by Lily Tuck
Molly said, “Please, don’t play ‘Für Elise.’ Mozart, she said, which reminds me, in the morning I am going to call Claude-Marie about Inez’s blue-and-white kimono. I am also going to ask Claude-Marie to ask Price what Fiddle stands for, so this will stop driving me crazy—oh, and what else? The airline ticket.”
I said, “Jim said the ficus tree was symbolic. I told Jim how he was reading too much into it and how maybe the ficus tree was old, or how maybe the ficus tree was diseased when Jim bought it, or how maybe I didn’t have a green thumb after all, or how, better still, maybe Jim should have asked me what I wanted for an anniversary present—a new—oh, Molly, I just thought of the story of Churchill and the radio. It’s the story of how during the war Churchill was staying with some friends for the weekend, isn’t it? And didn’t Churchill receive a package with a radio in it? Now, I remember, since Churchill already owned a radio—Churchill probably owned several radios by then—Churchill gave the radio as a present to the son of his friends, the friends he was staying with then—a little boy. When the little boy turned on the radio, the radio blew up the little boy. This is the story, isn’t it, Molly?”
Molly said, “Terrible—the same thing could have happened to the woman with the hand grenade if she had pulled the pin.
I said, “Yes, awful, and you’d think, wouldn’t you, that Churchill or that one of his aides, after opening the package, would have also checked the radio—checked over the radio with a fine-tooth comb.”
Molly said, “Yes—like me. You should see me, Lily, I am going through everything in this desk.”
I said, “On the other hand, what if, say, Churchill himself had turned on the radio? What if Churchill had got blown up in 1941? Would England have continued to fight on in the war? Or would Hitler be ruling most of the world now? Or what if one of Churchill’s aides or whoever was there looking after Churchill opened the package and he was the one who got blown up? This man, too, Molly, could have had a family—a handicapped mother, a dependent wife, several small children.”
Molly said, “A child makes it worse. Think if it had been Bibi, Lily.”
I said, “Yes, no—children, animals, tragic—Molly, I am just looking at my watch. It is after five o’clock in the morning. Soon it will be time to get up.”
Molly said, “I am up, and the cat—no, no, I am not speaking of Alicia Thomas’s cat, Lily. I am speaking of our cat here, Lily. I can’t leave the cat in Connecticut, Lily. I was going to ask Inez.”
I said, “That’s the thing—who is going to look after the gardenia plants? No, no, not Price. No, not Fiddle, and not one of those kids—Price Junior and Matthew. Oh, if only I had more light here.”
Molly said, “Yes, yes, soon it will be daylight, and if today is May twenty-fourth, then tomorrow is Thursday, which is the day I have to go to the dentist, Lily.”
I said, “The way to figure this out, Molly, is to work backwards. If Leslie’s wedding is on Friday, and Friday is May twenty-sixth, and today is Wednesday, May twenty-fourth, then you’re right, your dentist appointment is on Thursday. Still, I can’t believe what you said about Inez yesterday, which was May twenty-third, or how time goes by so quickly, and how long, for instance, since Jason died? Marcelline, of course, was still alive—Marcelline was standing right behind me as I was trying to give poor Jason mouth-to-mouth, and Marcelline was telling me about hoof-and-mouth disease—but Marcelline died a year later, and I was still married to Sam then. Sam and I, I remember, went to Marcellines funeral together, and I also remember how I told Sam he had to wear a suit and a dark tie.”
Molly said, “Yes, of course.”
I said, “Molly? Molly, are you paying attention to me? I remember Sam had just started to wear bow ties. Sam said how bow ties suited him better, and Sam had also smashed his thumb with a hammer, which was why he made me tie his bow tie for him. You should have seen me, Molly—we were nearly late to Marcelline’s funeral.”
Molly said, “I know, I know. Can you believe this, Lily? I am still looking for the interview.”
