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  LISA TUTTLE

  MEETING THE MUSE

  It began, she fell in love, with the image of a man.

  As a child she had seen his face for the first time in black and white, hardly

  bigger than a postage stamp: young poet said a line below the grainy dots of

  newsprint. So this was a poet, she thought, gazing at the shadowy representation

  of dreamy eyes and shaggy hair, tinglingly aware that something had entered and

  lodged in her heart, like the Snow Queen's love for little Kay.

  Seven years later, in the poetry section of the college bookstore, she picked up

  a book with the title The Memory of Trees. The author's name, Graham Storey,

  seemed familiar; she glanced at the back cover for a clue, and saw his face

  again.

  Something turned over inside her as she stared at the picture of a poet no

  longer so young.

  Gone was the Beatles hairstyle; his hair was cropped now. The eyes that stared

  out at something far beyond her had a dreaminess contradicted by the fierceness

  of the rest of his face, the thin, tight-lipped mouth, the jut of nose and chin.

  There was a ferocity in him, but she sensed it would be directed more at himself

  than anyone else. She sensed enduring sadness, a pain held tightly within.

  She bought the book, of course, although her budget did not allow it; she could

  do without a few meals if she had to. She read it straight through for the first

  time that night, alone in bed, with an intensity of concentration she seldom

  brought to her studies. She read each poem many times, until it was part of her.

  Previously a lazy, erratic student, although bright, now, driven by her heart,

  she became a scholar. The university library had a copy of his first collection

  of poetry, but she also discovered poems, letters, even essays and reviews he

  had written by combing through every poetry-related publication of the past

  decade that she could find in the stacks. She followed cross-references and

  hunches until she had compiled an impressive dossier on him, not only his work

  and influences, but his life, the man himself. She learned from a chance

  reference in one book that he had been in correspondence with W.H. Auden -- and

  that his letters, Graham Storey's actual letters, were in a collection in the

  Humanities Research Center on the University of Texas campus -- and she, as a

  student, had access to them.

  She sat by herself in a small, cool, well-lighted room with a box-file open on

  the table and picked up the typewritten pages in her hands, raised them to her

  face, inhaling with eyes closed. What might be left, besides the words,

  indentations and ink on paper, after so many years? Cell fragments from the skin

  of his hands, a hair, a trace of cigarette smoke. . . .? She stared and stared

  at the signature in blue ink, the small, cramped hand. At first, the formality

  of his full name, but the last two letters were signed simply G.

  How that initial reverberated, how personal it became, how it haunted her! The

  fact that it was one of her own initials did not detract but seemed to suggest a

  connection between them, proof they had something in common.

  Her handwriting altered under the impress of his. At first it was evident only

  in the way she wrote the letter G, but soon she began to change the way she

  signed her name, aspiring to make her signature more like his, and then,

  unconsciously (for she had too small a sample of his to be able, consciously, to

  copy it) the rest of her handwriting shifted in accord with her signature,

  becoming smaller, neater, more precise.

  She could not have said, later, when the plan began, but it was only natural,

  loving him as she did, to want to meet him, and to try to think of ways. She

  entertained fantasies of meeting him by chance: she would be walking along the

  Drag one day, and there he'd be, walking toward her. The English Department did

  sponsor a series of readings by established poets, it was not impossible that

  they might invite Graham Storey. Or maybe he would read one of her poems,

  several of which had been published in various little magazines, and be so

  impressed that he'd write her a letter.

  But she knew these were childish fantasies. Sometimes when she had spent too

  long alone the vast, sad truth would nearly overwhelm her. No matter how much

  she knew about him or how much more she learned, it would bring her no closer to

  him while he continued unaware of her existence.

  Time passed, and she went on loving him while she got her degree and got a job.

  She went on living in Austin, in the same rather run-down apartment building

  near the University, and continued to socialize with the same sort of people,

  even sleeping with one or two of them, while still dreaming of the faraway

  English poet and the very different life they might have together.

  More than once she started a letter to him, but she always drew back from

  mailing them, always in the end deciding to wait until she could meet him face

  to face. Then, she felt sure, although she was certainly old enough to know

  better, she would find a way to make him love her. So she dreamed, and wrote,

  and worked hard, lived frugally, and saved every penny she could toward the

  journey of a lifetime.

  Standing in Victoria Station, alone amid the alien crowd, unreal-feeling from

  jet-lag and lack of sleep, she stood and turned the tissue-thin pages of a

  telephone book. The sight of his name thrilled her, as always, like a familiar

  touch. Storey, G. All at once she felt more at home, able to deal with the

  problem of finding herself somewhere to stay in this huge, foreign city.

