Virginia Woolf in Manhattan Read online

  an ache coming together

  puckering a long fall of satin curtain

  a wavering

  a pulling together not wanting

  to be seen

  exposed

  her eyes, their eyes

  but oh –

  the waking of the light

  in the dark so long lost in my own crushed rib-cage

  weighted with mud and slime though dying was no

  worse than the terror nothing

  is worse than the terror

  Here, I am suddenly here.

  Warm wood. Women. Electric lights. A strange room.

  Two books in my hands. Yes, they’re mine. Hold them close to my body, hide them. Mine.

  And, as if new-born, no fear. Was it over?

  ANGELA

  Almost before I knew what was happening, she was gone. In a pincer movement, two librarians hustled her out of the door. ‘If you don’t have a need for access to original material …’ one was saying, and the strange woman gaped like a fish, while the other librarian intoned, ‘The librarians in the open reading rooms will be happy to help you.’

  The door swung shut. There followed a hubbub of librarian excitement, which is quiet, but the first words I could make out were ‘Who was THAT?’

  And as soon as I heard it as a question, I knew the answer, and made for the door.

  Out on the landing, a gaggle of Japanese tourists with cameras, a big-nosed man in a red woollen hat – but not her. So I ran down the stairs, and there, on the last flight but one, by a seat where a black boy in shades was sleeping, there she stood, yes it was her. A tall angular shape from the back, not going forward, hovering, leaning, like a tall-masted sailing ship. Her white fingers trailing on the balustrade, then touching two books, which she clutched to her ribs, shyly, as if in wonderment.

  My breath caught. I slowed down, and came to her step by step.

  Step

  by

  step.

  I was afraid. I kept walking, I drew abreast.

  I was any fan, any groupie, suddenly. I could see her face. Her great globes of eyes, darting down, away: hunted.

  Perhaps I should have left her. But how could I have let her stumble out on to the streets of Manhattan on her own?

  I had to say: ‘Virginia?’

  VIRGINIA

  She said my name, that first time, as if I belonged to her. They shan’t have me! She said ‘Virginia?’ and I was off like a hare. There were red ropes, I went the wrong way, a man in uniform stopped me & asked to look at ‘those books’, I had two of my own & he looked at me hard and said ‘Ma’am, are these from the library?’ – but I said ‘No’ & rushed on, with her after me. And then –

  ANGELA

  Half of me was laughing, half of me was shivering, nothing like this had ever happened, not to me. But I couldn’t let her go.

  It was brilliant; it was impossible; it was so thrilling I could hardly breathe. It was Virginia Woolf in Manhattan. And I reached out my hand.

  VIRGINIA

  She touched me. It felt – electric. You see, I wanted –

  ANGELA

  It was like dipping my hand in water.

  VIRGINIA

  I wanted to come back.

  2

  ANGELA

  I loved my life: I was in the thick of it. Things I had earned by writing my books. Yes, I’ve earned them, and I enjoy them. Films, travel, clothes, chocolate. I loved my daughter – I love my daughter. (It seems a long time since I emailed her.)

  I love good food, and taking out money, nice thick chunks of it out of the wall. And no, I don’t have to feel defensive. My parents were poor, and my mother couldn’t cook. I like the sunny side of the street, because when I was a child, days were darker. When I was a child I was often afraid. And of course, more recently, problems with Edward. Eco-heroes are hard to live with.

  It was more a question of living without. Edward was on an expedition to the Arctic, financed by a cat’s cradle of grants. I hadn’t wanted him to go. There were a series of explosive rows before he went. I told him, if he was leaving me, he needn’t bother coming back.

  I hadn’t expected to be alone. But who wants to be with the wrong person? I knew my life was about to get better.

  And so I paused before pushing onward. A dark smudge on the event horizon. Something brief as a fin surfacing.

  (Because reading Virginia Woolf isn’t simple. I love her, but parts of her make me shiver. And sometimes – yes – she creeps into my head, a pale bony version of the woman she was, and she’s pointing to places I’ve never been, tunnelling away from air and sunshine. Although of course she can be very funny.)

  In that instant the universe split, and I was sucked into this particular story.

  There she was, white, in front of me.

  ‘Virginia?’ I sighed, a second time.

  3

  VIRGINIA

  A yellow-haired female was gaping at me. Not respectable. Primped & painted. Yet her demeanour was kind enough. All around us, more painted women. Everyone smelled of chemicals. There were many Africans and Chinamen.

  Was it Wolstenholme’s laudanum? How had I lost myself again?

  The world whirled round me, I had no centre, perhaps the voices would begin.

  Yet part of me was still, quiet. A child, watching. Was I reborn?

  ANGELA

  Then, too late, I remembered my manners. We stood in the foyer of the library, the great loud streets roaring past outside, but there was still glass protecting her – I felt from the start I would have to protect her. ‘Mrs Woolf?’ I corrected myself. ‘Mrs Woolf? May I help you?’

  ‘I think,’ she said – such a beautiful voice, but absurd! If she tried to give a reading today, people would laugh out loud at her fluting vowels, her long ‘I’s like ‘A’s, her ‘a’s like ‘e’s – ‘I may perhaps need help. I seem to have forgotten where I am.’

