The Women (35 page)
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, taking up one of the tools on his desk—a triangle, was that what it was?—and turning it over in his hand. “It’s quite beautiful. The French especially. You recite so, so evocatively.” He set down the triangle, took up something else now—a T-square. “I’m more of an Emerson man myself. Longfellow. Carl Sandburg—he’s a personal friend. Terrific man. Great soul.”
And now he was reciting for her, his face lit with the pleasure of it, the music of him,
his eyes:
“ ‘You will come one day in a waver of love, / Tender as dew, impetuous as rain, / The tan of the sun will be on your skin, / The purr of the breeze in your murmuring speech.’ ”
his eyes:
“ ‘You will come one day in a waver of love, / Tender as dew, impetuous as rain, / The tan of the sun will be on your skin, / The purr of the breeze in your murmuring speech.’ ”
She sat perfectly still a moment, letting his words resonate till they were alive inside her, till she felt them like a rhythmic pulse that beat along with her own. “Magnificent,” she said. “Bravo! You recite so exquisitely I would have thought you an actor. And your voice—”
His smile showed the perfection of his teeth. He tapped one hand on the glowing surface of the desk as if to keep measure with the lines still flowing in his head. “It’s the poet,” he said. “Give Carl the credit. Speaking of poets, would you happen to know of Taliesin, by the way? Has he come into your purview over there in Paris?”
He hadn’t. She’d never heard of him. She composed her face, all seriousness and a bright eagerness to know. “Is he Italian?”
“No, no, no: I’m talking of the legendary Welsh bard and shape-shifter, the man whose face was so beautiful it was said to radiate light.
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Richard Hovey—do you know Richard Hovey? He wrote a masque called ‘Taliesin’ some years back? No? First-rate. I think you’d appreciate it. Very delicate and deep. Like you.” He paused, as if he’d gone too far, his eyes dodging away from hers for just an instant. “Well, anyway, I’ve named my house after Taliesin—my estate, that is. In Wisconsin. After the poet. And you must see it, absolutely, you must—when, that is . . .” he trailed off.
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Richard Hovey—do you know Richard Hovey? He wrote a masque called ‘Taliesin’ some years back? No? First-rate. I think you’d appreciate it. Very delicate and deep. Like you.” He paused, as if he’d gone too far, his eyes dodging away from hers for just an instant. “Well, anyway, I’ve named my house after Taliesin—my estate, that is. In Wisconsin. After the poet. And you must see it, absolutely, you must—when, that is . . .” he trailed off.
“I know what you’re feeling,” she said, with fervor, real fervor. “You poor man. How you’ve suffered. You have. I know that perhaps better than any soul on this earth, because we’re attuned—we’re twins, that’s what we are,
twins.
” She was so excited she very nearly jumped out of the chair to run to him, clutch him to her, heat and heal and solace him with a passion so perfect and deep he’d put all the tragedy and ruin behind him forever. But not yet, not yet: the moment was too delicious. She slid forward till she was perched on the very edge of the chair, her hands in motion, her eyes speaking for her. “But listen,” she said, “listen to Gérard de Nerval, just listen: ‘I move in darkness—widowed—beyond solace, / The Prince of Acquitaine in a ruined tower. / My star is dead...’ ”
twins.
” She was so excited she very nearly jumped out of the chair to run to him, clutch him to her, heat and heal and solace him with a passion so perfect and deep he’d put all the tragedy and ruin behind him forever. But not yet, not yet: the moment was too delicious. She slid forward till she was perched on the very edge of the chair, her hands in motion, her eyes speaking for her. “But listen,” she said, “listen to Gérard de Nerval, just listen: ‘I move in darkness—widowed—beyond solace, / The Prince of Acquitaine in a ruined tower. / My star is dead...’ ”
Her eyes were full. She couldn’t go on. If she were to look back in that instant on all the heightened moments of her life, all the intensity, the passion, the quarrels and turmoil and transcendent flights of sheer spiritual grace, nothing could have compared to what she was feeling in those precious minutes since she’d walked through his door. She couldn’t seem to breathe. She felt faint. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “Forgive me. I’m just—it’s just that I am so . . . deeply . . .
moved . . .
