Soul Read online

  Daily my womb grows. If only you were here to see the woman I have become and now to become a mother myself! I shall have to learn by example and look to the women around me. James is so joyful over this event and is ridiculously solicitous; he must think me made of porcelain!

  Lavinia paused, the plain wooden lid smooth against her fingertips. Since the age of five she had whispered daily into the undistinguished container, the only object she had inherited from her mother. Despite its humble appearance, Lavinia had never doubted the alchemy of the whispering box. Even now there was part of her that believed that the benign spirit of her mother was sitting beside her, watching and listening, as she whispered against the sandalwood.

  Lavinia stood on a chair, hooking curtains onto a rail. The newly sewn drapes were painted with small red peonies, and she had placed a vase with the same flowers on the side table that stood against the wall of the drawing room.

  She paused for a moment to rub the small of her back, her pregnancy, almost full term, weighing against her frame. She had a strong sense it was a male child; she had dreamt of a small boy standing on a jetty in front of a steamer ship—an isolated and strangely poignant figure. If it was a boy she had decided to call him Aidan.

  ‘Are you all right, ma’am? I really think it should be me up on that chair, what with you so big.’ Rosie, the maid the Colonel had insisted on hiring, held the tin of curtain hooks up to her mistress.

  ‘I shall live. Besides, they have to be hung exactly so.’

  Lavinia attached the last hook and, with Rosie’s assistance, clambered down from the chair then pulled the curtains open, letting in the sunlight and the view of the walled rose garden. Positioned on a secluded bank of the Liffey, the dwelling was small but had its own orchard and land that ran down to the water’s edge.

  Their sojourn in Dublin was an indulgence, but the Colonel had wanted his wife’s confinement to take place where she would have the support of both her father and his housekeeper, who in many ways was Lavinia’s de facto mother. The Colonel had passed the time with a short guest lectureship at the university, having several colleagues on the staff there.

  Lavinia rested against the chair and examined her handiwork. Fabric matching the curtains covered the legs of the small upright piano in the corner and was also used in the tablecloth. A photographic wedding portrait hung on the wall, as well as a small picture of the young Queen Victoria. Apart from a walnut console table with gilded legs, which Lavinia had purchased herself from an auction house, there was little else in the drawing room. But Lavinia was comfortable; here she was mistress of her own existence and already she had managed to establish a small salon composed of some elderly scholars—peers of the Colonel—and one minor painter, a Darcy Quinn, whom the Colonel had commissioned to paint Lavinia as soon as the baby was born. They all visited once a month, attracted by the outspoken views of the charismatic young wife and the possible patronage of her husband.

  I have come into my own, Lavinia concluded, experiencing a happiness that stemmed from both a contented domesticity and the inspiration she found in assisting the Colonel with his study. I am a fortunate woman: my husband is both affectionate and indulgent. At last I have achieved the social status that allows me the freedom of conversation and a social mobility that is truly stimulating. And now, on top of all this serendipity, I am to have a child!

  The sound of the front door opening broke her reverie. Lavinia pulled herself to her feet.

  The Colonel entered, still dressed in his herringbone cape and hat. Lavinia watched as he removed them and handed them to the maid, fighting the desire to rush over and embrace him. It was still a source of wonder to her that she was married at all, especially to a man she had desired for so long. Sometimes she felt as if she were living in a delightful daydream of her own construction—a thought that disturbed her greatly, as she was of a questioning and doubtful disposition.

  ‘Lavinia, there are more peonies in here than on a flower seller’s cart.’

  ‘Do you not like my decorations?’

  The Colonel manoeuvred past the console table, appalled by the over ornateness of the décor. It was hard not to feel claustrophobic, particularly as his own aesthetic was of a more ordered nature. ‘It is both refreshing and delightful,’ he lied.

  She is so young, so gauche—will she survive the demands and protocol of Mayfair, he wondered. It was such a bohemian existence, this idyllic retreat of theirs, a fool’s sanctuary. Initially, the chaotic nature of the days had been a liberation, but now the Colonel found himself longing for the order of London society.

