Three Women in a Mirror (3 page)

It takes an uglier woman than I to pull off such flamboyance—someone like our aunt Augusta, whose hooked nose is much improved beneath the shelter of a felt hat—or someone far more beautiful, like you. But Franz is so fond of hats that he hasn't noticed that hats are not fond of me.

An Italian countess in Bergamo to whom I related this tragedy scolded me severely by saying, “You wrong yourself, child. Franz idolizes you so much that he has failed to notice that hats do not suit you.”

I confess her opinion unsettled me. Everything upsets me, offends me, bothers me these days; I am confronted with a glut of unexpected situations.

And incidentally, you will ask, how is the honeymoon?

I suppose I must reply, “idyllic.” Franz is superb—tender, thoughtful, generous. We have great fun together, and six months after leaving Vienna, here we are discovering Italy, one sublime town after another, such enchanting countrysides and astounding churches. Let us not forget that for centuries the peninsula has given its all to charm newlyweds: museums overflowing with masterpieces, refreshing hotel rooms, delicious cuisine, exquisite ice cream, sensual sunshine that implores one to take a siesta, and servants who look on lovers with a knowing eye.

In a word, my honeymoon is impeccable. But am I cut out for honeymoons?

Yes, you did read that, dear Gretchen, the woman writing these pages no longer knows what to think. I fear I am different. Terribly different. Why can I not be happy with something that would fill any other woman with enthusiasm?

I'm going to try and explain to you what is going on and perhaps by the time I'm done I will understand, too.

My childhood lasted a long time. When you, dear cousin, were already married and raising three infants, I insisted on remaining a child, lifting my skirts only to run across a field or step through a stream; the idea of becoming a woman could not have been further from my thoughts; if I happened to meet any boys, they did not arouse the slightest curiosity.

And so I enjoyed this happiness . . .

But because all I ever heard was that fulfillment was only to be found in a man's arms and on the day I delivered a baby from my womb, I grew tired of all the haranguing and eventually found myself a role to play. I opted for the stuck-up snob who would only marry someone from the highest ranks of society.

Ironically, fate obeyed me. Although I had dreamt up this comedy merely to protect myself and banish any potential suitors, my attitude served me well: I could bide my time, and so I eventually met Franz von Waldberg.

Do you remember those incredible pocketknives in Geneva that contained, in addition to their blade, a can opener, a screwdriver, and an awl? All the gentlemen were mad about them. Well, that's Franz for you! He's not a man, he's a Swiss Army knife. He has every quality—decorative, rich, intelligent, sensitive, noble, and courteous. In short, he's the one you don't say no to.

Perhaps I married him out of pride?

I fear the truth is worse than that. My marriage to Franz was pure calculation on my part. Mind you, this was neither the plot of a schemer climbing the social ladder by lying on her back nor the rational strategy of an ambitious woman. No, it was the deliberate ploy of a desperate woman: when he asked for my hand, I reasoned that if I could not find fulfillment with this man, I would never find it anywhere. I married him the way you test a remedy.

A remedy for what? For myself.

I do not know how to be the woman our era expects me to be. I struggle to show an interest in so-called ladies' topics: men, children, jewelry, fashion, homemaking, cooking, and my own little self. For femininity requires us to indulge in self-worship: the worship of face, figure, hair, appearance. Such vanity is foreign to me; I dress like the devil, I neglect cosmetics, and I eat too little. When I see myself on the photographs that Franz collects, dolled up like the ace of spades, what I reproach myself for is that I haven't managed to look even more grotesque, because then, at least, it would be downright amusing.

Can you believe it? Every morning, I masquerade as a lady. They seem incongruous, all these petticoats, corsets, laces, miles of ribbon and fabric with which I harness myself, mere borrowed clothing. Rest assured, it's not that dream of changing into a man. I am simply a little girl who is lost in the country of women, forced to imitate adults and live as an imposter.

And what about the wedding night? you will ask. With my talent for womanhood, one could fear the worst for me . . .

