Sunflowers (Tournesols) II 11 страница

"What's your email address?"

"What now?"

"Your email address so that I can send you a list of people doing stories, and some other information about the magazine, to help you get started. I also have some stuff on our payment policy. Unfortunately, you won't earn that much, but it's exposure and something is better than nothing."

"Yeah, okay..." I said, realizing that even if I was able to get this job, it wasn't going to do much in the end. The creative process was cut out, I was going to be working with other people, and I wasn't going to get that much money. Selling out had never felt so pointless. "I don't have a computer right now, though."

"Oh." Jasmine seemed startled by this. "Of course. Well. Um. I guess I could give you a hard copy of this."

"Sure, you can come over for dinner, too," I said casually, seeing an opportunity and going for it. I looked around the room and remembered the bags from Savers. "I have a surprise for you, actually. Consider it a thank you for helping me with this job."

"Oh." She seemed to be saying this a lot. It was quiet on the other end for awhile. "I guess I could do that. How is the.... 21st of December?"

"What now?"

"Oh come on Frank, you have to have a calendar." When I was quiet, she sighed again and went on. "Today is Tuesday. The 21st is next week, another Tuesday. Does this work for you? I finish my job then because it's the last day of the magazine. It may be nice to celebrate it."

I agreed, knowing that I probably didn't have any plans, and even if I did, I would rearrange it. I really wanted to see Jasmine. The talk we had had on the balcony left me unsatisfied, and I wanted her away from her job, her obligations, from the frustrations that changed emotions. I felt myself turning and morphing into this unsatisfied beast in terms of job hunts and money. I could only imagine how Jasmine felt, and her indignation began to make more and more sense to me. She was tired. This was capitalism. I didn't understand it in the way that Gerard did, but I understood the emotions under it. I wanted Jasmine and I to suffer the economy together. It was a different dream, one I was not used to having.

It was also winter, and my relationship with Jasmine was marked by the colder months as well. Having the two people who knew me the best around made everything seem possible.

"Good," I said when we had worked out the details, including what we were going to make (what Jasmine wanted to make). "I'll see you then."

I had barely been off the phone five minutes when Gerard tapped my shoulder and said, "Put on your coat, my dear boy, more business is a - brewing."

We were off to Vivian's now, something that Gerard must have arranged when I was in the darkroom, slyly under my nose. I wasn't panicked, anymore. I had done something today. I hadn't let it slip by me completely, so as we donned our new jackets, I buttoned up my attire with a sense of pride. We set out when the sun was coming down, and kept our hands crammed tightly in the bottom of our empty pockets to keep from getting too cold. Dinner at Vivian's wasn't as animated as the first affair, and I was relieved. I was already getting pretty worn down. Though Gerard and I had slept late, and hadn't really done much inside of the apartment, the constant shifting of emotions from fear to shame, back to elation and excitement, plus all the talk of money and economics, was wearing out my mental capacity. It was too much realizing how all of the world worked and trying to find my own special place inside of its ever-moving and constantly shifting dynamic. I didn't know what would happen to me if I wasn't a photographer or at least something to do with the art field. I had sold a few pieces, but nothing earth-shattering, nothing too amazing. I was getting by, basically, but it was never the bulk of my income. Even when I was selling my time and skill as a photographer - rather than my product as a picture - I still felt okay. Sure, it wasn't artistic fame, but it was something tangible. It was close enough to success that I could taste it and it kept me motivated. If I ended up behind a desk, removed from art, I didn't know what I'd do. I had heard some anecdotes over the years that sometimes it was best to just keep your day job as something you didn't like or only tolerated in favour of keeping your own passion on the side and always under your control. I understood the dynamics behind that and how it could be an advantage, especially considering how much restriction I had already gotten from Mouth. But doing something completely removed from art felt like I was dissecting myself. It was something that I knew I could never handle, case closed.

I was almost thankful that I missed that interview at Savers because of all this, even with Vivian's sudden attack as soon as we got to her place. She said hello and all the customary greetings, apologizing for Cassandra who was late because of a piano lesson, and then snapped her neck towards me and asked point blank: "How did the interview go?"

Gerard, with his miraculous quick wit, answered for me: "It was okay, but Frank didn't get the job. Someone with prior thrift experience, you know how it always is."

I nodded, and when Vivian still looked sceptical, I added: "But I talked to Jasmine at the magazine today, and she's pairing me up with someone to do a story with. I will take the pictures."

