, bring a copy with you next time, and we’ll discuss as a group.’

As she went on, I felt the girl’s eyes on me; tried, but failed to resist the temptation to look back. The red-headed girl from my English class chewed thoughtfully at a thumbnail, grimacing as the chalk covered her tongue; catching my eye, she laughed, and I laughed too, an echo.

She turned back to face Annabel, and I did the same, though the rest of the class passed in a haze, the fact of having met Annabel’s approval – a least briefly – leaving me dazed with relief.

The bell rang, and I began to pack my bag, while the red-headed girl and her friends gathered by Annabel’s desk, voices lowered in hushed conversation. The tall girl glanced at me, pointedly lowering her voice further. When it became clear the three of them were waiting for me to leave (my cheeks flushing hot with the realization) I scooped up my bag and walked towards the door.

‘Hey, wait,’ a voice called after me. ‘Fancy a smoke?’ I turned to see the red-head grinning at me, slyly; the other girls – and Annabel – looked at me, their expressions blank, mask-like.

I didn’t smoke, but – taken by surprise, I would later claim, though in fact merely desperate to make a friend – I nodded.

In the corridor, we walked in step. ‘So how do you like Elm Hollow?’

‘It seems okay. Everyone’s been pretty nice so far.’

She pushed the door, the fresh air outside exhilarating. I felt the sweat droplets freeze and dry on my brow as we walked in silence to a graffitied smoking shelter hidden behind the main building, away from the car park, and away from disapproving eyes. A cheer drifted by on the wind from the playing fields; swallows circled overhead in bursts, as though catching themselves mid-flight.

‘So … I’m Robin, by the way – thanks for asking.’ She grinned, waving away my clumsy apology, the words still unspoken. ‘Where are you from?’ she said, clicking the lighter repeatedly before giving it a firm shake. Finally, it lit.

‘Well, I was at the Kirkwood before,’ I said. ‘But last year I stayed home.’

‘Like, home-schooled?’ She raised a pencilled brow sharply, red pinpricks blooming beneath.

‘Kind of, I guess. But I sort of taught myself.’

‘No way,’ she said. ‘How come?’

‘I … Well, my dad died. They said take as much time as I needed, so …’

‘Hey!’ she said, brightly. ‘My dad’s dead too.’ She paused. ‘I mean, so, you know. I get it.’

‘Oh. That’s horrible. Sorry.’

‘No, no, it’s cool. I didn’t really know him. Mum says he was kind of an asshole.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well … Sorry anyway, I guess.’

She smiled, looked away. In the daylight, she was freckled and long-lashed, cheeks flushed feverish in the cool autumn air. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, flinching as the cigarette burned to her fingers. She threw it on the floor and stamped it out with a silver-toed boot. From inside the building, the bell rang.

‘Wanna hang out some time?’ she said, turning to me.

‘Hang out?’

‘Yes, dipshit, hang out. You know. Pass time. In company. Among friends.’

I said nothing, dumbstruck. In my silence, she went on. ‘I’m going to assume that’s a yes, because anything else would be unspeakably rude. Bus stop. Friday. 3:15. Sharp.’ She turned and walked away without another word, a cluster of sparrows scattering as she strolled across the grass, while I stood, left behind, paralysed by the encounter.

It couldn’t possibly be that simple.

I’d never really had friends, though I hadn’t been entirely unpopular, either. I drifted in the background, a barely-noticeable side-player, while my fellow classmates turned rebellion into a competitive sport. I, too shy, too nervous, too slow, simply lingered behind, clutching books and feeling the soothing roll of my Walkman in my pocket, pretending not to care. It wasn’t that I was incapable of making conversation, or that I was disliked, per se. I simply couldn’t work out how one crossed the boundary line from classmates, to friends, as though there were some secret code or sign one had to give to join each little group.

And yet, mere days after joining Elm Hollow – the new girl, late in the semester, with nothing special to recommend me, no gaudy quirks or stylish clothes – I had a friend. A friend, who wanted to ‘hang out’. I wondered if I was being set up; became convinced of this, over the hours that followed, when there was no sign of the girls, nor of Annabel, whose studio was empty when I passed, the following day.

Finally, Friday afternoon arrived, and I began the march towards the bus stop, among the hordes of fellow students, who had already focused their attentions elsewhere, now seeming not to see me at all. At the top of the hill, an old playground stood silhouetted in the afternoon light: the younger brothers and sisters of those students being collected squealed and swung, ran circles around their weary parents. I imagined my sister’s moon-white face among them, the rubber texture of her swollen skin; shook my head, searched for Robin in the crowd.

