Let the Dark Flower Blossom (40 page)

And rock smashes scissors.

I know that the story did not end.

The story does not end.

Because it is not a story.

And scissors cuts paper.

I'll begin.

Not with the rock, but the idea of the rock.

Not with the girl.

But the idea of the girl.

Eloise under the apple tree.

Susu in the dark auditorium.

Wren with Ro.

Pru with a paintbrush.

Leda with her swan.

Beatrice among the blackberries.

Inj in the woods.

When Inj stood in the woods.

When Salt went on ahead.

Through the pines.

Blackbirds in the branches of the cedar trees.

I said, “Don't you have one more question for me?”

I opened her hand.

I gave her my key.

Her palm caught the sun.

And the key glittered.

I said to her, “Now you have a tragedy—”

She said, “You know who he is, don't you?”

“Who?” I said.

“Salt,” she said.

The wind was in the trees.

I almost couldn't hear—

“He is,” she said. “He's—”

“Roman's son,” she said.

“Roman is his father,” she said.

The jetty was up ahead.

She kissed her hand.

She ran.

She ran to him.

If you don't believe a story can kill you—

You haven't heard the right story.

In the myth: Zeus takes the form of a swan and rapes Leda. She gives birth to an egg, from which cracks Helen. Prince Paris chooses
Helen as the most beautiful woman in the world; he gives her the golden Hesperidian apple—a gift that causes such envy amongst the goddesses that it brings about the Trojan War. Or does it? Were events set into motion with the cracking of an egg? Or the fluttering of wings? There is a version of the story in which it is not Helen who breaks from the egg, but her twin brothers, Castor and Pollux. In some tellings, there is no egg. There is always a swan, and a girl, and rape.

This is the place to start.

Start with the girl, the god, the rape.

Prometheus steals fire.

Pandora lifts the lid.

Eve eats the apple.

Lot's wife looks back.

Moses is not allowed to enter the Promised Land after forty years in the desert.

He comes down from his mountain, and he smashes the commandments. In every version of the story there is a broken law.

Time is a winter evening.

Time is a white sheet of paper.

Snow White eats the poison apple. When the woodsman, who has come from the wicked queen, finds the girl fallen in the forest; she is so beautiful that he can't bring himself to kill her with his hatchet. He kills a deer; and with his knife cuts out the heart, puts it in a box, locks it with a key, and he brings it to the queen.

Egg.

Apple.

Swan.

Shell.

Rock.

Stone.

Water.

Law.

Hatchet.

Knife.

Heart.

Hope.

Oh, and the girl.

I mustn't forget the girl.

In every version of the story there is a girl.

Time is no measure of meaning.

Snow is falling.

This afternoon—just when I thought the story was ending—

A strange thing happened.

And everything began to begin again.

I heard a knock on the front door.

I thought that perhaps they had come for me.

I waited. I waited.

Beatrice came into the library.

“There's a girl here,” she said.

There was a girl in the kitchen.

A girl—

Susu Zigouiller in her coat.

Susu sat at the kitchen table.

Her dark hair damp with snow.

“God,” she said. “It's taken me forever to get here.”

“How did you find the place?” I asked her.

“Whatta question,” she said.

Susu looked around the kitchen.

“This is a nice house,” she said.

“Whose is it?” she said.

“My father's,” said Beatrice.

“Oh,” said Susu. “May I have some cream?”

“I got to the island. And I started walking,” Susu said. “I saw the lights, your lights, and I followed them.”

“Through the woods?” said Beatrice.

“I love the woods,” said Susu.

Beatrice gave Susu the cream.

Susu poured it into her cup.

We sat at the table.

“How did you get here?” I asked.

I asked, “How did you get across the lake in this weather?”

Susu held the coffee cup in both hands.

She said, “I gave a coin to the ferryman.”

Happiness is a monstrosity!

Punished are those who seek it
.

I am winding my way through the labyrinth. I am chased by fate. I avoid one monster to fall on another. Has Beatrice shored up enough against the ruins to keep us safe here? Will the wine hold out? Will there be sugar and salt enough to see us till the end of time and beyond? Will I devour like the locust? Will I obliterate like the flood? Will the dove find the fresh green breast of the new world? How many times can the hourglass be upended? I will run out of soap and flour and milk. I will run out of truth and beauty. I will run out of things to run out of. I will run out of the desire of wanting. I will run out of the fear of objects. I will run out of tragedy. I will speed to my fate. So slowly. So slowly. That I will miss it as it happens. Though it is happening now. I am speeding to my fate. I will run out of girls.

I will never run out of girls.

Dr. Lemon entrusted me with his greatest treasure.

Not a painting. Nor a vase.

Not a signed first edition of a leather-bound tome.

He asked me to take care of his daughter.

When he was dead and gone.

No one is ever dead and gone.

I said, yes.

I will devour, like the locust.

Like the flood.

Like the flame that turns to holocaust.

Everything before me.

I said yes.

As a symbolic gesture.

Before I realized that there is no such thing.

Not an eagle or a trumpet.

Not a buttered scone or crumpet.

Later, in the evening. Susu closed the door to the doctor's library behind her, and she said to me, “I came here to tell you what really happened.”

Susu told me what happened.

“Roman found me,” she said. “The day after you introduced us. Do you remember? At that lecture? The reading? We were late. We walked in late, remember? He called me. I went to him at his hotel. It was so—so sophisticated. You don't know how a girl longs for that.”

She said, “To be sophisticated. To be grown up.”

I was silent.

In the library.

I waited.

“We got along so well,” she said.

“Do you want me to tell you how it was,” she said. “Between us?”

“Do you want me to be vulgar?” she said.

She stood at the window.

“I can be vulgar if that's what you'd like,” she said.

I said nothing.

She went on.

“I went away with him,” she said. “We ate oranges. We swam in the sea. He called me his fate. Is that stupid? I know it's stupid,” she said.

She laughed.

“We saw ruins,” she said.

“He wrote his book,” she said.

“Did you read it?” I asked.

She said, “What good can a book do for me? I went to the beach. We were happy. He said that we were happy, anyway. I never really think about things like that.”

“That's when it happened,” she said.

“What?” I said.

“I met him one night—in the hotel bar. He wasn't alone. He was with a man. An old friend whom he hadn't seen in forever. They drank. I drank too. Then it was late. I didn't, I don't know where the waiter had gone. The friend went to find the waiter. And Ro, he turned to me. Ro asked me to—” she said.

She waited.

“He told me what he wanted me to do.”

“You don't have to tell me this,” I said.

She had her back to me.

She turned.

“May I have a drink?” said Susu.

I poured her a glass of vodka.