She Is Me Read Free

to decipher their barrage of critical theory and undergraduate sentimentality. But this growling man was not a student. His enthusiasm was not youthful. Critical theory was not a phase he would eventually have to grow out of. And she was not his teacher.
    Elizabeth took her wet hand from the Evian bottle and put it on her forehead. I really want to do this, she thought, surprised. And she suddenly very much wanted to please Mr. Larry Volfmann, too.
    “Familiar but fresh,” he said.
    “Fresh.”
    “But
familiar.
”
    “But . . .” She hesitated.
    “Fresh?”
    “No. I mean, yes. But . . .”
    Volfmann glared at her. “But
what?
”
    “But I’m an academic.”
    “You’ll get over it. Look,” he said, pushing
Tikkun
at her, “I have a feeling about this. Trust me.”
    And I don’t even have tenure, she thought.
    “I’ve always dreamed of doing this project, but how the hell do you update
Madame Bovary
when every picture with an unhappy young wife
is Madame Bovary?
”
    “I don’t know,” Elizabeth said.
    “Then, I’m in the gym,” he said, paying no attention, “and I’m reading, and . . . here it is!” He smacked the magazine. “Concept. Clarity. Class.” He smiled at her, his boxer jowls lifting. “You’ve got the common touch.”
    I certainly do not, Elizabeth wanted to cry out, offended.
    “In spite of yourself,” he added.
    “Oh. Thank you,” she said.
    Larry Volfmann leaned back, his hands behind his head. He spun around, 360 degrees, in his leather chair.
    “You on?” he said.
    “Well, but, I don’t really have any experience . . .”
    Shut up, asshole, she told herself. Way to talk yourself out of a shower of fucking riches.
    “No. But you’ve got . . .” He thought for a moment. “
Seychel,
” he said. “You know what that means?”
    She nodded. But he continued anyway.
    “Common sense. I mean, that’s the translation. Good, common sense.”
    “Yeah. That’s good,” Elizabeth said. “Yeah. I like that.”
    “Seychel,”
he said.
    “Thank you,” Elizabeth said. She realized she liked him, even though he had read her paper on Flaubert in
Tikkun
and wanted to pay her a lot of money to write a screenplay for an updated
Madame Bovary,
to turn poor Madame Bovary into a “project.” She liked him even though he was buying Emma Bovary as if she were a new sweater, cashmere, but still; and buying her, Elizabeth, as if she were . . . what?
    Oh, come on, now. You mean you like him
because
he’s buying you. Don’t be a prig about selling out, you prig.
    “It’s oddly comforting to be a commodity,” she said.
    “Back at you,” he said.
    Greta remembered when Elizabeth was a baby, her beloved first child. When she woke up in the morning, her first thought had always been of little Elizabeth. To call it the first thought was not quite accurate, though. It was the continuation of last night’s thought, which was a continuation of that day’s thought, which was simply a continuation of the thought of the day before. Elizabeth had filled Greta’s consciousness. She was a beautiful baby with intense, dark eyes and, even then, a worried scowl that could burst into a smile so unexpected and bright it caused complete strangers to laugh out loud. Elizabeth’s eyes were still big and dark and round. She stilled scowled, too often for a grown woman. But she smiled, too, and when her big, wide smile appeared, it still broke through like a glorious surprise. Elizabeth’s whole face lifted into an expression of such benign, open joy that those around her knew the world was good and fair and our reward would come in this life; we would not have to wait for the next. Witnessing the transformation from pensive baby moodiness to generous baby joy had felt like a gift. It had always been Elizabeth’s unconscious, secret power. It still was. When she’d left the house earlier to go to this mysterious meeting of hers, she had turned her head just before the front door closed and the