Casualties of Forgiveness. Part III
It started months ago when she sat beside him on a plane. There was a drizzle outside, a light summer rain that should’ve passed quickly. The Italian girl was shivering. Drops of water cascaded down the window panel. Rafter kept telling himself it’d be a short affair. But moments accumulated, became whole, twined into narrative.
When would he have to tell Maria? Immediately, after a month, after the first kiss, sex, love? It hardly seemed real since so few words passed between them. Those that were moved in strange accents. The girl barely spoke English, and inhibition often pursed her lips. Rafter struggled to remember Italian from his childhood, like blowing dust off an old cover. They compensated by speaking little. Theirs was a world shared in silence, a world without history.
Three weeks of broken Italian. The few words spoken were slow, delicate. He felt fragile, like glass in her hands.
“E la luna?” he asked, returning to an old conversation.
“It mocks us,” she said slowly in Italian. “But it never stops being beautiful, so I forgive it.”
They drove only after midnight to escape traffic. Together they sat often on the banks of an idle lake, forty minutes out of the city. New York sounded like an ocean at their backs.
. . .
Rafter ate dinner with Maria and then left her alone, tenderness creeping from the concealed chambers of his new life. Together they’d built and trampled a kingdom of castles in the sand. Lingering in ruins.
“Work at home tonight,” Maria offered. “Paint beside me while I drift to sleep.”
He kissed her with a number two pencil in his hand.
“I need my pastels,” he said.
Weeks passed and there was little need to say anything. After dinner he’d just get up and leave, ritual of abandonment, routine like washing the dishes.
“The great artist,” she mocked. “Fingering your book again?”
Rafter would seldom respond immediately, if at all. He was a deer in her headlights. He thought stillness and an absurdly blank expression were his best defense. But bitterness and frustration continued towards him; irony showed its teeth.
“Off to brood and create, love? Am I making you too happy again tonight, darling? Is our perfect happiness disturbing your drawings?”
Maria hurled her tea cup across the room. The shattered pieces scattered unevenly across the floor.
“Say something!”
She hid her face behind thin white elbows. Tears mixed with the scent of Chamomile.
“Fuck you, Rafter, fuck you! At least say something. I deserve that much.”
Her voice suddenly frail. For a moment she allowed herself to become weak, lovable.
“I need a few subway sketches,” he said. “You have to get up early. I’ll be home by the time you finish work tomorrow.”
“One question, Rafter. Why do you bother coming back?”
He was fascintated by endings. Last chapters and final pencil strokes, drawn to the sight of highway crashes and candles when they flicker out.
“Because I still love you,” he said.
Rafter and Maria had tested language, found it elastic, durable. But ultimately mortal. Like a wounded animal backed into a corner. In the confines of a language struggling or striking out with its final breath, Rafter imagined only two options: to spend a lifetime recycling the same phrases, the same inadequacies; or, to try and walk away. With Maria there was knowledge of too many dead or scathing words. Even the slightest glance or turn intimated a storm of meanings. Desire. Betrayal. Remorse. Forgiveness. A stockpile of cliches and ammunitions between them. They were armies, battered and bruised, still in love, retreating as best they could.
“Goodnight,” she said indifferently and walked out the door before him. Any other gesture would’ve betrayed too much. Her steps determined, though she was never sure where they were heading. Perhaps only a symbol, to the corner and back, or perhaps to visit a friend, to sit in a cafe. Maybe to find me.
. . .
It took Rafter a few minutes to adjust, like waking in a darkened place.
She spoke so little. Her laughter flickered in and out. The spontaneity of New York sounds filled their ears. Comments on the weather.
He walked Isabella to the bus-stop. Held hands like schoolkids or aged lovers. Uncanny mix of craving and comfort. Had said nothing most of the night. Together, unravelled the complex melody of sirens and falling leaves. The words that escaped were rare, precious. Drops of language like water in the desert.
“Thanks for waiting in the rain.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I appreciate it. Here’s the bus.”
“Goodnight then.”
“Stay with me tonight.”
Rafter and Isabella returned to his studio. Symphony of storms at the window. First time alone in darkness. Anxious embrace against the black of night. Sighs of overdue contentment drifted like sands across her skin. Her lips skipped across his neck like a stone on water. Ripples of warmth and desire. He picked her up and laid her on the bed.
