Cocktails, Caviar and Diapers

by Duke, Renee

  It rains. Belgian rain. Constant. I don’t mind it, I can dress for it. No one cares how I look. The locals think we’re crazy Americans. There’s an eccentric young Countess in the village, selling antiques. She is some company but not much.

  The days are long. I drive and drive, I know all the back roads. I bundle up the little boys and drive Jock and Eric for half an hour into Brussels for their school. The village school was too simple, the French a local patois of Walloon.

  Luckily, I do enough newspaper reporting on the Common Market to be able to get into a school for the children of Common Market officials. I guess it’s the best school I’ve ever seen and soon will be the most beautiful. It’s a sea of mud now. I drive back another half hour and then go back again in the afternoon. Sometimes I can get someone to watch the little ones and go and interview an official, a department store executive, or see the atomic installation at Mol.

  What’s wrong with that? I do a little bit of work and make enough to buy a pair of handmade shoes occasionally. The boys are fine. I know the battlefields of Waterloo by heart, and I’ve visited all the monuments. I’ve made expeditions to buy bread filled with brown sugar or see Le Notre’s gardens at Rixensart.

  I’m used to being alone now. I’m not an American wife abroad anymore. I’m a young woman with children living in Europe. I have a charming husband. We are charming. A charming couple. I never see him. I miss him all day from when I kiss his cologned cheek goodbye until late at night when he’s been home for hours.

  I would like to talk and talk to him but he doesn’t want to talk to me. What is it? Am I dull? Ugly? Not witty enough? Has my mind gone into a boring sameness? Why won’t he talk to me?

  Jane just broke through with her husband. She said they talked all night, it felt wonderful. She’d been trying for years. They look happy and a beautiful couple with their children and they weren’t talking either.

  We talked about living last week when I took her to Antwerp for company. I’d never seen Antwerp and I wanted to explore the museums. She says she likes to be alone, she can think better. I think better when I am surrounded by people. Each of us is all alone anyway.

  “I can’t stand living,” she said.

  “You can be sure you’ll die eventually,” I said. “Why rush it?”

  I think she thinks I’m shallow. She and Evans have long talks together. Evans says that one day he’ll join a monastery and go away from the world.

  How dreadful. The more world the better for me. I could look and look and run up and down the earth some days.

  “I’ve an April blindness, I’m all out at the eyes.” Wendy Hiller had that line in the Christopher Fry play[19]. How true. It’s good to know someone else thinks that way.

  ***

  At least I’ve learned one thing: we are not all the same. Last year, Evans said I was silly to be enthusiastic, that I was egocentric, all sorts of things. Then I read my horoscope in “Elle.” Lions are like that and there are millions of Lions in the world and they are like me. By inference it says that.

  I can’t believe that everyone in this world is one of twelve different character types but it’s a relief to know I don’t have to be like Evans. He’s a “Scorpion” and they bite the ones they love the most. I could even say he loves deeply, to kill it off. I won’t let him. I want us to stay together and grow together. I can’t do it if we don’t talk. It’s all to myself.

  When I think about it, I may be dull. I am trying to be pretty for him and make my brain sharper. I want to keep on as a stringer for the paper, meet people who will insist I use my brains. It’s hard to get up and type at five in the morning and get my copy to town, and I could fall asleep for days sometimes. Then there’s making myself sit at the typewriter. If I don’t have a deadline, I’ll never do it.

  A fog sits on my head.

  “What can you talk about?” Evans asked me that the other day. I thought–not much. Now I have a new plan. I read a paragraph of Veblen and argue the pros and cons all the way into town and back again with myself. In a way, I’ m having a conversation with Veblen. I like the idea of that, all the hundreds of good writers and philosophers can be my friends when I read their books and talk to what they say in my head. I feel smarter when I try and see what they really mean and then think of how I really feel about it.

  “Goodnight, darling Jock.” Little Randall comes running up, slipping on the tiles in his Dr. Denton pajamas. “Kisses for all of you, take care!” I am lucky, they are wonderful.

  Now to the car and my thoughts as I go to the Embassy. Secret delight as the familiar landscape with strange names slips by.

  My thoughts go to Veblen: A trophy? Are women a trophy? I wonder how women should live with men. Over here, they are still trophy hunters; the most money, the biggest title. How the women hang on to the men that they have selected, even when they don’t love them. Grab, grab. How can a woman take money from a man who doesn’t love her anymore? How can a man live year after year with a woman, not wanting to be there. Are they stuck with their trophy? Even if a man gets the most terrific trophy, he is still stuck with a living human being whose presence reminds him that she has to be someone special or he wouldn’t have carried her off in the first place. It gets tiring–no, it is impossible to continue to admire a slave.

