Other People's Lives (14 page)

A very thin, blond, wan-looking child was walking hurriedly down the cobbled street of a small, tree-lined provincial town. Cobblestones, cuckoo clocks, and medieval architecture were strewn around her in terrible disarray, but she went on picking her way through the rubble, which she called “ruble,” foreshadowing the money she would one day be trying to earn. “God
damn
it, exactly what I can't stand!” said this child as a falling brick just grazed her. She was wearing old dancing slippers which she knew to be unsuitable; but she did not believe—it was not in her mentality—to change clothes every time she went out of the house. The excessive thinness did not suit her either, and her hair was tied back by an underwear strap or a piece of sock which she had knitted herself and had intended to exchange on the black market—though not for chocolate, whose sweetness she could still not accustom herself to. She scowled up at the sky, exclaiming, “Again, God
damn
it! I think I'll maybe move to Australia,” but this time she ducked out of the way in time. And tripped on what was clearly a person. Bending down, she began heaving away bricks and stones in frantic annoyance, and blowing away the dust and silt from the person's face, she grabbed and slapped the arms, saying, “Come on, hurry up!
Quickly!
Or I'll be late!
Again!
” It was impossible to tell what she could imagine she would be late for.

Joan said, “Maria, there's something I didn't tell you and I really feel terrible…You know that—”

“The telephone call from the hospital? Don't worry about it, they'll call again. It's maybe about insurance money or something. I don't know.”

Arthur, pouring out wine, gave the first glass to Maria, who began drinking immediately. He said, “Insurance? On Sunday? Drink up,
liebchen!
You can use it!”

Maria put down the wineglass, but she was laughing. Defensively she said, “Well, for anything else, how would they call up just one time? They would call—and then call and call again. I know. I've had already many emergencies.”

Joan, looking stricken, put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Maria, now I
really
feel terrible,” she said. “I fucked up everything…I even broke your coffee pot. But don't worry—I'll replace it. We'll go to wherever you got it before.”

“Where I got it before—a long time ago—was in a bank. From starting a new account. I was then so stupid I thought it made it free…Can you believe, Arthur, that I was once so stupid?” Maria smiled distantly into her wineglass.

Joan said, “Oh my God, Maria! You mustn't blame yourself for something like that. People do it all the time. Arthur's cheapo idiot aunt in Long Beach practically
lives
that way. And besides, you were new in the country.”

“Maybe
we
should do something along those lines,” Reba said, craning her happy, squirrel-like face to the side. “See if we can find someone to get us some wholesale woks. Or
crêpe
pans. And then give them out as an inducement. Although why should anyone need an inducement to join a food co-op?”

“That's one thing I don't care,” Maria said. “If anyone thinks I'm a cheapskate, too bad!”

Arthur refilled Maria's glass and said, “That's right, have some more. What do you care what people think?
Prosit!
Pretend it's the
Oktoberfest.”

The downstairs bell rang, and Maria said, “Good! Here comes Matthew! Now we can eat, I'm hungry. And I'm anyway getting worried for his being out too long in the dark.”

“Naturally!” Arthur said. “Where you come from, the only one who goes out in the dark is Dracula.”

Already flushed from the wine, Maria giggled and said, “Dracula! That's not even near! Americans never know anything about geography, I'm completely serious. Where I come from—or anyway, where I stayed in the country with my cousin Klaus—is the same place as Frankenstein. Near. It's true.” She stood up, reached over for a large serving spoon, and, rapping it sharply on the frying pan, said, “Plates, everyone! Quickly! It will be much easier this way. Who likes only drumsticks?”

Arthur held out plates for her and said, “Frankenstein! No wonder you never saw anything peculiar about Hitler or Stalin. That explains everything.”

“Frankenstein was the man only, Arthur. Not the monster. People make always the same mistake…If anyone wants the wings, too bad. I'm saving them for Matthew.”

“But that's the whole point of the book, Maria,” Joan said. “That it's impossible to make that kind of distinction.”

“Frankenstein!” Arthur repeated just as Matthew came in. “What do you think of
that,
Matthew? Your mother comes from the same place as Frankenstein.”

