A Carnivore's Inquiry

by Sabina Murray

  Dante gives us the death-knell thud of each hammer-fall as the door to his cell is nailed shut.

  Over the course of the next six days, all but the count starve. He is left groping blindly over the bodies. He hears their words echoing in the dark corners of the Tower of Hunger. “Father, you clothed us in this wretched flesh. We beg you to strip it away.” And strip it away he does, surviving in this manner until all the flesh is gone except his own.

  His first night in the tower, Ugolino has a remarkable dream. He sees a wolf with whelps being pursued up a slope by hounds and hunters, and when he wakes up and hears his children whimpering, realizes that the wolf is him. This is not the first wolf that Dante gives us. In the first Canto, Dante pursues a coy leopard with festive skin. Then for one heart-pounding moment a hungry lion rushes him, which is scary, but done with in a matter of three lines. In fact, Dante seems to be doing quite well on his own, not needing Virgil’s or anyone else’s assistance, until he encounters the horrifying she-wolf. He says that “her leanness seemed to compress all of the world’s cravings,” and her image, slinking about the slopes, fills him with such despair that he calls out to, of all things, a ghost—Virgil may be Virgil, but he’s still dead—to help him out.

  And I thought Italians were supposed to like she-wolves, or maybe that’s just Romans. Dante was, after all, Florentine.

  18

  Boris was not pleased with me. I pointed out the fact that the whole Mexico adventure, including plane ticket, had come in under seven hundred dollars and that he should have been glad that I’d decided to go for a trip rather than twelve months of therapy, which would have cost considerably more.

  “It’s not the money,” said Boris.

  “Then what is it?”

  “You’re out of control. You’re like an animal.” Boris took an appraising look at me. “You’re not a child anymore.”

  “Then stop treating me like one.”

  “You’re uncivilized.”

  “Oh, how awful,” I said with all the sarcasm I could muster.

  “Why this wild behavior? Why this running off to New Mexico? Why do you need a vacation in Mexico? Isn’t Maine for vacation?”

  “You’re right, Boris,” I said. “It was you. I was coming to terms with my feelings for you.” I smiled, proud of myself for having come up with it.

  “So you think of me and run away?”

  “No,” I said. “I think of you and come back.”

  I wrapped my arms around his shoulders—Boris didn’t really have a neck—and kissed him. Boris believed me because if I’d been in love with him, I probably would have done something like that. And people believe what they want to. He needed some tidy ending to our argument, because people were coming over that night. More importantly, Ann was hanging around a lot—party planning and all that—and the last thing he wanted was for Ann to be right about me because that would mean that he was wrong.

  The morning of the event Ann had me dusting the tops of picture frames. She wasn’t really doing anything but standing around with that realtor’s pose—weight heavily over one foot, the other pointed outward, hand curled with the wrist resting on her hip—watching me and the caterer, who was in the midst of the longest anxiety attack I’d ever witnessed.

  “Let the man do his job,” I said. I was on a dining room chair armed with a can of Pledge and a chamois.

  Ann looked at me in disbelief. “I’m helping him.”

  “Helping him on his way to an early grave.”

  The caterer smiled nervously.

  “You can’t set up the bar there,” she said, ignoring me. “People will want to look out the window.”

  “No, they won’t,” I said.

  “This,” she said, indicating the window, “is the highlight of the apartment.”

  “It looks onto a building exactly like this one. It’s like a mirror. And down on the street there’s nothing, not even a good restaurant.”

  “Set the bar up against the shelves.”

  “You can’t do that, Ann,” I said. “There’s no plug there, and if the caterers have to get anything from the kitchen, they’ll have to walk through all the guests.”

  I didn’t really care where the bar was, but the morning had been tedious with nothing to do except Pledge my dust and bother Ann.

  Ann looked at me with exasperating patience. “I hope you’re not wearing that to the party,” she said.

  I had on my leather pants, which I thought were perfect, and a white men’s shirt, which was a bit worn here and there, and had a faded and not really noticeable coffee stain near the hem. It was the most appropriate outfit I had with me.

