A Small Indiscretion Page 13

  We took the ancient elevator up to the fifth floor and emerged directly into a bright, airy, comfortable room with windows all around. The kitchen was in one corner, and a nook they called the morning room was in another. The walls were painted a sunny yellow. The kitchen was filled with chunky wood hutches and baskets and vases. In the center of the room was a living space with many sofas and chairs in cheerful mismatched upholstery. There were tasseled pillows stacked one upon the other on the faded Oriental rug, making themselves into a kind of stool. It was a French country room, well worn and authentic, with an element of the flea market in it. I did not know whether this effect had been achieved intentionally or whether it had accumulated organically over the years. I did not know, either, whether I should like the room or not. But I did like it, especially the lights.

  There were pendant lights made from recycled jam jars. There was a chandelier with a shade covered in ostrich feathers. There was an old birdcage in one corner in the shape of a woman’s body, painted robin’s-egg blue and converted into a lamp. Years later, when I first opened the Salvaged Light, I happened upon three birdcages in that same unusual shape at a flea market and picked them up for fifty dollars. I wired them and painted them by hand, and they sold in the store for four hundred dollars each.

  When I asked Louise about the birdcage, she said, “Isn’t it awful? Really, I have to apologize for the state of this place. It used to be so elegant. But over time, with so many people inflicting their taste upon it—”

  “I like it,” I said, cutting her off.

  She looked at me curiously, wearing the same expression she’d worn when I’d read from the plaque at the Arc de Triomphe. It was as if she were reconsidering her estimation of me. As if until that day, she had perceived me as an attractive but mostly empty vessel. And, really, who could blame her? It’s exactly the way I felt, Robbie, about the girlfriends you brought home over the years. All that smooth flesh and shiny hair. The high, bright cheeks. The push-up bras. The interests and intentions: a passion for journalism; a plan to join the Peace Corps; a love of writing, or painting, or drama; a major in business administration, perhaps with a minor in psychology. Beauty and ambition, the twin currencies with which those girls hoped to purchase a place for themselves in the world.

  Emme was different, of course. Emme’s beauty was uncontested, but her faith in herself was tenuous, and her ambitions, to me, at least, were opaque. She wanted to be happy, I imagine, like any of us.

  Louise announced she had a headache and was going to lie down. Would Malcolm mind bringing her things to the room? They disappeared down a hallway. I was not shown to a room, myself. The showing of guests to their rooms was presumably Louise’s job, but Louise was ill. Patrick took a bottle of wine from a rack in the kitchen and opened it. Malcolm returned and the three of us stood in the kitchen drinking. The storm had intensified.

  “Sounds dodgy out there,” Patrick said. “I wonder about our river cruise tomorrow.”

  “Never know,” Malcolm said. “Might clear up in the morning.”

  Patrick and Malcolm became involved in a conversation about World War II, inspired by the visit to the Arc de Triomphe. They were going on about de Gaulle and the Irish Republican Army. I was surprised by Patrick’s command of history and the sharpness of his opinions, though I have no idea, now, what those opinions might have been. I was also impressed by how respectful he was of Malcolm, almost to the point of deference.

  Malcolm went to check on Louise. When he returned he said she was still resting and that we might as well go downstairs and have a drink in the bar while we waited for her to join us for dinner. I wanted to change my clothes, but I did not want to force the question of where I was to sleep, so I remained as I was. My neck felt bare without a scarf.

  In the restaurant, there were white tablecloths and bud vases, each with a single white rose, but we sat down at a plain table in the bar to wait for Louise. Wine came, and hors d’oeuvres. The lights flickered, then went out and came back on again, then went out for good. There was a collective catching of breath, followed by a flurry of activity among the waiters. Candles were set down at our table, along with another bottle of wine. The waiter told us the electricity was out across half the city and it was not known when service would be restored.

  Patrick’s knee brushed mine beneath the table. His hand fell, once, against my forearm. Then his hand began to move up and down my thigh. Malcolm listened attentively to everything I said, and encouraged me to speak to the waiter in French, which I found easier to do as the evening wore on.

  Malcolm wondered aloud about Louise, but he did not get up to find her. He slid his arm around the back of my chair. I found I did not mind Malcolm’s arm, and I did not mind Patrick’s hand on my thigh beneath the table. I did not mind the flush I could feel in my cheeks and the way the evening was changing, the way time was stretching out and slowing down and finally moving toward irrelevance.

  Then the lights came back on, and there was a collective exhalation of breath, and after a few minutes Louise appeared a little distance from the table.

