Thanksgiving (13 page)

He wrote me there several times, and when I got back he still didn’t have anywhere to go, and, well, like I said, I felt sorry for the guy. Why are we even talking about this? It’s absurd.

Say that again.

Say what again?

‘Abzurd.’

Fuck you.

Well, if you insist.

Would you like me to suck you?

I wouldn’t say no.

You have a gorgeous cock, do you know that?

I bet that’s what you tell all the guys.

I do not. Anyway, what guys?

Right, Lucy, we believe you.

It’s true. Oh, come here. Yours was the first uncut cock I ever sucked, you know that? Plus I love this vein at the back that looks like a road map.

Route Sexty-Sex. What’s the matter? Don’t stop now.

No more jokes.

You got a deal.

Oh please. Oh please stick it in me. Stick it in me right now. Do me do me do me do me do me. Nail me.

God I love to fuck. Is that bad of me?

Did you always?

Yeah.

When did you start?

Late.

How late?

I was seventeen.

That’s not late.

It was at the time. But I’ve always been a late developer. I was flat-chested until I was fifteen. Why are you laughing?

I just remembered this old joke.

Tell me.

No, it’s too awful. And too corny.

I love corny jokes.

Well, this girl gets taken by her mother to see the doctor because she’s been coughing a lot, right? So the doctor gets out his stethoscope and tells her to take her top off. ‘Big breath,’ he says. And the girl says, ‘Yeth, and I’m only thickthteen.’

What did you do with the cigarettes?

Uh, I thought they were . . .

I left them right there, on the bedside table.

Oh, so it’s my fault?

I don’t care whose fault it is, I just want a smoke.

Here they are.

Thanks.

That story?

Yeah?

Something similar happened to me. When I lived in San Francisco, I went once to the Free Clinic. It was just around the corner from where I was living. I had some sort of chest infection, and that was all I could afford. And there was this young doctor, straight out of medical school some place on the East Coast, and he told me to take my top off so he could examine me? So I did, and he started trembling. And I felt so embarrassed for him, but also kind of awkward, you know?

So you were a late developer when it came to sex?

I guess so. At first I had to learn how to come, you know?

I bet you learned fast.

Mmm.

Who was your tutor? Or was there more than one?

Not really. It was this guy, my first real boyfriend, the only person who ever broke my heart. It’s funny, he called up a couple of months ago. I hadn’t heard from him in twenty years. Apparently he’s in some sort of counselling because he can’t commit to relationships, quote unquote. The counsellor told him that in order to dock with his personal angel he’s got to contact all the women he’s screwed over and work through the pain with them.

So what did you say?

Forget it. Well, I was a little nicer than that. But there’s no way I’m going to start rummaging through my past in order to make him feel better about himself. Who do these people think they are? If you can lay claim to victim status these days, everyone’s supposed to drop everything they’re doing and come help you to resolve your issues. The hell with it. I hate the past.

How very American.

Well you guys are getting to be just as bad. All this post-Diana crap. I mean give me a fucking break. And at least with us it comes naturally. With you it’s forced, and forced is always bad.

So what do you want us to do?

I want us to grow old disgracefully. And I want . . .

Yes?

Nothing.

We could grow old disgracefully at La Sauvette.

What’s that?

My parents’ place in France. It would be perfect for that.

Could we speak French to each other?

It would be obligatory. I would call you
madame
and you would call me
monsieur
. We would use arcane tenses and never
tutoyer
each other.

Jamais
. Or the children either.

We’d only be familiar with the servants.

Particularly the younger, cuter ones.

Why did you have to turn the light on? The sky’s so beautiful just now. All clear and hopeful.

Le jour se lève, madame
.

Jean Gabin. Mmm.
Quand même, on s’en fout royalement.

What?

We don’t give a fuck. Or maybe we do.
Si on se foutait
royalement?

How come your bad French is so much better than my bad French?