She grilled me on the dates and the type of story for the issue, but since I had just talked to Jasmine, I was super-speedy with my answers, and Vivian was convinced. I wasn't too sure we had fooled her with the thrift store story, but since I had made up for it in some manner, she was pacified for the time being.

"Now there's just the matter of you, Gerard, and your outstanding art career," she teased and touched his hair. She had a habit, I was beginning to notice, of curling his hair around his ears. It made their eye contact prolonged and exhibited an extreme sense of intimacy, especially now that we were in Vivian's house and not ours.

In spite of all the time I had spent with Vivian when Gerard was not around, I had never been to her house. She was always the one going to others, or she would have me meet her at her college office, but even that was rare and I couldn't even remember what that place had looked like. Her house was about three blocks away from us and around a few corners so I didn't even have the excuse of distance between us. Since Gerard lived at the end of the downtown section, it felt as if it was mere steps and you were suddenly in the suburbs. Not quite Suburbia in its most severe examples, but a subdued, more working class, version. No capital letters marking authority or professional identity, no white-picket fences, but families in houses. Vivian lived in a bungalow with a large basement and cramped, but large, upper floor. She seemed to have art spilling out from every crevice in her house. If it wasn't the paintings on the wall, which were lined with the very few relics of their time from art school, the art was behind and under couches, in closets, or taking up spaces as book ends on shelves or random positions on ledges. Most of the stuff that was carelessly filed away were projects from grads that she wanted to keep around "just in case" or articles she had tried to create in her later years but never got off the ground. There were also the relics from Cassandra's childhood, taking up permanent residence in Vivian's office space and on the fridge, even though Cassandra was well past that age and skill range.

"She tried taking art classes," Vivian explained to me when she saw my eyes wander all around her place. "But they never worked. Never stuck with her. Music, on the other hand..." We had just entered into her living room area, right next to the dining room, and there stood a large grand piano. It was dark wood, beautiful and elegant, with a metronome and a bust of Mozart in the top corner. There was a faded red velvet cushion on the seat, worn away in the centre from constant use. "This is Cassandra's art. Her pride and joy. Maybe when she comes back from her lesson, she'll play something for you guys, though, I sort of doubt it."

"Shy?" Gerard offered.

"Hah," Vivian laughed. "More like reserved. That girl has more composure and modesty in her little finger than I will ever have."

Vivian winked and then motioned with her head to one of the paintings on the wall. As I approached it curiously, I realized it wasn't just of a thickly charcoaled sketch of a naked woman, but of her. My eyes followed down into the corner and I recognized Gerard's signature. "Do you remember this one?" she asked the old artist, and he placed his palm to his face, covering up some kind of embarrassment.

"I was so nervous!" he said, and it threw me for a loop. Since when was Gerard nervous to be around a naked Vivian? I remembered how he had used their artistic relationship as a tool to get under my skin so many years ago. When I followed my gaze to Gerard and Vivian, I realized they were sharing a private moment, a memory from a long time ago. Before I was born, probably. When we finally left the room and entered into the kitchen to wait and discuss things, I was relieved.

Vivian's kitchen was covered in cookbooks. In spite of this, she only really made four dishes very well, and we were having the fourth one that night: hamburgers. To give her a bit more culinary credit, she didn't defrost them from a box, but made them with her hands using spices, bread crumbs, and pink ground beef. She also made a salad. The fries we had with this, as usual, were frozen. She told me that in spite of her many efforts to learn to cook, she found that with her busy schedule and her impetus for bad timing, she perfected four recipes and learned to cook them in an instant. "Like today, hearing that you guys were coming for dinner last minute, I was able to do all of this."

I made sure to thank her profusely. I was even about to ask her for the recipe, or for some type of cook book to borrow because I was sure it would be useful at some point, when Cassandra got home. She came in the back door that linked with the garage and opened into the kitchen. I jumped, not expecting anyone to come in there and still being absorbed with the atmosphere of the house. I had gotten so used to the idea of one bathroom, one floor, and one door living with Gerard that the sheer magnitude that Vivian's house held was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

No one noticed my jump, especially not Cassandra, who came in with such confidence I was almost sure the door had opened for her. She was dressed astutely and quite neat, even under her layers of winter clothing. I definitely had Vivian's comment put into context about her modesty and reserved qualities, right away. Her coat was gray, her boots black and dirt-free, and as she took them off, she picked off the salt that had stuck to the undersides before lining them up on a mat. She hung her coat up with delicacy, took her scarf off and folded it inside the sleeve. She adjusted her shoulder bag and pushed her hair over her shoulders, and then, saying a brief, "Hello, I will be right back in a moment," was out of the kitchen. It was a rather formal hello, and she barely made eye contact with any of us, but apparently this was great for her.

