"Aw, Ferenc," Andrew said in a whiny voice. "They're not my delusions—they're my mother's. I thought you'd be glad to see me."
Ferenc smiled and put the pizza down on the coffee table.
"Hey," said Clarence. "Don't put the pizza down there— that's where I keep my cutout pictures for my artwork." He raced over and lifted the box, but it was too late; most of the pictures of food he had meticulously cut out from magazines were stuck to the grease oozing through the bottom of the box.
"Do you know, apart from Inez, you two are the first new people Fve befriended in a long time," Clarence said. Neither Ferenc nor Andrew responded. "Apart from Inez," Clarence said again. Andrew picked at a scab on his elbow. "It's true," Clarence said, more loudly than he had intended. "Believe me or not, but it's the truth."
Ferenc had seated himself upon the bed and was intently examining a painting of a cow which hung above the fireplace. At last he spoke. "I perpetually build these cages and then put myself into them," he said. "I might have been a proctologist, had I not met a girl who introduced me to heroin. Now I've had to change my major from pre-med to finance."
"I know exactly what you mean," said Clarence. "Because I was afraid of writing a bad paper, I procrastinated, each summer I had more and more incompletes to write, until the work load became overwhelming. It has taken me more than six years to get through college; I still have a semester left. As for the statement that you two are the first new people I've befriended—I almost never speak to anyone, lacking social grace. It was only because Inez inflicted herself upon me that I became engaged to her, and through her, have now met you, Ferenc and Andrew."
Andrew glared angrily at Clarence. "This sort of dribble doesn't interest me in the least," he said. "If this is what you locked me up here for, you can bet I'm not sticking around any
longer. Give me five dollars. I want to go play some video games."
"That sounds like fun," Inez said. "I'm coming with you."
"Should I come?" Clarence wondered aloud.
"Clarence," Inez said, "one of the first signs of a bad relationship is the inability of one partner to allow the other his or her independence. You have a nice chat with Ferenc, listen to your opera or whatever, and give me the extra set of keys. I'll be back later."
As Andrew and Inez walked to the door, Andrew said, "Although I'm only nine years old, I'm very highly sexed. People don't realize how much of a sex life even small children have. After we play the video games, why don't you come home with me, Inez, and I'll introduce you to my mother? Then we can go to my room and listen to records."
"You little devil," Inez said, reaching under Andrew's arms and tickling him ferociously. She turned and grinned wildly at Clarence. "Don't get maudlin, Clarence," she said. "Easy come, easy go!"
Clarence suspected this was Inez's idea of a joke. Yet the thought she might not return did not bother him nearly as much as it had on other days. He turned to Ferenc. "How did you escape?" he said.
"What?" said Ferenc.
"How did you ever escape from Hungary?"
"I'm not Hungarian," Ferenc said. "Nor do I have an accent. My father is Lithuanian. I come from Chicago."
Clarence puzzled over this remark for some time. "To me," he said, "you resemble a dark, mysterious James Dean."
Ferenc stood up and walked restlessly about the apartment. "Some folks might say I'm too self-absorbed," he said at last. "I brood a lot, trying to figure out the mysteries of life. You'd do well to remain friends with Andrew, though he's only nine years old. For all that he is irritating, I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be the modern Messiah. He has a long way to go, however."
Clarence felt something jolt in his chest. Tomorrow, he thought to himself, I will go to the health center for tests. "But you're the one who's unusual, Ferenc," he said. "It's you!"
Ferenc picked up a stack of photographs lying on the mantelpiece. His hands were trembling. "What's this?" he said.
Clarence hurried over to Ferenc's side and took the pictures from his hand. "Those are my Polaroid photos," he said. "Would you like to look at them? Here's one of me in my bath."
"Not right now," Ferenc said. "I have to get back to my job. I have a lot of deliveries to make. Why don't you come with me? We'll make the rounds, and stop off for a drink later. We could talk some more." He turned and knocked into Clarence, who clumsily dropped the stack of photographs.