She couldn’t help but notice drops of red.
“Most of it’s only spilled wine,” he said.
Rafter had taught himself the art of displacement. His pursuits tended toward extremes, and when art or beauty or pain became dangerous and overwhelming he sprang defensively to other themes, other ways of marking. She never mentioned it again. Her eyes searched in vain for new cuts. She imagined the lines that remained belonged to another man.
“I wish we’d met earlier,” he said.
“We have lots of time.”
Scarred fingertips ran down her spine, lingered along the waist of her summer skirt. Skin sensitive, moist, as yet untouched. Slow seconds of the night coursed through their fingers.
Their limbs began to move in ritual patterns, but frantic rhythms pursued Rafter from other corners of the night. Stir of strange darting echoes left unadressed on the wall. Her body understood and demanded all of him, inspired a pace and movement that felt excruciating and necessary. Pulse of a drowning animal gasping for final breath. Her pleasure and his agony became the same repeating motion. Sound of clicking bone like a quickening metronome. His finger was locked, forced violently out of its socket. Surrender. He anticipated the exact moment it dislocated inside her. She was far away, a place he was chasing. He imagined his movements machine-like, unbearable and relentless. He dug long sharp nails into his thigh, desperate to eclipse the throbbing sting. She took that hand away and held it in her own. When it was finished she used fingertips to spread delirium to her abdomen, across the room.
“Dovreste arrestarsi! I had no idea. You should’ve stopped.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. It was his favourite phrase, the only one he’d perfected with an Italian accent.
“It was wonderful, but you should’ve stopped.”
She retrieved a chopstick from the drawer, helped him to fasten a temporary splint.
“You should’ve stopped,” she said in beautiful broken English.
“Please don’t cry, Isabella. It was broken before,” he joked. “It’s nothing, really. Small sacrifice to heal this room.”
Having immediately to confront the imperfection of words, Rafter and Isabella moved beyond together. Touch and gesture, a world listened to, whispering them into old ways of being. Rafter stopped speaking English entirely. Language of a betrayed past. Language of pain. He avoided its pursuit in the street. Feared the trickle of rumours finding their way to Maria.
When would he have to tell Maria? Immediately, after a month, after the first kiss, sex, love? It hardly seemed real since so few words passed between them. Those that were moved in strange accents. The girl barely spoke English, and inhibition often pursed her lips. Rafter struggled to remember Italian from his childhood, like blowing dust off an old cover. They compensated by speaking little. Theirs was a world shared in silence, a world without history.
Three weeks of broken Italian. The few words spoken were slow, delicate. He felt fragile, like glass in her hands.
“E la luna?” he asked, returning to an old conversation.
“It mocks us,” she said slowly in Italian. “But it never stops being beautiful, so I forgive it.”
They drove only after midnight to escape traffic. Together they sat often on the banks of an idle lake, forty minutes out of the city. New York sounded like an ocean at their backs.
. . .
Rafter ate dinner with Maria and then left her alone, tenderness creeping from the concealed chambers of his new life. Together they’d built and trampled a kingdom of castles in the sand. Lingering in ruins.
“Work at home tonight,” Maria offered. “Paint beside me while I drift to sleep.”
He kissed her with a number two pencil in his hand.
“I need my pastels,” he said.
Weeks passed and there was little need to say anything. After dinner he’d just get up and leave, ritual of abandonment, routine like washing the dishes.
“The great artist,” she mocked. “Fingering your book again?”
Rafter would seldom respond immediately, if at all. He was a deer in her headlights. He thought stillness and an absurdly blank expression were his best defense. But bitterness and frustration continued towards him; irony showed its teeth.
“Off to brood and create, love? Am I making you too happy again tonight, darling? Is our perfect happiness disturbing your drawings?”
Maria hurled her tea cup across the room. The shattered pieces scattered unevenly across the floor.
“Say something!”
She hid her face behind thin white elbows. Tears mixed with the scent of Chamomile.
“Fuck you, Rafter, fuck you! At least say something. I deserve that much.”
Her voice suddenly frail. For a moment she allowed herself to become weak, lovable.
