Foreign Affairs - Alison Lurie [115]
Uncanny; literally so, because it overturns our belief in the uniqueness of the individual, Vinnie decides as she stands waiting for the bus in a queue of half-a-dozen women of varied ages and walks of life, any one of whom Rosemary might presumably if she chose become, as she had a few minutes ago become Vinnie Miner. Again she hears what was supposed to be her own voice coming out of Rosemary’s mouth: “Now really, Vinnie—” Does she always sound like that, so pert, nasal, and schoolmistressy? Of course no one likes his own voice; she remembers embarrassing moments with her tape recorder. Then she wonders whether Mrs. Harris has ever heard Rosemary’s impersonation of Mrs. Harris. Somehow she doubts it—a woman of her sort wouldn’t stand for that; she would fly into a rage, she would curse out Rosemary or maybe even smack her, the way Vinnie would have liked to.
Histrionic talent such as Rosemary’s has other dangers besides the hostility of those who are mimicked, Vinnie thinks, breathing more normally now. It’s possible to play a part once too often; actors can be typecast, so that they have to go on being silly ingenues or strong-silent detectives for years. Sometimes they become so identified with a role that it gradually usurps their own shallower and less defined personalities—in private as well as in the public eye.
Edwin was right, she tells herself as the tall red bus approaches. He saw what was happening before he left for Japan: he said that Mrs. Harris was a bad influence. And now, from imitating her as a parlor trick, Rosemary has progressed to the point where, when her own rather weak ego is blurred by alcohol, the strong but disagreeable personality of her charlady takes over and says things Rosemary herself would never say, or probably even think. Because surely she doesn’t think that Vinnie is personally messing up London and knows fuck-all about life.
Yes, that’s an interesting theory, and a nice, reassuring one, Vinnie says to herself as the 74 bus grinds north toward Regent’s Park. But isn’t it more likely that Rosemary, however drunk, meant what she said? That her jealous rage at Fred spilled over onto Vinnie, and the real truth came out? But what she really thinks of Vinnie—what all her friends—maybe everyone in London—think of Vinnie couldn’t be properly expressed by anyone as sweet and charming and refined as Lady Rosemary Radley. To say it she had to become, and because she is an actress could become, a coarse, ill-tempered, vindictive person like Mrs. Harris.
When she reaches her flat, Vinnie’s impulse is to go to bed and hide. But she resists it; she isn’t really tired or ill, just angry and miserable and headachy. She doesn’t feel up to going out again, even just up the road to Limonia to have supper with her cousins. She distrusts the world: people she has never done any harm to—or (as in the case of L. D. Zimmern) even met—are walking around in it wishing her ill. She decides to telephone her cousins and excuse herself. But before she can find the number of their hotel, her phone rings.
“Hi, honey, this is Chuck.”
“Oh, hello. How is everything in Wiltshire?”
“Great. I’ve got a heap to tell you. You remember that picture of the grotto with the Hermit of South Leigh that Colonel and Lady Jenkins showed me when I first came down here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Wal, I’ve been trying to get ahold of a copy, and this guy in Bath just came up with one. Not the whole book, just that etching, but it’s hand-colored and in great condition.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“And yesterday we found a stone on the dig with real interesting carvings; Mike thinks—” Chuck expounds; Vinnie, holding the phone with one hand and her headache with the other, listens, making appropriate noises. “So it looks like—Hey, Vinnie. Are you feeling all right?”
“Oh yes, thanks,” she lies.
“You sound kinda low.”
“Well. Perhaps a little. A rather upsetting thing happened this afternoon.” Though she hasn’t meant to, Vinnie finds herself relating her encounter with Rosemary, omitting only the characterization