The experience went well. Franz was satisfied. Insofar as I had prepared myself for what awaited me, I felt as if I were in the middle of a gymnastics lesson, putting into practice the figures I had studied, applying myself to make the appropriate gestures, and accept his in return, and never mind if some of them offended me. The next morning I was quivering with satisfaction: I had passed the exam.

The trouble is that, since then, I have not moved beyond this feeling of pride. Yet I do like Franz: his skin is soft, his body gives off a sweet smell, his nakedness does not shock me unduly. Intellectually, I appreciate the hunger that drives him to me—his moist eyes, his lips that want to eat me, the shivering that runs through his limbs, his breathing as it grows hoarser and deeper, the fever that drives him daily to take me to bed, sometimes several times a day; his desire fascinates me but does not disturb me; and it flatters me too.

But I don't share it.

I never feel that sort of desire for him.

I give myself to Franz out of an obliging sense of kindness and altruism, because I have decided to fulfill him in every way I can. I carry out my duties as a housewife. I am not moved by appetite, desire does not pierce me, and I do not find much pleasure there, beyond the gratification of having given alms, or the emotion of seeing this big fellow fall asleep on my shoulder, sated.

Is this normal, dear Gretchen? We were close enough in childhood that I feel I can ask you such an embarrassing question. Although you may be only ten years older than me on this earth, dear Cousin, in terms of wisdom you are far older. Is there a similar imbalance between you and Werner? Is it simply woman's lot, to tempt without being tempted?

In one week I'll be back in Vienna and we will finish moving into our future home. Write to me there, dear Gretchen. Naturally I would much rather come to you in Innsbruck so we could spend some time together, but first I must play mistress of the house, and finish the furnishing, choose the flowers, and give a few arbitrary orders to assert my authority over the servants. And face the visits from my in-laws . . . Apparently the first thing these aristocrats will look at is my hips, in order to ascertain whether I have come back from our expensive adventure with a Waldberg heir in the oven. But my belly is flat, flatter than before our marriage, hollow even, after all the walking we've done, and our travels and gymnastics—if anything all this activity has made me even thinner. At the hotel, once we've finished lunch, the minute Franz goes off to smoke with the men I go back up to our suite and undress in front of the mirror to take a close look: no sign of anything. I'm already dreading the sorrowful expressions on the faces of his parents and the Waldberg aunts and uncles. Although this will prove them right: I am a disappointing wife.

I subscribe to their opinion.

Don't forget me, dear Gretchen, and do write back to me, particularly if you think I am being maladroit. Hugs and kisses. Give my regards to Werner. And as for your sons, don't tell them anything yet, but I'll be bringing them masks from Venice. See you soon,

 

Your Hanna

When she saw her among the other dancers, Anny thought,
Who is that slut?
Sweat-streaked makeup, her body squeezed into a lycra bustier, a shred of cloth around her hips for a skirt: the girl looked like the kind of hooker you'd rent for an evening. A cheap one, to boot. Yes, initially, with sequins glittering above bare thighs, and boots with heels so high they caused her butt to stick out, Anny saw only one of those women whose portraits are plastered all over the “Escorts” page in the free papers.

But now, because of some clumsy man next to her who thought he was king of the dance floor, Anny slipped; arms windmilling, she lurched forward, regaining her balance only just in time. When she saw the tart opposite her doing exactly the same thing, she realized it was her own self there in the mirror.

She let out a braying laugh.

Hysterical.

Under normal circumstances, she would never have thought it was so funny, but now the amount of alcohol and antidepressants in her bloodstream made her laugh at everything. She gave a wave of complicity to her double, who did likewise, then she arched her back and went on wriggling joyfully and frenetically.

The noise coming from the loudspeakers was compact, indistinct and deafening. With music that loud, a late-night clubber was like a swimmer crushed by gale-force waves, such an onslaught of sounds, timbers, and rhythms. But they were there to let off steam, not to enjoy the music. They didn't listen to the songs with their ears, they felt them in their feet, their chests, their frantic hearts, beating their blood to the rhythm of the drums.

