gold rush
What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?
With your hair falling into place like dominoes
My mind turns your life into folklore
I can't dare to dream about you anymore
Mary has always loved art. When she was fourteen she travelled with her whole family to Spain. They visited a museum in the centre of the capital, a large ivory palace, covered under the extensive canopy of trees in the garden. Mary had visited this museum out of obligation, and, disgusted, as she passed through the rooms with her eyes lowered and counting the steps to the exit, there was something that made her breath catch. Something that made her raise her head. It was called "the garden of delights", and indeed it was. A large, detailed painting, a representation of heaven and hell. Thousands of naked figures dancing on the canvas, a new story in every corner, every brushstroke, and Mary couldn't stop looking. Since then, she loves to observe, to appreciate the beauty of things, to occupy the knowledge, the history, to know everything behind the work. To savour the delights of creation. To love art and look at it.
So, when she couldn't look away, Mary knew. She was just a girl, nothing more. She was not a painting, not a sculpture, not poetry. Yet, at the same time, she was. And, just like when she first looked at that painting, Mary felt like her heart might explode.There was something about the way her eyes sparkled in the sunlight, that emerald green shimmering like resin on oil paint. That reddish hair, like a fiery flame, sweeping in the wind and tangling in ringlets, perfectly placed in the air, an almost gridded composition. Her fair complexion, full of moles and freckles.
Oh.
And she should have known it long before. But it's hard when she's determined not to look, to keep her head down and deny the truth. And now it was like a slap in the face, a blow, and suddenly there she was, on an August afternoon by the seashore.
Lily had only needed to say her name to break her into pieces.
Because, no one, ever, had say it like that. As if the syllables stuck to the throat like honey, as if it were something precious, out of the ordinary, a treasure. And it was not at all fair, that girl had no right to be so beautiful, to resemble so much a goddess. Mary tried with all her might to pick up those fallen pieces on the sand, pull herself together immediately, and act as if nothing had happened. As if the word that had escaped her mouth had not fanned her and set her on fire, leaving her in tatters. As if her heart hadn't claimed her, with a mine, mine, mine, pumping blood to every corner of her body with rapidity, with every blink of an eye. How long had she been behaving like this? How could her head have kept this from her? Maybe God was punishing her. Mary was going to pray so much from now on that he would get tired of hearing her prayers.
So then Mary said her name, and all those feelings, those sensations poured into one single word.
"Lily!" she had screamed, with such tenderness and gentleness that her eyes were beginning to water.
Oh, and Mary wished so much that Lily could have noticed the desire with which she was naming her. Because that was it all. Everything Mary would say on the subject, all the hints she would drop. And now she's going to take this to her grave. Because talking is so scary, Mary has just discovered. She never thought she would, but she does. She has always yelled, laughed, when and how much she wanted to. But, this is simply too much. Mary remembers that quote from Jane Austen.
"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more".
So Mary ducked her head back until she locked herself in her room, sheltered within the walls. She looked through the bathroom door, which connects the two rooms, and there she was, standing by the bed, watching her too. Mary closed the door immediately.
...
"Have you seen my daughter? She should be here for dinner," questions Mr Evans, turning around, his silhouette reflected in the projector.
Mary stops writing in her notebook and takes a deep breath before answering.
"No, she might be in town," she tries to be natural, though she may be achieving the opposite effect, there is a timbre in her voice, an intensity that she cannot hide, that she hopes will not come out.
But the professor says nothing, so Mary is just over-thinking things again.
"I heard she was with a boy a few days ago," the man laughs, and Mary feels her soul sink. "I don't know if I should be worried."
"Oh, no, she's a good girl," she replies, giving him a reassuring smile, her pulse racing lightly. Mary could kill that boy.
"Maybe she needs you to talk to her, you know, woman to woman" - Mary's definitely not going to do that. The man pauses for a few seconds in front of the projector, which reveals the image of a rather detailed Ionic column. "Can you read that excerpt to me again, please?"
The girl shifts on the sofa, holding a finger to her temple, concentrating on the book.
"The Ionic order is usually associated with the feminine because of its elegance and slenderness compared to the Doric order, considered by Vitruvius to be as robust and strong as the male body" she turns the page, but not before marking the paragraph with her pen and then putting it to her mouth.."Um, a column associated with a woman's body?"
Mr Evans turns to her, reaching over and adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
"Oh, that's right," he smiles, looking at various images in the book. "But it doesn't look much like a woman, does it?"
"Professor Evans, we come in many shapes" a mischievous look in her eyes, they both burst out laughing.
They spend a few minutes jotting down the information, in the yellowish light of the lamp, with the curtains closed. The man sighs, stretching in his seat.
"Well, McDonald, we've done enough work for today. Let's have dinner, shall we?" the girl yawns, stretching too, and they both walk out of the study door, heading for the terrace, lit by lanterns."Are you going out tonight?"
"I'm a bit tired, I'll probably stay today" Mary lies, because the thought of meeting Lily makes her want to disappear. How could she ever look her in the eye again after all?
