Read Online Lies of the Heart by Michelle Boyajian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michelle Boyajian
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startled out of her reverie by her professor, who spoke in an uncharacteristically animated voice.
—Here, he said to the class, slapping the screen.—What do you see here?
A black-and-white picture of a young soldier filled the screen, his face muddy and tired, the strap of his helmet hanging. Beside him, a man who could have been sleeping if the scene were different, if there weren’t the constant sounds of explosions and gunfire in the background. If he weren’t lying in a ditch, his gun sunk into the mud next to his body.
—War, the students said.—Death.
—But what does the camera capture? the professor asked impatiently.
The camera zoomed in on the soldier’s face—a disturbing look because of the combination of vacancy and concentrated sadness, a young-old face, its deep lines embedded with blood and grime.
Hands rose, hypotheses voiced.
—The meaningless of life? someone said.
—The acknowledgment of impending death?
Each time the professor shook his head, sighed, and waited.
The soldier patted his coat, and then an explosion only a few yards away rocked his body; he ducked down, sticks and clods of earth raining onto him and into the trench. He stood and scanned the scene before him, patted his coat again. A clump of dirt rested on the dead man’s chin, unnoticed.
Katie, suddenly interested, said in a voice louder than the rest:
—He’s thinking about love.
Heads turned to the back of the room where she sat. Her professor quickly closed the distance between them, pointing.
—Your name? he demanded.
—Katie, she whispered.
—Who?
—Katie, she said in a louder voice to the professor, who stood too close now.
—Love? the professor said.—But why, with a man dead or dying beside him?
It was only what Katie wanted the soldier to think about, what she hoped he was thinking about, despite everything around him. And now too many eyes were on her, so she turned back to the screen, watched the soldier pull out a small piece of rumpled cloth from inside his coat.
He lifted it to his nose briefly but didn’t inhale; instead he swiped it angrily across his cheek and then looked at it, eyes flashing at the patch of dirt left across the bottom. In the corner of the cloth, partially hidden by the dirt: the top half of a looping, monogrammed letter, a B or a P. The soldier stuffed the cloth back into his coat.
—You forget the camera is there, don’t you? the professor asked Katie quietly, and she nodded, realizing that there was a camera, that the young soldier didn’t seem to notice it hovering over his shoulder. Didn’t have time to hide the way he felt.
The professor addressed the class.
—Imagine, now, if this soldier turned to the camera, talked to us. Imagine what he would say with his eyes, with his body and limbs. He might talk about impending death, the meaningless of life, the professor said, shaking away the students’ words with his hand.—But we would know better, wouldn’t we? He turned back to Katie.—Yes?
A voice-over in the film reported how this soldier died a week later, how this same piece of cloth had to be pried from his hand.
—A little melodramatic, the professor said dryly.—But you get the point.
And then to Katie, before he popped the tape out for a new one: —You have an eye for reading people, Katie. Keep both of them open.
On the way home that afternoon, she held the excitement of her professor’s words close to her. Finally she had an eye for something, and her heart raced along with the car as she barreled toward Rhode Island, toward Nick. Just one simple sentence, and at last she understood: first Nick and now this, a hidden talent, a purpose—her life had begun in earnest. Not even the congested traffic on I-95 could take away her joy; she couldn’t wait to share her news with Nick and with her mother, to watch the cynical lines of doubt smooth away on her mother’s face. I’m going to make documentaries, she imagined telling her
—Here, he said to the class, slapping the screen.—What do you see here?
A black-and-white picture of a young soldier filled the screen, his face muddy and tired, the strap of his helmet hanging. Beside him, a man who could have been sleeping if the scene were different, if there weren’t the constant sounds of explosions and gunfire in the background. If he weren’t lying in a ditch, his gun sunk into the mud next to his body.
—War, the students said.—Death.
—But what does the camera capture? the professor asked impatiently.
The camera zoomed in on the soldier’s face—a disturbing look because of the combination of vacancy and concentrated sadness, a young-old face, its deep lines embedded with blood and grime.
Hands rose, hypotheses voiced.
—The meaningless of life? someone said.
—The acknowledgment of impending death?
Each time the professor shook his head, sighed, and waited.
The soldier patted his coat, and then an explosion only a few yards away rocked his body; he ducked down, sticks and clods of earth raining onto him and into the trench. He stood and scanned the scene before him, patted his coat again. A clump of dirt rested on the dead man’s chin, unnoticed.
Katie, suddenly interested, said in a voice louder than the rest:
—He’s thinking about love.
Heads turned to the back of the room where she sat. Her professor quickly closed the distance between them, pointing.
—Your name? he demanded.
—Katie, she whispered.
—Who?
—Katie, she said in a louder voice to the professor, who stood too close now.
—Love? the professor said.—But why, with a man dead or dying beside him?
It was only what Katie wanted the soldier to think about, what she hoped he was thinking about, despite everything around him. And now too many eyes were on her, so she turned back to the screen, watched the soldier pull out a small piece of rumpled cloth from inside his coat.
He lifted it to his nose briefly but didn’t inhale; instead he swiped it angrily across his cheek and then looked at it, eyes flashing at the patch of dirt left across the bottom. In the corner of the cloth, partially hidden by the dirt: the top half of a looping, monogrammed letter, a B or a P. The soldier stuffed the cloth back into his coat.
—You forget the camera is there, don’t you? the professor asked Katie quietly, and she nodded, realizing that there was a camera, that the young soldier didn’t seem to notice it hovering over his shoulder. Didn’t have time to hide the way he felt.
The professor addressed the class.
—Imagine, now, if this soldier turned to the camera, talked to us. Imagine what he would say with his eyes, with his body and limbs. He might talk about impending death, the meaningless of life, the professor said, shaking away the students’ words with his hand.—But we would know better, wouldn’t we? He turned back to Katie.—Yes?
A voice-over in the film reported how this soldier died a week later, how this same piece of cloth had to be pried from his hand.
—A little melodramatic, the professor said dryly.—But you get the point.
And then to Katie, before he popped the tape out for a new one: —You have an eye for reading people, Katie. Keep both of them open.
On the way home that afternoon, she held the excitement of her professor’s words close to her. Finally she had an eye for something, and her heart raced along with the car as she barreled toward Rhode Island, toward Nick. Just one simple sentence, and at last she understood: first Nick and now this, a hidden talent, a purpose—her life had begun in earnest. Not even the congested traffic on I-95 could take away her joy; she couldn’t wait to share her news with Nick and with her mother, to watch the cynical lines of doubt smooth away on her mother’s face. I’m going to make documentaries, she imagined telling her
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