Meeting the Muse - Lisa Tuttle

Meeting the Muse - Lisa Tuttle, ebook

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LISA TUTTLEMEETING THE MUSEIt began, she fell in love, with the image of a man.As a child she had seen his face for the first time in black and white, hardlybigger than a postage stamp: young poet said a line below the grainy dots ofnewsprint. So this was a poet, she thought, gazing at the shadowy representationof dreamy eyes and shaggy hair, tinglingly aware that something had entered andlodged in her heart, like the Snow Queen's love for little Kay.Seven years later, in the poetry section of the college bookstore, she picked upa book with the title The Memory of Trees. The author's name, Graham Storey,seemed familiar; she glanced at the back cover for a clue, and saw his faceagain.Something turned over inside her as she stared at the picture of a poet nolonger so young.Gone was the Beatles hairstyle; his hair was cropped now. The eyes that staredout at something far beyond her had a dreaminess contradicted by the fiercenessof the rest of his face, the thin, tight-lipped mouth, the jut of nose and chin.There was a ferocity in him, but she sensed it would be directed more at himselfthan anyone else. She sensed enduring sadness, a pain held tightly within.She bought the book, of course, although her budget did not allow it; she coulddo without a few meals if she had to. She read it straight through for the firsttime that night, alone in bed, with an intensity of concentration she seldombrought to her studies. She read each poem many times, until it was part of her.Previously a lazy, erratic student, although bright, now, driven by her heart,she became a scholar. The university library had a copy of his first collectionof poetry, but she also discovered poems, letters, even essays and reviews hehad written by combing through every poetry-related publication of the pastdecade that she could find in the stacks. She followed cross-references andhunches until she had compiled an impressive dossier on him, not only his workand influences, but his life, the man himself. She learned from a chancereference in one book that he had been in correspondence with W.H. Auden -- andthat his letters, Graham Storey's actual letters, were in a collection in theHumanities Research Center on the University of Texas campus -- and she, as astudent, had access to them.She sat by herself in a small, cool, well-lighted room with a box-file open onthe table and picked up the typewritten pages in her hands, raised them to herface, inhaling with eyes closed. What might be left, besides the words,indentations and ink on paper, after so many years? Cell fragments from the skinof his hands, a hair, a trace of cigarette smoke. . . .? She stared and staredat the signature in blue ink, the small, cramped hand. At first, the formalityof his full name, but the last two letters were signed simply G.How that initial reverberated, how personal it became, how it haunted her! Thefact that it was one of her own initials did not detract but seemed to suggest aconnection between them, proof they had something in common.Her handwriting altered under the impress of his. At first it was evident onlyin the way she wrote the letter G, but soon she began to change the way shesigned her name, aspiring to make her signature more like his, and then,unconsciously (for she had too small a sample of his to be able, consciously, tocopy it) the rest of her handwriting shifted in accord with her signature,becoming smaller, neater, more precise.She could not have said, later, when the plan began, but it was only natural,loving him as she did, to want to meet him, and to try to think of ways. Sheentertained fantasies of meeting him by chance: she would be walking along theDrag one day, and there he'd be, walking toward her. The English Department didsponsor a series of readings by established poets, it was not impossible thatthey might invite Graham Storey. Or maybe he would read one of her poems,several of which had been published in various little magazines, and be soimpressed that he'd write her a letter.But she knew these were childish fantasies. Sometimes when she had spent toolong alone the vast, sad truth would nearly overwhelm her. No matter how muchshe knew about him or how much more she learned, it would bring her no closer tohim while he continued unaware of her existence.Time passed, and she went on loving him while she got her degree and got a job.She went on living in Austin, in the same rather run-down apartment buildingnear the University, and continued to socialize with the same sort of people,even sleeping with one or two of them, while still dreaming of the farawayEnglish poet and the very different life they might have together.More than once she started a letter to him, but she always