The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2

by Douglas Kennedy

  “You have been drinking,” she said.

  “My, my, you are très perspicace.”

  “No, I just know a drunken man when I see one.”

  “You want a written confession?”

  “It is not a crime, you know. In fact, I approve of a man who drinks. Especially one who drinks to soften the past.”

  “Booze doesn’t soften the past. It just blots it out . . . until the next morning. Nothing softens over time. Nothing.”

  “That’s a very Manichean way of looking at the world.”

  “No—it’s a very Manichean way of looking at oneself.”

  “You don’t like yourself very much, do you?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  She smiled an amused smile—her eyes brimming with mischief. And I suddenly wanted to sleep with her.

  “Who am I? I am a woman standing on a balcony in the Sixth arrondissement, looking out at the Panthéon, while talking to an American who has clearly lost his way in life.”

  “May I kiss the hem of your shmatte, Dr. Freud?”

  She lit up a fresh cigarette, then said, “Shmatte. Yiddish. Are you Jewish?”

  “My mother was.”

  “Then that makes you Jewish. The mother carries the religion and passes it on—”

  “Like the clap.”

  “And the other part of you?” she asked.

  “Dreary Midwestern Congregationalist.”

  “So you considered your father a dull man?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “You seem willing to answer them.”

  “I don’t talk much about myself.”

  “All Americans talk about themselves. It’s how they give themselves an identity.”

  “What an original thought.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “So let me guess: you’re a professor of semiotics at the Sorbonne who has written a doctoral thesis on Symbolic Nuance in American Cultural Life . . .”

  “No,” she said, “but I’m certain your doctoral thesis wasn’t far off that title.”

  “How did you know I was a professor?”

  “Just a hunch. And your field is . . .?”

  “Was film studies. I no longer teach.”

  “You lost your job?”

  “Have we met before? Or do you have a file on me?”

  Another smile.

  “No to both questions. I’m just ‘bullshitting around,’ as they say in your country.”

  “And what’s the word for bullshit in your country?”

  “Two words: buta beszéd.”

  “You’re Eastern European?”

  “Bravo. Hungarian.”

  “But your French . . . it is perfect.”

  “If you have not been born French, your French is never perfect. But after fifty years in Paris, it is serviceable.”

  “Fifty years? You must have been a baby when you arrived here.”

  “Flattery is always pleasant . . . and utterly transparent. I was seven years old when I arrived here in 1957 . . . and now I have given away a vital piece of information: my age.”

  “You look wonderful on it.”

  “Now we move from flippant flattery to absurd flattery.”

  “Do you have a problem with that?” I asked.

  She let two of her fingers touch the top of my hand.

  “Not at all,” she said.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “I do.”

  “And it is . . .?”

  “Margit,” she said, pronouncing it Mar-geet.

  “A last name?”

  “Kadar.”

  “Margit Kadar,” I said, trying it out. “Wasn’t there some Hungarian bigwig named Kadar?”

  “Yes,” she said, “the Communist stooge whom the Soviets put in place to control us. We are not related.”

  “So Kadar is a pretty common name in Hungary?”

  “Not particularly. Do you have a name?”

  “You’re still trying to change the subject.”

  “We’ll get back to me. But not until I know your name.”

  I told her, then added, “And the H in Harry is not dropped, as every French person does it here.”

  “So you don’t like being called ’Arry. But you do speak very impressive French.”

  “Impressive because I’m American . . . and everyone assumes that all Americans are ignorant and unworldly?”

  “ ‘All clichés are fundamentally true.’ ”

  “George Orwell?”

  “Bravo. He was a very popular writer in Hungary, Mr. Orwell.”

  “You mean, during the Communist years?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “But if you left in ’57, you must have escaped all that Stalinist stuff.”

  “Not exactly,” she said, drawing deeply on her cigarette.

  “By which you mean . . .?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Her tone was quiet, but sharp. A hint that she didn’t want to continue this line of questioning. So I dropped it and said, “The only Hungarian joke I know comes from Billy Wilder. He said, ‘A Hungarian is the only person in the world who can enter a revolving door behind you and come out first.’ ”

  “So you really are a professor of film studies.”

  “Was.”

  “And let me guess—you are trying to be a novelist . . . like half the people at this absurd salon.”

  “Yes, I’m a would-be writer.”

  “Why call yourself that?”

  “Because I haven’t published anything yet.”

  “Do you write most days of the week?”

  “Every day.”

  “Then you are a writer. Because you write. You actually do it. Which separates the true artist from the poseur.”

  I put my hand on top of hers—briefly, but tellingly.

  “Thank you for that.”

  She shrugged.

  “Now I’m certain you’re no would-be artist,” I said, changing the subject.

  “True. I’m not a would-be artist because I am not an artist. I am a translator.”

  “French into Hungarian?”

