downing
08-16-2010, 09:24 AM
Moira
Moira walked lazily across the freshly trimmed lawn, towel in hand, awkwardly arranging her one piece costume with her right hand, trying to keep still the peach juice with her left. Once she reached the swimming pool, she laid the towel across the chaise longue and stooped to put the glass of peach juice on the edge of the pool, so that she could have it close when she needed a drink. She went towards the head of the pool, carefully watching her steps, fearing that she would slip. A rather unusual behaviour coming from a careless girl like her, who usually slipped and laughed out loud. A plunge into the clear cool water and the feeling of her bosom against the bottom of the pool. Advancing through the water, she looked at the blue checkerboard texture of the bottom of the pool. One big stroke with her hands and with her feet and there it was – the feeling that good swimmers are so acquainted with, the state in which you’re wondering whether you’re swimming or flying. A sound similar to an airplane’s engine in her ears and the bliss of gliding weightlessly through the water. She pressed her toes against the hard bottom and emerged at the surface with a loud splash, cleaned her eyes with the tip of her fingers and looked around herself – no one. She took a mouthful of her peach juice and went on swimming. ‘It must be around 11 and he’s not here yet. What could possibly make him be late?’
She recollected that afternoon when she went to the library when the courses where over and she met the new librarian. She hadn’t had any intention of borrowing anything else, but when she gave it a second thought, she found herself wandering around the shelves and exploring with dissimulated interest the titles of the books that she knew so well. Yet, he didn’t know it, so she took her time and peeped at him through the shelves – obviously, he was in his early thirties and seemed to be a free person. Most probably not married, she thought. Or maybe divorced? No, by no means, a divorced man usually carries a particular indifference on his face. He didn’t seem to notice her at all, so she was taken aback when, after he had asked which was her registration number and checked her name, he asked: ‘Moira, that means fate, doesn’t it?’ ‘It does.’ ‘How does fate feel about a cup of coffee, Moira?’ First date ever with the new librarian? No, certainly not. So she answered: ‘I don’t drink coffee...’ Her refusal gave birth to a disappointed and somehow ashamed expression on his face. ‘However, I adore peach juice.’ she completed the sentence. He raised his head from her file and smiled: ‘Done. Meet me here at 7, after work?’. ‘All right.’ No sooner had she left the place, than she thought that there was no reason why she should even think of going out that evening. She looked at her watch – 3 PM. She had time to think it over, so she got into the Maseratti that her father had offered her at her 20th anniversary and drove off.
Eventually, she went to the meeting. His name was Greg and he was neither married, nor divorced. Besides, he looked great and his low income didn’t disturb her as long as she contemplated the relationship as merely temporary. He seemed the perfect teacher and not just in what regarded literature. Greg was the most well-read guy she had ever spoken to and it was fun, the way in which they discussed the entire 19th century French literature for 4 hours at a bar close to the library. Thus, they set Friday for their meeting day and she soon waited weeks to pass so that she could see him again. Same bar, always new discussions. He had, however, a real passion for the Beat Generation and some evening, about 3 months after they’ve been going out together, he told her he had some unique Jack Kerouac hardbacks with autographs which he would have liked to show her. She accepted and they took the cab (She never took her Maseratti when she met him so that she didn’t give him any idea of her wealth. He might have felt uncomfortable and he wouldn’t have been as daring as he was. She wanted to see him as he really was, without any masks.) He gave the instructions to the cab driver and they were left in a place she had never been to before, on the outskirts of the city. He took her by the hand and led her inside a ghetto; on the staircase, the smell of fried onions almost made her throw up and when she got into his apartment’s dark hall she was close to fall when she was hit by a totally misplaced peg. He switched on the light and to her surprise, 3 walls were covered with books. There were volumes on the floor as well, so she stepped carefully while he climbed a little library ladder and brought her the Kerouac volumes he had spoken about. She smiled when she opened the front page and asked him for how long did he possess them. But he didn’t seem to have heard. He was too focused on sliding down the zip at the back of her dress. No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had never imagined the moment to be this one, not in an apartment in which your lungs are constantly being filled with the smell of fried onions. But she felt anesthetised, she didn’t feel the urge to stop him from doing anything. And when he placed that long, hot kiss on her lips, his wish was her own. She had always been wondering why writers associate the act with dying. It seemed stupid to her, but when she moaned against her will ‘Greg, you’re killing me!’ she knew that those writers were right.
