Blois is a much larger city, up the river only about half an hour from Amboise. The road runs on the embankments that contain the river. A river that used to overflow every spring. These embankments have been here a long time. Louis the Fourteenth rode down them when he went to the border town of Saint Jean de Luz to marry the Spanish Infanta.
We clambered up more stone staircases to find the Château of Blois. Massive but less magical. There had been a fair amount of murder at Blois. Here, the Duke de Guise was stabbed by the minions of King Charles the Ninth. His minions were the cute young men that he surrounded himself with. The de Guise family was very important in Blois and a threat to the throne. The Duke was a tall and handsome man who surely didn’t expect to be stabbed right after breakfast as he crossed the king’s bedroom.
We walked where the Duke had fallen. We stood on the balcony where all the ringleaders of a group who stormed Blois led by the Duke’s brother, who was a Cardinal, were hanged. It is an iron balcony on a stone façade, high above the sloping walls. Down these same sloping walls Queen Marie de Medici was lowered with ropes to escape her imprisonment. Her son, Louis the Thirteenth, had put her there. She was a real troublemaker.
Blois is very different from Amboise. You don’t feel anyone ever had a lot of fun in Blois. It was all just trouble, trouble, trouble. At Amboise it is easy to imagine frolicking and fun in the pretty gardens that seem closer to clouds than the countryside below.
In the car heading back to Cornichons Mom said, “If you could have one thing from either of these châteaux, what would it be?”
Glenn Elliott wanted two things. The two marble statues that were in the niches of the staircase in the Gaston d’Orléans wing at Blois. Gaston d’Orléans was the younger brother of Louis the Thirteenth and the favorite of their mother, Marie de Medici. Louis the Thirteenth made a deal with him that he could have all the money he wanted to build at Blois if he would just stay there. I guess it was pretty clear that he could stay there and build or stay there and be in jail. He stayed and built. In marble. A huge wing with a huge staircase.
“Actually, I want the entire staircase,” Glenn said.
“Are you becoming a megalomaniac now that we’re planning to buy that house on North Bay Road?” my mother said.
“I think I already am, whatever megalomaniac means,” he said.
“I want that painting of the Duke de Guise lying slumped on the floor at the foot of the four-poster bed and those men skulking in the doorway in the background,” my mother said. “I love that kind of painting. I’m probably the only person left who really likes bad painting from the nineteenth century.”
“We can hang it in my staircase,” Glenn said.
“And what do you want?” Mom said to me.
And I told her that I wanted the Winterhalter painting of the Princess de Joinville that was in the Louis-Phillipe section at Amboise. Because it reminded me of her.
“She seemed very pensive, didn’t she?” Mom said.
“She was far from Brazil,” I said. And I told them how the Prince de Joinville had met her when he was on his way to St. Helena to collect the remains of Napoleon. His ship had stopped in Rio de Janeiro. And there she was. A dark little jewel in the midst of the crazed, ugly Portuguese royal family. And he sailed back and got her the next year. She must have loved him very much for rescuing her, even though her new homeland was short on light and heat.
“The most romantic thing in the châteaux. That was your choice,” my mother said.
“That’s me. I’m all about romance. And I learned it from you,” I said.
What Do Women Want?
The ladies had a farewell lunch for Kitty Carlisle Hart in the garden of the Hôtel de L’Ecole. Nina and her mother, Estelle, Edwina and Angela, Kitty and me. Kitty had asked that I be invited. She didn’t want it to be an all-girl event.
It may not have been an all-girl event, but the conversation certainly was. Men have no idea how women talk among themselves. A locker room just isn’t in it. Men discuss sex among themselves in generalities. They like this. They don’t like that. Women discuss everything in specifics. And then they laugh a lot.
We were seated at the large oval table in the center of the garden. It is a table well out of earshot of other tables, and also, there was the fact that everyone was speaking English and the tables around us only spoke French. I guess. I hope.
