OEES READING Short stories to improve your reading! Good source for IELTS test takers. Enjoy! Mrs Purvis by Robin Winick Surely in such an uncertain world the two tiny acres would shrink; yes, they would shrink until she weaved and tottered on the head of a pin. She had told Mr. Purvis of this inevitability and of the more immediate problem of the noise and confusion and daily insinuations of the neighbors and their pets; but Mr. Purvis had quieted her remonstrances with the unmistakable hint in his voice that his irascible nature might manifest itself at any moment, if she were to continue. She sat, sipping her coffee by the kitchen window, nostalgic for the cold silent winter when the world was white and pure and clear and silent. In winter she would walk through the snow in the woods behind her house and admire the naked trees stark against the grey sky. She would inhale the cool air and sense it rushing through her body, purifying it; but now for the next six months her nostrils would clog with the rich vegetative odours of her lascivious plants, and she would be profaned. Over night the leaves had returned to the trees in great unruly clusters, the azaleas had become obscenely full-bellied, cherry trees wept over emerald tufts of onion grass, and profusions of dandelions littered the lawn. Oh, the world was shrinking again; and the air so thick with spring she could hardly breathe. The men would come in dirty rusted pick-ups with all manner of rakes, spades, burlap and blowers and take over the property, blaring music, leaving sandwich wrappers about; and then there would follow the pesticide application; a sick sweet odour would rise in the air and ride on the breeze through the open windows to assault her senses and wipe out her brain cells. By mid morning the tumult began. She peeked out of a window to find a truckload of gardeners at work, taming her lawn and garden. No doubt Mr. Purvis was trying to please her, but he had only doubled her agony by introducing the discordant human element. She dressed quickly and went outside to tell the men they must pack up immediately. The truck was an eye-sore and the noise, the cacophony of machinery, singing and radio music was going to set her delicate, fine-tuned nerve circuitry back months and months. Her psychiatrist would be appalled at this gross insinuation. Oh, men never thought about consequences, did they? she asked herself, and then she answered: especially Mr. Purvis. As she strutted down the path, she drew from her pocket a little round pill and popped it into her mouth. Ah, the relaxation pill! On an empty stomach it would act quick and efficiently. You must go immediately, she told them politely. She liked words spoken coolly, crisply, clip, clip, as the British spoke. But we have been hired for the day, one replied. Mrs. Purvis disliked his accent; the words came out thick, as if he were chewing a chunk of stale bread. She wondered about his origins and why Mr. Purvis could not have just hired good old Puritan stock, people with whom she could communicate easily, who would understand her delicate sensibilities. Then you may take the day off, she proposed. But you dont understand… There it was: the assumption. But I do. Everyone deserves a day off, and of course, I will pay you just the same. Ill get my purse, she said, thinking, oh, yes, and a second pill. We will not take money for doing nothing, a short muscular man asserted, wiping perspiration from his face with a dirty cloth. We are in America now. Of course you will; its called charity here and really quite respectable. Instead of donating to some unseen hand, Mr. Purvis and I will simply give to you. As she turned to go back to the house, she felt a warm damp hand on her arm. It would leave a fine film of soil dust, she mused. The hand pressed into her, as if its owner were hoping an indelible print might remain when it was finally withdrawn; and she thought how life moves inexorably forward in such a way that no act or thought can be retracted. She had been tattooed. We do not take charity. We will stay until the job is complete. Retracting his large hand, the short muscular one looked up at his two colleagues, who nodded obligingly. But this is my property; shouldnt I have a say? And then she thanked God for the relaxation pill. Otherwise, she might have sounded shrill, as if she had no patience, as if she didnt like these people. Then they would have surmised it was about ethnicity and not about the fact that she was averse to anyone or anything that disturbed the tranquillity of her life. Just when Mr. Purvis was off to God-knows-where, they came, but they would be gone tomorrow; so she relinquished her stand and retreated to the house, removed her shoes at the door and tripped across her spongy white