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Lights and groups of people were scattered on the sloping paths and clustered at the auditorium, where a movie was playing. They always had to over-amplify the movies there to compensate for the projection system's decrepitude and the College Gothic building's poor acoustics, so that this and every clear Friday night were eerie with the sounds of common words and common noises—footfalls, flaring matches, falling papers—all bouncing like huge beach balls of inflated meaning against the ringing stones and sky. I had been listening as usual for the peculiar strong sibilant voice of the hallmate I'd slept with just that once; with raw ears I heard insects buzz and click against the lanterns hanging far above the women's heads, as I drew nearer and the mother, seeing me, paused for breath. We all looked at one another. Almost at once the mother turned back upon the girl, unable to restrain that explosive sense of being utterly right and tragically wronged which possesses mothers when they pay visits to their daughters: once again her words, her voice, began to scale the resonant night, every tuft of knotted growth a foothold on their conquest of the silent girl who stood frowning on the bright porch, yearning towards the sparkling, ringing darkness, past listening: she was an ear as deep as the world. |