Kate Zambreno - Green Girl

She cries out to be saved.

In the East End, hurrying home after closing at Horrids, lowering her head, her shoulder blades going in. Shielding herself from wind and stares. A stream of blankness. She spies the shadow of a young woman appearing in the distance walking towards Ruth, towards Liverpool Station. With a jolt, she realizes it is Elspeth. Then she remembers Olly mentioning something about playing with his jazz group nearby. At first Ruth feels violated. Elspeth, in her neighborhood. But she looks almost lovely, walking alone, head down, arms crossed, black sleeve on black. Like the Virgin Mary, Ruth thinks. As their paths cross Elspeth lifts her head almost as if she had been expecting her and smiles brightly. Not a word is spoken. And then Ruth feels almost tender towards this pale aloof girl, so in love with a boy as to go out at night to follow him and then walk home alone. This is her world more than mine, she thinks. In this city, this London, she is merely only a visitor, a tourist and not a tourist, somewhere in between. She can leave any time. She would leave. And maybe Elspeth would never leave her solitary circle, her train ride there, her walk home here, her trips out at night. This is the globe she was born inside, with its little white shaky pieces settling over a toy city, that you turn over and say Ahh…

The two girls are at home, making up their faces as if they were the Sistine Chapel. Silently inventing themselves. Agnes had invited herself as Ruth’s plus-one to the Horrids holiday party. Ruth is kneeling on their floor in front of the mirror, carefully making up her face. Agnes had let her borrow her green sparkly eyeshadow. Like throwing on green tinsel. On top of which the cat’s-eyeliner. She is wearing a black work dress but with her new stockings and a pair of Agnes’ gold door-knockers. Agnes is wearing a red dress, red stockings, red shoes, red hair flipped up. She is twirling on her fifth coat of lipstick, blotting on an old copy of a Metro that she then throws back on the floor. Their flat was already filthy. These girls lived like pigs. Walking on their red carpet of dirty clothes that they picked up from the floor, sniffed and wore. They had more important things to do. They must groom themselves, they do not have time to clean. They have to get ready for their audience, for the flash and wave. To Agnes there was always this Everyone appraising them at all times. And maybe there was. The world is always the audience for young girls, and they were still young, weren’t they? They were poor and foreigners, but they were still young.

The party is held in the basement of a restaurant where there is a disco. As Agnes and Ruth make their entrance, the room turns to look, then returns to their conversations. The two girls stand at the entrance, as if suspended. Finally, well, this is BIZ-arre. Shall we? Agnes nods towards the bar. Ruth just keeps smoking her cigarette. Her face like smooth glass. She tries to affect Holly Golightly’s stoicism when eating a croissant outside Tiffany’s.

Near the bar Elspeth has cornered Olly. She is laughing at something he is saying and keeps on touching his arm which holds a glass of beer, which Olly then lifts to his mouth, like a marionette. Agnes orders champagne and flirts with the bartender. Ruth lingers near her colleagues. Hi guys, she says. Elspeth smiles at Ruth. She was much friendlier now, ever since that day on the street. Hiya Ruth. Oh, hello, Ruth, says Olly, nicely. You look lovely. Ruth smiles, blushing. You look nice yourself. He is dressed in the same suit he wore at Horrids, but with a brightly-colored necktie he had chosen for the occasion, a red that matches Agnes’ hair.

Here you go. Agnes slides up behind them. Olly fixes his eyes on her red beam. She hands Ruth the other glass of champagne and Olly her hand, like she is in a movie about to be introduced to her leading man. My flatmate Agnes, Ruth, reluctantly. It’s a pleasure, she purrs. Ruth actually feels sympathetic for Elspeth, who lingers at Olly’s elbow, simmering. You’re sitting with fragrance, aren’t you? Elspeth pulling at his sleeve. Yes. Yes of course Olly smiles. He continues to stare mesmerized at Agnes. Would you ladies like to join us? He says to her. Elspeth smirks at Agnes. Oh, dear, there isn’t room for two more. That’s okay, Ruth says, apologetically. Olly finally excuses himself, following Elspeth’s whip of black hair. Agnes grabs the crook of Ruth’s arm, fingernails shoving in. Ouch Ruth winces. So that’s Joan Crawford, hmmm? I guess Ruth says (thinking to herself, wouldn’t Agnes be the femme fatale figure here?). If you’re going to dye your hair black you at least have to wear lipstick, Agnes glares. So that’s the infamous Olly. I guess, Ruth shrugs. Agnes has that look on her face, that look like she could eat glass. He would be so much fun to spoil, wouldn’t he? She almost meows. Ruth doesn’t know what to do but laugh. Why should Ruth be surprised? Or maybe the champagne tempered everything. If you want Olly, you’re going to have to get through them, she nods her head at the table of girls, currently pawing at Olly like he is the homecoming king of Horrids. Those girls? They don’t bother me, Agnes tosses her hair like an orange flame.

Dinner is an anonymous lump of meat smothered in brown gravy, vegetables tortured in a sauce of a similar shade. They are sitting alone. Agnes hadn’t wanted to mingle. Ruth eats her champagne instead, watching the bubbles rise up, up, up, waving at a few of her colleagues, there’s Ava Gardner, there’s The Italian in men’s fragrance who she has started taking smoke breaks with. Agnes eats her red lipstick, which she swirls and smacks with the ferocity of one going to battle. Like Mars, Ruth thinks.

People were starting to dance or pair off in the corners pressing up against each other. C’mon, Agnes pulls at her limp arm. Ruth teeters behind, splashing around her glass of sparkling blonde, a bemused look plastered on her face. Plastered. Agnes saunters up to Olly. The waves of girls separate. Dance with us she orders. Elspeth’s white face looks pinched and pained. Olly stands up, yanked by the puppet strings attached around his penis.

Ruth stands on the edge of the dance floor, swaying, as Agnes circles around a hypnotized Olly, like predator around prey, grinding her hips. Agnes is such an imperialist, Ruth thinks fuzzily. The room dances around her. A man approaches her out of the corner of her eye. She vaguely recognizes him. Jimorsomething. From Cookery. He is saying something to her. So, what are your thoughts on the war?

Ruth regards him woozily. Is that, like, some sort of pick-up line?

He shrugs. She does not know if he is trying to flirt with her or be antagonistic. She sways back and forth slowly. She is annoyed. She doesn’t answer him.

Now Jimorsomething from Cookery seems irritated. It is your president, you know. You voted for him.

Oh, okay. My green girl blinks. Blink, blink. Up, down the lashes.

She is frozen to the spot on the floor. She looks like one of those wax celebrities at Madame Tussauds. She eyes the bottom of her glass and ignores him, wishing him away. Someone has hit the mute button.

Hey, no worries. Cheers. And Jimorsomething from Cookery leaves her frame of vision.

She senses someone watching her from far away. The boy with the enflamed face. It embarrasses her, him seeing her drunk, but at least she won’t remember tomorrow. For the rest of the evening the picture only worked in gasps and bursts. All faces blurred, racing. At some point a joint was offered. She accepted it, even though she was always a wreck when she drank and smoked at the same time. She accepted it all the same. Maybe she didn’t know how to refuse. Or maybe it was that nihilist streak inside of herself that she could never understand, that impulse to ruin everything, to grind everything into its death. Or maybe it was Agnes? Maybe Agnes was the grand instigator of this entire collision? It was easier to blame Agnes. Yes, blame Agnes. Blame Agnes.