A Tangled Web

by Judith Michael

  Stephanie ran her hand over the fabric, cotton as smooth as silk, the patterns ranging from a small floral on the place mats to bold stylized flowers and branches on the tablecloths. She and Jacqueline were sitting on the floor beside stacks of packages, a knife and scissors and cafe au lait on a low table nearby. The shop was not yet open and the high-ceilinged room was in shadows where lights had not been turned on. Beyond the windows, the cours Gambetta was crowded with office workers leaving the cafes to go to work, shopkeepers unlocking their doors, and trucks and cars and motorcycles jamming the street in an early morning rush punctuated by horns and the squeal of brakes.

  Inside Jacqueline en Provence, all was hushed and peaceful, the furniture and fabrics crowded together as if in a warm, familiar living room, Jacqueline and Stephanie talking in low voices and sipping their hot coffee. Jacqueline had asked her to come in early to unwrap the shipment, and so for the first time in the two weeks Stephanie had worked there, they had a quiet time for talking. Two women talking together, Stephanie thought. Two friends. At first there was only Madame Besset; now there is Jacqueline.

  “Of course these are all new,” Jacqueline went on as they unwrapped other packages and laid the folded tablecloths and place mats in baskets for display. “The old pieces, mostly lace but a few silk and linen, are in the armoire across the room. We’ll talk about them next.”

  “I looked at them yesterday when you were out,” Stephanie said. “And I found a book in the back room on antique fabrics; I read it last night.”

  Jacqueline smiled. “Soon I’ll have nothing to teach you. But, my dear, it wasn’t necessary to read the whole book in one night; you don’t have to study as if I’m going to give you a test.”

  “Oh, but I liked doing it. I always read late when my husband is out of town.”

  “He’s an impressive man, your husband; I’d like to know him better.” Jacqueline folded a large tablecloth, laid eight matching napkins on top and tied them all together with a wide green crepe ribbon. “I was sorry you couldn’t come to my dinner party the other night.”

  “Dinner party?”

  “On Saturday. I mailed the invitation; it was foolish, of course, since I see you every morning, but I like the formality of written invitations, and the element of surprise.” She tilted her head and contemplated Stephanie. “And you are surprised, but not the way I anticipated.”

  “Max didn’t tell me. We were in Aix on Saturday, but we had plenty of time . . . in fact, we went out to dinner that night. He wanted us to be together because he was leaving the next day. But he should have told me.”

  “Husbands often think their decisions need no explanation.”

  Their eyes met and they smiled. “I didn’t know you were married,” Stephanie said.

  “I am not But I have been, twice. It embarrasses me to say it. Marriage is not like folding tablecloths: it is of such greater proportions that one should take care to learn from one’s first mistake and never repeat it. But I did. When I realized it, two years into my second marriage, I could not believe it. I have always been proud of my intelligence. How could it fail me so completely? I did not even have youth as a defense; I was over fifty. I had no excuse at all.”

  Stephanie gazed at her in surprise. “How old are you?”

  “Sixty-two in a few weeks. A very good age in most regards, though I find I am not as patient with fools as I once was, and every year it seems that there are more fools than one would have thought possible.”

  “You don’t look sixty-two.”

  “And what does sixty-two look like?”

  Stephanie laughed. “I don’t know. Just . . . older. Someone who doesn’t move furniture around the way you do, and climb ladders and talk about skiing off-piste at Chamonix and keep moving for hours without sitting down. And, I suppose, gray hair.”

  “Ah, well, as for the hair, that needs some help, which I give it regularly; otherwise you would see gray, perhaps not all, but enough to create an impression. The rest, however, is me. I am blessed with health and energy. And sixty-two, you know, is, after all, quite young; there is nothing one stops enjoying at that age. And you, my dear? How old—”

  “Do you think you’ll marry again?” Stephanie asked.