”
moved . . .
”
And then he was there at her side, offering his handkerchief, the finest cambric, faintly scented, and she was dabbing at her eyes. “Here,” she said, impulsively snatching up the pamphlet she’d brought him, “here, take this as the smallest consolatory gift from me to you in your time of need—and take it to your heart. The scriptures heal—
Jesus
heals. I know. I’ve been down that road.”
Jesus
heals. I know. I’ve been down that road.”
He looked puzzled. Son of a preacher, nephew of Jenkin Lloyd Jones, who was one of the great pulpit orators of his time, and he was doubtful? Reluctant?
“Here, take it,” she said again, her voice reduced to a kind of sob, and she had to get hold of herself, had to bear down here a moment, or the mood would evaporate, the whole shining room with its glitter of art and hope and beauty dissolved like a vision out of
The Arabian Nights
, and she felt the pressure of his hand in hers and then the book—Mary Baker Eddy’s sweet, sweet revelation—passing from her fingertips to his.
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“You’ll heal,” she whispered, her voice steadier now. “Trust me. You’ll heal.”
The Arabian Nights
, and she felt the pressure of his hand in hers and then the book—Mary Baker Eddy’s sweet, sweet revelation—passing from her fingertips to his.
95
“You’ll heal,” she whispered, her voice steadier now. “Trust me. You’ll heal.”
Somehow they were both standing. His arm was round her shoulders and his hand—
his hand
—was unconsciously massaging the short thick sturdy hairs the seal had once worn in the polar sea to fight back the chill of the world. It was perfect. It was exquisite. And what was he saying—murmuring—in her ear? “There, there, it’s all right. I’ll be fine. I will. And you, you kind, beautiful and spiritual woman, you’ll be fine too. I’ll read the book. I’ll read it because it’s from you.”
his hand
—was unconsciously massaging the short thick sturdy hairs the seal had once worn in the polar sea to fight back the chill of the world. It was perfect. It was exquisite. And what was he saying—murmuring—in her ear? “There, there, it’s all right. I’ll be fine. I will. And you, you kind, beautiful and spiritual woman, you’ll be fine too. I’ll read the book. I’ll read it because it’s from you.”
She raised her eyes to him. She was trembling. Her voice was a whisper. “Has anyone ever told you you have the most magnificent head?”
Again he looked puzzled.
But she went on, the words coming in a rush now: “You must sit for me, I won’t take no for an answer, and though I prefer hands—hands are my special interest, and feet too, hands and feet, but no matter—I’ll mold a bust of you and it’ll be magnificent, the grandest thing I’ve done. But you will sit for me? Won’t you? Promise?”
The next two weeks were a
tourbillion
of dinners, dances, museums, art exhibitions and automotive visits to the houses he’d built and of which he was as preening proud as a child with his first assemblage of wooden blocks. He would pull into the drive at one domicile or another without announcing himself, spring out like an acrobat to rush round to her side of the car and wait impatiently while she prepared herself for the blast of the wind, then march her round and round the place, expatiating on every last detail—right down to the origin of the copper in the downspouts—before waltzing into the house as if he owned it and starting all over again with the interior details. All the while, the inhabitants standing patiently by as he criticized the style and placement of the furniture or some element of his conception that didn’t seem sufficiently appreciated, he never took his eyes from her. And despite the cold, despite her aching feet and the strain of bursting into the homes of total strangers who looked at her as if she were something between a captive and an invader, his gaze—awestruck, appreciative and undisguisedly carnal—made her glow.
tourbillion
of dinners, dances, museums, art exhibitions and automotive visits to the houses he’d built and of which he was as preening proud as a child with his first assemblage of wooden blocks. He would pull into the drive at one domicile or another without announcing himself, spring out like an acrobat to rush round to her side of the car and wait impatiently while she prepared herself for the blast of the wind, then march her round and round the place, expatiating on every last detail—right down to the origin of the copper in the downspouts—before waltzing into the house as if he owned it and starting all over again with the interior details. All the while, the inhabitants standing patiently by as he criticized the style and placement of the furniture or some element of his conception that didn’t seem sufficiently appreciated, he never took his eyes from her. And despite the cold, despite her aching feet and the strain of bursting into the homes of total strangers who looked at her as if she were something between a captive and an invader, his gaze—awestruck, appreciative and undisguisedly carnal—made her glow.
