Virginia Woolf in Manhattan Read Free

–
old
–
      (for inside I was still young, a girl, when I died)
    I followed it up
    from the depths of cold watery sleep
      into the warmth of a small dim room I did not know
    a woman breathing as she read, lips half-moving, very serious,
           a sigh       a small smile
    She was reading me with such strong desire and I wondered
    ‘Who is she?’
    she has blonde hair       but she is not young
    I am on the threshold   I’m too tired   I don’t know
    a fish jerking   it’s me that she’s reading   yes, it’s my soul it’s me
–
    And she reeled me in, hauled me up. A strain like a tooth being pulled.
ANGELA
    This woman. This strange woman. That was all I thought. Tall and dusty in bedraggled green and grey clothes. A suit. The librarian said, ‘Excuse me. May I help you?’ Then closed in on her like a gaoler.
VIRGINIA
    Stirring and gathering myself   too late to go back –
    an ache   coming together
    puckering a long fall of satin curtain
    a wavering
    a pulling together   not wanting
    to be seen
    exposed
    her eyes, their eyes
    but
oh
–
    the waking of the light
    in the dark so long   lost in my own crushed rib-cage
    weighted with mud and slime   though dying   was no
    worse than the terror   nothing
    is worse than the terror
    Here, I am suddenly here.
    Warm wood. Women. Electric lights. A strange room.
    Two books in my hands. Yes, they’re mine. Hold them close to my body, hide them. Mine.
    And, as if new-born, no fear. Was it over?
ANGELA
    Almost before I knew what was happening, she was gone. In a pincer movement, two librarians hustled her out of the door. ‘If you don’t have a need for access to original material …’ one was saying, and the strange woman gaped like a fish, while the other librarian intoned, ‘The librarians in the
open
readingrooms will be happy to help you.’
    The door swung shut. There followed a hubbub of librarian excitement, which is quiet, but the first words I could make out were ‘Who was THAT?’
    And as soon as I heard it as a question, I knew the answer, and made for the door.
    Out on the landing, a gaggle of Japanese tourists with cameras, a big-nosed man in a red woollen hat – but not her. So I ran down the stairs, and there, on the last flight but one, by a seat where a black boy in shades was sleeping, there she stood, yes it was her. A tall angular shape from the back, not going forward, hovering, leaning, like a tall-masted sailing ship. Her white fingers trailing on the balustrade, then touching two books, which she clutched to her ribs, shyly, as if in wonderment.
    My breath caught. I slowed down, and came to her step by step.
    Step
    by
    step.
    I was afraid. I kept walking, I drew abreast.
    I was any fan, any groupie, suddenly. I could see her face. Her great globes of eyes, darting down, away: hunted.
    Perhaps I should have left her. But how could I have let her stumble out on to the streets of Manhattan on her own?
    I had to say: ‘
Virginia?
’
VIRGINIA
    She said my name, that first time, as if I belonged to her. Theyshan’t have me! She said ‘Virginia?’ and I was off like a hare. There were red ropes, I went the wrong way, a man in uniform stopped me & asked to look at ‘those books’, I had two of my own & he looked at me hard and said ‘Ma’am, are these from the library?’ – but I said ‘No’ & rushed on, with her after me. And then –
ANGELA
    Half of me was laughing, half of me was shivering, nothing like this had ever happened, not to me. But I couldn’t let her go.
    It was brilliant; it was impossible; it was so thrilling I could hardly breathe. It was Virginia Woolf in Manhattan. And I reached out my hand.
VIRGINIA
    She
touched
me. It felt – electric. You see, I wanted –
ANGELA
    It was like dipping my hand in water.
VIRGINIA
    I wanted to come back.

2
ANGELA
    I loved my life: I was in the thick of it. Things I had earned by writing my books. Yes, I’ve earned them, and I enjoy them. Films, travel,