Pack Up the Moon

by Mary Anne Kelly

  Vladimir brushed his handsome new traveling trousers. He kept seeming to want to wipe his hands on something.

  “Just wait till you get a dose of the road.” Isolde touched him lovingly on the shoulder and handed him a napkin.

  “Well, sit down, for heaven’s sake,” Wolfgang said.

  There was a rumpus in the small park across the street. Some American boy had staggered out of his van half asleep and peed on the statue of Atatürk. The townspeople were outraged. He was being arrested.

  I stood up and tried to push my way through to see. There was a bustle of travelers at the bulletin board, searching for messages. But Wolfgang came out and motored me back to the table. He put his hand on the curve of my back in an unnervingly familiar way. “Please don’t get involved, Claire,” he warned. “The next thing we know you’ll be arguing for his rights and getting us all arrested.”

  “I just want to see what they’re going to do to—” I began, but I didn’t like his closeness and I let myself be persuaded back.

  Vladimir, quickly recovering and in his all-encompassing, hulking way, held up his hands and announced, “All right. Ruhe! Silence, please. I have news.”

  Through the lattice I watched the police taking away the scruffy, confused American boy.

  “Claire.” Reiner rapped on his clipboard. “Are you paying attention?”

  “No.”

  “Well, please do. And if you’re going to get upset about every American catastrophe we pass on the road you might want to turn around and fly home. Lord knows there will be enough of them. Now, that fellow made his own choice to do what he did. We all must be responsible for our decisions. Into each life some rain must fall. Ja? Or?”

  Reluctantly, I sat back down. “Sure,” I muttered. “Like some days you’re the windshield and some days you’re the bug.”

  “What did she say?” Reiner said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Blacky said. “Go on, Vladimir.”

  Vladimir cleared his throat. Enjoying the bunch of us hanging on his every word, he flagged the fat waiter leaning against the wall. “Could I trouble you for a cup of that delicious-looking coffee? Danke. Danke.”

  Daisy gave him a hefty push. “Well, go on, then! Show them!”

  “All right, all right,” he said, unrolling a newspaper. It was the Münchner Abendzeitung and there, on the bottom part of the front page, was a story about us! STAR JOINS FILM CARAVAN TO HIMALAYAS, it read. There was Tupelo in a publicity photo. There was another, smaller picture of our vehicles being readied for the journey, Wolfgang and his camera at the helm.

  Our audible intakes of breath capsized the room.

  “I’m dashed,” said Harry.

  “No!” we all cried out. “Wow!” This was the sort of news we all relished.

  The waiter placed a thick white cup of foamed coffee before Vladimir, and Isolde automatically nudged a paper napkin toward him. He moved it an inch back in the other direction in a dismissive, corrective motion and I thought, Christ, he’s a pill. I was getting a little sick of his finicky arrogance toward her.

  Harry, always moved by food, put in, “You must try this tziziki!”

  “Look, Tupelo,” Blacky patted her shoulder, “on the next page, too. It’s you!”

  “Oh! How thrilling!” Tupelo snatched the paper. We all stood around her scanning the column, each of us hoping to catch sight of his or her own name.

  “But they only mention Tupelo, Wolfgang, and Vladimir,” Isolde said at last, disappointed.

  “Well,” Vladimir explained, “that’s understandable. They’re only really interested in the newsworthy members. The eye-catchers. They do mention models aboard.”

  “Yes, but—” Harry started to say something, then, remembering he’d long ago chosen the behind-the-scenes world, gave up.

  The waiter arrived with our lunches of spicy lentils and yogurt kabobs. After days of moussaka, this was a happy change. We all sat down and settled in, passing the paper around the Pudding Shop, delighted at our own notoriety. No one seemed as impressed as we were, though, and each of us thought longingly of people we knew in Munich and what they must have thought when they saw us in print.

  Then Vladimir said, in a drawling way that told me he’d been saving it up, “They tell me at the paper the readers absolutely devour anything to do with Tupelo.”

  Tupelo did not move. She was hunched over her plate and now her eyes—only her eyes—followed him with catlike intent.

  Vladimir leaned back in his chair. “You see, you’re the only recognizable name to the everyday reader and—well, I thought we might keep them in touch with your experiences.”