  “Oh, grow up, Ann.” I got off the dining room chair and began casting my eyes around the room in search of cigarettes. Ann had put them on the bookshelf. I took one and stuck another in the caterer’s mouth. I wasn’t supposed to smoke in the apartment but I didn’t care. I lit a match. “It’s the dressiest thing I have.”

  Ann looked me up and down. “You look like a junkie,” she said.

  I took the train downtown. I had all afternoon to find an outfit. I think Boris gave me the green light to go shopping to get me and Ann apart. It was cold and sunny, somehow shiny and clean on the street. I was happy to be in New York, happy to see the dog walkers with their canine bouquets, happy to be ignored by everyone. I didn’t really want to go into a store. Downtown stores always made me nervous. The clothes were invariably hung on neat wooden hangers, set against walls in rows, as if you had walked into someone’s closet. I would not be able to browse without assistance and this bothered me. I lit a cigarette in front of a store front that had what looked like a calfskin kilt hanging in the window. The leather was a rich butter-scotch. I guessed it would be about seven hundred dollars, about the same as my Mexico venture. I’d top it off with a sleeveless, cowl-neck cashmere thing in off-white—I had no idea how much that would cost—and then the shoes. Boots? Could you mix and match leather? Maybe I could pull off suede, black suede, calf-height boots with laces running up the middle, the kind of boots that took you twenty minutes to get on.

  I was beginning to need the leather kilt. I looked inside. A bored salesgirl, with her hair pulled back so tightly that it looked like her head was painted black, was steaming a shirt. A young man with floppy bangs and large cuffs was talking on the phone. I could probably sneak in, see how much the skirt cost, and get away without being assisted. I walked in as quickly as I could and made straight for the skirt. But the price was not visible. I stopped before touching the thing and looked over at the sales people. They were both watching. Neither of them was smiling.

  I rolled my eyes. “So how much is it?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty dollars,” they said, in unison.

  I nodded.

  “Try it on,” said the girl.

  I smiled.

  “No, really. I tried it on, but I’m not as tall as you are. It hit me two inches below the knee.” She shuddered recalling this. “Not a good length for pleats.”

  “Is there a special occasion?” asked the young man.

  “Literary party.”

  “Writers are all slobs,” he said. “Don’t bother.” He studied my face. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yes I do,” he said. “Chocolate croissant, latte, no sugar.”

  “Dean and Deluca?”

  “Mornings on the weekends.” He smiled. “I remember the pants. You always wear the same pants. It’s so, I don’t know, Angelina Jolie.”

  “They’re good pants,” I said. “I got them in Italy.”

  “Try on the skirt,” he said. “Go on. You know you want to.”

  At that point, I wanted nothing less than to try on the skirt, but it would have seemed unfriendly.

  I went into the dressing room and put the skirt on. It did look good, but it wasn’t going to break my heart to leave it.

  “Come out and show us,” said the girl.

  I pul
led the curtains and walked out and padded out in my socks. I lifted up my sweater so they could see how the waist fit and turned around a couple of times.

  “See,” she said, “On the knee just barely. Perfect.” The other sales clerk nodded in agreement.

  “And if I had seven hundred and fifty dollars, you’d have made a sale,” I said. I returned to the dressing room. The skirt took me a couple of minutes to get off. It was the buckles, the kilt-type things, that went around the sides. The leather didn’t slide easily and I was scared I’d scratch it. While I was fumbling with the buckles, I heard the door to the store swing open and someone’s whisper matched with the salesgirl’s incredulous, “Really?” and then the guy’s enthusiastic, “oh my God.” When I came back out, they were both smiling at me.

  “What?” I said. I handed the skirt to the girl, which I had considerately put back on the hanger.

  “Let me wrap that for you,” she said.

  “I’m not sure I want it.”

  “The skirt’s yours. I’ve already rung it up.” She closed the drawer of the cash register. “While you were in the dressing room this old man walks in. I think he was Spanish. Nice shoes. Anyway, he says he wants to buy you the skirt.”

