I, the Divine (28 page)

“The Americans are so stupid,” he told me. “They all grow up in barns. They’re cow people. Even now, they all have money and things, but they still are stupid. When Sarah went to America, the Americans loved her because she was
the greatest star in the world. But they didn’t understand her
at all. Sarah was a hard worker. In America, she was doing play after play and she was extremely tired. One time, she got so tired in the middle of the first act of a play, she fainted. The director brought down the curtains to see if she was all right. Being the trooper that she was, when she woke up she wanted to go on with the play. She said she was ready. They raised the curtain, but there was no one in the audience. Thinking the play was over, those dummies had left. The stupid Americans didn’t understand a thing.”

Amal was right about one thing. My grandfather told me so many stories of Sarah Bernhardt, of her awe-inspiring acting, her wonderful sculpture, her devilish tantrums and hysterical rages. He talked of her beauty and charm, of her eyes that borrowed color from the changing light. He talked of having met her as a young boy of eleven and her kindness toward him. He talked of her presence on stage, the brilliance of her personality. He could not stop talking about her infatuation with death, her sleeping in caskets. How she was the only actress in history to have been a success as both Hamlet and Ophelia. He never talked about Damala, the gorgeous, abusive Greek she gave herself to. That I had to find out on my own, how obsessed she became with the man twelve years her junior, their tumultuous marriage, how she let a man with no talent convince her to let him become her lead actor. He never told the story of the Prince de Ligne, the Belgian who seduced her when she was still a young girl, who showed her a different life only to withdraw when she told him she was pregnant. He never mentioned all the men she toyed with, who were so in love with her she kept them on a leash for her entertainment. He never said anything about her pattern of falling in love only with men who could not love her back.

He never once mentioned her son, not how he was born out of wedlock, not how much she loved him.

“She was so skinny at a time when girls were fat,” he told me as I sat on his lap. “You could see her collarbone, just like yours.”

“She’s just like me.”

He traced the jutting collarbone. “You have exactly the same collarbone, deep and capacious. I’m going to start drinking my soup from here.” He bent down wanting to lick my neck and I laughed like crazy.

I was visiting my mother in her New York apartment. She lay back on her divan, enigmatic and morose. She was in a talkative mood for a change.

“Your grandfather was an evil man,” she said without any hint of emotion. “He made my life miserable. Whenever no one was around, he would whisper things like, ‘You may think you have him because you spread your legs, but all vaginas go sour after a while.’ He even called a couple of times and I picked up the phone and bang, he’d call me a whore or a slut. What could I do? I tried telling your father, but he didn’t believe me. There was no one I could talk to. He did not relent, kept going after me again and again. You know, when I heard your father remarried, I was so hurt at first. I wanted his new wife dead. But then I thought, you know, there’s no worse fate I could wish on someone than having that devil for a father-in-law.”

“He did treat her very badly.”

“The worst was after each of my deliveries. Did I ever tell you what he told me after you were born? He and his fucking wife were in the hospital room with me. Your father was in the waiting room playing host with all the visitors. Your grandfather picked you up and said, ‘You know, Janet, I love this girl so much. Do you know why?’ Like an idiot, I asked, ‘Why?’ And he said, ‘I love her so much because she’s the reason I am going to be able to return you to your fucking country.’ ”

Our novel opens with the sound of running water. We are unable to discern clearly at first because we are at a distance. We feel a cold, the cold of low temperatures not that of harsh weather. The visuals are unclear. It is hard to see for everywhere there is white. Snow covers the ground, the trees, every stationary thing. As we get closer, we realize the sound is a waterfall. The sound is concentrated, bowl-shaped. Within ten feet of the waterfall, it is deafening, yet one step farther quiet creeps in.

Hovering above the waterfall, we see that the river is
about thirty feet wide. The fall is manmade. No. That is
not
exactly accurate. The fall is man-aided. The drop has been
evened out, but the rocks and the spasmodic fits of water at the bottom show that nature has not been completely vanquished. The white of the water is slightly more colorful, less virginal, than the white of the snow covering the rocks.

It is March in a small town in New Hampshire.

Our river runs through the center of the sleepy town, houses and small buildings on each side. We hear the sound of a miniature snowplow driving along the sidewalk. The street has already been done. Even though the sky is a dazzling blue, not many pedestrians are out. Only one woman steps off the sidewalk onto the road to let the plow through. She smiles at the driver, who stops.

“Hello, John,” she says cheerfully. She is of hardy New England stock, short, no more than five-two or so, we can guess one hundred and sixty pounds, but we can’t be completely sure because of the dumpy gray overcoat she wears. A woolen cap covers her relatively small head, which makes it difficult to figure out her hair color, but we can assume, with some confidence, that it is gray, for she does not seem like the kind of woman who would bother with hair coloring.

