Forget Yourself (22 page)

“I will tend to your every need.”

What needs would Frederick have beyond sex? Perhaps I could help him with his works, perhaps I could help him rebuild the world. I was doing so myself, with my first recorded memory, one which put all the others to shame. I hadn’t even needed to place it in the book. Soon other weddings would follow. I took a deep breath and felt myself expand, the dress a little looser. Breathe. Slowly. Breathe.

The dress was too tight. Each inhale was too short, too sharp. The goo smeared over my lips was bitter and gritty. I wasn’t quite the same as in the magazine, but I was close enough.

Now I was framed by two-dozen stares.

I had spent nights watching her, when it was late or sometimes during the rain, watching her as she slept. She was one of the most beautiful women in all the world, her delicate face cradled in strong ropes of hair. So sure of herself. I was special, I was lucky to have access to her, to be able to feel her and hold her. Soon I would have to give her up. I would live my life as I had done before, as I had done outside, with a wedding and a real life. I wasn’t going to waste a moment left of her by sleeping. I had rested in the light-hot hours as she went about from chore to chore, resting with the hot sun glowing through the glass. Each time she’d pulled me back into the world with the soft shoo of her voice or the soft shake of her hand my skin prickled as though it was the last time.

Do You Love Me?

“
Of course I do, shut up.” A smile, a joke, her heart filled with hope. She hadn’t seen it coming. I’d been angry at her for being so stupid. For having been wrong. She had been sitting on the bed above me, I on the floor by her feet, watching her long toes wriggle as she chewed on red licorice. How could she not know? I had kissed her calf, a gesture, I wasn’t sure what kind.

“This will end.”

“Hmm?” Her moan, her mouth mushing sugar.

“This has to end.”

A pause. A heavy glug of a swallow.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, Burberry.”

I’d heard the shuffle of arsecheeks over foam, then seen her face loom over mine, peering at me from the side of our bed.

“Are you feeling all right, Blondee?” she had asked.

“I am.”

She’d looked concerned. She’d wanted to peel away whatever was sticking to me.

“Is it what everyone has been saying? The gossip has died down, there’s no need to worry. The world will say what it wants, it’s nothing to do with us. We are free.”

“No,” I replied, “no.”

My throat was too small to fit through a larger word. Palms slick with sweat.

“Is it Pilsner? He’ll get over it eventually,” she said, “just you see. He’s sour and old. He’s just picking fights to he can avoid talking to himself. Don’t bother with Pilsner, no-one else does.” She’d stroked my hair.

“No. No.”

“Frederick? Has Frederick been unhappy, has he said something? Does he need to spend more time with you? Will he not share? It’s him. Is it him?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Burberry.”

Upon her name she’d slid from the foam to the thin scuffed lino on the floor, taking my hand in hers.

“Blondee,” she’d answered. Confusion had transformed to fear.

“Burberry, this has to end. Burberry and Blondee, Burberry and Blondee and Frederick, Burberry and Blondee and this hut. It has to end.”

“I don’t understand. Are you not happy?”

How would I know? Perhaps it’s different outside, perhaps it’s different in the real world. Perhaps it’s larger, it’s bigger and better, perhaps every heart-jump and belly flutter is a feeble tremor compared to reality. Am I not happy? How the fuck should I know?

“Blondee, please,” her voice a slow, low crackle. “Please explain to me.”

I didn’t want to explain. I wanted to hold her. To hold her or to run as far from the hut as possible. Anything but there, doing that. Anything.

“It’s not real, Burberry.”

“Fuck,” her voice growing, building to a growl, “I don’t understand. Fuck. Blondee, please don’t do this. I love you. Don’t you love me?” Her eyes flooded, her smile wrinkled, crumpling into misery.

I’d kissed her neck. “Burberry, I’m sorry. You’re amazing. It’s not right.”

“Don’t do it.” Sobs bursting from her lungs.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

I’d pulled her toward me, her face buried in my breast, my nostrils over thick wads of smoke-smelling hair. Deep breaths, I’d told myself, deep breaths. A deep breath to force the clog from my throat, a deep breath to keep my eyes from welling and melting from their sockets, a deep breath to tear away tears, or else I’d cry and wail and never stop. I’d held her cold skin and she’d sobbed and shaken and I’d gripped her arm until my fingers stiffened and cramped and trembled with her.

Then she was gone.

“I will be your wife.”

Here we were, in the courtyard, surrounded by guests of two-two-two. Red and green leaves scattered the ground beneath our feet, soft music floating about our rigid bodies. As he heard the words Frederick smiled. He wasn’t used to the sounds. Wife. It was new and exciting.

For days after the break-up with Burberry I had waited and longed, alone in the triangle-hut, not eating or wandering, simply feeling the shape of her printed in foam. This was right this was right this was right, I’d told myself. I had given her the coloured curtains and she had given me a rope from her head. I’d placed it under the bed. There was no other choice. Finally I had eaten, then dipped my head in the bucket, sloshing cold water over my armpits, cleaning myself from toe to thigh to neck. By the time I’d stood outside I was excited, my skin tingling from the cold.

What would he say?

It would be fine, I had known that: he would know what was right.

The ground had shimmered, wet below and warm above. My socks scuffed the sand, spraying fine grit through the damp air. The courtyard had stood unguarded, a sight I still had to get used to. Then limp waft of a breeze pressed into me, pressing me back, but I hurried on anyway.

For a moment I’d waited, staring at Frederick’s heavy door, unsure of what to say. For the first time I had noticed the faded outline of numbers. Six, seven and—it swung open.

“I have to come in,” I had croaked, squeezing his back.