Anny stared at the disco ball on the ceiling. She loved it, it was her nighttime sun. A whimsical sun. An explosive sun. A sun that rotated quickly. Even though she would have been the first to swear they were as old-fashioned as hell, those glass orbs whose multiple facets reflected the light from the projectors, she only went to the clubs that had them. She adored the ball at the Red and Blue on Sunset Boulevard, where she had become an habitué: it was the biggest, the most magical, sending colored arrows through the darkness to reach the walls and the people far in the distance. Anny could shimmy underneath it for hours.

“Is he going to show up?”

The thought upset her, and she stopped shaking for a moment to wonder at what was going on in her mind: she was waiting for someone. Anny, the most unsentimental girl in California, was developing a crush . . . Phenomenal . . . An earth-shattering novelty! Now that she had met David, on the set, she knew that there was one boy in Los Angeles who deserved to be the object of hoping, waiting, and wishing. What a metamorphosis.

She left the dance floor and went up to the bar with its blue aquarium light.

“Well, Anny,” asked the barman, “you're in top form, aren't you?”

“Top of the world, as always!”

Neither of them really thought what they had said: the barman didn't care how Anny was doing, it was just his way of talking as a professional to a star; as for Anny, she knew that she was neither in top form nor at the top of her career. Just the top of her high-heeled boots.

“Gin and tonic?”

“You guessed it—you're good: as if you could see right through these clothes.”

He gave her a wink in reply to her joke, a noticeable wink, perfectly timed, like a dog in a sitcom.

What is he thinking, the imbecile?
thought Anny while he served her with affected gestures.
That I'm going to introduce him to a producer and get him a role? Jerks like him are a dime a dozen in LA. You can't even order something in a bar or a restaurant or a hotel without some idiot thinking he's the next Brad Pitt. Everyone in this town wants to become an actor—except for me, and I'm an actress.

She smiled: it was true, she hadn't gone after a destiny as an actress. She'd started at the age of five doing commercials, then to keep her mother happy she'd gone into features, until she made
Dad, I Borrowed The Car
, a commercial comedy that took the box office by storm in the summer of 2005 and shot her to stardom overnight. Anny Lee, America's little darling! Basically, she had complied, obeyed, confronted, but she hadn't had time to want what had happened to her.

Staring into her glass, Anny thought that if David showed up she had better not saddle him with a drunk girl; then as if this scruple were enough to buy her virtue, she gulped down her drink without remorse.

The barman flinched.

“Another one?”

“Why not?

Even though she must have had this same conversation a thousand times, she felt as if she were improvising; she was brilliant, her gift for sparkling repartee was better than ever. Besides, wasn't that amusement she could see in the barman's eye?

Unless it meant something else . . .

Shit! Did I sleep with him?

She took a good look at him. No way could she remember. It's true, there was something familiar about this Latino guy . . . Why? Was it because she saw him when she came here, or had she gone home with him?

When he moved away, she took a good look at him, the way his jeans emphasized the small of his back.
I must have. I must have slept with him.
She laughed.
Why else would he work in a nightclub, if not to sleep with pretty girls? Hey, it's a well-known fact they'd rather have that than a tip.

She remembered so little of what she'd done; she was having to think like a police officer to figure out whether she could conceivably have made it with an employee from the Red and Blue; suddenly her amnesia seemed funny.

I've already done so much, I can't remember it all. At the age of twenty I've collected a thousand lives.

She looked up at the disco ball.

From now on, that's going to change. None of that stuff with David. Because this time it's about love. He'll be the great story that will erase all the previous ones—all the muddled, shabby, dead-end ones.

She sighed. First with ecstasy, then anxiety. Could she do it? Would she have the courage to try to hook up with him?

She felt a rush of panic. In the space of a few seconds she had begun to tremble and perspire. Slipping off her stool, she stood up on her heels and walked unsteadily toward the restroom.

I'm going to have to get my mojo back. And right now! Otherwise I won't even be able to say hi to David.