by Louis Begley
I was, as I had expected, placed at table between Marianne and Edith Cleary, and therefore planned to speak with the girl after we returned to the living room for coffee. In fact, it was she who took the initiative. As soon as I was installed in the Louis XIII chair toward which Marianne had pointed, Léa sat down on the floor beside it. The way she managed it, turning her torso toward me and stretching her legs behind her on the floor, gave me a full view of her legs. She wore a black angora turtleneck. Her stockings were also black. The short red skirt had ridden up to the middle of her thighs. I could smell her perfume, heavy and, it seemed to me, old-fashioned. The girl-at-work spectacles were gone. Apparently she wore contacts when she was out on the town. At the Flore, I had taken stock of her skin, nose, and pouting lips. Now with her opulent blond mane so close to my face, as I stared at those fabulous legs and imagined the shape and heft of her breasts, I became aroused. There was no doubt about it: she was truly beautiful. And seductive beyond what I had imagined. That Robineau was sleeping with her was indeed not open to question—to judge by the complicity I sensed, rather than anything specific that I could overhear at table. As she chattered, I began to picture for myself her gestures, the positions her body assumed, and how his large hands moved over it when they made love. Would I have wanted to take his place? You bet. I could not really concentrate on anything else. Meanwhile Léa told me that she had managed to spend a solid couple of hours on the article and that she hoped to have a complete draft ready by noon the next day. She believed she was coming up with exactly the piece her editor wanted and she hoped I would also approve. If I was willing to take the time to read it, she would like to show me the full text, not only the direct quotations.
All the while, I wanted to call Lydia, but feared that I would be unable to conceal my erection if I got up. Even worse, Léa was unlikely to remain crouching on the floor next to an empty chair. I would lose her for the rest of the evening. That was a chance I didn’t want to take. It seemed far better anyway to call Lydia from the hotel, after I had taken a bath and the trance had passed. If by that time she had left the house, I would leave a message. Or send a fax. As it happened, in a short moment, the party ended. The Clearys told me that their car was waiting; they offered to drop me off at my hotel. I said they mustn’t think of any such thing, the rue du Bac was out of their way. In fact, I had it in mind that if Robineau heard me refuse, he would have to offer me a lift. I was right. He had a low-slung English car. Getting into it, the girl revealed even more of her thigh. From the backseat I answered the questions that Robineau, grown very voluble, was putting to me, first about my work, and then about Broadway plays I would recommend for his next visit. The French presidential election was the number one subject of conversation in Paris, the moneyed French contemplating with horror life under a Socialist regime. In fact, political coverage of the campaign had put an annoying crimp into some aspect of the launch of The Anthill. To keep up my end I remarked that France was strong enough and rich enough to permit herself a fling with François Mitterrand. Like a true member of his political class, he snorted contemptuously. Undeterred, I said that I had met Mitterrand in New York a few years back, in ’76 or ’77, and had had the feeling that I was in the presence of a great man, a view that made Robineau observe that it was easy to have such lofty ideas if one was lucky enough to be American. Leaning toward him and Léa from the backseat, I observed how his hand moved up and down her thigh—a thigh that had begun to obsess me— squeezing it on the inside every second downstroke or so. The girl was silent until we reached my hotel. They got out to say goodbye. À demain,she muttered, and offered me her cheeks to kiss, instead of her hand.
And what do you think happened next? asked North after we had prepared and lit our cigars. His eyes were bright and I sensed that he was eager to keep talking. I replied that I had an idea or two, but, rather than guess, I preferred to hear the story from him.
He nodded, recrossed his ankles, and continued.
Lydia was at home when I telephoned, directly after I had read the fax from the president of the prize jury. She kept on saying, You see I was right, I was right. They had to give the prize to you, how can you think that your books aren’t wonderful when I keep on telling you that they are? I saw that she had understood the doubts and worries that finally overflowed during the night in New York that I have described to you, although until that very night I had not admitted to myself their force, and certainly hadn’t revealed them consciously to her. Not as I had really felt them even before the nocturnal epiphany. When she spoke tenderly like that her voice changed, and she made, quite involuntarily, I believe, a cooing noise that enchanted me.
I was struck by it the very first time we met, at a buffet dinner in New York that went on until all hours, given by an old flame of mine who had married a cousin of Lydia’s—a man unlike the other Franks I know—working then as a staff writer for The New Yorker.My old flame has been my friend forever. I really mean forever: we attended the same kindergarten. You see, I have always parted from girlfriends on very good terms, and often I became, I suppose because I seemed so vulnerable before I married Lydia, a sort of pet for both the husband and wife. In fact, I have thought that my meeting Lydia at their house was not much of an accident. I can remember how each made sure we had been introduced, and that we found ourselves placed at the same end of a sofa after the usual scramble at such parties for a place to sit down and eat that doesn’t expose you to your worst enemy or a bore. I saw at once that Lydia was brilliant: one of those doctors whose conversation is particularly captivating, more than that of other professionals, because they have an interesting sort of specialty and are able to talk about it with such clarity that you begin to think you understand what they do. It isn’t unusual for their general culture to be at a high level as well. Lydia is prodigiously cultivated. There isn’t a great museum she hasn’t visited, and her visual memory is such that she can discuss with striking accuracy works of art she has seen a long time ago. Her knowledge of music is equally remarkable, even though her piano lessons ended when she was still a schoolgirl. And she has read and remembers every novel worth reading in English and French, as well as a good deal of German literature. Her maternal grandmother, who was born in Germany, spoke German to her children and tried to speak it to her grandchildren. Lydia was the only one willing to learn, I suppose because she venerated her grandmother. The result is that her German is excellent—as is her French.