Everyone ordered. All sorts of things from sole to salmon, from omelets to steaks with béarnaise sauce. There were no small salads on the menu and no special dishes for vegetarians. The Hôtel de l’Abbaye was a classic provincial restaurant. The guests were there to eat. The bread from the local bakery was delicious. The butter in its little pots was superb. The asparagus came from nearby and was very tasty. And the wines were bewildering in all the different choices one could make and the modest prices. Many came from the nearby countryside. The ladies did not hold back. Madame took our orders. She was the wife of the hotel’s owner. He was also the chef. She was dressed as though receiving for a lovely party. A beautiful dress, a freshly done hairdo, and excellent jewelry. She was blonde, of course.
The waters, bubbly and nonbubbly, arrived. Then the wines. Then a barrage of tasty little croustillants; salty little pastries that were to ensure our drinking a lot of wine to quench our thirst. The noise level rose at our table, but none of the other diners showed any signs of being discommoded. A table of good- looking women was expected to make a certain amount of brouhaha. And our ladies brouhaha-ed a lot. They all liked each other and knew that this luncheon was special. They were not going to be having a luncheon together again in any likelihood. So they were making the most of it.
My mother wasn’t there. Glenn Elliott and she were touring the French Basque country. She told me that she had always longed to go to Biarritz, where Empress Eugenie had maintained a summer capital. Biarritz has the least sun of any part of France in the summer. Its coastal position on the Atlantic near the Spanish border guarantees fog and rainfall and the Empress did not want a tan. Quite the contrary. She wanted to remain pale and perfect beneath the cloud cover.
Now it’s the surfing center of France. The most like Miami of any place in the country. Mom wanted to see it. It’s the thought of all those ball gowns and carriages and garden parties, I would guess.
I was glad she wasn’t there as the conversation quickly took a true confessions turn. I didn’t want to hear hers, and I certainly wasn’t planning to make any of my own. Which I didn’t have to make as it turned out. But I sure learned plenty.
Edwina toasted Kitty as soon as the wine was poured. Not champagne but a sparkling white Burgundy that is rather sweet. I myself like sweetish wines. I shouldn’t confess that, I suppose, but I do. Edwina said, “To Kitty, who taught us so much about how to live and still does!” There was much clinking and laughing.
Nina said, “Kitty, tell us. How does it feel to still be working at ninety-four? Do you resent it?”
Kitty said, “Heavens, no. If I didn’t work, all I’d think about would be young men.”
Estelle said, “Hey, that’s my line! But she’s right. There’s this popular idea that when you get older you lose all interest in your love life. It’s not true. It’s very different for men and women. Men get to a point where they can’t get it up anymore, and then whether they are still interested or not, they have to hang up their spurs. For myself, I’ve always got my eye out for some young stud who hopes to sleep his way into the theater. You’re lucky, Hugo. If you were interested I’d be on your case.”
I said, “Estelle, you’re almost reason enough for me to get interested.” This caused a flurry of laughs and clinking glasses and lots of “Hear, hear’s” and an “I’ll drink to that” from Angela. Which she did. Angela looks like Grace Kelly but was acting like Marilyn Monroe.
Kitty said, “Edwina, I hope I’m not being too forward. But what has it been like giving up men for another woman? I mean, who wouldn’t be crazy about Angela? B
ut still, it’s definitely different playing on the other team.”
“I love your slang, Kitty. Where are you learning those expressions? From that young man over there?” Edwina nodded toward me. She took a bite of her loup, that wonderful fish from the Mediterranean. It looked delicious. It was served with ratatouille. I love all those vegetables all cooked up together.
Edwina said, “You know, men have so many wrong ideas about what women want to do in bed. This penetration thing. I think most men would be happier with another man because they’re all so penis crazy. I’ve never been crazy about having some great big meaty weapon flailing around in bed with me. I’m much more into romance. I love you, I love you, I love you. That sort of thing. I guess Angela and I like the same sort of mucking about. And believe it or not, I’m crazy about her mind. She’s smarter than I am, and I love to learn. She’s seen more of the physical world. She’s a rare catch. I consider myself extremely lucky.”
