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Authors: Joanne Horniman
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sheer beauty. And it would be a shame not to love beauty like that. People say that beauty isnât a virtue, but it is. What was it Oscar Wilde said? That only shallow people donât judge by appearances.
He wore make-up when he performed so that the bright lights didnât wash out the colour in his face, and wore it in the daytime as well (he was very tardy about taking it off at night, so that in my impatience to get at him, I copped toxic mouthfuls of lipstick and eyeshadow). Once, a waitress in a café paused in the middle of setting down our order to gushingly tell him he had beautiful eyes, and he responded with such innocent pleasure that I couldnât help but love him for it. His was such a simple soul: he loved praise and admiration, and was so charming that to be smiled upon by him was like a blessing. Knowing what I did about his family, I could see that he had constructed a persona for himself from nothing but his astonishing beauty and naturally generous impulses. We had that in common: both of us, in our different ways, had invented ourselves from the best part of our natures. And knowing that, how could I not feel optimistic about our child?
We talked and talked, and thought in euphoria that we had everything in common. (Now, in retrospect, I see we had very little in common, but when youâre in that state of being miraculously in love any small similarity seems pre-ordained and stupendously significant. âReally?â you say. âYou like that too? Thatâs amazing. So do I!â and âYou too? I feel that way!â All your conversations go like that.)
I knew that he would soon be gone, and I wanted to remember him. Perhaps Hetty was a way of memorising him. But when I look at her now, I can see that she is her own self, that despite my efforts, Marcus Innocenti has eluded me.
I wanted to capture a part of him, and I know that was wrong of me. I didnât ask him if he wanted to father a baby.
But then, if he didnât, he should have taken more precautions.
I had always wanted Hetty. There was never one moment when I wished her away.
And I didnât want Marcus to go. In the week weâd been together, even though I knew he would soon be moving on, I hadnât really believed it. I hadnât wanted to think about it.
But in the end, he was gone suddenly.
They left before dawn, him and the rest of the band. If I havenât described the other band members, itâs because theyâre not important in the story of Marcus and me. But on the last morning, there they were in the car park at the motel, loading stuff into the van: the hairy rhythm guitarist, the chunky bass player, the nondescript drummer and the blonde girl Iâd noticed the first night, who seemed to be some kind of manager. I saw then that they were realer to him than I was, and their lives were more connected.
When they were packed, Marcus hugged me tightly, told me it had been fun, and got into the van. They roared away. He hadnât offered to keep in touch, or asked for an address and phone number (but he knew where I lived, didnât he? I clung to that thought for a long time).
His leaving had been so lacking in ceremony that I felt a creeping sense of humiliation. It was only just dawn, and there I was standing in a motel car park in a summer dress and my broken-down old licorice shoes. I felt exposed and alone. It wasnât cold, but I needed a coat to snuggle into. I wanted some kind of shell or carapace to armour myself with.
But I had only my mind, which has always been my saviour and great protector, and conjures up reserves of steely determination on most of the occasions that I need it.
The sun came up. I walked through the deserted streets in a light that showed nothing, including myself, to advantage. Everything was unutterably dreary, every crack and blemish in the world exposed. Instead of going straight home to Samarkand, I walked out onto the bridge at
He wore make-up when he performed so that the bright lights didnât wash out the colour in his face, and wore it in the daytime as well (he was very tardy about taking it off at night, so that in my impatience to get at him, I copped toxic mouthfuls of lipstick and eyeshadow). Once, a waitress in a café paused in the middle of setting down our order to gushingly tell him he had beautiful eyes, and he responded with such innocent pleasure that I couldnât help but love him for it. His was such a simple soul: he loved praise and admiration, and was so charming that to be smiled upon by him was like a blessing. Knowing what I did about his family, I could see that he had constructed a persona for himself from nothing but his astonishing beauty and naturally generous impulses. We had that in common: both of us, in our different ways, had invented ourselves from the best part of our natures. And knowing that, how could I not feel optimistic about our child?
We talked and talked, and thought in euphoria that we had everything in common. (Now, in retrospect, I see we had very little in common, but when youâre in that state of being miraculously in love any small similarity seems pre-ordained and stupendously significant. âReally?â you say. âYou like that too? Thatâs amazing. So do I!â and âYou too? I feel that way!â All your conversations go like that.)
I knew that he would soon be gone, and I wanted to remember him. Perhaps Hetty was a way of memorising him. But when I look at her now, I can see that she is her own self, that despite my efforts, Marcus Innocenti has eluded me.
I wanted to capture a part of him, and I know that was wrong of me. I didnât ask him if he wanted to father a baby.
But then, if he didnât, he should have taken more precautions.
I had always wanted Hetty. There was never one moment when I wished her away.
And I didnât want Marcus to go. In the week weâd been together, even though I knew he would soon be moving on, I hadnât really believed it. I hadnât wanted to think about it.
But in the end, he was gone suddenly.
They left before dawn, him and the rest of the band. If I havenât described the other band members, itâs because theyâre not important in the story of Marcus and me. But on the last morning, there they were in the car park at the motel, loading stuff into the van: the hairy rhythm guitarist, the chunky bass player, the nondescript drummer and the blonde girl Iâd noticed the first night, who seemed to be some kind of manager. I saw then that they were realer to him than I was, and their lives were more connected.
When they were packed, Marcus hugged me tightly, told me it had been fun, and got into the van. They roared away. He hadnât offered to keep in touch, or asked for an address and phone number (but he knew where I lived, didnât he? I clung to that thought for a long time).
His leaving had been so lacking in ceremony that I felt a creeping sense of humiliation. It was only just dawn, and there I was standing in a motel car park in a summer dress and my broken-down old licorice shoes. I felt exposed and alone. It wasnât cold, but I needed a coat to snuggle into. I wanted some kind of shell or carapace to armour myself with.
But I had only my mind, which has always been my saviour and great protector, and conjures up reserves of steely determination on most of the occasions that I need it.
The sun came up. I walked through the deserted streets in a light that showed nothing, including myself, to advantage. Everything was unutterably dreary, every crack and blemish in the world exposed. Instead of going straight home to Samarkand, I walked out onto the bridge at
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