Since then, all her Fridays ended up in the ghetto and she had got so used to the situation that she didn’t feel the fried onions anymore in the atmosphere. What excited her the most was his way of picking up a book when they entered the room – mostly, it was Bukowski or Miller - and reading some specially chosen paragraphs to arouse them both. It was like a drug that he administered to her and turned her into a puppet that made her fulfill all his wishes. When they were done, his wildness subsided entirely and he turned to reciting Byron in the most gallant way existent. These changes confused her a great deal and she wondered which one was the real Greg. When she asked him, he said: ‘I’m that Greg who wants to make you his wife. ‘ ‘Oh, but you know that is totally impossible, dearest.’ ‘Why is it impossible?’ he asked while caressing her calves. ‘Because of my father. He’ll never accept it.’ ‘Is it because of money?’ ‘Yes, I have to admit it is.’ ‘Oh, then, if your father doesn’t accept, we’ll elope.’ ‘No, Greg,no…’ and he never listened to her till the end. Actually, she couldn’t tell him everything. He didn’t have the faintest idea that it wasn’t so much her father that counted, but her own will. She had always regarded their connection as fun only – and she didn’t even joke about marrying him. Besides, a year had almost passed since she was with him and she thought it enough. She’ll break up as soon as possible, but she had to find the right moment first. Till then, she teased him with questions like: ‘How many women have been here before me?’ ‘It doesn’t matter, Moira. You’re the last to cross this threshold. Moira, Moira… can’t you see? It means fate. You are my fate.’ She didn’t like him talking like that and always changed the subject.
Eventually, she made up her mind about the time when she would break up with him. It had to be sometime when her parents were out of town with business and it most certainly had to take place somewhere else than his home, because there she was never able to withstand his will. It had to be at her place.
While swimming, she saw a brawny silhouette advancing on the lawn. It was him holding a cake in his arms. ‘Hello, darling. Happy birthday!’ Her anniversary? Yes, he was right, she turned 21 that day. ‘This makes it harder for me to pursue my plan.’ she thought. ‘Thank you, Greg. Can you imagine I had forgotten?’ ‘That’s not possible. No, no, don’t get out of the water, I’ll bring the cake to you.’ ‘All right, but leave it later. Come here with me.’ she told him. ‘OK’ he answered and took off his clothes. Once he remained in his bathing suit, he jumped in the water and swam underwater to her. He grabbed her by the waist, came close to her and kissed her with his specific long kiss that never ceased to send shivers down her spine.
‘Happy birthday! But what are you doing in this black swimming costume? It’s your birthday, you should be dressed in red or something like that.’
‘I told you, I forgot it’s my birthday.’
‘Very funny. But anyway, I still don’t get it why you chose this suit. Don’t get me wrong, you look stunning, but still –‘
‘I guess I’ve put some weight.’
‘Nonsense, honey. How has this idea got into your mind?’
‘I know – I feel – I saw it. I am – growing bigger.’
‘You’re making me laugh. All right, if you feeling that way, maybe you should do more sport, maybe we should do more sport.’ He smiled maliciously
‘No, Greg, this is exactly why I asked you to come here.’
He was all at sea, so she continued:
‘I want us to break up.’
He was astounded: ‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘No, I’ve never been more serious.’
‘Look, Moira, what is all this stuff? I thought you’re 21 now, so you’re not depending at all on your father. I just came here with the idea – I – I want you to marry me, Moira. You know I do.’
‘I know, I know, Greg, but I really can’t!’
‘You can’t or you don’t want to? – tell me!’
‘I – you’re not making it any easier, Greg.’
‘Come on, say it now. Which is the true reason for your behaviour?’
‘I don’t want to marry you. I never wanted. You – you’ve taken this too seriously.’
‘So you didn’t. You never took it seriously.’
‘No, I didn’t. Now I am becoming serious, however. And I realise this has to stop this instant.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m pregnant, that’s why!’
‘What?’ he asked loudly
‘It’s true.’
‘Moira, that’s the best news you’ve given me in a whole year. We’ll get married, my dear!’
‘No, no, Greg, don’t say this. You’ll be sorry.’
‘But you said you’re pregnant, right?’
‘I did. But I’m – I’m not going to keep it!’
From total rapture he turned to blind rage.
‘What did you say? What did you say? You’re not going to keep the baby?’
‘I’m going to do that operation. I know the doctor and all I have to do is to – ‘
‘Is it my child?’
‘Of course it’s yours! What do you imagine?’
‘You mean you’re going to kill my child? My only child?’
‘God, Greg, calm down. Don’t shout.’
