“I can’t be sure,” said Joan. She had a kindly but puzzled expression on her face. “May I ask who you are?”
“Mme Reynard is my name.”
“How do you do?”
“I do better than people give me credit for. How do you do?”
Joan looked to Frances, who was smiling, then back to Mme Reynard, who was not. Mme Reynard didn’t like the way Joan was sitting on the couch. “Do you know where you’ll be staying? It can be difficult finding a hotel room at the last minute.”
“This is my own apartment,” Joan replied. Mme Reynard shrugged, as though in doubt of the statement’s veracity. She returned to the kitchen to clang pots and plateware in protest. Joan followed Frances to the bedroom.
“Who is this horrible woman in my home?”
“Isn’t she a riot?”
“I don’t think she is a riot, no.”
“Give her a chance, she isn’t so bad.”
“Since when do you humor your admirers?”
“It’s strange, isn’t it? I’ve adopted an attitude of pure passivity, it seems. Perhaps I’m simply tired. Yes, I think that’s what it is.”
“And the postcard?” said Joan.
Frances stated her mystification at the fact of its being sent. Joan explained she was not interested in the riddle of the note’s delivery so much as its contents.
“A low day,” Frances explained. “And the mood has passed.”
“Has it?” Joan asked.
Frances took Joan’s hand and kissed it. “Yes, dear.”
They lunched. Joan complimented Mme Reynard’s soup, which mollified the woman somewhat. Julius, whom Joan hadn’t fully noticed earlier, introduced himself; then Madeleine emerged from Malcolm’s room, rubbing her eyes. “I fell asleep,” she announced. To Joan, she asked, “What’s your name?”
Joan turned to Frances. “Ballpark figure. How many people are living here?”
“This is everyone,” Frances assured her friend. But Susan arrived an hour after, with her fiancé Tom in tow. As they set their suitcases down, Frances said, “All right, but this is everyone, I promise.”
31.
Tom’s foremost characteristic was his handsomeness; his second was his normality; his third was his absolute lack of humor; his fourth, his inability to be embarrassed. He addressed the group at the dinner table: “I’m sorry for the intrusion. But I don’t know what else I could have done, to be honest. I’m in a very painful situation at the moment. I hope you all can understand.”
“Oh no,” said Mme Reynard, chewing, “what’s the matter?”
“In short, I’m in love with Susan.”
“Is that so bad a thing, taken altogether?”
“It would be cause for celebration if the love were returned.”
“Is it not returned?” Mme Reynard covered her eyes. “I can’t bear it.”
Tom became wistful. “Before I met Susan I thought I knew what it was to be in love. I had said it and meant it. I’d heard it said to me, and been so glad to know. But what were those feelings, compared to this? This is something else. This is the love the poets aspire to.”
“Are you a poet?” asked Mme Reynard.
“I work in finance. There is, I feel, a sort of poetry in numbers.”
Malcolm said quietly, “Gross.”
“What did you say?” asked Tom.
“I said, gross.”
Tom watched Malcolm with a plain face, then refocused on Mme Reynard. “I asked Susan to marry me twice. Once in college, and she says thanks but no thanks. But then the second time around she says, you know what? Let’s do it.”
“Isn’t that lovely?” said Mme Reynard.
“Anyway it was. And we were both so happy. Then she gets this late-night phone call. She won’t so much as paraphrase the conversation, but from the moment she hung up the phone I’ve been playing catch-up trying to figure out just what it is she wants. And if I’m not mistaken, what she wants is him.” Tom pointed at Malcolm.
Mme Reynard was thoroughly immersed in the story. She asked Susan, “What do you have to say about all this?”
“It’s like Tom says. I thought I was happy. I was happy. But then Malcolm called and now I don’t know what I’m doing.” She turned to Malcolm. “What am I doing?” she asked, but Malcolm only shrugged. “I wonder,” she said, “if you can take your head out of your ass for just the briefest moment.”
Tom said, “I don’t think it’s necessary that we succumb to our animal selves, here. It’s a complicated situation but I believe we can express our respective points of view while maintaining our dignity.”
“Bravo,” said Mme Reynard.
“Which isn’t to say we should hide our emotions.”
“Oh, never.”
“For example, I feel that I could kill Malcolm,” said Tom, shifting in his seat. “Actually murder him, here and now.” A phase of quiet occurred where all at the table took in Tom as a physical specimen. He was over six feet tall and powerfully built. “Here and now,” he repeated. “After all, if he wasn’t around, wouldn’t my problems all be solved?”
“They would,” said Mme Reynard sympathetically. “They really would.”
“But no, I won’t do that,” Tom said, looking away from Malcolm and down at his plateful of shrimp.
“You’re lucky,” Mme Reynard told Malcolm.
“I’ve always been lucky,” Malcolm told her.
“Have you?”
“No, I was being droll.”
