.
.
.
III
A POEM WITH NO RHYME
Lizzie slipped to the side, exhausted, and the mattress bounced under her weight. In the dark, Tommy reached for the cigarette case he had left on the nightstand.
"Do you know when we last fucked?" Lizzie snuggled into his chest for affection. "Seven months. Seven fucking months".
Tommy didn't say a word. He had no desire to speak, nor anything to say. He lit a cigarette and the room was imbued with the scent of tobacco. It had been a long time since he smoked in bed. It had been a long time since he had slept in that bed.
"I'm sure you decided to stop fucking me after you first fucked Olivia Westerling." The grudge in his wife's voice contrasted with how loving she wanted to be in her caresses. "Or am I wrong?"
"Do you really want to know the answer?" Tommy was tired. As soon as he finished smoking, he would try to sleep for a couple of hours even if that meant having to submit to the torture of his usual nightmares.
"I already know the answer, Tom." Lizzie turned away from him, offended, and he heard her roll over in bed. Now her back was to him. "What I don't understand is why even after she was killed you refused to return to me. She died a month ago, and just today you have the dignity to kiss me again." He couldn't see her, but he knew she was crying.
"I still love her," he told her, after a couple of seconds of absolute silence where he took a long puff that set his lungs on fire. "I still love her and she won't forgive me if I can't find the one who killed her."
"She's dead!" Lizzie exclaimed in a fit of anger and sat down on the bed. Tommy felt her grip him tightly by the shoulders. "Forget her and come back to me, Tom!"
Lizzie burst into tears. An agonized and pain-filled cry which could not stir up any kind of feeling in him. He was empty inside. He was a shell, an inert being devoid of soul. He reached out a hand and stroked his wife's cheek, wiping away a few tears. She responded to the touch and interlaced her fingers tenderly. Lizzie was a good woman and she didn't deserve all that.
"Okay," her wife said suddenly, somewhat more resolutely. "I will give you the time you need to forget about her and avenge her death. Then promise me you'll be the man you were before the gala dinner again."
"I can't promise you that."
"Why?" She was crying again. "Why, Tom?"
"Because even if I avenge her death, I will never forget about her. Sorry, Liz"
He heard Lizzie get up, victim of a violent paroxysm, and almost run out of the room, barefoot.
Tommy got up and switched on the night lamp. The light allowed him to appreciate the rumpled bed and the clothing on the floor. He had intercepted Lizzie just as she was going to sleep, and she had been so shocked to see him outside his study that when he kissed her, she made a groan of amazement. When he tossed her onto the bed, he switched off the lamp, and even though Lizzie thought this was a strange attitude, she refrained from asking questions. Tommy supposed she was afraid of ruining the moment if she questioned him.
He had tried to forget Olivia at least that night and had failed. He had tried to make his wife happy at least that night and had only managed to increase her misery.
Naked, he went to the jacket that lay on the floor near his trousers, and looked for the diary in the inside pocket. Before opening it, he traced the edges of the cheap binding with his fingertips and brought it to his nose: it smelled like her, the fresh and floral perfume that not even the best perfumery in Paris could imitate.
He opened the diary and lingered for a couple of minutes, staring at the calligraphy. It was not the most beautiful and neat handwriting in the world, but it had been her handwriting, unique and unrepeatable.
He went back to bed and sat down, looked for the last sentence Ada had read to him a week ago. Ever since his sister stopped reading abruptly and told him that he had to read by himself from there, Tommy had never touched the box full of diaries again. He had left it on his desk, in the same place where Ada had placed it, and every now and then he would glance at it, tempted to know the memories that Olivia had written for herself. He hadn't been brave enough until that night.
He found the dinner's scene and smiled to himself. Tommy had never told Olivia what had been going through his mind the moment their eyes met and he saw her turn red as a tomato, because he never imagined in that precise moment she started to fall in love with him.
"It was different in my case, Oli," he talked to the nothingness in a whisper. "I fell in love with you when you read your poem."
We stood up for the servants to change the tablecloth and I felt I was dying of shame. When we were able to sit down again, I avoided talking because I felt immensely stupid. Ada noticed this and kicked me under the table.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I made a mess"
"Are you going to give such importance to a tablecloth?" Ada analyzed me with her eyes "...There's something else, right?"
