by Zadie Smith
‘You look like a picture of a girl I saw in a French painting!’ Katy said. ‘It was a painting of a girl who dropped her pail . . .’
‘Here,’ Soleil said, returning with something in her hand. The electronic heart pin. Soleil pinned it onto the slip, right above Gabrielle’s real heart, and turned it on.
‘What do you think?’ Katy said.
Gabrielle stared at the mirror. She couldn’t focus on anything she was seeing - she saw a ghostly shape and a flashing light. She didn’t look anything like herself, and, at the moment, this was an enormous relief. The stone in her throat was gone.
‘Look at her,’ Soleil said. ‘She’s fucking gorgeous.’
‘I wish,’ Katy said, ‘I wish I had a pail for her to carry.’
They arrived at the boat late.
‘We were about to leave without you,’ said the man taking their tickets. He was wearing jeans with suspenders. Gabrielle looked around: all of the passengers appeared to have come straight from a game of tennis or a hike. Was anyone else wearing lingerie as a dress?
A horn blew and the boat started moving. Soleil and Katy waved at the two or three people on the shore as though they were setting out on a two week cruise.
At the dinner buffet, Gabrielle moved quickly, passing over food she liked, anything to expedite getting to a chair and not bringing attention to her clothing. She spotted an empty table at the back of the dining room and suggested they sit there.
‘What? No, this one’s better,’ Katy said, pointing to a table near the dance floor. Two men wearing patterned shirts were already there.
‘It’s your lucky night,’ Katy said to them, as she and Soleil and Gabrielle sat down. Their names were Keith and Peter, and both had firm handshakes and deep tans. As the sun set and the cold came over the lake, Gabrielle wished she had brought a jacket. Her mother would have packed one for her.
A man with a sombrero came by each table with roses. Keith bought one and gave it to Gabrielle.
‘Really?’ she said. Keith’s eyes, she noticed, were like her dad’s - green and feline.
‘Yes, a rose for a budding rose,’ Keith said.
‘It smells amazing,’ she said, though it didn’t.
Soleil looked at Keith intently, as if he were a full glass of wine she didn’t want to spill.
After dinner Keith danced with Soleil, and Peter danced with Katy. Gabrielle moved to the edge of the boat and stared out at the water, at the moon. Everything looked the way it was supposed to look; nothing looked spectacular. She held the rose upright, twisting the stem in her fingers.
‘You’re too young for flowers,’ a voice said. Gabrielle turned to find two elderly women dressed in rain gear.
‘You should be at least fifteen before you get flowers,’ the other woman said. ‘Especially a rose.’
Gabrielle wanted to look at the sky and mime screaming, the way Soleil had done. But she couldn’t fake a scream. She couldn’t say a word. Instead, she walked away from the women and sat down at the table, watching the dance floor, and for the first time in her life she believed she understood the word regret. She regretted not saying anything to the women, she regretted the prickling of pride she’d felt when Henry Sam Stewart had mistaken Soleil for her mother.
The song ended, and Peter had his hands on Katy’s shoulders, steering her in the direction of their table. Soleil was pulling Keith by the hand, and he mockingly resisted. ‘Moon River’ began playing and he tried to twirl her. She twirled twice and Keith dipped her. It was the wrong sort of dance for the music, but Soleil looked thrilled. For a moment Gabrielle had an image of Soleil at age eight, riding a bike down a hill, her hands in the air.
Peter and Katy sat down clumsily at the table, and Peter slid a glass of water toward Katy and removed the glass of wine that sat in front of her.
‘What’d the grandmas want?’ Soleil asked, as she and Keith joined them. Gabrielle recounted what they had said.
‘Some people . . .’ Soleil said. Everyone waited for her to finish her sentence, but instead she refolded her napkin.
‘Hags!’ said Keith. ‘People get so jealous when they’re not getting any.’
‘Well, Bree’s not exactly getting any,’ Katy said. ‘And they’re still jealous.’