‘Tell me you’re not going to do an abortion. That you’re going to marry me and that we’ll live together with our new-born child.’
‘Greg, stop it! I always told you – I’m not marrying you and I am going to do the abortion. I’ve already been programmed. I have to go before my parents come back and…’
‘How long have you been pregnant?’
‘One month, I think.’
‘One month! I swear to God I won’t let you do it!’
‘Let’s see how you can force me not to do it!’
‘I will – I will. I don’t know how, but I’ll stop you from doing it. Moira, listen to me!’ He came closer to her and put his strong palms on her feeble shoulder. ‘Promise me you won’t even think of it!’
‘Greg, Greg, leave me alone! I’m bearing the child, not you. So you can’t force me –‘
He hit her against the cheek.
‘Can’t you hear me? I won’t let you do that.’ And then he took her again by the shoulders and shook her against the swimming pool.
‘Take your hands off me and forget me!’ she shouted and tried to escape his arms. She tried to swim to get past him, but he seized her and put his hands on both her temples.
‘Promise me – ‘
‘Never! Leave me alone!’
‘Moira, I won’t let you!’
‘Leave me alone, bastard! Leave me – ‘ but she couldn’t utter any other word because he pressed her head underwater. She hit him with her hands, with her feet and he kept saying mechanically: ‘I won’t let you, I won’t let you do it!’ There were tons of bubbles coming at the surface of the water and she tried with all her strength to emerge to the surface, but he didn’t let her. Then only a few bubbles appeared and he dragged her outside. Her eyes where open and stared at him. ‘Moira, do you promise now?’ But she didn’t say anything. He shook her and asked again but no answer came. ‘Oh my God!’ he muttered and he drag her to the pool staircase. He lay her on the grass and tried the mouth to mouth insufflations. No response. He turned her on one side. Nothing either. ‘What have I done? What have I done? I drowned them both!’ he whispered and then: ‘Moira! Moira! Talk to me!’ Useless. He stood up, put his hand to his mouth in distress and looked astonished at his doing. ‘What have I done?!’ He ran away.
Anyone who would have watched the scene after Greg’s departure, would have been offered the view of a young woman motionlessly tanning on the lawn. The 21th anniversary cake was shining in the sun on the table next to her, waiting to be eaten.
Moira walked lazily across the freshly trimmed lawn, towel in hand, awkwardly arranging her one piece costume with her right hand, trying to keep still the peach juice with her left. Once she reached the swimming pool, she laid the towel across the chaise longue and stooped to put the glass of peach juice on the edge of the pool, so that she could have it close when she needed a drink. She went towards the head of the pool, carefully watching her steps, fearing that she would slip. A rather unusual behaviour coming from a careless girl like her, who usually slipped and laughed out loud. A plunge into the clear cool water and the feeling of her bosom against the bottom of the pool. Advancing through the water, she looked at the blue checkerboard texture of the bottom of the pool. One big stroke with her hands and with her feet and there it was – the feeling that good swimmers are so acquainted with, the state in which you’re wondering whether you’re swimming or flying. A sound similar to an airplane’s engine in her ears and the bliss of gliding weightlessly through the water. She pressed her toes against the hard bottom and emerged at the surface with a loud splash, cleaned her eyes with the tip of her fingers and looked around herself – no one. She took a mouthful of her peach juice and went on swimming. ‘It must be around 11 and he’s not here yet. What could possibly make him be late?’
She recollected that afternoon when she went to the library when the courses where over and she met the new librarian. She hadn’t had any intention of borrowing anything else, but when she gave it a second thought, she found herself wandering around the shelves and exploring with dissimulated interest the titles of the books that she knew so well. Yet, he didn’t know it, so she took her time and peeped at him through the shelves – obviously, he was in his early thirties and seemed to be a free person. Most probably not married, she thought. Or maybe divorced? No, by no means, a divorced man usually carries a particular indifference on his face. He didn’t seem to notice her at all, so she was taken aback when, after he had asked which was her registration number and checked her name, he asked: ‘Moira, that means fate, doesn’t it?’ ‘It does.’ ‘How does fate feel about a cup of coffee, Moira?’ First date ever with the new librarian? No, certainly not. So she answered: ‘I don’t drink coffee...’ Her refusal gave birth to a disappointed and somehow ashamed expression on his face. ‘However, I adore peach juice.’ she completed the sentence. He raised his head from her file and smiled: ‘Done. Meet me here at 7, after work?’. ‘All right.’ No sooner had she left the place, than she thought that there was no reason why she should even think of going out that evening. She looked at her watch – 3 PM. She had time to think it over, so she got into the Maseratti that her father had offered her at her 20th anniversary and drove off.