Clarence knelt to pick them up from the floor. "I would love that," he said, looking at Ferenc's grotesque army boots. "I would love it. But I have to wait for Inez to return. Perhaps some other time."
"I understand," Ferenc said. He turned to leave.
"Wait!" Clarence said. "Before you go, let me give you a tip." He handed Ferenc a five dollar bill. Then he picked up his Polaroid camera from the radiator. As Ferenc turned to shake his hand he snapped three pictures of him, one right after the next.
"I have these pictures of you," Clarence said. "You know my address, I hope you will come back to look at them sometime."
"Goodbye," said Ferenc.
Clarence sat down on the couch and looked at the photographs as they began to develop. I wonder when my fiancée will return? he thought. I do hope she'll bring Andrew back with her.
In the closet something scratched at the door and began to yowl in a high, thin voice. Clarence picked up a dripping slice of pizza and carried it slowly to the closet door.
For dinner that night I made cheese fondue. I had a terrible craving for the stuff, had for two days. It came in one of those packages, Swiss Knight, $3.50 at the supermarket. I opened the box. Inside was a little metal packet, all I had to do was warm it in a double boiler. I toasted some French bread in the oven. Stash wasn't coming home until late. I ate without him, carefully putting half to one side.
I turned on the TV. While I was dipping the bread into the cheese, I started to cry. The fondue was already salty enough, big tears slid off into my face and into the bubbling cheese.
The last time I had fondue, I was eighteen and studying in England for the year. The fondue was chocolate. My mother gave me the names and addresses of various acquaintances of hers who lived in London: one was a lord, a professor at one of the branches of London University.
I wrote to all her friends, with a letter of introduction I composed with difficulty:
I
am a young American girl studying abroad in London for the year. Never before have I left the environs of the United States. My mother told me to write to you. I feel it is your duty, as a brilliant English personage, to assist a youthful, ignorant girl in acquiring culture.
On the envelope of each letter I drew a tiny face, hairy, with various animal attributes: giant furry ears, a dog collar and
leash, a man's head with a long, toothy snout. My mother had always encouraged my artistic tendency; she didn't know whether any of these people would actually remember her, since she had only spent a week in London once, ten years ago, but she thought I should pursue all avenues.
Every day I checked the mailbox in the student lounge. Some of my mother's friends wrote asking what it was that I wanted from them, informing me that they were very busy. Others didn't even bother to respond. Then, after three weeks, an invitation to lunch from Lord Simeon.
The other American girls in the dorm were excited by my invitation. In the cafeteria, over dessert—a bowl of pale green, slippery gooseberries topped with hot custard—my best friend suggested I become Lord Simeon's mistress, if he would have me looking the way I did. "Why don't you go instead of me?" I said. I knew my mother wouldn't approve, but I didn't see how I could face this man with green hair.
What happened was, in one of my excursions down the back streets of London, I passed the Vidal Sassoon hair salon. I had long black hair down to my waist. Some of the stylists, smoking cigarettes on the sidewalk, stopped me and asked if I wouldn't do some modeling for them. "Okay," I said. "Can I get some pictures to mail home?" They took me into the salon. A whole crowd of stylists stood behind my chair, playing with my hair and remarking in shrill English accents. I could hardly understand what they were saying. I felt as if I were the first white person ever seen by some isolated African tribe.
I was told the coloring wasn't permanent, but would wash out. It took three days of work, from nine in the morning until early evening. First my hair was bleached, then dyed, then given a permanent wave. In recent years my mother had gone once a week to a beauty parlor, I didn't see how she could have stood it. This business was painful, I felt like a prize pig.
The hair show was on the evening of the third day, at the Royal Albert Hall. The audience was a group of two thousand Japanese hair designers, who had traveled to London to learn the new techniques. I was placed under a sheet, with only an
opening for the head, along with five other girls. Then we were pushed out onto the stage.
