Authors: Cathleen Schine
Margaret waited as he rummaged in his jacket pocket. Something small. Jewelry-small? No. She watched as he pulled out two triangles of leather attached to elastic straps. They looked like tiny G-strings.
"You like these, Marguerite? For increased pleasure? You will wear them? A friend designed them, asked me to try them out for him. I do not force you. Some people do not like them."
What are these Belgians into? Margaret thought. Wear them? Wear them where? "Where do you wear them?"
"Here. Wear them here, now."
In Lincoln Center? Unhappily, Margaret watched the miniature G-strings dangle from his index finger.
"What I meant was, how do you put them on?" she said finally.
"Oh!" He smiled in a paternal way. "On your ears, Marguerite. On your lovely little ears."
He tenderly strapped the triangles, like little hoods, around the back of her ears. The hall sounded suddenly louder, deeper. The cellos, tuning up, resonated and echoed, and Margaret realized that the little devices were innocent enough, some kind of listening aid, gadgets devised by a high-end hi-fi fetishist.
"Horrible," she said.
"Yes. Horrible. But some people like them. More bass. They like to adjust the concert hall!" He began to laugh, real, bursting laughter, repeating, "To adjust the hall!"
Margaret looked away, embarrassed by his uninhibited laughter. But, she thought, it could have been worse. At least he had not wanted to make love in the orchestra section of the Metropolitan Opera House using tiny leather and elastic triangular sex aids.
Margaret turned to the synopsis. "Well, what do you know?" she said several times as she read. "What do you know?"
The awful woman in black was Katya's mother-in-law. Katya's husband was pussy-whipped by his mother, who also constantly criticized Katya. The other young woman is the housemaid. Katya falls in love with a man who is hollered at by an uncle who controls his inheritance. When Katya's husband goes away on a business trip, Katya goes into the woods with her lover. When the husband comes home, Katya insists on confessing to him even though he doesn't want to know. He wants to forgive her; the mother-in-law doesn't want him to forgive her; the lover is sent away by his uncle. Katya jumps into the Vltava and drowns.
Margaret, listening to the strung-out, taut romanticism of the music, the hysterical, neurotic horn bleats as Katya plunges into the waters of oblivion, nodded her head and thought, Yes, this is just like my life. Should I go back to Prague and jump in the Vltava?
The lights came on and she wiped a tear from her eye.
"No dead baby," she said to Martin.
"No, the dead baby is in
Jenůfa
"
"Ah."
"This is how I knew, you see? On the plane."
"Ah."
The plane. Prague. That was where it had all started. If only Edward had come with her. Then this would not have been necessary. She would not be here now, in a taxi, on her way to her ruin in a rich man's brownstone.
Martin was a large man, and his leg, in beautiful dark green trousers, was touching hers. Her skirt had ridden up. She did not pull it down. She shifted a little to get comfortable. Martin looked down at her leg. He looked at her leg, then at her, then out the window. She thought she heard him sigh.
Edward does not exist, she thought.
But if he does not exist, how come when I ask the question, What is it that does not exist?, the answer is Edward. It's Edward. Doesn't this confer some sort of existence on him? In other words, doth the lady protest too much? Or is it just that logic makes no sense?
"You are very quiet," Martin said.
Margaret pointed to her throat. "
Laryngite,
" she whispered.
"You are thinking of the trip on the plane," he said. He blushed.
Margaret lay on the low couch, a soft, deep couch. How had she gotten there? In the taxi. Up the stairs. A living room with Alex Katz cutouts and wooden Venetian blinds. Up the stairs again. A music room with a piano, a plant, a worn Victorian couch, and two speakers, each one the size of a toll-booth. Wine on a low table. Another couch. (You must sit on this couch, said Martin. In the middle. The sweet spot! To get the full effect. Oh, yes, she thought. The sweet spot indeed. The full effect!) Martin, plugging and unplugging, soldering, twisting a screwdriver, yanking a wrench, draping cables, thick cables, cables as thick as, well, as thick as dicks. Margaret burst out laughing.
"It's almost ready," Martin said, looking at her, red in the face. He had already said "It's almost ready" several times. She had drunk the wine. Nothing to eat. Just this wine. Just like France. A man muttering in French and wine. In France with Edward, there had been only Edward. Now there was no Edward. Edward did not exist, except logically, of course. Good-bye, Edward.