  The next day she set off for Harrow-on-the-Hill, which sounded to her as if it

  should be inhabited by hobbits, but was apparently no more than one of the

  farflung tendrils of London's contemporary sprawl, easily accessible by the

  Metropolitan Line. His street she had located in her newly purchased London A to

  Z and she felt confident of finding her way there from the station.

  She had no plans for what she would say or do after she had made her way to his

  door. She was praying that magic would strike, that he would look at her and

  feel what she had felt when she'd first set eyes on his face.

  It was a sunny day, but breezy and not very warm, even though it was June. She

  felt glad for her cotton jacket as she walked up the hill into the wind. Even

  before she saw the number and was sure, she had recognized his little white

  cottage with the honeysuckle twining around the green door. She knocked, and

  both her breath and her heart seemed to stop while she waited for the reply.

  A woman opened the door. She was about thirty, attractive in a strong-featured,

  rather exotic way, with kohl-rimmed eyes and long dark hair. "Yes?"

  "Does Graham Storey live here?"

  "Why?"

  "I wanted to see him." From the way the woman looked at her, she had the sudden,

  despairing conviction that she would not be allowed in. To thi
s woman, whatever

  her connection to the poet, she was just some person from Porlock. "I'd like to

  meet him. Please, won't you tell him, won't you ask him -- not if he's working

  of course. Don't interrupt him. But if I could come back later, I wouldn't take

  up too much of his time. . ."

  "You're American, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Here on a visit?"

  She nodded. "It's my first time."

  "How do you know Graham?"

  "I don't. Not personally. Just his work. I've admired it for so long..."

  The woman smiled suddenly. "Oh, you're one of his readers! Well, he's not here

  right now, but-- would you like to come in? I can show you round."

  This was not at all as she had hoped it would be. "Maybe I'd better come back

  when he's in."

  "Oh, he won't mind me showing you round. I'm sure he'd want me to. After you've

  come so far, I couldn't just send you away again with nothing. Come in, come

  in."

  "Really, I'd like to meet him."

  "Then you can come back again in a few days, when he's here. Better ring first

  to make sure he's in. But as long as you're beret come in for a cup of tea.

  Wouldn't you like to see where his wonderful poems get written?"

  It would have been too awkward to refuse. Following her inside, she wondered

  about the woman who played at being keeper of the shrine. In her hippy, gypsyish

  clothes -- cheesecloth blouse and long madras skirt, silver bangles on her arms

  and a ring on every finger -- she was unlikely as either a housekeeper or a

  secretary. She knew he wasn't married, but asked with false naivete," Are you

  Mrs. Storey?"

  The woman smiled. "I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm his

  girlfriend, Amy Carrick."

  There was something in the woman's proud smile and the little toss of her head

  that made her suspect she wouldn't have made such a claim in the poet's

  presence.

  "Where is he now? Will he be back soon?"

  "He's gone away for a few days, walking in Scotland. He does that sometimes,

  when he needs to be alone for inspiration. That's how poets are. Wouldn't you

  like to see his study, where the magic happens? Just through here. This is his

  desk, this is his chair. He always writes long-hand, on this sort of pad. There

  are his pencils, and a rubber, and a couple of biros, but he's taken his

  favorite pen away with him."

  It was like being shown around a museum by a too-officious curator, facts forced

  upon her and never allowed a moment for thought Or a meaningful private

  discovery. Although she knew she was being silly, she found herself disbelieving

  everything the woman said. No, this was not the room where he created his poems.

  Perhaps he wrote letters here, on that old manual typewriter shoved to the back

  of the desk, or typed out the final versions, but the poems had not been written

  at that desk, with Graham Storey in that chair.

  "Go on, I can see you're dying to try it. Go ahead, I won't tell him, sit down,

  see what it feels like to sit in the poet's chair!"

  She backed away. "Could I use your bathroom, please?"

  Amy led her to the other end of the small house, where the bathroom was beside

  the kitchen. "I'll make us a pot of tea while you're freshening up."

  She ran the water to mask any sound, and had a look around the bathroom. There

  were no signs of a woman's occupancy, no makeup, moisturizer, or tampons, not

  even a toothbrush in the mug beside the sink. Only one person lived here, and he

  was away.

  "Why don't you take a seat in the lounge, make yourself at home. I'll be in with

  the tea in a couple of minutes," called Amy as she passed.

