She climbed at last, not really understanding her own emotions, watching the grass ahead of her apprehensively for some further sign of the old man’s presence. “The old drunk,” she muttered, and this made her feel better. When in her haste she cut her finger on a grass blade, she thought of how she had done this the first time she had ever climbed the grass tower, and she felt very much like twelve years old again. Only this time a very helpless twelve, badgered by that horrible old man, and she almost turned back to go home. But instead she grasped great handfuls of grass, pulling herself upward, clinging to the grass tower as if it were the only safety in the world, climbing fearfully, uncertain and hurrying by turns, up the last stretch until she stood at last in the sky. She tried to feel the power of the grass tower under her, its animal warmth and strength, but she could feel nothing now but fear.
She stood facing the sea, and resolutely tried to imagine the heat of the other place, tried to imagine the balcony doors standing open behind her, to make them be there, determined that when she opened her eyes— and before she lost her nerve—the red-roofed city would lie below her.
After a long time though, the cold sea wind was still on her face, and the grass still blew against her, and when she opened her eyes nothing had changed. She clenched them tight and thought of a young girl, she must be a young girl. She thought of her smooth hands holding the box, hands so like her own, thought of them jerking Molly’s reins angrily. She forced herself to feel the heat of that other place, itching heat, and smell the city smells—but it was not until she had thought of the girl for some time, tried to think what she was like, cared about her, cared about how she might feel, that she was on the balcony. The heat made her reel; sun slashed across the shining leaves and bounced off the rooftops, nearly blinding her. She could hear a muddle of city noises, and a strange rhythmic calling, “Buy my oranges—naranjas, mangoes, papaya, naranja—” she leaned over the rail and watched a peddler wheel his cart along the street below her. At last, with a pulsing reluctance, but with a terrible eagerness too, she turned and made herself enter the red room. Then she stopped short: a skirt had swung around her ankles as she turned, and now she could not be sure it was her own reflection in the gold framed mirror—she was wearing a low-cut white blouse and a full red skirt, and her face was made up so she looked older, looked—oh! she looked elegant. The skirt was very full, a red cotton skirt in which red appliqued squares had been sewn, red squares with colors fused into them, gold and green, black, blue, pink, laid into the red in such small lines and shapes that the overall effect was jewel-like; she swung around so the skirt caught the light richly, and she felt a sudden lilting feeling of satisfaction, almost as if she had had to fight to get this skirt. She stood admiring her tan against the low-necked white blouse, then she took up the carved box from the dresser and opened it. She held it for a moment, undecided, her heart pounding—
I will, she thought at last; but she did not understand what it was she meant to do, and the empty interior of the box stared up at her, goading, until finally, almost afraid, she put the box back on the dresser and closed the lid.
She whirled once again so that the skirt flared out, and stood admiring herself. But the thing in the box —in the empty box—nagged at her, and she had a dizzying vision of something flashing golden at her throat, something she wanted very much to wear, and yet was afraid to wear. She stepped away from the box, her mind muddled and unclear as if something impenetrable lay across her thoughts. She felt a sudden cold terror at losing herself, at being torn away from reality. She wanted to get out, to get away—but where? Her thoughts blurred again, and chimes were ringing somewhere far away in the house.
They were door chimes; they had been ringing off and on for some time, and there were voices rising and falling—party voices, many voices raised in lightness and joviality. She knew she was expected down there; she had a picture of herself descending that long curved stairway, with faces looking upward. Looking once more in the mirror, smugly pleased with her reflection —but puzzling at some thought that had escaped her —she let herself out and stood for a moment at the railing gazing down upon the living room, upon a sea of people. The dissonant mixture of voices drifting upward reminded her of something long ago, but she could not remember what. A few people looked up to watch her descend; she drifted in among them, her own will in the matter quite extinguished. She was greeted, exclaimed over, her skirt exhibited with little cries of envy from some of the women: “Molas,” they said. “Your mola skirt!” And one of the younger men spoke in that singing tongue and smiled into her eyes, flirting, a dark-eyed young man. When a hand reached for hers in the crowd, she took it, and looked up at her grandmother with a little feeling of stubbornness, still, that she had been made to attend this grown-up party. But when her grandmother, elegant in a silver-white dress that matched her swirled hair, introduced her, she smiled properly and said the proper things, and was altogether, as Grandmother would put it, above reproach. The faces, the voices, were immediately blurred back into the general sea as new ones were thrust before her, “I would like to present … Ninea, I want you to meet … Yes, my dear, this is my granddaughter Ninea… .”
The hors d’oeuvres table was filled with the most delectable things to eat, and when she could escape finally she made her way toward it, took up a plate, and began to fill it, knowing full well Grandmother would raise an eyebrow. Hot little meat pies shaped like crescent moons, small hot meatballs flavored with curry, a cold spiced shrimp, and ladyfinger sandwiches, olives, on and on down the line she went disregarding propriety. Then she found herself a sheltered place beside a potted tree, with people’s backs to her.
It was strange, sitting here looking out at this mass of people, their voices clashing and rising; it reminded her so terribly of that something she could not bring to the surface. Some long ago time when she had been sitting and watching a party just this way and felt a sudden surge of fear take her, as if she had seen—as if she had seen—and she sat bolt upright, for overlaid against this party was that other time: the high board fence with the sky so blue above it and the wind racing across the treetops, the children fighting and the hamburgers cooking, and Aunt Selma—
Then she almost dropped the plate, for she realized she was Bethany. Not Ninea, but Bethany. A great, gripping silence held her—and suddenly she was in a whirling, wind-howling sphere of darkness, fighting fearfully to keep hold of herself, clutching fearfully to keep her own identity. I am Bethany! Bethany!
The girl was facing her, shouting Ninea! Ninea! Ninea! And it occurred to Bethany that she was frightened, too, the other one—though she was bolder. In spite of her fear, her face was full of glee as they spun in black space. They touched only to draw back spinning, and Bethany clutched at her own self, tried to wrap her own identity around her. I am me! Bethany Light! And the other one terrified and intrigued her, shouting, Ninea! Ninea! Bethany wanted to run, but there was no place, there was only blackness. Then Ninea shouted, It was me, it was me in that black place with the snakes and the candles, didn’t you know we were two?
I didn’t know, Bethany cried silently, and she could feel Ninea’s quick thrill at the thought of the seances, as if she had been eager and rapt in them. What do you mean, two? she thought—then, The seances, she thought disjointedly, how did you come there? Who are you?
I am Ninea. 1 saw you on that place with the grass showing through you as if you were a shadow, and your hair long. Your hair—don’t you remember? Don’t you know we cut our hair together?
I— But who are you? Not just to say you are Ninea, but who? Who are we?