Bonjour,
Martin.
Margaret lay on her side and gazed at the antique Chinese carpet. What Eastern despot or Western imperialist trod this rug before it ended up here? Martin's crepe-soled shoes went by, the cuffs of his beautifully draped pants swinging jauntily. Margaret lolled on the soft pillows of the sweet-spot couch. Quit caressing your tube amplifiers, Martin. Quit pacing. Thank God, Edward doesn't pace. Pacing makes me dizzy. I'm dizzy, Martin. Dizzy with drink. Dizzy with desire.
"Records," Martin said. "You must play records. CDs, they are shrill, an evil invention, a conspiracy."
She reached lazily down to one foot, took off a shoe, and threw it at him.
"I'm drunk," she said.
"Well, now at last I'm finished," he said, putting away his tools. "Now, we try my equipment, yes?"
Your equipment, Margaret thought, as the sounds of
Katya Kabanova
came on. Yes, what about your equipment? God, when did I become such a vulgarian? she wondered. Well, I'm only seeking the truth, seeking the good, seeking happiness. The good is happiness. The rational and appetitive, together, seek happiness. The rational is appetitive.
The music rolled through the room like a wave, bigger than a live orchestra. The floor beneath her vibrated. They listened, Martin pacing, standing here, then over there, checking a wire, turning a knob, while Margaret lay on the couch. After a few minutes, Martin lifted the arm from the record, switched off the turntable and said, "Now listen, I play for you a CD. One of my friend's CDs. I don't know what this is. They are all the same. All horrible. Listen..."
Margaret heard the rhythm of scratching records and a harsh voice.
"Face down, ass up, that's the way we like to fuck—"
Martin turned it off.
"I am sorry," he said. "I did not know."
"That record caused the French Revolution," Margaret said.
Martin kneeled beside her.
"Are you well, Marguerite?"
"Don't I look well?"
"Yes, of course, again, but—"
"You look well, Martin."
She put her hand up, curled it around the back of his neck, felt the soft, longish hair there. She pulled him down to her. "I have to know," she said.
"Know what?"
"The truth."
She took his glasses, the thick-framed, oddly shaped glasses, and put them down beside her.
"Marguerite—"
"Can you see?" she said.
"A little. I can see you."
"And I can see you." She put both arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers. She kissed him on the lips.
"Ah, you really are drunk," he said.
"Yes."
She kissed him again. His lips, the moist, thin lips shaped in a slight, superior pout.
"Marguerite, I think it is time I took you to bed."
"Yes," she whispered, kissing his neck. "Yes, do."
He lifted her up. He was carrying her. Her head was pressed against his shoulder. She felt his belly. He breathed heavily.
He carried her across a little hall and deposited her in a soft bed.
"Martin," she said, holding his hands as he sat on the edge of the bed. She ran one hand across the smooth pink shirt, taut across his belly. She felt the silky material of his pants against her arm. His glasses were still in the other room. His hair hung down, straight down, as he leaned above her.
"I have neglected you, my poor little girl," he said. "Fooling with my wires. You have been so patient." He ran his hand over her forehead. "But now I will take care of you. Relax, Marguerite, and I will take care of you."
"I'm very relaxed," she said. "Very relaxed." She moved her head in the pillow to show how very relaxed she was. The room began to spin. "Very, very, very relaxed." She held his arm tightly as the room spun faster. "Very, very..." She held him now with both hands, as if she were drowning, which she was, she just wasn't sure what she was drowning in. It was too light to be water, too thick to be air, too invisible, too murky...
"Darling..." he said urgently.
"Relaxed..."
When she woke up, she was alone in a soft bed in a small room bright with sunshine. A pigeon cooed outside. Her head pounded. She sat up slowly.
Where the hell am I?
She remembered. She was in a rich man's house. A house with speakers the size of tollbooths. A house with couches and wine, much too much wine. Maybe I'm an alcoholic, as well as a lesbian and an adulterer, she thought.