  “That’s a little strange, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t argue,” said the guy. “I wouldn’t.”

  “So what’s his name?”

  “He wouldn’t say,” said the girl. “He paid in cash.” She handed me the bag.

  I shrugged and took the bag. “Did he want anything?” I asked.

  The sales clerks looked at each other and shook their heads. “I think he knew you,” said the guy.

  “Why?”

  “The way he bought it for you. He seemed to know what he was doing.”

  “Spanish?”

  “I don’t know if he was Spanish,” he said, “but he was definitely Euro.”

  I picked up the bag and wandered out of the store. I looked up the street and down the street. There were people everywhere and somehow, every one of them looked familiar.

  I called Arthur from a pay phone. I couldn’t remember if I’d told him I was heading to New York or that Johnny was on his way to Maine. The last time we’d talked, I’d been in Mexico City, keeping company with a bottle of tequila in my hotel room.

  “What’s up?” said Arthur. He sounded cheerful.

  “I’m in New York.”

  “Your friend Johnny’s here. He got here at five this morning.”

  “How are you two getting along?”

  “Fine.” Arthur sounded relaxed. “He seems like a nice guy. He’s asleep on the couch.”

  “How’s the car?”

  “He said he had a bit of trouble after dropping you off in Albuquerque, but some relative of his owns a garage, so he replaced, I don’t know, an alternator? Does that sound right?”

  “Sure.”

  “So he got a late start. Says he quit his job.”

  “Sounds like you two hit it off.”

  “We had a drink when he arrived. When are you coming home?”

  “Day after tomorrow. I already booked a flight.”

  “Is Boris cool with that?”

  “I haven’t told him yet.”

  Ann was drinking a glass of whiskey at the dining room table when I arrived. She seemed softer somehow, younger. She was already dressed for the party—a claret-colored bolt of cloth with a crazy faux fur scarf. She had lipstick on her teeth.

  “What’d you get?” she asked.

  “You’ll see in a minute.”

  Ann took a sip of the whiskey, then another.

  “You should pace yourself,” I said. “It’s going to be a long evening.”

  “Yes it is,” she said. “I don’t like going to parties and I don’t like throwing parties.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “Sorry for being so annoying this morning, Ann. Sometimes you’re an easy target.”

  Ann smiled. “Sometimes I’m a real bitch.”

  I looked over at Ann’s drink. “I’m going to get one of those,” I said. I got up from the table and went over to the bar. “Where’s Boris?”

  “He’s at my place,” she said. “He said he couldn’t take all the activity here.”

  “Whose party is it?”

  “Mine. I had to invite a lot of my crowd. Boris wanted a hundred people and he just doesn’t have that many friends.”

  “That’s so sad,” I said, without much conviction. “Anyone I know?”

  “No,” said Ann, “Wait. Do you remember my friend Julia?”

  “Julia . . .”

  “She’s a buyer for Cygnet, downtown.”

  “Leather goods?”

  “Mostly. Her supplier from Florence, Silvano, says he knows you.”

  “Silvano?” I was horrified. I looked at the paper bag with my leather skirt and suddenly everything began to make awful sense. I started laughing, took a drink, and laughed some more. “Ann, this could be the worst party that Boris has ever thrown.”

  “That would be hard.”

  “I think it has a good chance.”

  By ten, when the guests started arriving, Ann was blasted. I envied her. I’d managed a good buzz by eight, which is when Boris showed up with a bag full of Chinese takeout. He had an odd manner about him, as if he were play-acting at having fun. I appreciated his fakery, but his tension sliced through my fog, leaving me antsy and bored.

  “Cut her off,” he said, gesturing to Ann.

  “You cut her off.”

  We both looked at her. She was straightening a framed picture of Boris with tangled, long hair (the top of his head was still bald) standing on a beach. Was this Rupert? Maybe Ann was wondering the same thing. She knocked the frame over, then straightened it in a way that left it precariously close to the shelf edge.

  “Boris,” I added, “maybe she isn’t drunk. Maybe we’re just sober.”

