by Lily Tuck
I said, “Who? The Miss who?”
Molly said, “The Miss Marys are two eccentric old ladies who lived next door to us in Crozet. They are the same ones Claude-Marie brings up each time Claude-Marie talks about my mother and how all Southerners are crazy anyhow, which reminds me—remember how Yuri kept telling everyone how his mother knew Chekhov? Well, I told Yuri my mother knew Faulkner. William Faulkner. She certainly did, Lily. William Faulkner lived in Charlottesville, so did poor old Anastasia—remember? Anastasia—oh, and I should have told Yuri this—Anastasia was the woman who claimed she was the only surviving daughter of the Czar of Russia. Poor Anastasia. The reporters were always pestering her and asking her questions—questions like what kind of jelly did the Romanovs have each morning for breakfast? And in 1917, how old exactly was the royal family dog?”
I said, “Mrs. Shubatoff, my art teacher in school, Molly, was a White Russian. Mrs. Shubatoff told us how she had escaped from the revolution by giving each person along the way who helped her a button. A pearl button. The buttons on Mrs. Shubatoffs dress were genuine pearls, Molly. I don’t know why but this story stays in my head and I used to worry about her. I used to worry that by the time Mrs. Shubatoff reached wherever she said she was finally going, her dress would be flapping wide open.”
Molly said, “All kinds of people live in Virginia, and I have said this before to Claude-Marie: Look at Matisse. I said Henri Matisse. I know, I know, Matisse did not live in Virginia but Matisse was no different. Blood is thicker than water, I said.”
I said, “I told you, didn’t I, Molly, my brother lives in Virginia? My brother William.”
Molly said, “Inez, too—blood is thicker than water, I mean—even if Inez did not get along with her sister, Patricia. Patricia is so different. Patricia looks more like Inez’s mother—remember? Inez’s mother was the one who stood up and made the toast at the surprise birthday party. Inez’s mother was the one who said that after this she counted her blessings and that something like this made her realize how fragile life is and how she had to enjoy every minute of it. I agree with her completely, Lily, but Inez’s mother was talking about her second husband, Inez’s stepfather, the CEO. Inez’s mother was talking about how when her second husband was flying back from Hawaii, all of a sudden something in the plane exploded. The passengers sitting right in front of him in Business Class were sucked right out of the plane and into the Pacific Ocean. Inez’s stepfather said that there was this hole in the plane and a lot of shoes and briefcases went flying past him and the woman sitting next to him was screaming that she knew one of those people, one of those people, she said, was related to her. Inez’s stepfather also said how he had told the reporters that one minute those passengers were ordering drinks from the stewardess and that the next minute they were gone. And everything Inez’s stepfather said he told the reporters was later misquoted in the paper. Inez’s stepfather said he remembered for instance, exactly what kind of drinks those passengers who had been sucked out of the plane had ordered. One woman, he said, had ordered a Bloody Mary and the man sitting next to her had asked for a double Scotch and water. Inez’s stepfather said he could swear to this even if this had occurred early in the morning. The point of the story, he said, was how unreliable reporters were. AH writers, I told Inez’s stepfather at the party, are unreliable. They are also opportunistic, I said.”
I said, “Inez’s stepfather should meet Michelle, Molly. Remember the book she wrote? Her supposed autobiography? But it’s hard to believe that the birthday party was so long ago already. Who else was there? Mercedes was there, remember? Mercedes was wearing that low-cut black dress. So was Roberta. I mean Roberta was there. I always forget about Roberta.”
Molly said, “Poor Roberta. And poor Inez—oh, yes, Mercedes’s dress. How can I ever forget that dress? You are right, Lily, women have instincts. Women have a sixth sense about these things, the way men never have, and I have told Claude-Marie, Lily, if it had not been for the busybody in the grocery store, Claude-Marie would never have known. The same thing goes for Price, Lily. If the bus had not broken down and Price had not hitchhiked back to the village instead of hitchhiking on to Toledo to buy his paint brushes, he would never have found out about Jesus what’s-his-name.”