“Mornin’, Mary. Turned out a lovely day, hasn’t it?” John sits behind a large bushy mustache and the handlebars of the snowplow. He seems eternally happy, plowing being the perfect job for him, dreaming of motorcycle racing.

“Ah, yeh. They say there won’t be another storm for three days.”

“That’s what they say.”

“Did you see that coat there?” Mary asks, pointing at a couple down below the road watching the waterfall.

“Must be from Boston.”

“Must be. Well, I’d better be getting along. You have a good day, John.”

There you go. We have now been introduced to the coat and the woman wearing it.

If we look down at where sturdy Mary pointed, we see two women below the road, along the promenade, leaning across the metal railing, watching the waterfall. Right away we can tell they are not local, but we are also sure they are not Bostonians either. The coat alone should have been enough of a clue. It is fake fur, ankle-length, hyacinthine, and seems to highlight the woman’s lovely curves as opposed to obfuscating them. She wears purple high-heeled boots with matching mittens. Her hair (we note the absence of any hat, more prima facie evidence she is not local) is a lustrous blue-black, wavy and abundant, dropping an inch past her shoulders. We are observing her from the back, still, almost statuesque, watching the raging waters do battle with the implacable rocks.

The woman standing to her right seems jittery in comparison, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She moves her head sideways to glance at her companion, as if gauging the other’s feelings. We can tell from the appearance of the woman on the right that she is slightly perturbed. She wears a small black skullcap that barely covers her head. The cap is obviously no match for the temperature. She also wears a parka, which makes her look like the Michelin man, with a warm hood that is not being used. It hangs loosely on her back, barely held on by one button, like a relic about to be discarded. Her hair is recently cut, a short boyish crop, dyed an unnatural red. Her hands are parked in her parka. She has obviously forgotten her gloves.

We can’t hear much of their conversation yet; the sound of running water overpowers everything. Let us try and move closer so we can eavesdrop. We begin to hear a conversation already in progress. The hyacinth woman says, “His hair was still soldered with brilliantine. It was still black-black. I couldn’t believe it. My mother actually dyed the hair of the corpse and then used a ton of brilliantine like she did every morning while he was still alive. I walk into the room and the bastard looks like he’s twenty years younger except he doesn’t look anything like himself, all sallow and pallid. My mother had him lying on the bed, his head on the pillow, his arms folded on his chest, exactly like he looked all the time when he was resting and I wasn’t allowed to disturb him. It was right out of the
Twilight Zone
. Kept waiting to hear the music in the background. So here I am, just arrived, everybody berating me for being late as if I could have taken the Concorde to Beirut or something, and my mother takes me in to see him and he looks like he’s been waiting for me. It was sick. My mother says I can touch him if I want. Well, the only thing I wanted to touch was his hair. I don’t know what came over me. I wanted to muss up his hair.”

“Actually,” the red-haired woman says, “I’ve always wanted to do that myself. Not sure why.”

“Me too. But I couldn’t do it while he was alive and now here he lay dead in front of me. So I tried and you know what? I couldn’t do it. That damn brilliantine was so stuck it felt like I was trying to break up cement. It remained like a bowling ball. All I did was break his hair into compact strips, but it sure didn’t move. Even at the end he frustrates me. Too bad he’s dead because he could have explained all this to me.”

“Brilliantine is never just brilliantine.”

“No,” the hyacinth woman says with a giggle, “nothing is ever just what it is.” She smiles for the first time. Her companion joins her in smiling, happy to be of some use. Hyacinth woman puts her arm through her friend’s, moves closer and lays her head on her friend’s shoulder.

Now, what can we gather from this glimpse into these two women’s lives? We have a slightly clearer picture. First, let us name them, for we cannot keep calling them the hyacinth and the red-haired woman. The former we shall call Dina and the latter, Sarah, good Lebanese names. It is fairly obvious from the snippet of conversation we overheard that Dina has just attended her father’s funeral, which must have happened in Beirut. It seems Sarah is here to comfort her. We can tell from the last physical interaction, the laying of the head on the other’s shoulder, that they are close, probably old friends. What else? Well, they spoke without much of a discernible accent—discernible foreign accent, that is. That means they have probably been living in America for a while, probably arrived at a fairly young age, not children, but young adults. Dina does seem to have a noticeable Boston twang to her words, so maybe Snowplow John, with his quick assessment, was not far off after all.

Dina delivered her speech impassively, not removing her gaze from the waters until the end. Her face is heavily made up, even the purple eye shadow applied with thought to match the outfit. Whatever is troubling her is not apparent to the inexperienced eye. She seems serene, content with her life. Yet Sarah’s face shows a concern for her friend that eases slightly only when Dina smiles.

Let us find out more.

Sarah walks over to the stone bench and sits down. She seems slightly more at ease, but not much. She takes off the cap, scratches her head, and puts the cap back on. “I should have been there,” she says. “You should have let me come.”

