Woman as a Foreign Language

by Katherine Wyvern

  At the bedroom door she turns me around, and we walk back.

  “Look at the kitchen door. That’s where we are going. Don’t look at your feet. You don’t look at the handlebars when you ride a bicycle, do you? One foot in front of the other. In a line. Well done. See, you are a natural.”

  That makes me laugh. A natural, at what? Hanging on for dear life while Julia more or less carries me around her flat? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  After a couple of turns Julia lets go of me, and goes to sit on the sofa. She lights herself a cigarette, and I stand uncertainly where she left me.

  “Don’t stop. Do a couple turns more. You are doing fine.”

  Her smile is contagious. I can’t help grinning.

  “Well, there you go, you are walking in heels. Not so hard, no? You need to take a walk or two up and down the stairs. Once you can walk downstairs in heels, you can do anything.”

  I nod, although I am not so convinced that I would go far on a rough pavement, with steps and ramps and potholes and all those man-traps that architects are scattering around the place out of pure mischief.

  “We might have to think about something to go with those boots,” she muses, regarding my signature evening wear of discolored t-shirt and pajama bottoms with a somewhat critical expression. “Want to go shopping together? I am a fearsome shopper.”

  “Oh no, thanks,” I blurt out. I immediately regret it. It would have been splendid to go shopping with Julia, but since the damage is done, honesty forces me to add, “I have more clothes than I could wear in a lifetime. Pretty clothes I mean. Not just working clothes. It’s just that … I don’t like wearing them at home. Or anywhere, really. So they are just sitting there, in all these boxes.”

  She looks at me curiously. The way she holds her cigarette makes her long, pale, elegant fingers truly stand out, more beautiful than ever. I wonder if she smokes only to show off her hands.

  “It’s a long story,” I say vaguely.

  “Tell me. I have all night.”

  She pats the sofa again, and pours anther cup of tea. I don’t think I can talk about it. What would I say? I take off my pretty boots, and Julia’s stockings, to gain some time, and avoid those piercing eyes of hers.

  “It’s just, you know, stupid stuff that happened a million years ago. It doesn’t matter really. It’s just that … it’s awkward. At my place, I mean. If I wore this sort of thing, it would be … remarked upon.”

  “And being remarked upon is bad?”

  “Depends on the remarks, I suppose. But yes, I expect in this case it would be bad.”

  She just looks at me, but her eyes really are a force of nature. There’s no hiding from them.

  “My father was … not nice,” I say, finally. “Made things—difficult—for my mom. And me. It was just, you know, better to go unnoticed. Not—not to show off. Now he—he doesn’t live with us anymore, but my mother … you’d think she’d be happy about it. But she isn’t. She is just. I don’t know. Useless. It makes me sound awful, I know. But. She—I don’t know. Doesn’t do anything for herself anymore. She has, like, given up. I don’t know. She just eats. A lot. And she. Doesn’t want me to be … she just doesn’t want me to be, really. If I had a penny for every time she told me she should have had an abortion, I would have a house in the country with a garden and a pony by now.” I give an edgy little laugh, out of sheer nerves.

  I have never talked about this. With anyone. Although the whole building must know how things are, more or less. “He was awful, too. Maybe that’s why she misses him. And it’s like she blames me.”

  “She blames you for what?” she asks, softly.

  “She blames me because she thinks that I … that I … wanted it. Him. To. Do things. I didn’t. And. I am the one who called the police, in the end. Somebody had to.”

  Julia frowns, and then her long, long hand touches briefly on my shoulder, squeezing gently.

  “You shouldn’t let that—you shouldn’t let your mother stop you from being what you want to be. You have a right to live your own life.”

  “I know. I know … it’s so stupid. It’s just … so bloody difficult. I don’t know where to start. I am stuck. I am completely stuck.”

  She gives me a little smile.

  “Bring your pretty things here, some evening. We can do … something girly together. Dress up. Have a drink somewhere. Go see a movie? Talk about things.”

  I am so astonished that something must have shown on my face. She shrugs.