  And I stammered, ‘The New York Public Library.’

  ‘A library?’ Large eyes, grey-green, puzzled. Blurred or misted with age or doubt. Blinking out from caves of bone. ‘Perhaps there is a telephone?’

  ‘Use my mobile,’ I said. ‘But we must go outside.’

  She stared, then continued as if I had not spoken. ‘Is there a telephone I might use?’

  So many things to explain to her. But first I must get her to some kind of shelter. Virginia Woolf on these blaring streets … ‘Come back to my hotel. It’s not far.’

  On the other hand: Woolf in my modern room – modern to her – small, slightly seedy, the radiator humming, my shabby 1970s Waddington Hotel?

  Her voice became more imperious. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know your name, but I really must telephone my husband.’

  And then I was overwhelmed with pity. She did not know that he was dead! But I said – that temptation to show my knowledge – ‘Leonard.’ There must have been something in my tone, for she looked back at me, alarmed. ‘Are you an acquaintance of my husband’s?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. Everyone has.’

  And her long, almost equine face relaxed. Those mournful, haunted eyes sparkled, her full lips lifted in a sweet, shy smile. Yes, a chalice of happiness. ‘Do you think so? Mr Woolf will be amused to know that.’

  You love him still, I thought with pain, pain for her and then for me – Edward said he loved me, but he still walked out. Had I ever been loved as Virginia was?

  ‘You’ll have to come with me,’ I said, almost brusque (people were starting to stare at her). And then, as kindly as I could, ‘Come with me, I’ll look after you.’

  And yes, that’s what I tried to do.

  4

  GERDA

  My mum picked up this weird old woman. That’s what I thought till I googled her. For a bit, Mum thought about nothing else. She claimed this person was ‘very famous’. Mum didn’t bother to explain to me. I just thought, ‘Yeah, she’s got a loony in tow.’

  She should have told me. I would
have believed her. And in the end – but that’s much later.

  5

  ANGELA

  Virginia smelled. Of mud, and roots. People were pausing and sniffing the air as they pressed through those great library doors. I wasn’t able to be objective. I thought, it’s a dream, of course it’s a dream, but please don’t make me wake up until –

  I needed to learn what she had to teach me. Maybe everything. About life, and writing. She had the secrets. She’d reached the end. The hard truth people can never tell us. At least, that’s something I’ve always thought. Not till the end is the pattern complete. But then they slip away through the gate. They can’t come back, we can’t ask questions.

  Yet here she was. Virginia.

  VIRGINIA

  Have I slipped my leash?

  I think that’s it.

  I’ve made it through to the other side, the place I never

  believed could be.

  At first I thought, banally, I was dreaming.

  Now, all round me, this dream has flesh

  bars bricks towers trees tall silver-grey trees

  beside the library crows yes flown out of my past

  friendly crows ‘Kaar, Virginia’

  & now I have to find the others.

  (I don’t think everyone is here. No matter, so long as Leonard is.)

  He must be here. He wouldn’t leave me.

  6

  ‘This is Fifth Avenue,’ Angela says, as Woolf steps tremulously along the pavement. ‘Incredibly famous street, Virginia.’

  Yes. The greatest, straightest avenue in one of the greatest cities in the world. Shining street surfaces, traffic lights, pavements without cracks or pot-holes. City of dreams: city of films.

  ‘Yes,’ Woolf says, ‘I’m not a bumpkin.’ She looks to her left: streaming ribbons of cars, and windows as far as her eye can see. Rare yellow-green trees wave messages; there’s a faint green fingerprint, Central Park.

  And back to her right: more towers, more cars, the blinding glass of skyscraper windows. She turns, like a horse fretting in its collar, to the left again, irritable, hoping against hope for something different. How can buildings have grown so tall?

  Her great eyes search for that slim glimpse of green. There, yes. Still yellow with spring.

  I could go there and be happy.

  A half-thought forming: Alive again.

  But they’re both hemmed in with right-angles.

  Two lost ants. Tiny nets of nerves. Glittering scraps of spider’s web.

  7

  ANGELA

  She was like a trapped animal.

  Of course, they have built over the past. Once Manhattan must have had fields.

  And then – oh shit – she launched herself forward.

  VIRGINIA

  It was the noise, roaring, blasting. And sun on a thousand surfaces. Shards of sky, elbows of trees, clouds leaping out at me from strange tall buildings. The sky and the city had been smashed together, with jagged pieces thrown everywhere. I thrust the books deep into my pockets, I would need my hands to protect myself, my head spun, I walked forward, blind –

  ‘What in hell are you DOING! Madness! Beyakoof!’

  A yellow car had almost hit me. The wind knocked me sideways, and I saw the furious face of the driver. He had small wire glasses under his turban. Where was this place & who were these people? I stood quite still in the middle of the road & cars screamed past me & I wasn’t afraid.