I said, “Ramirez, Molly. Oh, I don’t know what made me think of this now—the story Inez told me—no, not about Jesus Ramirez, about the woman, the woman—oh, now it is all coming back to me. The king of Portugal wanted to marry—no, no, Molly, this is not a joke, this is not the king of Sweden—”
Molly said, “Norway—I told you, I can never remember jokes either, it must be Ivan’s accent. Ivan is also a good mimic. Have you ever heard him? You would die laughing, Lily. The way Ivan can imitate Yuri, the way Ivan said Yuri brought along a bottle of vodka on the bus—the kind of vodka with a blade of grass floating in it—and by the time the bus pulled up in front of the casino in Atlantic City, Yuri was singing something out of Boris Gudonov, he was singing at the top of his lungs. It makes me laugh just to think about this, and you know how all those people are always marching in the opera. Marching to Moscow or, who knows, marching from Moscow—oh, here, I found a letter from Dominique.”
I said, “Molly—can you let me finish? “
Molly said, “Oh—go ahead, Lily. I’m listening. Dominique says here that she has gotten her real estate license and that she hope to sell this big house and with the money she makes she will blah, blah, blah.”
I said, “Molly—I just want to tell you what Inez said.”
Molly said, “I am, Lily. I am listening. Oh, Dominique says with the money she makes she is going to buy a new car. A Peugeot. There, I’m throwing her letter in the garbage, Lily.”
I said, “I throw everything away. I never save anything. Yes, but what was I saying? Oh, the story Inez told me. A story about how the king of Portugal was in love with a woman named Inez—yes, her name was also Inez—only the king’s ministers were against the match and instead of letting the king marry Inez, they murdered her—they murdered Inez de Castro—and the king—I have forgotten his name—to show the ministers that he would always love Inez anyway, unearthed the corpse and sat the corpse of Inez on the throne next to him. The king made the court pay homage to the dead queen, to Inez de Castro. Can you imagine, Molly—imagine the corpse rotting away there on the throne? Can you imagine the smell? Molly—is this apocryphal or what? Molly—are you listening to me?”
Molly said, “Yes. What time is it, now?”
I said, “Four—yes, four in the morning, Molly.”
Molly said, “Hmmm.”
I said, “I’m just thinking—thinking about Inez.”
Molly said, “Hmmm. Yes. Poor Inez.”
I said, “Yes, I mean the real Inez—not the story. The story is just a legend, Molly.”
Molly said, “Hmm—hard to imagine, isn’t it? Inez what’s-her-name sitting decomposing on the throne.”
I said, “De Castro. I mean the real Inez.”
Molly said, “Yes, poor Inez in her underwear and boots—the galoshes.”
I said, “Oh, the galoshes. I almost forgot about the galoshes, Molly, and I wish it would stop raining soon.”
Molly said, “I know, it’s been raining for days and I wonder—should I call Roberta now? I hate it when the phone rings in the middle of the night. It’s always bad news or the wrong number.”
I said, “Poor Roberta.”
Molly said, “Have you seen Roberta since she dyed her hair that awful red? I told Roberta it was the same red as the sweater Claude-Marie gave me, the red that turns purple, and the red that French women like Madame Florisson’s daughter-in-law dye their hair. Madame Florisson’s daughter-in-law, Lily, is the one with the kidney disease about whom Claude-Marie said the dialysis machine came in the nick of time or it would have been the ball game for her, only Claude-Marie said this to me in French—la fin du match. I told you how Claude-Marie loves going to football games, but in France it
is soccer, and I stay at home or else I go for a walk with Bibi. I take Bibi out for an ice-cream cone, except Bibi has started to count calories. Jerome or someone must have said something. But Bibi is thin, Lily. Bibi is skinny. What is that old saying—something about how one is never quite rich or quite thin enough? Inez, too, come to think of it. The last time I saw Inez at the restaurant, Inez said she was going on a diet—a pasta diet. Inez ordered pasta with a cream seafood sauce, and Inez said she only ordered the sauce out of curiosity. I ordered a salad. A salade Niçoise—you know, tuna fish, tomatoes, olives—and each time I eat this salad, Lily, I always think of Matisse and of the south of France. This salad and a carafe of red wine was exactly what the French-Canadian journalist and I ordered for lunch the day he interviewed Matisse and the day I took the picture. The restaurant, Lily, was in the same village Matisse lived in, and I’ll never forget this either, Lily, how when we were finished and the French-Canadian journalist asked for the bill and for directions—directions to Matisse’s house—the owner of the restaurant said oh, if only he had known, he would never have charged us a thing for the meal.”
I said, “I told you about the time in Mexico when I ate the iguana and we didn’t pay for that either, except you should have seen me, Molly—I was about ready to go to the hospital.”