drew back frommailing them, always in the end deciding to wait until she could meet him faceto face. Then, she felt sure, although she was certainly old enough to knowbetter, she would find a way to make him love her. So she dreamed, and wrote,and worked hard, lived frugally, and saved every penny she could toward thejourney of a lifetime.Standing in Victoria Station, alone amid the alien crowd, unreal-feeling fromjet-lag and lack of sleep, she stood and turned the tissue-thin pages of atelephone book. The sight of his name thrilled her, as always, like a familiartouch. Storey, G. All at once she felt more at home, able to deal with theproblem of finding herself somewhere to stay in this huge, foreign city.The next day she set off for Harrow-on-the-Hill, which sounded to her as if itshould be inhabited by hobbits, but was apparently no more than one of thefarflung tendrils of London's contemporary sprawl, easily accessible by theMetropolitan Line. His street she had located in her newly purchased London A toZ and she felt confident of finding her way there from the station.She had no plans for what she would say or do after she had made her way to hisdoor. She was praying that magic would strike, that he would look at her andfeel what she had felt when she'd first set eyes on his face.It was a sunny day, but breezy and not very warm, even though it was June. Shefelt glad for her cotton jacket as she walked up the hill into the wind. Evenbefore she saw the number and was sure, she had recognized his little whitecottage with the honeysuckle twining around the green door. She knocked, andboth her breath and her heart seemed to stop while she waited for the reply.A woman opened the door. She was about thirty, attractive in a strong-featured,rather exotic way, with kohl-rimmed eyes and long dark hair. "Yes?""Does Graham Storey live here?""Why?""I wanted to see him." From the way the woman looked at her, she had the sudden,despairing conviction that she would not be allowed in. To this woman, whateverher connection to the poet, she was just some person from Porlock. "I'd like tomeet him. Please, won't you tell him, won't you ask him -- not if he's workingof course. Don't interrupt him. But if I could come back later, I wouldn't takeup too much of his time. . .""You're American, aren't you?""Yes.""Here on a visit?"She nodded. "It's my first time.""How do you know Graham?""I don't. Not personally. Just his work. I've admired it for so long..."The woman smiled suddenly. "Oh, you're one of his readers! Well, he's not hereright now, but-- would you like to come in? I can show you round."This was not at all as she had hoped it would be. "Maybe I'd better come backwhen he's in.""Oh, he won't mind me showing you round. I'm sure he'd want me to. After you'vecome so far, I couldn't just send you away again with nothing. Come in, comein.""Really, I'd like to meet him.""Then you can come back again in a few days, when he's here. Better ring firstto make sure he's in. But as long as you're beret come in for a cup of tea.Wouldn't you like to see where his wonderful poems get written?"It would have been too awkward to refuse. Following her inside, she wonderedabout the woman who played at being keeper of the shrine. In her hippy, gypsyishclothes -- cheesecloth blouse and long madras skirt, silver bangles on her armsand a ring on every finger -- she was unlikely as either a housekeeper or asecretary. She knew he wasn't married, but asked with false naivete," Are youMrs. Storey?"The woman smiled. "I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm hisgirlfriend, Amy Carrick."There was something in the woman's proud smile and the little toss of her headthat made her suspect she wouldn't have made such a claim in the poet'spresence."Where is he now? Will he be back soon?""He's gone away for a few days, walking in Scotland. He does that sometimes,when he needs to be alone for inspiration. That's how poets are. Wouldn't youlike to see his study, where the magic happens? Just through here. This is hisdesk, this is his chair. He always writes long-hand, on this sort of pad. Thereare his pencils, and a rubber, and a couple of biros, but he's taken hisfavorite pen away with him."It was like being shown around a museum by a too-officious curator, facts forcedupon her and never allowed a moment for thought Or a meaningful privatediscovery. Although she knew she was being silly, she found herself disbelievingeverything the woman said. No, this was not the room where he created his poems.Perhaps he wrote letters here, on that old manual typewriter shoved to the backof the desk, or typed out the final versions, but the poems had not been writtenat that desk, with Graham Storey in that chair."G... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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