Mme Reynard thought a moment. “I’ve been neither lucky nor unlucky,” she said. “I’ve been luckless—such a bore.”
Frances said, “I’ve been incredibly lucky at times, but tragically unlucky at others.”
Madeleine said, “I’ve only been unlucky but I have a sense this’ll change at some point, suddenly and permanently. Anyway, that’s what I tell myself.”
Julius said, “I’ve only been unlucky and I believe I’ll always be.”
“Where am I going to sleep?” Susan asked, looking around the apartment.
“Where are we going to sleep,” Tom said.
After dinner, Joan pulled a foam mattress from the crawl space. It accommodated but one body; Tom volunteered to sleep on the floor. He affected the noble attitude of one enduring discomfort for a greater cause and he bore it insufferably and everyone disliked him except for Mme Reynard.
Julius slept beside Mme Reynard on the couch, which was a foldout, she was delighted to discover. Tapping her chin, she warned Julius, “I talk in my sleep.”
“That’s all right.”
“Also I gnash my teeth.”
“All right.”
“And I have sleep apnea, and sometimes I sleepwalk. If you see me set out to wander you mustn’t wake me. But if I try to leave the apartment, will you guide me back around?”
“Okay.”
Mme Reynard became sheepish. “Occasionally I suffer from nightsickness,” she admitted.
“What’s nightsickness?”
“I sometimes—rarely—vomit the bed.”
Julius said, “Sweet dreams, Mme Reynard.”
“I never do dream,” she lamented. “Oh, life!”
Joan and Frances lay together in their pajamas. They smelled of gin and cold cream and Frances whispered giddily, “We’re just two little old ladies!” Their laughter was muffled in the pillows; they were so glad to be reunited.
With the coming of Susan, Malcolm felt uneasy sleeping beside Madeleine, and he had a thought to check her into a hotel, but after his bath he found her sleeping soundly in pajamas; and in considering her gentle face he saw nothing improper in sharing a bed with her. He was cautious not to wake her as he climbed under the duvet cover. When she stole the duvet away, he put his jacket on back to front and slept with his knees pulled up to his chest.
Sleep took the group, and silence enveloped the apartment.
32.
Frances did something peculiar. It was deep in the night and she awok
e from a panicked dream of suffocation death. She stood away from her bed, then left the room and paused in the hall, listening. Moving to the front door, she slipped her coat and shoes on, exited the apartment, and began walking. Other than the rare passing scooter or taxi she was alone in the streets. She walked for ten minutes and found herself standing beneath what until recently had been her own apartment. The light in her bedroom was on, curiously, but only her light; the rest of the building was dim. From the sidewalk she could see that the walls were naked, artworks removed, and a fresh coat of paint had already been applied. It hurt her to think of her effects and artifacts stacked in crates in a darkened underground storage facility somewhere. They would be sold in bulk, at auction, to a buyer who did not know her, and so could not be worthy to possess them.
From the side of her eye she saw a dark figure, head and neck merely suggested, moving along the bottom right-hand corner of the bedroom window, then dipping out of sight. She knew that it was only a painter or real estate agent or someone from the bank, but the very idea that someone was there while she was not, and that she was barred from entering, made her miserable. When the bedroom went black, Frances turned away and walked in the direction of Joan’s apartment.
Stepping down a narrow, lampless passageway, a man in the distance was walking toward her on the sidewalk. He wore a long coat and cap and he was, she noticed, audibly reproaching an unknown antagonist with great bitterness, even hatred. Frances assumed the man to be one among the long-suffering and placeless individuals who roamed city streets at night, unfortunate people driven across the brink by, she supposed, an absence of comforts; but in coming closer to him, she saw that his clothing was not at all shabby, and that his face was shaved, his hair tidy and trimmed. When he noticed her approach he abruptly ceased walking, ceased talking. She looked down as she passed him; he rotated to watch her stepping by. She was six paces out when he asked her, “Are you all right, madame?”
Frances stopped and turned. The man had a pleasant, healthy face. He’d been so angry only a moment before, but now he looked and was acting as a gentleman. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked.
“Just that it’s quite late to be out.”
“You are.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said the man. “Well, good night.” The man touched the brim of his hat and took a step away from Frances.
“I’ve lost my cat,” she said.
The man paused. He studied Frances more closely. “Yes, you have the look of someone who has,” he said. “And that’s why you’re out so late?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Would you like me to help you look?”
“Oh, no thank you.”
The man thought. “Have you checked under the bed?”
Frances shook her head.
The man said, “Everything I’ve ever lost in my life has always wound up being under the bed.”
“I’ll look when I get home,” said Frances.
He turned again and walked off and Frances stared after him but said nothing more. She wondered who he’d been cursing with such passion. He’s going home to her now, she thought, smiling.