I lived there.

You did?

Well, only for a year. Less, actually. An academic year.

Where?

In Grenoble.

How was it?

Basically I ended up getting mauled on the whole time by these French leftists who detested the American military-industrial imperialist culture but couldn’t wait to get their hands on the product.

Sounds reasonable to me.

Or Tahiti.

What?

I saw this old French couple on the beach in Hawaii once. They were both all wrinkly and chocolate-brown and she had this very thin gold chain around her waist.

How old were you then?

About thirty. And they must have been in their sixties, but they were just the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. It was like something out of one of those old movies. Tondelayo, Queen of the Jungle.

Ah, that old bitch Lamarr.

She wasn’t a bitch.

It was meant to be a pun. Never mind. What about me?

What about you?

Who would I be?

Oh, let’s see. Some Somerset Maugham character. A gin-swigging consul who’s gone completely native. Carruthers. Slightly balding, bad teeth, but he’s very
clean
and his clothes are always immaculate. Except he can’t keep them on for more than five minutes, what with the pert-breasted native girls disporting themselves in innocent abandon before his Tanqueray-befuddled gaze.

Hmm.

His brain’s been eaten.

It has?

But he doesn’t really miss it.

And will you eat my brain?

Of course.

Is that a threat or a promise? Where are you going?

To the bathroom. I shall return.

What was the other thing?

What other thing?

Apart from growing old disgracefully.

I don’t remember.

Yes you do. You said, ‘I want us to grow old disgracefully, and I want . . .’ What was the other thing?

Oh. Hmm. Well.

Go on.

No, it’s silly. I think I sort of wanted to get on top of you and have you spank me. But now I’m not sure.

Well let’s find out, shall we?

Really?

Let me just put this wineglass down somewhere I won’t step on it afterwards.

Good thinking, Carruthers. Forward planning, that’s the ticket.

I love your phoney English accent.

And do you like my breasts? They’re holding up quite well, I think. Oh yes, you do, don’t you? Mmm. Mmm. Okay, now give my butt some attention. Ah.

Is that too hard?

No. Oh.

More?

Yeah. Yeah. Harder. Yeah. Okay, that’s enough. Mmm, it makes all the blood rush down there. Do we want me to do it to you?

No, I got enough of that at school.

They used to spank you?

Of course.

That’s barbaric.

Actually we sort of got to like it.

God, you Brits are so kinky. I had no idea until I met you.

You don’t know the half of it.

Mmm. You interest me strangely.

Where are you going?

To pee. Then I’m going to come back and do more things to you.

You’ve got such a lovely arse.

Say that again.

Say what?

Ass.

Arse.

With an accent like that, you can do anything you like with me.

It’s exactly the same as that painting.

Which painting?

I don’t remember. Some Spanish name.

Goya?

Maybe. It’s in the National Gallery. Ours, I mean. Anyway, there’s this woman lying on . . .

‘The Naked Maja’?

What is a
maja
, anyway?

Just means a woman, I think. But I never liked that one. She always looked kind of preening, come-onny to me. Sort of like some vested Microsoftie’s wife. Okay, this is what you got, now let’s address my shopping needs.

No, it’s not her I was thinking of. I don’t remember the title, but there’s a mirror involved.

A mirror? How?

You only see her as a reflection, never directly. Well, you see her from the back, but not her face. And her back looks just like yours. Her ‘ass’.

She’s looking at herself?

Uh huh.

And you’re looking at her.

Yes.

Well, that’s what sex is about, don’t you think? A mutual act of adoration of the female body.

So when we ‘do the deed’, you’re worshipping your own body?

We both are. Me from the inside, you from the outside.

What about my body?

It’s gorgeous.

I could stand to lose a little weight.

No, I love you the way you are. That’s what’s so great about being our age. You accept people for what they are. Or not. But you don’t waste time trying to change them. Is there any more wine?

