The Man Who Understood Women (22 page)

The Moules Factory

1994

Ever since, as an adolescent, Maisie had watched Jean Gabin in
Le jour se lève
(with subtitles), she had wanted to learn French. Now that Marvin had sold the business she had time on her hands, so with a desire to get out of the house as much as anything else, she implemented her wish. She took to the French course like a duck to water. The teacher told her that she had an ear for language. She had also enrolled in a
literature
class.

On Mondays and Thursdays, while Marvin watched
his
TV programmes (as if the producer and the director had created them especially for him), Maisie lost herself in Bellow and Faulkner, Flaubert and Henry James, and it was as if a window had opened in her soul. It was clear to her that days of
domestic
servitude passed in a bungalow in Burlington,
Massachusetts
, interspersed with holidays in Florida, hardly amounted to a full life. Her problem, she concluded, was Marvin.

Her husband had not only been told of the unhealthy state
of his coronary arteries by his cardiovascular specialist, who had cautioned him to pay more attention to his diet, but he was not keen on travelling and would, if he could, have lain on a sofa and had the landscape carried past him.

When, inspired by thoughts of Paris, of the valley of the Loire, of terraced Bordeaux vineyards and the sweet smells of Provence, Maisie interrupted his chat show to suggest going to Europe, Marvin looked at her as if she had proposed that they volunteer for the space shuttle.

It was Marvin’s mother who provided the solution to her problem. Not directly, for in the New Jersey Home where she was cared for by a dedicated staff, old Mrs Burgess was aware of neither time nor place. It was while she was
dunking
a chocolate-chip cookie into her cup of Earl Grey tea, that Marvin’s mother looked directly at Marvin and said clearly, ‘You’d always do anything, Marvin, for one of my
chocolate-chip
cookies.’ Maisie could not imagine why she had not thought of it before. She had tried unsuccessfully to seduce Marvin with the Paris of Napoleon, of Zola, and Degas and Proust. Now she changed tack. Dismissing the fact that he had been cautioned about his cholesterol, she tempted him with soups and sauces, pâtés and pancakes, frogs’ legs and
fritters
, bisque and bourrides. It was Marvin who called the travel agent. Marvin who started a regular exercise programme in anticipation of a gastronomic dream.

By mid-morning, on the transatlantic flight to Paris, the trolley had begun its halting progression down the aisle.

‘I like my lunch early,’ Marvin said with satisfaction, the
moment he heard the rattle of the wheels. Level with his seat, the stewardess held a foil-wrapped dish in either hand.

‘Beef or chicken?’ The turquoise eyeshadow shimmered.

Marvin thought for a moment then turned to Maisie. ‘Which do I like?’

The crimson nails tightened around both of the containers.

‘Chicken,’ Maisie said.

‘We had chicken last night.’

‘Take the beef then.’

‘Is it baked or broiled?’ Marvin enquired.

‘The beef ?’ The girl looked as if her arms were getting tired. Maisie was aware of a frisson of impatience from the hungry passenger in the seat beside her.

‘The chicken,’ Marvin said.

‘Baked …’ the stewardess aimed the chicken in Marvin’s direction, ‘… with rice.’

‘I don’t touch rice.’ Marvin recoiled as the container made a perfect landing on his table. ‘What’s with the beef ?’

‘Noodles.’

Maisie smiled apologetically as Marvin picked up his dish and thrust it into the outstretched talons.

‘I’ll take the beef.’

It was Maisie’s French teacher who had told her about the hotel on the Left Bank. Awakened by the sound of mechanical brushes as they sluiced the early-morning gutters, Maisie had to pinch herself as she looked out of the window, in her
nightdress
, on to the street of old stone town houses that described a straight line to the Seine.

Across the river she could pick out the Sacré-Coeur. To her left, Les Invalides. To her right, the Quai d’Orsay.

‘What time did you tell them to bring the breakfast?’
Marvin
asked from beneath the bed covers.