Matthew did not come over to the table. He put the long loaf of Italian bread down on the nearest empty space—a scratchy counter top—and in a small, unhappy voice said, “It got wet.” Matthew had gotten wet himself, and looked, Louise thought, as if he had brought the raw, rainy darkness inside with him. His glasses were fogged over, his light hair was plastered down; with the collar turned up, he seemed zippered into his green plaid jacket. It made his small face look pinched and pasty, and as water continued dripping down him, he gave off a child's winter smell of wet wool.

Maria said, “Here, baby, angel. Look! Only wings—I saved them for you. Specially. Come.”

Matthew took off his glasses and, rubbing his eyes with wet hands, said, “I'm not hungry. I don't want anything.”

“
Wings,
Matthew! Everyone else is already eating. Come on now, hurry up! Let's have the bread.” And turning around to look at him, Maria said, “My God, Matthew! Why do you only
stand
there? What's the matter with you? Take off the wet clothes!”

Pulling his zipper listlessly, Matthew said, “Can't I take it in to the television?
Please.
”

“What? I can't hear you, angel,” Maria said. She had pulled out a clean dish towel and was vigorously rubbing his head.

“Could I have peanut butter and jelly and take it into the television with me?”

“No. And no, Matthew,” Maria said, holding up two fingers. “Definitely. Two no's.”

Arthur said, “C'mere, Matthew.” Beckoning him over, he put his arm around Matthew as if he were about to tell him a secret and said, “Listen. I think there's something you better tell your mother—it's two eyes,
one
nose.”

Joan pulled off a piece of Italian bread and, pointing with it, said, “You think he does that with his own children?”

Happily straddling Arthur's chair, Matthew continued to laugh. Arthur said, “Well, Matthew, what'd you do with your mother today? Cross a couple of borders? Did you have a good time?”

Matthew made a face and said, “Yucchy,” as if he were thinking of Rebecca's fat hands.

“Matthew, you
know
that's what I hate always. When you say that. It's first very babyish—from TV maybe. And second, it's anyway not a real word. If you want to answer Arthur, if you want to say something, then say it. But say a word.”

“A word,” Matthew said and, bursting out again, could not contain his own hilarity.

“You should have let him go to the Block Party, Maria,” Joan said. “The kids all had such a good time. They were running up and down the street all day—we practically didn't even see them.”

“I
always
don't see him all day. During the week. From early in the morning. And then at night, when I have to go to the hospital, again I don't see him…Come here, Matthew, angel,” Maria said gently in a winy voice, and she tapped the place next to hers. “If you don't eat now, you'll then
later
be hungry. It's true. I have, if you want, apple juice.”

Arthur said, “Go ahead, Matthew. Make your mother happy.”

Rubbing his eyes again, Matthew squeezed past the sink and leaned against his mother, who said in the same surprising voice, “See how wet you are still, baby, angel. Your clothes…” She nuzzled her head against his, and in a whisper, almost as if she were crooning to a baby, said, “I tell you what, Matthew. Here—eat now, just a little, whatever you want and then quickly, right away, change into dry pajamas. And then you can watch TV—a long time. OK? Yes? It's a deal?”

Matthew did not answer; he seemed content to stand there, leaning against his mother, his body pressed against hers, removed from its own responsibility. Of course he was only a child.

In the terrible clear, cold light of her studio in Stockholm—a light like ice—Elisabeth did not sit perfectly still at her desk, did not intend to. She turned in her high swivel chair, designed expressly for this purpose. Though perfectly dressed, she turned not once, but again and again, rising higher and higher till she was thrown from her chair. Directly across from her, her husband showed no surprise; he was known everywhere for the impassivity of his expression, which matched so perfectly the starkness of his designs. He began to turn on his chair also—these chairs that he had designed—and, thrown from it similarly, made the downstairs neighbor remark to a guest: “Don't be frightened, it's only foreplay.” They rose and turned together on the floor just as they had done separately on the chairs. In front of them the enormous window was uncurtained, but, removed from the responsibility of her body, Elisabeth did not care.

“That's probably what my kids are doing now,” Reba said, yawning. “Watching TV. That's all they ever do now since they found out we might be going to South America. Someone told them there's no TV there.”

