Your Sad Eyes and Unforgettable Mouth (28 page)

I had better luck with your jeep, which you’d left unlocked. The light came on when I opened the door. There was a briefcase on the back seat, its lid up, and papers were spilling out of it in disarray. The glove compartment gave off a faint scent of perfume, and the tingling guilt of an intruder crept over me as I rummaged through ghostly female relics: makeup, hand lotion, blue-framed sunglasses. No flashlight.

“I guess we won’t need one,” I said. It was a cloudless, moonlit night, and little quartz stones glimmered on the road. “But the mosquitoes are going to eat us alive. Let me get you a sweater.” I went inside and found someone’s old pullover in the closet. When I came back out, Rosie was nowhere in sight.

“Rosie, where are you?” I called out.

I heard her laugh softly, but I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from.

“Come over here, to the car.”

“Here I am,” she said, emerging from the shadows. “I was in the lost forest. There are such strange birds in the sky. Black and blind, like clocks.”

“Give me your arms.” I helped her into the sweater. As usual, I’d stuffed my knapsack with emergency provisions, including a bottle of mosquito repellent. I rubbed the repellent on our clothes—Mimi’s old trick. As we set out, an oppressive feeling came over me. It was loneliness. That’s what drugs did: they distanced you from everyone. Rosie was light years away, but she’d been that way always, and the drugs were only a neon billboard’s flashing bulletin, because over the years I’d managed to forget.

“I’m sorry I got you out of bed,” she said.

“I don’t mind.”

I reached out for her hand and held it in mine so she wouldn’t escape again, and also because we couldn’t see clearly. It was instinctive, holding hands in the dark; it helped you navigate, and Rosie’s gratitude as she moved closer to me made me feel better. The numinous forest on either side of the road was like the entrance to heaven, the entrance to hell.
Halfway through this mortal journey—

Partway through it, anyhow, we came to the gas station. The light of a single lamppost cast long shadows on the pump apparatus. A good setting for a play, I thought—a stumbled-upon sign of tenuous civilization, in the middle of nowhere, on a summer night.

“I think we’re in Oz. Oh, if only I could get into the flea market!”

The letters on the side of the warehouse wavered like hieroglyphics from the underworld. I tried the door, not expecting it to yield, but it swung open, seemed in fact to be hanging somewhat precariously on its hinges. Miraculously, I found the light switch. In an instant, like God’s creation, the flea market came into existence. The castoffs of an entire city seemed to lie before us. Attics and basements, the closets of children now married and grandparents now deceased, vacated bedrooms and kitchens: all had been emptied and the contents brought to rest in Marcel’s brother-in-law’s flea market.

“Maybe Daddy’s things are here,” Rosie said, “The things he lost—you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Let’s go before you start seeing things.”

“I want to stay here. I’ll bring him back some plates.”

“You can’t get those things back,” I said, pushing away the apparition of the cashmere sweater in my mother’s dresser drawer.

She began strolling down the aisles, collecting dented high-heeled shoes and old wallets.

“We can’t take these—there’s no one to pay,” I said. “We’ll come back tomorrow, I promise. You can put them here in the
meantime.” I handed her an empty laundry basket and she filled it with her treasures. Then she dropped an embroidered pillow on the dusty floor and lay down on her back. She said, “Daddy played the violin, and that’s how he survived. They liked his playing. He says he only did it because he thought his parents might be alive somewhere, or his sisters. So he made the effort, because for himself he didn’t care. He played, and he forced himself to be half-blind. He found a way not to see, he made everything blurry. And things are still blurry for him. Because he said if he had seen he wouldn’t have been able to play, or to stay sane.”

“Get up, Rosie. We have to go home.”

“He envied the people who threw themselves against the electric fence or found a way to hang themselves. Or volunteered to replace someone during a selection. Some of the people who volunteered were heroes, but some of them just didn’t want to live and Daddy wished he could volunteer too. But he thought there was a chance at least one of his sisters was alive because she made it across the border.”

“I wish I could phone Patrick,” I said. “He’d come get us.”

“I can’t move. I’ve been buried alive.”

“Come on, let’s go.” I gripped Rosie’s wrists, helped her up, and led her out of the warehouse.

