by Lily Tuck
I said, “After what happened to me in Mexico, don’t speak to me about food poisoning. I am very susceptible. This is the first thing I told Leonard when I met him—this and about the pottery lessons.”
Molly said, “I agree with you, Lily. Some people can eat anything. Suzanne said she ate a dog once. A collie. And Claude-Marie, oh, God—during the war—I told you what Claude-Marie ate, Lily. Claude-Marie thought it was rabbit.”
I said, “Molly, please, please. Let’s change the subject, please. I can’t bear sad animal stories. I told you about Jason, didn’t I? Let’s talk about something else. Because what was I saying? Oh, I was telling you about the seafood restaurant and how afterwards I told Nora: But the filet of sole was delicious, and Nora said how the Bolivian ambassador was really a harmless old letch. The Bolivian ambassador to the United Nations, Nora said, had a habit of always putting his hand on her knee while she was translating but he did not mean anything by this. Nora said that now she understood this but not at the beginning, not the first time, and not while she was translating the Diaspora speech for the Palestinians. Nora said she got so flustered she could not remember the word for diaspora in Spanish.”
Molly said, “Ha, ha, the same thing happened to me. There must be a word for this. Diaspora is like penis—the word in French, I mean. The word in French is like the word in English, but I didn’t know this when I went to see that endless Paul Claudel play about the lost slipper and the man sitting next to me exposed himself. I was also very young then. I was only eighteen, and I did all these things I wouldn’t do now—I went swimming, Lily. Can you believe this? I told you, it was a warm day, and I went swimming in my underwear in Matisse’s swimming pool—”
I said, “I told you, my mother swam nude. My mother—bless her heart—always swam nude in Martha’s Vineyard, and in Nicaragua, too, Leslie said, the beaches are completely deserted. She and Victor never once put on their bathing suits.”
Molly said, “I went swimming in only my underwear, Lily, and this is the trouble, Lily, with being so flat-chested, I can never find a bathing suit that fits me—oh, but it’s all coming back to me—the French-Canadian journalist said no, he wouldn’t, and Matisse, 1 remember, said if only he was twenty years younger, if only he could get out of the wheelchair. I tell you, Lily, Matisse was a real sport and Matisse was really old by then. How old was Henri Matisse when he died, Lily, do you remember? If only I could find the interview—the interview would say. The interview has all this information—what year Matisse was born, when Matisse first started to paint, etcetera.”
I said, “This reminds me—I should call Leslie. Call Leslie about her wedding—oh, how long do you suppose we have been talking on the phone? And what if Claude-Marie is trying to call—remember the story of Inez’s father yanking the phone out of the wall while Inez’s mother was talking to someone? God—Inez too, could talk for hours. Inez had this extra long extension cord.”
Molly said, “When Yuri first moved to Paris and when Yuri still did not have a phone—in France, sometimes you have to wait a whole year to get a telephone installed—Yuri used to come over to the house on rue Madame to call his family in Russia. Oh, God, Lily, you can imagine—Yuri would talk for hours to his mother and to someone called Tanya.”
I said, “Don’t tell me—from Marrakesh, Sam tried to call the American Express Company the time he was pickpocketed. Sam was trying to bargain the man down—the man was asking a fortune for it, and I don’t know how many times I told Sam: Don’t put your wallet in your back pocket. Also, I remember, there was this boy with a falcon, and something was wrong with the boy’s arm—the arm with the falcon on it. The arm was a bit crooked—deformed, I guess. I felt sorry for the boy, Molly. A nice-looking boy, a boy of around eleven or twelve. I asked the boy what his name was. He said his name was Mohammed. Everyone in Marrakesh was called Mohammed, Molly, all the waiters in the hotel, all the—and like who-do-you-call-it the Spanish boy Inez slept with—Jesus. Jesus Ramirez. Anyhow, and I only thought of this later, Molly, how this boy, this Mohammed, kept hanging around while Sam was bargaining for the rug and how Mohammed kept after us to hold the falcon for money. Mohammed, I remember, wore a glove—a thick leather glove. I took a photo of him. I should show it to you one day. Just a snapshot, but the colors came out nicely—oh, no, nothing like Felicia’s photographs. Felicia—don’t forget—is a professional photographer, and now, looking back, I wonder if Mohammed did not have something to do with Sam’s wallet. Sam had over five hundred dollars in cash in his back pocket and I don’t know how many times I told Sam to get travelers’ checks.”