  “Yes, and Hungarian into French.”

  “Does it keep you busy?”

  “I get by. Back in the seventies and eighties, there was plenty of work . . . especially as the French couldn’t get enough of modern Hungarian authors . . . and yes, that probably sounds comic . . . but one of the few things I have always respected about this society is their cultural curiosity.”

  “ ‘One of the few things’ . . .?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “So you don’t like it here.”

  “Now I didn’t say that. I just said—”

  “I know what you said. But that hints at a deep antipathy toward this place.”

  “Not antipathy. Ambivalence. And what is wrong with feeling ambivalent toward a country, a spouse, your work, even a good friend?”

  “Are you married?”

  “Now, Harry—think carefully. If I was married, would I be wasting my time at this salon?”

  “Well, if you were unhappily married . . .”

  “I’d simply have a lover.”

  “Do you have a lover?”

  “I might . . . if he plays his cards right.”

  I felt myself tighten. I met her smile and put my hand back on top of hers. She immediately pulled hers away.

  “What makes you think I was talking about you?”

  “Pure arrogance.”

  “Nice reply,” she said, and now put her hand on top of mine.

  “So you definitely don’t have a husband?”

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  “Idle curiosity.”

  “I had a husband.”

  “What happened?”

  “That’s a somewhat involved story.”

  “Children?”

  “I had a daughter.”

  “I see.”

  “No,” sh
e said. “You don’t see. No one can ever see that.”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to . . .”

  She put a finger to my lips. I kissed the finger. Several times. But when I started moving down her hand, she gently pushed me away.

  “Not yet,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

  “OK,” I whispered back.

  “So when did your wife divorce you?”

  “Talk about a mood-breaking question . . .”

  “You asked if I had a husband, a child. I think that gives me the right to ask you . . .”

  “She left me a few months ago. The divorce is in the works.”

  “And you have how many children?”

  “How do you know that I have kids?”

  “It’s the way you looked at me when you found out that I had lost my daughter. I knew immediately that you were a father.”

  “You never get over it, do you?” I asked.

  “Never,” she whispered.

  Then she turned and pulled me toward her. Within an instant, we were all over each other. I had my thigh between her legs, and my hand on one buttock as she unbuttoned my shirt and grabbed my chest. We fell up against the wall. Her free hand was now up against my crotch, my penis so hard it strained against the zip of my pants. But when I moved my hand up her dress, she suddenly disengaged, her hands dropping to one side as she sidestepped away from me.

  “Not here,” she whispered.

  I came close again and gently kissed her on the lips, my hands away from her, even though I so wanted to hold her again.

  “Then where?” I asked.

  “I live nearby . . . but not tonight.”

  “Don’t tell me you have another appointment?”

  “Just things to do.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was just nine thirty.

  “I wouldn’t have been able to do tonight anyway. I go to work at midnight.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m a night watchman.”

  “I see,” she said, reaching into her purse for another cigarette.

  “It’s just to pay some bills.”

  “Well, I didn’t think you did it for intellectual stimulation. What exactly are you watching over?”

  “A fur warehouse,” I said, knowing that there was one around the corner from me on the rue du Faubourg Poissonnière.

  “And how did you land such an unusual post?”

  “That’s a long story.”

  “They always are,” she said, igniting the cigarette with a small, old-fashioned lighter. “Where do you live?”

  “The Tenth.”

  “Some bobo loft on the canal Saint-Martin?”

  “If I’m doing a night watchman’s job . . .”

  “And if you are guarding a furrier’s, then it must be somewhere near the rue des Petites Écuries.”

  “That’s the rue running parallel to my own.”

  “Rue de Paradis?”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “After forty-five years of nonstop residence in a city, you don’t simply know . . . you start to haunt it.”

  “Or it haunts you?”

  “Precisely. Do you have a ligne fixe?”

  “No.”

  “So you live in a chambre de bonne?”

  “You are a quick study.”

  “If you don’t have a ligne fixe, you are generally hard up. But everyone has a portable these days.”

  “Except me.”

  “And me.”

  “A fellow Luddite?”

  “I simply don’t see the need to be contactable at all times. But if you do want to contact me . . .”

  She reached into her purse, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. It read:

  Margit Kadar

  Traductrice

  13 rue Linné

  75005 Paris

  01.43.44.55.21

  “Mornings are bad for me,” she said. “I sleep until the middle of the afternoon. Any time after five PM is good. Like you, I start work at midnight.”

  “It’s the best time of the day to write, n’est-ce pas?”

  “You write, I translate. And you know what they say about translation: it’s about rendering morning words into evening words.”

  “I will call,” I said.

  “I look forward to it.”

  I leaned forward, wanting to kiss her again. But she put a hand up between us.

  “À bientôt . . .” she said.

  “À bientôt.”