Molly said, “Claude-Marie, on account of the war—oh, Lily, I can’t even talk about this—Claude-Marie also said he did not know the difference. Claude-Marie said he thought it was a rabbit. Can you imagine? Oh, and when Bibi heard about this, Lily—poor Bibi—Bibi nearly got sick to her stomach. You know how sensitive children are—but what was I saying? Oh, how Inez said she wanted to lose weight, how Inez said she was on a diet now, and I said to Inez: Inez, look at me. I have not gained an ounce. I wear the same size since before I got married and since before I got pregnant. It’s true, Lily, I probably still own the pair of jeans I wore when I met Matisse. And women did not wear jeans then. I remember that Matisse made a remark about them. You would be surprised, Lily—Matisse was still pretty sharp then. He still had an eye. But I wear blue jeans everywhere now. I wear them to restaurants, I wear them to openings, and the only place to buy good jeans in France, Lily, is at Bon Marché. Bon Marché, Lily, is the only store in Paris that has jeans that fit me, and Bon Marché is right around the corner from Mademoiselle Boudemange’s apartment where Bibi goes for her piano lessons. Bibi’s piano lesson lasts about an hour and this gives me time to do my shopping or else I go and sit in a café and have a cup of coffee. The same café—oh, yes, they know me there. I don’t remember the name of it, the café that is right off rue Madame on the corner of rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs and rue Vavin.”
I said, “Oh, something I have always been meaning to ask you—what does rue Madame stand for, Molly? Madame who?”
Molly said, “Funny you should ask, Lily. I’ve often asked myself the same thing. There is a rue Monsieur le Prince and no one knows who Monsieur le Prince was, either. But you would think after all these years—how long have I been living in France, Lily? I hate to think—time goes by much too quickly—I can remember the first time I sailed to France on the Queen Mary as if it were yesterday. I also remember how I had to promise my mother that I would be back in time for Miss Mary’s summer solstice recital—the artistic Miss Mary, not the Miss Mary who cleaned the house and planted the vegetable garden. You should have heard her, Lily. Miss Mary always read the same poems by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and by Christina Georgina, his sister.”
I said, “Oh, God, don’t tell me. But were you back in time for the recital, Molly?”
Molly said, “Oh, this was such a long time ago, Lily, I no longer remember. But I do remember how those two Miss Marys lived together and how, after school, my friend Amy and I used to visit them. We would have to listen to the artistic Miss Mary tell us how when she used to live in New York—Miss Mary said she had been an actress or a dancer, I forget which—she knew all these people like Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy. Ruth Draper, too, was someone else Miss Mary said she knew intimately. Sometimes Miss Mary would even do an imitation of a Ruth Draper monologue. I’ll never forget this, Lily, the monologue was called ‘The Italian Lesson.’ ‘The Italian Lesson’ is about a woman who is constantly being interrupted—the phone rings, her children burst in on her, the cook, too, interrupts with questions about how many people will there be for dinner, etcetera—so that by the end of the lesson, the woman has never gotten past Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita.”
I said, “Oh, ‘In the middle of the—’”
Molly said, “I know, and this reminds me of Bibi’s piano lessons. For two years now, Bibi has played nothing but ‘Fur Elise.’ Da da da da da da dum, which almost drives me crazy but what was I telling you? Oh, about the Miss Marys? What I remember best was how every year around Christmastime, the other Miss Mary, the one who planted the garden, the one who was not artistic, Lily, and the one who did not wear lipstick, gave me and Amy each a jar of her home put-up peaches. Miss Mary told us—me and Amy—to be sure to give the peaches to our parents, and each year, you know what we did, Lily? Each year, on our way home, we—Amy and I—threw Miss Mary’s jar of peaches into the bushes. Now, in retrospect and in light of what happened to the Miss Marys, I feel guilty, to say nothing of the waste. Half a dozen jars of peaches—and if someone found all those jars lying in the bushes, what would they think, Lily? The other troubling thing was when I mentioned this to Amy—although Amy said she remembered the Miss Marys perfectly—Amy said she did not remember a thing about the jars of peaches. Amy said what she remembered best was the time I threw my hat in the Rivanna River. Amy could even remember the name of the boy who found it for me, Lily. The boy’s name, Amy said, was Gordon, and Gordon, Amy also said, had something wrong with his lips. Gordon, she said, talked something like this: Nyere’s nyour nyat, Nyolly. Nyi nyound nyit nyoating nyin nye nyiver. Amy did a perfect imitation of him, Lily, while I told Amy, I had no memory of this Gordon person—no, none at all—even though, Amy said, Gordon was in our class at school. Each year, too, Amy said, Gordon won the math and comportment prize, except for the one year Gordon’s mother ran away with the Trailways Bus driver and that year, too, Amy also said, everyone in Crozet talked about nothing else but Gordon’s mother’s love-life. Funny, the things you remember. But chances are I’ll never go back to Crozet again.”
