by Lily Tuck
I said, “I know, you’ve told me, Molly. But you should have heard how Sam yelled at the man in the desert—the man who threw the rock through the car windshield. The funny thing was Felicia won a first prize for that picture at an exhibition, and what I told Sam afterwards was: Those judges should have taken a good look at our car. The front seat was nothing but shards of broken glass and Sam was still yelling something about wouldn’t-you-know-it-the-goddam-car-picked-this-goddam-moment-to-stall-on-us. Luckily, I was in the back seat with the sandwiches—the sandwiches the hotel in Marrakesh had fixed for our lunch.”
Molly said, “Oh, Dominique, too—this was what Dominique said. She said she spent the whole day fixing lunch for us. Dominique said she spent the whole day in the kitchen cooking this huge meal—a leg of lamb, potatoes—although Dominique knows perfectly well Claude-Marie won’t eat potatoes—and all kinds of vegetables. A dessert, too. Dominique said she made tirami su. I tell you, Lily, if I heard about this tirami su once, I heard about tirami su a dozen times.”
I said, “Oh—tirami su. Tirami su is Leonard’s favorite dessert. A kind of runny pudding, isn’t it? I tasted Leonard’s the other night. Leonard said the tirami su I tasted was not as good as it should have been and for me to stay open-minded about it. Hello? Hello, Molly? Are you there? The other funny thing and you may not believe this, but I had never heard of tirami su before in my life. No, I swear to you, Molly, never. And now, of course, I am hearing about tirami su all the time, which is like what we were saying just now.”
Molly said, “Yum—this also reminds me of Madame Florisson’s lemon tart. All this talk about food is making me hungry. Did I tell you I did not have any supper? I told Claude-Marie: Best to pick up something to eat on the road—a hamburger or a hot dog.”
I said, “I had filet of sole for supper, and Leonard, to begin with, had oysters. I told Leonard: No, no, I’m not allergic, thank you, then I told Leonard how my father nearly choked to death in a restaurant. My father scared the life out of me, I said. My father turned bright red, then he turned ash white. I thought my father was having a heart attack. Like Monsieur Gruass on the bus. Thank God for the waiter is what I said. Thank God, the waiter had the presence of mind. The waiter grabbed my father right under the ribs and the oyster shot out of my father’s mouth and landed across the table right in my lap. I swear, Molly, this is true. This was what I told Leonard, too.”
Molly said, “Lily, I know, I know. Oysters and shellfish are poison.”
I said, “This is what I said to Leslie: Don’t serve shrimp at your wedding.”
Molly said, “Yes, except soon it’s going to be light and it’s still raining out—and what did I tell you? I told you I have no sense of time. My God, I have no idea how long we’ve been talking on the phone, Lily.”
I said, “Molly—hours. My mother—bless her heart—my mother was just like this. My mother was always late.”
Molly said, “I told you—Inez, too, was late. Inez kept me waiting for nearly an hour the day we had lunch together.”
I said, “My mother was always late for everything. The time I was just telling you about, Molly, when my father nearly choked to death on the oyster, my mother had not arrived at the restaurant yet. My mother—bless her heart—only got there afterwards. She said she could not understand what all the fuss was about and why we had to leave such a big tip for the waiter. And what else did my mother say? My father, my mother said—and she said she was not even talking about the overturned boat—was accident-prone. So was William, my brother, Molly. No wonder, William is an orthopedic surgeon, William spent his whole adolescence on crutches or wearing a cast—oh, oh, this reminds me of something—something William said he saw as part of the tour when he went to China with the group of doctors and Lucille, his wife, was included. William said he saw this operation, and the operation had something to do with—of course—acupuncture. An operation on a boy, Molly—are you listening to me? You will never believe this. No. A Chinese boy who had lost both his legs in a train accident and the Chinese doctors, William said—William was watching the whole thing, and I would also be amazed, was what William said, at how he and the other doctors did not have to wear surgical gowns and how they were just standing around watching the operation in their street clothes—and the Chinese doctors, William said, had managed to save part of one leg and attach this leg back to what was left of the other leg, not the same leg, Molly, the other leg, and later—Molly, you won’t believe this—the boy wiggled his toes for them to show that the operation had been a success—incredible, isn’t it?”