It was past eleven when they emerged into the Rue du Bac.

Maisie had prepared herself for this moment. She had
mastered
the street plan, pored over the Métro map, memorised the promenades. She was determined not to hurry over this city. Not to be an American tourist darting from one monument to the next. Was not Paris, with its quays and its courtyards, its Gothic railway stations and equestrian statues, itself a work of art?

She was pointing out the green dome of the Grand Palais above the chestnut trees of the Champs-Elysées, when she realised she had lost Marvin. He had taken off his distance glasses to read a menu displayed on a lectern in the street.

‘Four courses,’ he said, ‘and a half-bottle of wine. Only twenty dollars!’

Maisie pulled him towards the Arc de Triomphe. ‘You’ve just had breakfast.’

‘A couple of croissants! I’m starving.’

Maisie was so intoxicated with the jostle and commotion of Paris, with the magnetic exuberance of the metropolis, that she neglected to remind Marvin that not only were croissants made with butter, but that he had put butter on them. As far as she was concerned she could not have cared less had she never eaten again.

Struggling to retain her composure (had not Marvin, after
all, both countenanced and financed this trip?) she took two steps forward and one step back as she paused every few yards – at Marvin’s insistence – to translate the bills of fare. They had lunch at a restaurant that boasted a rosette for its food. Maisie would sooner have gone to a café. By the time they had finished it was already four. Marvin was just as disinclined to get up from the table as he had been to choose a restaurant.

‘Come on,’ Maisie said, ‘the museums will be closed.’

That night Maisie could not sleep. She lay next to Marvin in the sagging bed thinking about the
Coronation of Napoleon
on the vast canvas in the Louvre.

‘Maybe I should have ordered the cold lobster,’ said Marvin. ‘The thermidor was very rich.’

For Maisie, the next few days were like a dream come true. The city with its palaces and its gardens, offered up an infinitesimal part of its treasures, and the names of artists and emperors, poets and politicians took on new meaning. While her cup was filled with ‘renaissance’ and ‘revolution’, Marvin revelled in soups and sauces, ballottines and blanquettes, the likes of which he had never encountered before. Maisie was far too busy to nag him about his cholesterol.

They left Paris and, with Maisie at the wheel of the hire car, headed for the Loire valley. Marvin had his head in the
guidebook
. Maisie waited for him to read out a description of their first chateau.

‘Crevettes with sorrel … fricasséed sweetbreads … Eels
simmered
in old wine …’ Marvin intoned. ‘I can’t wait.’

As she stood on battlements or traversed a formal garden,
imagining that she was Joan of Arc beleaguering Orléans, Diane de Poitiers or Catherine de’ Medici, Marvin’s voice would break into her dreams: ‘Green cabbage with
butter
’, ‘stuffed mushrooms with cream’. It was not that Maisie was indifferent to the gastronomy of the region, simply that thoughts of it did not engage her every waking moment as they did Marvin’s. Marvin had difficulty in fastening his pants. He had gas. And acid indigestion.

They continued their perambulations, staying at hotels that had been specially selected by Marvin more for the quality of the boudin than the beds. Last thing at night he spoke of breakfast, first thing in the morning it was lunch. By the time they left Bordeaux for the coast, a strange glint had made its way into Maisie’s eyes.

Arcachon, renowned for its shellfish, was the
apotheosis
of Marvin’s trip. As they strolled along the promenade, between the quaint hotels and the broad expanse of smooth sand edged by the Atlantic waves with a brodérie of foam, they were stopped every few yards by white-aproned waiters
offering
free tastings of oysters. Marvin was in his element.

The sight of her husband as he threw back his head to slurp the slithery molluscs from their shells revolted Maisie. She tried to suppress her disgust. Enticed into a restaurant, he ordered bouillabaisse (for two) and demolished the steaming tureen with its floating coquillages and menacing rascasses all by himself. The bouillabaisse was preceded by several visits to the buffet table, at which he piled his plate. Maisie watched silently as he consumed a double portion of dessert.

