Cocktails, Caviar and Diapers

by Duke, Renee

  “I should say so. That’s why I must leave.”

  “How can this be true? Another way of living and thinking will have to be set up, just for me to make it. I can’t pine at the door, faithful dog waiting for his master. Maybe I will love being free more than I have ever loved you.”

  “Free? Free to run around town!” He wheels and glares as if I were the one who’d decided to leave.

  “Come on, Evans! I mean free in my mind, free of whatever makes me stay married to you. Look, I have five small children. I’m a foreigner without a work permit and my only income is from you. I’m not the greatest catch in Paris.”

  “Please don’t tell me more. I can’t bear it. You’re talking like someone I’ve never met. At least, before, I could trust you, you said you were faithful and I left it at that. I guess I knew in a way.” Strange I don’t feel much, one way or the other. He is a stranger to me, always has been. We’re playing charades. Guess who I am today. Animal, vegetable, mineral. Husband, wife, love, child. We each try and guess what we are and then we get the other to guess too, all, playing some crazy game where you make up the rules as you go along.

  “You have always been my wife.”

  “Goody, goody.”

  “Andrée, your vicious tongue will ruin our marriage.”

  “Evans, you’ve already said you were leaving. Besides, I’m not a wife, I’m a me. Me. I fell in love with you once, or so I thought and ever since then I’ve been trying to change myself to your specifications. You can’t form another to be the way you want by always criticizing, making wrong. Actually, what are your specifications for your wife?”

  “If you would admit when you are wrong more often, it would be easier, you’d be the kind of wife I need. You always have to win in an argument. You always have to argue. You have a vile temper, you are a vicious woman.”

  Interesting. That’s how he goads me into losing my temper. How did I never see this before?

  “You don’t want a wife, you want a door mat. I was too young when I met you. Eighteen was too young. I’ve tried to form my personality in the negative, by fighting back. It’s not possible to be a decent person that way. I’m not mean and vicious, I know I’m not. I have no confidence in myself and then I feel I’m insufficient and don’t meet your standards and I get frantic.”

  Damn, here come the tears, I’m losing.

  “You’re too egotistical, all you do is think about yourself. It’s disgusting. Why can’t you be like a French wife, happy in the home, happy to entertain, happy to make a safe place for me.”

  “I do, I do, but there’s also what makes me happy. Marriage can’t be that way, just for one person. Everyone is egotistical, people have to think well of themselves and make themselves a life. I do make a good home, I do, it’s beautiful. The children are beautiful, too.”

  I should know he’s not listening. My new discoveries about myself are the last thing he wants to hear about. I should have found this all out long ago. How sad it is.

  Well, my mother would want me to be a bit more practical about money and it looks like that part of the conversation.

  “Evans, what about money?”

  “As usual. Money. I have decided to be very generous. I’ll pay your rent and mine, take some money for myself and leave the rest of my salary for you. I want everything to continue as if I were here. Above all, I don’t want the business community to know. It’s not good for business.”

  “I suppose they think it’s just peachy to see you and the mistress, as long as the home is not broken up. You’ve lost your Cleveland values, New England virtues by osmosis–shall we say, American integrity. We believed in it once.”

  “We’re in France now and these things are accepted.”

  “But we aren’t French. These are customs from their culture, where you never get divorced. We can divorce, you know.

  “Divorce is out of the question. We will give a cocktail party to welcome you back. We will have the American community and French business contacts. Everything as usual.”

  “You must be joking. I’ll have to stand there with a grin pasted on my face, shaking hands and looking joyful to see people I’m lying to. I will know that you are going to prance out when the witching hour strikes even if no one else knows. People sense such things. You are fooling yourself. It’s revolting to expect me to go through such an act.”

  “No, Andrée, it’s necessary that the people important to my business don’t know. Divorce is frowned on in France. I know that you appreciate our high income as much as I do. I can’t see you poor. You have rich tastes. Naturally my secretary will know and I will tell Roger, the chauffeur. That is all.”

  “Oh, all right, all right. We’ll give the cocktail party. Roger as intermediary is peculiar. Is he the only one who will know where your apartment is located?”

  “Yes, I thought that would be a good idea. If I’m going away I want it to be a total break.”

  “I should appreciate the dispassionate way in which you discuss this but Evans, it feels unclean. Corrupt. Ideas from a dying civilization. You want to live with another woman, whether you admit it to me or not. You’re just throwing me a few bits and pieces of your life so I will be a good little girl and shut up. Why don’t I go back to America with the boys and leave you in peace? I can get work, I’ve done some good work and people know it.”

  “I’ll never let you leave France with the boys while I am living here. I want to be able to see the children when I wish. I will set up appointments through the chauffeur. I think that about settles it.”

  I’m stunned. Look at him. He sways over me, hands in the pockets of his navy blue pinstripe suit. The jacket is pulled down hard from the shoulders but I can still see a quick reflection from the chain crossing the front. How many jokes we–I–have made about that chain.