Angela looked down at her plate. When she looked up she said, “I feel embarrassed about my cleavage.”
Alicia, Nina’s mother, said, “Please don’t be. It is beautiful. And any woman would defend your right to display it. As you were talking I was just remembering a sex lecture that I attended when I was at the University of Michigan. So long, long ago. The men were allowed to attend indiscriminately, but the only women that could attend had to come with their fiancé. Imagine that. I drummed up my friend Harold Michaels and went. The only thing I really remember the lecturer saying was that women were interested in sex up to the point of penetration and men were only interested after the point of penetration.”
“Now there’s a thought,” Estelle said. “You know what Italian foreplay is, don’t you? ‘You. There.’ And he points to the floor. That kind of wraps it up, doesn’t it?”
“Should we talk about Italians or penetration or foreplay?” Nina asked.
“You know what Jewish foreplay is, don’t you?” Kitty asked. Her langoustine in red sauce looked delicious. I wished I had ordered it although my steak was very good. Everyone turned toward her. Were we going to be so politically incorrect as to be racist? “I can tell this because I’m Jewish,” she said. “And at least in my case it’s not true.” She paused. “Forty-five minutes of begging.” There were hoots of laughter.
“They never had to beg from me,” Estelle said. “And I’d like to add in the defense of Italians that they are very responsible about getting the job done. When they make love to you, they aren’t tightwads about giving you plenty of attention. Down there.” She nodded toward the table top. I suppose her crotch was somewhere there under the tablecloth.
“Italians like to kiss. Is that too much of a sweeping statement? But I’ve found that if a man isn’t a good kisser, he’s not going to be very interested in whether you are having a good time or not,” she said.
“Can we talk about the clitoris?” Angela said. She had finished her steak and pommes frites. I could make an entire meal of the true version of French fries. And go back to the United States weighing four hundred pounds.
“Did you say clitoris?” Estelle demanded in a piercing voice. Several adjoining tables interrupted their chewing for a moment.
Angela was getting into the spirit of the luncheon. “I didn’t say beaver!” she said equally loud. Everyone at the table squealed with laughter. Women know all of the slang words, even if they don’t use them. Only Nina’s mother said, “Beaver?” in an inquiring tone.
Nina pointed down toward the tabletop in front of herself. “Down there,” she said, copying Estelle. And whooped with a big laugh as she took a large quaff of her red wine. I think she had the Gamay. Two bottles of red wine had come to the table. A Gamay and a Fleurie, my favorite.
Angela went on. “I mean it, honestly. I want to take a little poll. There’s a lot of talk about a vaginal orgasm, but I’ll be damned if I know what that’s all about.”
“When you have an orgasm can you tell where it’s coming from?” Estelle said.
“I mean, men have this thing that if they have a big penis it means more to women because your vagina appreciates it,” Angela said.
“Men have to have that idea or they wouldn’t have any basis for claiming superiority through penis size. If they ever found out that women didn’t care, they’d be in a lot of trouble,” Estelle said.
“Vaginas vary, too,” Kitty put in. “All those penises are different, but no one considers that all these vaginas are different, too. Is there any more wine?”
“Let’s order more,” Nina said, gesturing to the waiter, who was actually a waitress, small and blond with a very unusual haircut. She had been hanging over the table, loving all these ribald women getting more ribald by the minute. I wasn’t saying a word. How could I discuss vaginas?
“Let’s,” said Edwina, emptying her glass.
Then things began to warm up. I started it. I said, “I’ve read the vagina has few nerve endings and it’s the clitoris that has all the sensations leading to orgasm. If we’re going to talk about the clitoris.”
Angela said, “Thank you, Hugo.”
No one said anything. Finally, Edwina said, “I think it’s because the man is feeling so much that you can get pleasure out of it. It makes you feel sexy that the man finds you so sexy. I think women go into the nurturing mode once the thing is in there.”
