Gabriel's Inferno

Chapter 11

Late Tuesday afternoon, Julia and Paul sat in the Bloor Street Starbucks enjoying their respective coffee drinks, curled up together on a purple velvet loveseat and talking. They were sitting close but not too close. Close enough that Paul could admire her beauty, far enough away that Julia could watch his large, kind eyes and not feel overly-nervous. Or crowded.

“Do you like Nine Inch Nails?” she asked, cupping her coffee in two hands.

Paul was taken aback by her question. “Uh, no. No, I don’t.” He shrugged. “Trent Reznor twists my head around. Unless he’s singing backup for Tori Amos. Why, do you?”

Julia shivered. “Absolutely not.”

He pulled a cd out of his briefcase and handed it to her. “I like this kind of stuff. Music I can write my dissertation to.”

“I’ve never heard of Hem before,” she mused, turning the jewel case over in her hand.

“They have a song I think you’ll like. It’s called Half Acre. They used to play it on an insurance ad on television, so you might have heard it before.

It’s beautiful. And no one yells at you or screams or tells you he wants to fu — ” Paul stopped suddenly and reddened. He was trying very hard to watch his language around her but having only marginal success.

She tried to hand the cd back to him, but he refused. “I bought it for you. Rabbit Songs for the Rabbit.”

“Thanks, but I can’t.”

He seemed offended. And hurt. “Why not?”

“I just can’t. But thank you anyway.”

Paul looked down at Julia’s new messenger bag, resting at her feet.

He squinted.

“You accepted a nice briefcase from someone. Early Christmas present from a boyfriend?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she admitted uncomfortably. “My best friend’s mother wanted me to have the briefcase. She passed away recently.”

“I’m so sorry, Rabbit. I didn’t know.”

Paul reached over and patted Julia’s hand, placing the cd on the loveseat between them. He noticed that she didn’t move away. In fact, she rummaged in her bag to find Professor Emerson’s cd and returned it to Paul with her other hand, while still allowing him to cradle her fingers in his own.

“What can I do to persuade you to accept my gift?” He hid his face from her as he placed Emerson’s Mozart in his book bag.

“Nothing. I’ve received too many gifts in the last little while. I’m all stocked up.”

Paul straightened up and smiled. “Let me try to convince you, then.

You have such small, small hands. Smaller than the rain’s.” He moved their hands together, back and forth, holding her hand up toward the halogen light. It looked diminutive encased in his.

Julia looked at him curiously. “That’s pretty. Did you just make it up?”

Paul leaned his head back against the loveseat and held her hand more closely, his thumb fingering her lifeline, almost as if he were trying to read her palm with the tips of his fingers.

“No. I’m paraphrasing from somewhere i have never travelled, by E. E.

Cummings. You haven’t heard it before?”

“No, but I’d like to.” Julia sounded very shy all of a sudden.

“Then I’ll have to read it to you some time.” Paul gazed into her dark eyes with a hopeful smile.

“I’d like that.”

“It isn’t Dante, but it’s beautiful.” His thumb found the center of her lifeline and pressed it ever so gently. “The poem reminds me of you. You are where I’ve never traveled: your fragility and your small, small hands.”

Julia leaned forward to hide her sudden flush of color and sipped her coffee. But she allowed him to continue caressing her palm, sweetly. The movement of her coffee to her lips caused her ancient purple sweater to slip off her shoulder somewhat provocatively, revealing about two inches of a white-cotton bra strap and a rounded curve of alabaster skin.

Paul immediately released her hand and gently pulled the sweater to cover the innocent-looking strap, averting his eyes as he did so and pressing his hand to her shoulder in order to make the sweater stay.

“There,” he said softly. “All better now.” Then he retreated ever so quickly so as not to overstay his welcome, tentatively curling his fingers over hers again, still worried she might withdraw at any moment.

Julia watched what he was doing breathlessly, as if it occurred in slow motion. Something about his movement touched her deeply. It was an intimate act but very chaste; he covered her. He covered the smallest most innocent part of her, away from prying and possibly lecherous eyes, and in so doing telegraphed his regard and his respect. Virgil was honoring her.

