The Gray Pearl Ring

There was a time when my palm would hurt occasionally for no reason when I was writing. Then, I recalled, after long years, that I should find a way to tell her that her gray pearl ring is safe with me, whom she had not met before the wedding, nor after the wedding. She sat right next to me, with the second last row of guests, her hands folded, resting on a book on her lap. No one was sitting next to us, as an empty seat separated us from guests in the same row. Instinctively, as a writer, I scrutinized her. She was no more than sixteen, much younger than other guests, in a midnight blue floral dress that had daisies on it. A small straw hat, decorated with a white plume held in place by a bow, cast a shadow on her face. A gray pearl ring glistened on her ring finger as she adjusted the angle of her hat. Far at the front, where a large arch of flowers stood, two couples–yes, two couples because my friend and her twin sister decided to marry on the same day–smiled in front of photographers, who crouched near the long tables of champagne glasses that flanked the arch. Behind the happy couples was a castle built in the 11^th century, where dinner would be served. All of these were afforded by the wealthy husbands, who wholeheartedly supported the sisters when their father, the owner of a company, died from a heart attack and their mother was bedridden. 

“Liars,” the girl said. “All of you.” 

Hearing this, I was captured by a misty premonition, as the plume on her hat loosened itself and fell on the grass. As soon as I picked it up, she took it back and thanked me, avoiding my eyes. Out of curiosity I asked her name and why she came to the wedding. To sound more friendly, I told her that I came for my friend. It was obvious that my inquiry only bothered her, for she answered impatiently that she was here for someone significant to her. When I pursued the question, or asked who were the liars she was talking about, she pretended to not hear me.

Then the ceremony began. Then the procession, two pairs of bride and groom, parents of the grooms, the ring bearer, and the flower girls walked down the aisle. Then the officiant introduced the two couples standing below the arch, my friend and her husband on the left, right in front of our side. I looked at the girl. She straightened herself, then craned her neck to see the wedding more clearly. Apparently her eyes lodged on my friend and her husband. Soon, with a grimace, she squinted her eyes, her head turned to the bushes and trees on the other side of the garden, where thick walls of green isolated the wedding guests. The couples stood like obedient school children, listening to the officiant’s tedious preachings about love and family. With her thumb she rubbed the gray pearl of her ring clean. She must be talking about my friend and her husband. I hesitated, and told her my surmise. She nodded, though not as impressed by my observation as I expected. 

“That’s observant of you,” she remarked without looking at me, “Quite observant.”

“Why do you hate them so much and call them liars?”

“I don’t. I’m just telling the truth.” She turned to me, emotionlessly. “Do you think you can tell the difference between your friend and her sister, if they switch places?

“Probably, by looking at their hairstyles, clothes, you know, things like these.”

She shook her head. “You have to look at things that don’t easily change.”

“For example?”

“The bride on our side, your friend, the shape of her earlobes is a bit different from her twin sister’s, because she wears earrings less often. The tiny mole under her right eye is not actually a mole; it’s a scar from when she fought with her sister over their favorite pencil. When she smiles, she tries to hide her teeth. She thinks her teeth are too crooked, unlike her sister’s. Her step is a bit smaller so that she looks more elegant.”

“How did you know all these?”

A moment of silence. “Perhaps I heard it from someone.”

“Who?”

“None of your business.” She frowned at me, and said so like a judge sentencing someone to death. I was convinced by her tone, and her face that hardened in determination, that I was obliged to protect my friend’s wedding. Who else could be so familiar with my friend to know all the intimate details, and also knew this girl?

Thus, when she asked, with a stern face, what my friend’s husband was like, I pretended to be unaware of her intention and talked about this man’s great qualities, his intelligence, generosity, and kindness towards nearly everyone in the world. As a young entrepreneur he was able to revive a company at the verge of its bankruptcy and made it peerless. His friend, the husband of the bride’s sister, was a genius in finance and business too. The more I talked about his character, achievements of him and his friend, and how he fell in love with my friend, the more she grew pale, until her face was a chilled whiteness of the winter moon. Once again, her eyes fell on the lush walls of freshly pruned pink roses, staring at it long enough to see through the thick, glossy leaves. Infuriated, she heaved a sigh and forced what was violently quivering in her to be composed, which confirmed my wild assumption: she was in love with my friend’s husband. I cast my eyes on my friend in the lace wedding dress. Did she know anything about this girl? Both couples were ready to pledge. 

“If anyone objects to this ceremony, speak now or forever hold your peace. Now, does anyone object?”

My reaction must look embarrassing in the eyes of other guests, if they saw me—I was prepared to hold the girl back, if she ever dared to crash my friend’s wedding. I must have grasped her wrist before I realized. Under her breath, in the rustle of leaves, she said yes. Timidly. Clearly. Yes. I gasped and feared that the wedding would be halted. No one heard her. My friend looked calm and lovely. Her sister seemed jittery as she kept looking at rows of guests on her side. No one, except woman in front of her, seemed to lend half an ear to the girl’s scarcely audible confession, her gold earrings dangling. Others only saw my ridiculously dramatic movement.

