Let the Dark Flower Blossom (28 page)

He refilled his glass.

“Don't be kind to me,” she said.

“Don't pity me,” she said.

“I can't stand it,” she said. “When men are kind.”

She stood—uncertain—and then steadied herself.

“You don't know a thing about me,” she said.

It was not an accusation.

It was only a weary statement of fact.

She stood behind him.

Inj touched his shoulder.

She leaned close.

Her hair brushed his cheek.

She whispered—

Louis Sarasine looked out at the ocean. He saw two girls running into the water.

“Don't you see?” Inj said. “You might have dreamed this. I practically don't exist.”

Louis said, “One sees a girl—and immediately wants to tell a story.”

Susu told him that he had better go. He kissed her on the forehead, and said, “Godnight.”

At dinner that night they sat, the foursome, around the wooden table in the kitchen.

The fare was simple: cassoulet, with dark bread and butter. Green plates, chipped cups, mismatched knives and forks; winter squash, blackberry preserves, and a rustic almost brusque bottle of burgundy, still dusty from the cellar.

Beatrice lighted the candles.

Inj watched Salt.

Schell sat at the head of the table.

He filled the wineglasses.

He said a toast to the travelers.

It was New Year's Eve.

They raised their glasses.

To the life of the mind.

Life, well, that was
something
wasn't it?

They ate and drank.

They spoke of such things as places and birds.

They talked of poetry and the Trojan War.

Of which god did what to whom.

And which king killed which king.

Salt, when he had eaten his fill, pushed his plate away—

He said, “Mr. Schell, you know, for the longest time I didn't believe that you were real.”

Inj smiled. Like the last girl in the world.

And she rose to help Beatrice clear the table.

Outside the snow fell and fell. It was night. And there was nothing like it. Like night. Like being on an island at night during a snowstorm. Like being in a stone cottage in a kitchen, with a fire burning in the stove and the melting-down sweetness of waxing candles, and a black cat, though a bit ferocious, lurking in the warmth, and a spotted dog sleeping on a woven rug; while girls set cups upon saucers, men talked about the past; while the wind banged against the windows, and waves on the lake rolled up and crashed down. Still, one felt very safe, at the table waiting and awaiting coffee and cake and talking of the past, the past, great fallen Babylon; so it was hard to imagine that the house itself was no more than the fragile shell of an egg.

Over a late supper one year or was it an early breakfast in the next? in a bustling diner amid drunken chatter, they fell upon their food
(for her: Adam & Eve on a raft; for him: Burn one, take it through the garden, and pin a rose on it), famished. A jukebox was playing. A girl cried. A glass smashed to the floor. And then the plates were taken from their table by the overburdened waitress who left the man and the lady for a long time to their own devices and then perhaps repenting this inattention brought to them without prompting a banana split so improbable that Eloise felt dizzy with sweetness even as the bowl was placed on the table with two spoons and she couldn't say why the story of her life had taken such an odd turn and she didn't know what the author had next in store for her. She didn't know what was going to happen next as she looked at Zigouiller across the table, and he added cream to his coffee and reached with his spoon into the chocolate and cherries, and he said, “When are you going to leave your husband?”

It is a species of unkindness not to wait for those who are slow. It is a kind of cruelty not to care for those who are weak. There are things worse than anger. The poet says we cannot fall out of the world. We are in it once and for all.

“Let's leave tonight,” said Zigouiller.

Susu was happy after he left. And sad too.

Susu was thinking about the starfish, the hermit crab, the whale's backbone.

Eloise was thinking about gold and silver, ivory, apes, and peacocks.

Salt said that he knew that it was late—

What could time mean to them?

Schell looked at Salt across the table.

“Can I have it?” said Salt.

Schell wanted to hate Salt.

He didn't hate him. Nor even did he envy him. He did not envy Salt's youth, his hope, or his ambition. He had only a sense of all the things in the world that were Salt's to lose.

“Don't you have one more question?” Schell asked.

And Salt said, “Is it too late?”

Reality is never paper or scissors.

It is always rock.

It is a boulder.

Salt's glasses caught the candlelight.

So it was hard to see that his dark eyes glittered too.

