Soul

by Tobsha Learner

  ‘Baby, can’t you see we’re having a female-to-female moment?’

  ‘No, all I see is your usual polarisation of a situation that is causing Julia some distress.’ He turned to Julia. ‘Forgive Naomi, she thinks the world is one giant Playstation: abandoned women against callous men.’

  ‘I see you’ve moved on from Dr Seuss.’

  ‘Yeah, and my balls have dropped too.’

  ‘I brought Gabriel here with an ulterior motive,’ Naomi said to Julia. ‘He’s in his first year at Cal-Tech.’

  ‘That’s right, you got the Xandox company fellowship. Congratulations.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m one of the multi-corporation’s greatest assets, they just don’t know it yet,’ he retorted cynically. Again, he dropped his eyes and shuffled his feet, but this time Julia could see that he was quite shy beneath the bravado.

  ‘The course is okay,’ he went on, ‘but limited in the area of functional genetics, which is what I really want to major in.’

  ‘And he’s looking for a summer placement in a lab,’ Naomi finished.

  Julia looked down at her hands; her wedding ring, now loose from weight loss, seemed to wink up at her like a bad joke. A small cut on her index finger had started bleeding and she hadn’t even noticed. The last thing she needed right now was to look after some precocious college student.

  ‘Naomi, I’m right in the middle of a horrible separation, the lawyers are on my back, and the most ambitious piece of research I’ve ever taken on has to be completed in the next six months…’

  Namoi lost her temper. ‘Fine! Whatever! You’ve always placed your career before your friends, so why on earth I thought you might change now I really don’t know!’

  She grabbed Gabriel and began hauling him towards the front door. Pulling himself free, Gabriel stood squarely in front of Julia.

  ‘I topped biology, math, physics and science this year. I speak and write fluent Spanish. I want to get into bio-tech. That’s the future—brain chemistry, stem cells, the genome. I’ve read all your papers, including the infamous one you presented at The Violence Initiative.’

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘Simplistic in the socio-economics area, but solid for its era.’

  Naomi pulled at his T-shirt. ‘Gabriel, you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘I’ve read Rosalind Franklin’s work, I’ve also ploughed through Barbara McClintock, Linus Pauling, and Watson’s The Double Helix—like twice. I dare you to mentor me, it’ll make you famous.’ He delivered the speech as a rap, mimicking a rapper’s shuffle and hand gestures.

  ‘I don’t know, the commission is huge,’ Julia said. ‘I have a couple of people working for me in Washington State and the mid-west but in total I have to interview and test five hundred twins.’

  ‘Let me guess—that old chestnut, violence and genetics?’

  ‘It’s not an “old chestnut”; it’s a very important and potentially contentious part of the future of genetics.’

  ‘Cool, I’m into contentious.’

  Julia glanced down at Gabriel’s large hands; they seemed adult before the rest of him, his skinny wrists a vulnerable contrast.

  ‘You know the hours are long and the pay is lousy?’

  ‘I don’t care. I’ll work for free if I have to. I’m ambitious. Cal-Tech is kindergarten in comparison.’

  ‘Please, Julia.’ Naomi, regretful for losing her temper, put her hand on Julia’s shoulder, as if touch might sway her.

  ‘You’ll be up against several doctorate students at the top of their field, and you’d have to keep up with me.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t get my scholarship for nothing.’

  Julia turned to Naomi. ‘It just so happens there is a vacancy, but he’d have to start almost immediately.’

  ‘I’m free after June the first, and that’s like next week,’ Gabriel answered before his mother had a chance. Naomi’s eyebrows shot up; she’d never seen her son volunteer for anything so enthusiastically before.

  ‘Okay,’ Julia fianlly replied, ‘but your mother will have to drive you to the lab and pick you up afterwards.’

  ‘Hey, I’m nineteen. I drive,’ Gabriel growled, but grinned anyway.

  ‘Thanks.’ Naomi hugged Julia. ‘And don’t worry about Klaus and Carla—I’m sure it is only a temporary hormonal relapse. He’ll come to his senses.’ She seemed to have conveniently forgotten her original argument.