  “I don’t know anyone around here, really, except Abbie. I could do with a friend or two.”

  I smile at the idea that gorgeous, glamorous Julia would need me for a friend.

  All of a sudden, I feel overwhelmed by her kindness. I feel like I want to cry on her shoulder, or maybe just go away and hide, and either would be unforgivable.

  I have dreamed of her for so long, and imagined her as something so high and lofty, that this caring, generous person seems more of a stranger than she ever was before. She is wonderful, but also she is not my Julia anymore. There was a Julia in my dreams, whom I imagined so hard that I felt like I knew her. Now she has unexpectedly become a real person that I hardly recognize, and I have never been very good at dealing with real persons. Right now, I am at a loss, disoriented.

  “It would be nice,” I say, a bit uncertain.

  “Excellent. Shall we say Friday then?”

  I nod. I feel exhausted, as if I ran a mile. She smiles at me with a somewhat concerned look, and squeezes my shoulder again.

  I feel tears welling up and I will them away with an enormous effort, but after that, and yet another cup of tea, chatting is easier somehow.

  It is late, very late, when I finally get up from her sofa.

  “Well, I should go back, I suppose. I—I might have to fix some mess. That I made. Thank you so much for the tea. And, and everything else.”

  She smiles. There is a heart-breaking sweetness to her smile sometimes, and this is one of those times.

  “You are welcome. Anytime. I mean it. If you need to get out in a hurry, barefoot. You can always drop in here. Do you have keys to get back to your place?”

  A very perceptive question. I shake my head. I left in such a hurry that I didn’t even take them. Julia frowns a little.

  “Don’t worry, there’s a spare hidden in the cellar … and I know how to open the cellar.”

  “Ok. Do you want a pair of socks at least?”

  I laugh a little and shake my head. “I’ll be fine, but thanks, really.”

  I am halfway to the door when a thought niggles at me.

  “Can I leave these here, please?” I ask, handing her Lizzie’s boots. “I don’t think they like it much at my place.”

  For a moment, she looks perfectly nonplussed. Then, mercifully, she laughs.

  “Sure, over here.” She points at the passage to her bedroom, and there, in a narrow locker along the wall, stand just about all the boots in the world. Thigh high and ankle high and knee high, red suede and black leather, pale tan daim and silver velvet, all with high heels. Julia does not believe in flat shoes, apparently. It’s like I hit the world’s motherlode of sexy winter footwear. I place my boots at the end of the line. They look tiny and a bit self-conscious, but I am sure they will soon make friends.

  “Friday, then?” she asks as I finally go out of the door.

  “Friday.” I nod, with a last look back at her tall straight shape, darkly silhouetted in the bright lit doorway.

  ****

  Julia

  Julia was curled up on her sofa with a cigarette held loosely between her fingers. She was staring at the endless rain that pebbled the window panes. She had lost count of how many days of rain they had had this month.

  In fact, she was not so much staring at the rain, as staring through it, as her mind wandered and smoke rings floated slowly away towards the ceiling.

  Nina.

  What to do about her?

  When she had d
arted out of her door after that bloodcurdling shriek, and practically fallen into her arms with that utterly crazed expression, all of Julia’s troublesome protective reflexes had kicked in, and of course she had brought her home like a stray kitten to be fed and cuddled and taken care of. Julian had a lot to answer for. Julia felt more than a little inclined to be rescued, for a change (possibly by an attractive hunk, why not?) than to go about rescuing others, but there was no getting rid of Julian’s pesky male habits.

  Nina was not a kitten, though. A warm towel and a saucer of milk would not do the trick.

  What a strange, strange creature that girl is, she thought.

  Nina’s story had hardly come as much of a surprise. Given the neighborhood, Abbie’s unusual reticence, and the scream she had heard, Julia had already guessed the gist of it before Nina had managed to speak it out, in those broken, curtailed, elliptical sentences, hinting more often than saying. Julia wondered where that twice damned father was now. Nina had said only, “he does not live here anymore”. Julia hoped he was in jail, or better still, dead in some unmarked grave, with an iron stake planted through his filthy guts.