As we walked back, she sang her
Magic Flute
aria about vanishing love.
Nimmer kommt ihr, Wonnestunde, Meinem Herzen mehr zurück. Never again will the hour of bliss return to my heart.

“It feels good, this stuff,” Rosie said when we were back in the house.

“That’s the point. That’s why people do it. Don’t take any more pills.”

“I only took one.”

“Who knows what’s in that stuff! You can’t trust the people who make those drugs. Will you stay in your room now?”

“Yes, I’m very sleepy,” she said.

I checked the clock in the foyer; it was four in the morning. Soon it would be light. I drew the curtains in my attic room and slept until noon the following day.

There was no one downstairs, and I thought at first that everyone had gone for a drive and left me behind. Then I realized I was the only one who was awake.

I peeked into Rosie’s room. Her black hair was damp with sweat and clung to her flushed cheeks.

I had coffee and a banana; I walked to Marcel’s store to phone my mother; I walked back; I sat by the lake and read. At four o’clock I opened a can of corn and, standing at the counter Patrick-style, I dug out the starchy kernels. I was starting to wonder whether anyone was ever going to wake up when I heard a soft tread behind me. It was you, Anthony, in bare feet, eyes bleary, unshaven. You were wearing the same trousers, creased now and slightly askew, but you’d put on a clean short-sleeved shirt. Your hair was rumpled and seemed longer today. You opened the faucet and cupped your hands under the cold water, splashed it on your face.

I said, “Rosie took one of these last night.” I trailed my fingers through the drugs that lay scattered like candies on the counter. “I had to spend half the night walking with her.”

“Really? What did she take?”

“I don’t know. She said she only took one, though.”

“Well, then, she’ll be okay. At least it’s all pure stuff. I wish she’d asked me, though. I would have talked her out of it.”

“That’s why she didn’t ask. She didn’t want to be talked out of it.”

You’d shed some of your skins overnight—for no other reason, I guessed, than that you were exhausted and had come down from whatever you’d been on.

“I’m against drugs,” I said.

“So am I.”

“It’s the fault of the pushers. They’re taking advantage of people.”

“You’re right, Joan. Damn the pusher-man. So, what do you make of my little brother? Figure him out? Pass me some of that superb coffee, please. Instant is my favourite.”

“I don’t know. He’s a bit … removed.”

“Removed. Indeed. Now how about we all remove ourselves to a restaurant?”

You stood behind me and slid your arms around my waist, rested your head on my shoulder. “I’ll get Pat, you get Rosie,” you said. Then you let go and climbed up to the attic, and I followed.

Rosie stirred as soon as I called her name. She sat up, crossed her legs, and smiled. “Hi, Maya … I feel so strange. What’s going on?”

“Anthony wants to take us out to eat.”

“I’m sorry—I kept you up all night!”

“I didn’t mind. How do you feel now?”

“Strange. Thirsty.”

“I’ll make you coffee while you dress.”

Either in celebration or in a mood of contrition, Rosie decided to wear a white summer dress with a gentle flair at the waist, a low U-shaped dip at the back. My mother had made the dress for her; I’d seen the muslin fabric sliding into the sewing machine, but not the final result. With her hair loose and her skin still winter-white, she looked unscathed and somehow motionless, as though she were turning into porcelain.

“Ah, what a ravishing, or shall I say ravishable, sight,” you said when you saw her coming down the stairs. You’d shaved and put on your shoes, and your tie dangled untied from your neck. “It breaks the frail heart, that dress. I think my brother is beginning to regain consciousness.” You sat down at the dining-room table and fumbled with your tie. “So, Rosie,” you went on. “I hear you’ve been poking about in my wee collection.”

“Sorry, I should have asked. Only I knew you’d say no. I still feel strange.”

“Never mind. Just don’t do it again—this stuff can kill you. Where is that guy?”

Patrick joined us, groggy and grumbling. “I still don’t understand why you had to wake me up,” he complained.

You moved the jeep and we climbed into the Mercedes, all four of us off-centre, though for different reasons. Patrick was half-asleep, Rosie was half-high, you were on another plane altogether, and I was worried about Rosie, worried about you. Patrick, I knew, could take care of himself.

“Ever the old Mercedes,” you said. “Famous Nazi war car. Himmler himself … Hey, remember the Porsche, Pat? Remember the Moving Phallus? Oh, the hopes Mother Moore had for us!”