  As the front door closed, Julia’s loneliness sucked her back like a vacuum.

  30

  Mayfair, 1861

  LAVINIA HAD INHERITED A PARLOUR of her own from the Viscountess; a small room tucked away at the back of the house, it was located on the ground floor and had French doors that opened directly onto the garden. Lavinia suspected it might have once functioned as a storage room of some sort, and that the Viscountess had had it furnished for herself almost as a secret folly. Situated away from the kitchen and servants quarters, it was a refuge in the mornings when most of the servants were occupied in other parts of the mansion.

  Against one wall stood an oak bookcase full of books Lavinia had brought from Ireland; amongst them novels by Victor Hugo, George Sand and Thackeray, plus a slender volume entitled Prison hours: a diary of Marie Lafarge wrongfully imprisoned for the murder of her husband. It was the autobiography of a young French woman who claimed she had been erroneously accused of her husband’s murder. A celebrated crime de passion, the case had gripped the imagination of Lavinia’s father and the British and French public. It had provoked moral outrage, dividing those who supported the wife (she had suffered great physical abuse) from those who condemned her as a heinous criminal, viewing murder of one’s husband as an effrontery to the very stability of society. The Reverend Kane, appalled that the French should waive the death penalty, had written a letter to The Times. Years later, however, when the adolescent Lavinia secretly read the diary, she had greatly admired Madame Lafarge’s pursuit of idealistic love and her desperate attempt to free herself of an abusive husband forty years her senior.

  Lavinia now sat at a desk positioned below the bookcase, her head bent over the whispering box.

  Dear Mama, it has been a good three months since I arrived in Mayfair. At first the lack of female companionship and social engagement depressed me greatly. But now, since James asked me to assist him in the composition of his book, my days are filled with the most extraordinary intrigue as I walk beside him through the jungles of South Amazon, and experience his exhilaration and awe at the discovery of some exotic creature or primitive man. It has given us a new intimacy and I plan to reintroduce such sentiment to the bedroom, where my husband has, alas, been most absent of late…

  The rattle of pebbles against the French doors disturbed her. She looked up from the whispering box and opened one of the shutters. Aloysius stood on the other side, glancing around nervously. Lavinia indicated that he should wait. After wrapping the whispering box carefully in a silk kerchief and hiding it in a drawer, she went to the parlour door. She checked that none of the servants were lingering in the corridor outside, then locked the door and quickly opened the French doors to let the coachman in.

  ‘You were not seen?’ she asked.

  ‘I believe not, madam.’

  ‘Good. I fear I am the subject of unnecessary malice amongst the servants; is it not so, Aloysius?’

  ‘They cannot place you, madam, and that always makes downstairs nervous.’

  ‘I thank you for your plain and honest speaking,’ Lavinia said, and pulled a blank sheet of paper from her writing desk. ‘So, we are to compose a letter to your brother.’ She dipped her pen into the inkpot. ‘I trust you have a correspondence prepared?’

  Every part of the coachman radiated agitation, as if the bulky awkwardness of his body belonged only in Nature. In this room, with its dainty furniture, delicate china and carved objects, he felt fettered and clumsy, fearful he could accidentally smash an ornament with an ill-judged stretch of his arm. Taking a
deep breath, he began dictating.

  ‘My dear Seamus, I am content to hear that you are safe and well. Five years is a long time not to hear from a brother.’ Lavinia’s nib squeaked against the paper as she raced to keep up. ‘I write to wish you good luck and courage in your soldiering, but also to tell you that our grandfather is now with the angels. He passed last spring and it were—’

  ‘Was, Aloysius; was is the correct tense.’

  ‘I will say it how I speak. Then he will know it is from me,’ he replied defiantly.

  Lavinia couldn’t help but smile. His vernacular brought Ireland right into her parlour. ‘In that case were shall stay. Pray continue.’ And, dipping her pen into the inkwell, she waited, nib poised.