rug to the kitchen, where she poured herself some soothing camomile tea. After the tea, she sank into her sofa and dreamed that it was the morrow and they were gone. But the next day she awoke to their familiar sounds. She drew back the curtains and watched the men weeding and digging. Three azalea plants sat on the lawn waiting to be plunged into the earth. The bare sweaty backs of the men emitted a raw animal scent that wafted through her open window. The tall, skeletal one stood up and, leaning on his hoe, began to smoke a thin brown cigarette, while the one who had acted as spokesman the day before hoisted a bush into his arms. Mrs. Purvis watched the muscles shifting under the skin, as he set the azalea into the earth, and experienced a hot, tingling sensation moving in wave-like ripples through her body. Overwrought by her physical being, she decided to go out at once and remind them they were hired for only one day. Oh my, a large pile of stones cluttered the driveway, and the third man had begun mixing cement in an old wheel barrel. At first he didnt notice her standing there. She sighed in the damp heat. The pill had been forgotten; and it was now evident there was need for one. When she approached him and inquired about the stones, the other two men joined her. A beautiful wall, just like in the old country. Mr. Purvis felt that she would love the privacy. Oh, dear, the world was shrinking: first the foliage blocking the horizon, now a wall around the house; and Mihal, who had introduced himself as an expert stone mason, assured her that they would not leave until everything was just as Mr. Purvis desired. Oh, well. Lemonade? she offered. They were pleased with her offer and told her directly what a splendid woman she was. How arresting that three strangers thought her splendid! Mr. Purvis, who knew her slightly better, would not agree. As Mrs. Purvis squeezed the lemons into the icy water, she was thinking about the hand on her arm the day before, and then she recalled a dream she had had just before waking. The man named Mihal was on top of her crushing her with his heavy body and infusing her with his rich botanic breath of lilacs, making her gasp for air; Oh dear, was it really lilacs? She must put the cookies on the tray and go out at once; and as she did, she had a fleeting vision of Mr. Purvis white body with its folds of overlapping skin. Through the door she went, longing for the first winter snow. If only she lived where the earth was layered in permafrost, she might have been spared all this. She set the lemonade and cookies on the wrought iron table on the patio and was about to hurry in, when Mihal approached and asked how she liked the section of wall they had just completed. Im very pleased, she replied. And next we will seed a most wonderful vegetable garden, which we will care for all through the summer and fall, the man named Jeronim added. Vegetables? Yes, Mr. Purvis… Yes, I suppose Mr. Purvis thought Id like to grow vegetables. Mrs. Purvis offered the cookies and took one herself. So where are you from? she asked, knowingly crossing the line; but, no, that wasnt right. The line had been crossed with the lemonade and cookies. No, no, it was the hand on her arm, the soil dust that had remained and entered her nostrils, becoming a part of her. A connection had been forged. Mihal offered his men cigarettes. They stood around smoking and talking in a foreign tongue. We are from Eastern Europe, Mihal said at last. Oh, said Mrs. Purvis. So along with the lascivious botanical smells, weed profusions, and the noise and clutter and rattle of lawn equipment, the war, too, was coming upon her. She thought of the silent snow-covered mountains giving way to myriad refugees, loaded with valises and black plastic bags, spreading along the spring slopes and high passes. Without warning the sun assaulted her. She leaned against the table, light-headed and weakened. One of the little pills was in her pocket for emergencies. She withdrew it and swallowed it with a sip of lemonade. You are so kind, Jeronim commented, but Mrs. Purvis was lost in thought. It is Gjergis birthday today, he continued. She heard laughter and someone had mentioned a birthday, but she was thinking about her husband now and wondering where he was. After the collapse of the communist regimes he had become infected with the idea that his future lay in the new investment opportunities opening up Eastern Europe and Central Asia. Telecommunications, computers…any and all consumer products…a desert waiting to be irrigated, I tell you, he had said to a few friends over for drinks one evening, while she sat quietly, as usual, listening helplessly. Seed money, thats all I need, and I am off and running…coal, gas, oil pipe line materials. He had gotten his