We talked until the other guests had departed and our hosts had gone quietly to bed, leaving us in the care of the caterers’ people, who were still busy cleaning up. Lydia told me that she lived in a small apartment, split off from a very large one, on the mansard floor of the Dakota. It had a great advantage: all the rooms, even the kitchen, looked out on the park. When the taxi arrived in front of the building, she invited me up for a nightcap. I was intrigued by Lydia and accepted. She proposed champagne. We drank it standing by an open window, looking at Central Park as though from an enormous tree house. She said that she had read all my books—only three had been published by then—and explained very precisely and unpretentiously what she liked in them. I was relieved that she was not one of those readers who undertake to give a writer critical comments. Nothing is dumber or more infuriating. A new novel of mine was making its way through the publishing machine. Although I am usually very reluctant to show unpublished work to anyone who is not professionally involved with the process, I asked whether she would like a bound galley. She would love it, she told me. By that time, it was dawn. We shook hands, and I really believe it was only then that I became fully conscious that she was a great beauty, whose features, coloring, and regal bearing recalled Klimt’s rich Viennese enchantresses. You smile, said North, because you do not think it possible that I would have paid so little attention to Lydia’s looks before. Of course, I had noticed in a general way that she was tall, handsome, and very elegant. But this was really the first time—no, surely the only time—in
my life that I listened so hard to what a woman was saying that I did not think about her lips, breasts, thighs, etc.
That was a digression, North told me after a moment of silence. Let’s return to my telephone conversation with Lydia.
And your worries, she said, that you weren’t earning enough, don’t you see that they were silly too? The studio is paying you a fortune. Just think what it will be when they add to it the usual bonuses. I couldn’t argue about the money, but I defended my negative view of my work. The prize is just the whim of the jury while my concerns are fundamental and very serious, I said, whereupon, after a cascade of her laughter, she said that we could have a colloquium on John North and the art of the novel as soon as I returned. If I liked, and the weather was good, we could go to the Vineyard for the weekend. It would be just us, we wouldn’t see anyone else at all, and we could talk literature nonstop for two days. Then she said it had just occurred to her that her parents and brother and sisters should be told at once and, of course, my sister, Ellen. Shouldn’t she call everybody? I thanked her, but was at the same time almost disconcerted by how fast she was moving. Couldn’t I speak at least to Ellen, in my own way? I wondered, without saying anything, because it wasn’t worth the trouble and risk of seeming ungrateful. She was always ahead of me by a step or two. I thought we were about to say goodbye when she asked—perhaps she had meant to since the beginning of the conversation—whether I wouldn’t like to come to East Hampton after all, to celebrate with the whole family. I reminded her how bad I am at dealing with congratulations and the inevitable toasts and teasing. Beyond that, I said, it was a bad moment to leave Paris. I had begun to do some real work on the new book and should probably continue for a few days without interruption. I wanted to get the characters of the husband and wife more clearly defined. The truth was very different. Since dinner, I had not been able to stop thinking about Léa. I had decided I must sleep with her. That was my project; not my book. It filled me with shame and dismay to have Lydia speak to me with all that sweetness and good cheer and clear concern for my well-being while my mind was full of the girl and the urge to possess her, to do with her whatever Robineau had done, and more if more was possible. It seemed a worse crime than a violent, lethal assault against Lydia. I was violating her unquestioning trust. The strange truth is I had not been unfaithful to her before. You shake your head and wonder how that could be. I don’t think it is all that surprising. My life before I fell in love with Lydia had been turbulent enough. Until the events I am describing took place, I had felt no urgent curiosity about what could be done with another woman and no temptation to find out. There were to be no more voyages of exploration. Lydia was the serene harbor in which I was content to have at last found a mooring.
