Waterloo

Therese had a day off though it was the last thing she wanted right now. After talking to the mysterious woman she longed to be back at the museum, to sit in the room waiting for her. But how would it look like, her spending the little free time she had at her work place? She needed to catch up with all the things she had neglected recently – the boring everyday chores like going to the bank and cleaning up her place. And she needed to see Dannie.

Dannie hadn’t been at his usual corner for some time now. The familiar cardboard sign “all major credit cards accepted” with a used takeaway cup attached was there with the curled up sleeping pad but the man himself was nowhere to be found. Therese tried to remember the last time they’d seen each other.

“I remember reading from somewhere that if you put a bean into a jar every single time you have sex with your partner during the first year of your relationship, and then start picking them out one by one every time after, you won’t ever make it to the bottom.” Needless to say, Dannie didn’t believe in monogamy. “Spending your life so closely with just one person kills the sex drive”, he claimed although Therese had no idea where he got his profound experience from. Dannie had never spoken of anyone special ever having crossed his path nor did it exactly fit the image she had of him.

Most of the time he was a sorry sight huddled inside his dirty sleeping bag on Charing Cross Road. It hadn’t always been like that, Therese knew. She recalled the time he’d been selling Big Issues under the archway next to the National Theatre. Dannie had heckled her every morning she had passed him by on her way to work. One day she had finally stopped to talk to him and found him both smart and funny.

“I believe in unadulterated passion, and the only way to have it is to be brazenly promiscuous.” Dannie had chuckled. “I do believe in love,” he had been quick to add, “I honestly do. There’s nothing better than a heated love affair lasting from sundown to sunrise.” Therese had smiled not quite knowing if she believed her friend was quite as cynical as he sounded.

“But what about intimacy, taking the time to get to know the other person?” she had asked. “Do you even know yourself?” Dannie had questioned. “I don’t think anyone does, and if we don’t, what chance do we have of ever knowing someone else?” He sounded gloomy all of a sudden.

“The fact remains you and I and every fucking person in this world is just a messed up conglomeration of confused nerve ends, mere animalistic reflexes and all too half-baked ideas of what it means to function as a human.” Sipping his pint, he had continued. “And not just half-baked but clichéd ideas in a way that scares the shit out of me”, he had scoffed. “There are people who won’t bother to rethink their lives when another love of their life crosses their path. Serial monogamists I call them, the worst of the lot – the fuckers who recycle their left over feelings in the next relationship without stopping to think what went wrong in the previous one.”

Therese remembered a book she had found at Genie’s book shelf when they had just met. They were still living in the States at the time, and they hadn’t even kissed yet. We will, soon, she had mused standing there waiting for Genie to reappear from the kitchen. It was a book of poems by the French poet Paul Eluard.

She had opened the unassuming edition and noticed a handwritten inscription on its name page.

“To Genevieve,

All my love,

Peg

P.S. see page 27”

Feeling like an intruder, she had opened the marked page and read:

She is standing on my eyelids
And her hair is in my hair
She has the color of my eye
She has the body of my hand
In my shade she is engulfed
As a stone against the sky

She will never close her eyes
And she does not let me sleep
And her dreams in the bright day
Make the suns evaporate
And me laugh cry and laugh
Speak when I have nothing to say

Hearing Genie’s footsteps approaching, Therese had quickly put the book back on its place but the poem had stuck on her mind. She had felt guilty of having spied on something so personal which didn’t belong to her. So she has loved before, Therese had said to herself, and it had been quite fine, nothing to do with her, with here and now.    

Six months later when they were already lovers, Therese had spent her birthday with Genie and a couple of their friends. Opening her presents, she had left Genie’s gift for last. She had been so happy up to the point Genie had asked her to read the card attached to the gift box. Therese had recognized it immediately – the Eluard poem neatly written on the card.

Still, one can explain everything away if one has to. What kind of claim could anyone have for some poem, anyway? Therese had asked herself afterwards. It was a perfectly wonderful thing to give, and she did love poetry, after all. A thoughtful gift, really. Genie probably didn’t even remember getting it herself, she reasoned.

But where could Dannie be, she worried walking aimlessly towards the Trafalgar Square, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone missing, and it was those other times which made her so jumpy right now. Once she had found him all beaten up by the Leicester Square tube station. A rendez-vous with a john gone haywire, he had explained sporting a serious shiner. He had hardly been able to get on his feet when Therese had tried to help him up.

