Rameau's Niece (29 page)

M
ARGARET SLEPT
long hours and stared at the walls when she was awake. Forget it, she told herself. Even Edward's egotistical largess could not forgive a wife who ignored him for months, left him, and then, naked, embraced another man. Forget it. But she couldn't forget. She thought of calling him, of course. But sometimes shame held her back, sometimes anger. So what if she had thrown her naked arms around Richard? Did Edward think she was sleeping with that prissy misogynist? What kind of woman did he take her for, anyway? Call him? He could damn well call her. On his knees. She imagined him telephoning on his knees; but then she thought that she had been such a terrible, criminal wife that it was she who should approach Edward on her knees, and then she cried into her pillow and went back to sleep.

In this way, she spent a week of a dreary, lonely, maid's-room existence during which she strained Richard's hospitality. Then she went home to Massachusetts, to Mom and Dad, to relive various adolescent disappointments by sitting beneath big suburban trees and contemplating lawns. In her parents' house, she was outraged to find a copy of Art Turner's book, just out, called
Sight Unseen,
which had become an instant best seller. She was further outraged when she read it, for far from the bloated, self-important twaddle she had expected, it turned out to be a brief, rigorous, and peculiarly comic novel about a blind psychiatrist, which she thoroughly enjoyed.

All this time away from Edward, wandering—her mind wandered, at least—had left Margaret more and more homesick for him. Her shamed anger simply grew at first, becoming grander and more intense; and then it stopped growing and seemed to blossom and flower into something else entirely: determination. How dare Edward leave her? He had no right. She loved him, and she would have him. She would get him back. He was hers. She had sought friendship. She had sought lovers. She had sought knowledge, she had sought the truth about things. Now, she would seek Edward.

Seeking truth is the lovemaking or wooing of it, said the philosopher in
Rameau's Niece.
Now Margaret must woo in earnest.

But what about this truth? Who needed truth? Truth didn't pay the rent. If you have your health, her grandmother liked to say,
and
an independent income, you have everything. Truth! Truth is a tautology. A chair is a chair. Logical truth is a tautology.

Yes, but it is not just any truth that one must woo, she thought. "A chair is a chair!" I am no longer interested in such trivialities. Dr. Lipi is attractive, therefore I am attracted to him. So what? Martin is a man and I like men, therefore I like Martin. If Lily is a woman and I like Lily, I like women. So what, so what, so what? I no longer simply seek truth, I no longer seek unimportant tautologies. Such truths exist, but they are of no value to me. I seek interesting and enlightening truth. I seek Edward.

She flew back to New York, to Richard's maid's room, and she felt better now that she knew what she had to do. And she felt better now that she realized what she had done, what had been going on through those months of empirical frenzy. What I have done, she thought, is to test the truth of my attachment to Edward. I have searched for the falsity content of my best theory, that is, Edward. I have done so by trying to refute my best theory, by trying to refute Edward, by trying to test my theory severely in the light of all my subjective knowledge and ingenuity. I have employed the critical scientific method with precision and care. I have tested my theory against a dentist, a Belgian, and a woman. I have discovered there is no certainty, but that I can nevertheless say that Edward, my attachment to Edward, my love of Edward, all are a greater approximation of truth than my attachment to anyone else. In other words, she thought, Edward is the guy for me.

Richard was barely speaking to her, so intimate had their relationship become.

"Leave me some milk," was all he said when he saw her.

She checked her datebook. It was July 12. Seemed like an auspicious date. A familiar date, too, but why? Margaret could not remember, but what difference did it make? She was going to seek Edward. Where would she find him so that she could seek him? School was out, but she was sure he would be at his office. It was that time of day.

In the rain, a light, cooling rain, Margaret waited for the bus. The clouds were gray and low. She would swoop down and pluck Edward from among the mortals. Just as Jove took Io, Jove wrapped in his cloud. But I will arrive in a bus.

She walked through the halls and realized how long it had been since she'd been to Edward's office, years since she'd gone down this corridor, so quiet and dim. She could hear her footsteps on the linoleum floor. They were as loud as her footsteps had been in the streets of Prague. Through the dingy passage she went, a pilgrim in search of her shrine.