My friend knew me too well and that was one of the reasons why she stood out among my friends. A simple gesture could give me away before Ada's watchful eye and her maternal instinct was activated every time she saw me acting strangely.
I shook my head and kept from saying anything. Unconsciously, and for a fraction of a second, my eyes went to Thomas in front of me, who was absorbed in his thoughts, staring at his glass of wine. My reaction was enough for Ada.
"Oh God ..." she whispered and looked at her brother out of the corner of her eye. Then she frowned. "Oh no. No, Olivia." Ada took my hand and squeezed it hard as she moved closer to my ear. "He is married, you've already seen. And he's also an asshole. I tell you this because he's my brother and I know him".
"I think you're confused," I said, alarmed and in a voice too loud for my liking, which caught Polly's attention next to me.
"Your friend doesn't seem to feel very well," Polly said slyly. "The argument with Lord Pennington has left her a little nervous". I saw her raise her eyebrows and give a smile that ranged from complicity to mockery, and I hated myself for being so obvious.
"Well, you're going to have to forget about Lord Pennington ... and any other problem in your head," Ada scolded me, "because at coffee time you're going to read the poem that I want to publish in the first edition of the magazine."
"Ada, I don't think it's good time..."
"Are you joking?" My friend interrupted me abruptly. "I don't like this kind of events, you know. I organized this gala dinner because I need the men and women you see here to giving me their support and influence so it doesn't fail. You know how much I want this magazine to succeed, and you have been waiting for this opportunity since the factory closed." Thomas looked at us when he heard that. "You always wanted your poems to be known, why ...?"
"Factory?" Now Thomas was interrupting his sister. "Did you work in a factory, Miss Westerling?"
"Yes, in a textile factory, but I didn't work with the machines. My job was administrative, " I said. "It closed at the end of last year."
"And you have been unemployed since then?" Thomas asked.
"Exactly but until now, being unemployed has not been a problem for me because after the Great Depression happened, I dedicated myself to saving every penny knowing that the factory was going to close sooner rather than later," I explained because I felt questioned.
"A visionary," Polly added.
"Smarter than the Shelby, for sure," Ada snapped, and I saw Thomas roll his eyes and sigh. "Well, going back to what concerns us: during coffee time you are going to read that poem, have you heard me?"
I had no choice but to agree because I couldn't deny anything to Ada. Especially if doing such a thing meant ruining her plans and destroying her illusion. So, for the rest of the dinner, I concentrated on gathering courage and convincing myself that passing out in front of everyone was not a possibility. I needed to prove to the guests, and especially to Lord Pennington, that I was all I used to preach: a woman proud of herself and her art.
After an extensive after-dinner where the guests exchanged ideas and debated on topics too banal in my opinion, we headed to the second floor of the mansion, to a living room with overstuffed armchairs, where coffee was brought to us.
From my handbag I took out the neatly folded paper where my poem was written. When everyone had their coffee cups and their cigarettes lit, Ada talked to me:
"Are you ready?".
"Yes".
Ada stood up and it was there that I noticed she was just as nervous as I was.
"My friend Olivia Westerling is going to recite one of her poems, which I have decided to incorporate in the first edition of the magazine". She told me to stand up. I approached Ada and once at her side I saw the gaze of all the guests on me. Even Thomas'. "The poem is called "Above My Body" and I consider it a wonderful piece of erotic poetry. Olivia, whenever you like...
My friend returned to her seat and, when I was alone facing that sea of eyes, I trembled. Once again, the silence overwhelmed me because I knew I had to break it. I don't consider myself a shy woman but I do have to confess that I suffer from stage fright and, like most writers, I prefer solitude. In that immense room, I was surrounded by people who stared at me and waited for me to display in front of them what I considered a part of my soul.
A second before I started reading, my instincts whispered to me that going to that dinner had been a bad idea.
Above my body rests
the memory of his hands,.
and the warm kiss that he deposited
on top of my stomach.
Above my body rests
the tightest hug,
the moment we went to Heaven
united as a single soul.
Above my body rests
the last sigh,
the last caress,
the dawn between the sheets.
No one said a thing. No one moved an inch. For a second, I thought I had before me a bunch of statues. I didn't expect an applause but I couldn't say for sure if that silence was good. I looked for Ada and saw her smiling, proud of me, but at the same time oblivious to the strange reaction her guests had had.
