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Authors: Stephen Dau
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thought to be exaggerating. Trevor catches them on a late Saturday morning at Bart’s Café, sitting in the low lounge chairs set around vast coffee tables. Shakri drinks hot chocolate and Jonas tea, while they both read newspapers.
“You two’s already like an old married couple,” says Trevor as he sits down, forcing himself between them, cheeky and smiling and pulling an earphone out of his ear. “Sitting reading your papers. Me, I don’t want a married life till well after thirty!”
Jonas and Shakri look up from their reading.
“We’re not married, man,” says Jonas.
“Get your feet off the table, Trevor,” says Shakri.
48
Paul has read an article about Christopher, but Jonas does not want to hear about it. During a session Paul mentions it, and Jonas does not respond.
The next session, Paul brings it up again. Christopher’s mother is called Rose. Rose Henderson. Jonas is not interested. He says only that he is comfortable not knowing, but in reality he feels his stomach tighten each time Paul mentions it.
“You have to admit, it’s quite a coincidence,” says Paul.
The next session, Paul has brought the newspaper article, which he hands to Jonas like a summons. Jonas doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to know, but sees no way to get out of it.
The article takes up most of an inside page, its only illustration being a black-and-white sketch of Rose Henderson. Despite himself, Jonas is transfixed. When he is finished reading it, he reads it again. And when he has read it for the fourth time, he looks up at Paul and says, “Could this … I mean, is it possible?” And then he sits silently, looking down at the newspaper in his lap.
Eventually, Paul says, “Would you like to go and talk with her?”
49
Shakri is by far the more dedicated student, planning to follow her family’s expected path and go to medical school. She studies for hours at a stretch, biology and chemistry, and a measure of her dedication seems to wear off onto Jonas, who to this point has gotten through school by, as he puts it, “brains and bullshit.”
“I go to class,” he says, his voice almost a whine. “Do that and you barely have to read anything! We were doing
The Odyssey
, and I only read the last three chapters. Wouldn’t you know it; the final exam was just one question: ‘Analyze the major themes of
The Odyssey
, referencing only three chapters.’ The professor called it the best essay she ever read on the subject.”
“She mustn’t have read many.”
50
On a Saturday afternoon Shakri and Jonas sit in low, open lounge chairs at Bart’s. Shakri drinks hot chocolate, which she loves, going through two or three tublike cups of it a day, even in the summer.
Jonas drinks tea. He has kept only a few connections tothe past, and this is one of them. He likes it sweet and strong, and if it is just the right kind—spiced kava, served with a hard sweet the way they do at Bart’s—then even the smell of it is comforting. He usually has at least a cup of it a day, more if he drank too much the night before. It’s one o’clock, and he’s on his fifth cup.
It’s a pretty day, autumn and cold, and the sun streams in through the window and highlights Shakri’s dark skin and eyes and hair, and Jonas thinks to himself that she really is striking, and he also thinks that maybe he should tell her this. And then he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to mess anything up by drawing attention to it, does not want to appear fawning or overly demonstrative, refrains from outwardly valuing anything he fears may be taken away. He prefers to appreciate things from a distance.
And then finally he opens his mouth and says: “I was so trashed last night.”
“I know,” says Shakri, and Jonas avoids her glare by looking studiously out the window. “You passed out cold on my couch. I woke up and you were gone.”
He doesn’t seem to remember all of this, although he does vaguely remember seeing
“You two’s already like an old married couple,” says Trevor as he sits down, forcing himself between them, cheeky and smiling and pulling an earphone out of his ear. “Sitting reading your papers. Me, I don’t want a married life till well after thirty!”
Jonas and Shakri look up from their reading.
“We’re not married, man,” says Jonas.
“Get your feet off the table, Trevor,” says Shakri.
48
Paul has read an article about Christopher, but Jonas does not want to hear about it. During a session Paul mentions it, and Jonas does not respond.
The next session, Paul brings it up again. Christopher’s mother is called Rose. Rose Henderson. Jonas is not interested. He says only that he is comfortable not knowing, but in reality he feels his stomach tighten each time Paul mentions it.
“You have to admit, it’s quite a coincidence,” says Paul.
The next session, Paul has brought the newspaper article, which he hands to Jonas like a summons. Jonas doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to know, but sees no way to get out of it.
The article takes up most of an inside page, its only illustration being a black-and-white sketch of Rose Henderson. Despite himself, Jonas is transfixed. When he is finished reading it, he reads it again. And when he has read it for the fourth time, he looks up at Paul and says, “Could this … I mean, is it possible?” And then he sits silently, looking down at the newspaper in his lap.
Eventually, Paul says, “Would you like to go and talk with her?”
49
Shakri is by far the more dedicated student, planning to follow her family’s expected path and go to medical school. She studies for hours at a stretch, biology and chemistry, and a measure of her dedication seems to wear off onto Jonas, who to this point has gotten through school by, as he puts it, “brains and bullshit.”
“I go to class,” he says, his voice almost a whine. “Do that and you barely have to read anything! We were doing
The Odyssey
, and I only read the last three chapters. Wouldn’t you know it; the final exam was just one question: ‘Analyze the major themes of
The Odyssey
, referencing only three chapters.’ The professor called it the best essay she ever read on the subject.”
“She mustn’t have read many.”
50
On a Saturday afternoon Shakri and Jonas sit in low, open lounge chairs at Bart’s. Shakri drinks hot chocolate, which she loves, going through two or three tublike cups of it a day, even in the summer.
Jonas drinks tea. He has kept only a few connections tothe past, and this is one of them. He likes it sweet and strong, and if it is just the right kind—spiced kava, served with a hard sweet the way they do at Bart’s—then even the smell of it is comforting. He usually has at least a cup of it a day, more if he drank too much the night before. It’s one o’clock, and he’s on his fifth cup.
It’s a pretty day, autumn and cold, and the sun streams in through the window and highlights Shakri’s dark skin and eyes and hair, and Jonas thinks to himself that she really is striking, and he also thinks that maybe he should tell her this. And then he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to mess anything up by drawing attention to it, does not want to appear fawning or overly demonstrative, refrains from outwardly valuing anything he fears may be taken away. He prefers to appreciate things from a distance.
And then finally he opens his mouth and says: “I was so trashed last night.”
“I know,” says Shakri, and Jonas avoids her glare by looking studiously out the window. “You passed out cold on my couch. I woke up and you were gone.”
He doesn’t seem to remember all of this, although he does vaguely remember seeing
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