I said, “I know what you mean. Once I start to look for something, I look and look until I find it. My ring—I told you how I looked all night. I looked everywhere, but at least I got the money back. I told you how I told the insurance company the ring was stolen—stolen from a hotel. I told them it could have been the maid. I said she could have been a Mexican. I know what you are thinking, only think of the insurance premium. But you know what happened next? Well—this was less than a year later—this was in the motel in Reno the night after we ran out of gas in the desert and I recited all the poems I knew by heart including Friends, Romans, countrymen—while I was waiting for Jim to come back in the tow truck with the woman who was breast-feeding her child—but what was I saying? Oh, the maid in the motel stole a dress from me. I have no idea what her nationality was, but who else had access to our room, and who else would want a dress? My blue dress was hanging up in the bathroom while we were having supper. You know, one of those drip-dry dresses—no, not the blue dress with the gold flecks in it from Italy—a different dress, a French blue is, I guess, what you would call the blue of the dress, a blue Jim liked and that Jim said matched my eyes exactly, and I wore the dress every day on our trip—oh, and a blue, I bet, Matisse would have liked, Molly. A Matisse blue—Molly, you have not fallen asleep, have you? And at night when I took the dress off, I just washed it in the bathroom and, lo and behold, the next morning, the dress was dry.”
Molly said, “I had a dress like this once, Lily. The dress wasn’t blue. It was a cream color. A summer dress. Cotton. Percale. The French count gave me the dress. The French count knew my size—size six—not like Claude-Marie. Poor Claude-Marie. I told you how Claude-Marie bought me the red sweater that was the wrong kind of red and how I finally had to give the red sweater away to Madame Florisson’s daughter-in-law.”
I said, “Who, Molly? Madame Florisson? The name sounds familiar. Is Madame Florisson Bibi’s piano teacher?”
Molly said, “No, no, Mademoiselle Boudemange is Bibi’s piano teacher, Lily. Madame Florisson is the one who owns the bakery on rue du Bac—rue du Bac is just a few blocks across Boulevard Raspail from the house on rue Madame—and the bakery is the one with those wonderful lemon tarts. I get hungry just thinking about those wonderful lemon tarts. Lily, I told you, didn’t I? I haven’t had supper yet.”
I said, “Molly, it’s breakfast time nearly—oh, and Molly, how I envy you, how I really envy you, and this was exactly what I told Leonard: Leonard, I said, you have no idea how I want to go back to Paris, how I want to go back up the Eiffel Tower, how I want to visit those museums.”
Molly said, “I told Claude-Marie the same thing, Lily. I told Claude-Marie don’t fly Air India.”
I said, “Air India—ha, ha. Yuri and the lobsters—I know I will never forget this story, Molly.”
Molly said, “Only you can’t always believe what Nora says—Nora may have made up the lobster part—just like you can’t believe what Nora said about her sister, Mercedes, in the low-cut black dress.”
I said, “Poor Mercedes nearly died of appendicitis—but what was I saying, Molly? I was saying how in Paris I want to look at art, how I want to visit museums—what is the name of the new museum that used to be a railroad station? The Musée D’Orsay, and who was I talking to recently? Oh, Malcolm. Malcolm was telling me about his idea for a museum, the scent museum, and what I told Leslie after she came back from Nicaragua was: I don’t care what Malcolm talks about, I have always admired Malcolm’s sculpture. Malcolm’s sculpture is truly original, was what I said to Leslie, not like some of the sculpture you see nowadays, and like the exhibit I saw with Leonard—jars filled with paint. Paint from The White House, paint from all kinds of government buildings, and all the paint was off-white except for the paint from the Smithsonian building. The Smithsonian paint was a light pink color, and I said to Leonard: Is this a symbolic statement or what? But what was I saying? Oh, Malcolm. Ma
lcolm’s Masai. The Masai standing right behind the old couch Inez was always talking about and saying how she wanted to throw it out—the couch—and how instead, she wanted to buy a brand-new leather couch, and I kept telling Inez, no, not to. The couch, I told Inez, was an antique, unique, and, if she wanted my opinion, I said, I would throw out the rug. Do you remember the rug, Molly? I told Inez: Frankly, Inez, your rug is so faded, I can no longer tell if ever there was a pattern in it, and no wonder. No wonder, I said, with two kids roller-skating and skate-boarding all over the place. Two hyperactive kids, and poor Inez, she had her hands full with them. Inez could hardly ever leave the house without one of them breaking something or without one of them getting hurt or into some kind of trouble, and the people downstairs—no, not the playwright from Sri Lanka, another tenant—always complaining and telling Inez to tell those two kids to be quiet please, and to turn down the stereo—Price Junior and Matthew, and which one was the one who was nearly born in the car, Molly? I always got those two boys mixed up. To me, those two boys looked exactly alike. What do you call it when children are born so close together—Irish twins? My father and his brother were born exactly thirteen months apart, but I never met Uncle Denis—or if I did, I don’t remember him. Uncle Denis, Molly, died of leukemia when I was only three years old.”
