Pike's Folly (18 page)

A man in cotton pants and a white unbuttoned shirt ran over to introduce himself. He looked about forty, with a salmon-colored complexion and golden hair parted wet to one side. Taking Stuart's hand, he said, “Mr. Breen, the novelist. Carla told me all about you. Your book is widely read in Europe.”

Stuart frowned; this wasn't true, and they both knew it. “Are you sure?” he asked. “It was never published there.”

The Frenchman made a trifling gesture and moved on to Marlene. “And Mrs. Breen. I hope I'm not intruding on your holiday.”

“Of course not,” she said. It was the first thing that Stuart had heard her say since they'd set out for the beach, and probably the most animated she'd sounded the whole trip. “We hear that you're an excellent chef,” she added.

“No, no.” Thinking himself rather charming, he said, “I am an excellent photographer but a
wonderful
chef.”

Stuart rolled his eyes. “A man of many talents,” he said. “Hey, where are we in relation to Chappaquiddick?”

“It's not far,” Lucien said. “We'll drive to Edgartown in the morning. Don't worry, we'll see
everything.
”

Stuart resisted the man's allure but listened with the others as Lucien led them down the beach, regaling them with his knowledge of the island. “The best place to watch the sunrise is ten miles from here, in Oak Bluffs. Of course, I am primarily interested as a photographer.”

Marlene asked, “What kind of photography do you do, Mr. . . . ?”

He said a word that sounded like
Zhean-Zhahn.
“But call me Lucien. I like to take pictures of people—women, mostly.”

“Lucky took a beautiful picture of Carla,” Bill said, winking at Stuart. “
You
can't see that one, though.”

“Of course he can,” Carla said. “What's the big deal? It's just
art,
you know. Everyone gets all freaked out in this country.”

Bill challenged her. “What other countries have you been to?”

“I've been to Bermuda, and Jamaica, Barbados—”

“Those aren't countries, kid, those are
islands.
Like this one.
This
is an island.”

As the resident exotic, it was Lucien's job to make peace. “Carla is right, though. In Europe, particularly in my country, there is a different attitude toward the human body. Less of a taboo. If you want to show your cock, you show your cock.” Carla tittered, and he asked, “Is that not the right word? ‘Cock,' you say?”

“Nope, that's the right word,” Stuart grumbled. He didn't like where the conversation was going, so he said, “Actually, Jamaica
is
a country, I believe. Bermuda's part of Great Britain.”

“Regardless,” Lucien said, “it's true the world over. My first wife, Victoria, was Swedish, from Uppsala. Naked all the time— outside, in the backyard. They say, ‘Look at my body,' you know? And no one cares.”

“Isn't it against the law?” Marlene asked.

He shrugged. “Sure, but so is murder, no? It happens.”

By this point, Marlene, Lucien and Carla were walking together, with Bill and Stuart a few steps behind. Stuart watched his wife carefully. Marlene was in a dangerous mood—he could tell just by looking at her.

At the front of the group, Carla was saying, “You should go to Paris, Marlene. Stuart, too. Stuart could write a book about it. Wouldn't that be a great idea?”

Marlene glanced behind her. They'd moved far enough ahead where Stuart couldn't hear what they were saying. “Oh, I don't know. We've already been through a lot this year. I wouldn't want to cause any more trouble for him.”

“You should listen to your friend,” said Lucien. “Paris will welcome you with open arms. I will put you up myself—and your husband, of course.”

She blushed. “That's very nice of you.”

He continued in a lower voice. “You must forgive me, but I have a business proposition that I hope you will consider. You see, Marlene, in my country, in
France,
you are what the Parisians call—” He said a word that sounded like
Zhee-Zhean-Fvay.
“You know, ‘Big hot stuff.' ”

“I am?” she asked.

Carla interrupted. “Marlene, I'm so sorry. This happened at the last minute.”

“Yes, Carla is not to blame.” From inside his shirt pocket, he pulled out a long, brown cigarette and offered it to Marlene. When she declined, he stuck it between his lips and lit it with a match.

