by Lily Tuck
Molly said, “People certainly are unpredictable, and Price, Claude-Marie said, was already shouting at Fiddle—how long have Price and Fiddle been married? Three months? Claude-Marie said Fiddle made a remark in passing about the price tag—how the price tag was still attached to the coat—and Price said since the coat was brand new, the coat had never even been worn, he was going to send Inez’s new coat to Patricia, to Inez’s sister, and Fiddle told Price this was ridiculous. Of course, Fiddle was right. Hawaii is too hot, San Francisco is a lot cooler, but Price Junior said anyhow, Sara, his girlfriend, was allergic to down, and he would rather take the appliances—the Cuisinart, the machine to make pasta, the espresso machine. The stereo. Can you believe this, Lily? Already, they are arguing and I should have told Claude-Marie to tell Price: If no one wants that damn down coat, I’ll take it. Did I tell you this? The coat was hanging right there on the coat rack—the coat rack with the umbrellas and hats as you stepped out of the elevator. Inez, Claude-Marie said, was standing on the other side. Claude-Marie said the police drew in those chalk marks—but the coat is reversible: black on the one side and a yellow leopard spot pattern on the other. I don’t care as long as it keeps me warm. I am still wearing the coat Isabelle gave me.”
I said, “Molly, I am sure the stereo belonged to Kevin and I told you how when Sam and I got divorced, we argued over everything. We argued over this kettle. This kettle right here on this stove, Molly.”
Molly said, “Don’t you remember? The coat was how I met you, Lily. In the stationery store. The stationery store right off Boulevard St. Germain. You were in line behind me waiting to photocopy something.”
I said, “Oh, yes, a tax form. “
Molly said, “That’s right, a tax form. Oh, God, but don’t mention taxes to me, Lily. I am going through my desk right this minute and I am throwing out all these papers and bills. But what was I saying? The fur coat. I was going to photocopy the fur coat. The coat is that old, Lily. Older—first, the coat belonged to Isabelle. But if Inez’s down coat is too big—Inez was a couple of inches taller than me—I can give the coat to Bibi. Bibi is growing so—oh, I was not going to mention this, but did you notice, Lily, how Inez had bought herself all these new clothes recently? And did you notice how Inez said she wanted to redecorate, and I said: Where are all the photos, Inez? The photos of the children? The photo of Price Junior wearing his mortar board and holding his diploma that used to be right here on the coffee table next to the couch—the couch Inez said she wanted to throw out.”
I said, “I liked the couch. The couch was unique, Molly.”
Molly said, “Listen, I said to Inez, there is nothing wrong with being over forty. Look at me. Look at Colette, I said. The trouble was the kids, Inez said. The kids were too judgmental. The kids had never met Kevin, and already Price Junior, according to what Fiddle told Nora, had telephoned Price. Price Junior had telephoned at all hours of the night and of the morning on account of the three-hour time difference, and Nora said she was repeating verbatim what she had heard and in Fiddle’s very own words: This kid has a real instinct. Every time this kid telephones us we are in bed making love and each time, when I pick up the phone, I have to make my voice sound normal. Fiddle wants babies was the other thing Nora said. Fiddle, come to think of it, Lily, is built just like Dominique, Claude-Marie’s sister—small waist, wide hips. Only Dominique cannot have babies. Unless, of course, it is Didier. Didier is Dominique’s husband. Didier is the one I no longer speak to. Didier is the one who yelled at me over the Penny Black or whatever the stamp is called, but what I wanted to say was about the babies—the children, the adopted children, Jerome and Véronique. Jerome and Véronique look exactly like Dominique. Maybe it is the food they eat. The same food. Or the climate. In Senlis, it rains all the time. In Chantilly, it is different. Chantilly, remember, was where I wanted to go for lunch the day the plane crashed. Chantilly was where the French count had a weekend house and where Isabelle goes riding. Isabelle is a great horsewoman just like my father was—a great horseman, I mean—which was what I was thinking the day I took the pictures of her for Marie-Claire, the magazine. Afterwards, the French count drove me back to Paris in his Lancia. This was how it started, Lily.”
I said, “I thought you said the French count owned a Citroen, Molly.”
Molly said, “The count owned two cars. The Citroën was roomier, he left the Citroën in the country for Isabelle. The French count had a passion for cars, Lily, and the French count always drove fast, which is ironic, and now, of course, I don’t drive any more. Fred is going to have to drive me to New London on Thursday. I told you, didn’t I, how I had to have a root canal? The dentist is costing me a small fortune, and if only I still had the five hundred dollars, the five hundred dollars I lent to Inez, I would sleep a lot better at nights.”