seed money in the form of counterfeit 100 bills on one of his so-called high level business trips to Baku. The court had looked upon Mr. Purvis as a dupe and victim rather than a collaborator and cautioned him to stay away from easy money and unstable regimes; but he had been on to something else, even as the warning had been issued. Something lucrative in Albania, dear, he had told her in a rare intimate moment. And he was off again. Two months later he had returned, sallow and jaundiced, mercurial as ever, one moment speaking in animated tones over the phone, eyebrows raised in curiosity and excitement, the next moment, lying prostrate on the sofa with a drink, taciturn and withdrawn. Then off again and unreachable. And she was slipping again; she could feel it in the hollow echo chamber between her ears. Dazed, she returned on unsteady feet to the confines of her house, but once there she recalled hearing the word birthday and began to bake a cake and prepare her rich, dark blend of coffee. As she mixed the ingredients she wondered about the course she had set for herself. It was as if she were floating downstream on a river that was taking her to a different part of the world. Had it started with the onslaught of spring or at the point of Mr. Purvis unceremonious departure? Or with the arrival of the gardeners? Somehow she was reconnecting to the world. A shiver made her drop her measuring cup and ask herself whether she wanted to become reconnected. Oh, the summer would bring bulbous purple eggplants, a proliferation of gigantic emerald squash, prickly cucumbers, wild climbing vines of beans, and tomatoes that would crack under the pressure of their juice, releasing potent fruit essences into the air. Could she handle the summer after a spring such as this! And where was Henry? At four in the afternoon her ruminations were cut short. Shirted and shoeless, the gardeners sat primly on her couch before her pine coffee table and indulged in her cake and coffee, but as the hour wore on, they became less deferential, leaning their oily heads on the back of her sofa and sprawling their legs. Oh dear. I have gone too far, she sighed. As they sipped and chewed, they looked around at the enormity of her living room, which flowed into her dining room; and from there, they could see a porch done in wicker with tufted white cushions; they looked not so much awed as mortified. And then came the statement she had anticipated, a statement to which she could not respond. In our country we have three or four families in a place like this; Mr. Purvis is a wonderful man. She pondered the statement as she sipped her coffee. Was there something she had missed in the remote Mr. Purvis? She had never quite thought of him as wonderful, and the house merely served to emphasise the fact that, though married, they inhabited separate worlds. Mr. Purvis must be very wealthy man to help get us here, the tall, gangly one called Gjergi let out, as he gazed about the house. Mrs. Purvis puzzled over the candor of the remark and wondered if there were anything ironical in it. She searched his face and thought she detected a hint of smirk. Quickly, she rose to clear the dishes, but a hand reached up and touched her arm. To us, space is the mountains, the sea, the endless forests. The gardener named Jeronim let his hand drop. This house… Where do you sleep? she asked suddenly, curious, fearful. In the truck. Until Mr. Purvis returns, said Mihal. Mrs. Purvis space continued to shrink. Her cheeks felt hot. And then? She thought their demeanors sheepish. She knew what they were thinking, but could Mr. Purvis have intended that? A misunderstanding. He had volunteered to find them a place to stay. During the course of his business a problem had arisen. Someones relatives, no doubt. The problem had fallen on Purvis, who said no to no one but her. When he returned, he would find housing for them. But he had never said when he would return, nor had he telephoned. When she emerged from her thoughts, she noticed that Jeronim had wandered off and was now coming down the stairway into the hall by the front door. You wont mind if we ask Mr. Purvis for some of this space? he said, returning to the living room, ebullient. Forgetting himself, he lit a cigarette and smoked in her house. We will earn our keep. This will be the most beautiful property. Again she had the impression she was being toyed with. He lowered his voice, addressing Mihal and Gjergi. Four bathrooms upstairs. Four bathtubs and sinks! He turned back to Mrs. Purvis, who stood, transfixed with the coffee pot in her hands, staring at the cone of ashes at the tip of the cigarette. We will cook and clean, tend to everything, inside and outside. Mrs. Purvis, you would like this? She looked to Mihal, who sat