“I need a few subway sketches,” he said. “You have to get up early. I’ll be home by the time you finish work tomorrow.”
“One question, Rafter. Why do you bother coming back?”
He was fascintated by endings. Last chapters and final pencil strokes, drawn to the sight of highway crashes and candles when they flicker out.
“Because I still love you,” he said.
Rafter and Maria had tested language, found it elastic, durable. But ultimately mortal. Like a wounded animal backed into a corner. In the confines of a language struggling or striking out with its final breath, Rafter imagined only two options: to spend a lifetime recycling the same phrases, the same inadequacies; or, to try and walk away. With Maria there was knowledge of too many dead or scathing words. Even the slightest glance or turn intimated a storm of meanings. Desire. Betrayal. Remorse. Forgiveness. A stockpile of cliches and ammunitions between them. They were armies, battered and bruised, still in love, retreating as best they could.
“Goodnight,” she said indifferently and walked out the door before him. Any other gesture would’ve betrayed too much. Her steps determined, though she was never sure where they were heading. Perhaps only a symbol, to the corner and back, or perhaps to visit a friend, to sit in a cafe. Maybe to find me.
. . .
It took Rafter a few minutes to adjust, like waking in a darkened place.
She spoke so little. Her laughter flickered in and out. The spontaneity of New York sounds filled their ears. Comments on the weather.
He walked Isabella to the bus-stop. Held hands like schoolkids or aged lovers. Uncanny mix of craving and comfort. Had said nothing most of the night. Together, unravelled the complex melody of sirens and falling leaves. The words that escaped were rare, precious. Drops of language like water in the desert.
“Thanks for waiting in the rain.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I appreciate it. Here’s the bus.”
“Goodnight then.”
“Stay with me tonight.”
Rafter and Isabella returned to his studio. Symphony of storms at the window. First time alone in darkness. Anxious embrace against the black of night. Sighs of overdue contentment drifted like sands across her skin. Her lips skipped across his neck like a stone on water. Ripples of warmth and desire. He picked her up and laid her on the bed.
She couldn’t help but notice drops of red.
“Most of it’s only spilled wine,” he said.
Rafter had taught himself the art of displacement. His pursuits tended toward extremes, and when art or beauty or pain became dangerous and overwhelming he sprang defensively to other themes, other ways of marking. She never mentioned it again. Her eyes searched in vain for new cuts. She imagined the lines that remained belonged to another man.
“I wish we’d met earlier,” he said.
“We have lots of time.”
Scarred fingertips ran down her spine, lingered along the waist of her summer skirt. Skin sensitive, moist, as yet untouched. Slow seconds of the night coursed through their fingers.
Their limbs began to move in ritual patterns, but frantic rhythms pursued Rafter from other corners of the night. Stir of strange darting echoes left unadressed on the wall. Her body understood and demanded all of him, inspired a pace and movement that felt excruciating and necessary. Pulse of a drowning animal gasping for final breath. Her pleasure and his agony became the same repeating motion. Sound of clicking bone like a quickening metronome. His finger was locked, forced violently out of its socket. Surrender. He anticipated the exact moment it dislocated inside her. She was far away, a place he was chasing. He imagined his movements machine-like, unbearable and relentless. He dug long sharp nails into his thigh, desperate to eclipse the throbbing sting. She took that hand away and held it in her own. When it was finished she used fingertips to spread delirium to her abdomen, across the room.
“Dovreste arrestarsi! I had no idea. You should’ve stopped.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. It was his favourite phrase, the only one he’d perfected with an Italian accent.
“It was wonderful, but you should’ve stopped.”
She retrieved a chopstick from the drawer, helped him to fasten a temporary splint.
“You should’ve stopped,” she said in beautiful broken English.
“Please don’t cry, Isabella. It was broken before,” he joked. “It’s nothing, really. Small sacrifice to heal this room.”
Having immediately to confront the imperfection of words, Rafter and Isabella moved beyond together. Touch and gesture, a world listened to, whispering them into old ways of being. Rafter stopped speaking English entirely. Language of a betrayed past. Language of pain. He avoided its pursuit in the street. Feared the trickle of rumours finding their way to Maria.
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