  ‘Lavinia, I beg you, do not become too attached to this place. As soon as the babe is strong enough to travel we shall return to London. By my reckoning, that should be late October—if all goes to plan.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Hiding her disappointment at his lack of enthusiasm, Lavinia stood to rearrange the flowers in the large crystal vase in the middle of the table. As she did, a flood of dampness ran down her thighs, followed by a sharp cramping across her midriff. Smiling, she turned.

  ‘My love, I believe my confinement has begun.’

  9

  Los Angeles, 2002

  THE FIVE OF THEM SAT AROUND the circular lacquered table, a paper lantern hanging low over the polished surface in silence as a Japanese waitress placed a platter of sushi on the table’s revolving centre.

  An unknowing observer might imagine them to be two couples and a single, free-floating female—attractive, middle-class Americans, affluently dressed in an understated way, in the prime of their lives. Klaus, in jeans and a cashmere sweater, his arm casually thrown around Julia’s shoulders, was the embodiment of the happy husband. The younger man sitting opposite, thickly muscular, dressed in an expensive suit as if he had just come from the office, could be taken as partner to the middle-aged woman next to him. Naomi was not his wife, however, nor even his lover, but an old friend of Julia’s from San Francisco. A frustrated potter, Naomi had outraged her conservative Jewish parents by marrying one of her fellow art students, an intense Latino sculptor, but the marriage hadn’t lasted and, when they were finally divorced, Naomi had been left with the custody of their son, Gabriel. The man, Andrew, was a homosexual colleague of Julia’s, also a geneticist, who liked to imagine he belonged to the corporate world and dressed accordingly.

  The fifth of the group, Carla, seemed distanced from the others; she sat on the edge of her seat, methodically shredding her paper napkin. She had already drunk most of the hot sake in front of her and emanated an alcohol-induced air of confrontation—a fact the others were trying to ignore.

  ‘This must seem so civilised after Afghanistan,’ Naomi said, balancing a bead of golden cod’s roe delicately between two chopsticks.

  ‘Actually the hotel in Kabul was quite comfortable and the food surprisingly edible.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Julia watched Carla anxiously.

  ‘So did you find the data you were looking for?’ Andrew’s laconic manner infused every gesture he made.

  ‘I’m optimistic.’ Julia was careful, knowing that her colleague would be fishing for any new discovery that could influence his own research on genetics and viruses.

  Carla leaned forward. ‘Julia’s got a new commission, with the Department of Defense, top secret, very hush hush.’

  Julia glanced back at her, worried. It was uncharacteristic for her to be so indiscreet. Was there some secret unhappiness in the producer’s life, some new liaison she hadn’t told her about?

  ‘So I guess the DOD have you working on the next big thing in biological warfare?’ Andrew joked.

  ‘It’s an extension of my own research on combat soldiers who don’t suffer post-traumatic stress disorder.’

  ‘Ah, the famous two per cent you’re so fond of.’ Andrew reached for the tempura.

  Carla laughed cynically. ‘I don’t believe it exists. I think we can all kill given the right circumstances.’

  Terrified Carl
a would reveal the ambush incident to the others, Julia moved the sake bottle out of her friend’s reach. ‘Actually, historical research indicates that most soldiers avoided hand-to-hand combat—particularly killing with bayonets. The data shows that it’s just a small proportion of soldiers who do most of the killing.’

  ‘But what is the army going to do with this research?’ Carla pulled the sake bottle back towards her and poured herself another cup. Julia had never seen her so aggressive.

  ‘I’ve signed an agreement preventing me from talking about this in public,’ Julia replied. ‘That includes friends.’

  ‘You see, this is what happens when we turn thirty-five,’ Klaus intervened. ‘We become establishment. We’re told we’ve become respectable citizens, but in fact we become unquestioning citizens.’

  ‘That’s simplistic, Klaus, and you know it!’