An adulterer? What had it been like? Had she enjoyed it? She couldn't remember. It was a curse, this memory of hers. Here she had gone to all this trouble, had betrayed her husband, her wonderful husband (he had been wonderful, hadn't he?), had ventured out on a perilous road in pursuit of wisdom and truth, had waited for hours, hungry and bored, while her lover soldered wires together, had surrendered her virtue shamelessly—and now she couldn't remember?
Her skirt and blouse and jacket and stockings were hung neatly over the back of a chair. She seemed still to be wearing her underwear. Interesting.
The sun came in through the sheer white curtains. She closed her burning eyes. She heard footsteps and opened them.
"You're awake?"
She mumbled. Or grunted. Maybe it was more like a groan.
"You need to recover, yes? It was quite a night. You are really something!"
"I am?" she said thickly. I feel like really something. Really something left to rot really somewhere.
Martin had brought her some orange juice. Sweet of him. But as Margaret looked at him, she thought, over and over again, What have I done? And why have I done it? I am in the wrong bed with the wrong man. I'm not even in the right house. Or in my right mind. I have made my wrong bed. Now I must lie in it. Is it a lie? Or is this truth? Who cares, anyway? I want to go home and rest my head. But I have no home. Not anymore.
"You should not drink wine, Margaret."
"No."
"You did some things you would not do without wine, I think."
Uh-oh.
"But now, you must get up, eat some small something, drink some coffee—"
"Coffee."
"I will make you coffee."
He kissed her on the forehead and went downstairs.
Margaret pulled her wrinkled clothes on. Her stockings bagged at the knees. She saw a bathroom off the bedroom and went in to splash water on her face. Things I wouldn't do without wine? Things so shocking I have blocked them out entirely!
She rubbed toothpaste across her teeth with her finger. She looked in the medicine cabinet for aspirin but found only bottle after bottle of Xanax. She considered taking one, then rummaged in her bag, thinking there might be an old aspirin floating around in there. She found a lipstick. Maybe later for that. It seemed hopelessly inadequate now. She found a fuzzy peppermint Life Saver, which she ate. A pen. Dr. Lipi's card. A piece of paper on which was written, "I can't stay here. I need some peace and quiet and isolation—"
She stopped reading, horrified. Oh God. What had she done? What had she failed to do?
"Martin!" she said when she found him in the kitchen. "The phone! I must call Edward! I forgot to tell him that I left him!"
Martin looked puzzled.
"I left my husband and he doesn't know!" she cried. "He must be so worried. Oh, poor Edward. How could I have been so inconsiderate. I left him a note to tell him I'd left him, and then I left him, but I forgot to leave the note—"
"Please, please. Do not worry. I have called Edward. Do you think I would not let him know what has happened here?"
Well, yes, Margaret thought, actually I did think you would not let him know what has happened here.
"I told him you were here with me," Martin said. He patted her back gently. His beautiful green-and-white shirt was back. Margaret looked at it in alarm.
"You told him?"
"He was so very much relieved." Martin smiled in a satisfied way. "Here. Sit down. Drink this coffee. He is happy. I am happy. All are happy."
Yeah? Well, happiness ain't all it's cracked up to be, then, she thought. "Happy," she said, full of scorn.
Martin looked at her in confusion. He stood silent for a moment. Then he smiled, as if he understood something.
"Marguerite, did you think that we, that I, what is the word..."
Margaret, staring into her coffee cup, felt a familiar burning shame. Fuck, she thought. The word you are looking for is
fuck.
Baiser
in French, is it not? And yes, I thought. But now I see that I was mistaken, as I so often am, and that I have suffered the humiliation and guilt of adultery without even getting to commit adultery. It's an outrage. I've made a complete fool of myself.
"How
could
you?" she said.
"But I didn't..."
"That's what I mean."
Martin came toward her, put his hands on her head, and stroked it. His beautiful clothes rustled. His light brown hair fell over his face. His long eyelashes covered his downcast eyes.
"Marguerite, you are as young as my daughter."
"Yeah, yeah."
"You looked so pale, lying there, so innocent and pale, and then you passed out—"
"Christ, I passed out? Did I fucking throw up, too?"
"No, no."
"Good."
"Yes, good."
"I remember kissing you," Margaret said.
"Ah."
"I like you."