Virginia Woolf in Manhattan (12 page)

Inspect it! As if it might be defective! Now the moment was here, I became afraid. I felt an almost religious dread – not that I have ever been religious.

Like the Ancient Mariner, my blood thicks with cold

as if I was daring to look behind the curtain

   & see something I should never have seen

as if I had forfeited the right to see it, because of the terrible

thing I had done –

‘Forgive me,’ I said, & looked away for a second before I could bring myself to focus.

‘Sorry, Ma’am?’

‘Nothing. A slight headache.’

And then I looked, and saw in a flash how perfect it was. Perfectly simple. Yet everything was there. All the unsayable. Only Nessa … only my sister.

After the finale of the village pageant, the actors go home to the drama of their lives. My last page ends with the actors starting to play their part in this bigger pageant. From their act of love, new life will be born

I could not do it the doctors stopped me

 
could not make life as other women did

  
this mystery that was all the world needed

Nessa had drawn a stage with theatrical curtains – a graceful bow to the theme of the pageant. Closed, as if for an interval, when the curtains come together and the cast disappears so the audience, briefly, may come to life and chatter.

But these still curtains had another meaning. The show was over. I had slipped from the theatre.

And garlanding the curtains she had drawn roses, prodigal roses, country roses, and I knew the roses were thrown there in mourning, her wreath for the sister who had gone away.

‘Sorry,’ I breathed. ‘Forgive me, Nessa.’

Her cover wrung my heart, yet it couldn’t be bettered. The artist in me bowed to her. It was her goodbye, her delayed reply to the terrible note I left for her.

The artist bowed, but the sister howled. The sister in me was wrenched with pain.

She who had known me from the start

 
she had slipped away, she was lost in time

the emptiness
 
the blind, mute ache

  she had to die without my comfort

Where were her ashes? Where did she die? She was older, I should have sat by her bed. With my act I had lost the chance to accompany her through the only life we had, the life we had shared since we were children, scene by scene, side by side.

Nessa must have been lonely without me. Duncan would have been off with boys, and what use to her, really, was poor red-faced Clive?

I do not know if she grew old
. This thought transfixed me, a nail in my forehead.

Why had I never understood? Why did the thought of their pain not stop me?

Was I as selfish as Leonard once said, in one of the worst arguments we had? Afterwards he told me it wasn’t true.

(I did care for him, and petted him, in ways that no-one else can imagine. He was wonderful, but he wasn’t a saint. I mothered him sometimes. I cared for him.)

But no, I had to save myself, because the Furies were after me. When the Furies claw you, there is no more reason. I knew that only my death could stop them, make them hang, slavering, over the water, shrinking and dwindling as the day grew darker and the last bubbles rose to the surface. They lost their power. I drove them away.

I am many things, but not a coward.

Of course, she isn’t like other people, and naturally I shouldn’t expect her to be, but it did look odd, the way she sat there staring. A great teardrop rolled down her cheek, and she shook her head so it jerked to the right, like a stray raindrop on a train window flying through the dark woods of the past …

We had urgent business to attend to.

‘Are you all right?’ I touched her hand. To my surprise, it was warm and firm, and in that instant her posture changed, she sat up in her chair, she gathered herself.

‘It’s hot in here. I must remove my jacket.’ It wasn’t hot, but I was relieved, until she folded the smelly thing and dumped it, without ceremony, on my lap.

‘
Thank
you.’ My ironic tone was lost on her, but I did not mind because without the jacket, she was a different woman. In her apricot silk, she looked old but immaculate, a woman of distinction, fine-boned, aristocratic, exactly the right person to deliver our script. I still wished the jacket were less smelly (I was getting the hang of her subjunctives), but dropped it on the floor beside her chair.

She said ‘Thank you, young man, for showing me that. It brings back memories of my past. I may be interested in purchasing it, but first I have some books I think will interest you. They are Virginia Woolf first editions.’

(I remembered in a flash we had forgotten one thing – I
obviously couldn’t risk calling her ‘Virginia’! But we hadn’t arranged an alternative name.)

Another bland young man was summoned. ‘Ah yes, Madam, you came in the other day.’ He recognised me. I realised I was sweating. We surely wouldn’t get away with this. Yet the books themselves could not be more authentic, we had not stolen them, what had I to fear?