“Yes, yes. Come in, Blondee.”

“I have a new memory, Frederick. There’s a new way of seeing our world. We can rebuild the old one, for real, we can live as we always should have done.”

He had been confused but he’d also been patient. My words ran from my mouth, falling and scattering about the room, ready to be examined and explained. Marriage, companionship, forever, excluding, excluding all others, society, men and women, real roles, a path, a direction.

“Blondee, where were you? Where have you been?”

“Now there’s the thing. She’s gone, Frederick.”

“Why?” He’d drawn the word out, spreading it over three of mine.

“I chose you.”

“But you already had me,” he’d replied.

I’d slowed down and placed my head on his belly. I placed my story in order and paused now and then, giving the words time to spread out. I had a memory. I had many. In the old world you chose someone, you had a ceremony and you stayed with them, forever. It was marriage. I had had a marriage, I had had a husband, but that me—that person—she had died, wiped from history. We were all married, or waiting, it was a matter of time. No angry shaking tears, no uncertainty, no running to the other end of the world, no averted looks, no awkwardness. It was forever.

He had a hundred questions.

Who was my husband?

“I don’t know, he died, too.”

What if you don’t?

“You live and die alone.”

Why didn’t you put it in the book?

“It doesn’t fit.”

I didn’t mention the magazine, he wouldn’t have understood. There were others, dozens of women, I’d said, and I could see them all. They painted their lips and wore semen-toned dresses and were happy. They lived to make their husband’s lives easier. They had roles, they had purpose. It was their job.

“You don’t feel like you have a purpose?”

“I do, Frederick. I will.”

There were men, bold, confident, straight lines on smart suits. They were given a bride to be happy.

“Do you love me, Frederick?”

“I do love you, Blondee.”

“It’s what people in love do.”

Question, question, question. I poured the pages of the magazine from my lips. I’d whispered and giggled and ranted. I hadn’t forgotten a word. We’d lain on his bed and he’d stroked my neck as I’d talked, and eventually his hand had slowed and stopped, his breath the gently buzz of a snore.

When he awoke he saw the truth.

“So, we’ll be married then?”

“You will hold and protect me in return.”

I formed each sound carefully and slowly. I smiled, tears welling in my eyes. He would protect me, wrap me up in his arms, wrap me up in his home—our home—and shy me away from the eyes of the world. My cheeks tickled and I laughed, his gentle smile answering me. The crowd was silent, they approved. It was time to continue.

He’d grinned. He’d rummaged through a plastic bag and pulled free a wave of cream-coloured fabric. “This is for you.”

I had been sitting speechless, running my hands over the cold material. It was the smoothest thing I had ever felt. I pressed my face to it, before catching sight of myself. Less rough, I needed to be less rough. I gently stroked it with my fingers.

“Thank you,” I managed to whisper.

He laughed. “Rings will be here soon.”

“Did you tell her what it was for?”

“I didn’t. We will.”

And she’d arrived, a patter at the door.

“Blondee. Can I come in?” She’d been cheerful.

I’d told her she could. The least must all wander in and out of one another’s homes, as free and thoughtless as lovers. She might have been minor by pronouncement, but she was one of them.

“You’ve got a job for me, Frederick?” Her voice sounded far away, as though it wafted from a music player.

“I do,” Frederick replied. “It’s not—it’s really not just any job though, Rings, it’s special. Blondee has had a memory. More than a memory, it’s bigger than that, really, it is. Do you want to tell her about it? No? Well I will.”

So he did, he told her every word I had read and relayed, described every picture I had reported as my own and recorded as memory. He’d missed nothing. Her face had fallen, suddenly serious, weighted by it all. She’d had to sit on the floor.

“It’s a lot—a lot to take in Rings,” he’d said, “but this is how people lived on the outside. We’re going to be the first to live like this here. We’ll be the first.”

Eventually she’d stood, shaken by excitement. The news had stirred her.

“People should know then, they should know about this, they certainly should.”

“I suppose,” Frederick replied, or something like it. “But we’ll need a dress.”

Spinster. The word came to me as she hurried out the door.

Within hours the world knew.

Door by door by door. From the courtyard to every fire tap.

“Blondee and Frederick are getting married.”

Salt, sugar, and nutmeg were stirred in.

“Well...”

“Go outside,” Frederick had said. “We need some water.” He’d handed me his bucket which didn’t smell or leak and I’d trotted to the courtyard.

“Blondee! Blondee! It’s her, Blondee! Is it true? It’s all true, I knew it was. It makes sense, I knew, I always knew that mine was the one. We’ll be getting married ourselves, though not before you.”

Laughter, playful or snide, and more questions. I told them they must have heard it all.

“Tell us yourself,” they’d said, “we want to hear
your
memories. I heard she was married before. What did you say? Is that true Blondee?”

The sun had slipped away by the time I’d carried the bucket back, filled with water. I hadn’t even remembered touching the tap.

“Blondee,” Frederick had said in a burst of breath. “Here.”

He’d handed me a ring. It was woven from old copper wires.

“You shall stay strong for me.”

This was the first. There would be more, but we were first, and people we had never even seen, least and minor, were gathered to watch. To watch, or judge, or copy. I didn’t care. This was it, my new life. This was it. I peeked at the crowd and for a moment I thought I saw Tie, grinning and happy and not even dead. This was right—if I felt him here I knew it had to be. He was always so steady and sure.

Do You Love Me?

There was no time for that. Eventually I would forget her, forget the sticky taste of her skin and the slow, deliberate strokes of her hand. Her words and her sullen sleep faces would leave my mind and she too could start afresh. She would find a husband, or a wife, and she would be happy.