Requiem for a Dream (12 page)

Marion bought some sketch pads and pencils and
charcoal. She also bought a sharpener and a spray can of fixit. She
wanted to buy some pastel chalks, but for some reason what they had
didnt appeal to her so she let it go for now. She could always get
them later. Maybe in a few days she would get down town and roam
around the large art supply stores and smell and touch the canvas,
the stretcher strips, easels and brushes and just sort of browse. She
had no intention of buying any oils until she had a studio, but she
did want to do some watercolors. Thats where her head was really at
right now. She could feel that light, delicacy within her that she
knew she could transform into beautiful and fragile water-colors.
Yes, that was what she liked most about watercolors, their fragility.
She couldnt wait. She had this incredible urge to paint a single rose
standing in a slender vase of translucent blue, Venetian glass, or
perhaps lying on a piece of velvet. Yes, that would be lovely too.
With just a hint of shadow. So delicate and fragile that you can
smell its fragrance. Well we'll see. Perhaps in a few days. But for
now some sketching to help to re-animate the eye and hand. She felt
an almost uncontrollable urge to draw everything she saw as she
walked the street, everything had such a vibrance, such a life. She
quickly noticed the shapes of noses, eyes, ears; the planes of faces,
the cheek bones, chins; the curve of necks; and hands. She loved
hands. You can tell so much from hands and the way the fingers are
shaped and primarily the way people hold and treat their hands. She
was quite young, a child, the first time she saw a picture of
Michelangelos Creation and when she saw the detail of God giving life
to Adam the image was immediately and irrevocably implanted in her
mind. The more she studied painting in the later years the more
impressed she was with the simple conception behind that image and
the incredible story in the attitude of the two hands. It was an
attitude that she tried to incorporate in her work and every now and
then she felt she had succeeded, at least to some degree. She wanted
to simply, and directly, tell the viewer something about the painting
with the attitude of the object whether human or otherwise, to
transpose her inner feelings to the surface of the canvas . . . to
express her attitude through her art, to have her sensitivity seen
and felt.
 
 

The following days were pretty much the same for
Marion, Harry and Ty. Harry and Ty got wired at night and worked
their asses off, slowing down as much as possible when the other guys
got on their cases, and then taking a few sleeping pills and sleeping
through the day. Just once being a habit with Harry he was accustomed
to the routine by the second night so when he got home in the morning
he made love to Marion for a couple of hours before taking a couple
of her sleeping pills and crapping out. Now I know why you lose
weight on these things, you ball the weight off. You know, its just
the opposite for some men. Yeah? Thats right. It makes them
completely impotent and in some cases indifferent. Tougha lucka joe.
That aint my problem. Comere, and Harry pulled her down on the bed
and Marion giggled as he kissed her on the neck. What are you doing?
Harry snapped his head back and looked at her, If you dont know I
cant be doin it right. They laughed and Harry kissed her on the neck,
the shoulder and the breast and moistened his lips and kissed her
stomach, I want to see if I can wear it out. Which one? How many ya
got? and they both laughed and giggled and passed a loving morning
until it was time to sleep the day away.
 
 

At night, while Harry was at work, Marion sat on the
couch with her sketch pad and pencils and charcoal. She crossed her
legs under her and hugged herself and closed her eyes and allowed her
mind to drift into the future where she and Harry were together,
always, and the coffee house was always full and a feature article
had been written about it in the NEW YORKER and it became an in place
and all the art critics came to sit and drink coffee and eat pastry
and look at the paintings by the great artists of tomorrow that had
been discovered by Marion; and artists and poets and musicians and
writers sat around talking and discussing and from time to time
Marion would display her paintings and all the other painters loved
them and even the critics loved her work and praised its sensitivity
and awareness, and when she was not at the coffee house she could see
herself in her studio painting, the light from the paintings dazzling
the eye, and then she would pick up her sketch pad and look around
for something to sketch and nothing seemed to be exactly what she
wanted to do and so she tried to set up a still life with objects
from the kitchen or living room, but nothing seemed to excite or
inspire her so she went back to her fantasies and enoyed the comfort
and reassurance they gave her and they were more real than sitting on
the couch looking at the pencils, the charcoal and the virgin sketch
pad.
 
