Knock Wood

by Bergen, Candice

  It was followed, over a period of weeks, by lengthy dinners, concerts, evenings at the ballet. Even the opera, which, for one who had flunked it in college, was now a surprising pleasure. Yet many nights later, I was still wondering why he had called. Maybe he simply needed someone to talk to—for talk we did, often and late into the night, breaking occasionally for brandy. I was cautious, used to leapers, still not certain what he had in mind. The conversation was open, often intimate, but we kept a respectful distance and never touched. Neither of us was sure what the other wanted. And neither of us was much good at flirting, at mating dances, at making the first move.

  When Mary Ellen called, like a proud parent, to ask how things were going, I told her, “Well, the thing is—we’re just friends.” Just friends. Not a bad place to begin. And maybe it was something more. For when my friend director Nick Meyer told me of the first time he had met Louis, I felt a deep sense of pleasure, an unexpected surge of pride.

  It was at a birthday party in New York and the hostess asked Louis if he would cut the cake, which he quietly did, into completely unorthodox pieces: triangles, crescents, stars and squares. And when Nick, who watched, fascinated, asked if he had anything against the traditional pie-wedge shape, Louis replied simply, “But now everyone can choose the shape they want.”

  “And that was the man,” Nicky concluded gleefully, almost reverentially, “who made a comedy about incest!”

  And here I was, in our late-night conversations, invariably curled up in the overstuffed armchair opposite his place on the sofa. Never daring, never dreaming to sit next to him on the couch. It took Louis to close the chasm. To take the risk. One night, he asked me quietly, smiling softly, “Candy, can I hold you?” And I smiled and said emphatically, “Oh yes.”

  I felt like a small frightened animal who had spent its life curled up in the back of a cave snarling at intruders when, suddenly, someone turned on the light and said, “It’s okay, it’s safe—you can come out now.” And from then, everything was simple, and I thought, So this is the point. I understand. Now it all makes sense.

  I waited apprehensively for visits from my habitual demons, ready to club them in case they crept out to play. But they were conspicuous in their absence; and Louis—no stranger to demons himself—attested to the same strong sense of peace. The combination of two notorious long-shots seemed to confuse them, to throw them off the scent. Or perhaps through loving and understanding each other’s demons, we began to accept our own.

  In May, we went to Europe to spend ten days in Florence. What Louis hadn’t seen of the world as a cameraman in his early twenties for Jacques Cousteau, he had explored as a director since. We had both been compulsive travelers, and we had both done it the solitary way. So I wondered how it would work with the two of us. But we mined the museums and ravaged the restaurants of Florence ecstatically, and soon I asked myself how I’d done it so long alone. There we celebrated my thirty-fourth birthday. I have never been so glad at growing older.

  Louis’ children were coming for the summer, which we decided to spend on Long Island; we drove out and chose a house near the beach. Here comes the catch, I thought; this has all gone too smoothly. What will it be like to meet his kids? I was concerned but oddly confident—oddly confident about everything of late. There was also the particular way in which he spoke of them: some special sense of gratitude, an overwhelming love. They had helped to shape the man I wanted to spend my life with; I was grateful to them too.

  He had been perfectly prepared not to have children, he said; he had not been especially interested. “But they changed my life,” he said simply. “The parents are the ones who get everything; children are a gift you give yourself. I began to look at the world through their eyes, to see things differently. It’s fascinating to see their instinctive approach to relationships, their perception of the world. It’s very sad for me not to live with them; my happiest experiences have been with my kids.”

  His children arrived and I came to the house some days later, after they had settled in. I arrived at night and Louis led me upstairs. The door to the kids’ room was open; they were asleep inside. His daughter was nearest the door, soundly sleeping, long, dark hair swirling around her head. Louis covered her gently, caressing her; I saw that he was very close to tears.

  They were children accustomed to changes—new faces, new places—but how would they take to me? We were introduced across muffins in the morning. They watched me without speaking, silently sniffing the wind, circling me like cats, their circles slowly growing smaller, tighter—until, by the end of the day, we had begun to be friends.

