The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [84]
“Why? Because of … getting involved with the director—Federico Zappavigna? When you were eighteen and he was forty-eight?”
“No, that was exciting. Do you read People magazine or something? Or Teen People?”
“No … I … was just wondering what happened to you, so I … floated your name on the Net.”
“Great. Those stupid interviews, those idiotic illustrated profiles, will haunt me forever. I’ll never do another interview, never let a photographer near me as long as I live.”
“Because of that nude scene on the Adriatic?”
“Which one? The one in the film or the one in the tabloids taken by that … that Venetian snorkeller with the telephoto lens?”
“The one in the film …”
“Well, you know what I’m talking about.”
“ … which was sort of integrated into the plot, I mean the character …”
“Me lying naked in a gondola, rubbing Coppertone on my thighs? It had nothing to do with plot or character. It was more like product placement. Listen, Noel, please don’t tell anyone about this, OK? I’m trying to put it all behind me. I have my reasons. Noel, will you promise?”
“Of course I will, I give you my word.”
Samira looked him straight in the eye. Yes, she thought, I can trust him. “Can we change the subject now? Can I ask you some personal questions?”
“Within reason. But first I have to go the bathroom.”
“You mean to your mom’s bedroom to see if she’s all right.”
“Uh, well, that too.”
When Noel looked in on his mother he found her sitting in the bathtub, in an inch of lukewarm water, wearing a bikini. “What time does the train leave?” she asked, more than once, while shivering. Where’s the Bath Lady when I need her? Noel asked himself. And why isn’t JJ looking after her?
“Find a phone,” said his mother. “Call the principal. I can’t remember his name. Just say ‘the principal.’ Tell him I won’t be in today.”
It took almost an hour to calm her down, another to get her into bed.
Noel pulled a chair close to her pillow, wondering which words would work this time. “Would you like to hear about … let’s see, that time in Florida, when the hurricane hit? Hurricane Emily? Do you remember? When everyone fled the island except us two? And the governor came on the radio and said ‘Flee or die!’? And we ran out of food, but not alcohol, and got plastered?” Instead of smiling at the memory, his mother gazed at the ceiling with deadened eyes. “Would you like to hear a poem instead? A funny one, by Stevie Smith? No? I know which one. One of your favourites. You remember?
Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port,
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!”35
With her head to one side, Mrs. Burun regarded her son with a quizzical air. “I’m feeling better now,” she said softly. “Thank you, dear. I’m going to sleep now.” She placed her cheek languorously against the lilac pillow. Noel leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. He turned off the bed lamp, tiptoed out of the room.
From the hallway, with blurred vision, he glimpsed a light shining palely from under a door. Samira’s door. He walked to within an inch of it, but didn’t knock. He’d apologise in the morning.
He continued on to his own room, where a surprising image—an optical illusion, a trick of the light?—awaited him. Sprawled out on his bed was the woman of his dreams, fast asleep, her dark hair spread out like a fan on his bone-white pillow. Her turtleneck sweater was pulled up, across the bridge of her nose, like a half-veil. He folded the bedspread over her bare legs and switched off the lamp. He then went down to his lab, where he worked until dawn.
Chapter 13
Samira & JJ
The next day the Burun house was a hive of activity. Picture albums were out. Loose photographs were out, in motley mounds on counters and sideboards. Playing cards were out: one deck halfway through a game of Crazy Eights on the rush matting of the family room, two others on a butler’s cocktail table