The Daughters by Adrienne Celt

Author:Adrienne Celt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Liveright
Published: 2015-08-21T16:00:00+00:00

At the door to my room I waited for a moment, half expecting Zhenjin to enter ahead of me and clear it of any obstacles or danger. He could do that, it seemed. Keep me safe. Like a girl keeps safe her dolls, needlessly brushing their hair and caressing their cold porcelain cheeks. Brushing away an errant eyelash and saying, Look, make a wish. But he didn’t walk in and undress me, fold my clothes in neat stacks on a chair. He didn’t wash me with a soft, drenched sponge. Instead he bowed and walked away, his black hair wafting slowly against the back of his neck. His brisk steps those of a man acquitted of his duty.

I was surprised to feel a twinge of annoyance. How dare he, I thought. But then: how dare he what?

Once I’d showered I felt better for a while. More myself. At home I take two baths a day, and if I go swimming in the magnificent pool at the gym I might take three. As I stripped off layer upon layer of clothing, I began to feel giddy, unwrapping the gift of my actual form, scrubbing off even the thin film of grit and sweat. But when I was pink and dry, I made the mistake of tunneling into my bed to read through the libretto and then the score of the role I would be singing. I’m very susceptible to the instinct of hibernation when I’m touring. Things started well enough—I marked emotional shifts in purple, suggested breaths in blue, and used red to let myself know that a troubling passage was upcoming. The blanket weighed down on me, melting over my shoulders and breathing hot air onto my back.

But the thought of getting up brought dread, increasingly. Especially the thought of Zhenjin, his low bow at the door, his antiseptic eagerness to please. What are you doing, I asked myself. What do you want from him? Not his embrace, his mouth on mine. I just felt that he was holding something back from me—that beneath his crisp shell beat a heart I could not reach. And that was a problem. At home I could count on John to feed me his intimate secrets and stories. But here, I would get out of bed and things would spiral out of my control. Instinct would take over, pushing me to show my good side for photographs, smiling with teeth as sleek as sculpted ice.

Zhenjin had warmed my hands in the car, held them very gently. But he also walked away instead of being asked to go. What if, then, I walked onstage and found myself without the strength to sing? Wouldn’t it be better to stay here, where I needed nothing? To jump up just briefly and lock myself in with the duvet curled around my neck? I could remain in the bed until the fire squad—if such a thing existed in Ulaanbaatar—came and axed my door to smithereens, dragged me to the airport.

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