“No. I was fine. It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“It would have. I should’ve been there for you.”

“Oh, come on,” Dina says, still somewhat impassively. “My mother would have had a conniption. She would’ve been on me the whole time. If you wanted to help me, your not coming was a great help.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“You know what I mean. My mother still thinks you turned me into a lesbian. She hates your guts. You ruined me, admit it. You led me down this road of sin and left me there. It’s your fault I’m a fallen woman.”

“If only I could talk to your mother. Listen, can’t I just talk to her? Next time I’m in Beirut, I can just go over and talk to her.”

Dina sits down next to her friend. “Get real,” she says seriously. “Do you think you’d be able to get through to her? Do you think you can say anything I haven’t? She remembers what you were like. We slept together in the same bed many times. Ergo, you’re the lesbian and you converted me. It’s simple.”

“Your mother’s fucked up.”

Dina smacks the back of Sarah’s head playfully. “Earth to Sarah. What do you think I’ve been saying all these years?”

“I should’ve been there. For you.”

“It was almost as if you were there. Your whole family showed up. All of them. That was so wonderful. Even your ex-husband was there with your son. I was so grateful. I think we should plan on getting you two remarried.”

“And his wife?”

“Details, details. We can easily get rid of that little ninny.”

“Kidnap her and force her to wear something other than Armani. That’ll kill her on the spot, don’t you think?”

“He still loves you dearly.”

“I know. And I love him. It just didn’t work out, that’s all. We still talk three or four times a week. Sometimes I wonder what could have been, but it never would have worked out. We always wanted different things. In a way, we’re closer now than we’ve ever been. We have no need to change each other.”

“We still should get rid of that little ninny.”

“And get him a better haircut.”

“And make him stop smoking.”

“And get him out of politics.”

Sarah and Dina have their arms entangled again. Sitting on the bench, Sarah looks quizzically at her friend, still wonders if Dina remains troubled. A questioning expression keeps reappearing on Sarah’s face.

“Your father was there. I was surprised. He offered me his condolences. Surprised the hell out of me.”

“It shouldn’t have. He’s a stickler for rituals. He was just doing his duty.”

“He still hates my guts.”

“Yours hated mine.”

“Your mother was wonderful.”

“My stepmother?”

“Yes. She’s extraordinary. I love that woman.”

“She always loved you. From the beginning.”

“She took me out to lunch a couple of times. It seems every time I see her, I gain more respect for her. Do you realize she’s the only one who asks how Margot is doing? For everyone else the relationship doesn’t exist. Twenty years together and my mother doesn’t want to know anything, but your mother cares enough to ask. Maybe she should adopt me.”

“If she did, you’d be set financially.”

“Yeah, and who would’ve believed that?”

The women have been sitting silent for a while. Sarah wants to interrupt the interlude, but is unsure how to proceed. She is examining Dina’s face in an attempt to read the secrets hidden there. She finally breaks in: “Why are we here?”

“I wanted to be out of Boston,” Dina answers.

“Yes, but why here? Why didn’t you just visit me in San Francisco?”

“I didn’t want to be
that
far out of Boston!”

“Why not New York?”

“I like it here. Always have. I can think here. It’s so beautiful.”

We can see Sarah is not fully satisfied with the answers. She hesitates, trying to figure out the best way in. “Are you worried about work?”

“Work? No. I took a leave of absence from the firm. I can come back whenever I feel ready. They’ve been quite supportive. Speaking of work, I designed a cabin in the woods about two miles north of here. We should go up and visit. You can see what my early work looks like.”

Sarah shakes her head. “I know what your early work looks like. I know all your work. Remember?”

“I meant in person. We can see the cabin for real instead of blueprints. Self-exposure in the woods instead of on paper.” Dina grins seductively at her friend, which only causes Sarah to shake her head even more.

“Where’s Margot?” Sarah asks pointedly.

“She’s at home.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“Yes.”

“Big one?”

“Yes. Big one.”

“Really big one?”

“Biggest one we’ve ever had.” Dina disentangles herself, stands up, and moves closer to the railing. She absentmindedly runs her gloved hand over the metal, removing the snow from the guardrail.

“I see. And you left?” Sarah shuffles her feet, stares intently at her friend.

“Packed a small bag.”

“Does she know?”

“She’ll find out tonight.”

“Just like that?”

“She told me to go to hell.”

“And here you are.”

“This isn’t hell,” Dina exclaims. She turns around smiling, her arms gesturing to encompass everything around her. “Look. This is beautiful. This is closer to heaven. My kind of heaven at least.”

“This is hell. Did you notice all the churches?”

“There’s a great vintage clothing shop.”

“Used clothing. Used, not vintage.”

“No, no. Vintage. Believe me, what they have in that store should be in a museum. It’s vintage.”