  Aloysius paused, relishing the moment: the sight of a gentlewoman waiting for his command a furtive but satisfying pleasure.

  ‘And it was a grim and tortured struggle,’ he resumed. ‘In short I were happy to see him finally at peace. I have a good position here in London as head coachman. You always said I would get ahead. And I strive to send coin back to Ireland for our poor sister Maureen and her child, Peter. Now that you have an address, please write as often as you wish. Stay safe and may God’s protection be over you, Your brother Aloysius.’

  The pen continued to scratch into the silence.

  Aloysius, suddenly lost for the appropriate protocol, turned to leave.

  Such awkwardness in men always reminded Lavinia of bears, the likes of which she had once seen goaded into ridiculous antics at a visiting Russian circus in Dublin. She had felt for the animal then, his dignity destroyed as a short man in scarlet pantaloons danced around him shouting orders, the bear swaying in outraged bewilderment.

  ‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake, sit down. The chair will not bite.’

  And so the coachman sat, a little intimidated. Lavinia finished writing, then carefully secured the letter with a blob of sealing wax.

  ‘I have written the address on the outside; the postmaster should be able to deliver it,’ she said.

  ‘Many thanks, Mrs Huntington.’

  ‘My name is Lavinia.’

  Amazed, Aloysius stood up again, his large hands dangling uselessly. Lavinia, mortified at her audacity, could only conclude that she had been prompted by acute loneliness; as if she needed to hear her name spoken in the accent of her girlhood.

  ‘My apologies for my lapse of manners, and I have made you uncomfortable.’

  She went to the French doors and stared up at the skyline of chimneys leaking their inky spirals into the darkening sky.

  ‘Sometimes it is difficult to breath in London.’ Lavinia stretched her hand out and touched the glass for a moment then turned back, ‘The air is so foul and thick with industry. I miss Ireland and my father. I fear I might have taken his affection for granted in the past.’

  ‘Madam, my Ireland has been a grave for a good ten years and I’m thankful to be out of it. I am practical; I don’t long for memories that never were. I live only for now.’

  ‘A wise sentiment, but do you not also think of the future?’

  ‘Plans are for the rich,’ he replied bluntly, then regretted his harshness; was her birthright her fault?

  He is like a sealed box, Lavinia thought, watching him shifting restlessly in his knee-high riding boots. Did she trust him because he was from the same country, or was it because his obstinacy revealed a shared loathing of artifice?

  ‘There must be something you miss,’ she ventured.

  ‘I miss my horse; the salt on the night breeze when there’s a storm out at sea; and a small finch I had trained as a pet. The rest can go to Hell.’

  Lavinia held out the letter.

  ‘One day perhaps we will both go back.’

  ‘To Hell or to Ireland?’ he replied with a bitter smile.

  No matter how old or how young a person, the full flowering of spring, with its daffodils and crocuses, creates a renewal of sensuality, however icy the preceding winter.

  And so Lavinia found herself basking in a newfound optimism as she and James drove along Rotten Row, for it seemed as if the whole of Hyde Park was illuminated by a golden light that caught at the unfurling buds and tendrils.

  The notorious avenue, where reputations were both cemented and destroyed, was crowded with society’s elite: some on horseback; some in open carriages; some walking with nursemaids, children, lovers. This was the time for acquaintances to mend their rifts, for the desirer to ‘accidentally’ encounter the desired, for commercially minded men to exchange stock suggestions and the odd racing tips, and all the while advertising their most precious asset—their marriageable daughters. Some of the most important mergers of the powerful dynasties of the Empire had been initiated here under the seemingly innocent guise of a casual introduction. But nothing was casual in the choreography of this weekly pageant. Many were the mothers who encouraged their daughters in their horsemanship, knowing an upright spine, a well-fitting riding habit and a good seat to be as seductive as any beautifully performed Mozart sonata.

  Aloysius, dressed in his smartest livery, sat in front of the Huntingtons’ phaeton, guiding the two prancing geldings along the gravelled road. The Colonel, sitting next to Lavinia, who had Aidan on her lap, kept his eyes trained straight ahead, a tactic that enabled him to avoid acknowledging all but his oldest acquaintances or those worthy of introduction.