I was really determined to possess the girl, North told me after a prolonged silence. Filling her would not be enough. The scene changed and changed again as I replayed it in my imagination, but always it led to a gigantic climax in which I literally made her overflow. Next morning, as soon as I woke up, I dialed the Lalondes’ number. Marianne came to the telephone. I thanked her for dinner and told her about my new good fortune. She may not have fully understood the significance of the prize, but being herself a busy and successful scriptwriter she knew more than most people about film rights, and certainly more than I. There was nothing I could tell her about the studio’s intentions other than the amount of money I would be paid—I had been friends with her and Pierre for so long that I would have told them even if I hadn’t been quite sure that the sum would be reported in Variety if not more generally—and that the producer had made clear to my agent he wanted me to be available during filming, even though the adaptation would be written by someone else, as yet unnamed. She said that was most unusual, producers being normally willing to go to any length to keep the author away— even to pay more money for the rights if necessary. I explained that Joe Bain, the producer, had been at school with me, and apparently had thought up this idea out of pure friendship. He’s a sentimental fellow, I said, quite unlike me. Ah, in that case, replied Marianne, anything becomes possible. I added that the intention was to shoot on location, whenever conditions permitted. That meant Paris, where much of the action in The Anthilltakes place. It will be like old times, she exclaimed. Then she said that she would give Pierre the news when he called from Geneva. He had gone there with the Clearys to look at a private collection. Two works in it that might be perfect for them were for sale. She thought that I should be able to use his aunt Viviane’s apartment on avenue Gabriel. Pierre would find out whether the aunt minded. Of course, I was welcome to stay with them, but Viviane’s apartment was ideal: so centrally located. Pierre will be fou de joie! You will be completely independent, but who knows what Lydia will think of that! A stroke of genius, I replied, but no more independence than in a hotel. After I had finished thanking her, repeating how much I had enjoyed the dinner party, I brought up Jacques Robineau. It’s funny, I told her, I’m not sure you heard me say it, you were so busy with Edith Cleary, but I actually spent a good part of the afternoon with the other half of that couple, at the Flore of all places, being interviewed by her for a piece in Vogue.
She told me she didn’t think they were really a couple, that in principle, Robineau was with Françoise Lecomte, another journalist, who was in Rome on assignment. That was why he brought Léa instead.
Oh, I said, I thought I detected a sort of intimacy between them. Certainly in the car, when they were taking me to my hotel.
Marianne laughed at that. She said she hadn’t meant to suggest that Jacques didn’t go to bed with her after dropping me off; he had slept with half the women in Paris. Actually, la petiteMorini also has someone else, she added. Pierre can tell you all about it.
But she had just told me everything I needed to know. What did it mean, though, I wondered, that Robineau was in principle “with” another lady journalist, and the girl “has” someone else, if Marianne took it so casually for granted that Robineau was sleeping with her? Certainly it meant that Léa wasn’t uniformly faithful to her principal monsieur. That favored my designs, provided that letting Robineau fuck her wasn’t a lapse attributable to his special qualities—for instance great sexual attractiveness, not always evident to other men, even when it acts very strongly on women, or his reputation as a master stud. The more general implications of these arrangements and Marianne’s matter-of-fact acceptance of them also intrigued me as a subject for future reflection.
I think that North noticed the expression of surprise that passed over my face, because he said quickly: Please forgive the vulgarity. “Fuck” is the word I have used in my thoughts in relation to Léa when it seemed appropriate. Euphemisms do not come near to giving a just measure of how I thought about her.
After a pause that may have been intended to give me a chance to protest, North continued. Yes, Léa’s willingness to stray had to be seen as encouraging. On the other hand, if she turned out to be truly promiscuous, une Marie couche-toi, would I know how to go about the business at hand with the requisite nonchalance? It’s locker-room wisdom that with a girl who lets the whole swim team lay her you don’t need the “Say It with Flowers” stuff. You don’t talk about love, you don’t say you’ll die if she doesn’t let you. Instead, you get your hand on the old crotch and stick your fingers up her pussy. Such maxims learned during my last year at school rattled in my head, ready for application, as did the unfortunate memory of a girl from the Main Line a couple of years older than the other girls in her class at Radcliffe, who wouldn’t let me near her, although she had given blow jobs and more to just about everybody I knew and was reputed to smell so bad that guys who had scored held their noses whenever her name was mentioned. I’m no longer sure, but I think that her name was Lilly. Lilly Leffingwell? I really don’t remember. It was one of those Philadelphia names. Once I got up my courage and asked her, Why all the others but not me? Without batting an eye, she said: Just lay me. Cut out the speeches.
&n
bsp; You want to hear something funny? North continued. I decided to take her advice. I told her I knew a meadow not far from town where we could have a picnic. Afterward we’d fuck. It was a perfect spring day, during the reading period. Final exams must have been a week away. We drove out there and walked around. She liked the spot, so we sat down in the shade of a tree. I was putting my arm around her as a prelude to getting my free hand under her skirt and into the center of the universe when she screamed. What’s the matter? I asked. Horror of horrors: my arm had brushed against her nose. She’d had it fixed a month before, and it was still extremely tender. Or so she claimed. That was the end of Lilly and me. With those thoughts in the background, can you see now how the prospect of putting the make on Léa, if she was another Lilly, terrified me? Because it was possible that Marianne meant to imply that Léa screwed right and left. In that case the courtly Mr. North, in his accustomed role of distinguished author, propositioning a young journalist ever so subtly, in accordance with his overly polite habits, would expose himself to hoots of laughter and, on top of that, being skewered by that same journalist in an article she was writing for Vogue.Not that she’d come out and tell how I made this pass at her that I imagined romantic while I really showed myself to be un vieux con,but there were many less crude and perfectly effective ways she could get me.
