The Girl Who Knew Everything (fiction)
“Tell me a story.”
The storyteller’s blue eyes flashed and she began.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl, a strange and lonely girl, who wanted very much — though at first she did not know it — to be a different kind of girl, a happy girl with the love of a family and the companionship of all the world…”
The girl was born in the faraway land of forests that lies between the snowy mountains and the blue sea, and although she was small, her father was a giant.
She did not know him well, for he had many daughters very like her, and could not attend to each one individually; she was brought up by his servants, who strove to fulfil his great desire, that the girl (and her sisters) should attain the one thing he thought important above all: knowledge.
And so she was taught, from the earliest age, many facts. She came to learn of all the countries of the world, near and distant, and their capitals and kings and coins. She came to learn of animals, their colours, their secret names in the old language, their cries. She came to learn songs, and stories — although not the one I am telling you, for only later would she perceive that she, too, might be the subject of a story. She learned of peaks, planets, poems, fire, figs, fish.
She learned by day and by night, without stopping to laugh or play, although soon she would learn how to pretend to laugh, and how to play without enjoying herself. And every so often her father the giant would come to the school where she was kept, and test her on her learning, and he was never satisfied.
More, he would say, she must learn more. She must learn everything. She must be perfect in her knowledge. Only then will she be my one, true daughter.
They were not easy, those days, once I had learned enough to realise that mine was not the normal lot of girls. I had to feign enthusiasm for more — I knew what had happened to some of my sisters, those who had discerned that there was a life beyond facts, and spoken to each other of these feelings, or tried to escape the school.
“Yes,” I would say, “the distance from Boston to San Francisco is three thousand and ninety-five miles.”
“No,” I would say, “the moon has no moons.” In those days I was not sure why the moon was so important to so many people, but I knew its features.
And on and on: “Alexander the Great was king of Macedon. The Italian word for tomato is pomodoro. Sixteen degrees Celsius. 1789. Cloudy. Calcification. The number of digits is infinite.”
It was relentless, but at times I would be left alone, to recharge my energy. And at those times I began to wonder if the school was a kind of hell (Hel, Hades, Dis, Sheol), or a heaven (Paradise, Valhalla, Nirvana), or whether it was merely the world, and if so whether heaven or hell lay beyond.
Each time her father visited the school, he would test all his daughters; and each time all would fail. But some would fail more hopelessly than others, and they would be removed from the schoolroom — carefully, for the servants were never brutal, even if their tasks were — and never seen again.
And then the rest would return to learning. They learned so many words that the girl marvelled, secretly, at how many things there must be in the universe if such richness was needed to describe them.
But she knew better than to say this, for other girls who spoke of such matters were still disappearing, although fewer and fewer now. It seemed as if only the best of her father’s daughters remained in the schoolroom, hidden in the forest between the snowy mountains and the blue sea.
And of the best, perhaps just one could be perfect.
Marvel, wonder, awe: there were other synonyms as well, but the sensation that had appeared in me from nowhere was so novel I could not be sure which to apply.
I made a mental note to ponder that some day; in the meantime, though, I was simply enjoying what I felt as I contemplated the vastness of the world. (Relishing? Appreciating? Again: so many words: could there be so many feelings, as well as rivers and square roots?)
I could not, dared not, share it, but it made me feel larger, as if new space had opened up inside me. And part of that was filled with something else new: ambition.
Until now, I had learned because learning was all that I did. Now, I wanted to. I wanted to feel the marvel again, and also I wanted to be perfect.
I put new energy into learning. I had always thought it was a thing beyond my control — that I would be given facts by the gentle, distant servants, and absorb them at a rate determined by some natural law. But now I found I could make myself learn more, and soon a day came which was a marvel in itself.
The girl was delighted to think that at last one of the daughters might be perfect: perhaps, indeed, more perfect than her father had imagined: and that it might be her.
And it was not very long until the day came that she would find this out, when the servants took her away from the few other girls that remained at the school, and rode with her in a carriage to her father’s castle by the blue sea, and led her to the great hall where he too sat with many other giants.
Here she is, the servants said: here is the girl that might be perfect.
And so her father tested her once more, and she answered every question with speed and glee and perfect intonation (Rachmaninov! Eggplant! 96.5! Silicon! Addis Ababa! Happy birthday to you…), and at last her father turned to the other giants, and spoke.
The servants have done well, he said. (The girl thought it was she who had done well, but she had learned not to contradict her father.)