In that one act, that one gallant and chivalrous act, Paul had made his way into her heart. Not all the way, but to the Vestibule, so to speak.

If his movement represented the contents of his soul, then Julia believed that he would not mind that she was a virgin, and that upon knowing, his acceptance would cover her gently.

He would not ridicule or expose her. He would keep whatever secrets she held between the two of them alone. He would not treat her like an animal to be fucked and violated. He would not wish to share her.

So she did something impetuous — she leaned over and kissed him, but shyly and chastely. There was no rush of blood, no humming, no explosion of fire across her skin. His lips were soft, and he responded hesitantly. Julia felt his surprise in the quick clenching of his jaw. He tensed beneath her lips, no doubt in shock at her boldness. She was sorry for that.

She was sorry his lips were not Gabriel’s. And this kiss was not like those.

In almost half a heartbeat, a great wave of sadness washed over her as she cursed herself for having tasted of something long ago that she could never have after or again. For in partaking of that first taste, she was absolutely ruined. The tasting of the apple was knowledge itself, and now she knew.

Julia pulled back before Paul had a chance to reject her, wondering how she’d managed to be so forward. Wondering what he would think of her now. I’ve just kissed my only Toronto friend good-bye, she thought. Damn it.

“Little Rabbit.” Paul gave her a tender look and immediately brought his fingertips up to caress her cheek. His touch wasn’t electric, but it was light and soothing. Even his skin was kind.

He put his arms around her and drew her against his chest so he could stroke her hair and whisper something sweet in her ear…something to reassure her…something to remove the mixture of confusion and pain he read on her face. His soft whisperings were interrupted by the arrival of a great-winged harpy, wearing four-inch heels and crimson lipstick and carrying two paper cups.

“Well, isn’t this cozy.” A voice, cold and steely, interrupted the couple’s soft moment, and Julia looked up into the harsh brown eyes of Christa Peterson.

Julia sat up quickly and tried to move away from Paul, but he held her fast. “Christa,” he greeted her flatly.

“Slumming with MA students, Paul? How very democratic of you,”

she said, ignoring Julia pointedly.

“Be careful, Christa.” His tone held a warning. “Two fisted, today?

That’s a bit much. Pulling an all-nighter?” He pointed to the cups she was holding, one in each hand.

“You have no idea,” she purred. “One is for me and one for Gabriel, of course. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there, Julianne. I guess he’s still Professor Emerson to you.” Christa cackled like an old chicken.

Julia raised an eyebrow but resisted the urge to set Christa straight or to smack that smug smile off her face. For Julia was a lady. And she liked how Paul’s arm felt about her shoulders and was unwilling to move. At least, not yet.

“You’ve never called him Gabriel to his face, Christa. I dare you to do it the next time you see him.”

Christa’s eyes hardened, and she glared at Paul. Then she smiled. “You dare me? That’s funny. Is that a Vermont thing? Something farmers say to one another when they’re shoveling manure? After my meeting with Gabriel, we’ll probably head over to Lobby for drinks. He likes to go there after work. I’m sure we’ll be exchanging more than, ah… names this evening.”

Her tongue peeked out from between her lips, and she began licking the curve of one of them languorously.

Julia heaved.

“And he’ll take you there?” Paul appeared skeptical.

“He will. Oh, he will.”

Julia gagged and silently swallowed back her stomach contents. For the thought of Gabriel with this… Emerson whore was nauseating in the extreme. Even the waitress at Lobby would be better for him than Christa.

“You’re not his type,” Julia muttered.

“Pardon?”

She looked up into narrowed and suspicious eyes, and she weighed her options for the slimmest of seconds. And decided caution was the better part of valor.

“I said — don’t believe the hype.”

“About what?”

“About Lobby. It’s not that great.”

Christa shot Julia a frosty smile. “As if the doorman would let you in.

Lobby is an exclusive club.”

She looked Julia up and down as if she were a less-than-prized animal.

As if she were an old, half-blind, forgotten pony at a petting zoo. Julia suddenly felt very self-conscious and ugly. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she fought them back bravely.