Molly said, “Lily, I believe everything. You should have seen Madame Florisson’s daughter-in-law. Madame Florisson’s daughter-in-law, Claude-Marie said, was literally at death’s door a few short months ago.”
I said, “When I asked Lucille—Lucille is William’s wife, William’s second wife—Lucille said that seeing the operation had been optional, and that she, Lucille said, had chosen to visit the Forbidden City instead. Lucille said she visited the Forbidden City the same day Henry and Nancy Kissinger did—no, no, not the time Kissinger went there with Nixon, another time, later—and I told Lucille how I had run into Jack Kennedy at the Fontana di Trevi in Italy. I told Lucille how running into Kissinger would not have given me a very big thrill—which reminds me of a stupid joke—have you heard this one, Molly? The next time I talk to Lucille I should tell her—a young man makes an appointment to see Henry Kissinger at his new consulting firm and the young man asks Kissinger: Dr. Kissinger, is it true that you charge twenty thousand dollars for each question? And Kissinger answers him: Yah, jung man. Vat is your second question?”
Molly said, “Twenty thousand dollars? Yikes. What would I ever want to ask Kissinger, anyway? Dr. Kissinger, should I get a permanent?”
I said, “Molly—you’re not serious. You will ruin your hair, your beautiful hair.”
Molly said, “I was just kidding, Lily.”
I said, “Okay, I guess the joke wasn’t very funny, but go ahead and tell the one you promised, Molly—the horse’s dick joke. Oh, I bet I know—is it the one about Twenty Questions and how Queen Elizabeth after only her first question—Is it edible?—guesses what is inside the black box? I can never get jokes right. Either I forget or I give away the punch line. There is an art to it, like acting, and when I played Marc Antony and I had to say the speech about Great Caesar fell./ Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!/ Then I, and you and all of us fell down./ Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us, I drew a blank. I could not remember. I completely forgot my lines. Now, years later, wouldn’t you know it, I remember the lines word for word. I remember the lines perfectly. Actually, knowing things by heart, Molly, can be a great comfort—I don’t mean just prayers, I mean poems and Shakespeare. I’ll never forget how when we ran out of gas in the desert and Jim had to hitchhike to the nearest town, Jim left me alone in the car for over two hours and it was already dark by then. The reason, Jim said, was someone from the gas station had to drive him back, and since the gas station was a one-man operation, the gas station attendant had to go get his wife to drive Jim back in the tow truck. Oh, and Molly, I will never forget the man’s wife. Jim said the whole time she was driving him back she was breast-feeding her child. Jim said she kept one hand on the steering wheel, one hand on the child, the tow truck too, he said, was the old kind. The kind, Jim said, with a clutch and a gear shift.”
Molly said, “Oh, yes, I know, our car is exactly like this, Lily. I mean, the car I backed over the cat with, the car Claude-Marie drove into the city with. It’s not a whatchamacallit hydromatic, Lily. But I have never been good about cars—and no wonder. Just think of all the accidents I’ve been in—the accident with the two dogs stuck doing it, the accident with the French count in the Lancia—oh, I nearly forgot—my near-death experience, Lily. The red BMW in the garage in San Anton. Hello? Can you hear me—hello, Lily?”
I said, “Yes, I am here, Molly, and just what I was thi
nking. I was thinking Leonard has a Volvo.”
Molly said, “If only the French count had been driving the Citroën.”
I said, “Red too, Molly—red. Statistically, red is the safest color. They have made studies to show how gray blends right into the highway.”
Molly said, “The Citroën was black and the Citroën was more comfortable, Lily.”
I said, “The only time I drove in Paris, right away I got a ticket. I had not even gotten as far as the périphérique yet—I was on my way to visit the chateaus of the Loire Valley, Molly, and Jim, I remember, said he could not come with me—and the policeman told me I had run a red light. I did not dare argue with him, Molly, although I swear to you the light had just turned yellow. The policeman made me pay the ticket right there on the spot—I’ll never forget, it cost me two hundred francs. At the time, Molly, the exchange rate was only four francs to the dollar so the ticket cost me fifty dollars, while now the same ticket would only cost me about thirty-five dollars—oh, but what was I saying?”
