Chapter Thirty
At the other end of the hotel, Enid wandered through a hallway, having intended to open her head to any inspiration the god of criminology might choose to bestow, unprepared for the substitution of Pluck’s bemused face. Had he ever really cared for her, at all? Probably not, she was forced to admit. She wondered what probability one of Gangakanta’s algorithms would assign. These thoughts led to musings on the vile nature of unrequited love, then more generally to desire, then more specifically to her self-image as a floppy, mis-fashioned rag doll dumped amongst the poshest china dolls whose most tenderly polished porcelain chins arch toward the toy shop’s ceiling in conceited contempt of this comically gauche misfit. Does the fault lie with me?, she queried. Was I made too unadaptable to the world into which I was thrown? And now pathetically I gasp, gills afire, the toxic air of a world to which I was born unsuited? Are others’ longings more aligned with the offerings this world markets, or are they just better equipped to swallow their desires and make do?I’m alone. And I’ll always be alone.
I wasn’t made any other way.
As she turned a corner, the sight, far at the end of the corridor, by an overlooked stairwell, in front of a vase of long-departed bistort, greeted her of Genevra and Rosella in heated discussion. Enid, feeling a little ashamed of so doing, retreated behind the corner, and watched. Most words were too low to be heard, but the gist went something like this:
“Did you talk to that Frenchwoman?” Rosella asked.
“Which Frenchwoman?”
“The wife of that diplomat. The gorgeous one.”
“I haven’t said two words to her.”
“What about Trojczakowski? I know you’ve been flirting with her.”
“What rot!” Genevra laughed. “Where do you get these stories? And why don’t you commit them to paper, and sell them to a magazine, and earn some money so I don’t have to paint all day, every day?”
“You don’t find her attractive?”
“Who?”
“Miss Trojczakowski!”
“Well—there is something about her. . .”
“What about her?”
Genevra looked to ensure no one was about—Enid retracted her head behind the wall like a chicken—and answered, “Well, she’s quite bright. And cultured.”
“And?”
“Those long legs. . .and she’s clearly never had an orgasm, meaning one can’t help but fantasise about giving her one, so there’s that.”
“You do it to drive me crazy! Don’t you?! Admit that you do!”
Genevra laughed. Enid poked her head back out, to find Rosella pouting, wiping away tears, now stamping a foot.
“Tell me that you love me!” Rosella begged. “Tell me that you want only me!”
Genevra fingered the wilted petal of a flower, and examined it as if it might prove a suitable subject for a still life. “Oh, need we bother with all that?”
Rosella hugged herself, scrunching her shoulders, and stared at the carpet in shame. “. . .After all I’ve given you.”
Genevra laughed. “What have you given me?”
Rosella looked up at her, pleadingly. “Myself! My youth! My honour—it’s gone, all of it!”
“You pursued me, don’t forget. You sacrificed yourself, without a word of encouragement. Now don’t you deny it.”
Rosella squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that she winced. “I don’t attract you anymore.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Now that I’m not a mystery anymore. Now that you’ve mined the last jewel from my body, and I’ve nothing left to give.”
“Please, please! Could you keep all this drama for a play script or something, and let me get back to work?”
“Am I to go the way of all the others? The jetsam you’ve scattered across the continent? All the young artists who nipped at your heels like puppies, only for you train to be whores, then discard once the glimmer’s gone from our eyes?”
“That’s a bit of a mixed metaphor, wouldn’t you say?”
Rosella’s voice warbled. Tears choked her throat. She managed to squeeze out: “What. . .do you want from me?”
Genevra turned to check for witnesses—Enid whisked back her head—then silence. Enid got down on her knees, and peeped around the wall: they were kissing; gently, at first, Rosella still with a backbone of pride, but as the kiss grew more intense, her posture softened into wax, and Genevra held her up, and Enid’s breath caught, and some wall collapsed in her skull.
“Everything,” Genevra whispered in her lover’s ear.