The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [66]
Her head and neck throbbed; her gums, even her teeth seemed to ring from the impact. Nothing she saw made any sense: a blond, bare-chested woman slouched in the passenger seat of a blue convertible—How? Phoebe thought. Why?—her white breasts hanging down to her stomach—I’m imagining this. She blinked to clear her vision, but it wouldn’t stop: everywhere Phoebe looked were bleached blondes in various states of undress, enough to fill several chorus lines. She wandered through the glare of their perfume—prostitutes? In broad daylight, on a busy street? And Phoebe realized then that she must have broken through the glass after all, and this was the other side—this was it!—and hadn’t she always sensed the prostitutes would be here, too? Red corsets and garish makeup, flaunting the gash of their cleavages—Yes! Phoebe thought, she’d reached the other side and Faith must be here, too, waiting, hidden among these prostitutes—was one of them Faith? But no, her hair was dark.
Phoebe turned down a long, narrow side street. It was suddenly very quiet. There were no cars, just men on foot and women leaning in doorways, one in a short yellow dress with bruises on her legs; another, a pixie-faced girl with flecks of red polish on her fingernails. Phoebe gazed at them in plain awe while the hidden surging crowd edged nearer, closing her in, cheering her on, air rushing in and out through her windpipe, and now she heard some other sounds, clicking, hissing sounds she didn’t recognize.
A man muttered something as he passed, taking in Phoebe with flinching eyes, the hissing, clicking sounds gathering force as her path crossed that of another man, with a walrus mustache and damp-looking skin; Phoebe felt his eyes on her hips and breasts and looked down at them, startled by the presence of her own body here on this street, as if she’d discovered she had a beard or mustache. Hold on, she wanted to say, wait, no—her eyes locking with those of a woman naked under her blue fishnet dress, small breasts, dark pubic hair, the woman making a nasty face and spitting on the street in the expert manner of people who often spit, and Phoebe realized this spitting could only be meant for herself and felt a surge of wonderment that she, like these women, was bones and flesh, breasts and hips—Phoebe felt them moving inside her clothes, prickling slightly the way limbs do when they’ve fallen asleep and the sensation was thrilling; for a moment it was thrilling, and then the moment passed and she was terrified.
Phoebe glanced behind her, but the way back looked just as long. Hundreds of women seemed to lie in wait for her now, their hostile noises gathering force as she walked, drowning out the cheering crowd. Phoebe noticed garbage, dusty window shades, smells of stale milk and pee. A skinny girl in a torn green dress seemed about to faint, her eyes rolling back in her head as a man pushed her through a door; Phoebe heard coughing, gagging sounds—here it was at close range, exactly what she’d wanted, but entering this world was not the same as eyeing it with longing. Now she had to get out, something terrible was about to happen—No, Phoebe thought. No! Breaking into a run, breasts flapping against her chest, a cramping sensation low in her abdomen as if she were going to bleed and meanwhile the drug was growing stronger by the second like some maniac