  “You mean like a travelogue for the stay at home?” Blacky said in his trying to get a grip on the situation but reasonable voice.

  Vladimir’s amused eyes returned to Tupelo’s. “Yes.”

  “Tell-tell-tell you what,” Harry stuttered with excitement, “let’s find Tupelo some native paraphernalia and wire the shots directly to the paper.”

  “Claire could shoot you,” Daisy said.

  “I certainly could,” I maintained glibly.

  “No,” Reiner said, “this is too important. I’ll handle this.”

  I looked at Tupelo. She was looking at me. The cat had the cream.

  “Well,” Isolde drawled unenthusiastically, “they’ve already done the story.” It was hot. The air was close and she leaned her head back to catch the draft from the overhead fan.

  “Nonsense,” Wolfgang said. “People love to feel as though they’re along for the ride, but without the danger.”

  “Not only that,” Reiner put in, “it’s automatic publicity for the film.”

  “If they’re not sick to death of it by then,” Isolde said. There was a stillness to her voice.

  Daisy said, “Oh, I think it’s more of a tease. Get them interested. You know. And involved.”

  “It’s a good idea,” Harry admitted. “Think of the reflected glory once we get back to Munich.”

  That made good sense to us all. I picked up Chartreuse’s guitar and strummed. I was useless, though. They all told me to please stop. Wolfgang leaned across and took it from me. I didn’t know what was with him. He kept looking at me with this goofy smile.

  “Look, Tupelo.” Vladimir snatched the rest of Harry’s baklava and wolfed it down. “What do you say let’s trot over to the bazaar and find you some agate and funny baubles, shall we? Dress you up.”

  “Oh, agate!” Tupelo jumped up. “Agate brings good luck!”

  Chartreuse had been very quiet. Always one to see which way the wind blew before he staked his direction, at this proposal he stood right up. “Excellent.” He carefully wiped his mouth. “I have a cousin with one of the best shops in the old bazaar. Amber. Agate.”

  “Don’t go buying all sorts of rubbish so early on in the trip,” Blacky warned Tupelo darkly. “Remember we have limited space and we’ll be wanting to utilize it later.” It was well known that Tupelo, wild for sweets, would find these confection things in the latest bazaar, then return to her van and huddle in her cushions, grinding the sugary pinks and white halvah to a brick in her body, shuddering with disgust and delight, making herself sick.

  “Oh, you silly old stick in the mud! How much room will some pretty baubles take?” Tupelo made a disdaining purse of her lips and lifted one shoulder to her ear. Her loosely knitted sweater fell over the other shoulder. The fabric teetered at the beginning of one creamy and opulent breast. She put her pink tongue to the top of her teeth and mischievously peeked around the room. When she had everyone’s attention—and she certainly did—she shrugged. “Anyway, darlink, it’s for publicity.” She leaned over and took my hand in hers and put it on her breast. “Feel my heart,” she breathed. “It can’t catch up!”

  An unnatural stirring slithered through me. I pulled my hand away and drained my coffee cup.

  “You think everything is always about you.” Daisy narrowed her eyes.

  “Every
thing is always about me,” Tupelo said.

  “How quickly the voyage to enlightenment reverts to shallow commercialism the minute there’s a mark to be made,” Isolde remarked, sliding her elbow out on the table and fitting her chin in her hand.

  “That’s a funny thing for you to say.” Vladimir signaled to the waiter. “Now if the shoe were on the other foot …”

  “Hooph.” Harry laughed. “Insult to injury.”

  I didn’t like that, either. I thought Vladimir had gone too far. I’d almost forgotten how nasty he could be.

  “You don’t think I came along to seek enlightenment,” Vladimir admitted. “I am hoping to take in those erotic sculptures in India, though. You know, in Khajuraho. I mean, just because I’m not interested in trading all my worldly goods for a song—”

  “What worldly goods?” Reiner was setting up his portable backgammon game. “I seem to remember you’ve more or less chiseled them away, too, eh?”

  I was glad. I was actually happy to see Vladimir thrown a loop.

  Avoiding Isolde’s dejected eyes, Vladimir took a long last draught of his coffee. He was startled by the dregs at the bottom, however, and had to spit them inelegantly into his napkin.

