Читать книгу Bellagrand - Paullina Simons - Страница 34

SUNDAY FROM NOON TO TWO.

Harry asks if she brought him the newspaper.

Gina hands him the newspaper.

He leafs through it purposefully. He is clean-shaven. When she asks why he always shaves, he says they make him shave on Sundays. It’s God’s day, they tell him. It’s also visitors’ day. They want me to look my best for you, with my prison pajamas and my clean-shaven face.

She wants to ask if she looks her best for him. She wears a white crepe de chine blouse and a plaid fitted skirt. He likes it best when she wears fitted styles to emphasize on her the things that he used to murmur he loved. Her tapered waist. Her long arms and legs. Her slender hips. Her high breasts. Her smooth neck like royalty’s, the throat he loves to lay his lips upon.

His gray eyes are not full of bliss. They’re sad and solemn, and they barely glance at her as he reads, as he holds out his hand for a smoke, the ring gone from his finger a long time. There are scrapes and scratches on his knotted knuckles she hasn’t seen before. She wants to reach across the partition and take his hand, but he is holding the newspaper.

The hour passes. Another conjugal Sunday with Harry. Like Mass earlier in the day: the liturgy, the supplication, the sermon, the presentation of gifts, the laments. The dry Communion. The guard calls time. Gina stands for Harry, as earlier she stood for Jesus, and collects her bag.

He stares at the newspaper for another moment. Then he gets up too.

I’ll see you next Sunday, okay, mio marito? she says. Be well. She bows her head.

Don’t forget to bring me the newspaper.

Of course. I won’t forget.

Last week you forgot.

Ah. Yes. I’m sorry. I won’t forget.

Is it cold out? He glances at the light coat she has put on, the thin crepe beige wool.

It’s crisp. Not too cold yet.

The leaves?

They’re falling.

Mimoo?

She is good.

Are you still with Rose?

On the weekends, yes.

He is silent for just one moment too long. You don’t work in these clothes, do you? he says. His eyes are on her white silk blouse.

No, I change to come see you.

He nods. You always look so fresh, as if you just ran in from outside.

I did, she says, run in from outside.

They stand face to face, the table, the barrier between them. They blink at each other, wary, affectionate, sorrowful.

Have you heard from Purdy?

Not yet, she says. But last time I saw him, he said it all looked good for Christmas.

Now it’s really time for her to go. His hand squeezes into a fist.

So what words of wisdom does our holy Rose have for me this week?

Gina puts on her hat, ties the silk ribbons under her chin. He doesn’t take his eyes off her.

There can be art and love, Rose says, but art and economics are mutually exclusive.

Harry nods, as if he approves. But not economics and war, he says. Because millions of boys are about to be slaughtered for economics. Perhaps someone will draw a picture of the carnage. Then they can call it art.

She turns to leave. He turns to leave. At the door she turns to glance at him one last time. He has already turned. She sees his eyes on her, profound, somber, unwilling to let her go. She raises her gloved fingers to her lips and blows him a lingering kiss. He disappears through the steel-reinforced door. Slowly she leaves too, flagellating herself with another thing Rose said: Those whose hands are pure don’t need to glove them.

Because the pumpkin farm and the corn maze await.