Pack Up the Moon

by Mary Anne Kelly

  Isolde led him to his place at her left.

  Almost immediately, Reiner was fawning over Wolfgang. Anyone with half a head could see that he didn’t take to Reiner at all. Reiner didn’t notice this, or if he did, he figured dogged time and effort would bring him around. He went chummily on, happily intimate, even giving Wolfgang tips on new filters and revolutionary underwater camera attachments. Wolfgang, resigned, proceeded to make an origami bird from his napkin.

  Tupelo and Blacky seemed delighted with each other. His seductive way with women was effortless. I helped myself to a glass of wine.

  Vladimir, Isolde’s husband, handsome, heavyset, red-faced, blond, burly, sweating from the strain of the staircase, arrived last. He was laughing and carrying a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I liked Vladimir. You couldn’t help liking him. He looked at you with his frank, sensual, handsome face, unimpressed with important people. “Wo ist mein Bier?” he shouted, filling the room. “Where’s my beer?”

  Walking toward us, his big hand took hold of the neck and then the arched back of the huge sculpture he’d done of a girl on her knees. He ran his hand right down her back to her rear end, all the while holding eyes with Isolde.

  “Well?” she confronted him. “Did you ask her?”

  “No, I did not.”

  Isolde threw up her arms in despair. “All I asked you to do was knock on Frau Zwekl’s door and ask her to come.”

  Daisy choked on her olive spread. “But you hate each other.”

  “I know.” Isolde busied herself, putting the flowers off to the side. “But she’s all alone.”

  “I don’t like old people sitting about.” Vladimir grinned at the rest of us. “It’s depressing.”

  Silently I resolved to go down and see Frau Zwekl in the morning.

  Isolde, her hands on her hips, informed us, “He doesn’t realize that he’ll be old one day, too. Old and alone and grateful if someone invites him along.”

  Vladimir smiled. “I’ll never be alone, though. There’ll always be someone around for me.”

  She has no shot, I thought. He’s so much stronger than she is because he doesn’t care. He’s not even teasing her. He could not care less. Rings of perspiration had wet his shirt. He didn’t seem to mind that, either. He shook hands all around, then went back inside and saw to the music. He put on Billie Holiday, making sure the bass was very loud.

  “Wow!” Isolde said, coming around, in an unlikely attempt at cool. Isolde became a different person when Vladimir was around. She came as close to obsequious as I’d ever seen her. I didn’t like it. You always knew when Vladimir was coming because the whole apartment reeked of her perfume beforehand. So already she was trying too hard. And your glamour rushes to the floor like sudden rain when you become needy. It angered me to see her so trivialized.

  At least, I reassured my unhappy heart, Blacky hadn’t known that I’d fallen for him before he’d fallen for Tupelo Honig. At least I didn’t have to tolerate anyone’s pity. I couldn’t have borne that. Because I was young and inexperienced, I still believed in the importance of saving face. It was painful enough for me to watch Isolde when Vladimir was around. Whatever she did, it was never enough. Or too much. One morning, when he’d just moved out and I’d just moved in, I’d overheard them arguing in the dining room. She’d held a dinner party the night before and he hadn’t come after saying he would. I turned discreetly to go back into my little suite of rooms but not before I heard him say, in English—because of the children, I suppose—“Well, don’t,” he’d cried. “That’s just it. Don’t love me so much! You … you … want potted geraniums on every windowsill. That’s not me, Isolde. I want none of that.”

  He’d said “potted geraniums” like “bubonic plague,” like there was something so wrong with the idea of them. As if you could accuse Isolde of being conventional! And he should have known the fastest way to teach children a language was to argue in it.

  I was devastated for Isolde. And embarrassed. She would have hated to know I’d heard. It was one of the most brutal things I’d ever heard anyone say. Now here he was at last, and all this, I knew, had been for him. As for Vladimir, he couldn’t very well not enjoy the good meal before him, the enchanting company, but for him it was nothing more. Isolde’s eyes followed him wherever he went. And he never felt at home. He paced. He kept getting up and peering out the lead-paned windows as though someone were downstairs waiting for him in the car. There might well have been.