 

Each day Sara checked the mailbox very carefully, but
still no reply from the McDick Corp. But she stuck to the diet
anyway, but it was becoming harder and harder even with eating a
whole cup of lettuce. She spent the day with Ada and the ladies
getting the sun and still they came and asked and she showed them her
red hair but still nothing new happened. When the sun went behind the
building some of the ladies went in the house, especially those with
the reflectors, but Sara and a few others stayed outside enjoying the
cool shade. Even then it was not easy to forget about the food and
just enjoy the special attention she got as a soon to be contestant
on a quiz show, her mind drifting to images of lox and bagels and
delicious cheese danish that were so sharp she could smell them and
actually taste them and the ladies voices drifted by as she smiled
and licked her lips. But the nights were worse as she sat, alone, in
her viewing chair, watching the television, with her back to the
refrigerator hearing him murmuring to her, spasms of fear knotting
her stomach and a heaviness squeezing her chest. It was bad enough
him bugging her, but then the herring started too. A couple of yentas
already. Never stop. All the time talk, talk. Her ears started to
feel like they were under water. I feel good, so why dont you go
haunt Maurrie the butcher. Bite his thumbs off. Youll do everybody a
favor. —in sour cream with onions and spice, hmmmmmm—I dont hear
you—with a hot bialy ... or onion roll—I like Kaiser, thank you,
and anyway Im not hungry— and that growling in your stomach keeps
me awake—growling, schmowling, thats just my stomach thinking
thin—and the lox is red like your hair with the cream cheese and
bagel —who needs it? One more day and I'll have a meat patty for
lunch and you can drop dead, thank you very much, and Sara drank
another glass of water—zophtic, zophtic—and put the glass in the
sink and tossed her red head at the refrigerator, shook her tuchis in
his face, and went to bed. She was getting up a couple of times a
night now and was almost tempted to stop, or maybe cut down, on the
water, but she kept thinking of all the pounds that were going down
the drain and she continued to drink, drink, drink, water all day
long, not too disturbed by the nocturnal visits to the bathroom. But
now she was dreaming. Sometimes a couple of dreams in one night. Like
seeing chickens flying through her room, but they were neatly plucked
and roasted to a golden brown with little balls of kasha on their
backs. And then that roast beef. It kept rolling down the hill
threatening to crush her but somehow it just whirled by, just missing
her by a few inches, dragging behind it a gravy boat filled with rich
brown gravy, and bowls of mashed potatoes and chocolate covered
cherries with cherry juice filling. A couple nights of dreaming and
Sara decided enough already. She got the name of the doctor from her
lady friend and made an appointment. I dont know from diet pills, but
eggs and grapefruit I've had up to here thank you.
 
 

Harry had a hollow, sinking feeling in his gut, which
was reflected on his face, when Marion told him she was seeing the
shrink for dinner and a concert. Why do you have to see him for
krists sake. You can cut the son of a bitch loose. I dont want him
mentioning to my parents that I have stopped therapy. I want that
fifty dollars a week. Marion looked tenderly at Harry and spoke as
gently as possible, with feeling and care. Sweetheart, I am not going
to sleep with him— Harry shrugged and threw a hand up in the air,
Yeah, youre just—I told him I have the curse so hes planning on
going home after the concert. Harry tried, desperately, not to show
his feelings, but he failed and his chin kept getting lower and lower
and he started getting bugged with himself for not being able to stop
himself from sulking. Whats that supposed to mean? Marion smiled,
then started chuckling slightly hoping to snap Harry out of it, but
Harry was unyielding. Suddenly Marion hugged him and squealed with
absolute glee, O Harry, youre jealous. Harry halfheartedly tried to
push her away, but stopped trying after a moment. Marion kissed him
on the cheek and hugged him, Come on sweetheart, put your arms around
me ... come on ... please??? please???? She lifted Harrys arms and
placed them on her shoulders and he grudgingly left them there for a
moment then did not resist as she pushed them down around her and
snuggled into him. Eventually he exerted a little pressure and held
her closer and Marion sighed and nestled her head into his chest then
kissed him on the lips, the cheek, the ear, the neck and forced him
to squirm and giggle, and continued until he was laughing and begging
her to stop, Comeon, stop . . . stop, you crazy bitch or I' ll biteya
on the chroat, and he started kissing her on the neck and tickling
her and she joined him in laughing and they were both panting and
begging the other one to stop until they eventually laughed
themselves into submission and they stopped, Marion sitting on Harrys
lap, both hanging loose like rag dolls, tears of laughter tickling
their cheeks. They wiped their eyes and face and took a couple of
deep breaths, breaking out in chuckles from time to time. Suppose he
doesnt believe you about the curse? O Harry, tapping him on the nose,
dont be so naive. What do you mean? I mean simply that I know how to
handle the situation. He will accept whatever I tell him whether he
believes me or not. He wouldnt think of forcing the issue. Hes not
the type. Suppose he was the type? Then, my dear, I would not be
going out with him. Harry sweetheart, I am not a fool. She chuckled,
I may be crazy but Im not stupid. Yeah??? Harry looking at her with a
dubious expression on his face, Why doesnt he take his wife to the
concert? Shes probably at a meeting of the PTA, Marion shrugged, how
should I know? He likes to be seen in fashionable places with a
beautiful young woman. Hes a typical John. It makes him feel good.
Yeah???? Well, personally I think anybody who sees a shrink ought to
have his head examined. O Harry, thats dreadful, chuckling, giggling.
Then why are you laughing? I dont know. Out of sympathy I guess.
Anyway, I have to get ready to go. She got up and started for the
bedroom, then turned around and came back to Harry, who had gotten up
too, and put her arms around him and hugged him tightly and put her
head on his shoulder, closed her eyes and sighed. . . . O Harry, Im
so glad you were upset, not because it makes you feel bad sweetheart,
but it makes me feel good to know that you care that much for me.
Care for you? Now whos insulting who, eh? You think I was playing
games when I told you I love you? No, no, sweetheart, I believe you.
With all my heart I believe you. But I guess I like the way it looks
on your face. Okay, okay, we'll cool it. She smiled up at him for a
few long moments, then kissed him on the lips and went to the bedroom
to dress, I promise I'll think of you the entire evening. Thats
great. I'll think of you too eating and drinking wine and listening
to the music as Im working my ass off. Harry laughed, I guess thats
better than you working your ass off, and he continued laughing. O
Harry, thats dreadful, and she chuckled and laughed with relief as
she dressed for the evening.
 