A sad sight greeted her at the foot of the Nelson’s Column. Disheveled and spaced out, Dannie slouched on the pavement. His pupils severely constricted, he didn’t register Therese standing in front of him. Tears stinging in her eyes, Therese pulled his dead weight up as carefully as she could. “C’mon, Dannie, let’s get you home…” She had no idea how to get him all the way to her apartment but she was determined to do it anyway.

Next morning Dannie was already doing better, joking around and being the charming self he was at his very best. Therese was leaving for work. “You can stay here for a while”, she offered cautiously. “There’s some toast and coffee, help yourself… get your strength back, you know.” He smiled adorably. “Thanks, I really appreciate it, I might just do that.” He noticed Therese looking around the apartment. “Hey… I’m not gonna nick anything from you.” Therese seemed embarrassed. “Of course not, why would I think that?”

When Dannie went to the bathroom, she hid the ashtray which had belonged to her father. It wasn’t worth much but it was the only memento she had left of him. She loved Dannie dearly but she also knew how to tell when a junkie was lying.

Back at the museum her spirits were crushed. The Rothko Room was empty. Therese roamed around the exhibition halls with very little to do. It was a slow morning. When she was about to go to the cafeteria to have a cup of tea, she bumped into Abigail Gerhard. “Hello, Therese, mind if I join you?” she asked. They entered the pleasantly quiet dining area and sat down at a small table.

After some work-related small talk Therese mustered up her courage. “There’s a woman in the Rothko Room… she’s there every day. Do you happen to know anything about her?” Miss Gerhard poured milk in her tea. “Oh, you mean Mrs. Aird? I think she’s the one, at least I’ve seen her there quite often. The beautiful blonde woman?” Therese nodded. “She and her husband are distinguished benefactors of our institution. They donate a lot of money each year to keep us going.” Miss Gerhard paused to have a sip of her beverage. “Why do you ask?”

Mrs. Aird. Therese shrank from her newfound knowledge. “No reason. I just had a conversation with her the other day and she seemed nice.” Her boss smiled. “She is very nice. I’ve known her forever – we used to go to school together. And she knows a lot about art.” Therese felt uncomfortable as if her skin had suddenly gotten too tight to hold her conflicting emotions inside. “You be a good girl to her now, you hear?” Miss Gerhard grinned. “We wouldn’t want to lose an asset like her.”

So she’s just another housewife living in Belgravia or some other posh neighborhood, Therese thought bitterly after they’d parted company. A housewife with nothing else to do except sit on a bench at the museum staring at paintings all day long. She was angry, she realized. The cursed idleness of the rich, she fumed. It was the exact resentment she had felt towards Genie when it became apparent she wasn’t going to do anything about her misguided work life. After all, didn’t she always have her trust fund to fall back on when she’d get sick and tired of peddling porn?  

“Hello again.” It was Therese’s turn to be startled. The woman opened the door to the Rothko Room while she was already in there. Therese hadn’t expected to see her again as if her dissatisfaction had somehow rendered the place out of bounds for a person she now knew as Mrs. Aird. Embarrassed, she greeted her nodding politely.

“I enjoyed our little talk the other day”, Mrs. Aird continued. Her voice was soft, meandering. “It’s refreshing to meet young people who are interested in more than just the obvious things.” She sat down next to her. “My name is Carol – Carol Aird”, the woman said extending her hand to Therese. “Therese, Therese Belivet.”

The woman raised her eyebrows curiously as if she had heard a secret she couldn’t quite believe. “Well, Therese Belivet, I believe we are both expats in this country? I can spot a New Yorker a mile away…” Her eyes gleamed of amusement. “You have a very good ear, Mrs. Aird. I guess my five years in Britain haven’t done much to do away with my accent”, Therese replied.

“Please, call me Carol. Aird is my husband’s name and very soon I won’t have any use for it at all.” Carol’s eyes examined her very carefully. “Why is that?” Therese asked in a sudden burst of bravery. “I’m afraid we’re in the middle of a very difficult divorce.” She touched her forehead to reign in a renegade strand of blonde hair. “Oh, I’m sorry…” Therese said suppressing the first smile she had had since yesterday when she had learned the news about her. “Don’t be.” Carol didn’t look sorry either but she did look sad.                

Then they fell silent again like all the other times in this very room. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, Therese thought. It was a silence so fragrant and appealing it filled her with joy and laughter she had known only as a child. The surrounding murals sucked them in with their tantalizing permutation of brilliant reds, deep browns and rich blacks. The weighted tension of the enchanted place made her want to take Carol’s hand, to lead her through the endlessly shifting shapes of what was and what could be.