‘Okay.’
He seems so angry, she remains silent for a moment, not knowing what to say. She can’t help but observe how his neck has gotten wider, how his eyes darken and his eyebrows furrow, his forehead in an angry crease. His voice has deepened, there’s a rough edge to it. He leans his head against the wall and looks up at the light, breathing in slowly, his nostrils flaring, his Adam’s apple seeming larger than usual; perhaps it’s the anger, perhaps it’s the angle. Even his anger has sounds.
He looks at her suddenly.
‘What?’
‘Is that what I sound like?’ he asks.
Laura isn’t sure what sound she made, but she assumes so.
‘I sound like a horse breathing after a race.’
She shrugs. There’s something on her mind.
‘Bo and I went to the theatre across from the apartment.’
He looks at her, surprised, he had no idea. ‘That’s good.’
‘My idea to go. Stupid idea. We had to leave. The security man said my noises were distracting the actors. That they would assist me in sitting somewhere else.’
‘Who was he?’ Solomon asks, thinking he’ll stand outside the theatre and wait for him to leave work.
‘He was perfectly nice. He thought there was something wrong with me. I mean, obviously there is something wrong with me because we had to leave.’ Her eyes fill and she looks away, hating that she’s become upset in front of him, but she’s had no one to share these thoughts with, no one but herself, and she’s driving herself crazy. Talking to Bo is like talking to a non-absorbent sponge.
‘Laura,’ he says gently, taking her hand.
His touch is everything to her. It has the effect of bringing her alive again, her heart lifts from that stuck place.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know, Bo didn’t tell me …’ He’s so angry. At Bo. At the world. His hand grips hers tightly and then loosens, tight then loose, over and over, as though massaging her. ‘Let me tell you about your gift, Laura. People always say they don’t like to hear the sound of their own voice, did you know that? Usually, when people hear themselves, they cringe, or they’re surprised that they sound the way they do. We hear ourselves differently. What you do—’ He stops as another person walks towards them. ‘This is a dead end,’ he says bluntly, and the young girl turns puce and returns the way she came. When she turns the corner there are chuckles and giggles from a group of girls. ‘I think what you do is let people hear people and the world exactly as it is. No filters. And in this world, anything raw and untouched is a fucking rarity. People like to hear you for the same reason people like to watch movies, or look at art, or listen to music. It’s somebody’s interpretation of the world, not their own, and you capture it just as it is. What you have is a gift. You’re not weird – and don’t ever let anyone tell you that.’
Laura’s eyes fill and he wants to take her in his arms, but he can’t because he knows that’s wrong. She wants to lean into him, but she can’t because of that shield that he sometimes puts up, raising it higher and lowering it like a privacy window in a limousine.
The door to the production office opens and Bo steps out. She sees them huddled together, Solomon holding Laura’s hand.
Laura lets go.
‘Jack wants you,’ Bo says coldly.
‘Do you want me to go in with you?’ Solomon asks.
‘No, it’s private,’ Jack replies, from over Bo’s shoulder.
Laura enters the office alone while Solomon stares at the wall ahead of him, fighting the anger that is surging through him. He hears himself for the first time, sounding like a panting horse. He remembers the feel of skin and bone on his fist. Jack is glaring at him, daring him to do it again, egging him on, give him one excuse to throw him off the premises for good. Jack wants him to do it, and Solomon wants to do it. And he will, but he’s biding his time.
‘Didn’t take you long to get back to hand-holding,’ Bo says cattily, sitting in the chair next to him and examining her phone as she speaks. ‘So much for staying away.’
‘She was upset.’
‘So you comforted her. Appropriate.’
Solomon fights the urge to storm out. He sits through it.
‘She told me about what happened at the musical.’
She looks at him, ready for another argument, but she doesn’t have the energy. She rubs her eyes tiredly. ‘She was imitating the orchestra, Sol. She kept trying to get the trombone right, over and over again. I didn’t know what to do, so I took her out of there. I didn’t want to tell you because you’d get mad and upset.’
‘That’s exactly what happened,’ he fumes.
‘And what good was that going to do, when you’re away in another country?’ she says gently. ‘I handled it as best I could.’
‘She was upset about it.’