She sat across the courtyard in open sun, and he thought he had
never seen light glint so distinctly from a girl's hair, or catch so
vividly the individual strands that framed—no, haloed—her face.
Her hair was pulled back, and it brought to mind a painting he had
once seen in a book, of a peasant girl standing in a field. Song of
the Lark, that was it. He could picture this girl singing. In
fact, her chin was lifted, her lips parted, in that very pose. No
matter that she sat on a cement ledge, leaning against a bland
building with a closed door on the end. There was artistry in that
pool of light.
The ledge must have displeased her, because she seemed uncertain
about whether to sit or no. She kept shifting her slim form forward.
He could move closer to her, out of the shade of the tree where he
had spread his books. But it was her solitude, too, that was so
beautiful and delicate. He stayed still and imagined the cool
slimness of her fingers and that he could see a pink flush of light
in the dip of her throat.
Suddenly she stood up. She began to pace. When she moved to the
right, she seemed almost irritated, as if someone who was supposed to
appear had failed her. He was at her right, but he knew he was not
the expected one. And even though she faced him, she did not seem to
see him; instead, her eyes went to the tree's leaves where, he
believed, she saw light dancing.
When she moved left, she did something odd but charming: tilted her
head as far as she could toward her shoulder, until it seemed
impossible that she would not strain the slender muscles of her neck.
She looked upward, like a child curious about clouds. No, not that;
it was a posture of strained listening, an impatience to hear
something, the mild agitation one feels when waiting for a better
song to begin. Her friends likely said, “She
always does that when she is....” Friends whose laughter
sparkled around her like those white-gold strays of hair. This
silence must be filled, it seemed: the girl made a quick little
sound, a single high tone that came from the back of her throat.
Then she turned to sit again. First, she examined the ledge,
determined to take exactly the same spot as before. It must be the
angle of sunlight there, or a particular cleanness on the surface.
Once seated, her little hand darted across her face, because of the
stray hairs. She scowled, and a line came to him: Do I dare
disturb the universe? He could not remember where he had read it,
but it made him smile.
She was up again. She swayed, then paced, then paused, feeling, he felt sure, the very movement of the earth in her body. She was doing something with her mouth now that he could only describe as scrunching; that was not at all the right word, of course, though it could become a juxtaposition, this charming imperfection in her fair face. Yes, fair. It was a good choice for this girl who herself was an anachronism: peasant demeanor with queenly command, and himself sitting, insignificant for now, at the edge of her realm.
The door in the bland wall opened. A large woman stepped out. “Come
in, Elena,” she said.
Elena did not turn.
“Come in. Come in, Elena.” The voice was low, perfunctory.
Elena ignored her, and the large woman moved forward, holding out
her hand, palm down, as if offering its scent to a wild animal. There
was something about this woman that could not be trusted. As if
sending a signal, Elena gave out that high, clear tone again.
The woman kept moving forward.
Now he decided to come to Elena; he, at least, would not be an
unfriendly intruder. He would give her a sympathetic look, appearing
from the shadows into her bright light.
When he was a few steps from the open door, he heard singing. The
voices inside were very ragged:
The wheels on the bus go round and round
Round and round, round and round
The wheels on the bus go round and round
All around the town.
“Come in, Elena. It's your favorite. Don't you want to sing your
favorite?”
Elena jerked around and almost collided with him. Now he saw clearly
the cruel distortion of her mouth, the humorless obscurity of her
gaze. She swatted at the air between them, flapping her hands like a
wounded bird and making her shrill sound.
He was already late for his class and, hurrying off, he knew that
the poem he had begun, about the palpable invisibility of love, could
not possibly bear up under the heat and glare of the rest of the day.