Everyone laughed, and Gabrielle made herself laugh too. If she didn’t, the joke would be on her.
By the time the boat docked, it was clear alcohol had affected Katy and Soleil in different ways: Soleil was loud and Katy was quiet. Peter and Keith drove them all back to Katy’s house. Gabrielle was anxious for the night to be over, for Katy and Soleil to wake up the next day, sober and casually dressed.
‘Goodnight, thank you,’ Gabrielle said, when Keith’s car pulled up to Katy’s house.
Everyone laughed again.
‘They’re coming in for a night-cap,’ Soleil explained, as Keith circled around the car, opening each of the doors.
They all spilled into Katy’s living room, which, Gabrielle thought, suddenly seemed too small to accommodate their limbs, their smells, their shrieks. The adults must have felt the same way: within a minute Keith and Soleil pretended to race each other into the guest room; Peter and Katy stumbled into the master bedroom.
Gabrielle slept on the itchy living room couch. Or tried to - noises filled the house. Doors closed and toilets flushed and a bed squeaked like a child’s toy.
In the morning Gabrielle woke to Soleil’s voice coming from the porch: ‘Are you sure I can’t make you waffles?’
Gabrielle sat up and looked out of the open window.
‘That’s okay, doll,’ Keith said. ‘I gotta skedaddle.’
At the edge of the porch, Keith kissed Soleil hard and then walked toward his car. Without turning around, he lifted his hand and waved goodbye.
Soleil came back into the house. Her eyes met Gabrielle’s. ‘W-w-w-what are you l-l-l-looking at?’ she said.
Gabrielle ran out the door and followed Keith to his car. ‘Excuse me,’ she called out.
‘Well, look who’s awake,’ Keith said, putting on his seatbelt. The top button on his shirt was hanging from a long thread. ‘Good morning, camper.’
‘Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?’
He opened his glove compartment and handed her a pad of paper and a pen. At the top of the pad was a cartoon drawing of a man skiing. The caption said: ‘Life is good.’
‘Here’s where I live,’ Gabrielle said, as she wrote down her address. ‘Soleil will be home with my family after the weekend.’
‘Okay, partner,’ Keith said, taking the paper from her like it was a receipt. ‘I thank you kindly.’
Gabrielle had no idea why he was talking the way he was. She walked back to the house, where Soleil was standing in the living room. It was clear she’d been watching through the window. ‘What were you doing?’ she said, accusingly.
‘Giving him my address.’
‘What?’ Soleil said.
‘So he knows where to find you this week.’
‘W-w-why would he need to find me?’
‘To apologize,’ Gabrielle said.
Soleil tightened her fingers into fists. She mimed screaming at the ceiling, she mimed screaming at the wall. Finally, she turned to Gabrielle with eyes that were strangely dull, dark as wet soil. ‘Oh, grow up,’ she said.
Roy Spivey
Miranda July
Twice I have sat next to a famous man on an airplane. The first man was Jason Kidd of the New Jersey Nets. I asked him why he didn’t fly first class, and he said that it was because his cousin worked for United.
‘Wouldn’t that be all the more reason to get first class?’
‘It’s cool,’ he said, unfurling his legs into the aisle.
I let it go, because what do I know about the ins and outs of being a sports celebrity? We didn’t talk for the rest of the flight.
I can’t say the name of the second famous person, but I will tell you that he is a Hollywood heart-throb who is m
arried to a starlet. Also, he has the letter V in his first name. That’s all - I can’t say anything more than that. Think espionage. OK, the end - that really is all. I’ll call him Roy Spivey, which is almost an anagram of his name.