I said, “My brother, I told you, Molly, is an orthopedic surgeon and he lives in Richmond. Each year, I go visit William for Thanksgiving, but this year I didn’t. This Thanksgiving, William and his wife, Lucille, went to China. William said he visited hospitals in China. He said he saw all kinds of surgery being performed without any anesthetic—with only acupuncture—eye operations, appendectomies—oh, you won’t believe this, Molly—I didn’t. I told William: I am no doctor but this is impossible.”
Molly said, “Did you say Richmond? Your brother lives in Richmond, Lily? I haven’t been to Richmond in years—not since my father died. Richmond was where I used to do my shopping, Lily, and the last time I went to Richmond was with Amy to pick up my father’s cremains—oh, this is a horrible story, Lily. I will never live this story down, and swear to God, too, this is true and partly Amy’s fault. Amy said since we were in Richmond already, we might as well kill two birds with one stone and go to Miller and Rhoads, the department store. Amy bought herself an evening dress. A layered black chiffon with tiny spaghetti straps and no back to it whatsoever. To this day, Lily, I can still see this dress as clear as day, and I remember, I said to Amy: Amy, where on earth are you going to wear a dress like this? To the Farmington Hunt Club Ball?”
I said, “Molly, I have a dress like this, only my dress is not black. My dress is dark blue with little star-shaped gold flecks in it. I bought the dress in Italy the time I went to Marrakesh with Sam and Felicia. The time I told you about when we drove to the Atlas Mountains and Felicia took those pictures out of the car window and the man threw a rock right through the windshield.”
Molly said, “Oh, yes, Marrakesh. What is the name of the hotel in Marrakesh? Nora went there for her vacation. Nora said she spent three days in bed with terrible cramps while Mercedes, her sister, got to go everywhere.”
I said, “I still wear the dress, Molly. The blue dress with the gold flecks. Come to think of it, I wore the dress the day I met Leonard.”
Molly said, “I told Nora I got my period when I was twelve. I was visiting relatives. My relatives in New Orleans, and I told Nora I did not know what to expect. At least Bibi knew. Bibi knows everything. Bibi learned everything from the babysitter and, as far as I know and even if she is only nearly fourteen years old, Lily, Bibi could be in bed with Jerome right this minute.”
I said, “Isn’t there a six-hour time difference? This makes it mid-morning in France. It’s the other way around if you are like Leonard and always going to Japan and crossing the international date line. Then it’s tomorrow. It’s the twenty-fifth already.”
Molly said, “Oh, May twenty-fifth is also my dentist appointment, Lily. I told you, Fred is going to drive me, and Fred said he had to go to New London anyway in his pickup truck to buy flooring for the kitchen. Fred is remodelling, he is doing the whole house himself, Lily—he and Havier—and I told Fred: Fred, you should see our house on rue Madame. The house was built in the eighteenth century. The house is a landmark building. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, I told Fred, used to live right around the corner from us on rue de Fleurus, right next to the butcher Claude-Marie always goes to. The same butcher, Lily, who cut off his finger.”
I said, “Molly, the time I cut my finger, the cut was so deep, you know what the doctor said to me? He said: Be thankful you are not a concert pianist.”
Molly said, “Hello—what did you say, Lily? The butcher cut off his finger right after Claude-Marie had turned the corner of rue de Fleurus with the three veal cutlets he said he had bought for our dinner—a cutlet for each of us, including a little cutlet for Bibi. Veal, I told you, is the only meat Bibi will eat now—and Claude-Marie said how he had had no idea. Claude-Marie said only afterwards, when he caught a glimpse of the ambulance from the living room windows. From the living room windows, Lily, we can also look straight across into our neighbor’s apartment, which is why I always try to keep the curtains shut.”