"All right," the man opens the door leading to the courtyard and the girl returns a small smile of thanks. "A couple more days of work and we'll be done with your manuscript."
Mary nods, certain of the fact that the month will come to an end in a couple of weeks, and, with it, so will her stay in the village. A few more weeks and she won't have to see her again. Oh, but Mary doesn't want that either. Her head is full of contradictions, she has never felt so indecisive and insecure as she does now. She's not like that at all. She's not suppose to be. Mary has always been so confident.
...
Mary first went to church as a child. She had never thought about anything beyond herself, then, like any other kid, so to begin to consider something else, the existence of a higher force, a door, another beginning after the end, filled her with hope. It changed her. It made her who she is today. Though, of course, Mary is not like other devotees. She likes to drink, a lot, boys, partying and having a good time. But she also loves to pray, at the foot of her bed, her cross between her palms. That moment of the day when there is silence, and peace, a unison voice and only her and God, no one else. Mary always prays about the same thing. Health, both for her family and for herself, luck and happiness. But this time there is something else.Tonight Mary is dedicating one of her prayers to Lily, because, after that day, she can't get her out of her mind, and, Mary is pretty sure, she is one mention, one thought or look away from going crazy. She gets down on her knees, the night unveiling itself behind the windows, and closes her eyes, letting all her worries and desires flow into space, looking at them from another perspective, and trying to see how small and vapid they are through her eyes. Mostly she is praying for it to go away from her head, for it to stop, but, there is also a small voice that denies everything and cries out:
I want her. Make her want me like I do. I want to feel her close, I want her far away. I need to feel her lips, at least once, I want her to see me, to want me so badly that she's afraid.
And it's selfish, but Mary doesn't care. Tonight, she hopes he's listening.
...
Mr and Mrs Evans are sitting at the small table on the terrace under the morning sun. Mary is lying on her back on a towel. The warmth is working its way back into her muscles and she stretches, feeling relaxed for the first time in days. Lily is bathing in the fountain, but Mary is not looking, although, breathing her very air is making her quite aware of her presence. Her arms pushing the water away, the ripples on the surface. It is Lily who is beside her, and she knows it very well, though she does her best not to. And everything is under control until she speaks.
"My mother told me something about this story of a princess and a knight," she begins, and Mary is about to lose her mind.
She puts on her sunglasses, trying to avert her gaze, in vain. Her heartbeat echoes in her chest. If she's lucky, Lily won't hear it.
"Oh, yes, honey, I know the one you're talking about" the tone of her voice is a little dry, her throat is saliva-free, and these seem like the first words to come out of her mouth in months, even though they're not at all. "The one about the man who doesn't know whether to speak or to die."
Mary could die right now, and she might.
There is a pause, the splash of water, indicating that Lily has emerged from the water. Mary looks up.
"Yes, that one."
A beat.
"And does he end up speaking?" Mary asks, sighing to herself, trying not to choke or stumble over her words. Something that had never happened to her before.
"Better to speak, she said," she recites, and her voice is so sweet, so melodious. "But she's on guard, she thinks something's finally going to happen."
Another beat.
"Lily, did he speak?," Mary turns to her this time, feeling a little brave. She's sitting, cross-legged, facing her, already watching her. Their gazes meet for a few moments, seconds that seem like hours. Mary doesn't know how she's able to hold her gaze without collapsing. She's the one feeling a trap somewhere.
"No, he lets it go," Lily replies, almost in a whisper.
Oh, and there's a tone in her voice, something that resonates in her eardrums, something deep, almost like an accusation. Mary sits up a little, propping herself up on her elbows. She manages a small smile, her heart hammering in her chest. Lily's eyes are locked on hers, waiting for something. But Mary doesn't know what she wants from her. Doesn't she have everything, already?
"Oh, that's too bad," Mary finally jokes.
It feels like the end of the world.
"Yes, it is," she approves, and then there is silence.
Lily gets up from the floor and walks away, heading inside the house, carrying a book under her arms. As she passes back and forth, her leg brushes against Mary's arm, and the girl melts under her touch.
...
When Mary get to her room, resting on the mattress, there is a book, old, almost gnawed by time and dust. Mary sits on the bed and picks it up, opening it. Then she recognises it, the story Lily was talking about, the one her mother had once told her about. The woman's note between the first few pages, Mary rereads it. But, this time, there is also one on the back cover, between the last page.
"To speak or not to speak. Not to do so means to die, if not figuratively then literally. Because a life without deciding to love is a life not lived, it is regret, guilt, pain, and it is nothing. And, even so, I would prefer a thousand times to look at a fresco rather than a moving painting. Because with love there is also pain, and guilt, and regret. I wish I could feel nothing at all. That the fire in my guts would dissipate, that there would be nothing left but dust. Because, the truth is, I'm afraid, I live in terror. And my head won't want to raise its voice even to myself. So, really, I don't even know what I have to speak about."
Mary breathes heavily, feeling immense pity for the person who wrote this. Oh, but certainly, not being able to speak, voluntarily, is far worse. It makes her a coward. And, that person is nothing more than a fool.