Paul noticed exactly what Miss Peterson was doing in measuring Julia and finding her wanting. He felt her shiver in reaction to Christa’s feline claw sharpening. So although it pained him to do so, he released Julia’s shoulders and sat forward on the loveseat, flexing his arms.

Don’t make me stand up, bitch, he thought .

“Why wouldn’t they let Julia in, Christa? They only admit working girls now?”

Christa turned very red. “What would you know about it, Paul? You’re practically a monk! Or perhaps that’s what monks do — they pay for it.” She shot a meaningful glance at Julia’s precious new messenger bag.

“Christa, you’re going to shut your mouth right now, or I’m going to stand up. And then all chivalry goes out the window.” Paul glared at her and silently reminded himself that he could not strike a woman. And that Christa was, in fact, a woman, and not an anorexic sow in heat. Paul would never have compared Christa to a cow, for he thought cows were noble creatures. (Especially Holsteins.)

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” she snapped. “I’m sure there are multiple explanations. Maybe Lobby wouldn’t let her in because of her iq.

Gabriel says you’re not that bright, Julianne.”

Christa smiled triumphantly as Julia ducked her head, feeling very small indeed. Paul shifted his weight to the soles of his feet. He wasn’t going to hit Christa; he was simply going to shut her up. And maybe drag her to the exit or something. He needn’t have bothered.

“Oh, really? And what else does Gabriel say?”

The three graduate students turned slowly en masse to look up at the blue-eyed Dante specialist who had sidled up to them silently. None of them were exactly sure how much he’d heard or how long he’d been standing there. But his eyes sparked, and Julia could feel his anger radiating toward Christa. It billowed like a cloud. But thankfully, it did not billow in her direction. This time.

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes, thought Paul.

“Paul.” Gabriel nodded coolly, his eyes flickering to the now noticeable space in between Julianne and his research assistant. The Angelfucker. That’s right — hands off the angel, asshole.

“Miss Mitchell, how nice to see you again.” Gabriel smiled somewhat stiffly. “You’re looking smart, as always.”

Yes, brown-eyed angel, I heard what she said to you. Don’t worry, I’ll fix her.

“Miss Peterson.” Now Gabriel’s voice was cold, and he gestured to her to follow him as if she were a dog. You looked at Julianne as if she were trash.

You won’t be doing that again. I’ll make sure of it.

Julia watched as he refused the coffee Christa bought for him and walked to the counter to order something else. She saw Christa’s shoulders trembling with rage.

Paul turned to Julia and sighed. “Now, where were we?”

She inhaled deeply and took a minute to focus before she did what she knew she needed to do. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry.” She looked down at her leather messenger bag, feeling very uncomfortable.

“I’m not sorry. I’m only sorry that you’re sorry.” Paul brought his face close to hers and smiled. “But it’s all right. I’m not upset or anything.”

“I don’t know what happened. I’m not usually like that — to just kiss someone.”

“I’m not just someone, am I?” He looked at her inquisitively. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for the longest time. Ever since that first seminar, I think. But that would have been too soon.”

He tried to persuade her to look at him, but she looked away. She looked toward another table and its two quarreling occupants. She sighed.

“Julia, the kiss doesn’t have to change anything. Think of it as a moment between friends. It doesn’t have to happen again, unless you want it to.” He searched her face, worriedly. “Would that make it better? If we left it like that?”

She nodded and squirmed. “I’m sorry, Paul. You’ve been nothing but nice to me.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I’m not looking for payment, here. I’m nice to you because I want to be. That’s why I bought you the cd. That’s why the poem reminds me of you. You inspire me.” He leaned closer so that he could whisper in her ear, acutely aware of the fact that a pair of angry sapphire eyes was suddenly focused on him. “Please don’t feel obligated to do anything that you don’t want to do. I’ll be your friend no matter what.”

He paused. “It was a friendly little kiss, instead of a hug. But from now on, we can stick to hugs, if you want. And one day, if you want more…”

“I’m not ready,” she breathed, somewhat surprised that she found honest words to say and found them so quickly.

“I know that. That’s why I didn’t kiss you back much, even though I wanted to. But it was very nice. Thank you. I know you’re careful about who you let yourself get close to. I feel honored that you kissed me.”