In a green, sunny clearing in Central America, just outside their own house, Sr. Weil's four young daughters lay swinging together in a hammock. The hammock swung very slowly, sometimes barely moving at all; it was the time of highest afternoon heat and there was nothing to do. Birds called but did not fly off. Inside the house a servant ran water, or singing to herself, clattered a dish. None of these sounds ran out to their natural ends, but hung on in the air where they'd fallen, suspended by the heat. The four little girls, so similar in appearance, swung on in the hammock; they rocked and rested. By turns, they braided and un-braided each other's long black hair, and holding up small brown arms against the light, they traded bracelets. Smiling and whispering, they fell asleep, curled up limb against limb, lying together like kittens in the sun. How freed they were from the responsibility of their own bodies was something they did not yet know. It was possible they would never need to.

Matthew said, “I'm finished, Mommy.”

“OK, baby,” Maria said slowly, and with her whole body gone slack, she leaned forward to let him through. “Pajamas, Matthew,” she called back. “Remember!…Who wants dessert? Coffee? Cheese—that cheese, naturally, I almost forgot. And probably fruit somewhere.”

“There's some fruit left over from the Block Party,” Joan said. “Apples and oranges. The bananas got squashed.”

Agreeably, Maria said, “We are
all,
I think, squashed. Shloshed? Tomorrow, probably, I'll be squeazy.” Smiling, she brought over the cheese and a bowl of fruit, and did not bother to clear off the table. “Look!” she cried out suddenly, pointing to an oval ceramic bowl on top of the refrigerator. “That crook? That crock? It's what I used always to marinate sauerbraten in! I don't know now where it came from.”

“I borrowed it, I forgot to tell you,” Joan said. “And there's something else I almost forgot.” From the pocket of her dungarees she pulled out a large black wool sock, saying, “This sock. Someone lost it in the laundry room. I better hang it up in the elevator.”

Louise watched Maria pick up the sock and carefully straighten it out on the table; slowly, dreamily, she ran her fingers up and down each line of ribbing. “It's not mine,” she said.

Joan cut off a piece of very runny Brie and, partly missing her plate, said, “I think it's a man's sock. It's enormous.”

“Mm.” Maria nodded. With her fingers still tracing over it up and down, ridge to ridge, she was picking out small pieces of lint. “Not mine.”

Awkwardly, Joan said, “Well, I thought—I mean, it
could
be Dennis'.”

“Could have
been.
” Maria shrugged. “But he didn't have ever such big feet.”

Reba scraped her chair back, rubbed her eyes, and said, “God, it's so late, I should really go…But I can't move. And besides, as soon as tax season starts, Bert becomes a total maniac.”

Maria folded the sock very carefully, returned it to Joan, and picking up an orange, stared at it and said, “April twentieth.”

“It's April
fifteenth,
Maria,” Reba said.

“No, no. April twentieth, it's what I had always to say in school every day.” And smiling distantly at the orange, Maria recited rapidly under her breath in German, saying finally, “For Hitler's birthday. They gave us every year on April twentieth an orange.”

“Ah
hah!
The Führer's birthday!” Arthur said. “Was he a Libra? Or a Pisces?”

“I don't know,” Maria said, and peeling the orange with a knife, making spiraling circles of the rind, she had begun to smile the way she always did when Arthur teased her.

He put his arm around her now and said, “Come on, Maria. Tell the truth. Those were your happiest days, weren't they? Eating oranges for the Führer, picking mushrooms with Heinrich and Ludwig, strolling up around the mountainside to visit Frankenstein, just you and Cousin Klaus…Those were your best days. And you had no way of knowing what was going to happen.”

“I didn't
ever
know, Arthur. Not then, not now.” Maria had spat out an orange pit and with her raised face very pale, Louise saw that she was speaking with odd, sudden urgency. “How can you know? Did I think ever when I was a little girl living in that stupid, ugly little town—city—that I would soon, one day, never be there again? To live in the country, a farm girl, with everything different? And then, in the farm with my cousin, to one day be working in a factory? And after to be in a dancing club? And
still
after, to be in America with Dennis? You think every time: This is my life. But it's not. You don't know. You know only always that it can change, be different.”