The Life and Loves of Lena Gaunt Read Online Free PDF Page A

She’s animated now, her hands in arcs across the table. ‘You were like, I dunno, Madonna before she was even born. You’ve been through waves of fame and relative anonymity, but it seems to me – from the research I’ve done since Transformer – that you’ve always been represented as a caricature. I hope you don’t find this offensive…’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘It seems to me that what most people associate with you is weird music, a bizarre instrument that they don’t understand, and a vague whiff of scandal. It’s a kind of early version of the sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll stereotype, and – again, I hope you don’t find this offensive – I think, if anything, it shows you as a victim. I want to focus on you as a survivor – which you clearly are – not a victim. But I also want to show you as an innovator, and as a champion of your art, and your lifestyle.’
    She sits back, takes a breath, after what sounds like a prepared speech, a pitch.
    ‘I’m not sure…’ I start to speak but, in truth, I’m not sure what it is that I’m not sure about. She seems sincere, this young woman, with her soft, soothing vowels. She talks on, low and constant, about the film she has in her mind, about angles, about themes and stories. About women, and feminism. About music. She has done her research – she speaks of things I have done, things I had almost forgotten I had done, the things that are in the history books, that made the gossip pages of long-ago times. She talks about my music. She talks about my Beatrix. She talks about hervision; her hands move constantly together and apart as she speaks, making frames, containing and releasing images. My hands rest on the table in front of me, one crossed over the other.
     
    She stays for an hour. At eleven o’clock, she looks at her watch, gathers her notebook, pen and sunglasses from the table in front of her, thanks me for my time, and says she mustn’t take up any more of it, not today anyway.
    As she pushes her notebook into her bag, she brings out a video cassette tape. She holds it in front of her in both hands, looks at it almost shyly, then holds it out to me.
    ‘This is the film I made, a long time ago now. I don’t know if you saw it, I don’t suppose you did. It’s called Beatrix .’ She looks at me as if waiting for some acknowledgement. ‘Well, anyway, I’ve brought this for you. I thought you might be interested. I know she was important to you.’ She holds it out to me and I take it, hold it tentatively, feel its lightness.
    ‘I don’t have anything to play it on.’ I don’t meet her eyes.
    ‘Well, I could bring you a VCR, you know, a video tape player. Or you’d be very welcome to watch it at my house, any time, just say so.’
    ‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to—’
    ‘No, no, I understand. Well, maybe somewhere like the local library?’
    I hold onto the video, squint at the label on it. ‘I would like to keep it, if I may. Borrow it. There is a machine at theuniversity, the School of Music. Perhaps I can play it there. I still go in, on occasion.’
    ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘And please keep it, if you like. It’s just a copy. I don’t need it back.’
    I place the tape on the kitchen table. I see her smile as she watches me.
    I walk behind her towards the front door, open it to let her out. She turns to me – she outside on the verandah, lit by dappled sunlight, facing me inside, shaded – and holds out her hand as if to shake it. I take her hand, and she places her left hand over mine, so that my right hand is cupped, contained within her hands. We do not shake hands; we still them.
    ‘Don’t decide now’, she says, ‘about making the film. Think on it, and we’ll talk next week.’
    She releases my hand, hoists her bag onto her shoulder, and starts up the garden path. She turns and waves to me, then disappears into the dark up the side of the house.

BEATRIX
    I turn the video tape over. Block letters on the paper