  There was one armchair and a sofa in the room called the lounge, and by the

  evidence, a crumpled tissue and a paperback lying open on the seat, it was

  obvious that the other woman had been sitting in the armchair earlier.

  Perversely { "make yourself at home!"), she chose to sit on the chair, lifting

  the book (A Bouquet of Barbed Wire by Andrea Newman) and tissue and setting them

  on the nearest surface, then settling herself, wriggling her bottom deeper into

  the already flattened cushion. As she did so she felt something small and hard

  under her. Probably a button or a coin, she thought as she raised a buttock and

  slipped one hand beneath the cushion.

  She had found a small gold key attached to a thin gold ring. The key seemed too

  small and delicate to be of any practical use, so perhaps it was the sort of

  charm that more usually would be worn as part of a bracelet or necklace. Without

  thinking, she slipped it onto her ring finger and it was a perfect fit. She

  turned it so that the key lay in the palm of her hand, and she closed her hand

  around it just as Amy came in with a tea-tray.

  "Here we are! Milk or lemon?"

  "Lemon, please."

  "I thought so. I've noticed Americans don't often take milk in their tea. Graham

  never takes tea at all. He's a coffee drinker, but it has to be strong."

  She craved all such details of his life out of habit, but resented this woman

  for being the source. Anyway, she might be lying. She certainly didn't live here

  with Graham as she had implied. "Have you been to America?"

  "Me? Oh, no. I used to work in a care where we had a lot of American tourists

  coming in, that's where I noticed. Graham says noticing little details like that

  is really important in a poet."

  "Are you a poet?"

  "I try," she said, casting her eyes down, more coy than modest. Then a thought

  alarmed her, and her eyes came up quick and fierce. "Are you?"

  "Oh, goodness no. I'm just a reader, I can't write." The lie soothed whatever

  dark suspicion had briefly disturbed Amy's complacency. She knew she'd been

  right in her reflexive, almost instinctive, lie. She didn't want this woman

  knowing too much about her.

  When she left -- as soon as she had finished her tea -- she was still wearing

  the key-ring. Distrusting the other woman as she did she couldn't bring herself

  to hand it over to her. She justified this with the thought that all the other

  rings on Amy's hands were silver, so this was unlikely to be hers. This might

  belong to Graham's real girlfriend, in which case it would be much better to

  give it to him when she came back another day. After all, it was his house she

  had found it in.

  But as soon as she was outside on the street she was gripped by panic, realizing

  that however she justified it, she had just stolen a piece of jewelry. She

  should have shoved it back under the cushion again before she left -- what had

  possessed her to put it on in the first place? The panic died away as she

  accepted the fact that it was too late now, and she'd just have to try to

  explain herself when she met the poet. Her hand made a fist around the fragile

  key as she walked away.

  She fell asleep early and woke, disoriented but wide awake, just before dawn. It

  was too early to have breakfast or go anywhere, nothing would be open, and

  although she would have enjoyed just walking through the streets of London she

  was afraid it wouldn't be safe. With a sigh she reached for the book she had

  been reading the night before, but so
on cast it aside. Her dreams had been more

  interesting, unusually vivid and strange. There had been one scene in particular

  . . .

  Thinking about it, she remembered something She'd seen walking back from the

  poet's house in Harrow, and made a connection. Words hung in her mind,

  glittering slightly, suggesting new connections, conjunctions, interesting

  clashes. She scrabbled in her bag for her notebook and a pen.

  By the time the maid knocked on her door several hours later she had completed a

  poem, and she had the thrilling feeling that it was the best she'd ever written.

  During the next few days she saw the sights of London and she wrote. She wrote

  in the early mornings in her room, she wrote in cafes, tea-shops, and

  restaurants in the afternoons, and in pubs or her narrow little hotel room in

  the evenings. She had never known anything like this overpowering burst of

  creativity, and she'd seldom been so happy. Writing poetry had always been a

  struggle for her, and the results of that struggle usually mediocre. Now

  everything was changed, as if a rusty old lock had been oiled, the key turned

  smoothly and the door was finally, fully open. The poems were not easy to write,

  they didn't spring into her head full-blown, she had to work at them, shaping

  and re-shaping the initial idea, but it was like working in clear daylight after

  bumbling around in the dark for so long. She had something to say now, and the

  words to say it. The skill had come, perhaps, from all the years of practice, of

  looking and listening reading and trying to write, but why here, why now?