Molly said, “Oh, please don’t talk to me about five hundred dollars. I told Claude-Marie: I will feel a lot better after we sell this house in Connecticut and after we send Bibi away to camp.”
I said, “Wait, you didn’t let me finish—you didn’t hear the rest of what happened to Sam. Sam kept his credit cards in his wallet, his driver’s license—his I don’t know what all—and when we got back to Cincinnati, we found out someone had charged a truck on Sam’s American Express card.”
Molly said, “A what, Lily? Hello—can you speak louder? I can’t hear you all of a sudden.”
I said, “Hello, Molly—a Toyota truck, Molly. But since Sam had telephoned, and since Sam had reported his card stolen, Sam was not held liable. Sam was not responsible. Anyway, I think you are only responsible for the first fifty dollars. The truck cost a lot more. I don’t remember the exact figure, but I do remember Sam said it must have been a secondhand vehicle.”
Molly said, “Fred has a Toyota pick-up truck and Fred says, so far, his Toyota pick-up is reliable. He is going to drive me to the dentist in it—but speaking of cars, I was just thinking, Lily, how the blue book value of our car is not what we expected it to be, and how it probably means a car without a smashed fender—oh, and, Lily, I also cannot help thinking about Claude-Marie. Whether Claude-Marie found a parking place or whether Claude-Marie put the car in the garage overnight. I should have asked Claude-Marie, Lily, when he telephoned only we got to talking about something else—oh, about Inez—and I forgot to mention this. But Claude-Marie, I remember, said the parking in front of the morgue was no problem whatsoever, which was a small blessing, he said.”
I said, “Oh, God, the morgue. I forgot. Where is the morgue? Is the morgue all the way downtown, Molly?”
Molly said, “Price told Claude-Marie how to get there. Price gave Claude-Marie the directions—directions from the West Side Highway, Lily. Normally, Claude-Marie, I told Price, goes down the East River Drive.”
I said, “I always take the Triborough Bridge. I don’t care what the Triborough costs me because you hear terrible stories, Molly. Stories of people forcing open your car door and grabbing your purse, stories like the one in the book Nora said that she was reading and that she could not put down—the best seller, the same book about which she said—I’ll never forget this—thank God, she was reading it on the train and thank God, the book was not in her suitcase. Each day, I swear, life in the city gets more dangerous—what did I hear the other day? A woman was dragged to death by her shoulder bag right here on Park Avenue. No wonder, I told Leonard. I said: A woman alone in the city. No wonder, Inez said she had given up hope. No wonder she let the phone ring and ring and ring and she only answered it at the last minute. It was Kevin. Poor Inez. Inez said she knew the moment Kevin spoke.”
Molly said, “Oh, did I tell you how Nora who was watching the commercial for coffee with me said they must have dubbed in Kevin’s voice? I told Nora I hated the way Kevin licked his lips pretending the coffee was ice cream, and Nora said, I should have been there to see how Yuri ate the lobsters and how he cracked the shells with his fingers.”
I said, “But Molly, you didn’t hear how Kevin shouted at us about the damn clack-clacking, you didn’t hear him say how he was going to throw out the mahjong set. And Kevin did not have a stitch on. Kevin, I swear to you, Molly, stood in the doorway in what
my mother—bless her heart—called his birthday suit—oh, and did I tell you how this expression never failed to irritate my father? My father would tell my mother: Helen, for God’s sakes, there is an old Chinese saying that says: If it is one, then say one, so do me a favor and say naked, but what was I saying? Oh—Kevin’s Texas accent.”
Molly said, “I told you what Claude-Marie said on the phone, didn’t I? Claude-Marie said Kevin’s clothes were all in the garbage. His T-shirts, his dress shirt with French cuffs, and his toilet kit with everything in it—the electric razor, the toothbrush, the condoms—and Fiddle, I told you, wore gloves, only thank God, Claude-Marie said, Price did not throw out the tuxedo. The tuxedo, Claude-Marie said, was somebody else’s tuxedo.”
