Written for Joanne for the 2009 xmas_rocks exchange
| This story is a work of fiction and therefore completely untrue. No harm or libel is meant or implied about any of the individuals named within this work and it was written without their involvement or permission. No profit is being made. |
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Sonja is now living in a beautiful apartment house in Mayfair. She shares the flat with her son Sven, her American boyfriend Stewart, his brother Ian, and whomever else might wander through in need of a temporary roof over their head. Marianne has taken advantage of their open-door policy on more than a few nights, always grateful for their generosity--and Sonja's company. "Stay as long as you want," Sonja always promises her. "No one will mind. Except Lady Georgina, and no one cares about her, anyway."
It's a long and convoluted story, how they all came to live in this house, and it's a story Stewart loves to tell their various guests whenever he gets the chance. They're only squatting, as it turns out, part of a devious plan by Stewart and Ian's father, Miles. Miles is friends with a woman named Mary who owns the place. He's also a high-ranking CIA officer, which explains his love for all things convoluted and devious. Mary let her friend Lady Georgina stay at her house some time before, but now she refuses to leave and the courts won't kick her out. So Stewart and Ian were invited by their father (and, reluctantly, Mary as well) to move in even if Georgina wouldn't move out, and to create as much noise and chaos as they wished, to hopefully, eventually drive the troublesome unwanted houseguest away for good. Marianne only meets Geogina once. She turns out to be a transsexual, an odd but pleasant enough type who seems to have no intentions of leaving no matter what insanity rules the house. Insanity does generally seem to be the common state of things, so perhaps the situation is mutually beneficial to all--except Mary, of course, who at this rate may never get rid of any of them. Stewart is a drummer and making noise is something he is quite good at, either behind his humongous kit or simply with his equally large and loud American mouth. He played for a while in Sonja's band, that's how they met, but now her band is over, or at least very close to it. No one wants to hear their kind of music any longer, Sonja says. Today it's all about ripped clothes and brash boys who can't play their instruments screaming loudly. Such is the way of things. Stewart is passionate about this new music and rambles on about it to anyone who will listen and even to those who won't. Marianne mostly tunes him out and prefers to listen to Sonja play her folks songs and reminisce about the days when love was more important than anger.
Marianne finds Stewart's brother Ian much more to her liking, with his gentler demeanor and easy smile, even if his stories often make no sense and he's prone to staring off into space for long periods of time, laughing at nothing in particular or droning away for hours on an out-of-tune guitar. "Don't mind Ian," Stewart tells her one day when she stops by for tea and shelter. "He was in Vietnam, you know. Went a little screwy in the head." She doesn't mind Ian at all. She's gone a little screwy in the head herself, she thinks, so it's nice to share the company with someone who understands.
Marianne has known Sonja for many years by now, though it's hard for her to remember exactly when or how they first met. Most likely it was at someone or other's party, or perhaps a club some hazy, drugged-out night a long time ago. Marianne does very clearly remember the first time she heard Sonja sing, though, the rich timber of her voice and the beauty of her lyrics. Marianne remembers the sway of her hips beneath shimmering fabric, the way she could entrance a crowd with her open sensuality, her presence like that of an earth goddess, powerful yet entirely feminine, otherworldly yet utterly approachable. Marianne thinks they might have slept together, at some point, but it's difficult to remember for sure. Sometimes it's hard to separate reality from past hallucinations, true history from dreams and wishful thinking. Sonja never says anything about it, and her touch is so easy and warm with everyone that it's hard to tell where her friends end and lovers begin. Perhaps she sees no difference between them. All Marianne knows is that it feels wonderful to lay beside her on this old persian rug in the Mayfair flat while Sonja hums an odd melody, Sven sleeps away the day and Ian blows lazy smoke circles up to the ceiling. Stewart is in the other room blasting a reggae record on the turntable and having a loud argument with an orange-haired punk by the name of Johnny. "Far out," Ian proclaims. Marianne sighs and closes her eyes.
There's so much noise coming from upstairs that the walls of the house are vibrating. It's a cacophony of drums and bass, disharmonious and painful to the ears. Sonja is somehow oblivious to it all, curled up and reading a book on the white sofa. "What is that noise?" Marianne has to ask as she settles down beside the other woman. It's been a difficult day, one that has sent her to seek the comfort of her old friend. "Stewart and his new band. He's found his bass player, at last. Gorgeous bloke from up north who calls himself Sting, of all things." "Really." "Mmm. They're been going on like that for days." "God. How can you stand it?" Though she can appreciate the punk scene for their energy and enthusiasm, the music itself escapes Marianne's appreciation entirely. "It's not so bad, really. I'm used to it." Sonja's smile begins amused, but then turns wistful, maybe even a little sad. "It's when the noise stops that I begin to wonder." It is sometime much later in the night before that happens, but by then, the two women are too occupied with other matters to notice. By then, Marianne no longer has to wonder if the incredible softness of Sonja's body exists only in her mind or in the memory of her hands. She doesn't have to speculate about the taste of her lips, nor the sounds she makes when touched by a lover. She knows the feeling of her red hair between her fingers, long and flowing over her shoulders, down onto Marianne's skin. She knows these things and it no longer matters what did or didn't happen before, because she knows what has happened today. The house is quiet now, she finally realizes, but the silence is a comfort. Sonja falls asleep and Marianne slips away before the noise can resume, hoping it won't be the last time they can enjoy the silence together.
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