Little, Big

big city, and its revels ran till late when the moon was full in March, and hey, one thing just led to another… She unlocked the door into the Farm, and made her way up through the sleeping warren of it; at the hall that led to the Folding Bedroom she slipped off the high-heeled shoes from her dancing feet and tiptoed to the door. She unlocked the locks quietly as a burglar, and peeked in. Auberon lay in a heap on the bed, obscure in the dawn light and (for some reason she was sure) only feigning untroubled sleep.

An Imaginary Study

The Folding Bedroom and its little kitchen were so small that Auberon, in order to have some quiet and isolation in which to work, had to create out of it an imaginary study.

“A what?” Sylvie asked.

“An imaginary study,” he said. “Okay. Look. This chair.” He had found somewhere in the ruined habitations of Old Law Farm an old schoolhouse chair with one broad paddle arm for a student to use as a desk. Underneath the seat was a compartment for the student’s books and papers. “Now,” he said. He positioned the chair carefully. “Let’s pretend I have a study in this bedroom. This chair is in it. Now really all we have is this chair, but…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well will you please just listen a minute?” Auberon said, blazing up. “It’s very simple. There were lots of imaginary rooms at Edgewood where I grew up.”

“I bet.” She stood arms akimbo, a wooden spoon in one hand, head bound in a bright hussy kerchief beneath which her earrings trembled amid escaping curls of raven hair.

“The idea is,” Auberon said, “that when I say ‘I’m going into my study, babe,’ and then sit down in this chair, then it’s as though I’ve gone into a separate room. I shut the door. Then I’m alone in there. You can’t see me or hear me, because the door is closed. And I can’t see or hear you. Get it?”

“Well, okay. But how come?”

“Because the imaginary door is closed, and…”

“No, I mean how come you need this imaginary study? Why don’t you just sit there?”

“I’d rather be in private. You see, we have to make a deal, that whatever I do in my imaginary study is invisible to you; you can’t comment on it or dwell on it or…”

“Gee. What are you going to do?” A smile, and she made a rude gesture with the spoon. “Hey.” But what he intended to do, though no less private and self-indulgent, was mostly to daydream, though he wouldn’t have put it that way; to court, on long woolgathering rambles, Psyche his soul; put two and two together, and perhaps write down the sum, for he would have sharpened pencils in the pencil-well of the desk and a clean pad before him. But mostly, he knew, he would only sit, twist a lock of hair between his fingers, suck his teeth, scratch himself, try to catch the flying speckles that swam in his vision, mutter the same half-line of someone else’s verse over and over and generally behave like the quieter sort of nut. He might also read the papers.

“Thinkin’ and readin’ and writin’, huh,” Sylvie said with great affection.

“Yes. You see, I have to be alone sometimes…”

She was stroking his cheek. “For thinkin’ and readin’ and writin’. Yes, baby. Okay.” She backed away, watching him with interest.

“I’m going into my study now,” Auberon said, feeling foolish.

“Okay. ’Bye.”

“I’m shutting the door.”

She waved the spoon. She began to say something further, but he cast his eyes upward, and she returned to the kitchen.

In his study, Auberon rested his cheek in the cup of his hand and stared at the old grainy surface of his desk. Someone had scratched an obscenity there, and someone else had priggishly altered it into BOOK in block letters. Probably all done with the point of a compass. Compass and protractor. When he started in at his father’s little school his grandfather gave him his old pencil-case, leather with a snap closure and weird Mexican designs cut in it—a naked woman was one, you could run your finger over her stylized breast and feel the leather button of her nipple. There were pencils with dowdy pink hats for erasers, which pulled off to reveal the naked pencil end; there was another rhomboid dialectical gray eraser, half for pencil and a grittier half for ink, which macerated the paper it was used on. Pens black and cork-tipped like Aunt Cloud’s cigarettes, and a steel box of points. And a compass and protractor. Bisect an angle. But never trisect it. With his fingers he moved an imaginary compass above the desk- top. When the little yellow pencil wore down, the compass leaned at a useless angle. He could write a story about those long afternoons in school, in May, say the last day, hollyhocks growing outside and vines clambering in at the open windows; the smell of the outhouse. The pencil box. Mother Westwind and the Little Breezes. Those protracted afternoons… He could call the story Protractor. “Protractor,” he said aloud, and then shot a glance at Sylvie to see if she had overheard him. He caught her just having shot him a glance, and now looking back at her task unconcernedly.

Protractor, protractor… He drummed his fingers on the oak. What was she up to in there anyway? Making coffee? She had heated a big kettle of water, and now dumped heedlessly into it several big shakes of coffee, right from the bag, and threw in this morning’s used grounds as well. A rich, boiling-coffee smell filled the air.

“You know what you ought to do?” she said, stirring the pot. “You ought to try to get a job writing on ‘A World Elsewhere.’ It’s really degenerating.”

“I…” he began to say, but then studiously turned away.

“Oops, oops,” she said, stifling a laugh.

George had said that all that TV was written on the other coast. But how would he know anyway? The real difficulty was that he had come to see, through Sylvie’s elaborate retellings of the events of “A World Elsewhere,” that he could never have thought up the myriad and (to him) incongruous passions that seemed to fill it. Yet for all he knew the terrible griefs, great sufferings, accidents and windfalls it told of were all true to life—what did he know about life, about people? Maybe most people were as wilful, as overmastered by ambition, blood, lust, money, passion as the TV showed them. People and life weren’t his strengths as a writer anyway. His strengths as a writer were…

“Knock-knock,” Sylvie said, standing before him.

“Yes?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where my white outfit is?”

“In the closet?”

She opened the door of the toilet. They had screwed into the door of this little chamber a collapsing clothes-rack, which held most of their clothes. “Look inside my overcoat,” he said.

There it was, a two-piece white cotton outfit, jacket and skirt, an old nurse’s uniform in fact with an identifying patch on the shoulder. Sylvie had ingeniously altered it into something at once stylish and improvised: her taste was sure, her skills didn’t match it quite, he wished not for the first time that he could give her thousands to lavish on herself, it would be a joy to watch.

She looked over the outfit critically.

“Your coffee’s going to boil away,” he said.

“Huh?” With a pair of tiny scissors in the shape of a long-beaked bird she was removing the identifying shoulder patch. “Oh, yike!” She hurried to turn it down. Then she returned to her outfit. Auberon returned to his study.

His strengths as a writer were…

“I wish I could write,” Sylvie said.

“Maybe you can,” Auberon said. “I bet you’d be good at it. No, really”—she had snorted in contempt at this notion—“I bet you would.” He knew with love’s certainty that there was little she couldn’t do, and that little wasn’t worth doing. “What would you write?”

“I bet I could think up better stuff than they think up on ‘A World Elsewhere.’” She carried the steaming kettle of coffee to the tub (as in all old-law tenements this sat squat and unembarrassed in the middle of the