Is she too familiar? Even now, Viola feels dizzy, like she is falling into her. Does he take pleasure in it, their similarity?Stay vigilant, don’t lose sight of yourself.Bleach your hair. Keep your edges sharp. Don’t be shaped by denial.
“Why don’t we go for a bike ride?” she suggests, a concession. No one will recognize them on the move.
The cycle path is an abandoned railway line that weaves through the forest in the center of the peninsula. The day is glorious and sunny, bright enough almost to evaporate the day before. They pass roller skaters, lawn mowers, women on horseback, families towing small, unwilling children.
Even though both she and Orson are wearing all black (sticking out like sore metropolitan thumbs), she notices the patches of sweat that grow on his lower back and under his armpits. She has always found his sweat surprising. She remembers the revelation of seeing it for the first time, realizing that she hadn’t considered him capable of sweat. He rides with his face up, nodding at everyone they pass, inviting interaction, charmed by small-town pleasantries.
“Good morning!” he says in his cheerful brogue.
Shut up, she thinks. Surely some of these people recognize him. As he passes she can see them turning off to whisper to each other—wasn’tthat…?… I heard he was here!But somehow, more nervous-making is the idea of her own recognition, which, here in this place, is far from impossible. Aldwych people summer here.
She keeps her distance, at first purposefully, but before long she is falling quite far behind, her legs paddling hard on the rental that is slightly too large for her, the pedals annoyingly sticky, unable to find a gear that feels like the right amount of work. It’s the kind of activity that should be effortless but somehow has created a tide of irritation. The bike is designed to look good, not to ride. She sits all too upright, annoyed by everything sacrificed for the sake of the picturesque.
There, up ahead, he has stopped. Waiting for her? She pedals harder, wind catching her body like a sail.Oh no.A man, slowing, pointing, clapping a thick hand on his back. She imagines the inevitable conversation:I loved you in… would you mind? Just a quick photo? For my daughter, she—
But as Viola pedals slowly closer, Orson grips the man’s elbow like an old comrade. He is older, the man, with watery eyes and a pouchy stomach. Fervently they are speaking about Los Angeles, the neighborhoods they have homes in, projects and restaurants and anecdotes and people.
“… and the funniest part was she was at that place where everything on the menu is just an attitude—you know that one—and she had fucking ordered ‘the fortunate one’!” The man is dying with laughter, waving his hand at Viola, sputtering, “Sorry—please—pardon my language.”
“Oh God, I’ve been rude. Mark, this is Viola,” Orson says, wiping tears away, opening his palm to her.
“Hello, Viola,” says Mark, pouchy eyes wandering over her. “Do you live in LA as well?”
For Viola, California still only exists in sunny scenes with convertibles and palm trees and sweeping coastline. There is nothing real about it to her. Even the love there is two-dimensional, waiting to get blown over by a big wind. “London,” she says.
“Ah, London-town!” Mark says, naming a few places he loves that she has to go to. She nods and smiles. He carries himself like a person who was once attractive and hasn’t yet figured out that he isn’t anymore.
“She’s Susie’s daughter,” Orson says, as though it is some kind of explanation. As though it was prompted naturally by some invisible subtext, some question ofWhy are you with this child?“Remember Susie Byrne?”
“Oh—”
(she is gaining control of herself)
“Oh, of course—Susie, my God, what a darling, such a shame, and you look just like her, how could I not see it. Have you two…”
(processing, processing)
“Have you two kept in touch?”
He just said it. He did, he just put the fact of it right out there. NotViola, my partner. Viola, the child of this woman we used to know. She feels sick, like somehow it’s all been a setup.
“You could say that,” Orson says, oblivious. “Come, shall we go have a drink at our house? It’s this gorgeous modernist thing…”
They walk quickly back to Mark’s car, tossing their bikes in the oversized trunk. They have never before been in a car with another person, but without much discussion, Orson sits in the front seat, and Viola takes the back. When Mark turns on the radio, she can hardly follow, and Viola has the strange feeling of being underneath the conversation, like a child.
After three large whiskeys, Mark is describing in detail the recent removal of a kidney stone.
“They wanted me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten.”
“Christ, what did you say?”
“Eleven.”
They find this hilarious in the way that only old men could find this hilarious. Dinnertime has come and gone, replaced by trail mix and cheese. Viola sips slowly, trying to stay sharp.
“It’s not childbirth. It’s not losing a limb.”
“Well, it’s the most painful thing I’ve ever felt.”