As Christmas approached and Norma began draping random sprigs of holly about the house and trolling carols in the kitchen (flatly and out of tune, because, sadly, she’d also apparently failed to inherit her mother’s musical talent, but hadn’t she sung “Frère Jacques” so beautifully as a schoolgirl—or was that Corinne?
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), Frank’s attentions became ever more insistent. There were parties, of course. Parties everywhere. Daily. Nightly. In lavish homes, galleries and theaters, lavishly decorated for Yuletide, colored servants scraping about with trays of drinks and delicacies and all the haut monde of Chicago gathered round in their furs and jewels and fancy dress. Frank became the very avatar of the season, funneling his genius for interior design into a cornucopia of Christmas display and superhuman good cheer, parading her around on his arm as if she were the rarest treasure of all. “You’re my jewel,” he would say, and kiss her full on the lips, thrusting himself at her till she could feel him hard against her—and she would withdraw as delicately as she could without dampening his ardor entirely, and call him naughty or a billy goat or some such childish designation. And then he was on her again and again till she thought she would split open with the heat of her own desire. He would have her—and she would have him—and soon, soon.
96
), Frank’s attentions became ever more insistent. There were parties, of course. Parties everywhere. Daily. Nightly. In lavish homes, galleries and theaters, lavishly decorated for Yuletide, colored servants scraping about with trays of drinks and delicacies and all the haut monde of Chicago gathered round in their furs and jewels and fancy dress. Frank became the very avatar of the season, funneling his genius for interior design into a cornucopia of Christmas display and superhuman good cheer, parading her around on his arm as if she were the rarest treasure of all. “You’re my jewel,” he would say, and kiss her full on the lips, thrusting himself at her till she could feel him hard against her—and she would withdraw as delicately as she could without dampening his ardor entirely, and call him naughty or a billy goat or some such childish designation. And then he was on her again and again till she thought she would split open with the heat of her own desire. He would have her—and she would have him—and soon, soon.
Still, she didn’t know quite what to expect when he invited her to his house on Christmas Eve itself. Would his grown children be there? His wife? His mother? The comical little housekeeper with the ear trumpet she’d heard so much about? His friends and associates? The neighbors? Or would it be just the two of them, locked in a passionate embrace as if they had no other attachments in the world?
It was past dark when the taxi pulled up in front of the house. This was a small house, modest and neat, the house of his exile from the place in Oak Park he’d given over to his wife and the ruins of his mansion in Wisconsin, and if she’d expected something grander, a structure commensurate with his beauty and wisdom and greatness, she buried her disappointment. This was temporary. She could appreciate that. She was living a temporary life herself, and even as the thought came into her head, she felt a violent upsurge of feeling for him: they were exiles, both of them, and the fates had brought them together for mutual solace. What could be more perfect? More glorious?
Full of hope and love—swollen with it, yes—she came briskly up the walk, watching for patches of ice because it wouldn’t do to fall and turn an ankle, though even that would have its rewards, her leg delicately elevated before the fire as he tended to her with a strip of bandage and a glass of champagne, his fingers kneading her flesh, wandering up her calf and back down again, stroking, probing, caressing . . . But here he was, the door flung open on a flood of light, dressed in a black velvet dinner jacket and Chinese trousers, his hair backlit like the nimbus of an angel—“Miriam,” he was calling, “my love, my dear, my jewel, here, let me help you—”
The fire leapt up. There were bowls of blood-red roses everywhere. A brazen Buddha. The lamps he’d designed himself with their marvelous geometrical patterns and their soft shimmers of light. Candles aglow. The table set for two. Champagne on ice. And music, delicate, delicious, a string quartet serenading her from the Victrola in the corner. “It’s breathtaking,” she said, even as he kicked the door shut and took her in his arms. “Everything you touch. Just breathtaking!”