If I were a more self-assured person I would not have volunteered to give up my seat on an overcrowded flight, would not have been upgraded to first class, would not have been seated beside him. This was my reward for being a pushover. He slept for the first hour, and it was startling to see such a famous face look so vulnerable and empty. He had the window seat and I had the aisle, and I felt as though I were watching over him, protecting him from the bright lights and the paparazzi. Sleep, little spy, sleep. He’s actually not little, but we’re all children when we sleep. For this reason, I always let men see me asleep early on in a relationship. It makes them realize that, even though I am five feet eleven, I am fragile and need to be taken care of. A man who can see the weakness of a giant knows that he is a man indeed. Soon small women make him feel almost fey - and, lo, he now has a thing for tall women.
Roy Spivey shifted in his seat, waking. I quickly shut my own eyes, and then slowly opened them, as if I, too, had been sleeping. Oh, but he hadn’t quite opened his yet. I shut mine again and right away opened them, slowly, and he opened his, slowly, and our eyes met, and it seemed as if we had woken from a single sleep, from the dream of our entire lives. Me, a tall but otherwise undistinguished woman; he a distinguished spy, but not really, just an actor, but not really, just a man, maybe even just a boy. That’s the other way that my height can work on men, the more common way: I become their mother.
We talked ceaselessly for the next two hours, having the conversation that is specifically about everything. He told me intimate details about his wife, the beautiful Ms M. Who would have guessed that she was so troubled?
‘Oh, yeah, everything in the tabloids is true.’
‘It is?’
‘Yeah, especially about her eating disorder.’
‘But the affairs?’
‘No, not the affairs, of course not. You can’t believe the ’bloids.’
‘ ’Bloids?’
‘We call them ’bloids. Or tabs.’
When the meals were served it felt as if we were eating breakfast in bed together, and when I got up to use the bathroom he joked, ‘You’re leaving me!’
And I said, ‘I’ll be back!’
As I walked up the aisle, many of the passengers stared at me, especially the women. Word had traveled fast in this tiny flying village. Perhaps there were even some ’bloid writers on the flight. There were definitely some ’bloid readers. Had we been talking loudly? It seemed to me that we were whispering. I looked in the mirror while I was peeing and wondered if I was the plainest person he had ever talked to. I took off my blouse and tried to wash under my arms, which isn’t really possible in such a small bathroom. I tossed handfuls of water toward my armpits and they landed on my skirt. It was made from the kind of fabric that turns much darker when it is wet. This was a real situation I had got myself into. I acted quickly, taking off my skirt and soaking the whole thing in the sink, then wringing it out and putting it back on. I smoothed it out with my hands. There. It was all a shade darker now. I walked back down the aisle, being careful not to touch anyone with my dark skirt.
When Roy Spivey saw me he shouted, ‘You came back!’
And I laughed and he said, ‘What happened to your skirt?’
I sat down and explained the whole thing, starting with the armpits. He listened quietly until I was done.
‘So were you able to wash your armpits in the end?’
‘No.’
‘Are they smelly?’
‘I think so.’
‘I can smell them and tell you.’
‘No.’
‘It’s OK. It’s part of showbiz.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Here.’
He leaned over and pressed his nose against my shirt.
‘It’s smelly.’
‘Oh. Well, I tried to wash it.’
But he was standing up now, climbing past me to the aisle and rummaging around in the overhead bin. He fell back into his seat dramatically, holding a pump bottle.
‘It’s Febreze.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard about that.’
‘It dries in seconds, taking odor with it. Lift up your arms.’
I lifted my arms and with great focus he pumped three hard sprays under each sleeve.
‘It’s best if you keep your arms out until it dries.’
I held them out. One arm extended into the aisle and the other arm crossed his chest, my hand pressing against the window. It was suddenly obvious how tall I was. Only a very tall woman could shoulder such a wingspan. He stared at my arm in front of his chest for a moment, then he growled and bit it. Then he laughed. I laughed, too, but I did not know what this was, this biting of my arm.
‘What was that?’
‘That means I like you!’
‘OK.’
‘Do you want to bite me?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t like me?’
‘No, I do.’
‘Is it because I’m famous?’
‘No.’
‘Just because I’m famous doesn’t mean I don’t need what everyone else needs. Here, bite me anywhere. Bite my shoulder.’