brooding. And then, seeing Gjergis frail form and pale skin, she wondered if they were really gardeners at all. And their command of English – thick and slow but somewhat fluent. A coup détat, she observed, considering Jeronims question merely rhetorical. She walked slowly, weak-kneed and light-headed, into the kitchen, where she leaned over her sink and felt saliva collecting on the walls of her mouth. Mr. Purvis would certainly call tonight, and she would mention what was going on and solicit his advice in the matter of kindly putting these people, who were looking more and more like squatters at every turn, somewhere else. Bracing herself against the sink, she thought of the lemonade and cookies and the cake and coffee and the hand on her arm. Oh, there had been two different hands soliciting her at different times. Mr. Purvis would ask why she had encouraged all this familiarity. But Mr. Purvis didnt call, or she had missed the call while napping or stepping out. The next morning she awoke to the smell of coffee wafting into her bedroom. When she arrived in the kitchen, she sat down to two sunny-side up eggs in a puddle of oil, flecked with what she instantaneously thought of as burnt offerings. As she cut into the egg, a plate of coarse biscuits arrived along with her tiny silver bowl brimming with honey. Gjergi made a deep bow and placed it before her. Mrs. Purvis, you were asleep when Mr. Purvis phoned; he is detained, Mihal announced, coming in through the kitchen door with earth on his hands. He clapped them together, allowing the dirt to fall on the white linoleum. Coffee, Gjergi, he said pulling out Mr. Purvis chair for himself. He pulled out a thin brown cigarette and began to smoke. She wondered if Mihal meant detained with all its various connotations – she was thinking of the counterfeit bills – or did he mean merely delayed. Without realizing it, she let out a low guttural moan over such imprecise use of her language. Yes, it was hers and meant to be uttered without the ds and gs confused and the vowels becoming sloshed about as if they were being spit out of a blender. The coffee was strong and bitter, as if the dregs were circulating in the hot liquid as she drank. You spoke with Mr. Purvis? she asked. Mihal grunted and smoked. He always speaks with him. Mr. Purvis did not tell you about us? Gjergi asked. Another question that did not beg an answer, Mrs. Purvis mused, as she observed Gjergis impatience approach agitation. The mouth twitched, then the left eye, the nose; and then the sequence of twitches began anew. He called to Jeronim, and the two sat down at the kitchen table. It is time to tell Mrs. Purvis, Gjergi said urgently, eyeing Mihal. Oh, the bitter coffee steam swirled inside her nostrils, swelling her sinuses; and her eyes took in the dirt in the mens nails as they picked up their biscuits and slurped their oily coffee. Her throat thickened, as she wondered just what was to assault her sensibilities next. She must call Dr. Mann immediately; it might be time to check into that pleasant little hotel with the pure white square room overlooking the quiet patio. Tell her everything, Gjergi urged. It is time, he continued irascibly, as if tired of the game being played out. She looked at Jeronim, sitting meekly, eyebrows raised in anticipation. His biscuit and coffee sat untouched and his cigarette was burning down at the edge of his plate. Yes, she thought, they should have just seized the house and its contents straight out! And yes, she was part of the contents, she mused, thinking of Mr. Purvis pale, fleshy arms that only occasionally reached out to her. Mr. Purvis didnt tell you about us, Mihal began. We knew him in Albania. We saved his life a year ago when Barisha was chased from office. The Albanian people had lost all their money in the pyramid schemes and they were out to get anyone involved. Mr. Purvis, the big American business man… Oh, the tone was derisive. These men didnt like Mr. Purvis. It was not what she thought. She heard Mihals thick voice in the background as she struggled with the thought of her house being invaded. What had Purvis done? She felt blood thickening in her veins. Oh, was her circulation grinding to a halt? Her mind became still and she listened. Your husband had no business in our country. He handled dirty money from smuggled goods; he even got hold of Iraqi black market oil. Mihal paused, his cigarette dangling from his lips, which curled into a sneer. And then he dumped his dirty money into our banks. He went right to the top with his schemes and when the pyramids crashed, they crashed on him and his chum, the president. We found him trampled by an angry mob as he tried to escape. We thought he was just an innocent foreigner caught up in the chaos of our country, but he