I think I was frightened it would all melt away. That we’d look in the laptop case which held the books and find there was nothing there but air. All morning I had been oppressed by fear of the dark towers of Madison Avenue (I’d seen her shiver, and closed the car window to protect us both as we rode through). I was afraid our dream would shrivel. And yet her hand felt warmer, sturdier.

I snapped back from my brown study, sitting where I was at the great dark table, to hear Virginia halfway through her script on the other side of the shop, at the desk! The staff were attentive.

‘Bring the copies, Angela,’ she commanded. She seemed to have got used to calling me ‘Angela’. I obeyed – yes, I had got used to obeying.

I handed her the laptop bag.
One at a time
, I prayed. Spread out your jewels for full effect. She did.

In fact, she was masterly. A sort of hush fell when they saw
Orlando
really was a first edition – ‘May I, Ma’am?’ – and wondered at the fresh bright orange boards, the ruler-sharp edges of the photographs, the unchipped, unmarked transparent dust jacket. ‘The glassine is in remarkable condition,’ one of them said, aside to the other.

‘Glassine?’ I said.

‘Oh, a technical word.’ He smiled at me with a new deference. They were handling it like a votive object.

‘I have something else,’Virginia said. Her long white hands
dived into the bag and pulled out her pristine
To the Lighthouse
. ‘I see you already have a copy of this, so perhaps I should take it to another dealer?’ She feigned hesitation – was she going to put it back? The woman was a consummate actress!

‘We’d very much like to see it,’ one said, and the other said hastily ‘I’ll go and get Alex.’ Yet another member of staff was fetched, an older, grander man in a suit, and as they came back in whispered conclave, I caught the word ‘exceptional’.

‘Do you mind me asking where you came by these?’ the older man asked, clutching
To the Lighthouse
with a covetous hand.

‘Yes, they’ve always been in my family,’ Virginia drawled, in her most patrician accent. ‘We are actually a distant branch of the Stephens. Some people say I resemble Virginia. My great-aunt Theodocia’ –
Theodocia!
Surely she was over-egging it, but no, they were hanging on her every word – ‘was not a reader, and kept them in a locked cupboard, but then she left me her whole estate, and of course, when I saw them – one knew they were of interest.’

And then she played her master stroke. ‘Oh, you might take a look at the title pages. She’s written personal messages.’

‘Virginia?’ they asked in unison, and just for a moment I thought she would answer, I saw her clever lips poised to respond, but I broke in to stop her, ‘Yes, that’s right. Inscribed by the author. One is to Leonard. And the other, to Vita.’

And then an atmosphere of celebration broke out. Soon the whole staff were crowding round the desk, smiling on us like lottery-winners, then staring at Virginia with – awe? Suspicion?

‘There really
is
a family resemblance,’ said one of the young women who had joined the crowd. ‘I think there’s a news story in this,’ said the first young man I had spoken to. ‘Would you mind if the media wanted to take your photograph with
your great aunt’s books? They will love the fact you resemble the author.’

‘My family has always avoided publicity,’ Virginia intoned with queenly calm.

‘There’s no need to be anxious, Ma’am,’ the older man said repressively. ‘My younger staff sometimes get over-excited. May we offer you a cup of tea? Perhaps we could find something stronger?’

I wasn’t sure how Virginia was with drink. Doubtless there were mentions in the
Diaries
, but without being able to check up on it, I feared alcohol might bring out her inner truth-teller. ‘My friend never drinks before lunch,’ I stated.

‘By the way, you have not mentioned money,’ Virginia said to the senior man. ‘What would you be able to offer us?’

I looked at her open-mouthed. Virginia Woolf had hit a home run!

‘Of course these are difficult times for the book trade,’ he began, with the pat-ness of a man who had been saying it for years. Virginia just smiled and said ‘Of course’. And then she pulled
Orlando
back towards her across their desk where it glowed in the light and started to get up, saying ‘I wasn’t sure this was the right moment to sell. I’m in no hurry, we can sell these in London.’

I’m in no hurry, we can sell these in London!
I was still laughing in the middle of the night.

28

I haven’t enjoyed anything so much in ages (well, of course, I haven’t enjoyed anything in ages).