Her determination and need were so stark and plain to her that she began to feel something like confidence, and that confidence grew the more she thought of Edward. How would Edward feel if Edward were seeking Edward? she asked herself. Why, he would feel strong and eager and sure. And so would she.

She imagined his face, all its angles and the deep-set blue eyes, the sudden explosion of a smile. She could hear his loud laugh, his voice resounding with love for his fellow man, who so resembled him.

She strengthened her resolve with these pictures of his face and sounds of his laugh until she realized she was at the office, and his laugh, his real laugh, echoed from within, and his face, his real face, appeared in the gap left by the half-open door. She could see him, and in front of him the back of a head with long silky brown hair, a student's head that faced him and moved only when he moved, to the left a little, to the right, the hair flicking loyally behind, then back to face the smiling, laughing, professorial shrine. My shrine, Margaret thought. Not your shrine.

It was summer. Didn't these girls have homes? Or summer camps? Or generous indiscriminate grants to study the sexual orientation of the figures depicted on Caribbean postage stamps?

Margaret stuck her head in. "Hi!" she said. She waved, wiggling her fingers, and smiled broadly.

"Margaret?" Edward looked startled. She'd caught him off guard, not an easy task. Her smile grew. She felt better just standing in his doorway. Beat it, broad, she thought, glancing quickly at the glossy brown hair, then back at Edward.

The silky head turned to face her. Oh—the pretty pale-skinned girl she had expected to see was not a girl at all but a boy. With a scraggly mustache. Well, all the better. Beat it, buddy. Can't you tell when you're
de trop?

"Busy?" she said.

Edward stared at her in irritation.

"John," he said, after an awkward silence during which Margaret continued to smile blandly, thinking an insipid innocence to be her best opening ploy, "this is Margaret Nathan." He motioned toward her dismissively.

"Wow! Hi!" said the boy.

And Edward continued in a tone of voice that Margaret did not recognize and that did not become him, she thought. Edward bitter and pompous? Edward disappointed and therefore affecting superiority? Edward
was
superior! Didn't he know that anymore?

"Margaret, this is John Marsh. And the conference you have burst in upon with such uncharacteristic zeal, at least in regard to your proximity to me, has to do, or I should say had to do, with John's difficulty in deciding whether to return here next year or to take a year off to seek a higher understanding."

"Ah," Margaret said. "You mean riding across the country on a motorcycle."

"How did you know?" John said, eager and earnest as a dog. He stood up and began to shake her hand heartily. "Wow! Margaret Nathan! It's totally an honor to meet you."

Gee, Margaret thought. Look at how he's looking at me. He's heard of me. He's excited to meet me. Why, he adores me! And isn't he cute, behind that little tufty scrap he thinks is a mustache. Look at those pretty, wide hands.

"Yes, quite an honor," Edward said.

Margaret was gratified by the boy's attention, but she was becoming alarmed at Edward's manner, and annoyed by it, too. How was she to woo him back if he reacted to her mere presence with petty sarcasm? What if she
was
a bad wife? She was in love with him and wanted him back. Wasn't that enough? She glared at Edward, her smile, and plan to continue smiling vacantly, quite forgotten. Then she turned her eyes back to young John.

"So
this
is why you teach," she said, insinuating, consciously suggestive.

Edward said nothing, but flashed her a look that said, Don't go too far.

She gave him a look that she hoped would say, I've already gone too far, so what's one more little misstep?

But she added, "This is why you teach. A student of such devotion, showing up on such a beautiful July morning."

John grinned.

"It's raining," Edward said.

"Is it?"

"Margaret, we really are busy. Perhaps you could conduct your own tutorial somewhere else."

"Perhaps." And she ostentatiously eyed John again.

There was another silence, then John said, "My mom likes your book, Ms. Nathan."

Well, aren't you sweet, Margaret wanted to say. You and your mom. But she limited herself to a soft thank-you, then ran her eye down his smooth young face to his T-shirt, which was decorated with revealing little rips, to his jeans and pointy cowboy boots.

She felt Edward watching her watch the boy, so she said, "I hope we'll be seeing much more of each other, Mr. Marsh."