Eventually, she went to the meeting. His name was Greg and he was neither married, nor divorced. Besides, he looked great and his low income didn’t disturb her as long as she contemplated the relationship as merely temporary. He seemed the perfect teacher and not just in what regarded literature. Greg was the most well-read guy she had ever spoken to and it was fun, the way in which they discussed the entire 19th century French literature for 4 hours at a bar close to the library. Thus, they set Friday for their meeting day and she soon waited weeks to pass so that she could see him again. Same bar, always new discussions. He had, however, a real passion for the Beat Generation and some evening, about 3 months after they’ve been going out together, he told her he had some unique Jack Kerouac hardbacks with autographs which he would have liked to show her. She accepted and they took the cab (She never took her Maseratti when she met him so that she didn’t give him any idea of her wealth. He might have felt uncomfortable and he wouldn’t have been as daring as he was. She wanted to see him as he really was, without any masks.) He gave the instructions to the cab driver and they were left in a place she had never been to before, on the outskirts of the city. He took her by the hand and led her inside a ghetto; on the staircase, the smell of fried onions almost made her throw up and when she got into his apartment’s dark hall she was close to fall when she was hit by a totally misplaced peg. He switched on the light and to her surprise, 3 walls were covered with books. There were volumes on the floor as well, so she stepped carefully while he climbed a little library ladder and brought her the Kerouac volumes he had spoken about. She smiled when she opened the front page and asked him for how long did he possess them. But he didn’t seem to have heard. He was too focused on sliding down the zip at the back of her dress. No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had never imagined the moment to be this one, not in an apartment in which your lungs are constantly being filled with the smell of fried onions. But she felt anesthetised, she didn’t feel the urge to stop him from doing anything. And when he placed that long, hot kiss on her lips, his wish was her own. She had always been wondering why writers associate the act with dying. It seemed stupid to her, but when she moaned against her will ‘Greg, you’re killing me!’ she knew that those writers were right.
Since then, all her Fridays ended up in the ghetto and she had got so used to the situation that she didn’t feel the fried onions anymore in the atmosphere. What excited her the most was his way of picking up a book when they entered the room – mostly, it was Bukowski or Miller - and reading some specially chosen paragraphs to arouse them both. It was like a drug that he administered to her and turned her into a puppet that made her fulfill all his wishes. When they were done, his wildness subsided entirely and he turned to reciting Byron in the most gallant way existent. These changes confused her a great deal and she wondered which one was the real Greg. When she asked him, he said: ‘I’m that Greg who wants to make you his wife. ‘ ‘Oh, but you know that is totally impossible, dearest.’ ‘Why is it impossible?’ he asked while caressing her calves. ‘Because of my father. He’ll never accept it.’ ‘Is it because of money?’ ‘Yes, I have to admit it is.’ ‘Oh, then, if your father doesn’t accept, we’ll elope.’ ‘No, Greg,no…’ and he never listened to her till the end. Actually, she couldn’t tell him everything. He didn’t have the faintest idea that it wasn’t so much her father that counted, but her own will. She had always regarded their connection as fun only – and she didn’t even joke about marrying him. Besides, a year had almost passed since she was with him and she thought it enough. She’ll break up as soon as possible, but she had to find the right moment first. Till then, she teased him with questions like: ‘How many women have been here before me?’ ‘It doesn’t matter, Moira. You’re the last to cross this threshold. Moira, Moira… can’t you see? It means fate. You are my fate.’ She didn’t like him talking like that and always changed the subject.
Eventually, she made up her mind about the time when she would break up with him. It had to be sometime when her parents were out of town with business and it most certainly had to take place somewhere else than his home, because there she was never able to withstand his will. It had to be at her place.
While swimming, she saw a brawny silhouette advancing on the lawn. It was him holding a cake in his arms. ‘Hello, darling. Happy birthday!’ Her anniversary? Yes, he was right, she turned 21 that day. ‘This makes it harder for me to pursue my plan.’ she thought. ‘Thank you, Greg. Can you imagine I had forgotten?’ ‘That’s not possible. No, no, don’t get out of the water, I’ll bring the cake to you.’ ‘All right, but leave it later. Come here with me.’ she told him. ‘OK’ he answered and took off his clothes. Once he remained in his bathing suit, he jumped in the water and swam underwater to her. He grabbed her by the waist, came close to her and kissed her with his specific long kiss that never ceased to send shivers down her spine.