  I had been changed, because I wasn’t afraid. Perhaps the darkness had finally left me. Wherever I had been – for however many years – I had left my fear behind like a parcel, & something began in the midst of my confusion, although I was dazed, something started – a jolt of joy, which could not be stifled, small as a child set free in a hayfield, stunned for a second then gathering pace, dancing across, the yellow dust flying –

  ‘Kaar, Virginia.’ A crow welcomed me back to the pavement where it pecked at a crack, pecked at the gap between the worlds.

  ANGELA

  She almost died before her new life started!

  VIRGINIA

  She dragged me – pulled me hard by the arm, I nearly struck her for her impudence – into a place that smelled of fried meat. I have always hated restaurants. Music I had never heard before – loud drumming & someone shouting – I placed my hands over my ears & said, ‘Where is the telephone?’

  ANGELA

  ‘Please sit here, where you are safe. There are things I must explain to you, but first I will get some coffee – I don’t remember if you drank coffee?’

  VIRGINIA

  The woman spoke as if she knew me!

  ANGELA

  I mean, there’s been coffee since the eighteenth century, but God knows which modern kind she’d like, latte, cappuccino, Americano … Expresso seemed like the safest choice. Was there anything about it in the Diaries?

  VIRGINIA

  ‘Yes, of course. I adore coffee.’

  ANGELA

  I came back from the counter balancing my tray and saw her, for the first time, clearly, from a distance.

  First, though old, she was beautiful. Very pale, drawn like a bow. Thin and tall. Her eyes, avid.

  Second, she was extremely odd. Two small children were staring at her, American children with little round bellies. She was like a great mayfly, long neck poking forward. Straggling limbs, her knees jutting out. Then two long feet like heavy boats that might float away from her altogether. Greasy grey hair pulled back in a knot at the nape of her long column of neck. She wore a long woollen suit that might have been tailored, but didn’t fit, as if she’d tried to shrug it off but then given up in embarrassment. Yet her long white hands and blue-white wrists had escaped, and couldn’t wriggle back in again. She didn’t look unhappy, but intensely self-conscious. At the same time, she was curious. Her eyes flicked up, her eyes flicked down. Her eyes went swooping round the room, hungry to see everything. I thought, what will she think of us? – Plastic surfaces, harsh colours, half-dressed people celebrating New York’s unnatural spring heat-wave.

  I brought back an expresso for her, and my normal creamy half-shot latte, which came in a rather attractive tall glass. Without hesitation, her starved bony hand reached across the table and closed on my latte.

  She left me the small, bitter cup.

  She got the cream, and I the grounds. Her tall angular shape between me and the window, a cone of darkness drinking my prize.

  Yes, I thought, we are in her shadow.

  I watched her grey-green orbs dipping and sweeping. She was almost in a trance. What was she learning?

  I saw she didn’t want to talk to me. Her mind was working on its own, and her bony hands like sea-creatures scampered across the table-top, climbing the curve of her narrow glass (my narrow glass, I reminded myself), skating down to the base again, twisting the metal frame that contained it, lifting her tea-spoon, putting it down.

  And suddenly I remembered The Waves. ‘Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup … things in themselves, myself being myself.’

  ‘Myself being myself.’ I knew what she meant. It was why I fled home and its social duties – why I fled Gerda, which makes me ashamed. Because I wanted to be myself. Was I myself in my writing, at least?

  Was I good enough to stand naked?

  She was good enough. God, she was good. She even managed to write well about coffee.

  I watched her swallowing my latte. Yes, of course, she was ravenous. She was sucking it down in great raw gulps, as if she was trying to drink the world. She hadn’t eaten or drunk for decades!

  She said ‘Could you bring me another, please? Then I will telephone my husband.’

  Bring me another! Did she think it was free? Unlike her, I did not inherit money. She spoke to me as if I were a servant. Of course I would try not to hold it against her, but well – my grandma was a servant.

  Still – ‘I will telephone my husband’ – annoyance yielded to a surge of pity
.

  How could I possibly begin to tell her?

  Everyone she knew was dead.

  8

  ANGELA

  Safety. I still hadn’t got her to safety. That was the mantra in my brain. Through a blur of noise, speed, fear I guided her back to the Waddington.

  Virginia Woolf, that leviathan! How lucky I was to be in this dream – or was she lucky, to share my dream? Did the dead get holidays?

  Briefly, I moved through space beside her, and every step felt dangerous. Thank God it wasn’t very far. The Waddington, Seventh Avenue. The last hotel I would have chosen.

  Perils of last-minute internet packages. Flights were cheap, but what a dreadful flight!

  The lift. I do remember that. She cowered from the walls as if they were shrinking. I slipped my keycard across the room door and saw her eyes fixate, briefly. Then we were in, and she saw the phone. ‘No, Virginia, wait a moment.’

  I expected the dream to fall apart. I think I hoped that waking would save me, but the unspeakable silence extended – she was still there, and I was still there, and the room was as constricting as before, like the small-sized room where everyone dies, for I had looked after Henry and Lorna, and once you have seen your parents die, nothing is quite as it was before.

  Somehow she’d have to be told about Leonard.

  And I began to try to explain.