  “Yes, indeed.” Harry stood, scraping his chair against the play of mosaics. “Public relations. All tax deductible. I’ll come along, if you don’t mind. They have something called the Sahaflar Carsisi, if you can believe it. It must be a marvelous antique books area. Do you know it, Chartreuse?”

  Chartreuse tossed an inadequate coin onto the table. His eyes gleamed. “Mais bien sur. It’s just outside the Western Gate.” He turned to me. “Claire. Here’s your key. I borrowed it to put my guitar case in there.”

  I hadn’t even felt it missing. I pocketed it.

  He extended a benevolent arm in the air and ushered them away. “Venez, venez. I’ll take you there.”

  Daisy and Reiner were already hard at a game of backgammon. I had to give it to her. She hadn’t once complained about being saddled with Reiner. She really was a good sport.

  Isolde sat there pretending not to be fuming. I knew just what she was thinking. How could Vladimir come all this way and not want to spend time alone with her first thing?

  “They’ll be right back,” I said cheerfully. “And Chartreuse is with them.”

  She gave me a black look. “I know Vladimir,” she said. “He’ll want her to model for him.”

  “Well,” I reasoned, “he’d be a fool not to. What with business not going so well.” I saw her quick look. “I mean,” I revised, “artists always have to be aware of the whim of the public, don’t they?” You had to be so careful. Isolde wanted solidarity but she also didn’t want you to notice that Vladimir might be floundering. I went on. “At least you’ll be able to keep an eye on them. Well. They can’t exactly wander off. Really. How far could they go?”

  “To hell and back,” Daisy, who’d seemed so oblivious, piped up. She took a bite of a hard peach and made a disgusted face. “Tupelo makes me sick. Thinks she’s a goddess! Did you catch that shimmy-shimmy business? What a tease! She just loves to be looked at, doesn’t she!”

  Actually, in my heart of hearts, I enjoyed looking at Tupelo. I liked it especially when she was being exhibitionistic and often replayed such moments at night when I was in my sleeping bag. I understood that many inexperienced women fell in love with the bad guy, were attracted to the bad guy—but here I was finding myself attracted to the bad girl! “At least they remain predictable.” Isolde fluffed her long dark hair up as though she could care less. She pulled a beaded headband down over her forehead. It didn’t suit her. As a matter of fact she looked ridiculous. I hated to see her look foolish. She was my friend. And it burned me up that Vladimir treated her so offhandedly. I leaned across the table and adjusted the band, moving it closer to her hairline.

  “You are a funny little thing,” she told me. But I knew she felt better.

  Blacky took me aside. “I’m off to the mosque Sofia,” he said. “The Blue Mosque. Want to come?”

  I looked back at Isolde. She’d recovered enough to fall into conversation with a suspicious-looking group of travelers from Australia. One of them was letting her sample his dish of sutlac, the famous milky pudding. Boldly, he’d moved to our table.

  I didn’t have to think long. “Of course!”

  Our van was parked just across the road. I ran a brush through my hair and locked the van.

  I flew toward him.

  “You’ll need something to cover your head. They won’t let you in like that.”

  “Oh.” I went back and got my bridesmaid’s hat and jeans jacket. The minaret over Sofia sounded the wailing pledge to Allah. The sun captured the galaxies of wood-smoke dust and I breathed it all in. Here. Now.

  I saw my camera bag on the floor of the backseat. It was as though it saw me. I hesitated. I didn’t want to be encumbered. I wanted to fly like the wind with Blacky. On the other hand, this would be a great photo opportunity. Luckily, I am a Capricorn and duty prevails. I took the camera.

  And then we were off, jostling down the cobblestoned hill to the mosque. The very walls were mosaic masterpieces of blue, glimmering with time and light. I took out my camera but was promptly ordered to put it away by the harried temple guard, pure central casting from the Kasbah.

  A shock of street boys flew into us, knocking my hat off, then running away, laughing down the street.

  We were told to remove our shoes before entering and I sat on the step undoing my complicated ribbons of ankle ties. My espadrilles were a good six inches high and when I took them off and stood beside Blacky, he jumped.

  “Good God!” He grabbed hold of his chest. “Look how short you are!”

  I scratched my neck and looked up at him. “Sorry,” I muttered and turned away.