 

Marion met Arnold at the small bar of an intimate
continental restaurant on the east side. He stood as she approached
and extended a hand. She took his hand and his seat. How are you
Marion? Fine Arnold, how are you? Well, thank you. The usual? Please.
He ordered a Cinzano with a dash of bitters and a twist for her. You
look exquisite, as usual. Thank you. She smiled and let him light her
cigarette. Soon they were advised that their table was ready and the
maitre d' led them to the table and asked Monsieur and Madam how they
were this evening and they smiled and nodded politely, as one does to
a maitre d', and told him they were fine. Marion relaxed into her
chair and felt her body absorb the atmosphere. The thing she enjoyed
about Arnold was his taste in restaurants. They were always small,
intimate and chic, with exceptional food, something you very rarely
find in America. The elegance of her surroundings had more to do with
the glow she felt than the aperitif she sipped almost continuously.
Im disappointed that you are indisposed. Well, theres nothing much I
can do about that, she smiled, Freud notwithstanding. Is Anita out of
town, or something? Why do you ask? No reason, really, just curious.
He looked at her for a moment before answering, No, but she will be
involved in something most of the night. Newsmen were there yesterday
taking her picture, along with a few other "members" in the
garden. Can I ask you a personal question Arnold? Certainly. How did
you and Anita ever manage to have any children— She held up her
hand, Im not trying to be facetious, honestly, its just that the two
of you always seem to be in different places at the same time. Arnold
sat a little straighter, Well, actually theres no mystery about that.
I didn't mean about the children, Marion was smiling, I do know about
that. Why do you ask these questions, its very curious. What,
exactly, do you mean by all this? Marion shrugged and finished
chewing her escargot, Nothing other than what I said. Im curious.
Marion sipped a bit of the white bordeaux he had ordered as he
scrutinized her, O, this is marvelous. She took another sip then went
back to her escargot. Arnold was still frowning slightly, When people
reach a particular point in life, when they have attained a certain
degree of success... a substantial degree, their interests broaden
and their perspective widens. I imagine with Anita its an inner need
for fulfillment, her civic work, a need to find her own identity. But
what really interests me is why you should be asking a question like
that. Its so obvious that you are trying to vicariously fulfill the
lack in your life by playing a substitute role, substituting yourself
in the role as my wife. O Arnold, dont be gauche. She finished her
wine and immediately the waiter was there to refill her glass. Arnold
nodded politely at him. And anyway, Im not in the least worried about
my identity, she smiled at him and patted his hand, really Im not.
She had finished her escargot and dabbed at the garlic butter with a
piece of roll. Ive started painting again and I feel marvelous. You
have? She had finished and the waiter took the empty plates and she
sat back and smiled at Arnold. Thats right. I havent actually
finished any canvases yet, but Im working. I can feel the paintings
just welling up within me, begging to come out. Well ... I would very
much like to see your work. It would give me, I feel, a tremendous
insight into your subconscious. I should think that you would be
familiar enough with that by now. Well, its not exactly a stranger to
me, but this would be approaching it from a different angle, a
different point of view so to speak. You see here most of your
defenses would not only be down, but the symbols would be far more
obvious than in the dreams and it would give wonderful corroboration
to the conclusions formed from analyzing the free association. Well,
maybe sometime I'll invite you up to see my etchings, and Marion
chuckled, but not too loudly, as she forked a little meat off her
frogs legs. After the concert they stopped in for a nightcap. Arnold
didnt drink his scotch with any particular interest, but Marion loved
to roll the chartreuse around in her mouth before swallowing it. That
was a marvelous concert, just marvelous, and she had a reflective
look on her face as if she were still hearing the music, especially
the Mahler. Whenever I hear his Resurrection Symphony, more than any
other, I start to understand why they say he took romanticism to its
ultimate in music. I feel all welled up inside like Ive just run up a
flower covered hillside and the breeze is blowing my hair in the wind
and Im whirling around and the sunlight is glancing off the wings of