  Jacqueline looked at her curiously; already she knew enough about this woman to know that she would not be deliberately rude. But now she was rude. Why would it bother her to be asked her age, when she was clearly so much younger than Jacqueline? Well, another time, perhaps; meanwhile the question was easily answered. “No, most certainly not. I do not need the financial support of a man and there is always the possibility of another failure. And I like living alone; I like to live to a pattern and rhythm I make for myself. I don’t get lonely; I have many friends and resources. And a man, of course. It is essential to have a man when one wants him. Or men, on occasion, though I prefer one at a time, and at the moment there is only one.”

  Stephanie had stopped opening packages and was sitting very still, her eyes fixed on the fine sculpted lines of Jacqueline’s face. She felt very happy because Jacqueline was being so open, and in that way making her a part of her life. Stephanie felt that she was learning what it really meant to have a woman friend. She thought of Max and realized how alone she had been until now, without a woman to talk to and learn from. And so, thinking still of Max, she asked what would have seemed an impermissibly intimate question but now was not, because Jacqueline had made it permissible. “And do you love him?”

  “No, nor does he love me,” Jacqueline said easily. “That part of it definitely is not essential. We like each other and we have a pleasant time together, and that is quite enough.”

  “But you trust him.”

  “Trust? I think that is a word for marriage, not for an arrangement of convenience. It is a question I have not asked. Do you ask it about your husband?”

  “Yes,” Stephanie said, and felt a wonderful sense of relief as the word came out and she knew that Jacqueline had made it possible for her to say many things. “Not that he won’t take care of me; I know he will. But that he is . . . what he says he is.”

  “Oh, well, my dear, how many of us are what we say we are? We all have hidden pasts, hidden lusts or fears or hatreds or loves . . .” She gazed at Stephanie for a moment. “But you mean more than that. You mean you think he is not as honorable as he seems.”

  Stephanie nodded.

  “That should become clear the longer you live with him. One thing I discovered about marriage was that almost always one learns far more about a spouse than one ever wished to know.”

  “I want to know everything,” Stephanie said. “I don’t like blank spaces.”

  “Well, we all have our own needs. I think a little mystery keeps us on a fine edge of interest. It is like the sun slipping in and out of great dark clouds; suddenly the world is brilliantly transformed, and if we have been drowsing or inattentive we are brought back instantly to beauty, and to life.”

  “Do you feel that way about the man you’re with now?”

  “Ah, no. If I did, we would have a grand passion instead of a pleasant friendship. We are very different, and neither of us feels the need to share too much or to enjoy the mystery of each other. That does not mean we do not have a good time and, in fact, need each other. If we parted tomorrow I would miss him very much for a while, but I would wish him well for the pleasure we have had, and he would do the same for me. That is all I want.”

  Jacqueline picked up another package and slit the wrapping paper carefully along one end to avoid cutting the fabric inside. “Have you been married long?” she asked.

  “No. A few months.” Stephanie’s hands rested in her lap; a small frown was between her eyes.

  “Well, you will find how very much you learn in the first year. Probably you will fill in most of those blank spaces you don’t like.” She slipped the fabric from the wrapper and began to separate the tablecloths and the napkins. Without looking up, she asked casually, “How ol
d are you, my dear?”

  There was a silence. “I don’t know,” Stephanie said at last.

  Jacqueline’s head shot up. “Why is that?”

  “Because I don’t know anything about myself except what I’ve done since October. Because I have no memory. Because I’ve lost myself.”

  “Oh, my poor little one.” Jacqueline swept aside the tablecloths and place mats and took Stephanie in her arms. “What a terrible thing. You remember nothing? Nothing comes back to you?”

  “A few bits and pieces. I think my mother’s name was Laura. I knew someone named Penny, probably a little girl. I never lived alone. I cut roses with a silver scissors.”

  “And you know design.”

  “Maybe. Just because I rearranged—” Stephanie pulled back within Jacqueline’s arms. “How did you know I rearranged our living room?”

  “I didn’t know it. But I’m not surprised. I’ve been watching you in the two weeks you’ve been here; you’ve been moving things around the shop since the day you arrived.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Why should you be?”