Molly said, “I’ve never been to the Loire Valley, Lily, I’ve never visited Chenonceau or Chambord or Amboise or Blois or Azay-le-Rideau or whatever those chateaus are called. I am not a good sightseer—I told you, I’ve never been up the Eiffel Tower either, although Bibi has. Bibi, remember, said that from where she was standing, she could see Mademoiselle Boudemange’s apartment.”
I said, “The time I went up the Eiffel Tower, it was so windy and crowded. The man standing next to me, I remember, nearly lost his hat. His hat nearly got blown away, Molly. The man’s wife, or the woman who was with him, kept saying: Guillaume, fais attention! Ton chapeau. Guillaume, ton chapeau va s’envoler si tu ne fais pas attention. Tu m’entends, Guillaume? Ton chapeau. This was all the woman kept repeating and saying to him the whole time I was up there. She never once remarked on the view or on anything. She just kept nattering away at him about his hat. But maybe this is love, Molly. Who knows? Anyway, this was what I told Price the time Price was telling me the story about the workman. Remember, Molly? The workman showing off to his girlfriend who fell off the Eiffel Tower, and Inez, who was there while Price was telling the story, said: But, Price, what about the girlfriend? And what if it was at night, did the girlfriend have to climb down by herself in the dark? Or did she have to wait until the next morning, and what if the next morning was a Sunday?—after all, France is a Catholic country. The girlfriend, poor woman, Inez said, would have had to wait another day, and Price told Inez to be quiet please, to let him please finish, and, after all, this was not the point of the story.”
Molly said, “I don’t understand. Who said this? Did Inez say all this? Did Inez make all this up?”
I said, “Inez told Price she could not stop thinking about this woman, and what if the workman had just made love to the woman was what Inez said she was asking Price. Inez said she could picture her perfectly, the woman up there alone on top of the Eiffel Tower, the woman wearing a flimsy dress and high heel shoes, red high heel shoes, was what Inez said, and Price got annoyed with her then—with Inez. Price told Inez he did not know what the issue was here and he didn’t know what the color of the woman’s shoes had to do with any of this, and, yes, of course, the woman, Price told Inez, had to climb down the way she climbed up, the way everyone did before they installed the elevator—the way he did, too—the way, Price said, he climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower in under an hour the time he came to Paris for his sculpture and the time, he said, he was still in training for the marathon.”
Molly said, “The time Price and I had the drink at the Closerie des Lilas, the time the plane crashed. Oh, and here I am, still sorting through my desk. Oh, and Lily, how I wish I could find the interview with Matisse. I would read it to you, Lily—the part where Matisse speaks about his painting, about his art, Lily.”
I said, “This reminds me, I should be reading a book for my French conversation club. A book by Guy de Maupassant, Molly.”
Molly said, “Guy de Maupassant?—I don’t know one thing about him, but I am sure Bibi does.”
I said, “Guy de Maupassant’s stories are sort of like O’Henry’s—you know, with a surprise ending. The story I am reading now reminds me a little of when I borrowed Inez’s kimono to go to the Sayonara party for Jim’s boss’s retirement. I told you, didn’t I, how Jim’s boss burned a cigarette hole in it and how I spilt sake on it? And you know when you drink sake, Molly, how they serve it lukewarm in these tiny cups so you can’t taste the alcohol and so you don’t even know how much sake you’ve drunk and, before you know it, you are drunk. This was also what I told Jim. I told Jim: Sake is as lethal as gin, and I don’t even remember how we got home from the party, Molly—all I remember was dancing with Jim’s boss, who had a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and Jim, too, couldn’t remember a thing—oh, and you should have seen what Jim wore. Jim wore these pajamas, black silk pajamas, and Jim wore a coolie hat, and the only trouble, Molly, was Jim’s pajama fly had no buttons, the pajama fly was just this string thing and Jim said: It’s so damn hot, who cares anyhow whether I am wearing underwear, and I said: Jim, I can see everything—hello, Molly, are you listening?”
Molly said, “Wait—oh, for a minute, I thought I had found it—found the interview with Matisse. No. It’s something else. It’s the newspaper clipping about the woman who found the hand grenade in with her potatoes—remember? Inez sent it to me. The woman lived in Paris—in Neuilly, it says here. But you’re right, Lily, I hate costume parties. I hate to dress up.”