birds and the leaves of trees, and Marion closed her eyes and sighed.
I agree, it was a definitive performance. I think he really got to
the heart of Mahlers ambivalence and understands how he unconsciously
projected it into his music. Marion frowned, What ambivalence? The
basic conflicts in his life. His compromise with his Jewish heritage
and his willingness to renounce it to further his career. His
constant conflict as a conductor when he wanted to compose, but
needing the money to live. Its obvious the manner in which he changes
keys that he was unaware that these conflicts were responsible for
those changes. Just as they were responsible for his changes in
attitude toward God. But that was over by the time he wrote the
second symphony. Ostensibly, but I have listened very carefully to
his music, and analyzed it thoroughly, and there is no doubt that
though he may have said certain things, and perhaps even believed
them in his conscious mind, that his subconscious had not as yet
resolved the conflict. Arnold breathed deeply, Mahlers music is
extremely interesting from an analytical point of view. I find it
very stimulating. Marion smiled and put her empty glass on the table,
Well, I still love his music. It sort of makes me happy to be sad.
She sighed and smiled again, I really have to be going Arnold. I have
been very busy lately and am tired. Fine. He drove her home and
before she got out of the car he smilingly smirked, I'll give you a
call in a couple of weeks. That should be about right. He kissed her
and she kissed him back and left the car. He waited until she was in
the building before driving away. Marion lit a joint as soon as she
got in the apartment, then changed her clothes, then put Mahlers
Kindertotenlieder on the phonograph and sat on the couch with her
sketch pad and pencils. She continually adjusted the pad on her lap,
taking another poke of the joint until it was half gone then put it
out, and tried to work up some sort of image to transfer onto the
sketch pad. That should be easy enough to do. Mahler . . . good pot
... it should all come together. She realized she was pushing too
hard and so she just sat back and relaxed and waited for it to come.
Still it was a blank. If only she had a model. Thats what was needed.
A model. She could feel the drawing begging to come out, her need to
express herself giving her energy, but she couldnt seem to unloose
the gates and organize that energy. She jumped up and grabbed a
couple of womens magazines from the table and started rapidly
thumbing through them marking all the ads and articles with pictures
of babies and mothers and, finding a few that suited her, tore them
out and used them as models and started sketching, at first
tentatively, then with increasing speed and assurance. The mothers
and babies were placed in various positions and juxtapositions, with
varying expressions, the expressions becoming more and more
melancholy. She very rapidly did a sketch of a child in a contorted
position, a look of silent pain on its face, and the mothers
expression quickly began to look like the man in the Edvard Munch
woodcut and Marion looked at the sketch very carefully from every
angle and felt excited and inspired by it as she felt a deep
identification with both figures. She looked very carefully at the
babys pained face then drew another baby next to it, about a year
older, yet the expression remained the same. She continued to draw
the child, in each drawing the child was a year older and as she
progressed the drawings became more skillful, more lifelike, more
filled with emotion and she began to sketch little birthday candles
under the drawings showing the age of the child and then the features
became more distinct and the hair long and black, the same silent
pain on her face, and then she started to blossom and become a woman
and she was slowly transformed from a pretty child to a lovely girl
and then a beautiful woman but always that haunted and pained
expression on her face, and then she stopped drawing and looked at
the beautiful woman on the pad looking back at her, a woman of long
flowing lines and curves, classic features, dark shining hair, her
inner pain reflected in her dark and penetrating eyes, and then she
left a wide space and sketched another figure, a figure of uncertain
age, but certainly much older than the last figure, but the lines and
curves the same, the body the same, the features of the face the same
until it suddenly turned into the anguished expression of the Munch
figure. Marion stared at the figure and suddenly became aware of the
silence. She got up and played the record again, then sat back on the
couch and looked at her drawings. They excited her.