Molly said, “Leukemia—and considering that no one writes letters any more, I have certainly managed to collect a lot of them—letters from Amy, letters from Suzanne in New Mexico, letters from Bibi, letters from Miss Mary—the artistic Miss Mary, not the Miss Mary who planted the vegetable garden—and a whole bunch of letters from my mother, to say nothing of all those old newspaper clippings Inez used to send me.”
I said, “The rug I was telling you about, Molly—I told Inez if only Sam had not been pickpocketed, the rug from Marrakesh would have fit perfectly in my apartment—oh, but what did you say? I never write letters any more, either—it’s easier to make a phone call. If I go away somewhere, I write a postcard. The funny thing is, half the time I am back from wherever I’ve been before the postcard arrives.”
Molly said, “I told you, didn’t I, Lily? I got a postcard from Alicia Thomas—a picture postcard of kittens.”
I said, “Leslie said she sent everyone a postcard from Managua, and I told Leslie I haven’t received her postcard yet, and I told Leslie wouldn’t it be a coincidence if her postcard arrived on her wedding day, on May twenty-sixth. No one, I told Leslie, has received her postcards yet. Not Malcolm, not Ivan and Nora, Inez didn’t either, as far as I know—I’m speaking of the day we played mahjong with her friend the playwright from downstairs and from Sri Lanka and the day Kevin was standing in the doorway stark naked shouting at us, and Inez said then she still had not heard a word from Leslie. Leslie said she sent one to Fiddle and Price and she said she sent one to Yuri all the way over in Paris, and one to you and Claude-Marie, Molly, and oh—one to Roberta, too. And you know what, Molly? Roberta said she had received Leslie’s postcard. Roberta said she received the postcard weeks ago—a postcard of a beach and of coconut trees. Do you believe her?”
Molly said, “Roberta? You must be joking, Lily.”
I said, “I told Leslie: Leslie, I am certain I haven’t received your postcard. Some things I remember, some things I just cannot forget. The only mail I’ve gotten recently is bills and oh, yes—I told you, Molly, that I received a letter saying how they were going to raise the rent ten percent and how they couldn’t help it.”
Molly said, “What did you say, Lily? Hello—I can hardly hear you. Some things I will never forget, either. I will never forget the cat, Lily, and I will never forget the plane crash. I have never seen so much smoke in my life. Claude-Marie actually had to turn the car around and drive back to Paris with his lights on.”
I said, “You’re right, Molly, some things are etched in my mind forever—Jason in the car with his tongue all chewed up, and the Moroccan man who threw the rock through our windshield.”
Molly said, “Oh! Oh, Lily! Guess what! I found it! I found the interview with Matisse! Here it is! Right here! Oh, I knew I would! Thank God! Now I can go to bed. Now I can go to sleep.”
I said, “Molly? Are you there—hello?”
Molly said, “Yes, yes—wait. I am looking at the interview again. Oh, God. Are you listening?”
I said, “Yes, yes, of course, I’m listening, Molly.”
Molly said, “Yes. First, I am rereading it to myself. I haven’t read this in such a long time. Oh, my God, I can’t believe this, this was over thirty years ago. Now, I know. Matisse died in 1954.”
I said, “In 1954? My mother—bless her heart—died in 1959, Molly. I was a freshman in college then. My father had to telephone me in the dormitory.”
Molly said, “Matisse, Lily?”
I said, “It was a pay phone—I’ll never forget—a pay phone upstairs in the hall of the dormitory, and another girl—a senior, I guess—was waiting for her boyfriend to call her, and she told me to make my phone call quick. Brief, she said. I’ll never forget this. The way she said this to me: Make it brief.”
Molly said, “But about Matisse, Lily.”
I said, “Funny what you remember, isn’t it? After I hung up the phone, I said to this girl, to the senior: Well, they just found my mother’s body off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard—was this brief enough for you?”
