The Reluctant Trophy Wife

by Judith Petres Balogh

  “You are right. The colors you just added make an astounding difference.”

  “It is still not what I want.”

  Lena remembered what paint had done to her face, and once again saw Clyde’s expression, when he looked at the two photos she gave him at Christmas. The visage artist too used paints to change her face for better and for worse. She planned the photos for a happy, intriguing surprise, but it backfired and greatly disturbed Clyde. He was not amused, but was rather shocked when he saw her old and worn face. She was not supposed to get old; he did not bargain for that. He wanted her young and glamorous as if she was created only for things the eyes could see. She pushed the unpleasant memory into the background of her mind, and returned to the topic of the daily news.

  “I used to think that people can and should change things if history is taking a bad turn. Don’t you agree?”

  “Lena, sweet child, nobody asks me for my opinions, and to recall Rhett Butler’s devastating final words: ‘Frankly my dear… ‘ In truth, just like Rhett I don’t care a damned rotten apple. And do you know why? The world goes on according to its established crooked habits exactly as it has always done and will do so until the sun turns cold and the Blue Planet has reached its terminal destination. My opinion will not influence its path any more than your sneeze could influence the rhythm of the ebb and tide.”

  Lena could see the logic, and was content to leave it at that.

  Sarah stepped back to better see what she was painting, but a shadow of dissatisfaction clouded her face. Part of the background indeed showed the deep shadows lingering, but the treetops still did not reflect the rays of the sun with the exuberance she wanted; the dabs of yellow paint did not quite accomplish what she had in mind. “I am not getting it,” she complained. “I cannot show the contrast between the part that is still dark and the part that is already in glorious daylight. Rembrandt, Caravaggio and Munkácsy knew exactly what to do with light and shadows, but they were giants, and I am just an untalented neophyte. Something is missing. Perhaps the light, or the movement…or the fragrance… the church bell for the morning prayers… or the spirit. Or I just need some sorcery to make this damned landscape come alive. Or I should have started earlier in the day with this painting to discover the magic of the rising sun.”

  “You are too critical, Sarah. The painting is fine. If you want it to live, quit killing it.”

  Sarah left the easel abruptly, and after refilling their glasses sat down at the table. For a while, they were content without speaking, but her gaze kept returning to her half-finished landscape. When she spoke, she spoke more to herself than to Lena.

  “At home when I dabble with my paints I feel content. Back there in the city it is a recreation. It is a fun hobby and a way to relax. At home I have enough sense not to take it seriously. It is just something that makes time pass pleasantly, but here it is different. So very different.”

  “How so?”

  With unmistakable irritation, Sarah left the table and picked up her brush again. After scrutinizing her work intently, she added more white and yellow dabs to lure sunshine into the high points of her landscape.

  “I am not sure why it is different here...” she continued her monologue as she resumed work on the foreground. “Perhaps because everything is so near and so very real here. Things are true and honest. Do you understand what I mean? The water, the sky and the fields are close and true. I can feel them. They are alive and do not lie, do not pretend. When I attempt to put on the canvas what I see, the thing suddenly gets paralyzed, and turns into just paint and lifeless imitation. Here, so close to what He created, I feel not just incapable of art, but downright arrogant when I attempt it. It is as if I pretended that I too could, if not really create, but at least imitate a landscape. The truth is of course that I cannot. It is dreadfully conceited of me to imagine that I could. What brainless pretensions we humans harbor! Perhaps the impressionists have the right idea. They stopped pretending and are not attempting to show how something appears to most others, but paint what they see, and put on the canvas the sort of impression the object made on them. It is very subjective. If they see a cathedral in blue and purple haze without the realistic outlines the logical mind usually sees, well, then that is what they paint. I have not yet reached that level; instead, I keep on producing one awkward representation after the other. Stubborn like a mule, I cannot see anything over the stone wall of my limitation. Or won’t accept it. My work is unforgivably amateurish and I am sick of it. I need to learn so much more about this demanding beast we call art! I am so unhappy about this, I could howl!” In a sudden angry motion she raised her hand still holding the brush and splattered unintentional globs of paint on the canvas.