  What about the slaves? I have seen them with their secret thoughts, smiling at the master, hating him as they drive the Mercedes or are driven in the Rolls. I have seen them, too close to their children, unable to let them do and be as they decide. The children are all they have. They in turn are the masters of tomorrow, repeating to their children and their workers all they learned, a vicious circle. I suppose every culture has its “now I am supposed to.”

  Embroidering on this theme makes me heady with delight. Is this the dull lady I’m so tired of?

  Can I think of a civilization that is not built on the lie of others deciding for others how they should live and be?

  The moisture laden trees of the Forêt de Soignes shake their heavy branches as I pass, their clean swept lanes dark and quiet.

  My thoughts feel strong.

  The Embassy is here too soon, reflecting golden stone on the shiny black street. A valet takes my rattling little MG and it goes off in a cloud of smoke as the doorman protects me with his umbrella. I stand straighter to greet the familiar cloud of perfume and light that bursts from the door. I am like Cinderella coming to the ball, a veneer of social acceptability hiding my thoughts, still excited by a party.

  Due to the bi-weekly ballet class gossip line, I am aware of all the intense personal tragedies of the Embassy couple. The Ambassador smiles shyly as he takes my hand. A brave man, a good man, a silent philanthropist, filling the Embassy with the newest in American art. He is concerned about the American image in Europe, now at an all-time low.

  A radical thought slips close. Do we exploit other countries in the guise of help?

  The Ambassadress steps forward with an exquisite politeness and takes my hand as I continue through the reception line. She too has been pushed into her mold, does not see why her child killed himself.

  I know some people. At any rate, one is never allowed to flounder at an official party. The Embassy wives are trained to keep things moving along, like it or not. I once hid behind a sofa while I was having an impassioned talk about nursery schools with a Secretary’s wife–I felt like I had the ear of government and was not going to let it go. Besides, she was fun.

  There’s Evans with the Countess he’s been talking to at every recent party. Quite gorgeous. But I’ve drawn the best table of all! The plan of the tables is near the door, and I see that I have a leading Common Market banker seated nearby. I hope Evans will not be angry. My paper will be delighted to have some European economic insights straight from the horse’s mouth.

  “I have been reading Veblen,” I say at dinner as we draw our chairs close to the damask tablecloth, a footman helping me. The banker reels slightly, this is certainly the
last thing he expected. I am as astonished as he is, what did I blurt out? I’ve read the first paragraph but I know it well!

  “Madame, what did you learn, reading Veblen?”

  “One causes misery to others by not realizing they have rights...” I pause, hoping he will continue for me. He’s shorter than I am and as I turn, shaking out the folded pink napkin, I see that his eyes sparkle with tears. What have I said? His hand touches his stomach, the other hand toys with a small silver pill box.

  “I learned this during the war.” A silence fills the air.

  “What happened to you during the war?” I want to know. Such an unacceptable question in Belgium, where some hid in terror, some fought on one side or the other and all suffered. I must know about this man, there is a key to people in the way they survive tragedy.

  “I escaped to Holland, hid there with my beloved wife with anyone who would take us in. Finally we got to the Swiss border begging for help. The guards turned us over to the Germans. We were in Dachau. As you see, we survived but I can eat nothing but mashed and strained food now. We have not much longer to live but we got back to our family and friends. We know what matters in life.”

  There it is. A few sentences of pure horror.

  “Why are you a banker then? Does a bank care about humanity?” Like Scrooge counting his coins, I think. Or Uriah Heap. I’m being tactless, I fear.

  “The bank does not care, no, but I am trying to lead us back to the gold standard. I am in a position to do something for the Common Market. It will erase the terrible things we did to each other and so help the world.”

  “How can you deal with the Swiss after what they did to you? How can you even look them in the face without spitting?” Cracher[20] is the French word I use, it’s strong but conveys what I mean.

  “That was war, my dear. I understand why they did it and know they suffered too. I must not lose my humanity because others lose theirs.”

  The undertone of my thoughts, always anxiously watching, swims to revelation. I don’t have to hate Evans, lose my identity so newly found and become a virago of frustration. I can go towards him and others with the love I have for the children. I can try and accept him as he is.

  We talk about more things as the silent footmen take our plates and the crystal chandeliers shine on the silver, the sparkling glasses, the women’s bare shoulders and best dresses. We are an island in a sea of taffeta and small talk, small laughs and small wandering thoughts.

  The banker shows me his world; the home in the Flemish countryside, the warm fires pushing away the Flanders chill and fog, the massive oak table burdened with food for others only.

  While friends play with children and dogs bark, the terror that came in the night is still fresh in their bodies’ pain. I can see and be part of the love a man and woman have for each other.

  I have what I deserve at home. I have let myself become a trophy, I have changed myself for another. I’m a bit slow but I can learn to be myself.