  There was an awkward silence. Julia looked into the faces of her friends. Did fear make unquestioning citizens? Life had certainly changed profoundly since the attack on the twin towers; it felt as if the insularity and arrogance of the western world had been shattered for ever. Suddenly, politics and culture had become more complex, and the traditional humanist assumptions that everyone wanted the same things—equality for employer and employee, man and woman—didn’t seem to work any more. Had they been labouring under the old philosophical illusion that all people were the same under the skin? Did religious and cultural differences profoundly shift the way one experienced reality?

  ‘Any more problems with the pro-lifers?’ Klaus asked.

  ‘They weren’t pro-lifers, they were animal liberationists,’ Julia corrected him.

  ‘Just be thankful it wasn’t the creationists,’ Andrew piped up. ‘Do you know that in Atlanta there’s a movement to get a warning sticker put on biology books reading, “This textbook contains material on evolution. Evolution is a theory, not a fact” etc, etc, etc. Welcome to the twenty-first century! I swear, between the cowboy in the White House and the Religious Right, America is on the brink of plunging into a new Dark Age. So help me God.’ In frustration, Andrew disembowelled his meticulously constructed tuna sushi roll.

  ‘You’ve also had trouble with them?’ Julia leaned forward.

  ‘Trouble? We stay unlisted and receive all correspondence through a post office box. As much as I believe in the Enlightenment, I refuse to be martyred for it. Crucifixion is such a bad look.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Julia agreed, grinning.

  ‘So hands up—who did vote for the cowboy in the White House?’ Carla interjected drunkenly.

  ‘Not I said the fly with my little eye, although I confess I was once a Gay Republican, but only for eight weeks,’ Andrew retorted archly, then winked at Klaus. ‘I was dating a senator at the time. He, of course, was still in the closet.’

  The atmosphere suddenly turned leaden. Determined to lift the mood, Julia looked across at Klaus. ‘We have something else to celebrate.’

  ‘Not now,’ Klaus murmured, looking panicked.

  ‘Why not? I’m past the first trimester.’

  Paling, Carla turned to Julia. ‘You’re pregnant?’

  Julia smiled tentatively, suddenly nervous at her friend’s ambivalent tone.

  Lifting the sake bottle with a violent jerk, Carla held it over the table. ‘Wow! That’s far more important then some kooky defense department gig.’ She swung around to Klaus. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

  Klaus laid his hand on her wrist. ‘Carla…’

  Ignoring him, she banged the bottle against Julia’s cup.

  ‘The geneticist is pregnant!’ She turned to the others. ‘Isn’t that just so poetic?’

  Outside, a police car headed downtown, its siren screaming.

  Klaus stood in the bathroom door, his wet hair crowning his head in a halo of curls, his chin plastered with shaving cream. ‘She’s just stressed.’

  ‘Evidently. The last time I saw Carla that intoxicated was at the Sony Academy Awards party, when she was dating that B-grade actor, and that was eight years ago. She was really weird about the pregnancy.’ Julia, already between the sheets of their brass bed, looked up at her husband.

  ‘She was just surprised. I think a lot of people are going to be surprised.’

  ‘Why? Aren’t I allowed to be a mother?’

  ‘Sure, it’s just that everyone sees you as so career orientated.’ He finished towelling his hair. ‘You should really invest more in your other friends, not be so much of a hermit.’

  ‘I have Naomi.’

  ‘You tend to have colleagues rather than friends. Women need friends; they need that support system in case of sudden disaster.’

  ‘Sudden disaster? You’re really uplifting tonight.’

  Klaus covered his eyes with the towel for a second.

  Julia sat back. ‘Okay, from now on I promise it’ll be nothing but antenatal classes, and then picketing the local kindergarten with the rest of the careerist mothers,’ she joked.

  Shrugging, Klaus retreated into the bathroom.

