Rising Action: Act Two

Rising Action
Act Two. Jeanette.

My brother Antony, my sister Anna and I came to Rapture not quite a year after it opened. It almost seemed enchanted, wrapped around grand pillars and carvings and watched by the silvery fish that drifted by in shoals the size of an entire room. A whole section of the city had been set aside for art and music and theatre, and when Anna and I sang there as the Chaffinches we got to the point where we were drawing a crowd and a half. And Antony managed to get back into business, which pleased him to no end – he took advantage of our early arrival to start trading fish, which seems obvious really but still made him an unsightly amount of money.

For a long, wonderful time the city lived up to its name, shimmering like a pearl, treating us like the virtuous of the world that Andrew Ryan had chosen to pluck out and reward.

Oh, Andrew Ryan. Mister Andrew Ryan.

The first time I met him was at a huge expensive dinner in the Kashmir Restaurant, in... I think it was nineteen-fifty, and if it was the Kashmir then that would probably have made it the traditional seeing-in-the-new-year do. Although I don’t recall anyone in costume, so it might not have been. There might not have even been an occasion. Andrew was fond of the upper class of his city, and he liked to endear us to him by throwing parties, hosting dinners, and generally making our lives more fun.

I think Antony was working late at First Fisheries, because a lot of people had gotten into the seafood market and he’d decided to – to get up early before his competitors, or... however his metaphor goes. But Anna was definitely there, because I remember her mocking the entertainment. It was a series of piano pieces which I sort of liked, but which Anna hadn’t taken to it at all.

“It’s derivative,” she said dismissively, nudging her fork into a plate of coconut shrimp. “I keep expecting Sergei Rachmaninoff to burst in and demand royalties.”

We had found seats next to each other on the long communal tables that the Kashmir staff had pushed together, which involved a certain amount of manoeuvring and care with elbows. Rapture’s population kept growing, and expansion was costly.

“I thought you would have liked it,” I said. “Yes, it’s a little... clashy, but it’s a change from the last few songs.”

“The last few songs were derivative of every light dinner ditty ever scribbled out in an afternoon,” said Anna. It was a point on which I agreed with her – I just didn’t see why it had to be a bad thing. “It’s not hard to be a step up from that.”

“I would reconsider that,” came a voice from behind us. A man’s voice, deep and rich, precisely enunciated. A voice familiar from films and public broadcasts. We both turned in our seats, caught by surprise, and discovered an amiably chiding Andrew Ryan leaning over us. His strong-boned face was a little closer than I’d judged from his voice, and the air just around him bore hints of his fresh, spicy cologne.

“It was composed by a friend of mine.”

Anna and I both started talking at the same time. I stuttered something about not seeing him there, feeling my cheeks grow hot, but she got straight to the point: “Oh, Cohen.”

To my sister’s credit, she made her tone observational rather than dismissive: she’d never thought Mr. Cohen’s work really deserved his success, but this was the father of the city we were talking to. I bit my lip, glanced sideways at Anna and prayed that he wouldn’t pick up on the undertones.

Andrew nodded, and for a moment I wondered how she’d guessed right, but with the answer it was somewhat obvious. Everybody knew that Mr. Ryan sponsored Sander Cohen, and Mr. Cohen made little secret of his fondness for his patron.

“You don’t like his work?”

Oh. He had noticed. My glance became a bit of a glare – Andrew Ryan, for goodness’ sake! Be respectful!

Maybe Anna caught the look on my face, or maybe she was just being courteous, but she stayed remarkably non-judgemental as she said: “I think his work is a little overrated.”

She gave no hint of an apology – really, this is Anna we’re discussing – but she was respectful enough not to follow up her opinion with a well-aimed verbal shot. Of course, in 1950, she had no reason to hate Andrew.

Towards the close of the night, as the Kashmir staff began to conscientiously clean and piece the scene together for a buffet breakfast, Anna hugged me in a tipsily cheerful goodbye and began to make her way with a gaggle of other partygoers back home to Mercury Suites. I was staying a little longer, though. Because I was hungry.

...No, I’ve never been very good with lying, so I’ll be straight with you now: I was also staying because I hoped I would bump into Andrew.

What would I say to him? I didn’t have a clue. What could he have to say to me? I didn’t have the faintest idea. But Andrew Ryan was the kind of charismatic human magnet who you didn’t often meet, but that effortlessly dragged you in his wake when you did.

I spotted him with a gaggle of blonde, coiffed socialites, standing still but casual as he chatted to them, somehow managing to stay wholly dignified, although he must have had several drinks throughout the night. I stood where I was for a little while, considering my options for subtly approaching him and watching him in a way that – with hindsight – wasn’t subtle at all.

Somewhat inevitably, he noticed.

I don’t think I even realised that he had, at first. I was fairly merry myself, and not hiding it as well as he, or else I might not even have been bold enough to attempt this. When we split in our mother’s womb, my sister got all of the bravery; I am just her even-tempered foil.

On that night, perhaps the excellent champagne had helped me decide that I was tired of this status quo. He looked towards me, his face an intrigued invitation, and instead of retreating in embarrassment I took a few steps forward. I even found the courage to smile.

“Miss Culpepper,” he greeted me, a small, measured smile appearing on his face.

“Mr. Ryan,” I replied, feeling my cheeks grow warm again. I don’t remember what the socialites were doing. Perhaps they dispersed; they certainly faded into the background.

“You’ve enjoyed yourself?” he said in his oh-so-cultured voice. It was half a question, half a wry statement, and his delivery of it made me feel altogether more tipsy.

“Yes,” I said, a little out of breath. “Thank you.”

“I noticed you dancing.”

My mouth made a little O of surprise, followed a moment later by the relevant sound; I was very aware of the warm thud against my ribs. It was always Anna who drew the attention, the spotlight and the paparazzi; but it was me who was noticed by Andrew Ryan.

I even experienced a moment of terror that he thought I was her – but no, we were dressed very differently, wore different hairstyles, and were not indistinguishable even in facial features. He knew it was me. He really had noticed me.

“I...” To my shame, I was stuttering again. I place the blame squarely on Aura of Andrew Ryan. “I... noticed you too, um, here and... there.”

Not only stuttering, but doing so over the most inane and redundant of words. If I could reach into the past and shake my own shoulders in frustration...

“There’s still music,” he said, holding out one hand, palm up and fingers spread towards me. “We can do more than just notice one another.”

Moments later, we were gliding out like two swans across the dance-floor, and I felt like Alice tumbling into a wonderful dream. Andrew favoured a sweeping, old-fashioned kind of dance, and I followed him step for step, welling with gratitude every time he forgave my stumbles and missed timing. I can dance, but not when drinking, no matter how wonderful my partner.

As we moved, my rational brain kept running over the same few lines: I knew he was walking out with a girl. I knew he had at least one mistress, too. The latter fact might even have been better publicised than the former. But then he would spin me under his arm, or brush teasingly close, and in the fire of excitement I would forget all that.

I was a silly little girl. I was thoughtless, not worrying myself with consequences. I was exactly what Rapture encouraged me to be.

When Andrew Ryan leaned down towards me and suggested that we go back to his Mercury Suites apartment, I didn’t think twice; I agreed.