They couldn’t stop talking—and kissing, kissing too—ranging the whole world over, from the Greeks to the Romans to the contemporary theater and the joys of Germany, Italy, Japan—she must go to Japan, she absolutely must, he insisted: the cleanest and most perfectly organic society on earth—and, of course, Paris. Which was her province. If she must go to Japan then he must come to Paris—with her as his guide. Oh, and she sang on about Paris as if it were a car ride away, as if they could browse the antiquarian shops and stroll the boulevards before the clock struck midnight. She was intoxicated, absolutely and thoroughly, right to the core of her—and not from any opiate or even the champagne, but from being there with him on the most precious night of the year.
They ate in front of the fire at the table he’d laid there, each dish served up by him on a covered platter, hearty food—cod in cream sauce, salt pork and potatoes, too hearty maybe, too plain and well, Midwestern, but good for all that—and there was no sign of the comical little housekeeper or anyone else. Afterward she smoked before the fire and delicately tipped back a demitasse of coffee and some sort of liqueur she couldn’t identify (he abstained) and let her voice sing till she might have been a tropical bird fluttered down out of the grim black sky to brighten this parlor and this house till it shone like the center of the universe—and on Christmas Eve, no less!
“
Do you see my ring?” she asked at one point, holding out her hand to him as they sat together on a stiff-backed sofa that might have been a thing of beauty but wasn’t sumptuous at all, more like a pew in a monastic chapel, and wouldn’t a few pillows or even a quilt go a long way toward improving it—and the comfort of the room too? But all thought flew out of her head because he took her hand in his and kissed it and kissed it again, running his fingers up her wrist to her forearm, the exquisite pressure there, the fire . . . “It was worn by Cleopatra,” she went on, but he was bent to her hand still, kissing, kissing, and her breath was coming faster, “to keep her lovers faithful. This . . . very . . . ring . . .”
Do you see my ring?” she asked at one point, holding out her hand to him as they sat together on a stiff-backed sofa that might have been a thing of beauty but wasn’t sumptuous at all, more like a pew in a monastic chapel, and wouldn’t a few pillows or even a quilt go a long way toward improving it—and the comfort of the room too? But all thought flew out of her head because he took her hand in his and kissed it and kissed it again, running his fingers up her wrist to her forearm, the exquisite pressure there, the fire . . . “It was worn by Cleopatra,” she went on, but he was bent to her hand still, kissing, kissing, and her breath was coming faster, “to keep her lovers faithful. This . . . very . . . ring . . .”
His hand slid up her arm, along the smooth velvet path, no resistance to the material at all, and he was embracing her throat now and giving her the full weight of his eyes. He murmured something, whether it had to do with Cleopatra and her lovers or the height of the ceiling or the color of her eyes, she couldn’t say, but her voice was teasing out the subject, breathy and deep, no going back now—“Beware,” she whispered, “to all faithless lovers, but you, you’re not . . . faithless . . . are you?”
His hand was on her breast, slipping beneath the material to the naked skin, to the aureole and the nipple which hardened to his touch. And his lips. His lips were on hers. She heard the fire crackle. Heard the record hiss against its label. Wind beyond the windows. The ticking of a clock. She leaned back to accommodate his weight and the slow sweet delirium of his hands and his tongue.
“Are you?” she whispered.
And he, fully aroused, his face gone rubicund and his ears glistening like Christmas ornaments in the quavering light, breathed his answer against the soft heat of her lips. “Me?” he puffed, working, working hard, writhing against her and tugging at the buttons of his trousers as if they were each individually on fire. “Never,” he said, sinking into her, “never.”
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