  But now that I look back, I think she would have only loved someone not crazy about her for the simple reason that most people were. So in a way it was her fate.

  Tupelo Honig’s flattered, ladylike laugh tinkled distractingly over everyone’s conversation.

  Later in the evening her joy would loosen to a slightly raucous and hearty bellow, but I say that only because I was leaden with jealousy.

  Chatreuse came in with half endives, baked and topped with steaming, crumpled, runny Roquefort. There were intermittent corniches of parmaschinken, so thin they were almost translucent.

  I clapped my hands with joy.

  Blacky smiled at me. His eyes twinkled. “I’m famished,” he confided.

  “Oh, no!” Tupelo Honig suddenly threw her napkin onto her plate. “I can’t eat food like this.” She said it as though reprimanding and let the words sit there on the table.

  Isolde moved uncomfortably. “Well,” she said, “I have artichoke but they’re for later. They’re not cooked through yet, I think. Are they, Chartreuse?”

  Chartreuse trotted accommodatingly back to the kitchen.

  “I’ll wait. Don’t think of me.” Tupelo smiled benevolently. “Eat. Eat!”

  Her color was high and she wore an expression of excitement.

  No one liked to start until we all were served. Eventually, however, Isolde insisted we eat before the food got cold. It sort of took the fun out of it, though, with Tupelo sitting there very pointedly doing nothing. You could almost feel Chartreuse in the kitchen willing the tough artichoke to soften. When the rest of us had finished and the artichoke finally did arrive, she sat there comfortably, taking her time, enjoying it. Her eyes took in each of us. Anyone else would have dashed through it out of consideration but Tupelo luxuriated in the attention. She picked up one of the leaves. It was oily and pearly and luscious with green edges rimmed in pink. She held it up for us all to see and slit it open along the seam with one of her pretty nails. The succulent innards were revealed. She licked this. You could see her saliva on the leaf. She took her time. You’d have thought she’d tinged her fork noisily on a wineglass, the way we all stopped and watched. Then she dragged her teeth over its top, holding the flesh on the tip of her tongue and then swallowing it with a close-mouthed, feline smirk of satisfaction. She did this with every solitary leaf, laughing with merriment once in a while, placing each one ornamentally around the choke on the plate as she finished it, the pointy end out. The completion looked like a sunflower. I remembered thinking she had a lot of nerve, keeping everyone waiting like that, but you had to give it to her—she knew how to captivate an audience. I made a note to eat each artichoke that came my way in exactly the same fashion.

  Then, as if that weren’t enough, she made each one of us close our eyes in silent meditation, thanking the universe for its bounty. (She made no mention of Isolde’s or Chartreuse’s part at this point.)

  Indulgently, we all obliged. We closed our eyes. I peeked. Chartreuse watched me with his bright yellow eyes.

  Daisy had at last lost interest and was trying slyly to read her horoscope upside down in the newspaper on the hassock.

  Blacky tore himself from Tupelo’s attentions. “Claire,” he addressed me, “it must have been a marvelous trip you went on with Reiner.”

  “Ah,” Reiner agreed before I could say a word. “So much adventure! We had so much fun. So much fun!” I didn’t know which trip he’d been on. It had been the worst trip of my life. His obligatory words to me said, Blacky retur
ned his attentions to Tupelo. Tupelo was obviously besotted with Blacky and Blacky with her.

  The party was progressing gaily. Chartreuse would slide into the room, shoulders hunched protectively forward over yet another delicious concoction. We all would “ooh” and “ahh” and he would distribute portions with womanly care.

  “Good God,” Harry would say each time a dish was placed before him.

  It looked like Isolde had found herself a kindred spirit, there, despite her words of distaste. She and Chartreuse consulted each other, madly serious, at short intervals in the kitchen, then burst forth from that little galley with brilliant, relaxed smiles over platters of superbly prepared food. They played off each other, each wanting to impress, but more than that, being both truly talented, it was each other they most enjoyed impressing.