  ‘Colonel Huntington!’ Hamish Campbell rode up beside the phaeton and tipped his riding hat politely at the couple.

  ‘Colonel, I have taken the liberty of writing to the Anthropological Society of Paris and, after reading more of your work, I’m afraid I must canvass you again regarding the endorsement of my essay and the perusal of your Bakairi artefacts.’

  ‘You really are most persistent,’ the Colonel responded drily.

  ‘I am also a man who is not used to being refused, nor do I intend to make rejection a bedfellow,’ the young man replied, his arrogance offset by his charming delivery. ‘Would Sunday at three suit you?’

  ‘We will expect you on the hour,’ the Colonel replied, puzzled at how he had been manipulated into agreeing.

  ‘Until then, good afternoon, Mrs Huntington, Colonel.’ Tipping his hat again, Hamish Campbell trotted off.

  ‘A persistent young man, but elegantly persuasive. I suppose I shall have to tolerate him,’ the Colonel said, flicking away a buzzing bee.

  ‘He will be part of the next generation of anthropologists and useful in the promotion of your reputation,’ Lavinia replied, placating him. She placed her hand on his knee.

  31

  Camp Pendleton, 2002

  ‘FRANKLY, I THINK IT CAN HAPPEN to anyone, Professor Huntington.’

  ‘Call me Julia.’ Sensing that the soldier was close to confiding in her, Julia let the tape recorder roll on.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He grinned, the smile of a child. There was a radiance about him, an innocence, and Julia couldn’t help but feel charmed.

  ‘Something or someone has morally wronged you—well, there is nothing more lethal than a wronged man. Now, I don’t know if this kind of thing has happened to you, ma’am. First time it happened to me, it was my wife. She betrayed me. It’s there in my file: I was married two years and I nearly killed the man I found her with. Luckily, he didn’t press charges.’

  Winston Ramirez didn’t look as if he could even grow a beard, yet he’d served six years in the marines, and been involved in countless operations and one full-blown war. His file also noted that he’d been a straight A student at high school.

  The youngest SEAL on record, Winston had exceeded his commander’s expectations by volunteering for four operations back to back with the barest minimum of leave. The twenty-nine year old appeared to thrive on conflict, the bloodier the better.

  Half African–American and half Latino, Winston had been adopted by a middle-class African–American couple and had grown up in Ladera Heights, California. His identical twin had been adopted by a blue-collar cou
ple who lived on the other side of America, in Atlanta. Interestingly, both men had ended up in the military;Winston’s brother, Michael, was an airborne ranger. They had never met.

  Winston’s case had come to her attention because, unlike some of the others in the database, he didn’t have a history of abuse or any social or economic deprivation. His adoptive parents were stable, law-abiding and, by all accounts good nurturers.

  His identical twin Michael, by contrast, had grown up in an abusive household, and as a child had displayed a broad, though fortunately mild, range of anti-social behaviours. Michael had joined the army at eighteen, younger than Winston, but had attracted similar attention as his twin, and had been selected for ranger training. He had earned his wings in one of the elite airborne divisions, and had excelled under fire in frontline combat. Like Winston, he had displayed no signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. The twins showed very similar readings in their brain scans when viewing images of combat, and almost identical readings for associated heart rate and blood pressure. It was a clear example of genetic inheritance dominating over environmental nurturing.

  Wrapping the tourniquet around the marine’s upper arm, Julia searched for a suitable vein.

  ‘What about your adoptive mother and father, Winston?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, they’re nice, God-fearing citizens who go to church and pay their taxes. My mom’s a primary school teacher, my dad’s an academic. They were active pacifists, funnily enough. They campaigned against the Gulf War in ’91, anti-nuclear. You know the type—well-meaning Democrats. To my way of thinking, maybe a little naive. Anyway, it nearly killed my father when I joined up. We talk now, though—just not about the army.’

  ‘You know your twin brother is an airborne ranger?’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’