I said, “Molly, the nudity was not what I was talking about. The nudity did not bother me. After all, don’t forget, I have seen plenty of naked men. Sam never wore anything. Sam never wore clothes in the house. Sam always ran around naked and this reminds me of one time—have I told you this? Sam was picking up the newspaper off the floor in the front hall and the apartment door slammed shut behind him. This was in Cincinnati, Molly—I was out. Sam had to ring the neighbor’s bell to ask if he could borrow something to wear so he could go downstairs and find the superintendent. The poor woman slammed the door in Sam’s face. Sam spent a half an hour shouting at her through the closed door, trying to convince her that he was not a rapist and that he lived in the apartment down the hall from hers, only she did not recognize him without his clothes on. I wish I had been there to see this, Molly. It makes me laugh out loud each time I think about this—ha, ha. Men look ridiculous naked, men with their dangling you-know-whats. Sam said he was finally able to convince the woman. He said he told the woman to just throw the pink wrapper on the floor in the hall. You never met Sam, Molly, did you? You met Jim.”
Molly said, “I—no—I—hello?”
I said, “Yes—hello—Sam was different. Some people said Sam looked just like Jack Kennedy. In the street, people stopped, people stared at him. Frankly, I never saw the resemblance. Quite honestly, I like Leonard’s looks a lot better.”
Molly said, “The French count was not what you would call classically handsome, either. The French count was dark, Lily. Dark hair, dark skin.”
I said, “I know what you mean. I said the very same thing, Molly. I said: If Sam looks like Jack Kennedy, then I look like Kate Smith. Because I saw him. Yes, I did. I saw Jack Kennedy in Italy, Molly. Jack Kennedy was standing by that fountain—you know, the fountain if you throw in a coin—the Fontana di Trevi. And Jack Kennedy was not yet president. Jack Kennedy was still a senator. We made eye contact. Jackie was not with him—I was standing right next to him. Oh.”
Molly said, “What?”
I said, “Nothing—I was just thinking.”
Molly said, “Thinking about what, Lily?”
I said, “Speaking of Jack Kennedy—”
Molly said, “Oh, yes, Jack Kennedy.”
I said, “This must be some kind of anniversary—an anniversary of the year of his death, and you know what I was watching last night? I just happened to turn it on—a rerun of the film that showed how Jack Kennedy slumped down on to Jackie’s shoulder and how she crawled on her hands and knees in her pink Chanel suit on top of the limousine to get the Secret Service agent to help her.”
Molly said, “It’s amazing how everyone is always still talking about how they remember exactly where they were and what they were doing on that day.”
I said, “I’ll never forget, I had just bought Jason—Jason, the dog, Molly—I was on my way home from David Cutler’s house—David Cutler raised Labs in Cincinnati, he started this as a hobby, Molly—and I heard the news on the car radio.”
Molly said, “I was already in France. I was already sound asleep. But I will always remember what Harry said—Harry, Suzanne’s husband, the lawyer, the litigator. Harry said, this film clip is the most studied film clip in all of history. People have spent more time, Harry said, studying this film clip than they have studying the Dead Sea Scrolls.”
I said, “I nearly went off the road when I heard this on the radio. People turned on their headlights, people started honking their horns, and there was poor little Jason whimpering in the back seat. He couldn’t have been more than six weeks old. He was just weaned then. The cutest little golden Labrador you have ever seen, Molly. And you know something else, Molly—this is weird. I had planned to call Jason Jack. This is true, swear to God—Jack. Jack is a good name for a dog. Everyone says you should name a dog a one-syllable name, a name you can say quickly like ‘Here, boy. Here, Jack.’ But after what happened, I couldn’t do this. Sam named him. Sam thought up Jason later.”
Molly said, “The man who took the film, Lily, was just someone who happened to be standing there watching the motorcade. He was not a professional photographer like Felicia is—oh, and it was because of him that Price shouted and Inez left the dinner table in Old Saybrook.”
I said, “Oh, God, you don’t have to tell me—I told you how Kevin shouted at us. Sam, too, was always shouting—you should have heard how Sam would shout at the dog. It’s a wonder Jason ever obeyed him. I kept telling Sam: Ja-son is a two syllable name.”
Molly said, “Price, I remember, said how Inez had read every article about Jackie Kennedy at least twice, how Inez knew every item down to the last jodhpur boot in Jackie’s closet by heart. The last straw, Price said, was how Inez said she also wanted to take riding lessons. Riding lessons on the money he made? Riding lessons in Central Park at sixty-five dollars an hour? This was what Price had shouted, and I told Inez: Never mind, I’ll take you riding. I know a stable in Old Saybrook that only charges you twenty dollars an hour.”