was one of these men after… Oh, dear, so this Mihal was not a gardener or stone mason at all, but an impostor, Mrs. Purvis mused, her throat so tight she thought a fourth man, perhaps a ghost of a man killed in the chaos, was wrapping his gnarled fingers around her neck. A vision of bean vines winding about her neck and binding her arms to her side loomed before her, and she imagined her prostrate body lying in a tangle of prickly overgrown squash plants. Who was he? Your silly husband had been dragging an old rusted Kalashnikov, as if he knew how to use it. But where would he get one? Twenty American dollars right off the street, like the way you sell umbrellas in the rain. Oh, dear. A thin worm slithered out of the muddy earth and disappeared into a squash or into her leg; she wasnt sure. And the red fire ants were on the march over her body. She could feel them devouring her. He offered us the world if we saved him, said Mihal, pouring himself more coffee from a small pot on the stove. So we saved him, not knowing what we saved until it was too late. He was still interested in his grand scams, even as he lay by the side of the road, bruised and feverish. He rose and spat in the sink. We accepted his offer. Gjergi was no longer passive. He got us out and told us we can live in his house, he said, his eyes cast into his coffee cup. But where is Mr. Purvis now? He is still busy in Albanian affairs. He is trying to get his money out of Vefa, but he wont; and in this respect he is no different than any other Albanian citizen. Mihal stood up, stretched and yawned rudely. You will be lucky if you see Mr. Purvis again. Albania is not America. He carried his coffee cup to the sink and then walked over to Mrs. Purvis chair, leaned over her and whispered in her ear. We will wait here until Purvis returns, whenever that is. Mihals breath did not hint of lilacs; it smelled of damp mushroom; and as she inhaled, she felt the spores filling her nostrils and throat. And what if Mr. Purvis does not return, she wondered. Was he desperately trying to find the money to pay off these men? Or had he simply abandoned her – and them? Her eyes closed, but she could feel Mihals presence, as if his energy field had swallowed hers and she was suffocating. Her rib cage pressed into her lungs and her temples held her head in a vice. She felt that at any minute she might implode, becoming an infinitely dense speck.Oh, she mused, as she struggled for air; she should have seen it all coming with the advent of spring. As she sat quietly in her chair, she felt two thick fingers at the back of her neck and then she heard a voice. You wont be in our way if you stay, Mrs. Purvis. You are a good generous woman who married a foolish, greedy man. She felt pressure at the base of her neck. The pressure of the hand was no longer solicitous, as it was during her first encounter; it was now warning her that if she should go to the authorities, something might happen. She rose from the chair and went out to the back yard, where she stood by the wrought iron table, wondering if the vegetable garden would still be planted and whether the stone wall would remain a work in progress. The air was still and damp. As she studied her yard, it seem to recede from her gaze until it appeared merely a painted canvas and the grass fell away from her feet. Oh, she was becoming detached again. She floated to the kitchen window and peered inside. Gjergi and Jeronim remained at the table drinking coffee and smoking, but Mihal had disappeared. In a moment he returned, dragging a heavy burlap bag, which he hoisted onto the kitchen table. He pulled a knife from his pants and slit the bulging bag open, so that the contents spilled over the table. Oh dear, Mrs. Purvis mused. Thank goodness she was far away now. She had once worried about being overrun by flowers and vegetables; how silly to worry about spring when the civil strife of a far off country had insinuated itself upon her; but it could not reach her now. She watched the men handling and examining the guns and rifles; they took dish cloths, doused them in her extra virgin olive oil and began cleaning the guns. From her vantage point, they seemed engaged in an elaborate cleansing ritual, probing every nook and cranny of their weaponry, their expressions suggesting deep concentration, their cigarettes dangling from between their lips, forgotten. Suddenly Mihal put down his rifle, drew his cigarette from between his lips and picked up the telephone. Instantly the window thickened, first into a translucent barrier, then an opaque wall, leaving her isolated in an intense damp heat. Oh dear, perhaps Mr. Purvis was finally trying to reach her. OEES.
Posted on: Thu, 25 Sep 2014 14:39:39 +0000
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