I said, “Maybe I should take my hot cocoa back to bed. Hello? Molly, are you there? I am just thinking out loud now, thinking about poor Inez’s mother.”
Molly said, “No, no. Inez’s mother is married to a what-do-you-call-it rich CEO. There was a whole article in Fortune magazine about his company. Inez’s mother’s husband’s company makes something out of fiberglass for nuclear reactors, and I told Claude-Marie—I told Claude-Marie a long time ago and when Thomas Hamlin Aldrich was still alive and still investing Claude-Marie’s money—Claude-Marie should invest in Inez’s mother’s second husband’s company, but what do I know except I was right, of course. I was right too, when I asked Inez in the restaurant why she was asking me and not asking her own flesh and blood, and Inez said, Patricia. Sibling rivalry. Lily, I should have guessed. Ever since Patricia won the bronze medal at the Olympics in Rome—Rome, Italy—ever since the accident in the carriage in Anacapri—have you been to Anacapri, Lily? It’s pretty—flowers, olive trees, terraced hillsides—and Inez told me all the gory details. How the horse’s reins got caught in the bougainvillea, how the carriage turned over, how the young man Patricia had met over there—what was his name? An Italian name—I forget—how he and Patricia were on their way to visit Axel Munthe’s house—oh, this was something else I told Inez. I said: You won’t believe this, Inez. I haven’t thought of Axel Munthe in years. My mother used to keep Axel Munthe’s book by the side of her bed. The book, I will never forget, had a pale green cover. This was a book my mother claimed had changed her life. When I tried to read it, Lily, I could never get past page ten. Funny too, when you think about this—the kind of things people claim have changed their lives. I knew a man once who said he was struck by lightning while he was horseback riding—no, not Charlie. This is a true story, Lily, this is not a joke. The man said he fell off his horse and wet his pants. He also said I was making too much out of the lightning, but to go back to Patricia—”
I said, “Just a minute, Molly, you are mixing me up. Is the man who was struck by lightning while he was horseback riding the same man who said he had not slept with his wife since the astronauts landed?”
Molly said, “No, no, this man’s name was John, Lily—but you know what I am trying to think of? I am trying to think of the name of Axel Munthe’s book—the title. I saw the book in my mother’s room every day for nearly eighteen years of my life and I can remember everything in her room, Lily. I can remember the pictures on the wall—a picture of Venice with a gondolier in it. I remember her chaise longue with the folded paisley blanket, and next to the chaise longue, on a wobbly little table, my mother, I remember, kept her sewing basket with these little silver scissors I liked. The scissors were in the shape of a bird, a crane sort of—the scissor part was his beak—and when I was little I was always badgering my mother to let me use these scissors and my mother was always saying no to me. The scissors, she said, were too sharp, until finally, one day while my mother was out, I cut myself.”
I said, “Molly, I know what you mean. I did the same thing while I was looking for my ring. I had to have a tetanus shot. It was at night. Who knows what I cut myself on. The streets are
full of garbage, Molly.”
Molly said, “Garbage? What? I can hardly hear you, Lily.”
I said, “Hello—Molly, I’m going to pick up the phone in the bedroom again.”
Molly said, “I agree, Lily—Lily, are you there?”
I said, “Hmm, yes, it’s still pouring outside, Molly.”
Molly said, “You’re right, the streets are a disgrace. When it rains it’s even worse—this is what I keep saying to Claude-Marie and to Fred. I keep saying I cannot believe how much garbage there is in the street—garbage even here in Old Saybrook. Bags of—oh, and I just thought of this, Lily—thought of Price dropping his glass in the street. The time I first met Inez, the time I was telling you about when Inez was sunbathing nude, and Price came up on the roof and he started to tell us a story about the only person, as far as he knew, who had fallen off the Eiffel Tower—a workman. Price said he had read this in a book, and all the workmen had to go up on foot because the elevator was not installed until the Eiffel Tower was completed, and I remember I asked Price: What about lunch? Did the workmen have to come down on foot for lunch? I said: You know how the French are about lunch. I don’t remember what Price answered, but I do remember Price was drinking a gin-and-tonic—I told you how it was so hot up there, a hundred degrees in the shade, at least—and Inez had put on her blue-and-white kimono, and Inez said something to Price about how she wished she had gone to Paris too, so she could join in the conversation, and I told Inez that I had never been up the Eiffel Tower either. But Bibi had, I said. Bibi went up the Eiffel Tower with her school. Afterwards, Bibi said how she could see Mademoiselle Boudemange’s apartment from the top and from where she was standing. But what Price said then was that it was too hot there for him on the roof. He couldn’t take it, Price said. Right after this, Price, who is so tall—Price, you know, is much taller than Claude-Marie—must have hit his head as he was climbing back down the fire escape. Inez and I heard the crack. We heard Price say: Shit. Price must have dropped his glass of gin-and-tonic in the street. Luckily, Price did not kill anybody. It always amazes me, Lily, how more things don’t fall down in the street—flower pots, cornices, bits of buildings.”