  They were wonderful kids, Justine and Cuote. It was hard to believe—even his kids were great—and I had never felt happier, fuller times than those we spent that summer: reading Doctor Seuss, seeing Superman, composing notes to the Tooth Fairy, picking strawberries, catching crabs. We searched for days for fireflies with absolutely no success until one night I went out alone to hunt them and found one—the last firefly on Long Island—and rushed upstairs to their bedroom with it cupped and winking in my hands.

  Louis was at his best with them—gay, exuberant, switching back and forth from English to French, “Where are those little idiots? Où sont les petits crétins?”; “Je t’ai vu, eh, Justine; I saw you,” as she tried to sneak a cookie. “Exquisite children,” he muttered happily, as they ran in covered with jam.

  On the beach, Louis is building a sand castle with his kids. Half of him is hidden—he has all but disappeared while digging out the moat. A friend from France is passing, walking storklike by the shore. Tall, sleek, impeccably bronzed, a Cartier watch and bracelet the only accessories to his tiny black bikini. He spots Louis when he surfaces for air and stops to chat, staring down at the three figures crawling round the castle. Clutching a pack of Gauloises and smoking one dispassionately, he peppers Louis with questions: When will he next be in Paris? Is he planning another film? When will Atlantic City be released?

  But Louis is a man at work. Anyone can see he is busy—building a sand castle with his kids. He has no time for chic small talk, no interest in précis of future projects; has far more pressing matters on his mind: a part of the wall has washed away and the bridge has collapsed and requires urgent feats of engineering. Nonplused, the man from France moves on. Louis is working furiously to reinforce the wall, repair the bridge and steady the tilting turret. Scrambling happily with his kids on hands and knees, his trim athletic body in constant motion, an ecstatic expression on his face, he seems much more a child than a parent. A man, for the moment, completely at peace.

  It was an idyllic summer, and one night in the midst of it, after the kids had gone to bed, Louis and I were sitting quietly outside listening to the night sounds. Suddenly he said, “If I asked you very politely, would you marry me?”

  He hardly had time to finish the question. Marry him indeed.

  We were married in the southwest of France in a country house he’d owned for fifteen years. Though Louis had by then lived for five years in America and knew the country and its people better than I, this corner of France was the place where he felt most at home.

  The house was called Le Coual—“the raven’s cry”—and looked out over miles of rocky highlands that rolled to the horizon like the sea. It was an extraordinary house, one of the oldest in the area, medieval in style and mysterious in aspect, built of buff-colored stone. To live in a house with such a long past gave faith in the future; it seemed like a favorable place to begin our own. We decided to be married at the end of September by the mayor of the tiny village nearby.

  We wanted the wedding to be private, personal and unpretentious; we asked Pat to do her best to keep it from the press. It was important for the kids to be there, and a few friends from Paris. We asked Mary Ellen—who had known years before anyone—if she would come from New York and be my witness.

  France was far for my family: my brother was in college in San Diego and I knew he couldn’t take the ti
me off from school. But, though the trip was long and the date set at the last minute, I hoped that my mother could come. Unlike many mothers who urged their daughters into early marriage, mine had shown uncommon restraint—especially when, after thirty-three years, there had been no sign of my even coming close. She was entitled to despondence but was philosophical instead: she simply assumed it would take time to find the right man. Now that I had, I wanted her to be there.

  “You mean my little girl is getting married?” she asked when I called her, my thirty-four years suddenly shrinking in size. She laughed lightly at her maternal reaction, her voice warm, clearly moved. “Oh, you don’t want me there,” she tossed off easily.

  “Yes, I do, Mom. Please try to come.”

  “Well, I think I will—just to be there for ‘your day.’ Then I’ll leave right afterward for London. I’m not going to be that kind of mother-in-law.”

  The morning of the wedding the weather was splendid—an auspicious sign in that part of France. Bad weather would have brought bad luck, but that day, as it was, we were blessed. Friends from America—Kitty, Ali, Rusty, John Galley, Mike Nichols—called to wish us well.