  “Serves you right,” she hissed at her landscape.

  “You are not fair to yourself, and this disappointed bitterness is not like you. Your landscape is lovely and it conveys all the peace and loveliness that surrounds us. What is wrong with you today, who or what disturbed your usual inner peace? Why this divine discontent that is so unlike you?”

  “I don’t know. I realize that today I am a pain in the nether region; please don’t pay attention to me. The truth of the matter is that the weather is changing, and I am very sensitive to it. That is what aging in one of its nastier manifestations does to you, if you really want to know.”

  “You speak of age, and all the while you look and act ageless!” Lena argued and laughed, because it was not possible to take Sarah seriously,

  “Appearances can fool the world. Just consider what a good makeup can accomplish…Anyhow, I am mostly very proud of my strength and resilience, and can withstand life’s attacks without whining and without seriously trying the patience of my fellow travelers. Then out of nowhere an invisible thing, such as the change of air pressure appears and it destroys my admirable hardiness. I confess that I am very sensitive to weather changes. It is almost as if God looked down and saw my pride and then pointing an accusing finger at me says, ‘Really Sarah? Do you really believe that you are so cool and indestructible? Well then, take this changed barometric pressure and in addition how about an increased humidity level? It will teach you some humility in no time.’ So much for the physical magnificence of the human constitution and our psychological supremacy! The minute the weatherman announces the approach of a stray cloud, some of us, who already passed a certain unmentionably obscene age, feel pain in body parts we did not even know we had, and we turn into cranky, negative whiners. Suddenly we realize that from dust we came and to dust we shall return, and our body reminds us loud enough that this inevitable returning to dust is not poetical or romantic, but disagreeable, more or less imminent, ridiculously painful, depressing and demeaning. We are reduced to undignified whiners. Our divine soul forgets its nobility the minute the weather changes. What a rotten deal! Fortunately, when the weather changes back to good, our troubles recede, at least for a while and to the great relief of those with whom we share a household. We turn cheerful once again, at least until the next stray cloud comes rolling in… Do you really think that the painting is passable?”

  She did not wait for an answer or a response, and continued to talk in a calmer tone. “In the fourth grade, we were reading Heidi and our assignment was to create an alpine landscape. Using papier-mâché and lots of paint we constructed a magnificent, snow-covered mountain straight out of Switzerland. What a spectacular mountain it was! Salt made the perfect snow and a river made of silver foil cascaded down to the valley. We could almost hear its rushing, gurgling sound. From somebody’s toy chest we added a few contented cows grazing on the side of our mountain. In the end our mountain was as Swiss as cuckoo clocks, Wilhelm Tell or the Matterhorn. “

  “Your teacher must have been very creative.”

  “She was, and also tolerant, because everything was sticky from the flour paste we used liberally on our project, on each other and on the classroom. Anyhow, a few months later the majestic mountain cracked, dust collected o
n the beautiful green pastures, the snow turned gray, the cows fell off and one broke a leg. Our teacher decided that our mountain was ready for the trash bin. We were heartbroken. Lord, this is how naive we were! None of us ever saw the Alps, but we happily recreated it. In retrospect, how sad our poor paper mountain was, painted in primary colors! Just like my landscape here. We were just kids then, but we grew up since and turned old, so why do we still create inferior imitations and call them Swiss mountains or Hungarian landscapes?”

  There was a short pause after her monologue and during this time Sarah metamorphosed herself back to her old happy, generous self. She grinned at Lena like the child, who did something naughty, but is contrite and knows that she will be forgiven and be loved again. She asked unexpectedly, “Are you religious?” Not waiting for an answer she added, “Of course, it is none of my nosy business. However, I usually invite the parish priest on Sundays for lunch and wanted to know if you would join us. He is delightful, intelligent, well read and is low maintenance. He does not mind that I am a Protestant with a big mouth. If you have nothing better to do to-morrow, come at one o’clock. You need not bring your rosary, but do pray for nice weather. My body promises rain, but once in a while it makes a mistake just like any other weather prophet, so let us hope for the best. By the way, he speaks a beautiful English of the British variety .You’ll love his accent and his choice of words will embarrass you on account of our sloppy Americanism.”