Patrick started the car. “Where exactly are we going?” he asked, as if he’d been told but had forgotten.

“An inn not far from here. Head north, I’ll direct you from there. Remember that seafood place?” You turned to us. “We all had food poisoning, except for Pat, who doesn’t eat seafood. At least there was someone to drive us to the hospital and stop the car when we had to vomit. True family intimacy. We almost died, all three of us. Pat would have been left on his own, a circumstance beyond his wildest dream, isn’t that right, Pat?”

“I didn’t want you to die, actually,” Patrick said.

“True, true. You were quite the mother hen at the hospital. Mournful and holy among the beds. Those were the days, my friend.”

We got lost on the way to the inn—you couldn’t remember the route and someone gave us wrong directions. Twice we had to stop for Rosie, first because she was thirsty and then because she had to pee. Patrick suggested giving up, but you were insistent and said, “A last supper is on the agenda.”

Finally we found the inn, a gabled, medieval-style château surrounded by lily ponds and extraordinary flowers: incandescent orange, piercing blue, drops of ruby light.

“‘All night by the rose, rose,’” you recited. “‘ All night by the rose I lay.’ I wish.’”

“They won’t let us in here,” Patrick muttered.

“Leave it to me, brother mine.”

Ignoring the tense look of the desk clerk, you led us through the wide, carpeted lobby straight to the dining room. The maitre d’ barred our way at the entrance.

“Je suis desolé, I’m very sorry, sir, no jeans permitted.” He meant me and Patrick; you and Rosie were more than presentable.

“Yes, I know—we’re on assignment, just dashing through with no time to change. And this is the only worthwhile place for miles.” You took out your journalist’s ID and handed it, along with a folded fifty-dollar bill, to the confused man.

The maitre d’ hesitated, then let us through, maybe because it was early and the restaurant was nearly empty. We were shown to a corner table. Glittering glasses, glittering cutlery, cloth napkins folded into swan shapes.

“Why do you need to eat at this sort of place?” Patrick asked. “We don’t fit in, we’re just embarrassing ourselves and everyone else.”

“Not at all, we look like bohemians and artists, which we are, each in our own way. As for me, I’ve been spoiled by the fine cuisine of Sir Davies of Mooreland.”

Patrick smiled.

“What is it?” you asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come on.”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Tell big brother Tony.”

“I was just remembering—” He chuckled with pleasure.

“That chicken dish with the celery?”

Patrick nodded.

It was an unexpected treat, this sidetrack into intimacy. “What happened?” I asked.

“Oh, we played a trick on Mother Moore. Added several random ingredients to one of our dear cook’s creations.”

“Well, did she notice?” I asked.

“I think we gave it away by laughing. Mind you, she’s easily duped.”

“Funny, Patrick said the exact same thing about your mom.” I pictured the two of you, giggling from behind a doorway, peeking at your gullible mother. Two cute kids, being mischievous. An ordinary family.

“She said it was an interesting dish and ate it all. We added honey and olives and mayonnaise and apple butter, as I remember.”

“And herring,” Patrick said joyously.

“How could I have forgotten! Of course, herring.”

“How could you forget the herring, man? The herring was the whole point.”

“And she ate it? I feel sick just hearing about it,” I said.

“She ate anything Davies made,” you said. “Think she ever got it on with him, Pat? I wonder. Two lonely souls under the same roof.”

“Could we change the subject?” Patrick suggested. “I’m losing what minimal appetite I had.”

You laughed, and your laugh was strange and spooky, as if you were inside a cave. “Sorry, sorry. I’ve always been gauche. It’s a terrible liability in my line of work.”

Patrick said, “I’d think being stoned out of your mind is a liability. You’re going to end up a junkie.”

“Never fear. The sight of a needle makes me shake all over. I fainted recently during a blood drive.”

“Who would want your blood? The poor guy who got it would wake up from his operation an addict.”

“So true.”

“What do you do, Anthony, exactly?” I asked.

“Ah, that’s the question—what exactly do I do? I write for a financial journal. I report on the gettings and spendings of various regimes. Fascinating, in its own way. Have I sold my soul, Pat?”

“How would I know? You’ve never showed me anything you’ve written,” Patrick said, sounding almost offended.