I said, “I know—I can’t help it. I still can’t stop thinking about how I felt the next morning, Molly, when I saw the burn hole and the sake stains on Inez’s blue-and-white silk kimono. When Jim woke up, I said: Oh, God, tell me what should I do now? How can I ever face Inez again, was what I said to Jim. I swear to you, Molly, I felt just like the woman in the de Maupassant story, the woman who, like me, borrows something from her best friend—only she borrows a diamond necklace—to go to a dance. And what happens next? You’re right—of course. The woman loses the necklace. Then—because the woman is too embarrassed and too ashamed to tell her friend, her best friend—she goes and buys a diamond necklace just like it. Only the necklace the woman buys costs her thousands—thousands of francs, I guess—and the woman has to spend years—the best years of her life, say—working to pay for the necklace. She scrimps and saves and she works all day on her hands and knees scrubbing floors. She ruins her looks, her health too, and years go by until one day, accidentally, she runs into her friend again. At first, the friend does not recognize her, but the woman who lost the necklace decides to confess, to make a clean breast of the whole thing, and to tell her best friend how she lost the diamond necklace at the dance and how, ever since, she has been slaving away to make up for this loss—which, by the way, she says is also the reason why they have not seen each other and why her friend did not recognize her—and the best friend, when she hears all this, says: Oh, but my dear, the necklace was fake. The diamonds were not real. Can you imagine, Molly? I would have killed myself. The waste. Funny, too, when I first read the story, my instinct was to try and fix it. To work out the story some other way and so that the woman right away asks her friend: Was this really a valuable necklace with real diamonds you lent me that I lost at the dance? I kept trying to have the story come out differently. Molly, Molly, are you listening to me?”
Molly said, “Yes, yes, yes—but you know me, I never get dressed up. I never wear anything but jeans. The last time I went shopping for an evening dress was with Amy. This was when I also said to her: Amy, when will you ever wear a dress like this? But I was wrong, Lily, Amy said she did wear the dress from Miller and Rhoads with the tiny spaghetti straps to the Farmington Hunt Club Ball. Furthermore, Amy said, after the electroshock treatment, the only person she danced with who still looked like a monkey to her was her husband.”
I said, “It’s like if I were to reread Gone with the Wind or Anna Karenina, a part of me
would still hope that this time around Anna will not fall in love with that cad Vronsky again and that Rhett Butler will give a damn at the end now.”
Molly said, “Yes—all I can say is thank God, Lily. Thank God, the woman who found the live hand grenade in her sack of potatoes—the woman in the newspaper clipping—did not pull the pin—Lily?”
I said, “It makes you think, doesn’t it? Makes you think about life—which reminds me, Molly, just the other day, I had a real madman at the wheel—the day I took a taxi to see Inez, the day we played mahjong with the playwright from Sri Lanka and from downstairs. You should have seen him, the taxi driver is who I mean, and if you think I am bad about going through red lights, this man ignored them completely. Red lights simply did not exist for him. He was some sort of Indian. Indian Indian, Molly—he wore a turban. From one of those fanatic sects, I bet. I didn’t dare say a word. I was afraid he would turn around and cut my head off. What is it that they are supposed to always carry with them? A knife, a comb?”
Molly said, “Oh, oh, I can hear it, it’s raining harder again. I tell you, the woman was lucky, the woman could have pulled the pin, Lily.”
I said, “I know. It’s just drizzling here—it’s not raining the way it rained yesterday, Molly. Yesterday, it poured. On the way home from that seafood place, I told Leonard: Even if I had remembered to bring along an umbrella, I would still rather rent a video of a film—oh, and you know which one Leonard picked?—My Dinner with André. Have you seen it, Molly? André Gregory and Wally Shawn are supposed to be discussing the meaning of life while in actual fact, they are stuffing themselves with quail at a fancy New York restaurant. André Gregory says things to Wally Shawn like you don’t have to climb Mount Everest to find reality, reality can be found right around the corner in the cigar store on Seventh Avenue—and what else does André Gregory say? You know how he talks in his phony aristocratic foreign accent— ‘I cood alvays leave in my art and not in my liefe’ —and I asked Leonard: What do you suppose he means by that—oh, but why did I mention this? Inez? Was it because of Inez, Molly?”
