Soul

Colonel Huntington, washed and dressed in his morning coat, his hair swept back off his brow, stepped out into the cobbled yard. Sobered, he was full of remorse.

He glanced at the stable, then blinked, squinting at the blurred silhouette there. Upon recognising the outline of his wife and the coachman, he turned away and stared up at the sun, warming his blanched face. He had come to apologise, and possibly to call a doctor to the house, a discreet and loyal friend. But now he questioned his own sudden jealousy as he looked on.

60

Los Angeles, 2002

‘This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother,

Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first,

Thous strokedst me, and madest much of me, wouldst

give me

Water with berries in’t, and teach me how

To name the bigger light, and how the less,

That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee

And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,

The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile:

Cursed be I that did so! All the charms

Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!

For I am all the subjects that you have,

Which first was mine own king: and here you sty me

In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me

The rest o’ th’ island.’

CALIBAN, DRESSED IN A FEATHERED loincloth and painted with tribal markings, lurched towards Prospero and the front of the stage. Julia, sitting in the front row, flanked by Gabriel and Naomi, flinched. Gabriel had insisted Julia accompany him to the student production, set on a Spice Island in the seventeenth century, and, at the last minute, Naomi had invited herself along too. Although Julia was sure her friend knew nothing of their affair, she couldn’t help feeling unpleasantly furtive.

On the stage, Caliban was stilled magically by Prospero, dressed as a Dutch spice merchant. Dumbfounded, the ogre staggered drunkenly, his eyes wide with child-like surprise. Julia was transfixed: here was a man fated by his genes, unable to wrestle a way out of his inherent monstrosity. It was heart-wrenching. Julia could barely watch; she recognised the expression of horror on Caliban’s face, that moment of realising one was fatally imprisoned by one’s own nature. Images of the knife sinking into the side of the young Afghani, a startled goat, the falling shepherd, swam before her.

Suddenly claustrophobic, she stood and, despite the disapproval of the audience around her, pushed her way towards the exit sign and out into the cool forgiving night.

She stood on the basketball court that ran alongside the campus building. The air tasted faintly of barbecues, the day’s heat still radiating off the concrete. A silver balloon floated across the tarmac, trailing its string forlornly. The stadium lights suddenly flicked on, flooding the court with neon. Julia leaned against the wall and breathed in deeply, trying to stem a growing sense of panic.

Gabriel stepped out of the auditorium, the sound of the play instantly flooding the court, the theatrical declarations incongruous in the still night.

‘Personally I’ve always thought Caliban should never have trusted Prospero in the first place,’ he said.

‘He’d never met a civilised man before. He didn’t know not to trust.’

‘Come here.’ He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into an embrace.

‘Gabriel, someone will see us.’ Nevertheless Julia rested her head on his chest.

‘I don’t care.’

After a moment, she pushed him away. ‘I would like to surrender to you, but I can’t, you do know that?’