There’s some downstairs. Hang on, I’ll get it.

Could you bring up the mail too? I heard it come.

You want another male? You’re insatiable.

I know, and you love it.

You got the hiccups?

Yes. I don’t know why. Just came on.

Eat some sugar.

Sugar?

It works.

Didn’t for me.

Maybe I should try and scare you.

Sweetie, you don’t have a scary bone in your body.

It worked before.

When?

Don’t you remember?

No.

That time at the Metropolitan Grill. You got the hiccups really badly, and it was kind of embarrassing. Then you went to the washroom, and when you got back, still hiccupping away, I was sitting at the table in a morose posture. And you said, ‘What’s the matter?’ You still don’t remember?

For someone who hates the past, you seem to dwell on it a lot.

It mostly bores me, that’s all. I’m not afraid of it. But you are, and that’s why you can’t remember a damn thing. It scares you.

All I remember is you sitting with your eyes cast down on your folded hands, like you were praying. ‘What now?’ I thought.

And then you said, ‘What’s the matter?’ Still hiccupping away like a parakeet. Do parakeets hiccup?

I have no idea. Go on.

And I said . . . I can’t believe you don’t remember this.

Well I don’t.

I said, ‘Darling, I’m two weeks late.’ And your hiccups stopped like
that
.

Hold me.

What’s the matter?

I need you to hold me.

I thought you were asleep.

I was.

What happened?

I had this dream.

What happened?

I don’t know. I don’t remember. All I know is that you left me and I was all alone.

I haven’t left you.

I know.

I’m right here.

Yes. But I’m still scared.

Don’t be.

You just want me to stop bothering you, don’t you?

No. But this is silly.

Like everything else makes perfect sense?

You’re getting worked up, Lucy. Calm down. I’m here. I’ll look after you.

Just hold me, that’s all. Hold me, so I can go back to sleep.

THANKSGIVING DAY

In summer, La Sauvette is a quiet, airy refuge from the touristic inferno on the coast below, the low house and its adjoining stone terrace shaded and scented by the set of old parasol pines, their trunks dividing the prospect over the lower foothills to the sea beyond into a triptych which changes subtly from hour to hour as the light strikes at different angles and the moisture in the air gathers or disperses.

But when winter comes, and the mistral blows for days at a time, it can seem the bleakest and most desolate spot on earth. The pines toss their canopies and the wind thrums and shudders around the house like surf, seeking out any weakness, seething in through every crevice, undermining all the structures of daily life with its intrusive presence. By day, the sky is a tender bleached blue, the sunlight brilliant, while the air has a startling astringent clarity. Night or day, it is piercingly cold.

My father had bought the property as a derelict farm-house back in the fifties, and until very recently he and my mother had spent every summer there, tinkering with various bits of rebuilding and renovation if they were up to the job, or enduring the endless excuses and false reassurances of the local tradesmen if the work was something which needed to be contracted out. Now that the place was finally habitable in something like the way they had dreamed of when they bought it, they were too tired and frail to come out for more than a month or so in late spring or early autumn. In summer the heat was too much for them, and no one had ever thought about going there in winter.

So when I phoned them from Charles De Gaulle, they were surprised but pleased to learn that I wanted to stay there for a while. The realization of their dream had come too late for them, but they were genuinely glad that someone was going to take advantage.

‘So how are things?’ my father asked.

‘Still a bit difficult. You know.’

‘Must be, must be. Perhaps we should have come out after all. Sort of generally helped out and so on.’

When I had called with the news of Lucy’s death, he had gallantly proposed booking them both on the next plane. It had taken me quite a while to talk him out of it, although we both knew that my mother wasn’t physically or mentally up to the journey, and that she was so dependent on him that he couldn’t come alone.

‘I’m fine, Dad. I just need some time to myself, you know. Come to terms with what’s happened, that kind of thing.’

‘You could have come here. You’d be most welcome, you know that.’