‘Wasn’t sure if you’d show,’ she said, grabbing my shoulders from behind, callused fingers brushing my cheek.

‘Why?’ I stood, frozen. It had been a long time since I’d last been touched, though I hadn’t realized it until now. My mother’s collarbones pressed against my neck, days after Dad died. That was the last.

‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘You just didn’t seem all that into the idea.’

‘Oh, no, I was – I just—’ I stopped, grateful to be interrupted by a cheer from the crowd by the bus stop; a girl dancing, whirling in circles, so fast she’d become a blur.

Robin and I followed the thinning crowd on to the last bus, her hand still tight around my wrist. She slid in by the window, guitar pressed against her knees; I sat beside her, pressed close as the bus filled up, packed with pale limbs and stale breath.

‘So,’ she said, turning to me, eyes wide, an exaggeration. ‘Where’d you come from?’

‘Kirkwood,’ I said, again.

‘I know that. Let me rephrase. Tell me everything. Tell me your story.’

I looked at her, my mind empty of all history, memory erased. ‘I … I don’t know.’

‘Interesting,’ she said, grinning, a smudge of mulberry brushed under stained lips. She saw me looking, raised a hand to her mouth. ‘You’re from round here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Makes sense, then. Boring, boring, boring.’ She paused, narrowed her eyes. ‘Not you, I mean. The town. Is boring.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, leaning back against the seat. ‘Okay, let’s try something else. Pop quiz. Violet’s not talking because a) she’s shy, b) she’s got super interesting things to say but she doesn’t want to tell me, or c), she’s not that interesting after all and I’m sorely misguided. Go.’

‘Not c,’ I said, though I felt the sudden flash of a lie. I’m not that interesting, I thought. She’s right.

‘I guess a) and b) aren’t exactly mutually exclusive. So you are interesting, but you’re shy and you don’t want to tell me your secrets.’ She looked at me, smiled. ‘I guess that’s okay.’

I searched for another way, an easier line of conversation. ‘Let’s try the other way around. Tell me about you.’

‘Oh, me? I’m super interesting. Fascinating. A one-woman Pandora’s box. But I’m also a lot like you. I don’t give it away for free.’ She grinned. ‘We’ll just have to take it slow, huh?’

I smiled. ‘You play guitar?’

‘Horribly,’ she said, squeezing the neck of the case between her fingers. ‘Still, it makes me look cool. That’s a start.’

‘You are cool,’ I said, and blushed. I hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, so eager to please.

She laughed, a bitter snort. ‘Well, I guess that’s sealed then. You’re just about the only person around here that thinks I, Robin Adams, am cool. Which I’m pretty sure makes you my new best friend.’ She extended a hand, and we shook, a comical formality that felt strangely intimate in the crowded space. ‘Come on,’ she said, nudging my arm with her elbow.

The bus shuddered to a halt, and we edged out into the street, where the smell of the sea – something I hadn’t noticed was absent from the grounds of the school – whistled between the buildings. The sky had turned from blue to grey over the course of the afternoon, and tiny beads of rain started to fall, so imperceptibly I didn’t notice until Robin held a discarded paper over her head and gestured to me to follow, saying ‘This rain’s going to ruin my hair,’ as she bounded off.

I followed her into the grandly named International Coffee Company, with its one dilapidated location in a quiet street, in a town the world forgot. ‘Hey, bitches,’ she said, announcing herself to the room as we entered. The barista – all black hair and pillar-box red lips, tanned to the colour and texture of leather – waved and shouted ‘Coffee?’ Robin nodded, held two fingers up, and strolled to the back of the café, where the other girls sat whispering in a patched-up leather booth. ‘This is Violet,’ she said, pushing me towards them, thumbs pressed firmly into my shoulder blades.

The two girls looked up at me, with a bland curiosity, as I stumbled, caught myself, and smiled; they said nothing. After a moment, the shorter of the two – a girl with green eyes and pale, almost translucent skin – smiled and waved her cigarette coyly, gesturing me to sit by her side. The two were sharing a pot of tea clearly designed for one, which steamed lazily beside a thick, leather book on the table.

‘Queen bitch here is Alex,’ said Robin, sliding into the booth beside the other girl and throwing an arm around her, swiftly brushed away. She nodded, coolly, and sat back, weaving her hair into a thick, rope-like braid as she watched me, eyes hooded, almost black.