  “Because it’s your shop, not my living room.”

  “But the more you treat it as your living room, the better it looks. Sabrina, I could have stopped you at any time; I did not, because you have a very good eye and an excellent sense of harmony. I like everything you have done. I would guess that you were an interior designer once, or at least you worked with furnishings. Tell me what happened. Did you have an accident? You were injured?”

  Stephanie brushed aside her hair to expose the scar on her forehead. “There was an explosion on a boat. Max got me away and held me in the water until another boat picked us up. That’s what he says; I don’t remember any of it. I was in a hospital in Marseilles for two months; there was a wonderful plastic surgeon there and Max says I look the same now as I did before. But . . .”

  “Yes? There is more?”

  Stephanie nodded. She had not told this to Robert or to Max, but she wanted to tell Jacqueline. “About a week ago I called the hospital in Marseilles and spoke to one of the doctors who took care of me. I can’t remember most of what happened there, either, you see, and I wanted to know what he had said about my memory. And he said he thought it wasn’t only that I was struck on the head, but that there’s something I don’t want to remember, something I want to block out, so I’ve blocked out everything. He called it psychogenic amnesia.”

  “He cannot be sure of that.”

  “He said they had discussed my case and they all agreed.”

  “Well. And how do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t know. I think about it all the time; what could I have done that made me so ashamed I forced myself to forget it?”

  “Perhaps it was something else, something you saw or heard,” Jacqueline said gently. “Why do you blame yourself?”

  “Because I feel that something is my fault.” The words were almost inaudible. “I can’t explain it, but I wake up in the morning and the first thing I think is that I’ve done something wrong. And I can’t remember what it was. Because I can’t remember anything.”

  “My poor little one,” Jacqueline said again, and held Stephanie close. Stephanie let herself sink into Jacqueline’s strong embrace; she felt safe and protected and wished she could stay there forever, not having to worry about who she was or what she had done, just staying close and soaking up Jacqueline’s assurance and control of her life.

  A knock on the door made them start. “Oh, my Lord, look at the time, and these packages not finished.” Jacqueline put Stephanie gently from her and stood up, smoothing her wool skirt, adjusting her silk blouse, sweeping her palms along her perfectly smooth hair. “I’ll unlock the door, Sabrina; would you take the rest of these packages to the back room and open them? We’ll put everything away later. And, my dear”—she put her hand on Stephanie’s arm—“we’ll talk again. This time together has meant a great deal to me.”

  Stephanie was trembling with the shock of returning to the normal day. “Yes, it was wonderful. Thank you.” She scooped up the remaining brown-wrapped packages and made her way through the crowded room to the back. “I’ll turn on the lights.”

  “Good.” Jacqueline was at the front door, and as she swung it open, Stephanie flicked the switches and all the lights came on, illuminating the curves and angles of the furniture, the translucent china displayed in old painted armoires, the small stitches of cashmere throws and the worn threads of antique tapestries. It is like the sun slipping in and out of great dark clouds; suddenly the world is brilliantly transformed, and if we have been drowsing or inattentive we are brought back instantly to beauty, and to life.

  Oh, I’d like that, Stephanie thought, filled suddenly with a longing that took in the whole world beyond Cavaillon and Max’s house and Max’s bed. I wish I could know what it’s like to feel that.

  She stood beside a long oak table in the back room amid the clutter of gifts to be wrapped, lamps to be repaired, draperies to be hung, and unopened boxes that had arrived in that morning’s shipment. On a small desk was a computer used for recording and ringing up sales, an empty coffee can holding pencils and pens, and a mug half full of coffee left over from the day before. Absently, Stephanie took the mug to the sink in the corner and washed it and set it on the edge to drain. She picked up a spool of iridescent ribbon that had fallen to the floor and dropped it into a box with others like it. She pushed lamps and vases and memo pads aside to make a place on the oak table and used the space to open the packages she had carried in. And all the time she was thinking, I’ll never know what that feels like as long as I’m with Max. But I’m tied to him; the only life I know is with him. And it’s a good life; I should be grateful; I haven’t any right to complain.