"Her lesson must have gone well," Vivian commented, and we began to set the table. She was back in a few minutes, only leaving to discard her bag full of music sheets by her instrument, and then returning.

Cassandra had just turned fifteen, though she was still rather small for her age. She really had no hope of getting much taller than she already was, but since she stood so very straight, she appeared to tower over me anytime I stood or sat next to her. She dressed very well for her age, but it didn't make her appear older. Rather, it just had the effect of making it appear that she went to a boarding school or some type of Catholic school for girls instead. When she came back in and I was able to get a better look at her face, I began to see the resemblances to Vivian, and I began to feel more at ease. It felt less like I was eating with a stranger since everything else about her was so contrasted against her mother. I knew from my own experience that the last thing I wanted to be like was my parent, but I figured that was because I had pretty boring and dull parents. Vivian was the complete opposite of that; she was fun, awe-inspiring, and especially gracious and helpful. I would have thought her daughter would have been exactly like her because she was so cool herself. Not quite; while Vivian wore bright red and a low cut shirt, Cassandra was in black, gray, and forest green with a collared shirt that was buttoned up to the top. She appeared distant, and aloof even as we all sat down at the table and began eating, while Vivian had not stopped talking since we opened the door and was still finding ways of speaking while she ate without being crude or garish with her chewing. It was when the two of them smiled that I began to see the resemblance, although it did take awhile for Cassandra to concede to that emotion. Vivian had to mention one of her students mixing up composers before I saw the same jaw line move and lips part into a smile over their similar small white teeth. They had the same nose, small and pointed, and were the same height as they sat down at the table. Their hair, although Cassandra's was light blonde, and Vivian's was dark red, was shaped in the same way and had the same texture and flow around their ears. If Cassandra had been wearing something that showed her arms, I was sure she would have the same freckles that dusted her mom's limbs.

It was at this dinner that I began to realize how much Vivian and Gerard just loved to talk. Both of their personalities were the type to dominate a conversation, and since I had only really been alone with either one of them in the past little while, I figured that one would bend to the other's whims and gradually the power dynamic of their relationship would correspond. Not so much. Instead of sharing the leadership duty, they both met the challenge head-on, and this lead to some very interesting conversation. I felt at some points as if I was watching an extremely fast game of tennis with how quickly they went back and forth. I also felt like I needed my own translator. Sometimes their references to one another, to their past, and even to current events became so befuddled and shortened down that I didn't even know what was going on.

It was a nice dynamic to watch, once I realized that there was no way I could keep up and resigned myself to viewing them together. Since I was usually engaged in conversation with one of them at a time, I never got an outsiders perspective on their mannerisms or the way they reacted. I wondered if Gerard always looked this happy when he spoke to me, if his eyes lit up anytime I got nostalgic with him, and if one day in the future, we would become like this together and have the ability to talk like fiends and know what one another was saying in just a few words. Could we create a language? I knew we already had, with our bodies and our hands, and that we gave ourselves to one another in silence and proximity more than anything else right now. We had been having our critically engaging discourse, as Gerard called it, but there were also the small kisses and hugs that came before and after those words were exchanged. There was power in that silence in between, but I couldn't help but wonder, now that we could come outside and in public as a couple, just how loud we would become.

In between watching the old art couple make their way through their reveries and memories, I became very aware of myself with Cassandra. I felt awkward, mostly because I had completely ignored her for the first part of the dinner. In between bites of my food, I had been too amused to make small talk with her. I had also always hated small talk when I was that age, so I didn't want to bother her. What was I even going to ask? Another part of me was worried: how much did she know about Gerard and I? Was she okay with it? She was at that crux in her life where things like this would be empowering and interesting, or rash and disgusting. I wondered if her reserved nature extended to others and whether or not she made judgement calls. She was sitting right next to me (Vivian's table was rectangular; Cassandra and I were on one side, Vivian and Gerard next to one another on the other, Vivian was facing Cassandra and I was facing Gerard) and I found myself sneaking glances to see what her expression was like. She didn't seem as amused as I was with the two old friends talking in a haze. She picked at her salad after her burger was done.

"May I be excused?" she said after awhile. She fidgeted in her seat, as if her body wanted release but she stuck to the formalities of table manners.

"Yes, but can you tell us more about your lesson? And the things you're working on? Sorry we got so distracted here, honey, and that this was last minute on you. I do want to hear about your day." Vivian's sudden vicariousness was stalled; just as quickly as she became consumed by her relationship with Gerard, she turned it off and focused on her daughter. There was not an ounce of resentment, in fact, I sensed remorse in the way she twisted her nose. She paid attention, and pushed her plate aside. We were all done our meal, except for Gerard, who seemed to have forgotten that we came here to eat.

