Green Girl (22 page)

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.

If I could smash that thing that houses me inside of myself…

— Angela of Foligno

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.

Such joy, such bliss, impossible to describe.

Agnes, Agnes.

What?

I forgot.

They are in bed together. A blanket is pulled on them. They are staring at the ceiling.

Everything has such amazing textures.

I know.

Oh, life, life, life.

Agnes moans softly to herself. Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmm.

Ruth was filled with such violence, such sublime joy. Enraptured. She is enflamed. Such tenderness. Her teeth were chattering. She was feverish.

This can never end.

No, it can never end.

Please don’t ever end.

Don’t leave me Ruth.

Don’t leave me Agnes.

Oh, don’t leave me don’t leave.

They never wanted it to end never wanted it to end never never never wanted it to…

— If I could dig a hole and hide from everyone, I’d do it.

— Do as elephants do, when they’re unhappy, they just disappear.

— I don’t know if I’m unhappy because I’m not free, or I’m not free because I’m unhappy.

— Jean-Luc Godard’s
À bout de souffle

The next day. The depths of despair. Of dead and dread. All the joy has crept out of her body.

Ruth wakes up and it is evening. She has slept for what seems like days, slept like a leech stuck to her mattress.

Oh the noises, the noises.

40% 50% 40% 50%

She cannot sleep with all of these noises. She reemerges into the night, into the city with its cruel eyes.

Look (don’t look)

Look (please don’t look)

Her sunglasses mirror the reflection of the seething outside, closing in on her.

Her only reflection is her image.

Two Bengali kids, cigarettes hanging on their lips, loiter in the doorway of the newsagent. She lowers her eyes modestly when she passes them, feeling them look her up and down. Always preparing for the gaze, averting eyes away from it, feeling it hotly. She buys chocolate, Sprite. The man behind the counter leers at her.

The kids harass her as she passes them again. You looking fine tonight lady. She ignores them. She passes through them.

The noise has made her on edge. She is going mad. She is breaking down. No hairline chips or cracks. She is Ingrid Bergman in
Gaslight
.

She walks tense among the terrible teem. She feels her guard rise up as she passes through the callers. She keeps on looking back, checking to see if anyone’s following her (a woman out in public is not paranoid, she’s observant). She makes eye contact with a few men who stop as she passes by.

She is a zombie come alive. She is out of it. She walks to the end of Brick Lane. She keeps pace behind two girls wearing silver stilettos, clinging to each other as they walk down the cobblestones. They look like they are supporting each other, like they can’t walk without the other. She doesn’t know where she’s going. She passes by people drinking at candlelit tables, smoking on doorsteps, pouring out of gallery openings. More bodies, bodies, bodies. She feels fragile right now, exposed.
Salut, Ça va?
, a Frenchman waves at her from across the street. She ignores him too.

She passes alleys with the stench of piss. Past a dark street frequented by prostitutes. Ladies of the night. She feels the burn in her belly. She continues walking. Past the strip club. Past the big stone church. Past the tree like an armless woman howling in pain.

Hell is a city much like London—

A populous and a smoky city;

There are all sorts of people undone,

And there is little or no fun done;

Small justice shown, and still less pity.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Peter Bell the Third” (Part the Third: Hell), quoted in Walter Benjamin’s
The Arcades Project

The next morning the streets are papered with junk, vomit, wrappers, fliers from the market. The rubble and the ruin. A little boy jumps over a puddle littered with cigarette butts. She wishes she could clean herself of these dirty streets.

She prays for the rain. Rain to wash it all away. She needs to be baptized by rain, a flood pouring down absolution.

She clutches her keys with one hand and her phone with the other. Her safety blankets. Her protection from the outside world.

She hurries up the street. Past the jangle of rainbow-colored keys in a construction worker’s hand, the other holding a Styrofoam coffee. The construction workers turn to stare at her. She wants to shield herself from their naked leer. She wants to be in disguise. She has on her protective lenses but she wants to be invisible.

Look

(don’t look)

Look

(please don’t look)

It is too much outside. The studies and the stares. She stumbles down the street, dry and shaky. She feels depleted.

They never stop following her. They all want something from her. They want a piece of her. They want to suck her youth from her. They want her signature. They want her arm. They want a lock of her hair. They want her soul. It is a feeding frenzy. She is on all the cable stations. This just in: Ruth. It is Ruth-gate.

They push push against her. Bodies, bodies, bodies. It reaches a fever pitch. It is a media crush. It is a media circus. It is too much pressure. She wants to escape. Leave me alone! She begs. Just leave me alone! She is clearly traumatized. She crumples up. She hides behind sunglasses and hats and phony disguises. Breaking news—Ruth breaks down!