‘And this little cherub—’ Robin pinched her own cheek between finger and thumb and squeezed it white. ‘This is Grace.’ Grace rolled her eyes, passing her cigarette back to Alex, who took it, smoke curling in the air between them. Robin turned to the girls as I wedged myself in next to Grace, who slid closer to the wall, as though to leave a foot of space between us.

The girls smiled at me, dimly, before turning to Robin. ‘Did you …?’ Alex said, softly.

‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘But good things come to those who wait, right?’

The waitress set two tall, black coffees down with a clatter, a pool forming around them, rolling down the almost imperceptibly slanted table towards me. She dabbed it with her apron, and I looked up, finding myself greeted by a girl with the same, deep features as the barista, but a good twenty years younger. ‘Hey, Dina,’ Robin said, the words sing-song, mocking. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Fine,’ Dina said, turning away and stalking into a back room behind the bar.

‘Religious nut,’ Robin said, sliding a coffee towards me. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t come at us with the rosary yet.’

‘Or a stake,’ Alex laughed.

‘The power of Christ compels you, etcetera.’ Robin’s voice drew a swift warning look from the woman at the bar, and the girls went on in a whisper. I sipped the coffee, concealing a wince at the bitter taste, the dry, sickly layer it left on my tongue. This wasn’t the first time I’d tried to at least pretend I liked it – I had read enough to know all the people I admired adored it, and took it black – but then, as before, the taste gave way to a hot, fast-moving nausea, heartbeat racing like that of a rabbit in a trap. Still, I clung tight to the cup, feeling the warmth nip at my fingers, and made plans to jettison it the moment the girls were distracted, though the weary-looking plant at the edge of the booth, I soon realized, was plastic. The frayed leather seats, flickering light-bulbs and dusty, sun-bleached paintings had implied that from the outset.

‘So what else are you studying?’ Grace said, turning to me, Alex and Robin absorbed in some labyrinthine conversation whose thrust I’d long since lost. She peeled open a half-eaten stick of rock, sugary-sweet on her breath.

‘English, and Classics,’ I said.

She looked me up and down briefly, so quickly I might have imagined it. ‘Annabel seemed to like your idea in class, yesterday.’ She paused. ‘I think she—’

‘Hey,’ Robin said, leaning in between us. ‘This is important.’

Grace leaned back in the chair, a counterbalance. ‘What?’

‘Blood or cherry?’ We stared back. ‘Lipstick, dipshits. Jesus. Some help you are.’

Alex elbowed Robin, pulling her bag from under the table. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘But we haven’t decided yet,’ Robin whined, refusing to move.

‘Are you wearing the black dress?’ Alex said.

‘Yeah.’

‘So wear the red. It’ll pop,’ she replied, smacking her lips. ‘Now come on, piss off.’

Robin slid out of the booth and leaned over the table, one leg outstretched behind. Alex kicked her, and she withdrew it, Dina narrowly avoiding a fall. ‘Nice to meet you … Shit,’ Alex laughed. ‘I was going to … What’s your name again?’

‘Violet,’ Robin answered. ‘Her name is Violet.’

‘Alright,’ Alex said. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Violet.’

I nodded, a little burned. She’d forgotten my name. ‘You too.’

After she left, the conversation continued, Robin choosing by committee colours for nails, length of lashes, contacts in various colours for a party at her boyfriend’s dorm that weekend. Still heady from the caffeine and the cloud of smoke perpetually surrounding our booth (the girls passing a single cigarette between them at all times, Robin’s almost-spent lighter seemingly the only one they owned) I opted to make my escape – to quit while it appeared I was ahead.

‘See you next week,’ the girls said, as though there were no question of my return, and I flushed, grateful at the implication.

I took the long way back, past the beach, where the sea whispered a soothing, steady rhythm, a tenor crooning from the pavilion at the end of the pier. In the streets close to home, lonely people watched families on flickering TVs, curtains illuminated in the same, mocking patterns; the neighbour’s dog sniffed at my hand through the fence, before the grizzled old woman who lived there called him in.

‘Good evening, Mrs Mitchell!’ I shouted, in my best talking-to-the-elderly voice. Her grandson – a squat, apple-cheeked boy with a bowl haircut, a year or so older than I was – sat at the lit window above, white walls papered in posters of dragons and wizards. I looked up at him, and smiled; he pulled the curtain shut as Mrs Mitchell slammed the door without looking back.