Cassandra appeared uncomfortable with the request. I became very conscious that it was perhaps my presence that was causing her shyness, but she seemed to stare intently at Gerard instead. The kitchen, as well as the rest of the house, had dim lighting, so I wasn't too sure, but I thought she was grinding her teeth at him.

"It was fine," she said demurely, gradually easing up as she talked more. "Really good, actually. I'm finally getting the piece to sound like it should, although since people are used to this piece on string, my rendition will probably throw them. That's okay, though. I want them to think about the difference and the choice of different mediums."

Vivian nodded. "Have you told your school that you plan on doing this for the Christmas function?"

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "Yes, they know I'm doing an arrangement for the Holiday get together."

"Do they know what arrangement?" Vivian smiled and winked at Gerard and I. "Do they know that they're heading for Wagner and The Ride of the Valkyries instead of Jingle Bells and thoughts of dashing through the snow?"

I did not know the piece they were referring to, but I knew the name Wagner from my very little time spent at school, and I knew it had heavy connotations. No, not dashing through the snow, indeed. Cassandra seemed to have picked it for that very reason, and was exasperated that it would even matter to the school board that her fantastic piece was not holiday appropriate.

"I've been practicing this. So I will play this. I'm in the middle of the function anyway, people will hardly notice it."

"A war song, though? Isn't the point of it to be noticed?"

"But they're singing about a pagan myth. I'm singing about a Norse one then, of the Valkyries. It makes sense in the scheme of things."

Vivian put up her hands in defeat. "I love it, personally, I just wanted you to beware of what we were getting yourself into. But I should know you by now, my dear. You always know what you're doing."

Cassandra smiled and seemed pleased about her mother's comment and her own victory. Her smile fell completely off her face, however, as soon as Gerard began to speak.

"It's been years since I've heard Wagner done well. Even longer since I've heard you play piano. I would love to hear your rendition of his work, if you don't mind me coming." Without waiting for a response, he moved on quickly, motioning with his hands a lot. "There is this painting about the Valkyries. I have it with me somewhere in my apartment. I can bring it along to show you, if you've not already seen it. It would be a great motivation for you."

Cassandra took a deep breath in and out, and I could feel the tension at the table. I looked at Vivian who seemed panicked, or at least, defeated. The corners of her mouth went up and it seemed to display a feeling of I knew this would happen.

"Thank you, Gerard, but although I have not seen this painting, I am sure it exists in a book somewhere and I will get it when I see fit. As for you attending the concert, I do not know if I would be comfortable with that, because while you are very nice and open with me as if you know all about me, you are nothing but a stranger to myself."

I waited. I waited for other people around me to react, because I knew something bad was going to happen. You didn't just speak that way at a dinner table, about someone who was there and in front of your parent. You just didn't. I was on edge, anticipating my own father's chastisement, as if I had been the one to disobey something. I waited to hear the doors slam, for people to yell, and for dishes to break.

But nothing happened.

My eyes went to Gerard, who look disappointed, but not all that surprised. He nodded and said, "If that's how you feel, then that's all right. I wish you good luck."

"I don't need luck, but thank you," she said, and then, with the smallest bit of desperation, asked her mother yet again if she could be excused. I waited again for something - for anything - from her mother, but she just said, "Go ahead. I will call you if I need anything."

When Cassandra had gone (tucking in her chair and taking away her dishes first), I turned to Vivian and Gerard, trying to get something out of them about the whole situation that had just occurred, but they had moved on too quickly.

"So shall we make some coffee - decaf, of course - and discuss your job prospects, Mr Famous Artist To Be?" she chuckled and teased, touching and curling his hair the way she usually did. To my surprise, as soon as he said yes, she kissed him on the cheek.

"Oh how I've missed you!" she exclaimed, and it seemed like the tension in the room had walked out with Cassandra, and things were back to the way they used to be. Gerard and Vivian made me some coffee, and invited me to come with them as they planned, but I declined. I didn't feel like watching their telepathic tennis matches. I volunteered to do the dishes instead. With shock and delight, she kissed me as well, and then walked off with Gerard back into the living room where there hung a naked portrait of her with a scrawled signature from him. Their laughs became quieter and quieter as if they were also stepping back through time, while I was still situated in the dimly-lit kitchen, contemplating my future and child-like punishments over dishes and soap.

