Julia by Sandra Newman

Author:Sandra Newman
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-08-24T00:00:00+00:00

15

AGAIN IT WAS THE SOFTLY LIT FLAT, WITH ITS DEEP carpet and fragrance of spring. Again the enigmatic servant, Martin, was there as the lift doors opened; again he led the way with the impartiality of a machine. The cleanness of everything shamed her again, and again she was unnerved by the way the carpet swallowed the sound of footsteps. She noticed new details: a leather leash hanging on the wall that must belong to a pet dog, a little tree in a pot, a painting of a country scene that showed a shining brook and a pony under a spreading oak. Again there was the sense of recognizing the place where one should have lived, the home of fullness and reality, of people rightly understood. There was the idea that linked this to O’Brien, and the leap in one’s heart when he was there.

This time Winston was at her side. He looked around at everything mistrustfully, seeming almost repelled by Martin. But when he saw O’Brien, his face transformed. His eyes became soft and wondering, his mouth slightly parted. One saw he would give himself up to whatever this man chose for him. Here was love, if you liked: love’s reality. For the first time she knew with certainty that he had never loved her, and was soothed.

Weeks had given her only two instructions. First, she was to show surprise when the telescreen was turned off. Then, when O’Brien asked the two of them if they were willing to separate, Julia should say, very vehemently, “No.”

“It will be all that you say,” Weeks had added. “Mind that.”

“One word? Won’t Smith find that strange?”

Weeks smiled unpleasantly. “On the contrary. He will be very put out when you say that word.”

The memory of it gave her confidence. She was not, as she was last time, the object of the deception, but one of the deceivers. There was the daring feeling of being in cahoots, and a steadying sense of safety. She had done the work entrusted to her, and returned with the sacrifice that was asked. Even guilt toward Winston felt out of place. He had never before been happy, never before in accord with his surroundings; never before had he looked at any other human being with respect. And he knew the result would be torture and prison. In that, she had never deceived him. No, she had given him the wish of his soul.

O’Brien sat at a table heaped with papers, closely studying a note he held in one hand. The shapes of his broad, ugly face were made grotesque by a green-shaded lamp shining close to his eyes. By that light, too, his black overalls seemed made of some opulent capitalist fabric: satin, gossamer, zephyr—whatever stuffs they’d had in the wicked times when magic was still abroad in the world. He didn’t look up as they came in. This too created an impression of enchantment, though it could not be said whether O’Brien was the enchanter or the spellbound captive.

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