  He grabbed hold of my arm. “Claire. You’re just a bit of a thing!”

  I straightened up.

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  I felt, as usual, diminished.

  “No,” he said, “don’t look like that! You’re lovely. It’s just … well, for a model …” He couldn’t help it, he laughed again. “I thought you were small before but, really, you’re very small.”

  “All right, all right.” I pushed him off. “Let’s go in and have a look. They don’t like you laughing like that.”

  It was true that the local men were eyeing us with hostile disapproval.

  Soberly, we filed into the magnificent place and tried to be reverent but every time he looked toward me and then had to readjust his line of vision he would start to laugh. A reverent Turk looked up from his position of prayer and clicked his tongue reprovingly at us. We moved to a darker corner of the mosque.

  One of the caretakers was chasing the same little gang of street urchins away from the trundle of Japanese tourists coming in.

  “When I was a child,” Blacky said, catching sight and looking longingly after them, “I used to pretend I lived on the street.” He wrung his hat in his hands. “I so hated the captivity of bourgeois life.”

  “Did you?”

  “Oh, yes. I felt suffocated by it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well. I just hated the hypocrisy of it. Smiling and being pleasant to people you simply couldn’t bear.”

  I was thrilled to imagine him young, a small boy all alone at a party in a Black Forest castle. I’d never really had him to myself. I was so glad he was confiding in me. “Is that why you went away to Vietnam? To do something genuine with your life?”

  He smiled sadly at me. “I didn’t go to save the world, if that’s what you mean. I went to have a good time.”

  Feeling oddly offended, I said, “I trust you enjoyed yourself?”

  “I did. It was the best time of my life.”

  “Isolde told me you came home devastated.”

  “I wasn’t. I was brown as a berry.”

  I turned away.

  “All r
ight,” he admitted. “I was drinking half a bottle of scotch a day.” He peered through the splinter of glass in the wall. “I just wanted to be free. You’ve no idea how impossible that is with family.”

  I harrumphed. “I have a family, you know.”

  “Not like mine, I assure you.”

  “Maybe they are. My mother would rather have me secretarying from nine to five in any midtown, fluorescent-lit security. What does she care if I drive to India? I’ll never get to Mass in India. How can I put it? My mom. It’s like she loves me too much, likes me not enough, you know? She wanted a daughter like Daisy: tidy, discerning, a girl who makes her bed. I wanted a mother like Isolde: sacrilegious, fast driver, out of town. We always feel like we fail each other, see?”

  He said nothing. It pierced me that he wasn’t interested in the least about my background. Or worse, that he thought it beneath consideration. Still, wasn’t I running away from the very same thing? And hadn’t we enough time spread before us when all these things could be talked about at length?

  He studied me with interest but at last I did not care. I had my own pain to contend with. I began, wholeheartedly, to weep.

  “What is it, Claire?” He put a tender arm around my shoulder.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I sobbed. “It’s just, well, it’s so boring driving all day that I’ve had the chance to think of things I never wanted to face before. Do you know what I mean? To remember what it was that kept me moving farther and farther away. And—at times—to burn with regret …”

  “Regret?” He gave a sob of incredulousness. “At your age?”

  “Yes. Once,” I said, “just before I came to Europe, my American friends and I had chipped in and rented a cottage in Montauk. That’s like a little town on the beach. I was in my first throes of independence—I was passing myself off as a model but I hardly worked at all. I’d had a couple of jobs with Ingénue and Seventeen and so people knew who I was but there was no money in that.” My voice had calmed down as I told my tale. I wasn’t crying anymore. “Actually, I think I was working as a Jim Buck’s dog walker in Manhattan and didn’t care to be associated with anything I actually was. Anyway, my new friends and I had this house out there in the end of Long Island, in Montauk, and my twin brother, Michael, who’d just graduated from the police academy, showed up. He hadn’t paid a share and so was not officially entitled to come. Yet other boys were milling about and welcomed just because they had surfboards and wore madras plaid. Till my dying day I will see my brother’s happy face coming toward the door. He was loaded down with his chess set and sleeping bag. I barred the door with fury. ‘Michael,’ I hissed, ‘you can’t just expect to come out here and stay! This is my deal, not yours.’