  Chapter 7: The Palace

  Paris, 1964

  Romance should be getting to me more. Lying here I can see a vast expanse of pale grey sky and sea gulls sweeping in great arcs over the chimney tops.

  Strange to be back in Paris after staying in Old Black Point in Connecticut for the summer. A palace too. Somehow I never thought we’d end up here. When I saw it, big and grey and dreary on my first trip to Paris, years ago, I stared at Colette’s[21] window. I wondered how it would feel to look out a tall French window from a bed, as she did for years.

  Here I am. The Palais-Royal. It’s being cleaned now and it shines gold in the light but it’s still Richelieu’s palace. “It ain’t much but I call it home,” as we used to say.

  The children are running up and down the long colonnades, looking in the same windows that 18th century whores looked through with their boyfriends. They even buy the same tin soldiers as in Napoleon’s time.

  Ah, remember when I sat in Brussels in the big black Jaguar, with the Spanish chauffeur in my second hand mink coat. I decided then that what a life looks like to other people, in their romantic imagining, is not true.

  What’s “with” Evans? His face is yellow, his eyes like black raisins. Could be too much wine. Some terrible thing I have done that’s he’s saving to tell me. I have transgressed. Who knows where? Are the children too noisy? Did he miss us, feel lonely and sorry for himself and do something he regrets?

  Oh, my vacation was wonderful. Praise wrapped around me like a warm blanket after many cold years. We made movies, made up plays on tape, improvised each day to a crescendo of crazy art contests and childish, happy games. Dear new me, a new friend, I liked my happy thoughts. If I never lie to myself again, I may survive.

  There is what you think and what you say. “Paris is well worth a Mass” as Henri IV said. I can learn tact. The boys need a father and the sun is gold on the stones of the Palais Royal. Ghosts in my apartment, you’ve seen compromise.

  Evans has come in. He looks at me. So still. I feel afraid. What is this, why should I feel wrong? The company always sends us back to the States every two years. It was only a month. I’ve missed home so much. English and laughter I understand.

  “What is it Evans? You look very solemn. What a beautiful job you did on the apartment. You really got Johann to work. Are we too much for you after a month of peace and quiet?”

  What is going on? He’s curled to strike. Better get out of bed, jet lag and all. Battle stations coming up. A hairbrush will help. Mirror, mirror on the wall, was my body really in the United States yesterday? Ah, the pain of friends, far away.

  “I want to separate. It’s the only thing we haven’t tried.”

  “Evans, what are you saying?” Hands, stop brushing. Time stand still. Where am I and what is going on? Why does he walk away? Control the urge to throw something. He must have a new girlfriend. I should have never come back, I should have had the courage to stay and make a good life for myself and the boys. Worst of all, I feel so far away from him that I can hardly care.

  “Perhaps you could take a vacation before you make a decision like that. A separation is so final. It never works, never.” Perhaps I would stop caring altogether and that would be wrong. When you’re married, you don’t give up. It’s a right institution.

  “I don’t have time for a vacation now. I’m a business man now, remember?”

  “It must be a shock to have the children rushing around, after a quiet apartment.”

  “If you hadn’t gone to the States, I would not have stayed here, alone in Paris. You should have spent the summer with me.” He missed me, isn’t that a surprise. “You should have done the decorating yourself, done your duty as a wife.”

  “But I got the wallpaper and the paint and arranged for Johann to paint with a friend. There really wasn’t anything left for me to do.” Oh, he’s dragging me into a fight, I must stay calm. He may be right, I’m a lousy wife.

  “You should have stayed with me.”

  “I don’t know Evans. I felt that Paris was a terrible place for small boys in the summer. Besides, I go back to the States only once every two years and I really get to miss it. They do too.” Perhaps a rehash of old arguments will distract him. How can I manage without him?

  “Good Humors and Tootsie Rolls, that’s all they miss. Paris is their home. They’re too young to know the difference.”

  “Not really, Evans. They know they are not French, they’re proud of being American. If we keep them away too much, they’ll feel alien in their own country, they’ll talk with funny accents, like Jane’s children. I’m glad I went, for their sake and mine. I’m just sorry that you feel so badly about the trip.”

  “I do. I want to separate, Andrée. I’ve rented a nice little apartment for myself and I’m planning on moving out immediately.”

  “Where? My God, Evans, you say this so calmly. Is there someone there with you?” Somehow, I sense that there is a woman in on the act. He’s not talking like his usual
American self. Must be a French girl.

  “How revolting you are, your mind is just on sex. Don’t think you can get away with running around town while I’m gone. I’ll have you followed.”

  “Charming. You leave and I’m followed. Follow away. I don’t see the logic. If you are free, then so am I. I have no big plans, unfortunately.” Incredible. If I wasn’t standing here listening to these nightmare words, I wouldn’t believe it.

  “Evans, if you go, there is a tremendous danger to our marriage.”