"Excuse me, this is a joke, right?" I knew that raspy, disgusting voice. It was Lord Pennington, who, sitting in a huge chair, questioned me with a cigar in his right hand.
"No, it's not a joke," Ada replied, angry by the tone he had used.
"Oh, thank goodness, because if it is, your friend would be a lousy comedian," said the old man.
"What does it mean?" I interjected, feeling my chest burn with fury. I could accept a criticism from anyone but I would never let anyone make fun of my art.
"I mean, you will not wait for people to read your poem and take it seriously."
"Lord Pennington," Ada was speaking again, and from the shine in her eyes, I knew she had had enough of the old man, "I've been wanting to say this to you since dinner: fuck off."
The rest of the guests was surprised and Arthur, who had fallen asleep in the chair, jumped, startled. Thomas kept his blue eyes on me but they didn't tell me anything. Unlike Ada, I didn't know if he liked my poem or not; if he thought the same as Lord Pennington, or not.
"Mrs. Thorne, I understand that you are offended by my words, but your friend should be receptive to criticism if she is going to start publishing her works," the old man tried to excuse himself, far from feeling offended.
"I listen" I said, getting ahead of Ada, who was about to insult him again. "Tell me what you have to tell" and I prepared myself to take the hit.
"The poem is vulgar, and if I had read it in a magazine without knowing it was yours, I would have thought the author was a cabaret girl," he attacked, and I assumed he was taking revenge for what had happened at the table. "Although, now that I think about it, I've made a mistake, " he said suddenly. "I don't know you at all and I don't know why I have assumed your profession. Are you a cabaret girl, Miss Westerling?"
"I'm not" I felt my heart was going to jump out of my chest "Did you expect me to be?" I added wryly and forgetting any trace of shame. The guests was whispering again.
"We're not talking about me," he excused himself and smiled disgustingly. "I guess you are not married and never was. That makes sense".
"May I know why it makes sense?"
"Who would want to marry a woman capable of writing such a thing?" Lord Pennington laughed. "What man would want to hold the hand of a woman whose poems make it clear that thousands have passed through her bed?"
"You bastard…!" Ada pounced on the old man and the last thing I saw before I started running, overwhelmed by the humiliation, was that Polly stopped her just as she was trying to slap Lord Pennington.
I left the living room without knowing where I was going. My feet went down the long hallway and as I walked away from the scandal, I approached a huge glass door that led to a balcony.
The night received me clear and full of stars. The moon in the sky filled each corner with its light. Looking at the wide and infinite lands of the Shelby, I allowed myself to cry. I had been resisting the urge to cry since dinner and I hated myself for that. I had to be stronger and tolerate shame better because it was during that gala dinner that I realized that the place I was getting into was horrifying: very few knew the value of a woman's art.
"Miss Westerling?"
I immediately recognized the voice behind me and got a chill. With a desesperation that even now I can't understand, I wiped my tears away and looked over my shoulder. There was Thomas Shelby, his hands in his pockets, walking toward me with a slow stride and a calm expression.
"I'm sorry," I said, avoiding looking him in the eye. He was already in front of me.
"Why are you apologizing?"
"I've ruined your sister's gala dinner ..."
"It was Lord Pennington who ruined it," he stated flatly. "Don't worry, Arthur already put him in his place".
"Arthur?" I asked, confused. I didn't know what Ada's other brother had to do with all this.
"He punched him".
"Oh…"
"Lord Pennington won't annoy you again," he assured me and reached for something in the inside pocket of his jacket. He took out a silver cigarette case that shone down under the moon. "Do you smoke?"
"Sometimes," I replied, and perceiving that my answer was not enough, I added: "I only smoke when I need it."
"I think you need it now."
Thomas opened the cigarette case and allowed me to choose a cigarette. There were only three left and I knew I was dealing with a chain-smoker. When I took one, he did the same and when I put the tobacco to my lips, he lit it for me with his lighter.
We spent a couple of seconds without saying anything, concentrating on smoking and listening to the sounds of the night.
"Can I ask you something?" I needed to get rid of a question.
"Of course"
"What did you think of my poem?" I asked
I saw him raise his eyebrows and look at the landscape. I did not think that my question had surprised him but he did not know what to say.
"I'm not a man of poetry," he confessed, "but I liked your poem."