"Wait'll I tell my mom," said John, and he shuffled out of the office, mumbling thanks and a promise to Edward to think over his advice and a shy good-bye to Margaret.

Edward looked at her. He leaned back and put his feet on the desk. "His mom. How nice. Well, my darling, welcome. Leaving so soon? You needn't tarry on my account. I know why you've come, so let's get on with it, shall we?"

"You know why I've come? You know what I want?"

"Such delicacy, Margaret. Such consideration. But I have another student coming. Shall we conclude our business quickly, then?"

What does he mean? A quick hump beneath the desk? Hardly. He was sarcastic and distant and bitter, an unfamiliar, eerie state of affairs. Margaret's confidence of moments before hardened into willfulness. She felt reckless and glib.

"Professor Ehrenwerth?"

Margaret turned toward the quiet greeting and saw the girl from the dinner party, the silky brown-haired girl who read Walt Whitman in the library. The girl, the one. Oh, really. That's why you want me out of here. Well, too bad, chump. I'm not budging.

"Professor Ehrenwerth, am I interrupting you? I just wanted to come by and wish you a happy birthday and drop off this paper for my incomplete."

"Come in, Eve."

Eve? Yes, that was her name. Naturally.

"You remember my wife?"

"Oh, yes, hello, Ms. Nathan."

"Hello, Eve. And please call me Margaret."

"Margaret also came to wish me a happy birthday, didn't you, dear?" Edward said.

The twelfth. Yes, yes. Edward's birthday. Yes, she supposed she had come to wish him a happy birthday. And she, Margaret, was the gift. Surprise! No returns, Edward. And no exchanges.

She looked at Eve. How did this wide-eyed child know about his birthday? Well, of course she knew. She was the one. But not for long, sister, Margaret thought. You're finished in this burg.

"So thank you and good-bye, Margaret," Edward said.

"Eve," Margaret said, putting her hand on the girl's arm. "Would you mind if I stayed and observed your discussion? I'm researching a new book about the relationship between teacher and student in Western culture. It's called
From Socrates to Mr. Chips: Pedagogy and Desire.
"

"Margaret—"

"Oh, no, that's okay, Professor Ehrenwerth," Eve said. "It sounds so interesting. And if listening would really help..."

Margaret sat down on the one extra chair and crossed her legs.

Eve looked around for another, then shrugged and stood in front of Edward's desk.

"It's just that I really didn't have that much to say," Eve said. She put her paper on Edward's desk.

"Did you know that Professor Ehrenwerth was forty today, Eve? He certainly doesn't look it, does he?"

"No. But these days forty's young," said Eve. "The prime of life. I sometimes wish I were forty."

"You will be," Edward said.

"Yes, and I'm sure it will be wonderful for you," said Margaret. "The prime of life. Mid-life, in fact."

"My paper's about mid-life, Margaret!" Eve said. "'Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore'? You know it? And see, she's twenty-eight, the woman who's watching, and it's like a mid-life crisis? Because in those days twenty-eight was like mid-life?"

Margaret looked at Edward.

"Go away, Margaret," he said.

"Actually, I've got to go," Eve said cheerfully. "I'm leaving for Paris tonight. Are you going anywhere this summer?"

"Yes," Margaret said. "We're going to Paris, too."

"Are we?" Edward said.

"Mmm. We'll also drive around to other places, of course, stop here and there. Avignon, Les Baux."

"Ah, yes, of course, how could I forget," Edward said.

"Yes, how could you? Well, age does have a way of catching up with us, doesn't it, Eve?"

"I guess so. I hope we bump into each other, anyway."

"Where?" Margaret asked.

"In Paris!"

"Ah! Paris. Of course," Margaret said.

"Well,
au revoir!
"

"Yes, bye-bye," said Margaret. "Close the door, dear, would you?" And Eve was gone, leaving Margaret and Edward alone in the small, dusty office.

"Whitman and the Mid-Life Crisis?" Margaret said. "The Self-Help School of Criticism?"

"An unfortunate interpretation, I quite agree."

"Gosh, Edward, now that you're forty, you too can have a mid-life crisis, a full-blown mid-life crisis. Shower your seed upon the young—"

"Really, Margaret."

Margaret got up, sat on his desk, and pretended to look at some papers.