Nicola Griffith - Always

Everyone turned to listen.

“And you say, ‘There is always a choice of some kind, always.’ Are you saying anyone who gets hurt is making a choice, that it’s our fault?”

The air-conditioning now burst into a slow clatter that quickened as the motor warmed.

“ ‘If someone abuses you, make them stop’ is the heart of self-defense.” Hypotenuse, square, sum. They weren’t going to get it in one gulp. “Let’s break it down.”

Suze sighed out loud.

“First of all, by ‘someone’ I mean anyone, everyone: parent, child, friend, relative, spouse, partner, boss, priest, police officer, stranger, casual acquaintance, member of Congress, the queen. Everyone. Anyone. Abuse means the trespassing on our basic rights as human beings. Make them stop means to leave, tell them to stop, or fight. Whichever is the most efficient.”

“Are we talking basic assertiveness-training stuff here?” Nina said, crossing her legs so that her right foot rested sole up on her left thigh. I was always surprised by her hip flexibility. She moved so stiffly in other ways. “You know, you have the right to your own feeling and moods, you have the right to make mistakes, you have the right to change your mind. Blah, blah, blah.”

“Yes.” Assertiveness training. I’d have to look that up. “Anyone else familiar with it?”

Therese, Tonya, and Katherine nodded. Suze made a noise like a horse clearing its nose, and Christie said, “I’ve never even heard of it.”

Nina laughed. “It’s a second-wave thing, honey. Your momma might know. Or maybe your grandmomma. There are seven basics.” She looked at me. I gestured for her to continue. “The three I already said, plus you have the right to say no without explaining, you have the right to go where you want—when, with whom, and wearing whatever—you want. You have the right to refuse responsibility for others—unless it’s your child, of course—and we have the right to act without the approval of others. That last one is tricky. It’ll screw you every time, least until you hit fifty.” She sounded cheerful about it.

“Much of this is tied together,” I said. “For example, one, having the right to wear what you want, even just a thong and stilettos, and go wherever you want, whenever you want, such as a roadside bar at one in the morning, and, two, having the right to make mistakes.”

Half the class laughed.

“Think of it this way,” I said to the other half. “If a richly dressed man walks through a high-crime area late at night with his wallet sticking out of his pocket, is he to blame if he is mugged?”

“Oh,” said Jennifer, “I get it, I get it.”

“The woman in the thong and the man with the wallet would be stupid, making a grave error in judgment, but still the ultimate wrongdoer would be the perpetrator. If you make a mistake—with the clothes or the wallet— it doesn’t mean you asked for it. Or deserve it. You have the right to make the perpetrator stop if they attempt to abuse you.”

Sandra was sitting very still, very erect. “But sometimes the other person is bigger and faster and stronger.”

“Yes.”

“So sometimes we don’t have a choice.”

“No. We always have a choice of some kind, just not always the choices we would like.”

Her smile was light, whipped cream over old and bitter coffee. “The ‘die whimpering or with your head held high’ kind of choice?”

“Usually there are lots of branches on the decision tree before you get to that point.”

“But not always.”

I studied her. This was the Sandra who wanted to break from her cage and run wild and free across the moonlit meadow—but knew, as she knew the sun rose in the east and set in the west, that a hunter would rise from the brush and shoot her.

“No,” I said, “not always.”

AT EIGHT-THIRTY THE NEXT MORNING I WAS SITTING AT THE BEVELED-GLASSdining table in my suite, before a brand-new laptop. It was downloading Corning’s entire desktop. I’d gone online with the brand-new, empty machine and input her user name and password at the Carbonite website, and answered her security question. It had taken me five minutes on the Web to find out she had attended Lincoln High School.

Once I’d downloaded the software, I hit restore files, and now the hard drive was chattering. The download-in-progress bar read 73 percent. By the time I finished my breakfast, I’d be able to peruse the whole at my leisure.

I finished the last of my grapefruit and started on the spicy sausage, leaning back as I chewed, staring at the dirty grey sky—like foam on boiling lentils, rent here and there by the wind and gaping bright blue. The download bar read 89 percent complete. I poured myself tea.

As I was sipping, wondering what Kick’s early appointment was, Anton Finkel called.

“Not too early?” he said. His voice was thin with speakerphone echo.

“Yes,” I said. Ninety percent complete.

“What? Hello? Did you hear what she said, Stan?”

“I’m here,” I said. I closed the laptop. “What can I do for you?”

“First of all I’d like to apologize for getting distracted yesterday—”

“Not a problem.”

“I was—”

“Not a problem.” The window flickered on the edge of my vision. Rain. “Did you get your safety-equipment issues sorted?”

“We did, indeed,” said Finkel, sounding jovial and beefy, utterly unlike his personal physical presence. This was how he wanted to be regarded, I realized: one of the boys, worldly, in charge. He was still talking, “…matter, easily resolved. But you don’t want to involve yourself in our petty details. I am calling”—I wondered what had happened to we —“to assure you that from now on there will be no interruptions in our lease-payment schedule.”

“I see.”

“Excellent,” Finkel said. “Though I did want to raise the matter of your… generosity so far.”

“Go on.”

“It was most kind of you to step in on the medical payments front. I’m sure all the crew appreciate it.”

“I sincerely hope the crew knows nothing of it.”

“Of course, of course. Confidentiality. I understand. However, I was wondering how you’d feel about putting things on a more formal footing.”

I didn’t say anything. Rusen cleared his throat.

“It’s a worthwhile project,” he said. “You’ve seen the script.”

“I haven’t read it.”

“Oh. Well, you’ve seen how hard everyone is working.”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand, Ms. Torvingen,” Finkel again, “when I say this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make a real difference.”

“Is that right?”

“Anton, let me talk. Ms. Torvingen, Aud, you’ve been a great help. As much in the giving advice and just listening and being patient as anything, and we really appreciate that. But we’ve come to a… to a fork in the road, a time of decision, which… Boy, I don’t know how to say this but to just say it. We’ve burned through our cash. We’ve taken every measure imaginable, and some I couldn’t have imagined four weeks ago, and we still have a few crucial scenes and a boatload of post-production. I believe in this project. I think you understand what we’re trying to do. I believe we can do it, if we have fresh investment. I’ve heard that you might be in a position to help us out. Now, I wouldn’t want to lie to you, investment in the movie business is risky, but, well, this could be a good thing for everybody. ”

“So you’re saying you would like me to write you a check so that you can be sure to pay me my rent on time.”

Silence. “Yes, I guess. It sure sounds silly when you put it that way. I’m so sorry if we offended you in any way, and of course—”