  Besides, how can I think of not being with Max? I’m too afraid. I don’t know how I’d manage without protection. She remembered feeling safe and protected in Max’s car, driving back from Aix, as if she were the moon reflecting his sun, making his confidence and power her own. And then she had wanted to stay in Jacqueline’s embrace forever, soaking up her assurance and control.

  When am I going to be myself, with my own strength? When am I going to be more adventurous?

  She heard voices from the shop: two women talking animatedly about an eighteenth-century sofa, a man’s voice saying something about a group of paintings, and Jacqueline saying, “Good, very good, we sold all the last ones so quickly, and I have customers waiting. They want especially the landscapes.”

  The man chuckled. “Too bad. The new ones are abstracts. I’ve brought slides of them; if they’re not right for your shop I can take them to Galerie Le Fèvre.”

  “You will not! Léon, good heavens, I represent you; you agreed to that.”

  Someone was standing in the door to the back room. “If you please, madame, this tablecloth, what is the price?”

  Stephanie looked at the cloth draped over the woman’s arm. “Fifteen hundred francs. That includes the napkins, of course.”

  “Well, I adore it and I must have it. And I want one for a housewarming gift; which would you suggest? Something a little smaller. And definitely not as expensive.”

  Stephanie suppressed a smile as she led the customer into the shop. “We have several on this rack; if you wish to look through them . . .”

  “Oh, whatever you choose. She won’t invite me to dinner so often that I’ll have to look at it very much. Here, what about this? Yellow. A color I detest, but she’ll probably like it.”

  “Not just yellow; aureolin,” said a man’s voice, “deep, luscious, lustrous, filled with sunlight and fresh breezes, youth, love, and the promise of good food and wine.”

  Stephanie and the customer had turned around. He leaned against the wall, smiling easily, a small man barely taller than Stephanie and about her age, lean, broad-shouldered, blond and deeply tanned, wearing blue jeans and an open-necked white shirt. His face was t
hin, with faintly hollowed cheeks; his eyes were green and they met Stephanie’s with a look of amused conspiracy. His voice was the one she had heard in the shop, talking to Jacqueline about paintings.

  They stood looking at each other while the customer said, “Aureolin? Aureolin? I never heard of it. I don’t even know how to pronounce it. What is it?”

  “Chrome yellow,” said Jacqueline, coming up to them. “A pigment painters often use. You wish to buy these two tablecloths, the red and the yellow?”

  Stephanie took them from the customer. “I’ll wrap them for you.”

  “Unless there is something else madame wishes,” Jacqueline said.

  Stephanie flushed. She was not concentrating; she still felt the man’s eyes on her and she wanted to look at him. “Yes, please look around; I’ll have these for you when you’re ready.”

  “Well, I will; I saw a vase I rather liked . . .” The customer drifted away.

  “I’m sorry,” Stephanie said to Jacqueline.

  “Oh, Léon has a way of derailing conversations. Sabrina Lacoste, Léon Dumas. You may have seen some of Léon’s paintings in the shop, Sabrina; I think the last one sold just after you began to work here.”

  “I did see it and we have one in our living room,” Stephanie said as she and Léon shook hands.

  “Which one?” he asked.

  “The Alpilles. The little house in it reminds me of van Gogh’s painting of them.”

  His eyes brightened. “I put it there in homage to him. Have you been there? Or climbed them?”

  “No.” Stephanie was confused and she took a step back, and then another. “Excuse me, I have to take care of this; I have to wrap these . . .” She turned and fled to the back room. I know about van Gogh. I know about his painting of the Alpilles. But in all the months I’ve lived with Max and looked at that painting, I never thought of van Gogh. Maybe I’m beginning to remember. Maybe it’s coming back.

  Léon was in the doorway. “Was it something I said?”