Читать книгу Click - L. Smyth - Страница 10

I thought about this as I walked down the corridor until I realized I was in front of the pinboard. I looked up at the timetable showing the times and places of all the seminars, scanned them quickly. I wondered how many clashed with my commitments. Might I be able to turn up to some of them, just to see if she was there? Then I thought: that is impractical. She’d said she wasn’t on the English course. There was no reason to think that she’d be attending any of the other seminars.

A better bet would be to find her outside of lectures: in the library for example. I went to the library, but she wasn’t there. Not in the open downstairs area. Not in the creepy silent room. Not on the nooks of the upper floor by the archives. She wasn’t in the café, nor the dining area, nor the bar. She wasn’t in the campus shop.

On my way back to my room, I took a detour to the other side of campus, towards the bougie accommodation. Two girls were sat on a bench, and I overheard one of them complaining to her friend about having sunburned the ‘rooves’ of her feet while on holiday in St-Tropez.

‘Rosa,’ the other girl said, ‘Is rooves actually a word?’

‘Obviously it’s a word. It’s the tops of houses.’

‘Or feet?’

‘Or feet.’

I glanced up towards the tops of the buildings. They were slate grey and dusty in the autumn sunlight. High in a window I noticed the outline of a silhouette: a pair of hands adjusting a string, the slow mechanical movement of the curtain moving upwards to reveal a blue midriff. Instinctively I ducked behind a lamp post, and then – a second later – peered out again. The window was now ajar. A small hand was dangling out, clutching a cigarette.

I could hear someone laughing loudly. A slim almond-shaped fingernail tapped the butt of the cigarette, and sprinkles of ash fell from the sky.

It was her, I was sure of it.

I bent forward, squinting, and saw a trickle of wavy blonde hair spill across the sill. A head turned, and took a drag from the cigarette. It could feasibly be her, I reasoned, noting the outline of her side profile, comparing it to my mental copy of her profile picture. But she moved too quickly to draw any solid conclusions. Her features blurred together, made her look anonymous.

Abruptly the window snapped shut and the cigarette fell from the sill. It danced through the air down all four floors and landed near me on the concrete. I stared at the blunted end. There was a gentle smudge of lipstick along the butt.

For a second, I thought about picking it up. Then I became aware of a stilted silence nearby.

Turning, I saw that the two girls on the bench had stopped their conversation and were staring at me. Their faces registered a certain amusement, as well as a certain distaste. I realized suddenly how weird I looked. Sheepishly I emerged from the lamp- post and walked past them silently, expressionlessly, without even glancing in their direction.

The next day I walked past that window, and the day after that, but the blinds were drawn.

I didn’t see anyone there again.

***

I dreamed of Northam again last night. The open window. The gentle night breeze. Marina smiling down at me. Her mouth forming the words, her neck snapping back in a fit of laughter.

The dreams are always silent. I don’t hear her laughter. I don’t hear her say the words. But I always know exactly what she is saying. I know how her voice sounds saying it. And I know exactly what her laughter sounds like: the notes quickly rising to a shriek.

I look cautiously around, check that no one is watching. Then I flip the newspaper, curling my shoulders inwards and craning my neck down to peer at her face. I look at her snub chin, the almonds of her eyes, ripe berry of her mouth. I see there is a lock of hair in her face. I reach my hand out. I attempt to brush it away with the tip of my finger.