He slid back his jacket, unbuttoned the first four buttons on his shirt and pulled it back, exposing a large, tanned shoulder. I leaned over and very quickly bit it lightly, and then picked up my SkyMall catalogue and began reading. After a minute he re-buttoned himself and slowly picked up his copy of SkyMall. We read like this for a good half-hour.
During this time I was careful not to think about my life. My life was far below us, in an orangey-pink stucco apartment building. It seemed as though I might never have to return to it now. The salt of his shoulder buzzed on the tip of my tongue. I might never stand in the middle of the living room and wonder what to do next. I sometimes stood there for up to two hours, unable to generate enough momentum to eat, to go out, to clean, to sleep. It seemed unlikely that someone who had just bitten and been bitten by a celebrity would have this kind of problem.
I read about vacuum cleaners designed to suck insects out of the air. I studied self-heating towel racks and fake rocks that could hide a key. We were beginning our descent. We adjusted our seat backs and tray-tables. Roy Spivey suddenly turned to me and said, ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ I said.
‘Hey, I had an amazing time with you.’
‘I did, too.’
‘I’m going to write down a number and I want you to guard it with your life.’
‘OK.’
‘This phone number falls into the wrong hands and I’ll have to get someone to change the number and that is a big headache.’
‘OK.’
He wrote the number on a page from the SkyMall catalogue and ripped it out and pressed it into my palm.
‘This is my kid’s nanny’s personal line. The only people who call her on this line are her boyfriend and her son. So she’ll always answer it. You’ll always get through. And she’ll know where I am.’
I looked at the number.
‘It’s missing a digit.’
‘I know, I want you to just memorize the last number, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘It’s four.’
We turned our faces to the front of the plane and Roy Spivey gently took my hand. I was still holding the paper with the number, so he held it with me. I felt warm and simple. Nothing bad could ever happen to me while I was holding hands with him, and when he let go I would have the number that ended in four. I’d wanted a number like this my whole life. The plane landed gracefully, like an easily drawn line. He helped me pull my carry-on bag down from the bin; it looked obscenely familiar.
‘My people are going to be waiting for me out there, so I won’t be able to say goodbye properly.’
‘I know. That’s al
l right.’
‘No, it really isn’t. It’s a travesty.’
‘But I understand.’
‘OK, here’s what I’m going to do. Just before I leave the airport I’m going to come up to you and say, “Do you work here?” ’
‘It’s OK. I really do understand.’
‘No, this is important to me. I’ll say, “Do you work here?” And then you say your part.’
‘What’s my part?’
‘You say, “No.” ’
‘OK.’
‘And I’ll know what you mean. We’ll know the secret meaning.’
‘OK.’
We looked into each other’s eyes in a way that said that nothing else mattered as much as us. I asked myself if I would kill my parents to save his life, a question I had been posing since I was fifteen. The answer always used to be yes. But in time all those boys had faded away and my parents were still there. I was now less and less willing to kill them for anyone; in fact, I worried for their health. In this case, however, I had to say yes. Yes, I would.
We walked down the tunnel between the plane and real life, and then, without so much as a look in my direction, he glided away from me.
I tried not to look for him in the baggage-claim area. He would find me before he left. I went to the bathroom. I claimed my bag. I drank from the water fountain. I watched children hit each other. Finally, I let my eyes crawl over everyone. They were all not him, every single one of them. But they all knew his name. Those who were talented at drawing could have drawn him from memory, and everyone else could certainly have described him, if they’d had to, say, to a blind person - the blind being the only people who wouldn’t know what he looked like. And even the blind would have known his wife’s name, and a few of them would have known the name of the boutique where his wife had bought a lavender tank top and matching boy-shorts. Roy Spivey was both nowhere to be found, and everywhere. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me, do you work here?’
It was him. Except that it wasn’t him, because there was no voice in his eyes; his eyes were mute. He was acting. I said my line.