  And she turned and walked back inside.

  I stood on the balcony alone for a long time, oblivious to the night air, the gusting wind, still lost in the strange and extraordinary encounter that had just taken place. I tried to remember a previous time in my life when I’d met a woman and was locked in a crazed embrace with her only a few minutes after first saying hello. I knew the answer to that question: this was a first for me. In the past, the sex always arrived a few dates afterward. I was never someone who could ever make a bold move. Too cautious, too circumspect. Until . . .

  No, don’t bring that up again. Not tonight. Not after what just transpired.

  Montgomery suddenly walked onto the balcony.

  “Hiding out here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We do like our guests to mingle, you know.”

  “I was talking with someone out here,” I said, hating myself for being defensive. “She just left.”

  “I saw no one leave.”

  “Do you watch every corner of the apartment?”

  “Absolutely. Coming back inside?”

  “I have to go.”

  “So soon?”

  “That’s right.”

  He noticed the card in my hand.

  “Meet someone nice?” he asked.

  I immediately slipped Margit’s card into the pocket of my shirt.

  “Maybe.”

  “You must say good-bye to Madame before you go.”

  That wasn’t a request, but a directive.

  “Lead the way.”

  Madame was standing in front of one of her nude triptychs—with arms of war sprouting out of her vagina, only to be enveloped by Eden-like flora and fauna. It was beyond stupid. She was holding an empty glass and looked decidedly tipsy . . . not that I was one to talk.

  “Mr. Ricks must leave us,” Montgomery said.

  “Mais la nuit ne fait que commencer,” she said, and started to giggle.

  “I write at night, so . . .”

  “Dedication to one’s art. It is so admirable, isn’t it, Montgomery?”

  “So admirable,” he said tonelessly.

  “Well, hon, I hope you had a fabulous time.”

  “Yeah, fabulous,” I said.

  “And remember: if you need company on a Sunday night, we’re always here.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “And I just can’t wait to read that book of yours.”

  “Nor can I.”

  “Monty, he’s so witty! We must have him back.”

  “Yes, we must.”

  “And, hon,” she said, pulling me close to her, “I can tell you’re a real lady-killer, a total dragueur.”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, please. You’ve got that vulnerable-lonely-artist thing going, which women just love.”

  As she said that, I could feel her fleshy fingers slide into mine.

  “You lonely, hon?”

  I gently disengaged my hand from hers. I said, “Thank you again for a very interesting evening.”

  “You’ve got someone, don’t you?” she asked, sounding sour.

  I thought of the card in my breast pocket.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think I do.”

  TEN

  LATER THAT NIGHT, as I sat at my desk and tried to work, my brain kept replaying that scene on the balcony. Margit’s face continued to fill my mind’s eye. Six hours after our embrace, I could still discern the musky scent she w
ore, as it had adhered itself to my clothes, my hands, my face. Her taste was still in my mouth. Her low husky voice continued to reverberate in my ear.

  I must have looked at her card a dozen times that night. I wrote down her phone number in a notebook and on a pad I kept on the desk, just in case the card was misplaced. I tried to grind my way through my new quota of one thousand words. I failed. I was too distracted, too smitten.

  The hours dragged by. I was desperate to leave this room early and walk the streets and try to clear my head. But if I did leave here before the specified time . . .

  Blah, blah, blah. I knew all the old arguments, and knew that I’d play the good employee and stay put until 6:00 AM arrived. And then . . .

  Then I would call her and tell her that I couldn’t wait until 5:00 PM tomorrow; that I had to see her now. And I’d hop in a cab over to 13 rue Linné and . . .

  Completely blow this affair before it has started.

  A little detached cool is demanded here, mon pôte.

  So when I woke up at two that afternoon, I picked up my wages and ate steak-frites at a little café near the Gare de l’Est, and then took an extended midevening stroll along the canal Saint-Martin, and caught a 9:30 screening of Chabrol’s La Femme infidèle at the Brady (they were doing a mini-festival of his films), and walked to my job, thinking at length about Chabrol’s complex morality tale. The story is an old one: a husband discovers his wife’s infidelity. He confronts and kills her lover, at which point . . .

  But here’s where Chabrol pulls a very interesting rabbit out of the hat. Upon discovering that her husband has murdered her amant, the wife doesn’t become hysterical and hypermoralistic. Nor does she turn him over to the cops. Rather, the couple become collaborators in the crime—the notion being that, in any intimate relationship (especially one that has lasted many years), we are always complicit with the other person. And once the frontier of sexuality is crossed, we are, in some ways, hostages to fortune. You can compartmentalize, you can tell yourself that you know the person with whom you are sleeping is rational and playing on the same page as you . . . and then you discover one of life’s great truisms: you can never really know the landscape of somebody else’s mind.

  But how desperate I was to cross that frontier with Margit.