“What kind of a proposition?” Marlene asked.

“It's for a personal venture—online. I call it
Nude-About-Town.
” As an afterthought, he added, “dot-com.”

“It's a huge commercial Web site,” Carla said. “Subscription only. Lucien could make you a
star.
”

“It will be difficult, of course,” Lucien warned. “The world is filled with naked women. One public-nudity Web site is as good as another. That's why I need you, Marlene.”

She didn't know what to say. “Why me? Why not Carla? She's beautiful, and I'm not.”

He reassured her. “But Marlene, you are a
notorious nude.
A famous nude, the Bettie Page of nude. You have gone where no nude has gone before.”

Marlene stopped walking, and the others waited on her. Fortunately, Bill and Stuart were nowhere in earshot, having wandered farther down to walk in the surf. “Me?” she asked.

Lucien nodded yes. “Please understand, Marlene. You are a role model. Maybe not to everyone but to some people. Think about your husband. How many people have actually read his little novel?”

Marlene looked toward the water, where Stuart was standing in the shallows, watching the sea foam bubble around his ankles. “I don't know . . .”

“A few dozen, who cares? But you . . . you, my dear.” Lost in the vision, he simply shook his head—no words to express it. “Today, a handful of lonely souls on the Internet. But tomorrow? The possibilities are limitless.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Listen. Are you comfortable in front of a camera?”

She answered haltingly. “I guess so. I made a silly little video a few months ago, in Providence.”

This news pleased him greatly. “Ah! I
must
see it. We will make our own video, of course. Video, still photos. I will film you naked in Times Square, Central Park, the Champs-Elysées.”

His enthusiasm was hard to resist, but she said, “I don't have it anymore, Mr. . . . Lucien. I mean, I've got a cheap copy at home, but that's it. Heath has the rest of it.”

“Who's Heath?”

“Oh, just a friend. He's a very talented film director.”

Lucien instinctively reached for his wallet. “He will sell it to me, this Heath. Whatever the cost. Your adoring public must have a sense of where it all began. For historical purposes.”

Her eyelids fluttered. “My
public
?”

Carla nudged her in the ribs. “Hey, you've got a public, Marlene. Isn't that cool? I don't have a public. Just you and Stuart.”

Both women gazed across the beach at Stuart, who'd moved away from Bill to find a dry spot to sit down. His back was to them, and he had his knees drawn to his chest. He looked cold, even though the temperature was in the upper seventies.

My public,
Marlene thought, and continued along the beach. Carla and Lucien followed.

They went as far out as a breakwater, then retraced their steps and returned home. Bill and Stuart had gone back early— Stuart to lie down, Bill to lift weights in the yard. They decided to do some shopping before it got too late, so Bill toweled off and fetched his keys. Carla and Lucien went along, and Marlene stayed behind with Stuart.

Once the others left, Stuart emerged from the bedroom and joined her on the porch. She'd opened a can of beer and was sitting with her legs propped up, facing the vegetable garden.

“Lucien's such a nice man,” she said.

“Sounds like a pretentious prick to me.” He mimicked Lucien's voice. “ ‘Oh, your book's doing so well in
Frahnce.
' I hate being patronized like that.” Stepping down from the porch, he leaned against a corner post and glared at the guesthouse. Lucien's royal-blue beach towel was still hanging out to dry.

“Maybe he wasn't patronizing you,” she suggested. “Maybe he was just trying to be nice.”

“Unlikely.”

She sighed. The afternoon had been pleasant up until now, and she was angry at him for spoiling it. “You might've not liked him, but I did. He made me feel good about myself.”

“Don't I make you feel good about yourself?”

“Sometimes. Usually. Not right now.” She set down her beer and followed him into the yard. “Stuart, listen. Lucien wants to buy our video.”

“No.”

“Wait—”

“No. How the hell does he know about it, anyway?”

“I told him.”

“You
what
?”

Her voice warbled out of control. “Yes, I told him. I
told
him, Stuart. I told him because he asked and was interested . . . in me. And now he wants to make another video, only not just in Providence—all over.”

“That's crazy.”