  “Sarah, I must regretfully confess: I met the man and the encounter was anything but pleasant.”

  “Father Paul does not know how to be unpleasant, even if he tried!”

  “He wasn’t unpleasant. I was.” And Lena told about their meeting at the graveside.

  “My dear child, forget about it—as I am sure he has. Come and enjoy my lunch. You’ll have a good time, I promise.”

  Lena left deep in disturbing thoughts. What was he really like? Was he all hell bent on bringing back the lost sheep into the fold? Heaven forbid, could he be more devout than the Pope? What does one talk about in his presence? And of course even more crucial, what does one wear? What is the proper attire when one is lunching with a Catholic priest? Judging by the probable standard of a pious man, none of her summer dresses seemed modest enough. If Sarah’s aching body told the truth and it would rain, she would serve lunch indoors. That would cause less of a problem; her wardrobe could yield something appropriate for that. A lunch in the sun-warmed arbor would be more problematic. She finally decided to play it safe and settled on a sedate skirt, a virtuous blouse with three-quarter length sleeves and a light sweater.

  When Lena arrived home, Juli néni was ready to serve the noon meal. It was the best meal she had in a long time, and Lena wondered if she could charm Juli néni to come to the United States and replace her present cook. It was a puzzle how Juli néni, who was no more than a collection of bones, could cook so well. Does she ever eat of what she creates? She was now hovering near the table watching Lena’s reaction to the food.

  “OK?” She asked, and beamed when Lena assured her not only with the familiar OK, but added a shower of praise-words in English. The old woman nodded and said with feeling “OK”, but refused the invitation to the table.

  Lena was attempting to enjoy her after-dinner coffee, or what Juli néni called ’espresso’, served in a cup about the size of a shot glass. It was fine, as far as novelties go, but she missed the prolonged pleasure of a decent cup of her favorite brew. She thought longingly of the coffee she bought in the village, and planned with glee to once again beat Juli néni’s arrival in the morning, and make her own cup of coffee using the precious instant powder. She did not feel familiar enough with the housekeeper to confess her preference and also needed the words for the explanation; therefore, her early morning coffee drinking remained a clandestine affair, at least for the time.

  Juli néni was busy putting the kitchen in order, and Lena, still lingered at the table considering how many shadings the two letters “OK” could have, and how many different things could be expressed by merely changing the inflection. She recalled when a professor of English literature made the very same point by reciting five times the line“ Mary had a little lamb”, but at each repetition, he put the emphasis on a different word, thus changing the meaning each time. She and Juli néni only had the “OK” to work with, but they already reached an amazing level of understanding. This was almost adequate for basic needs, but Lena wanted to know more about the people and the environment of her temporary home, and decided to learn at least rudimentary Hungarian. Everybody agreed that it was a difficult language, but surely not more so than Chinese or Japanese. It could be learned, she thought, if one was willing to spend time and effort on it. Once she took Latin in high school for the joy of it. This would be the second time in her life she would expend energy on learning something, which had no practical use in the future and nobody required her to do it. The prospect delighted her. It was one more thing that could fill her days until Clyde released her from this banishment.

  TEN

  Despite Sarah’s ill humor and aching body, supposedly sure signs of impending weather change, Sunday arrived with brilliant June sunshine. The blue of the sky reached down to the blue of the lake, and a fine blue mist softened the shapes of the hills. One could not be sure whether they were real or perhaps nothing more than images left over from a summer dream. Juli néni, a less poetic soul and one who looked at the world in a more restrained fashion, conveyed to Lena with very imaginative body language that the misty appearance in the distance was a sign of rainy weather brewing.

  Sarah, whose middle name could have been Optimissima or something similar, ignored the prophecies of her body and the augury of the village sages, and set the table in the arbor.