‘Happy birthday! But what are you doing in this black swimming costume? It’s your birthday, you should be dressed in red or something like that.’
‘I told you, I forgot it’s my birthday.’
‘Very funny. But anyway, I still don’t get it why you chose this suit. Don’t get me wrong, you look stunning, but still –‘
‘I guess I’ve put some weight.’
‘Nonsense, honey. How has this idea got into your mind?’
‘I know – I feel – I saw it. I am – growing bigger.’
‘You’re making me laugh. All right, if you feeling that way, maybe you should do more sport, maybe we should do more sport.’ He smiled maliciously
‘No, Greg, this is exactly why I asked you to come here.’
He was all at sea, so she continued:
‘I want us to break up.’
He was astounded: ‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘No, I’ve never been more serious.’
‘Look, Moira, what is all this stuff? I thought you’re 21 now, so you’re not depending at all on your father. I just came here with the idea – I – I want you to marry me, Moira. You know I do.’
‘I know, I know, Greg, but I really can’t!’
‘You can’t or you don’t want to? – tell me!’
‘I – you’re not making it any easier, Greg.’
‘Come on, say it now. Which is the true reason for your behaviour?’
‘I don’t want to marry you. I never wanted. You – you’ve taken this too seriously.’
‘So you didn’t. You never took it seriously.’
‘No, I didn’t. Now I am becoming serious, however. And I realise this has to stop this instant.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m pregnant, that’s why!’
‘What?’ he asked loudly
‘It’s true.’
‘Moira, that’s the best news you’ve given me in a whole year. We’ll get married, my dear!’
‘No, no, Greg, don’t say this. You’ll be sorry.’
‘But you said you’re pregnant, right?’
‘I did. But I’m – I’m not going to keep it!’
From total rapture he turned to blind rage.
‘What did you say? What did you say? You’re not going to keep the baby?’
‘I’m going to do that operation. I know the doctor and all I have to do is to – ‘
‘Is it my child?’
‘Of course it’s yours! What do you imagine?’
‘You mean you’re going to kill my child? My only child?’
‘God, Greg, calm down. Don’t shout.’
‘Tell me you’re not going to do an abortion. That you’re going to marry me and that we’ll live together with our new-born child.’
‘Greg, stop it! I always told you – I’m not marrying you and I am going to do the abortion. I’ve already been programmed. I have to go before my parents come back and…’
‘How long have you been pregnant?’
‘One month, I think.’
‘One month! I swear to God I won’t let you do it!’
‘Let’s see how you can force me not to do it!’
‘I will – I will. I don’t know how, but I’ll stop you from doing it. Moira, listen to me!’ He came closer to her and put his strong palms on her feeble shoulder. ‘Promise me you won’t even think of it!’
‘Greg, Greg, leave me alone! I’m bearing the child, not you. So you can’t force me –‘
He hit her against the cheek.
‘Can’t you hear me? I won’t let you do that.’ And then he took her again by the shoulders and shook her against the swimming pool.
‘Take your hands off me and forget me!’ she shouted and tried to escape his arms. She tried to swim to get past him, but he seized her and put his hands on both her temples.
‘Promise me – ‘
‘Never! Leave me alone!’
‘Moira, I won’t let you!’
‘Leave me alone, bastard! Leave me – ‘ but she couldn’t utter any other word because he pressed her head underwater. She hit him with her hands, with her feet and he kept saying mechanically: ‘I won’t let you, I won’t let you do it!’ There were tons of bubbles coming at the surface of the water and she tried with all her strength to emerge to the surface, but he didn’t let her. Then only a few bubbles appeared and he dragged her outside. Her eyes where open and stared at him. ‘Moira, do you promise now?’ But she didn’t say anything. He shook her and asked again but no answer came. ‘Oh my God!’ he muttered and he drag her to the pool staircase. He lay her on the grass and tried the mouth to mouth insufflations. No response. He turned her on one side. Nothing either. ‘What have I done? What have I done? I drowned them both!’ he whispered and then: ‘Moira! Moira! Talk to me!’ Useless. He stood up, put his hand to his mouth in distress and looked astonished at his doing. ‘What have I done?!’ He ran away.
Anyone who would have watched the scene after Greg’s departure, would have been offered the view of a young woman motionlessly tanning on the lawn. The 21th anniversary cake was shining in the sun on the table next to her, waiting to be eaten.