Kate Zambreno - Green Girl

They go to his place. They sit on the couch. He is continuing the conversation. It is a one-way conversation. But later he will want it two-ways, and (if he’s lucky) three.

And there is Ruth. See Ruth. She finds herself in situations, suddenly, on strange couches of strange men, pretending to listen.

He is still talking about himself. She is bored. He never asks about her. He puts on a record and starts talking about the band playing but she has never heard of them. He is dumbstruck. He begins to lecture her on the band’s significance in music history, world history. She pretends to listen. She stares at her empty wineglass. She catches herself looming above her. She is her own ghost.

She has made herself very small on the scratchy sofa. It is that moment. She can feel it. He stops talking. He moves in towards her. His face scrapes against hers, leaving raised welts. His tongue tastes of beer and cigarettes. He is vaguely nauseating.

They go to his bedroom. He shows her something on his fancy Apple computer. He touches it longingly, with more care and feeling than he will later touch her. He shows her the film he has been making. He makes porn videos you can download on the Internet. Ruth stares at these girls, twisting and turning. They are green and ghostly. They writhe about on the floor. They do not know what to do. In those eyes, the sick of nervousness. Off-camera. A voice. That’s right. Sexy. Ooh yeah baby. So so sexy.

Ruth looks about the bedroom. Is she being filmed? But she cannot locate any green flashing light.

And it begins. They begin to fool around. She is the fool. Her clothes fall off. His clothes fall off. Sometimes, gazing up at the ceiling tiles, hazy in her fog of consciousness, she thinks: Why? What am I doing this for? But she forgets and pretends to enjoy it. She makes all the appropriate moaning sounds. She digs her nails into his back, which he interprets as her being hot for him, more, more, when really she is steeling herself as he continues to pound away, while she looks at the green glow of the alarm clock, wondering how much time has elapsed.

After the sale there was not much to do at work except try to look busy organizing cleaning wiping something whenever the horrible head appeared.

I see Ruth bored behind the counter, waiting until her shift ended. In that moment she reminds me of that painting by Degas, of the salesgirl at the hat shop. She is dressed in drab green, fingering one of the pastel dream creations, as if daydreaming of a life in which she would be the wearer.

Doors opening.

Mind the gap.

40p man had disappeared. Ruth hadn’t seen him for an eternity. Had he picked a new walk to haunt?

She needed to go to Royal Mail to pick up a package her father had sent her. She walks up Brick Lane to Whitechapel, past the whine and drumbeat of Bollywood soundtracks, mixed with the hip-hop emanating from cars. Past men in shawls and caps, who stand outside their storefronts, conversing with the rush. Women in veils silently processing down the street. Little children in knee socks run past. Past a large pack of pigeons pecking on the ground banging their heads against the ground looking looking for what?

Across the street, after the large mosque, is the massive London Royal Hospital. People here do not go to the hospital. They go to hospital, like it’s a state of being. A warm day. Almost spring. Patients in robes and various states of undress, bruised arms pulling on their IV bags, sitting in their wheelchairs, on the steps, having a cigarette or talking on their mobile phones. Others, flanked by attendants in hospital scrubs, stand on the steps, staring, staring into the street. She hands the attendant the slip through the hole in the glass. The attendant returns with an envelope. The postmark from Chicago. Ruth rips it open. It is money, in sterling. Enough to get by for the next few weeks. A belated Christmas present. No note.

She pushes through the Whitechapel markets. They are packing up for the day, sad pieces of fruit, a table of fake watches, cell-phone covers. Past a shop for school uniforms, disembodied plaid jumpers and navy blue shorts, a shop with saris on similarly headless mannequins, past a shop for dress dummies, arranged in sexual positions. She turns onto Brick Lane. It starts to rain softly, slippery on the cobblestones.

The men waiting outside her landlord’s restaurant smile at her. They now know that she is not hungry. Or if she was hungry, that she could not would not dine there tonight. They recognize her by now. She wondered what they saw when they looked at her, head down, blonde bulb dirtying with the quickening rain. She wondered what they saw in her.

She puts in her notice at Horrids. It is awkward running into Rhys all the time who stares at her like a wounded puppy. (They are both puppies, puppies I feel an urge to drown just to put them out of their misery. The euthanasia of youth.)

I feel sorry for you, Ruth. That’s what he said when she told him about the Canadian.

Whatever. She said back.

When she goes to human resources to tell them of her plan she feels the most wonderful feeling. A bittersweet sense of transience hits her like a dizzy spell. She is merely a tourist. The end for her is the beginning. She would have many endings. They will be there forever. She would leave and leave and leave. And they would stay. This was their world, not hers.

Now that Ruth and Rhys are no longer an item, Agnes is inserted easily back into her life. They are best friends again for the time being, until they have another falling out. They are connected at the hip again, Siamese twins.

Agnes had some Ecstasy and she asked Ruth if she wanted to take it with her. The devil did not cease to tempt her. Ruth could not see a reason why not. It could be her own leaving-do. To leave her body for a while. To leave the cage.

For hours Ruth did not have to be Ruth. She could leave herself. Deep breath in. Exhale.

I’m so happy I’m so happy I’m so happy

I don’t remember ever being so happy

Agnes’ eyes were rolling in the back of her head.

I can’t stop smiling

My cheeks hurt

Ruth was making a snow angel in the mess of clothes, humming to the movement of her arms.

Upanddown

Upanddown

She laid back and allowed the warmth to spread throughout her body.

Ummm Ummm she moaned. Never had she felt such delight.

Hey hey feel this

Agnes’ hands were wet with cold. She ran them over Ruth’s arms. She tingled all over.

Feelthis feelthis feelthis

So sweet, so sweet

I don’t ever want to stop this

I’m so happy

Me too

I love you

I love you too

Oh, love, love, love. Ruth murmured. Love, love, love.

Ruth Ruth can I tell you something

What? Ruth was concentrating again on her snow angel. Ummm, ummm, ummm

You’re so sweet and so pure

You’re so sweet and so pure

No you are

Can I feel your eyelashes?

Of course. Of course. Of course. Of course. Of course. Of course.

They’re so soft. So soft so soft so soft.

My jaw hurts.

Drink some water. Agnes poured the bottle of water onto Ruth’s head. Ruth licked her lips.

I baptize you.

Mmmm. Her tongue strokes her teeth.

Hours passed in this rapturous state. They were babies reborn.

Ruth was outside of herself. In a state of abandon. She has abandoned herself. She has left the building. Oh. Oh. Such wonderful phrases. The most profound things. Such wonderful phrases and profound things.