  It seems that all this business game is very serious to him. He smiles, sharp teeth, eyes hard. Stupid. Can’t you see that he is a killer and this is a well-planned kill.

  I have the usual overpowering urge to hit him, strike him, kick him, only today I seem to have all the blood in my body in my brain. My eyes are hazy with tears but they are drying as with a hot wind.

  My heart pounds. Good. I’ll die of a heart attack and he’ll be sorry. No sorrier than me. The bastard! I can grab the silver paper opener. What am I going to do with that, idiot! You can’t kill someone with a paper knife in real life unless you know more than I do. Damn! I can’t even make a decent gesture. I can see in the mirror that I look like The Mad Woman of Chaillot, hair standing on end.

  What am I jumping up and down for with such a red face? Look at that stupid woman having a temper tantrum because she respected herself so little that she didn’t get out while the getting was good. Hah! Now I’m stuck. The little boys are stuck too.

  One joyful, rageful parting shot won’t hurt him and I will have exploded the pent up frustration from knowing he got the better of me. Ah! The crystal vase the company gave him … whoopee! Hah hah! Look at that critter skedaddle! Good riddance to bad rubbish.

  And now, pulling–together time. Splash water on the face, brush down the mad hair, open the windows wide to get the smell of cologne and treachery out. If I’m stuck with Paris, I’ll enjoy it. If the boys and I can’t leave here, we can still keep growing up. Together.

  I have combat fatigue. To bed. I’ll think about this later. Nothing connects and the world is askew but I’m alive.

  ***

  The peonies bloomed late this year. Massed around the apartment with the hazy sun coming through the windows and hitting the old silver wedding presents and the landlord’s brass and irons, the place looks half way decent. The caterers seem under way. The kitchen is a shambles, the cook and the waiters are tossing down my champagne like water but out here it looks fine.

  The boys look adorable in grey flannel shorts and red vests. Matthew is determined to get all the free orange juice he can before bed time and Eric has stationed himself downsta
irs to direct traffic. Sean, as usual, with his heart where the money is, has the coat rack. Why guests think it’s necessary to tip one of my little boys is beyond me but they do.

  Jock and Randall are watching the hors d’oeuvres, protecting them from each other. I’ll get them to help the waiters. This directoire–type dress looks great on me, hair’s fine. Mrs. Doll Body waits to receive her guests. Evans hasn’t said anything since our scene of two weeks ago. Perhaps he’s changed his mind. His clothes are still here.

  Evan’s secretary arrives.

  “Mrs. Armstrong, I’m so glad you came first! Does everything look right?”

  “Andrée, it looks lovely. I brought these tiny white orchids for you, I thought they would fit nicely by the collar. That is the most lovely dress, who made it?

  “My friend, Anne. She has decided to make me over. Just as well. Mrs. Armstrong, what is going on with Evans?”

  “Don’t take it seriously. He’s having change of life. Laugh at him. He can’t stand being laughed at, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t. Somehow I don’t feel like laughing at him. How do I get that point of view?”

  “Distance. I leave my husband at the castle in the Loire. He can look after the sheep and plan the golf course as much as he wants. I see him weekends and that’s enough.”

  “What’s the point of being married to someone you don’t see?”

  “Money.”

  She looks at me sweetly and drifts over to the champagne, eccentric with white hair, an extraordinary woman. She has pierced Evans’ defenses and seen him. I envy her. I envy him a secretary who is amused by him.

  There’s Evans. The guests are suddenly all coming at once. The party is no different from any others I give, I’m a pro. They’ll get a good party, a fun party, meet lots of people and feel they know me well. I like doing a good job. The boys are having a wonderful time, what sweethearts!

  The people bob up and down around the canapés. There is the professional table–stander. His left hand shoots out for a canapé, his right hand holds a champagne glass and he is pretending to be interested in anyone approaching the table. Anything to keep him there long enough to have a good supper.

  Where is Evans? My hands feel sweaty. Quickly look around. Everyone seems busy talking, it’s humming. Where is he?

  Quickly. Through the little dining room into the bed room. I stand looking at the armoire by the fireplace. Evans is taking his clothes. He is intent on packing–I can watch him go. He bends over the bed and folds the sleeves of his jackets. It’s curious. He’s very methodical. I always thought. it was an athlete’s grace. No, it’s an enormously contained tension. I can look without emotion.

  “Goodbye, Evans.” He looks surprised. What scene from what poor movie am I playing? It feels quite right. Cool and collected. These scenes leave me weak. The scene calls for the heroine leaning against the door. She may have been posing; I’m being propped up. The champagne glass is greasy from sweat. “So you really are going?”

  “Don’t make a scene, Andrée.” He looks menacing half bent over his suitcase. His nose seems more bent out of shape than usual. His eyebrows meet, arch over the eyes like barricades.

  “Far be it from me. See you round the quad.” The old college phrase slips out. I’ll not muff this one. Out I go, sagging knees and all. Back to the last cocktail party I’ll give for some time. I’ll never feel the same about them. One ear wanders, listening for the door to close behind Evans. The back door.