Molly said, “Oh, God, my God.”
I said, “What, Molly? Molly, what’s wrong?”
Molly said, “Nothing—it’s just that the interview with Matisse is different from how I remember it, Lily.”
I said, “Molly—different how? Hello?”
Molly said, “I don’t know—it’s hard to say exactly. I guess I was just learning—learning how to speak French then. I mean—and you know how all this time I thought Matisse was talking about his art—well, he wasn’t. He was just talking about—I don’t know, listen to this—wait. No.”
I said, “Molly, go ahead—read it, anyway. It doesn’t matter. Go ahead and read it.”
Molly said, “No. There is no point. Really, Lily. I swear it to you. Matisse was not saying anything profound, I assure you. I guess I forgot—he was pretty old by then. But how old was he, Lily? Well, I think, he was still painting a little, but he was confined to his wheel chair probably. Lily, this is too anecdotal—just listen to this, for instance—Matisse is telling the French-Canadian journalist exactly what he eats every morning for breakfast. Matisse says he has coffee with milk in it—hot milk, Lily—twice as much milk as coffee are the proportions Matisse gives. Matisse also says that he has a soft-boiled egg. Can you believe this? I swear this is true. I am translating the interview verbatim. According to Matisse, the soft-boiled egg has to be cooked three and a half minutes exactly if the egg is fresh. If the egg isn’t fresh, it has to be cooked four minutes, is what Matisse says. Oh, I can’t believe I forgot about this. Very frankly, Lily, I think I am tempted to throw all this junk away—the letters, the postcards, the newspaper clippings, all of it, the interview with Matisse included.”
I said, “Oh, Molly, don’t be too hasty. You never can tell. Maybe a biographer, someone writing a book about Matisse, might find the part about the three-minute boiled egg very significant. But what about the picture? Your picture? The photograph you took of Matisse with your Brownie camera?”
Molly said, “Oh—faded, it’s faded. It’s faded almost completely, Lily. Beyond recognition. I am not sure you could tell who it was unless you knew it was Matisse. You can just barely make out the white beard.”
I said, “It’s not on acid-free paper, that’s why.”
Molly said, “Matisse had very distinctive features, Lily. Matisse had a big nose. An aristocratic nose like what’s-his-name’s nose, the actor, and like the French count. The French count had a big nose, Lily.”
I said, “You should see Leonard’s nose, Molly. Leonard has a big nose. You’ve never met Leonard, have you, Molly? But what else does the interview with
Matisse say? Besides about the boiled egg.”
Molly said, “Something about what he thinks about us Americans—wait, let me read this again. Matisse is quoting something Picasso said—secondhand, Lily—actually what Gertrude Stein said Picasso once said: Ils sont pas des femmes. Ils sont pas des hommes. Ils sont des Américains. I remember this now, Lily, Matisse thought this was very funny, a real scream. Matisse laughed out loud. Oh, forget it. Then, I was probably more preoccupied with sleeping with the French-Canadian journalist and with worrying about whether my hair was curly enough. For God’s sake, Lily, let’s not forget, I was only eighteen at the time. I mean, I didn’t understand all that much French or everything Matisse said to us.”
I said, “Anyway, nothing is exactly the way you remember it, Molly. Did I tell you how I went back to visit the house I grew up in and how I was so disappointed? God, in a way, I wish I had never gone back. No. You should have seen the street, Molly. All the trees were gone. Chopped down, I guess. Lovely old oak trees. A real shame. The neighborhood, too, had changed completely. Gone completely downhill. The building Estelle Davidson had lived in, the building with the awning, for instance, that too, was gone, torn down probably.”
Molly said, “Yes, yes—and who was it who said: You can’t recreate the past, you can only invent it?”
I said, “Did Matisse say this in the interview, Molly? Did he? Because if Matisse said this in the interview, then I think the interview is worth keeping, Molly. Don’t throw away the interview, Molly.”
Molly said, “Yes, Lily.”
I said, “And who knows, too, maybe one day Bibi will read the interview and Bibi will be able to tell everyone about how her mother met Matisse and about what Matisse ate for breakfast.”
Molly said, “Do you think so, Lily? My God, speaking of breakfast! Oh, I think it’s stopping raining, Lily. Can you believe this?”