“Do you feel more nurturing the bigger it is?” I said.
“No,” “Definitely not,” “Forget it,” “Please,” rang out around me. Nina poured more wine for everyone.
Kitty said, “There’s something wrong with every man unless you’re in love with him.”
Alicia said, “And I don’t think you fall in love with his penis.”
Estelle said, “We’ve all seen those penises with a man attached.”
Alicia said, “I haven’t.”
Estelle said, “I know. You’ve led a sheltered life. Lucky you.”
“Here’s what I think,” Edwina said.
“We’re all ears,” Estelle said. She was getting a little rowdier than the rest of the party.
“I think American men are embarrassed by sex. They want to get it over with as soon as possible and get back to the TV. It’s intimacy. And they don’t really know how to do that. Watch them together. Their conversation is always the same kind of backslapping, jolly schoolboys kind of thing. American women get together and in a couple of hours they know everything about each other’s lives. American men can get together for weeks . . . look at the astronauts, look at the Army . . . and when they come back, they know nothing more than when they left. I think it’s because they think we’re their mothers. European men are different. I think they can conceive of women as pals. Fuck-buddies. Isn’t that what you call it?” she said to me.
“That’s what some people call it,” I said.
“I think when you get what you want you never grow up. Some women are spoiled and never grow up. Not so much anymore now that we all work. You find that more in the Latin-American world,” Angela said. “American men get what they want so they never have to step back and look at the world they’re in. And when they don’t get what they want, they just get sulky and stay home with Mom and Dad. Women grow up. Gay men grow up. Otherwise they’d never get what they want.”
“Look at Picasso. Or John Kennedy. Or George W. Bush. They always got what they wanted. Everyone showered attention on them. And essentially they remained children,” Edwina said.
“You’re right,” Estelle said, “men run things and women want to please. So there’s a lot of bad sex in a lot of those marriages. My definition of marriage is that you’re involved with someone you don’t particularly care about, but it makes it impossible to meet someone you might care about.”
“It’s all about pussy,” I said. “How depressing.”
Angela said, “It used to be. And it will never be for you. Just don’t let it be all about cock.” There spoke the voice of the porn industry.
“Well, I h
ave to honestly admit I have the most pleasure if my partner has pleasure,” Nina said. “I can’t imagine having a great orgasm if Graham doesn’t. I couldn’t enjoy it.”
“You really love him, don’t you?” Edwina said.
Alicia looked at her daughter intently. Then said, “I’m a lot like you.”
“It’s time for desserts, girls,” Kitty said. “Let’s pig out. I leave tomorrow.” And there were heaps of meringues and fresh peaches and chocolate mousse and crème caramel.
“So what do women want?” I said.
“Freud asked the same thing,” Kitty said. “All men have to do is ask, but they haven’t had to before. Mark Twain said that up in heaven everyone just hugs and hugs. He was on the right track. Males want to propagate. They have their own fantasies about us to justify why they do what they do.”
Estelle said, “Men will fuck mud, and they think we don’t know it.”
“Sometimes I loved men so much I wanted to have a penis myself. So I could fuck them,” Angela said.
“You did?” Edwina said. She looked surprised.
“I’ve felt that way,” Estelle said. “We were probably supposed to be gay men.”
“So the clitoris?” I said.
“It’s our little penis. Men probably don’t want to kiss it or play with it because it makes them feel guilty. You’re not supposed to play with it,” Angela said.
“You’re so knowledgeable, Angela,” Kitty said.
“More than that,” Angela said. “I’ve actually been there.”
She went on, “You know all those expressions they make in porn films? The anguish, the torture of delight, all that stuff?”
“I don’t actually,” Alicia said.
“Nor do I,” Kitty chipped in.
“I do,” Nina said. No one commented.
“Well, gay men use the same expressions during anal intercourse. It’s not ecstasy. It’s pain. Those big dicks hurt,” Angela said. “Sex is supposed to be fun. Not painful, or am I wrong?”
Love in the Loire Page 23