  Chapter 8: The Lover

  Damn it! By whose permission suddenly am I not anymore! I was happy, bitchy and alive. Now music drives me to despair, I pace up and down this damn bedroom, keeping the ghosts company. Funny, it seemed a large space yesterday. I can see over the trees, twiggy and trimmed like brooms to the other side of the palace. A tarpaulin covers the men cleaning the stones, like a gigantic sail. Yesterday it was quaint Paris. Today, so what. How can any one person change my point of view?

  I’m going out to see Barbara. She asked me for drinks last week before I really understood that Evans was leaving.

  “Jock, darling, I’m going out. I can’t stand it anymore. I’ll wear a hole in the carpet, pacing up and down. Can you help Katherine get the boys to bed? She’s new to their goings–on!”

  “Mummy, I don’t like what’s going on.” He stands, half man; half loyal to me, half loyal to Evans. There’s no room for him. He looks gawky and miserable, his head too large for his body. The sweetness of Jock. I go and kiss him, his cheek still soft and downy. Next year, he will be taller than me.

  “I don’t like what’s happened, baby, either. Things turn out well for us. I don’t want you to worry. I feel bad today and I’m dumping things on you. Daddy will be back. Go upstairs to the fifth floor and see Johann in the old maid’s room. He’s moving in tonight. You always had fun skiing with him in Kitzbühel. It’s pretty hard to understand his French but he’s a good Tyrolean and will be fun for you. I’m going to be spending more time with you, not so many parties. It’ll be great! Kiss me goodnight. God bless you, honey.”

  “See you mummy. Have a good time.”

  I’m off. The first night out alone. Nice to feel the boys are cozy here. I wander all over the streets of New York. Why not Paris?

  “Barbara! Hello!” What’s the matter with me? I’ve seen a butler before. I don’t have to stand caterwauling by Barbara’s front door. It’s all so clean. My umbrella is dripping all over the white vinyl floor. Agony. I feel so fat in this dress.

  “Ah, yes. I follow you.” I don’t have to get chummy with the butler. This is a far cry from Connecticut and our beach cocktail parties. My God, the living room is entirely walled in green. Emerald green satin. Even the woodwork is emerald green. I’m in Oz! It smells expensive. There are glints of gold from the fire catching gold on the tables, on the walls. Square blocks of color over there, Poliakoff! Whoops, social amenities, less attention to the paintings and more to the hostess.

  “Barbara, darling, you look lovely.” And so she does, expensive and sleek and somehow the faintest hint of complicity. Near, a young man. Dark mass of suit, shorter than me. I sink down on one hip to keep from towering over him. Black eyes, very French. He looks like he’s fun. Etienne, the Marquis de something. I can’t quite get it. Barbara is so difficult to understand in French. Hideous to have two American women talking French together. Ah, he speaks English.

  He sparkles. He’s absolutely delightful, he’s entertaining me! We’re not talking business but paintings, architecture. He’s an architect. At last I can talk to someone and understand really what they are talking about.

  I think I’ll get to my feet before the sherry gets me too bubbly and take a look at these Poliakoffs. Johann and I saw him today, driving around the Left Bank in his ancient Rolls Royce. They say he gives wonderful, mad, Russian parties.

  Ah, the Marquis bought the paintings for Barbara? They are good friends? Joy!

  “Andrée,” says Barbara, “I can see you appreciate the Poliakoffs. Let me show you the apartment. It was just photographed for Maison et Jardin[22] and I have had so much fun doing it. Etienne helped me. Don’t you love my mobiles by darling Sandy?”

  Sandy–Alexander Calder[23]. How wonderful.

  She goes on although I can barely tear myself away from the art. “Here are my gold snuff boxes. I think I have a lovely one here, found it in Vienna last week.”

  “Barbara, it is done with such talent and originality. What an amazing variety of colors ...”

  She interrupts my praise with talk of people I read about in Vogue and Paris Match at the hairdressers. Could she be name–dropping?

  “I’m going to have such a dinner here for the Duchess. I’ll just pull out these tables and connect them and my white living room turns into a marvelous dining room. Don’t you love it?”

  “Yes, too lovely for words!” I find this totally exhausting. Will I have to learn how to be part of this world? On what terms? I think I’d rather be th
e artist but what troubles me is how they feel about artists in her world. Names. Not line and color, love and hard work.

  “Etienne, tell me about these icons. They must be very old.” That sounded properly light and interested. I have suddenly become very awkward and foolish. Sort of big and “galumpy”. If I’m not careful, I’ll crash into an antique. All these bits and pieces, the maid must go mad. She needs an army to keep them polished.

  How can I keep my mind off domestic subjects like this and turn into someone who is interested, sophisticated. A world charmer like Barbara. I’m just a nice, domesticated American girl. Well trained to bring up children, cook well and shut up when her husband speaks. I wonder if Etienne is homosexual. Pity if he were. How can I tell if someone is homosexual or not if the accepted way to talk in his group is what I have been taught is effeminate. He decorates, likes painting, aesthetics. Whose world is stranger, his world or mine?