  Nina. She was a curious mixture of defiance and diffidence that had Julia equally puzzled and entranced. She had not expected the oversized, faded blue working clothes to be, well, actual working clothes. The girl was the size of a particularly puny mouse. How on earth had she ended up working as a welder, for crying out loud? And she was proud of her job. Julia was taken aback by that, too. With two university degrees and half a lifetime of highly respected academic work behind her, she was not used to think of manual labor as a great career achievement, but maybe she needed to make a mental adjustment here.

  That girl is proud of doing a man’s job as well as a man does. That is something to think about, before going and judging her choice of profession. Still, how come nobody ever encouraged her to make something better with herself? How come nobody told her that doing a man’s job, or being a man for that matter, is not all that it is cracked up to be? And how is it possible that in thirty-odd years of life nobody ever bothered to put a pretty blouse on her, or a bit of mascara? That girl is pretty, damn it, or would be, if she wanted to. What a waste. What a sad, sad waste. That mother of hers… God, I’d give her a piece of my mind.

  Of course, it didn’t look like Nina had ever even tried escaping that family tangle until now. Julia wondered what had brought about the change, and, on a sudden whim, walked over to the passage and scooped up Nina’s boots. They were endearingly tiny, and very well made. Not cheap boots. They were also, obviously, well worn, not a recent buy. It had certainly not been Nina wearing them, judging by how panicked she had looked walking in them. Julia wondered where they had come from, and if they had a special meaning to Nina. She didn’t treat them like inanimate objects. She had left them in Julia’s keeping as if they might get hurt, else. Julia frowned. Nina must have some experience of getting hurt, in that flat.

  Something must be done. Julia doubted she could induce Nina to move out of that dreadful family, or talk her into a change of career, or anything equally useful. But. There was a girl hidden in there, and she wanted to come out, and see the light. All she needed was a little push. And someone had to give that push. But who? Abbie should have done it. She should have done it years ago. She knew the girl since she was a child. Knew the family, knew the neighborhood. Abbie was not exactly a friend, but Julia liked her, and despite Abbie’s assumed frivolous manner, Julia knew that she was not an idiot.

  How come she never took Nina under her wing and helped her do something?

  Julia had no answer.

  Fine, I guess it will have to be me. That much at least I can do.

  And what do I do about Julian?

  Truth be told, Julia had no idea if Nina had figured out how things were. Usually you could read that on people faces easily enough, but with Nina it was hard to tell. She had been in such a turmoil of conflicting emotions to begin with. And there was this look about her, when she gazed up to Julia’s face, half deferential, half disbelieving. What was that look about, exactly? The deference put Julia in mind of some of her most star-struck students. Embarrassingly, there were always one or two every year who fell in love with Julian, boys and girls both. It was a sad nuisance. It’s hard to give decent marks to a hopelessly tongue-tied student.

  The disbelief, though, that was a mystery.

  In any case it didn’t seem very correct to go and do “girly” things together if Nina was not aware of how things were. Julia was at a loss. She had had quite a few experiences, more or less disastrous, sometimes hilarious, sometimes utterly heart-breaking, of coming out to family, friends, and lovers. But this reverse come out was practically a first. Well, there was only one way to go about it. I just hope it doesn’t scare her right off. That would be a pity.

  And as for the rest… It was time to talk to Abbie. She could pick the right foundation shade for any person at a glance, and had all that was needed in that suitcase of hers. That would save a shopping trip. And it was time the woman made herself useful. There were times when baking cakes was just not enough.

  ****

  Nina

  On Friday evening, after my lonely dinner of scrambled eggs on toast, of which I manage to eat almost half before it is whisked away from my dish and into the pudding, I pack some of my nice clothes and the parcel in a plastic bag. The clothes are nothing too outrageous. I have spent more time than I dare to admit choosing them. No evening dress with sequins. It’s a pair of leggings (tan and suede-soft) and a sort of short dress (black jersey) which hangs halfway to my knees. It’s not really a skirt, but it could almost be. It doesn’t look too different from one of my overlarge t-shirts. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, lest I chicken out. And I have knee-high stockings, freshly bought. There is also a nice dark green coat, in case we really go out, and a scarf. The scarf is this soft wool, dark brown but gleaming with a twist of silvery thread in the knitting. It is the only sparkly thing I picked.