“He wants to start a Web site—”

“No.”

“Don't just say
no.
You can't tell me no.”

He smiled to placate her. “I know I can't, but Marlene, listen to yourself. This is insane.”

She'd never known this kind of feeling before, this outraged, seething anger. “Why is it any more insane than
you,
with your stupid
book
that nobody reads.” Her anger ran out, and she suddenly felt ashamed. “Stuart, I'm sorry.”

“Well, Marlene, I'm sorry if you think my book's stupid. I think it's pretty stupid, too, but so what? You've gotten plenty of mileage out of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn't think it was stupid when you married me. Remember? Stuart Breen, the big-time, hot-shot novelist.”

“That's not why I married you.”

“But it
was
a reason, wasn't it? What if I weren't a big-time, hot-shot novelist? What if I were just another poor schmuck trying to write a book and failing at it, like most people? How cool would that be?”

She put her hands up to block his face from hers. “Look, just forget it. It was a stupid thing to say, and I'm sorry.”

He took both her arms and held them at her sides. “Marlene, I am not going to let you get involved with another harebrained scheme like the last one. No video, no Web site. As soon as we get back to Providence, I'm going to call Heath and tell him to get rid of those tapes.”

She twisted away from him. “We still have our own copy, Stuart.”

“I'll junk that one, too.”

“Not if I get to it first.” Both she and Stuart were standing with their fists balled, their foreheads almost touching.

He laughed. “Come on, Marlene, get real. You don't know what's best for you.”

“I have a right to do whatever I want to with my own life. No one told you not to write your book.”

“Oh, a whole lot of people did, Marlene.”

“I don't care. This is what
I
want. I want to do something that matters. I don't just want to be your wife, or some fat old bag who works at the bank. I want to be
famous.
I want to be naked all the time.” Their argument then turned into a scuffle, with Marlene running away from him as she pulled her shirt up over her head.

He reached for her, but his arms fell short. “Put your fucking shirt back on.”

Her bra came off next, and she threw it at him. “That's me!” she said, bunching her breasts in her hands. “I want everyone to see me. I want to be
naked
!”

He waited for her to calm down, and when she finally did, they both looked and felt equally helpless. “Just put your shirt back on,” he said.

She went inside with her clothes, and by the time the others returned with the groceries, she and Stuart had managed to pull themselves together. Lucien took charge of the kitchen, dispatching Carla and Marlene to chop vegetables, while Bill and Stuart hovered nearby, drinking more aggressively now that it was after six. The Frenchman cooked with a high flame, pouring sherry and blended egg yolks into a saucepan and stirring it with a whisk. The choice of music was also Lucien's—fucking Billie Holiday, Stuart moped, of all things. So predictable, so bourgeois. Yes, let's listen to Billie Holiday, and then Bessie Smith and Dinah Washington, and then some fucking
Sting,
and goddamn
Joni Mitchell,
and then we'll all congratulate ourselves on how sophisticated we are. To get away from the music, he took his drink out onto the porch, then continued across the yard, past the vegetable garden, to the guesthouse. Lucien's blue beach towel had fallen from the rafter, and he kicked it into the weeds.

At the dinner table, Marlene said to Lucien, “This is absolutely delicious. Thank you
so
much.”

Lucien set down his fork and gave her hand a squeeze. “It's a recipe from the region of Burgundy, where my family lived during the German Occupation. The secret is, you add a . . . lemon? To seal the flavor. But just a drop.”

“Add a lemon.” She tapped her forehead. “I'll remember that.”

Stuart stared at her over his hardly touched
blanquette de
veau,
thinking,
Oh, like you're ever going to make this.

After they'd cleared the dishes, they went outside to smoke a joint. Various stupid philosophies circulated during the course of conversation, most of them Carla's and Lucien's. When they started talking about acupuncture, Stuart said, “I hate to bag out on you guys, but I'm beat.”

Four pairs of red-rimmed eyes looked at him, but Carla was the only one to wish him a good night. “Be sure to find the right room,” she said. “You don't want to wind up in bed with the wrong person.”