  We’d brought the kids and Mary Ellen with us on the train from Paris, and a few more close friends followed that morning by car—Louis’ brother Vincent, who would be Louis’ witness; producer Christian Ferry and his wife Basha; and Terence Malick. David Lazer, a family friend, flew in from London. My mother had arrived the evening before and had spent the night in town an hour away; she would come by car in the morning. The wedding was arranged for eleven.

  Everyone was ready early: Louis wore a tie and fawn-colored jacket, and in Paris I had found a Victorian dress of ivory silk and antique lace. Mary Ellen was hung with Nikons and Leicas—recording the day, her prescience rewarded. The scene was set: Neighbors had looped the cars with pink and white ribbons, and wild cedar trees had been cut, trimmed with pastel paper flowers and placed at each side of the drive.

  We waited outside for my mother to arrive and soon heard the sound of a car crunching slowly on gravel. A blue BMW pulled into view. My mother was in the passenger seat—but who was that driving? I squinted to see if it was anyone I knew. My mother got out first, and then the driver. A tall, blond man; I could see him now, but, before I could make out the face, I saw there was something familiar about the body—an easy grace, the athletic swing of the arms. The big blond head was bobbing toward me, and then I saw the eyes and the smile. I burst into tears as I hugged my brother. “Oh, pal,” I gasped as I squeezed him. “I can’t believe you came—oh, pal.”

  He explained that he had torn a tendon in football and was sidelined for the season (he hadn’t wanted to worry me by telling me before now) and suddenly he thought that he should be there for his sister’s wedding. How many times would I marry again? He arranged the trip, my mother approved it, and two days later, still limping from his injury, here he was in France. He had given me the happiest surprise of my life.

  My mother and I held each other tightly. Then she handed me a linen handkerchief embroidered by my father’s mother and an ice-blue satin garter, and slipped her diamond engagement ring on my finger “to borrow.” She was tired from travel, but I’d never seen her look happier and I’d never loved her more.

  We climbed into the cars streaming ribbons and drove up the hill to the village. All the local people had been invited and were waiting, dressed in Sunday suits, in the little square as we arrived.

  It is a rural farming region, and on the high rugged terrain the people earn what they need but no more. Theirs is still a world of manners, of Monsieur and Madame and courteous greetings, and they were clearly pleased that Louis—a man who moves in so much of the world—had chosen, of all the spots on its surface, to celebrate his marriage in this remote corner of France.

  They had decorated the small, spare town hall, transformed it for the occasion: The traditional cedars stood on each side of the entrance, and inside, the room had been painted a pale butter-yellow. Oriental rugs carpeted the floor and the corners spilled with flowering plants. French and American flags had been crossed on the walls and over the mantel and over the portrait of Giscard d’Estaing.

  The mayor, who rode his tractor in overalls, was dressed now in a suit, old but immaculate, slashed with the official red, white and blue bandeau of France. A gentle-faced man, he had worked hard on his prepared remarks and his speech was eloquent and moving. He spoke of the affection the people have for Louis—for his kindness and simplicity—and of their pride in him; of “those two great nations—the United States and France”—and “their historical alliance which has so benefited our country in the past and which is to benefit us here again today.”

  He read the marital contract, still in the original Napoleonic code; Louis and I signed the documents, Mary Ellen and Vincent witnessed, we kissed, my mother wept, the villagers waved their flags and cheered, and we all surged into the sunlight into a shower of rice.

  At the restaurant next door, its walls studded with stuffed boars’ heads, we had a champagne reception for the people of the village, then went back to the house with friends and family for lunch in the garden under the trees. At the end of the day, old Nanette, the noble donkey, was hitched up to the yellow cart, and the bride and groom went for an afternoon spin.

  By evening, almost everyone had gone. My mother, true to her word, flew back to London, and my brother set off on his two-day trip back to school. I will always be grateful that they had gone to such lengths to be there.

  That night, in the last light of evening, Louis and I walked outside in the cool silence surrounding the house and stared out at the night as the sky turned violet and the stars grew bright. I had never imagined it was possible to be so happy, to feel so sure-footed and at peace.