When The Ride of The Valkyries started to be played on the piano, I thought I had lost my mind. It was so booming and menacing; it didn't seem like it could be real. I had been used to the quiet of nothing but the running water for dishes before. Vivian and Gerard had gone downstairs, realizing how loud they were becoming, and the floor between us had muffled their language together. I stopped the faucet and looked all around to see where the music was coming from, but as soon as I beginning interlude of the piece, I realized it was only Cassandra practicing. She really was good, and I was familiar with this piece of music. It was hard not to know it once she got to the menacing crescendo.

With her mother and her friend no longer occupying the room with the piano, Cassandra had snuck down to spend some time with her one and great love while she knew she could. It didn't matter that she had just come from lessons; there was always time for more. I vaguely wondered if Vivian and Gerard would come upstairs and sit around and want to hear more of her music, but I suspected that with the previous outburst, they both knew that they needed to stay away. I wondered about myself, though. Did Cassandra think I was downstairs with them? That I had gone home? I felt suddenly very vulnerable and ashamed, as if I was listening to someone have sex without their consent, not practice a war-song. I was using the term "practice" very loosely, however. It seemed like Cassandra needed no practice whatsoever and that everything she was doing was exactly right. Whenever this recital was, she was ready for it. There was a crunch in the keys at one point, just after a slightly wrong note, where she pounded down in frustration at her very first mistake, getting nearly halfway through it.

"Fuck," she said, and then started right from the beginning, only to falter at that same place, about four minutes in. She did this three more times before I made myself visible.

"God fucking dammit," she cried just as I walked into the room. I held a cup of decaf coffee and extended it to her. She regarded me with mild surprise, unsure how to read my gesture at first.

"No, thanks. I don't really like coffee and it will probably keep me up late, even if it's decaf. There is still something in it. It will affect me." She turned the page of the notes, and focused acutely on that last segment.

"You were playing very well," I told her, not sure what else to say or do. I felt incredibly awkward, not just because I had walked in on her playing, or because of her outburst from before. It was occurring to me that even though I had been here for seven years while Gerard was gone, I had not established a connection with Cassandra. We were close in age, but I had ignored her presence, and that side of Vivian. Cassandra had always been a distant and far off fact in my mind. I knew that Vivian had a child and that she was a mother, but I never saw that side of her. Vivian acted like a mother towards me; she would always come to me and bring food, and she would host dinners at my place if we had any. But as far as her role as a mother with her own child went, I was never privy to that relationship or the girl herself. Cassandra never came to any of those dinners, and it almost seemed like Vivian didn't want her there. If I did bring it up (which was rare), she used to joke that she and Cassandra needed time apart from one another in order to appreciate one another more fully. I wondered now if that had been her voice speaking that or Cassandra's request. Was I something to be avoided? Or was she mad because, for all intensive purposes, it was really me who didn't seem to care about her? In seven years, I could not manage to get off my ass and go to the university that she worked at or to her house for a dinner. It wasn't the same school I went to, so I couldn't even use the excuse of "bad memories" to keep me away, and her house wasn't in the same neighbourhood as my parents. It wasn't even close. I was just too involved with other things and other projects to really think about it. Now that I was confronted with a visible reference for my absence - the house brimming with art projects and this young prodigy at the piano - I didn't know what to say or do.

Cassandra, on the other hand, did not appear mad at me. She was just busy with her work. She focused on the last bit of the song a little more, but then squeezing her temple, gave up for a little while and walked to the kitchen to get herself some water instead. While there, she asked if I wanted sugar or milk for the coffee I held, since, "You know, someone should drink it."

I nodded, "Yeah, both are good."

In a moment she brought me out the requested supplies, not a hint of bitterness in her movements. As she drank her water I tried to see if she was clenching her jaw like she had been at the table, but she was calm. She sat up straight at the piano and I went to the chair and coffee table next to the instrument, so I could sit and our drinks could have a surface.

"Do you mind if I'm in here, while you play?" I asked cautiously.

"Well, I'm not playing right now. Just trying to figure out how I keep going wrong at the next section. But no, if start up playing again, I do not mind."

I was in the clear, then, I thought to myself. But Gerard? Did I dare ask about what had happened at dinner? No one else seemed like they would, and I had no idea regarding the protocol for such things. It was very clear to me that this household did not possess the same type of atmosphere that I grew up in.

Cassandra got to the point before me.

"This is the first time we’ve really met," she stated, not taking her eyes from the notes. "I've heard a lot about you, and about Gerard, but it's nice finally meeting you. You weren't what I expected."

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