‘Who’s on breakfast?’ Marcia asks.
Meredith has lifted her legs in a shoulder-stand and starts to scissor them back and forth. Her fleece drops down her back to her shoulders. There are love-handles, bright with sweat. If the skin was brown it would be Zoë’s.
‘You are,’ Stephanie says. ‘With Tony.’
‘I think Tony fancies you.’ Meredith giggles. ‘He’s been watching you.’
Meredith’s saying what she thinks I’d say if I were speaking. She said that to please me.
‘He’s a professor, isn’t he?’
A hint of a smile crosses Kristin’s face now. I love that. I love it when she’s distracted from her seriousness. I wish I’d caused that.
‘What of?’ Marcia asks.
‘Romance languages.’ Meredith’s shoulder stand collapses.
‘You know what my favourite line from the Bodhicaryavatara is?’ Marcia says dourly. ‘“Sensual pleasure is like honey on a razor’s edge.”’
‘Wow!’
‘So I’ll concentrate on the porridge.’
‘And hope it doesn’t come out too stiff and lumpy.’
‘I should hope it won’t come out at all.’
Meredith and Stephanie laugh. Actually, that was pretty good, coming from Marcia. Maybe she’s OK after all. Everyone has wind sometimes. Meredith’s giggling subsides. There are a few moments’ quiet while she and Stephanie lie on their sides. Repose of the Buddha position. They look beautiful side by side face to face in the yellow light.
‘What’s that?’ Kristin sits up. ‘I heard a noise.’
Everybody listens. She’s right. Scratch scratch. There’s a scrabbling in the wall. I almost yell out, ‘The mouse!’ Instead I turn and leave. I mustn’t speak. I won’t. When I speak it will be because I’ve decided. Decided what? I’ve no idea.
Our dorm is an old building, a converted stable. Not converted enough to be honest. I pad down the wooden staircase and pull on my shoes in the porch. Outside there’s a light over the door to the bathrooms. When I go in to pee someone in the next cubicle is heaving. Real grunts, barks even. But how can you be constipated on the Dasgupta diet? ‘If you ever hear me on the loo, you’ll be cured of any desire to live with me.’ Jonathan laughed. It’s disgusting how loud this woman is grunting, as if she were beating a dangerous animal. Ah ah ah! God. I hurry to wipe myself and get out. It’s as if she were giving birth.
Could it have been Mrs Harper? Do the Harpers have children? How do Buddhists manage not to attach to their children? Probably there’s something I haven’t understood. Or maybe it’s the pregnant woman in the row behind me. Maybe pregnancy constipates.
The female dining hall is dark. I go through to the kitchen. It’s late. There’s one red pilot light on the water heater and a yellow LED on the Rational Cooker. The female servers’ room is at the far end on the left. I close the door, turn on the light and find a biro. No paper. I go back to the kitchen and pick up a wad of Service Report sheets. Imagine if I went through the male dining hall now, into the male grounds and over to Male Dormitory A, the fifth room on the right. Imagine I find him lying there asleep, snoring. All oldies snore. I shake his arm. Hey, Garry, Graham, Gregory, let’s get the hell out of this place.
Now. I could do that now.
Instead I start writing. I can’t leave the Dasgupta and I can’t stay. So I write. Writing is in between things. In between doing and not doing. Writing is indecision, dreaming. A diary instead of a life. Let’s write about what happens if he says yes. My name’s Elisabeth, but lovers call me Beth. The diarist laughs. He’s got some cigarettes in his locker and as soon as we’re out on the road he lights up. I cadge one. It makes me dizzy and I ask him to stop a minute. We sit on a damp wall under clouds and stars. The wind is shaking the trees in big waves of sound. It’s beautiful. Without waiting, I switch my cigarette to my left hand, put my right round his head and pull him into a kiss, a smoky kiss. ‘I love how impetuous you are,’ Jonathan said. We were in the cinema. Match Point is a terrible film. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ I told him.
Now there’s a sound. There’s someone in the kitchen. I hide my papers under the tea tray. Someone is moving around the kitchen. I can hear plates, cutlery. It’s eleven and gone. They should be in bed. Wait. I can definitely hear the sound of spoon on plate, spoon on plate. Someone’s come for a midnight feast. Marcia maybe. Honey on a razor’s edge. Or Tony. The idea of Tony fancying anyone is ridiculous. He’s past it. A professor of obsoletion. Is that a word? Obsolescence? The idea of anyone fancying Marcia is even sillier. She’s an elephant, a sea elephant. Marcia would have had no trouble in those waves.
If I’m writing it’s because it’s not working. The meditation is not working. Or I’m not working at the meditation. Nothing is working. The seventh day is over. A day of blessing. You have three more days to write. Maybe writing will get me through. I can write about running away with him. For three days. That’ll save me from running away with him. Then he’ll be gone. Then I can start again.
I slip through the door. Why do I always walk around as if I was a burglar? Zoë noticed that.
‘Beth, you’re always moving around as if you shouldn’t be where you are. As if you were cheating on someone.’
‘I usually am.’
It’s Ralph eating cereal. He hasn’t heard me. He’s at the work surface at the far end, face to the wall, bent over a big bowl of muesli and his BlackBerry, eating and surfing. Greedy pleasures. Attachments. Cravings. What a big head of long wavy hair he has. What a cute earring on a cute cute ear. I sneak up, ever so quietly. And he has an earpiece too! There’s a tinkle of music. Music, food and porn. You greedy boy! His leg is moving up and down on the ball of his toe. Rhythm. His big head is swaying back and forth. He’s so into it. He’s so happy. Two feet away I stretch out my arms. One quick step and my hands are round his eyes.
‘Don’t move!’
I hold him tight.
‘Who is it? Guess.’
He doesn’t seem shocked. I can feel his face crease up in a smile.
‘Bess.’
‘Wrong.’
He laughs. ‘It is you, Bess.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know, yes.’
‘I’m not Beth.’
‘You are.’
‘No, I’m not. Turn that music off. Pull it out.’
He takes out the earpiece.
‘I told you, I’m not Beth.’
‘Who zen?’
‘Meredith.’
His head shakes. It’s weird holding this big head as it shakes from side to side. I haven’t touched anyone in ages. His neck is very strong.
‘I’m not believing you. You are Bess.’
‘Beth not Bess. Th-th-th! Pronounce it properly at least.’
He laughs. ‘I told you it was Bess.’
‘No, I’m not. But how do you know?’
There’s a pause. He leans back slightly until his head is against my breasts. Pig.
‘I just know.’
‘Well, you’re wrong.’
‘I absolutely know.’
‘You’ve been watching me, spying on me.’
‘I am vorried about you, Bess. Everybody is vorried about you.’
‘What are you doing with the computer? They’re forbidden. You’re surfing for porn.’
‘Come on, Bess. It’s email.’
The boy seems pretty damn pleased that I’m holding his head. Touching is forbidden but Ralph is delighted. He doesn’t want to get free at all. He doesn’t want to be liberated.