I said, “What is the man’s name? The man who took the film clip. The name is on the tip of my tongue—I’ll think of it in a minute. An odd name, a name like Fiddle’s. He must have had a lot of presence of mind, unless, of course, he did not realize what was happening. In a way—Molly, you used to be a photographer—pushing a shutter release—click—and pulling a trigger are similar actions.”
Molly said, “I have only shot a gun once in my life, Lily. A shotgun. A twenty-gauge at some doves, and I have always regretted the shot. They say doves are monogamous. Doves mate for life. But the picture I took of Matisse, Lily, was different. The picture I took of Matisse, I would say, was more of an accident. I took it with an old-fashioned Brownie camera. The camera my mother gave me as a goodbye present before I set sail on the Queen Mary.”
I said, “This opens the door to all kinds of questions—questions of ethics, Molly. Remember the news cameraman who took the pictures of the woman immolating herself, and everyone said that instead, he should have tried to stop her from pouring the gasoline all over herself? But where, I ask you, does one draw the line?”
Molly said, “All I know, Lily, is when I took Matisse’s picture, at first Matisse said he was reluctant. Matisse said he was too old for photographs. He said there were plenty of photographs of him already. I had to convince Matisse to let me. I had to tell Matisse I was only an amateur and not a professional. The Brownie camera helped. The camera looked like a lunch box. Also, and to be honest with you, Lily—Matisse, I think, liked me. I told you, didn’t I, Lily, how I was just wearing blue jeans and how I went swimming in my underwear in Matisse’s swimming pool?”
I said, “The only famous artist, Molly, I ever got to meet was the one with the big mustache—Dali—except I didn’t really get to meet Dali, either. Salvador Dali. In Barcelona. Dali was eating dinner at the next table from us in a restaurant and Jim leaned over and asked Dali what it was he was eating and whether Dali would recommend it to us. But what I told Jim—I whispered this to Jim, I didn’t want Dali to overhear me—I don’t care who it is who is eating those fried eels—Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Picasso—I’m going to order the roast chicken.”
Molly said, “Oh, I love Barcelona. I love Gaudi.”
I sai
d, “I could not eat the roast chicken, either. The chicken was inedible. This was when we drove to France, Molly. The roads, too, were just terrible. Potholes. Jim said he did not want to stay on the highways. Jim said he liked to take the byways. Jim said the by-ways were the only way to see the country and he did not care how long it took us. The best meal we had on that trip, I remember, was in this small restaurant. What was it we ate? Not a paella again. A restaurant which wasn’t really a restaurant and where there was only room for a couple of people, like in someone’s house, where the wife cooked and the husband served and poured the wine. A Marques de Riscal. I don’t remember the year, and someone—not Dali, I would have remembered if it had been Salvador Dali—must have recommended this restaurant to us, which was right outside of Toledo—just before you get to Toledo if you are going north, say, the way we were from Barcelona, Molly, and—oh, oh, oh, I just thought of this! I just thought of this right this minute! Oh, and I should have asked her—asked Inez! Molly, maybe this restaurant was in the same village Inez spent the year in, the year Price got the grant. The year Inez said Spain was a mistake because of Jesus Ramirez, and Price said he threw out everything he painted—oh, and wouldn’t this have been a coincidence, Molly? Oh, just think about this for a minute. Maybe I did see her—Inez. Maybe our paths crossed in the street. Steep little cobblestone streets. I remember, I remarked on them to Jim. Very picturesque, I said. I said, if I had a camera I would take a picture of them. But, of course, I was not carrying anything—no, not like Inez. Only my purse, I guess. I know I would never have left my purse with my money and my passport in the car. The car was rented. A Renault.”
Molly said, “Oh, I love Madrid. I love El Greco.”
I said, “The restaurant was called something del Sol. Hello—Molly, are you awake?”
Molly said, “Yes, yes, Lily—what time is it? It must be after four in the morning. If I called up Bibi, Bibi would have eaten breakfast by now, and Bibi would have gone off to school with Jerome and Véronique—only Bibi does not eat breakfast any more. I told you, didn’t I, Lily, how Bibi is almost taller than I am and how Bibi only weighs forty-five kilos?”