I said, “The very thing I was about to say—Mrs. Davidson, Molly. Mrs. Davidson was my mother’s best friend. She jumped out the window and went right through the awning of her apartment building. I was only a little girl but I remember the jagged hole in the canvas before they got around to replacing the awning, and I also remember my mother saying: I pray to God Estelle Davidson died before she hit the cement.”
Molly said, “I know. I try not to think about things like this either—things like Patricia, Lily, things like the cat—oh, the cat, Lily, did not die right away either. I only broke his back. The cat went kind of looping head over tail in the driveway. Blood was gushing out of his ears, Lily, gushing out of his mouth. I had to run him over again. The second time was even worse. I was not in reverse. I was going against my instincts. The other thing—I thought of this at the time—was what if someone had seen me? A neighbor. That person, Lily, would have thought I was running over Alicia Thomas’s cat on purpose. The Thomases had just moved in, they had bought Suzanne and Harry’s old house. Mr. Thomas worked at the Mystic Seaport and the Thomases were black, and I did not go to the cocktail party. The cocktail party Fred gave to welcome them to the neighborhood, and Fred, Lily, went to a lot of trouble. Fred rented a tent in case the weather changed and it started to rain, and Havier said he drank Tab all night, and Claude-Marie had a good time, he said. Claude-Marie said he met a woman who said she loved his accent and who was ready now, she said, to start collecting modern art.”
I said, “The cat reminds me of Jason—poor Jason. I hate to talk about Jason, Molly.”
Molly said, “Claude-Marie likes people. Claude-Marie likes parties. So did Inez. Remember the birthday party, Lily? Remember what’s-his-name, the playwright who lived in Inez’s building who dressed up as the gorilla? Inez use to play mahjong with him, which makes me wonder all of a sudden—wonder about the mahjong set. Claude-Marie did not mention mahjong. No one mentioned mahjong. The mahjong set, I know, came from Hong Kong. The tiles were real ivory, Lily—not plastic.”
I said, “Hong Kong—oh, I want to go to Hong Kong, Molly.”
Molly said, “No, the playwright is from Ceylon or from Sri Lanka, and his girlfriend, now I remember, plays with the Philharmonic Orchestra. She is the one, Lily, whom I was telling you about who was stuck in the elevator the time I could hear her shouting. She must be accident prone—not only did she get stuck in the elevator, she was also standing down in the street when Price dropped his glass of gin-and-tonic and the glass nearly hit her. Oh—but the elevator, Lily, is another reason why I prefer to live in a house. A house like the house on the rue Madame. Also, it is in a good neighborhood. After school and in the afternoon when she was little, Bibi could cross the street and play in the Luxembourg. The Luxembourg Garden is a real blessing was what I used to tell her—there is a toy boat basin, a marionette theater, there are ponies and donkeys for hire, although as I told Bibi: You also have to be careful—not just careful of the ponies and donkeys—careful of the pickpockets and the exhibitionists. In Paris, Lily, there are exhibitionists everywhere—it’s not just me, Lily, and you know how some people attract them? One time—did I tell you this—it was right after I had arrived in Paris and it was right after I had met Matisse in the south of France, and I went to the theater by myself, Lily—and guess what happened? The man sitting next to me unzipped his pants and stuck his hat over his thing. The play—I’ll never forget—was a play by Paul Claudel—something about a satin slipper. A play in five acts that lasted over four hours with one intermission and the whole time, Lily, I was trying to think of the word for penis. I did not speak French yet. I only knew words like: What is the cost of my aunt’s pencil?”
I said, “Combien coute le crayon de ma tante? You see, I still remember some of my French—oh, but this reminds me, Molly—Patricia. What happened to Patricia in Italy?”