He patted her hand and smiled at her again. She opened her mouth to say something, but he beat her to it.

“I could break Christa’s neck for what she said to you. I won’t bother talking to her next time.” His eyes darted to The Professor’s table where he noticed with some relief that the angry sapphire eyes were now fixated on Christa, who was bowing her head and close to tears.

Julia shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“I care. I saw how she was looking at you. And I felt your reaction: you cringed. You fucking cringed, Julia. Why didn’t you tell her to go to hell?”

“I don’t do things like that if I can help it. I try not to lower myself to her level. Sometimes, I just feel so…so surprised that someone is being nasty to me, I can’t think. I’m speechless.”

“People are…nasty to you?” Paul began to get angry.

“Sometimes.”

“Emerson?” he whispered.

“He’s coming around. You saw him just then — he was nice.”

Paul nodded reluctantly. Professor Dick-erson.

Julia fidgeted with her hands. “I don’t mean to be all…St. Francis of Assisi or something, but anyone can shout obscenities. Why should I become like her? Why not think that sometimes — just sometimes — you can overcome evil with silence? And let people hear their hatefulness in their own ears, without distraction. Maybe goodness is enough to expose evil for what it really is, sometimes. Rather than trying to stop evil with more evil. Not that I’m good. I don’t think that I’m good.” She paused and looked over at Paul. “I’m not making any sense.”

He simply smiled. “Of course you’re making sense. We talked about this in my Aquinas seminar — evil is its own punishment. Look at Christa.

Do you think she’s happy? How could she be, behaving like that? Some people are so self-absorbed and deluded that all the shouting in the world wouldn’t be enough to convince them of their own shortcomings.”

“Or jog their memory,” Julia mumbled, gazing over at the other table and shaking her head.

The next day, she found herself in the Department of Italian Studies checking her mailbox before the Dante seminar. She was listening to the cd that Paul had given to her, which she’d finally agreed to accept and upload to her iPod. He was right; she’d fallen in love with the album immediately.

And she found that she could write her thesis proposal while listening to his music much better than while listening to Mozart. Lacrimosa was far too depressing.

After days of finding nothing in her pigeonhole, she finally received some mail. Three pieces of mail, actually.

The first was an announcement of the rescheduling of Professor Emerson’s lecture, Lust in Dante’s Inferno : The Deadly Sin against the Self. Julia made note of the new date and planned on asking Paul if he would accompany her to the lecture.

The second piece of mail was a small cream-colored envelope. Julia opened it and was surprised to find that it contained a Starbucks gift card.

It had been personalized, she saw, and the image on the card was a large light bulb. The text emblazoned across it read: You are very bright, Julianne.

Julia looked at the back of the card and saw that the value was one hundred dollars. Holy shit, she thought. That’s a lot of coffee. It was obvious who had sent it to her and why. Nevertheless, she was very, very surprised.

Until she withdrew the third piece of mail.

The third piece was a long, sleek envelope, which she quickly opened.

It was from the chair of the Department of Italian Studies congratulating her on winning a bursary. She read no further than the amount, which was five thousand dollars per semester, payable on top of her regular graduate student stipend.

O gods of all really poor graduate students with very small hobbit-hole-not-fit-for-a-dog apartments, thank you, thank you, thank you!

“Julianne, are you all right?” The voice of Mrs. Jenkins, comforting and gentle, wafted over her shocked body.

She stumbled uncertainly to Mrs. Jenkins’ desk and wordlessly handed her the award letter.

“Oh yes, I heard about this.” She grinned amiably. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?

These bursaries are few and far between, and suddenly on Monday morning we received a call saying that some foundation had donated thousands of dollars for this award.”

Julia nodded, still in shock.

Mrs. Jenkins glanced down at the letter. “I wonder who he is.”

“Who he is?”

“The person the bursary is named after.”

“I didn’t read that far.”

Mrs. Jenkins held the letter up and pointed to a block of bold print.

“It says that you are the recipient of the M. P. Emerson Bursary. I was just wondering who M. P. Emerson is. I wonder if he’s a relative of Professor Emerson. Although Emerson is a common enough name. It’s probably just a coincidence.”