"Really?" At that moment, I was surprised. I hurried to speak before he could say anything. "What did you like?"
He took a few seconds again before answering.
"What I liked the most was that you wrote it," he brazenly blurted out, but far from trying to flirt with me. I opened my eyes wide and puffed on my cigarette. At my reaction, Thomas let me see a half smile; It was the first time that night that I had seen him smile. "No one would imagine that a woman like you would be able to write such things".
Again I felt the weight of the stigma on my shoulders and I remembered that I was dealing with a man who, saving the differences, belonged to the same circle as Lord Pennington.
"I see," I said with some upset.
"Don't be confused" Thomas read my thoughts. "That's not a bad thing. It just isn't normal and that's why I liked it".
"Looking at your profession, your family, and the house you own, I daresay you are quite normal," I attacked, still somewhat hurt by his words. Thomas had tried to make them sound nice but to my ears there had been nothing but questioning.
I was surprised to hear him laugh gutturally. Now, in addition to being weird, I was a comedian, and suddenly I became all the insults that Lord Pennington had bothered to tell me. What did I need to say for Thomas Shelby to consider me a cabaret girl? I snorted.
"You don't know me, Miss Westerling."
"Neither do you, Mr. Shelby," I said.
"It's true, I don't know you either but I would like to know you" he blurted out and took a final puff on his cigarette "Do you have any more poems I can read?"
Thomas dropped the butt to the ground and stepped on it as I processed his words. In half a second he went from teasing me to flirting with me and that made me lose my temper. I looked him in the eye and he held my gaze. In his expressionless face, I noticed again that particularity that caused me to drop the wine.
"I have written many poems," I was very confused.
"Could you get them to me one of these days? My offices are in Small Heath".
A million doubts settled in my mind. The man in front of me was extremely seductive but he was married. At the same time, he invited me to spend time with him in such an ambiguous way that I could not be offended, because if I assumed that he did it believing that he wanted to sleep with me, he would defend himself claiming that he only wanted to read my poems. Thomas was very smart and at that moment I understood in a way how he had climbed so fast socially and economically.
"I'll try to be there next week if I can, but I promise nothing," I said, trying to detach myself from any kind of commitment.
"Will you be busy?" Thomas asked sarcastically. "I thought you didn't have a job ."
Just as I was about to answer him, Arthur appeared at the door that led to the balcony. He was disturbed but when he saw Thomas with me, he simulated calm.
"Tom, here you are" Arthur turned to his brother and spoke into his ear. I felt uncomfortable at the sudden secrecy.
"I have to leave you, Miss Westerling," Thomas said to me. "You should go back to the living room. Ada must be asking for you. Arthur, Lord Pennington already gone, right?"
"Yes," the man replied curtly.
"I think I should go, too," I said. Perhaps it was finally time to go home. "I shouldn't even have come," I added quietly, but the Shelby brothers managed to hear me.
"Stay a little longer," Thomas said before starting to walk away with Arthur. "I'll be waiting for you next week. And finish that cigarette. If you stay too long on this balcony, you will catch a cold".
He had only two paragraphs left to finish the diary's entry when Lizzie entered the room and stopped dead in her tracks to stare at him in bewilderment. Tommy closed the diary knowing the interrogation that was coming to him.
"What do you do?" His wife asked.
"I was reading"
"And what do you read?"
"Does it matter?"
"No, it doesn't". Lizzie went to bed, lay down, and covered herself with the sheets. "Turn off the light when you're done." She was still angry and it was obvious.
Like so many other times, Tommy did the exact opposite of what was demanded of him, and instead of turning off the light and forcing himself to sleep, he stood up and began to dress. Lizzie had realized this and tried to ignore it as much as she could until she saw him leave the room.
"Where are you going?" She asked, raising her head a little.
"I'm going to my study," Tommy replied. "I should never have left".
.
A/N: First of all, thanks for reading!
I wasn't sure whether to write the poem or not, since I'm very bad at poetry but at the same time, it was necessary because Olivia is a poet and the chapter makes a lot of reference to her work.
I'm not THAT happy with the result lol and the worst thing is that it's translated (as I said in the Prologue, English is not my native language, so if you see any mistake I would appreciate you told me).
I hope you liked it. Reviews are appreciated and motivate me to continue writing :)