  Chartreuse had solved the problem of the too great leg of lamb cooking through in time by hacking it into small raw bits and artistically modeling these into a cunning small lamb held together by a paste of garlic, olive oil, and sea salt. Any bit that wouldn’t hold was anchored together with lengths of mint stems as threads. These he fastened with sailor’s slipknots, easily loosened and pulled away so no one got chewy bits of it in his or her serving. It rested, well done and crispy, with raisins for eyes, on a bed of airy white rice.

  I’d never seen anything like it. He’d taken a blue satin ribbon from a jam preserves jar in the cupboard and tied a bow around the neck when it was steaming and perfectly done. A latticework of rosemary and garlic framed the tray like a woven basket rim. The latticework continued into gated arbors up the handles on each side. Hothouse primroses were stuck at the last moment up the arbors like summer vines. He’d fastened two soft, furry sage leaves inside the lamb’s ears.

  “Charming!” Vladimir said appreciatively. “I could take you on as an apprentice!”

  Chartreuse explained that he’d worked long hours as a teenager in a bakery kitchen in France.

  “Wie süss!” Tupelo Honig cooed. (How sweet!) She might be a German film star but she wasn’t born German. Every now and then a trace of Eastern Europe slithered from her tongue. Which was, I suppose, part of her appeal. Well, I wasn’t going to let her ruin my fun.

  I went briskly to get my camera. No one minded waiting. Done meat should rest for a bit before it’s cut and it would be a shame not to admire it. It was a wonderful lamb. Chartreuse’s stock had jumped through the roof.

  I still have that picture somewhere. There is the lamb gazing benignly at the rest of us and we at it.

  I snapped the picture and everyone applauded. Daisy put down her basket of steaming green beans and went to get the salad.

  Vladimir carved one ear off the lamb and put it on Isolde’s plate. “Mein Schatz,” he said, in an offhand, easy way. My treasure. It was as if he had forgotten for a moment to be caustic with her.

  Wolfgang said he hadn’t known I was a photographer.

  “Hah.” Reiner laughed. “She’s not.”

  “Oh, no,” Isolde explained, “Claire is an artist. Show them your drawings, Claire,” she urged. “Go on. Where’s your sketchbook, hmm?”

  Daisy, clearing the table, said, “They’re here.” And she handed Wolfgang my precious book.

  “Oh, don’t!” I protested but I was thrilled at what was about to happen. Blacky would see that I was not just a model. They would all see.

  Proudly, Daisy and Isolde presented my work. I enjoyed each picture more than anyone, I think, reliving the moments I’d drawn them. Cherishing the end of the grueling effort that had gone into each. Daisy turned the pages reverently while Isolde gave a running monologue.

  She rattled her head at Wolfgang. “What do you think of our Claire, eh?”

  “She is a most serious young lady, I think.”

  I’d been smiling, my expectation of his praise already evident upon my face.

  “Yes?” Isolde waited. “Come on. What do you think of her work?”

  Wolfgang looked down at his plate. He rolled his tongue across and around his teeth. Then he said, “What difference does it make what I say? I am a filmmaker, not a critic.” Suddenly he leaned forward. “Harry here is the critic. One of the best in his own field, from what I’ve read. So. He’s the one to ask, not me.” He smiled gently and handed my precious book across the table and over to Harry. I could feel my heart beating in my chest. What was happening? What had Harry to do with anything?

  But Harry was not just Harry. He’d studied, reviewed, published. He was a renowned critic not only for the Süddeutsche but the London Times as well. I remembered Isolde saying he was an art collector and had become quite famous in his own small, elite world. There were others who were impressed to no end by our bumbling Harry. Take a swan out of his pond and he waddles, isn’t that it? We’d only ever seen the waddle.

  Harry, slipping imperiously back into his own pond, adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “Yes.” He nodded. “They are lovely pictures. Yes.”

  He looked at my pictures for a very long time. At last he stopped. He pursed his lips and leveled his gaze at me. “Are they good? Of course they are good, they are lovely to look at.” He looked up. He looked right at me. “Good, yes. But never great.”

  For a moment I thought he was joking.

  “I’m so sorry,” Harry murmured, “but it’s best to know the truth.”