  It is easy to explain what goes wrong with people; difficult, maybe dangerous, to explain what goes right, why we blended so easily into each other’s lives. Louis sold his apartment and moved his things into mine. Cartons arrived crammed with clothing, china, a Cuisinart, crystal, books. Gee, I thought, he wasn’t kidding. This is serious; he’s really moving in. Even our tastes were compatible, and we combined our Indian miniatures, Asian and African art, Tibetan mandalas and kilim rugs.

  “Do you feel like I’m invading?” he asked, smiling but concerned. I just hugged him. I’d been waiting for this invasion all my life.

  We even combined our friends. Though we shared many to begin with, we soon felt friends with those new ones we met. I presented mine proudly—my friends were my dowry and I considered them my real wealth. Louis respected the closeness of these friendships and saw their importance in my life; and my friends all agreed on Louis. First they were prepared to love him for making me so happy. But quickly they came to love Louis himself. One night, at a small dinner she gave to celebrate our marriage, Kitty Hawks phrased it simply and gracefully in a toast, lifting her glass to Louis and saying, “Thank you for bringing our Bergen such happiness; you are a wonderful addition to our lives.”

  And so we settled in. Once compulsive travelers, we now preferred staying home. Two people accustomed to spending time alone, we lived together like two cats, making room, giving way—intimate but respectful of each other’s privacy.

  Before we met, I would have given anything to work with Louis. But if working apart is tough, working together, we decided early on, would be tougher. There’s tension enough in making movies; having it spill over into our lives seems an unnecessary risk. Still, Louis is one of the directors actors most want to work with, one of those rare perfectionists who puts actors’ needs paramount. Professional, sure of himself, confident in his craft, he leads actors beyond their limits, encourages them to exceed their abilities.

  I first watched Louis work in Virginia, on My Dinner with André, and then in California. No one works harder on a set, and I love to watch him—eyes squeezed shut in concentration, furiously chewing gum in order not to smoke, darting around in his silver
-striped “Miss Piggy” sneakers, never remaining in one place. I wonder what he tells the actors in their huddles; I watch them as they nod appreciatively, grateful for the silence he keeps for their sake on the set. I watch the casual California crews curse him for his energy, the fierce focus of this foreigner, and I grin as he surprises them with unexpected choices. “If it’s sunny, we’ll shoot indoors.” Different ways to cut the cake.

  In our lives as well, we cut the cake in different ways. We help each other, complete each other, and, while we are involved in each other’s careers—discussing our work together, encouraging each other, making suggestions—it is this marriage, which Louis refers to as “a work in progress,” that matters most.

  “This is as good as it gets,” I warned Louis early in our relationship, in case he thought he had only scratched the surface. “It doesn’t get any better; you are getting the best of me. What you are seeing is not the tip of the iceberg—it is the iceberg. It all goes downhill from here.”

  Maybe not. Four years later, it only gets better, and sometimes I see glimpses of the woman I had always hoped I might be. I used to believe that marriage would diminish me, reduce my options. That you had to be someone less to live with someone else when, of course, you have to be someone more. In marriage with this man, my options have only expanded. Everything about my life has been enhanced and enriched. I used to think that when you got married your life was over, but I feel like mine has just begun.

  With a new set of choices, I straddle the fence, edgy, looking anxiously at my watch: If I decide I want children of my own, it’s getting late in the game. The question spins constantly in my mind. My husband gives me the lead in this decision; he has two children. The choice, it seems, is mine.

  I think of the love I feel for Louis’ kids. I watch them now watching television; a war movie, something with John Wayne. Cuote is riveted; John Wayne is his hero and he is one with the man on the screen. His sister is riveted by her brother and persists in kissing him and cooing, “Mon petit chéri.” Finally she goes too far; his manhood is offended, and Cuote, usually polite, soft-spoken, turns to her and screams, “Justine, stop it! This is an adventure film! This is no time to call me mon petit chéri!” She sits back, chastised, but flashes me a sneaky grin.