  Lena arrived a few minutes after Father Paul. At this time he wore no hat, nor sunglasses, and was conventionally attired in dark slacks, a light blue shirt with the white tab collar of his office and a blazer of good cut. He moved at ease and was obviously at home at Sarah’s place. Lena extended her hand to greet him.

  “We already met at the cemetery, Father Paul. You were kind to me, but I am afraid I was rude. Please accept my apologies for the short temper and my lack of courtesy.”

  “No need for apologies, Mrs. Cambray. I surprised you, that was all. You could not know who I was. According to village etiquette, the cemetery is as proper a place as any drawing room for meeting people, but still, we were strangers. You reacted as is expected by those who watch out for propriety.” He smiled at her and suddenly the graceless encounter and her own inept handling of the situation were swept aside. He managed to change her bad-tempered behavior into a virtue.

  Earlier she deliberated whether to attend the church service in the morning, but then decided against it. The situation was awkward for her; to attend or not to attend were equally embarrassing. It would have been hypocritical to show up in church, just because she would have lunch with him later. She rejected the falseness of making the impression of a practicing Catholic, when she was not. On the other hand, it bothered her that she did not attend, because she actually had to desire to go. She was tense as she tried to guess his reaction to her absence, but he did not remark about it and she appreciated his tact. Apparently he was not the proselytizing kind.

  He was about ten years her senior, had a warm smile, beautiful hands, a very pleasant, melodious voice, clear eyes and a quiet air of cheerfulness. He happily radiated the message, that all was well in his special world. She was aware that the soft brown eyes showed not only kindness but also a quiet sense of humor, and was wondering why she did not notice all this during their brief encounter in the cemetery. The sunglasses, she thought, the sunglasses concealed his soul.

  The minute they shook hands she sensed the calmness and peace, but also the strength glowing from him. His very presence was comforting the same as the presence of a caring physician is reassuring to the sick. This was the man she would wish at her side when trage
dy struck. When trouble visited, Clyde always had a plan to solve it and was ready to throw a lifeline. When that failed, as it sometimes did, he already had plans B and C lined up. Father Paul’s reassurance would be different, she was sure of that. He would not dispense advice or solutions when the roof fell in, but he would be like a rock in the sea: solid and unmovable, unafraid and calm, quietly helping to endure whatever calamity happened. She was not sure about the source of his quiet assurance, but guessed that while Clyde depended fully on his own resources, Father Paul probably relied on some power independent of him.

  Sarah brought the first course to the table, and asked her guest to say grace. In a soft, yet full voice he began, “Our Father, Thou provides food for the birds of the sky, -merciful Lord, please set a table for the hungry and for those in need, for the orphans and the beggars, Lord God, please open your hands of plenty…” Lena bowed her head piously, but she was actually hiding confused rebellion. What sorry earth-creatures we are, and how childish, she mused while he prayed. We are marching proudly into the twenty-first century and mankind to this day did not solve the tragedy of hunger in the world. It cannot, or perhaps it would not. However, as Man sits down to a table of plenty and perhaps feels something like guilt, he piously passes the problem to the Lord. He should solve it; after all, it is his world. It is up to Him to feed the orphans and the poor, the prayer says, because He is the providing father. World-hunger is not our problem, but His. He could feed people in the desert, and His Son knew how to multiply fish and bread, not to mention that He could turn water into wine; therefore, we now pass the problem to you, our heavenly Father, kindly solve it. Deep in disturbing thoughts, she did not hear the end of the prayer.

  The hostess did not sin by encouraging gluttony at an overly rich table, but the simple fare she presented was perfect. The first course was polenta, cooked with considerable sophistication and with secret ingredients, served with artistry, not usually given to such a simple food. She placed marinated tomato wedges into small bowls to suggest petals of flowers, poured the cooked polenta over them and then inverted the bowls into plates and added sprigs of basil. Each serving looked like a red and yellow flower. She was an artist through and through and could not help but make even the simplest food look beautiful. The second course of honey-mustard roast chicken was just as wonderful and equally simple; the local wine was discreetly heady and harmonized well with the light lunch.