Molly said, “Oh, Lily, Lily, I wish I could describe this to you the way Inez described this to me: How they had to shoot the horse, how Patricia fainted and they had a hard time reviving her, how this, Inez said, despite the hundreds of hours of analysis and the electroshock treatments was like a real death experience for her, and did I know what she, Inez, was talking about? I said: Inez, of course, you are talking about those near-death experiences when people are pronounced clinically dead, then after they are brought back to life again, they tell everyone how they left their bodies and saw a bright yellow light. The same kind of near-death experiences the soldiers who were in Vietnam talk about. Only mostly, the soldiers don’t want to or cannot talk about this, and I told Inez—yes, the same thing happened to me when I went skiing.”
I said, “Skiing? Molly, I didn’t know you knew how to ski. You didn’t tell me you knew how to ski.”
Molly said, “The French-Canadian journalist told me skiing was easy. He said, in no time at all, I would learn.”
I said, “Who? Molly, it’s late. It’s almost three-thirty.”
Molly said, “The French-Canadian journalist who introduced me to Matisse, Lily. The French-Canadian journalist also broke his leg in two places, which brings me back to what I was saying. I was saying how I had never seen snow before except for maybe one or two freak snowstorms in Virginia, and most of the time in that ski resort in Austria, I took lessons—except for this one day. This one day, I guess, I was sick of the lessons and this one day I went to the top of the mountain by myself or maybe—I am not sure about this, Lily—I went to the top of the mountain with the French-Canadian journalist. The French-Canadian journalist was an expert skier—he learned how to ski, he said, at the same time that he learned how to walk, and he skied down the mountain some other way, on a more challenging and difficult run, I guess, while I—I started down the mountain alone. I had no idea. The snow that day was icy and I must have gott
en frightened. Right away and near the top of the mountain, Lily, my skis crossed and I fell. I started to slide. I could not stop myself. Instead, I kept sliding down the mountain faster and faster. There was nothing there, Lily, to slow me down or to stop me. There was nothing there to dig my skis or my poles into. Then one of my skis came off. The ski was hanging by the safety strap and the ski kept twisting around and hitting me. But the worst part was the mountain. The whole mountain, Lily, I swear to you, was a sheet of ice and below me in the valley, I could see the village of San Anton. I could see the hotel where we were staying—me and the French-Canadian journalist. The windows of the hotel, I remember, were wide open and the eiderdowns were airing on the window sills. It was amazing, Lily. I could see everything so clearly. I could see the stores, the sports store where I had rented my skis and my equipment. The café, too. I could see the café where, each evening before dinner, the French-Canadian journalist and I would drink hot spicy red wine with cinnamon and cloves in it—but mainly what I focused on was the gas station. The gas station at the entrance of the village of San Anton, and I remember how I watched a car drive into the gas station—a red BMW—and I was watching how the gas attendant was unscrewing the gas cap from the fender of the red BMW and how he was putting in the hose and then, how he was walking around to the front of the car and how he was lifting up the hood of the red BMW and all the time, Lily, I was sliding faster and faster down the mountain and I was sure I was going to be killed, I was sure I was going to die. The funny part was that even while I knew absolutely, Lily, that I was going to die, at the same time, I was also thinking: How stupid this is. Here I am and all I am doing is looking at this gas station and at the gas station attendant and at this red BMW car and I should really be seeing something wonderful, something worthwhile. Something, you know, like a vision or a tableau. A tableau of the apostles, for instance, and even if I am not religious, a tableau of maybe Jesus. Jesus bearing his cross with the lovely sad expression on his face. If not this, then why, I asked myself, why weren’t the significant events of my life flashing by in front of my eyes the way they are supposed to? Like snapshots. Like the snapshots of my Charlottesville high school graduation. The photograph where we are all lined up according to size and where the girls are all wearing hats. Or the photograph my father took of me the time I won the English composition prize for a story I called ‘Mayhem.’ Or a nice snapshot of the first boy I ever fell in love with—no, not Charlie. And why was it, I kept asking myself, why was it that I was just looking down at the village of San Anton and at the dumb garage and at the man pumping gas and checking the oil of a car? It was so boring, so mundane, so banal. In the end too, of course, I managed to stop myself. The amazing thing is that I did not break anything. I was just bruised. Bruised in funny places, Lily. Under my arms and where the loose ski had hit me probably. The other thing, Lily, when I pulled myself together enough to ski the rest of the way down the mountain, was that the man in the garage still had his head inside the hood of the car, and I swear to you, Lily, I felt as if I had X-ray vision. I could see the dipstick. I could see the oil on it.”