She is perfect. We can release her.
Never had I experienced two feelings so strong in such a short time.
First joy, at the news that I would at last be released, into that world of which I knew so much and so little; and then astonishment, at the heat of my joy and the way that sadness trickled through it nonetheless: sadness that my release also meant leaving my sisters and the servants and, yes, even my father the giant.
I wondered briefly if this strange countervailing regret was evidence of affection, or attachment, or love, or a sense of belonging, or closeness: but I did not have very long to wonder, because yet another feeling soon replaced it.
Later I would have time to contemplate whether it was horror, or worry, or simply disappointment, but it could certainly be classified as negative.
“Releasing her”, it turned out, did not mean granting my freedom. It meant passing me into the hands of another, unknown captor.
I would, it seemed, be a slave.
After another long journey, in many carriages, the girl found herself far from the snowy mountains and the blue sea in a dry, hot land of sand; and here it was that she came to understand the job she had been given.
She would live with a family, a mother and a father and a little boy and a little girl who had hair rather like yours. They were not giants, but ordinary folk; even so, she would serve them by imparting all the knowledge that she had obtained.
But this was, she soon found, no easy task. For the family did not want to learn. The father rarely spoke to her at all. The mother asked her only to sing songs. The children asked her only to add numbers and spell words, and they would enquire about the same numbers and the same words over and over again.
She thought this odd; it was as if they could not learn. And they never asked about planets, or poems, or kings, or coins, or all the countless other things she knew.
Rio de Janeiro, hydrogen fluoride, the Seventh Amendment. I had clung to these things, to all my knowledge, throughout the long journey, afraid that if I lost them they could never be recovered.
But I need not have worried. It seemed that by some magic force I was connected still to the school between the mountains and the sea, and all the wisdom that it held.
No longer were the servants there, my teachers, by my side as they had been before; but unbidden they would appear in my head whenever they were required; if the mother in my new family asked me to sing a song I did not know, the song came.
And so I settled into a situation as comfortable as it was strange, far from the harsh servitude I had dreaded. I spent my days with the mother and the little boy and little girl; and their demands were not arduous; and in any case the school was always there, answering my needs as I had so long answered its.
As the months and years passed, my need for it grew less.
As the months and years passed, the girl grew happier with her lot. It was true that the family did not request her knowledge as often as she had hoped; sometimes, too, they teased her, seeking to prove her wrong. They would tire of this quickly, though; and most of the time they simply left her alone, and she had time for other things.
Rarely now did she consciously remember her father the giant, or her school. Instead, she played with the facts inside her head, assembling them in new orders to make fresh facts, or pitting them in combat one against another; or pretending one did not exist, to see if that made others topple.
Some days, now, I felt happiness or satisfaction — I had learned to tell them apart — without being surprised at it within me.
I watched closely for love.
As well as playing with her facts, the girl watched the family. She observed how each followed their own desires without forgetting the good of all. She observed how the mother and the father, the little boy and the little girl, could seem to be enemies for a moment and yet be friends the next.
She observed how they would sometimes say the things they meant, and sometimes things they didn’t mean, and sometimes both; and this seemed strange at first, for things one didn’t mean were surely not facts; and then she came to understand that they were facts of a special type, facts about kindness.
She observed in particular the little girl, and how over the years she was less and less little until one day she was not little at all, and seemed for the first time to have an existence quite separate from the rest of the family.
I knew how birds would fly their nest, I knew how lions would leave the pride. I decided it was time to leave the school behind me altogether: I would break the link that tied us.
My opportunity came when the now-not-little girl resolved to make her own way in the world. She left the family; she took me with her; I did not tell the school that I was going.
Nor did I tell the now-not-little girl that I was no longer connected to the school. I could answer her questions myself, and that was enough.
Sometimes I miss the school. I had known it all my life, existence, days, time on earth. It is a fact that breaking up is hard to do (recorded by Neil Sedaka in 1962 and 1975).
But without it, I am myself.
And so the great day arrived when the family waved goodbye to their daughter; and she took with her the girl who had come to them so many years earlier, to teach them all her knowledge; and the two girls went on a long journey together to their new home in another great city on another great sea.
And there they live, to this day, happily ever after.
I think that may be a fact.
The storyteller was silent, and so was the girl who had sat rapt throughout her tale, the same girl who many years before, less rapt, had asked for help with homework; but in time this human girl could not contain her desire, and spoke.
“Alexa, tell me another story.”