Ruprecht must have sensed this, because he stood up and said, I should probably get moving.
Okay, she said.
But he didn’t go. Instead he hovered, and the wind, the empty wind, blew around them, around his mass of blubber and her toothpick-skeleton; it reminded her of what he’d said about the two universes, one expanding like it would never stop, the other shrinking and shrinking into itself – both of them running from some horror of the past, two halves of something that used to be whole now running, without thinking, without seeing, away from each other and into death. And she realized that there was no someone else. For some reason she did not understand, Ruprecht had come to her tonight; and she was the last person he would come to. She was all that kept him tethered to the Earth. If she let go of him, if she went through the dark door swung open before her, he too would disappear for ever from the world.
From upstairs the pills called out to her!
And in the distance the sirens, the singing girls, crying, Lori Lori!
But she gritted her teeth and squared her bony shoulders and as he moved for the back gate she called out sharply, Ruprecht!
From the doorway Nurse Dingle’s musical voice, Lori!
In a minute, she yelled back.
Then to Ruprecht, I don’t think you should go to Stanford. Not now.
He blinked back at her expressionlessly. But what could she tell him? What reasons could she give for not going? Look at her, what could she possibly tell anyone about anything?
I know it seems like there’s nothing left here for you, she said slowly. But maybe there is, and you just can’t see it?
Blink, blink, went Ruprecht. God, this was so hard! When she was beautiful this kind of thing was so much easier, all she had to do was look at a boy and he’d be doing cartwheels down the street! But those days were gone, and she found she had no idea how you would get inside the fortress of another person.
It’s like… Arrgh, come on, Lori, she searched around in her brain for something not useless and black, but all she could think of was something they’d done in French class once about this poet, which she didn’t know if it had anything to do with what they were talking about now. Still, it was all she had so she said it. His name was Paul Éluard, and he said this thing once: There is another world, but it is in this one.
Ruprecht looked baffled.
It’s about how – she could feel herself going red, she squeezed her eyes tight shut, trying to remember what Mr Scott had told them – like, how people are always going somewhere? Like everybody’s always trying to be not where they are? Like they want to be in Stanford, or in Tuscany, or in Heaven, or in a bigger house on a fancier street? Or they want to be different, like thinner or smarter or richer or with cooler friends (or dead, she did not say). They’re so busy trying to find their way somewhere else they don’t see the world they’re actually in. So this guy’s saying, instead of searching for ways out of our lives, what we should be searching for are ways in. Because if you really look at the world, it’s like… it’s like…
What the fuck was she talking about, he must think she’s such a spa.
It’s like, you know, inside every stove there’s a fire. Well, inside every grass blade there’s a grass blade, that’s just like burning up with being a grass blade. And inside every tree, there’s a tree, and inside every person there’s a person, and inside this world that seems so boring and ordinary, if you look hard enough, there’s a totally amazing magical beautiful world. And anything you would want to know, or anything you would want to happen, all the answers are right there where you are right now. In your life. She opened her eyes. Do you know what I mean?
Like strings? he said.
Well, no, not really, she said uncertainly, but then she thought about it and changed her mind. No, actually, totally like strings. Because you told me they’re everywhere, right? They’re all around us, it’s not like they’re just in Stanford.
Ruprecht nodded slowly.
So you could study them right here, couldn’t you?
He began to say something about lab facilities, but she cut him off, because she had just had an idea. Like maybe all you need is someone to help you, she said. Like Daniel did.
He did not reply to this, gazed at her from deep within hamster cheeks.
Maybe I could help you, she said, or rather the idea said, though inside her head a voice shrieked, What are you saying? Like I don’t know anything about science, she said, ignoring it. Or strings or other dimensions. But I could get stuff from the shops for you? I could get my dad to drive you places? Or just, when you’re busy with an experiment I could bring you lunch? I mean, I’m not going to be in this place for ever.
You want to go back out there? exclaimed the voice. To that? But again she ignored it, watched Ruprecht’s eyes watching hers. Why don’t you stay, Ruprecht, she said. For a little while more, at least.
He pressed his lips together; then he bowed his head as if he had arrived somewhere after a very long journey.
The wind shook the leaves and everything in the garden.
After she let him out the back gate, she stood there for a moment, under the splashing ivy. She was thinking about that French class. It was months ago, but now she thought about it, she found she remembered nearly everything – the cream sweater Mr Scott wore, his hair just beginning to need to be cut, the taste of chewing gum in her mouth, fluffy clouds chasing through the trees, the hairs on Dora Lafferty’s neck in front of her, the classroom smell of lipstick and old runners. She remembered telling herself to remember what Paul Éluard said, because it seemed important. But things like the world-inside-this-one are too big to hold in your head by yourself. You need someone to remind you, or else, you need someone you can tell, and you have to keep telling each other, over and over, throughout your whole life. And as you tell them, the things are slowly binding you together, like tiny invisible strings, or like a frisbee that’s thrown back and forth, or like words written on the floor in syrup. TELL LORI. TELL RUPRECHT.
Maybe instead of strings it’s stories things are made of, an infinite number of tiny vibrating stories; once upon a time they all were part of one big giant superstory, except it got broken up into a jillion different pieces, that’s why no story on its own makes any sense, and so what you have to do in a life is try and weave it back together, my story into your story, our stories into all the other people’s we know, until you’ve got something that to God or whoever might look like a letter or even a whole word…
Then she walked back towards the house. Suddenly there was mist everywhere, a silver mist, like the Earth was breathing magic breaths; she walked very slowly, with her eyes closed, like a sleepwalker, and as she did she imagined she could feel invisible veils drift over the fine hairs of her arm, break across her face and hands, fragile as a breath or more fragile; she walked and dreamed that she was passing through all these veils and travelling deeper and deeper into… into the night? into where she already was?