We came away from there with mountains of money!

They rang the accountant for permission, then somebody was sent to the bank for dollars – Angela explained we could only take cash.

She took charge of the last stage of negotiations. I nearly spoiled everything. When they offered $50,000 for both books, I said ‘$15,000?’ in astonishment, meaning ‘$15,000 is a great deal of money,’ and Angela said, with a meaning look, ‘No, you misheard, they are offering us fifty, fifteen would obviously be absurd. But I’m afraid you’ll have to offer rather more than that.’

Then the older man made a phone call to a ‘private client’ he thought would buy. He came back all smiles and said he was now able to offer us $80,000, since he had a firm offer from ‘a keen collector. Someone who will give the books a very good home.’

Eighty thousand dollars! It was unbelievable! More money than the Press earned in a decade – more money than I probably earned in my lifetime, though in those last years we felt ourselves rich!

But Angela just said ‘Thank you. My friend and I will have to think about that. I’m sure you have made a decent offer, but in fairness to her – she’s not
au fait
with New York prices – I
think I must encourage her to see what other dealers’ prices are.’

And then someone materialised with tea, and we sat there not quite believing our luck but trying to frown and look undecided while they all went into a huddle at the back, and within ten minutes, silver-haired Alex had returned with their ‘best offer’, ‘$90,000 if we can agree this on the spot.’

We looked at each other. We nodded ‘Yes’.

Ninety thousand dollars is a great deal of money. Thousands of fifty, twenty and ten dollar bills take up space. They counted them, lengthily, in front of us – sorted them into thousand-dollar wedges – then made two parcels of forty-five wedges, neatly wrapped in plastic & firmly taped, and put each parcel in a carrier bag, chattering and laughing – immensely complacent, & so were we, we were all happy – and all this joy was the result of money! I didn’t try to lift the bags, but Angela did, and put them down, surprised. ‘They’re actually quite heavy,’ she said. Unlike the joy we felt, which was weightless.

The young men carried the bags to a taxi. Handshakes all round. Jubilation.

One did feel slightly self-conscious, however, in a taxi loaded with bags of money. Angela and I were both over-excited, my cheeks were hot, I was gasping with laughter, we kept replaying our best moments and saying ‘I can’t believe it worked’, ‘Did you really say that? It was priceless’ – when something happened to dampen our mood. We started to hear a low buzz of voices, growing slowly louder, through the windows of the cab, which had slowed down to a walking pace.

‘Sorry, ladies,’ the cab driver said. ‘Looks like the kids are at it again. Not too many, we’ll be through in no time.’

At the next crossroads, a blockage. A mob of people, a
straggle of tents, bright pink, bright yellow – whistles, singing – a forest of signs like bristling scales. The noise they were making was more jolly than angry. Some of the signs were incomprehensible, but others, one could read without difficulty: ‘OCCUPY WALL STREET’, a big banner said, crookedly supported by two young women, chewing, laughing, with an eager look. Another – oh, and then several the same – claimed ‘WE ARE THE 99 PER CENT’

‘We’ve read about this in England,’ said Angela. ‘They’re anti-capitalists, Virginia.’

‘One has always felt like the one per cent.’

What if they guessed what we had in our taxi?

‘Yeah, they’ve been doing it for years,’ said the cab driver. ‘Cuts no ice with the money guys, but maybe it makes the kids feel better.’

‘They’re not all kids, are they?’ said Angela. Certainly some were middle-aged or older, though they wore what looked like childish clothes – romper-suits, pyjama trousers. As we jerked along past the surging pavement, a thin old man with furious eyes was suddenly pushing too near the car, waving a sign that said ‘GIVE BACK OUR MONEY’ – red-rimmed eyes, a jutting chin.

It felt a little personal. ‘It’s the banks they’re demonstrating against,’ said Angela. ‘Look, behind them, that vast building.’

Yes, I could see it, a cliff of dark glass. And a line of sinister figures in helmets between the plate-glass and the rag-taggle protest – dark uniforms – and carrying guns! In front of them, a long white banner – a sheet? – bore accusatory black spiders: ‘Banks, You’re Busted’. Americans had poor handwriting. ‘Don’t worry, ladies, the cops will protect you,’ the driver said, turning and smiling.