She did not repeat it, or raise her volume to be heard. A child's shame would not let her go further. Her watery eyes blinked. Meanwhile it was formally declared that both couples were lawfully wedded. I condemned my friend’s husband in secret, as he kissed my friend affectionately. He was a liar, a manipulator, he must have used his money and charm to bribe this girl, to treat her as his plaything, and this child was gullible enough to believe him. How could I reveal this man’s hidden cruelty to my friend and disgrace her, at such a moment? Guests near us, who earlier turned a deaf ear to the girl’s objection, now listened curiously to her. I explained to them that the girl was overjoyed. Everything was too late: the girl did not stop this, and I, who could only deduce so much, had little ground to say anything at all. I watched how the plume on the girl’s hat shivered in her sobs. We sat in cowardice, she with tears and I with silence. 

The wedding must have continued despite what happened between me and the girl, while I cared only about this strange girl. I thrusted a pack of tissues into the girl’s hand, as her accomplice. As the officiant announced it was time for two couples to shake hands with guests, she cut her weeping. She smoothed her dress in panic, which was creased as she clutched it to not weep too hard, and lowered the brim of her straw hat to cover as much of her face as she could. My friend and her husband had already talked to a few guests in the front row and were moving towards us. The girl stood up, her back facing them. 

“I must–I have to–” She was choked with words. “I’m sorry. I have bothered you enough. I should go, I can’t–” She paused to find the word. “Stay.” 

She took off her gray pearl ring and handed it to me. “A gift for you.” And when I was about to reject this precious gift, “I don’t need this anymore.” A hand held out in front of me and we shook hands. “Please send my best regards to your friend’s husband for me, would you? You know him better, a lot better than I do. And your friend…Send my regards to her, too.”

She gently squeezed my hand as she said this, with the strength of a woman. 

“Yes. Most certainly to your friend, and her sister. To her. And her.”

Her shoulders trembled as she drew her hand out of mine. Before I could say anything to keep her, she hurried away, to dodge the coming couple. The white fluffy plume on her hat dropped on the grass as she escaped (a guest almost bumped into her but she had no time to apologize for that). It lay there, not noticed by anyone, plucked away from a thing with feathers that was not yet full-fledged.

“Who is that girl?” My friend’s husband asked, his arm holding my friend’s. I said I had no idea. He nodded in a hypocritical confusion, said he saw us whisper to each other, but questioned no more. We started a friendly conversation about today’s weather, what a nice venue they picked for the wedding, and the like. The girl was not brought up again. Her ring was in my pocket. When the husband moved away to talk to the guests behind me, the bride followed slowly, and brushed her hair back. Around her neck was a silver string; on the string, a gray pearl hung from her collarbone. 

A familiar shade. A familiar shape. 

“Nice necklace,” I tried to sound genuine, “Where did you get that?”

“He bought two sets of gray pearl jewelries for us,” she said, pointing at her husband, “isn’t he the most generous man in the world? Look at how round and shiny it is! I heard grey pearls are much rarer than white pearls.”

“I saw the same pearl on another…” I whispered to her as the husband could turn around anytime.

“Oh my, that’s a good one! Very imaginative of you, I will say.” Once she caught my implications, she chuckled, and then laughed so loud that my ears hurt.

“Honestly, thank you. You made my day.” As she managed to control her laughter, she whispered to me. “I can’t be happier to have you as my friend, but I have to tell you this: I have much freedom as he has, we both knew this when we were engaged. He is a man, after all, I understand that. I’m very glad that he understands who I am too. Don’t worry. I'm not worried about him at all.”

She paused to allow me to recover from what I heard.

“It’s true. Seriously, my sister worries me much more than him. You know what a stubborn girl she is. She wouldn’t see him for days when she knew she had to marry!” She giggled and covered her mouth.

“Isn’t she in love with your husband’s friend?”

“Of course they are! I could see the sparks right away. They had met quite a few times when he proposed. It’s love at first sight, her first time in love, too. She must find it overwhelming. She said she wasn’t ready and needed more time. How childish of her, playing hard to get! But, really, she couldn’t marry any better than this, and how rude it is to keep him begging!” My friend’s hands were fanatic as she went on. “I was dead worried that she would say no and made him wait too long. I mean, at least she should think about what our parents left us.”

She cleared her throat and twisted the diamond ring on her finger triumphantly. “I always told her that she was hanging out with her girl friends at the reading club too much, she should be in touch with men more. Well, she finally—I’m coming, honey! Sorry, I have to leave, but nice talking to you!” She clumsily lifted the heavy wedding dress and rushed to her husband. Again, she put on a cordial smile to greet the guests.

I walked along the green walls of roses that guarded the garden after my friend continued to talk with other guests. Behind a bush were two voices conversing in melancholy, and, after meeting on lips, ended in the sound of something torn and a shudder of leaves. Through the bush I peeked a thin white strand of lace. When guests were gone, I took out the gray pearl ring, in the shade of bushes, and felt something on the inside of the ring. A name, a tarnished name, a feminine name, was engraved on the silver that was no longer shining. As the bridal white of sunlight gradually subsided into a midnight blue, blending into a darkening gray in clouds, I held the gray pearl ring in my writing hand so hard that a round, blunt pain was pressed into my palm, to remember how many secrets one must hide to survive the grayness of love.