  He must have seen my shock.

  “Forgive my bluntness, my dear. But if I’m to be honest, this is”—he searched the air helplessly for just the word—“amateur. This is a young girl’s memory of a European tour. Mediocre. Nothing more.”

  Thunk, thunk, thunk, each word took me down another step. “Oh. I see,” I agreed casually, my hopes and dreams of a lifetime dashed. “Yes, of course,” I whispered. “As much as it hurts, it is best to know the truth.”

  Isolde threw back her head. “I think they are beautiful,” she said loyally.

  I should have been glad. But it only made it worse. I could have wept. I would have rather anything than let the tears fall, though. I think the only thing that kept me from it was my pride in front of Tupelo Honig. She would have enjoyed that so, so much.

  Daisy trembled with plump indignation on my behalf. She said fiercely, “One man’s opinion means nothing, though, if one is set upon making it work. What was it your American, Ray Kroc, said? ‘It is perseverance and perseverance alone that determines success.’”

  “Yes, of course.” Harry seemed to come to. He handed me my book. He looked kindly at me, sadly. “But life is short. Don’t waste too much time.”

  I almost fell off my chair. I continued to smile, yet I was so hurt, so devastated, I almost couldn’t see straight. Remembering my manners, I thanked Harry for his expertise.

  Blacky gave me a crooked smile. It was made to console me. There was something about the closeness of this man, this Blacky, that allowed me to feel things I’d pushed off. Scary things I’d been too frightened to admit to myself. Things I felt I could feel and still be safe. All these things go running through your mind. Although Harry had proclaimed the judgment, it was the nearness of Blacky that opened some door in me, allowing me to think what I’d dared not think, perhaps to admit at last to myself that my drawings were not really as good as my brother always boasted they were and it was all right, not the end of the world. After all, my brother had had his vested interest. He’d wanted me to be happy. Nothing had pleased him more. He’d pumped me up. That very sweetness had been the saddest thing to lose.

  The worst part about losing someone is not what goes with the tears. That’s the luxury. The most awful part is the dry, unrelieved ache, the moment when you know you’ll only ever have the memories. No present. No future. No dreams of laughing together in the garden while you seed the grass, year after year. Never. And that moment comes again and again and stretches at last and long into the future. At the thought of Michael I felt the tears welling up and was horrified they would overflow. But the next moment the lights went bl
essedly out. Chartreuse entered with a cake ablaze with candles.

  Evidently it was Vladimir’s birthday. I wiped my eyes in the darkness and pasted a grin on my face. I sang along but I wasn’t really there. I was numb with shock and outrage.

  “Turn the lights on, please,” Vladimir said when he’d blown out the candles.

  Someone threw on the bright overhead light. I struggled to my feet then sat back down. We had moved on to the oddly shaped bottles of Würzburger-Franken wine and I was too drunk to go anywhere now.

  “I say.” Harry, his thick glasses still on, scrunched his face up. “Excuse me, Vladimir, but who took those photographs? You?” He indicated the pictures of the children and the Leopoldstrasse on the Peg Board.

  Isolde, still peeved, said defensively, “Claire took them all.”

  Harry crouched forward to get a better look. “But these are superb.” He looked at me above his spectacles. “Have you others?”

  “I take photos of all the subjects I sketch,” I said.

  “May I see them?”

  May he see them? I think for the first time in my life I let my dessert sit. I tried not to think as I went obediently into my small apartment. My hands were trembling when I fished the photos from the desk. Shortly, I returned with a dossier folder. Harry followed me into the living room. I let the photographs slip to the coffee table.

  Harry perched himself on the edge of the sofa and inspected the lot I’d taken in Milan. There was the dark and firelit composition of the whores along the Autostrada, the road stretching toward the lurid sunset. The early morning eeriness of Luna Park in ghostly scarves of fog. After a minute he looked up. “You might not be an artist at drawing, young lady, but I have rarely seen such a fine eye for photography.” He regarded me again sternly from beneath his heavy brows. “In this you are an artist.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. Throw me a bone. But I wasn’t drunk anymore. “I am?” I said.