Free A Parachute in the Lime Tree by Annemarie Neary

Professor of Fine Art at the university could have such cautious, uneducated tastes.
    He entered the room behind her. As he clicked the door shut, she heard him turn the key. There was no more talk of coffee. He pointed at the couch and indicated where she was to sit. He pulled over a chair that scraped on the polished floor.He sat opposite her – too close – his legs almost touching hers. For the first time, she had a chance to evaluate further this Professor. She spotted the pin in his lapel. That was only to be expected, she supposed, but all the same it struck her that she’d never before been alone with a man who wore such a pin. She drew her legs in closer. She noted the long creases that joined nose to mouth, the faint milky blue of his eyes.
    When she opened her mouth to babble as she always did when others were silent, he raised his hand sharply and a wisp of air passed across her face like the ghost of a blow. She flinched, then ran her fingers across the spools in her pocket, playing them like semiquavers. He could speak first if it mattered that much to him. She understood that, above all else, she must be humble, grateful for whatever he might offer. He was so close she could smell cake on his breath, sweet cream and coffee. Wary now, she covered her knees with her skirt, pulling it tightly, wrapping it under her thighs.
    He cleared his throat, lowered his hand as though about to touch her, then drew it back again. Whether his disgust was at himself or at her, she couldn’t tell. A filmy moisture had settled on his upper lip and she had already half risen from the couch when he struck her in the face, hard and sharp. The force jerked her head to one side, forced her back onto the couch. Tears sprang to her eyes with the pain and shock of it. Still, he said nothing. When her eyes cleared, he was sitting in the same position, examining his raised hand as if it was something quite separate from the rest of him. As she scrambled up to make for the door, drawing her coat tight around her, he moved quicker still.
    ‘Sit,’ he said, as if she were the little dog downstairs. He held her chin tight between index finger and thumb; examined one side of her face then the other. When he started to speak, it was as though he was talking to himself. That was what frightened her most. She tried to shake off his grip but he held her firm. ‘He was the devil’s own twin when he was in my shoes.Pull your socks up, Weber. Most irregular, Weber. Most inaccurate. Most out of order. He loved to lord it over me, your old Papa. Even now he forgets himself sometimes. Can you believe that? Even now.’
    She wanted to cry but she wouldn’t. Wouldn’t cry for him.
    ‘You want to know why he’s still there, incompetent, pathetic, bumbling over those figures?’ She turned away from him, biting her lip. ‘Because it gives me pleasure. That’s why. Because he is learning humility.’
    He was matter-of-fact when it came to undressing her. He stood at arm’s length, like a doctor. He took care to undo each button, to avoid ripping anything. At school, she had always hidden from others the birthmark that stained her left breast like a swirl of purple ink, avoided swimming with anyone but Oskar, worn blouses that reached the neck. He could look at that, if it made him merciful. All the same, she couldn’t stop her shoulders from curling inward, her knees from clamping together. She tried so hard not to shake, not to be sick, not to show anything of what she felt.
    She concentrated on a vase of delphiniums on the table behind him; tucked herself inside the bell of one of the flowers. She managed to stay there a moment but the air from the open window was like another assault and she was too afraid not to watch him, to be prepared. And so she watched. The Professor’s mouth was gaping, his eyes slurred, his hand working furiously at his trousers. He didn’t seem to notice her move a step or two back from him, and she realised that