  Julia gazed up at the hand-finished roof beams of the bedroom. The second largest room in the California Craftsman bungalow, it looked out onto a large backyard planted with jasmine and bougainvillea. They’d got the house five years into their marriage, and had been clever enough to buy into Silver Lake—an area that was on the brink of gentrification. It was an idiosyncratic suburb built on the side of a hill; developed in the ’60s and ’70s, the houses were an eclectic architectural mix of bungalows, apartments and the occasional mock-Tudor cottage. Some of the houses were built on stilts sunk into the side of the valley to secure them against earthquake damage; others butted up against the hillside.

  Their neighbours on one side were Latino—a retired postal worker and his wife, who often invited Klaus and Julia over for their huge family barbecues. On the other side lived Gerry, a young screenwriter who specialised in animation and never seemed to leave the house until after dark.

  The rest of the street was occupied by young middle-class couples all eager to make their mark—actors, lawyers, and one director at the very end of the cul-de-sac, who was famous for a horror film everyone had forgotten but which still played late on cable.

  Julia and Klaus had decorated the house with vintage furnishings that reflected the era it was built in, Klaus carefully restoring the pieces they found in markets. The walls were pine, the beamed ceiling cedar and the two fireplaces—one in the lounge and one in the bedroom—were both original. There was a ground-floor bathroom, a small study, a sitting room and a dining room off the kitchen, and a small staircase leading to the bedroom, which was a converted attic.

  When Julia first met Klaus, all she owned was a shoebox of her mother’s photos, an old passport shot of her first boyfriend and several rolls of unprocessed film. She had no furniture, preferring to rent furnished accommodation. Horrified by this lack of material possessions, Klaus had called her a barbarian, attributing her lack of enthusiasm for history as inherently New World.

  ‘But it’s my history to immortalise or discard as I please,’ she’d exclaimed, offended by his European sensibility.

  ‘Okay, my love, we will rewrite it together, both present and past. And maybe, if we’re lucky, there will be a little fiction leftover for the future,’ he’d replied teasingly.

  For the first twenty-five years of her life Julia had an aversion to collecting anything that reminded her of the past—even the recent past—a revulsion that had sprung from her mother’s passion for amateur photography. Her mother was a vivacious woman with extraordinary drive, who never appeared to live in the present tense, her ferocious intellect pushing her comprehension several seconds in front of everyone else. She frantically photographed every possible family event, as if by documenting the moment it negated her own responsibility for actually participating in it. The experience had left Julia with a hatred of being photographed, and a dread of collecting memories in any shape or form. Part of her even feared that a photogr
aph of a lover would curse the rapport, jinx the relationship and set it on a course of separation. It was a fatalistic superstition but one that Julia hadn’t been able to shake until her marriage.

  Her mother had suddenly died when she was twelve—an event that had transformed her emotional lexicon. Frenetically energetic, her mother’s thick curly hair had been a beacon for the young girl, an image that later, as an adult, Julia would catch herself searching for over and over. Her father, already in his sixties, took over her parenting. A quietly spoken biologist, he would tell her stories about his own father—Aidan Huntington—who had emigrated when he was twelve from Ireland with a mysterious guardian. And how the old gentleman had convinced him—in the educated Irish accent of his childhood—that his mother, Lavinia Huntington, was innocent of the murder of her husband, Colonel James Huntington—stories that ballooned in the young girl’s imagination.

  Ignoring Julia’s horror of investing in the material, Klaus had arranged for a linen cupboard that had belonged to his grandmother to be shipped over from Antwerp, followed by the purchase of a video camera which he used to faithfully record the minutiae of their relationship. Once, Julia had come back from a conference early and found him watching a tape of her sleeping. Other times he filmed her lacing up her climbing boots, putting on her make-up, taking a bath—every mundane gesture seem to fascinate him. There was a whole shelf dedicated to these videos labelled with his crab-like scrawl, Mijn Vrouw 1,2,3…Julia had always regarded such details as unimportant, until finally she realised that Klaus regarded them as the very cement of marriage, the pauses between arguments, negotiations, lovemaking.