Inj rested her face in her hands.

Beatrice refilled Inj's glass.

Is the coffee ready yet?

Schell looked at Salt.

Susu looked just like her mother.

The night was cold. The car was hot. Zigouiller was driving. Eloise pushed back the collar of her coat. She placed her cheek against the window. Then felt a slight revulsion and pulled away. She stared out the window. And for a moment, she mistook the shadow of her equipage for blackbirds in the snow.

Schell was thinking about the girl in the snow.

Olga told the boys that they could stay up to watch one year fall to the next, but Chester and Jules fell asleep in their pajamas in front of the television.

Dibby was typing.

Susu was becoming less and less real.

Schell wasn't sure that there had ever been a girl in the snow.

Zigouiller took the key from Eloise's hand, and he unlocked the door.

What happened to that girl in the snow?

Is Eloise going to leave her husband? Is that how her story is to go?

Eris loved disorder.

Susu saw that he had left an envelope on the night table.

Aren't the roasted potatoes wonderful?

With fennel? Is that right?

Have you ever had anything so wonderful?

Is there dessert?

Beatrice refilled Inj's glass.

Inj had had too much wine.

There was talk of fate and destiny.

Of whether God was a watchmaker.

Or God liked to watch.

Inj pushed her hair from her face.

The time had come.

To speak of aqueducts and starfish.

Of cabbages and kings.

And who did what to whom.

And why?

Waves rose up and crashed down.

Salt said that he was ready—

He asked Schell if he could see it.

It?

Schell rose from his chair.

He left the room.

He came back with the manuscript.

And he set it on the table.

Salt drank.

At home. Amid the chaos. Lipstick, stockings.

Eris reached into her bag.

She opened her closed palm.

Susu looked at the envelope.

Schell wanted to reach out and grab the manuscript back.

It wasn't finished.

“What's this?” said Salt.

A spider crept along the diamond tile.

Susu found her scissors.

Inj turned to Ben.

The envelope was sealed, and written upon in a ghost hand. That's what people say isn't it? A ghost hand?

Susu took the scissors and she cut off her long dark hair.

Of all the gods nailed to the cross, Discord was the most beautiful.

“The story,” said Schell. “That you came here for. Here it is.”

Salt said, “I didn't come here for a story. I came here for the typewriter.”

“The typewriter?” said Schell.

“The typewriter. I collect them,” said Salt. “Haven't you read my book?” he asked.

“Of course not,” said Schell.

Beatrice burst out laughing.

It began to snow.

Eloise held her wineglass in such a languorous manner that Zigouiller touched her face and said, “In the room the women come and go talking of Joe DiMaggio.”

Here Comes Everyone
is the story of a young writer named Benjamin Salt who collects the typewriters upon which his favorite novels had been written.

Babylon Must Fall
is a love story.

S. Z. Schell preferred tragedy to comedy.

“My typewriter? I don't have a typewriter,” said Schell. “I haven't had one for years.”

Inj owed everyone an explanation.

Eloise said, “Do you want to hear a story?”

Susu knew that all the poetry in the world would not save her.

Inj said, “The truth is—”

Save her from what?

Eris opened her palm to reveal an ink pen.

Louis Sarasine, his fork in the chocolate cake, said, “The truth is—”

The truth is a knot of green string.

Susu packed her suitcase.

“My client killed those girls,” said Louis Sarasine. “He knew it. And I knew it. But the truth was and is irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was how I told his story.”

Inj turned to Schell.

She said, “I sent you the letters.”

And she turned to Salt.

She said, “Benny, I told you that he wanted to give you the typewriter.”

Then she picked up her glass, and she drank.

But why?

“Jesus,” Inj said. “You
writers
. You act as though you've never heard of a plot twist.”

Eloise said that she knew a story so terrible the telling of it might curse the two of them forever.

“Tell me,” said Zigouiller.

The manuscript sat on the table.

It was a symbol, after all.

And one could have used a different word than
manuscript
.

Such as
stone
or
shell
or
bird
or
cat
or
corpse
or
chair
or
peppermint
or
paper
.

Somewhere between
ink
and
ether
.

Between
shoe
and
sock
.