They decided to spend a few days in St Jean de Luz. The weather was perfect; warm sun fanned by a light breeze.
Maisie
sat in a deckchair and read her book. They had picnics on the beach. Marvin spent his mornings carefully choosing them.

When they were rested, Maisie refuelled the Peugeot. High on the rubbish-strewn cliffs she stopped the car to look at the view. Not waiting for Marvin, she ran among the white daisies, among the tangled grasses and the yellow and purple flowers, over the remains of bonfires and discarded wine bottles, until she could see the cream-flecked breakers as they hurled
themselves
on to the curiously striated rocks far, far below. Watched by a solitary dog, its head on one side, she opened her arms to the morning sun and allowed the sea breeze to caress her cheeks, making her feel like a young girl.

‘Marvin!’ she called, her voice carried by the wind. ‘Marvin!’

Marvin, carrying his camera, got out of the car. A smile
illuminated
his face as he pointed into the distance where Maisie, who had come to meet him, could just make out a low white building with a sign on its red roof.

‘Now, would you believe it,’ Marvin said with sheer joy. ‘It’s a moules factory!’

Followed by the dog with its black and white patches, they walked together over the potholes and the wild flowers.
Taking
Marvin’s hand, Maisie told him all about the lighthouse they had come to visit, about the ancient fort built by Henry IV. She quoted a passage from the guidebook about the
premature
death of Queen Marie-Thérèse.

Marvin opened his mouth. Maisie thought he was about to make a comment on the stirring history.

‘There’s an auberge near the lighthouse …’ Marvin said, and Maisie’s heart sank, ‘… that specialises in moules.’

They walked as far as the signpost, which pointed towards the Spanish border.

‘I’m just going to get a picture,’ Marvin said, letting go of Maisie’s hand, ‘then we can have lunch.’

Maisie watched with the dog as Marvin, flattening the
singing
grass, made his way to the cliff edge. She felt as if she were on top of the world. There was no one as far as the eye could see and the silence was disturbed only by the occasional zoom of a passing car. If life could always be like this, she thought, if only man would not seek to penetrate the measureless sky, displace the sea, harness the wind, pollute the good earth.

Holding on to his camera, Marvin inched his way to the edge of the cliff.

‘Take care!’ Maisie called.

At the sound of her voice, the dog cocked its head on one side. They had never kept an animal. Not even when the
children
had been small. Marvin didn’t like animals in the house. Looking into the brown eyes, liquid with understanding,
Maisie
had a sudden sense of déjà vu. The dog kept close to her side as she watched her husband, silhouetted against the skyline.

Treading gingerly, Marvin stood poised, his finger on the shutter release of his camera. Then he leaned over until he had a clear view of the rocks.

It was as he put his eye to the viewfinder and inclined from
the waist as far forward as he dared that Maisie saw Marvin put a sudden hand to his chest. It was like watching a film
projected
in slow motion. Joan of Arc, Diane de Poitiers,
Catherine
de’ Medici … Dropping her handbag, twisting her ankle, followed by the dog, she felt herself run towards him as if the distance were measured in miles rather than in yards. There was a cry, as if Marvin were being strangled, a sound so
blood-curdling
it was as if it had come out of a nightmare. As in a nightmare, the harder Maisie ran, the less ground she seemed to cover. She knew that she had her hand out, that she called Marvin’s name, although no sound emerged from her throat, that Marvin twisted and turned, his face distorted grotesquely until, tipped over by the weight of the huge belly that flopped over his trousers, he seemed to fly like a seagull over the cliff, followed by his camera and her horrified gaze.

Throwing herself on the rough ground, the dog by her side, Maisie edged forward, the earth crumbling beneath her. She could see the granite rocks at the base of the cliff, which had seduced Marvin with their formation.