  “Where are you going?” asks the pudding, before I am halfway to the door.

  “Out,” I say, tersely.

  “Out? What do you mean out?”

  The way she says it you’d think she has no idea that this flat-block has been built on planet Earth. You’d think we are floating in a shuttle orbiting somewhere outside the rings of Saturn.

  “I mean outside of this flat, and to another place,” I answer testily. I don’t stay to hear the answer. She is somewhat cowed after I landed her flat in the passage, but still she won’t mind her own business. I don’t feel like listening to her nagging.

  The six-doors walk up the hallway looks almost endless, and then it ends much too soon. My heart is beating hard and fast in my throat to think that I am going to see Julia in a moment, that she is just one bell-ring away, that I don’t have to wait for weeks hoping to catch a chance glimpse of her, that she invited me to come back, that she spoke to me, and held my hands, that she wants to be my friend, that maybe we will go out somewhere this evening. I don’t know what the plan for the evening is. Just the thought of seeing her makes me almost sick with expectation.

  I ring the bell very briefly, as if to say, I am here, as you asked, but if it was a misunderstanding, if it is something I dreamed up in my head, I don’t want to bother you.

  I just can’t believe that she really wants to see me again, is all. After all, I almost landed her flat as well, in the hallway, when I ran into her chin first. If the laws of gravity applied to her as to normal human beings, things might have turned embarrassing, the other night.

  It takes several seconds before something moves on the other side of the door and I am almost ready to make my way back home. It did seem just too good to be true, after all. But then there’s a scuff of feet on the floor, and the click of the door handle. I can almost already see Julia. I have seen her so, so often in my dreams that I know exactly what she’ll look like when the door opens.

 
; The door is opened by a spray of freckles.

  There is no other way to put it. My first thought is that I have never seen so many freckles walking about as one single person, not even on St. Patrick’s Day.

  The face behind the freckles is friendly, pale, and male. He’s a tall, very slim man, maybe in his mid-thirties or a bit older, dressed in blue jeans and a tailored white shirt, with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

  “Hola! Come in!” he says stepping back from the doorway and waving me in. I step inside the flat automatically, looking about the room. There is no Julia. When I turn to look at him, he looks oddly, vaguely familiar, for someone that I have never seen, and he seems at home in the flat, given that he’s barefoot, and he’s holding a mug of tea and a cigarette in one hand. I wonder if he’s Julia’s boyfriend, the owner of the men boots I saw by the door last time I was here. Maybe I met him about the building without really noticing him and that’s why he looks familiar? But it seems improbable. While not prepossessingly handsome, I don’t think this guy could possibly ever go unnoticed even if he tried. Even aside from the extravagant freckle-show, there is something weirdly captivating about him.

  “Er … I came to see Julia,” I say, rather hesitantly as he closes the door behind me.

  “I know. You found her. I’m her. Well, I’m Julian. And Julia. Sometimes.”

  I have no idea what he is talking about. I just stand there with my bag in my hands, staring at him.

  Then he looks at me with intense, piercing green eyes, and suddenly all that is familiar about him falls into place.

  Holy shit, oh, holy, holy, holy shit, I know those eyes. I know them, I know them, I know them!

  I know that I need a seat, and I wonder if I can find my way, backwards, to the sofa. Too risky. God only knows what I will knock over.

  They are different, those eyes, without makeup. Not so instantly enthralling, and yet, still, once they catch my gaze, they hold it. They are still absolutely magnetic. And his hands, his nose, chin, ears … everything is … Julia. Even his hair is Julia’s hair, although it is sleeked back in a demure ponytail, instead of a windswept mane of sun-kissed waves, as Julia wears it.