  I headed for the bar. “I had a Pernod earlier, then a vodka tonic. I did a shot of Jagermeister, some Drambuie. I don’t know. Another Pernod?”

  “Pernod is revolting,” said the dark-haired bartender. “The only people who drink it are college students vacationing in Europe.”

  “Right,” I said and smiled. “What do you suggest?”

  “He’s got some really good Chianti back here. I’ve been drinking it all evening,” he said.

  “How about a whiskey sour?” asked the blond waiter. “Everyone’s drinking martinis, but a whiskey sour is the real Rat Pack.”

  “Sounds great.” I watched as he smashed a lemon.

  “So this Boris,” said the blond pouring a heavy dose of whiskey, “is he your old man?”

  “By old man, do you mean husband, boyfriend, or father?”

  The bartenders looked at each other and shrugged simultaneously.

  “Well, let me just say,” I said grabbing my drink, “that he is indeed my old man and we’ll leave it at that.”

  Silvano arrived shortly afterward. I don’t know how I managed to avoid eye contact with him, Boris’s apartment being rather small, but I did. I knew that Silvano would not confront me in public; public confrontations were not bella figura. At the same time, I didn’t want Silvano to see me with Boris because Boris was embarrassing to me; Boris was not bella figura. I stood with my drink in an awkward conversation with Boris’s lawyer, a young guy named Rand Randley, who was into climbing mountains. He belonged to the Adirondack Club, or something like it. It meant that he had climbed all the Adirondacks.

  “How many Adirondacks are there?” I asked.

  And he answered me, but the information never made it into my head. I saw his mouth moving. I saw the number floating in the air and then it evaporated. I also saw, from Rand Randley’s overly friendly expression, that he was as tortured as I was by the conversation, but neither of us could seem to stop.

  “That’s a lot of mountains,” I said. “Can you excuse me for a minute?”

&
nbsp; “Absolutely,” said the lawyer.

  I escaped into the bathroom. There was a young man in there, midstream. He was wearing tight blue jeans, ironed and starched, with fade lines down the front.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “but I’m urinating.”

  “That’s all right,” I assured him. “Everyone does.” He had some kind of southern accent and I wondered how Ann knew him.

  He waited for me to go. “Can I have some privacy?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid not.” I lit a cigarette. “You’re going to have to leave.” It took him a minute to understand what I meant by this, which struck me as odd. He zipped up and took off, and I began to feel very annoyed at my life.

  A part of me wanted to talk to Silvano. I missed him on some level, but I didn’t know what to say. I’d gone down the street to buy an orange soda and never come back. Silvano didn’t expect me to stay anyway; he couldn’t have. But I was going to have to face him, him or Boris. There was also a small angry crowd of people knocking on the door, so I left the safety of the bathroom. And when I saw Boris navigating across in my direction, rather than run, I merely drained my drink and leaned back against the wall, crossing one leg over the other in complete resignation.

  “What’s the matter with you tonight?” he asked.

  “Must be love,” I replied.

  “Very funny. I have to speak to you in private.” Boris glanced around the room. “Maybe we could stand in the corridor?” he suggested.

  I sighted Silvano, who was looking at me with pained and fatherly concern.

  “The corridor?” I said, making for the door, “is not very private. Isn’t there anywhere else?”

  “We could go up to the roof,” said Boris.

  “The roof would be wonderful.”

  Boris and I walked to the elevator in silence. He was drunk. Boris was like that. Dead sober one minute, non compos mentis the next, although he was pretty articulate no matter what. Sometimes what he was articulating would have been better off unsaid. No, Boris never really got a buzz or was pleasantly tipsy. The thought occurred to me that I was being lured out for some quick sex, which would at least be easy to accomplish and might pass a few minutes of a party that was fathomably, palpably boring. We got into the elevator and Boris pressed the button for the top floor. He smiled at me, toying with something in his pocket as the elevator ground its way skyward. I smiled stiffly in return. We made our way up a narrow staircase then, after some trouble and bilingual profanity, Boris managed to unlock the door. Finally we were out.