She returned to Joan’s apartment. It was very warm inside and her hands felt pinpricked. She stood in the vestibule, warming them, and her mind was wandering in a pleasing way. Now she did the peculiar thing. She stepped across the room to stand over Tom and Susan, to watch their sleeping faces. Susan’s was undeniably fine, and Frances couldn’t help but admire her unblemished cheek and neck. Next she studied Tom. He looked stupid even in slumber, Frances thought. When she looked back at Susan, Susan’s eyes were open, and she said to Frances, “Hello.”
“Oh, hello,” Frances answered.
“What are you doing?”
“Just, you know, up and around.”
“What?”
“I’m just walking around.” She scissored her fingers back and forth to mimic a stepping gait.
Susan stretched her arms. “You’re not planning on killing me, I hope?”
“No,” said Frances.
“Oh, that’s good.” There was a pause. “Do you want me to get up and keep you company?”
“No, I don’t want that.”
“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll try to go back to sleep.”
“All right,” said Frances. “Good night.” She returned to her room. She was blushing as she crawled into bed, and she thought, What did I do that for? She was almost asleep when she recalled what the man in the street had said. Hanging upside down, she checked under the bed, but there was nothing there.
33.
A party was the decorous thing, it was decided. Frances and Joan went out after breakfast for supplies, having received a list from Mme Reynard, who to her credit did not ask to come along but stayed behind to ready the kitchen for cooking, and the apartment for entertaining. Frances had two thousand euros left and was intent on spending every cent at La Grande Épicerie. This was apparent to Joan, and she became suspicious. “Saffron isn’t on the list.”
“Saffron is a necessity.”
“Three bottles of saffron.”
“We’ll use it later or sooner.”
Frances began loading caviar into the cart. Joan volunteered to pay the bill but Frances said it wasn’t necessary, it was all budgeted out.
“Dutch,” Joan said.
“No, I have to spend it all.”
“Why?”
“You’re supposed to spend it all. That’s the object of the game.” She sent Joan away to seek out the cheese; after she’d gone, Frances called over the wine clerk. “Give me something worth five hundred.”
“Case or a bottle?”
“Bottle.”
She had a moment of dread at the checkout when she realized there were twenty euros left over. But then she saw a sign beside the cashier explaining that all groceries could be delivered for just that amount, and so she wrote down Joan’s address and handed over the last of the money and she felt greatly unburdened, even proud in some way. She took Joan by the arm and proposed they walk home. Passing through a park, they saw a man and woman lying in the grass, kissing passionately. Frances asked, “Do you and Don still make love?”
“Every year on his birthday.”
“But not your birthday.”
“Just a nice dinner for me, thank you. Sometimes we go again around Easter.”
Frances lit a cigarette. “Do you regret not having children?”
“Never once. Never for a day. Do you regret having one?”
Frances laughed.
“I’m being serious,” said Joan.
“Oh. Well, sometimes I do, to be honest.”
“But you wouldn’t change him.”
“Yes, I would.”
“But you wouldn’t change him much.”
“I’d change him quite a bit.”
“But you love him.”
“So much that it pains me.”
Joan reached for Frances’s cigarette, took a drag, and handed it back. “What do you make of this Susan?” she asked.
Frances made a grim face. “No tactical intelligence whatsoever.”
“I’m sympathetic. I don’t think it would be very easy to love Malcolm.”
“It’s easy enough.”
“Don’t be such a hard case. She’s sweet.”
“What’s that worth?”
“Something, I think.”
Frances said, “I don’t want to talk about her.”
Joan held up her hands in truce. “Moving right along,” she said. “When was the last time you made love?”
“You know perfectly well that it’s been years. I had a close call on the way over.” Here Frances told the story of the ship’s captain; by the end of it, Joan was laughing her loud American laugh.
She asked, “How do you feel when you look back on your romantic exploits?”
“A little bit embarrassed, actually,” Frances said.
“Really?”
“I b
lew half the ambulatory men in Manhattan.”
“I hope you don’t regret it?”
“There’s very little I regret.”
“Such as what?”
“You want me to tell you what I regret?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m not going to.”
They crossed the Seine. Joan was smiling to herself about something. She said, “I told Don I had to run to Paris because I thought you were going to kill yourself. He was fiddling with the television remote and he told me, ‘Tell her hello, if you get there in time.’”
This amused rather than offended Frances. “Don never was a deep feeler.”
“That’s true. But I’m not even criticizing him. To be honest, I’ve come to appreciate the way he is. I had a moment earlier this year where I realized that I am, at the base of it, happy, and that Don and I have fulfilled what we set out to fulfill for each other. Can you understand how shocking this was for me?”
“Shocking because you shouldn’t be satisfied with what you’ve got?”
She shook her head. “You get older and you don’t even want love. Not the love we believed in when we were young. Who has the energy for that? I mean, when I think of the way we used to carry on about it.”
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