We were to represent a bowl of fruit—I was the green grapes. Another girl had hair cut in a bowl. She was an apple, with red and green hair. In front her hair was longer than her eyes, so she clutched me for support. The top of her hair was completely smooth except for a narrow strip twisted with pipe cleaner to serve as the stem. The others were banana, strawberry, and an orange, with hair colored and fashioned appropriately.
From the stage the two thousand Japanese hairdressers all looked exactly alike, with shiny black hair and blank faces, giggling politely. I tried to pretend I was somewhere else. Several photographers shouted up to me: "Hold up your head! Give us a smile!" They must have been in communication with my mother. I scowled, blinded by the flashbulbs. The apple, unable to see from beneath her hair, stumbled off to one side. No one seemed to know in which direction we were supposed to move. We were like a Siamese quintuplet, staggering under the white sheet. But the fruit got a big round of applause.
I went home to wash my hair. There were no showers in the dormitory, just bathtubs. The tub was filled with green water, but after my bath my hair still looked the same. Only a little of the dye had washed out.
It was two days after this that my luncheon with Lord Simeon was scheduled to take place. At the college where I was meeting him, in the long, dark halls, I passed a glass case with a sign that read: here rest the mortal remains of jeremy bentham, founder of the college. But the case was empty. Hordes of students walked to and from classes. My green hair got me a lot of attention; I was sure that none of them even suspected that I, the same age as they, was about to have lunch with one of their professors.
I took the stairs up to the fourth floor. Lord Simeon's office was like a private library, lined with books, an Oriental rug on the floor. The secretary, very proper, asked if she could help me. "I'm Eleanor," I said. "I'm here for lunch."
"Oh, yes," the secretary said, rising from her desk. "Lord Simeon is in a meeting, but he'll be with you shortly. Would you care for a glass of sherry while you wait?"
"Okay," I said. I felt nervous. I grew up in the woods, in South Carolina. The only thing I knew about situations such as this was what I had read in books. What I had grown up reading was limited to what my mother had given me. Though my mother had always told me I could be anyone I chose, I couldn't make up my mind among Marjorie Morningstar, Tess of the d'Urbervilles, Isabelle Archer, and Miss Gamelon. It was hard to fit these characters to the present.
Well, according to my mother, life was supposed to be an adventure. If adventure didn't come to you, you had to go out there and force it, just as forsythia can be made to blossom prematurely in winter. I had only met one person to whom adventure constantly happened: my roommate from freshman year. When my mother helped me to move into my dorm room, she took one look at Sage—six feet tall, blond, wearing blue platform shoes—and told me I was in luck, that here was a person who could show me around. But Sage would have little to do with me, I had to live her experiences vicariously. She would return to our dorm room early each morning and relay the events of the previous evening: picked up by a well-known rock star in a limousine, taken to a fancy nightclub, given quantities of cocaine. Later this girl flunked out and married a med student she had known since high school. But at the time, it was a big disappointment that she rejected me socially. This girl was rich, she wore tiny hats with veils that cost $60. I was trying to get by on work-study. I served dinner in the cafeteria, soggy Brussels sprouts, flabby chicken thighs, smothered liver and onions.
But in London, as my mother had predicted, things did seem to happen to me. A girl with my looks was quite exotic: everyone in England was pale and blond. Once a man followed me around the Tate and invited me to a party. He resembled a youthful Andy Warhol. He came from Neptune, New Jersey, and had something to do with the fashion department of the
Victoria and Albert Museum. I thought he was kind of creepy. but then he introduced me to his English wife, Fiona, who was a stripper at lunchtime in various pubs. After this introduction I felt a little more comfortable with him—after all, he was married, it wasn't your usual pickup.
Anyway, this particular adventure didn't work out too well; I went to dinner at their house, where I was shown a display of various sexual devices. I acted friendly and interested. After dinner I helped with the dishes. Fiona showed me the gowns she wore for her strip act, and suggested that if I was short of cash she could get me a job.