  “I was alone in the dark,” she said to Malcolm. “You never came. I’ve been waiting all this time. The storm was making terrible sounds.” She crossed her arms as if she were very cold. Malcolm stood up.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t … I thought you were sleeping. Let me get you a chair.”

  “I don’t want a chair,” she said. “I need something for my head. I’ve got a migraine.”

  Malcolm looked stricken. He tried to give Patrick money for the food and wine, but Patrick refused it, and Malcolm and Louise turned and left together.

  Patrick kissed me once, then a second time, across the table. Quite suddenly, Malcolm was back.

  “How is she?” Patrick asked.

  “She’s in a bit of a state, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s a shame,” Patrick said. “Anything I can do?”

  Malcolm looked at Patrick. He stood beside the table and ran his hands through his hair and stroked nervously at his chin. “I wonder whether … I wonder if you wouldn’t mind sitting with her awhile.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Patrick said. He stood up and, with a small, chivalrous bow, turned to go. He left without a smile, but he placed something in my chest, a hollow thing that left no room for the hope and happiness that had been condensing there.

  I did not have the will to allow the emptiness to remain, I suppose. And here was Malcolm, sitting down now in Patrick’s chair, ready to fill it.

  “You’re so lovely,” he said. “I’m sorry to have abandoned you. Louise is never herself when these headaches come on.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. I felt an impulse to tell him everything, if only to stop him from apologizing when I knew myself to be the one who was treacherous. But how could I tell him I was in love with Patrick, knowing he had persuaded himself he was in love with me? He leaned toward me and lifted a strand of hair off my face. He touched the lobe of my ear, as if it were delicate and mysterious.

  He said, “Shall we go upstairs?”

  I remember wanting to object, but not finding the words, or the will, because I was drunk. I remember leaning on him as we left the restaurant, but I don’t remember what came after that. I don’t remember taking the elevator. I don’t remember entering the apartment. I don’t remember getting into bed. But all that must have happened, because when I woke up the next morning, I was under the covers, alone.

  Twenty-three

  THE BEDROOM IN THE PENTHOUSE was filled with gray morning light. I lay very still, not wanting anyone to know I was awake. I was fully dressed. My boots were placed neatly next to the bed with my socks hung over them. I would never have done that, hung one sock over each boot. Patrick would not have done that, either. Malcolm must have done it. Malcolm must have removed my boots, but not my clothes.

  I could hear the storm still raging outside. I could also hear, breaking through the weather, muffled so
unds through the wall behind the bed. Patrick’s low laugh. Louise’s higher one. Murmured conversation. I held my breath and listened, trying to decipher words, meaning, intent. Waiting for the mattress to squeak. For the headboard to slam against the wall.

  There was a knock on my door.

  “Come in,” I said. Malcolm opened the door and sat on the edge of the bed. Then he lay down on top of it, next to me, in his pajamas, which had the effect of pinning me beneath the sheets.

  “Look. Here’s the thing,” he said, with an urgency that was unlike him. “Louise thinks I’ve misrepresented this. She thinks I made it out to be only a distraction. An interlude to shake us out of our malaise. A strictly physical attraction. And maybe I did. Maybe I misled her. But my feelings for you snuck up on me. Of course she knows I would never abandon her. But that might not be the only possibility. I’ve been turning it over and over in my mind. I’ve been thinking all sorts of mad thoughts. Ways to keep you in Europe. I’m terrified you’ll leave. That’s it, at bottom. I cannot allow you to leave.”

  He seemed to be speaking to himself as much as to me.

  “In any event, she’s agreed to go through with the weekend, then it’s over as far as she’s concerned. She doesn’t want Patrick living in the cottage. She doesn’t want you working for me anymore, either. She says she and I are done with this; we’ve had our bit of fun, but enough is enough.”

  He grew more animated. “Never mind that while she’s been … well, she’s been having her fun and I’ve been waiting … all this time I’ve been waiting for you, and trying, that once, anyway, and she’s been … but never mind. Patrick’s not as chivalrous as he appears, apparently. He blows a bit hot and cold. She’s never been one to allow herself to be taken advantage of.”

  “Is he taking advantage of her?”

  “I suppose she thinks he is. But it’s not just Patrick. She’s fed up with the whole situation. She’s fed up with me, really. But how could I have known I would fall in love? It was you speaking French, funnily enough. You reading that plaque yesterday at the Arc de Triomphe. My fault, I suppose. She’s quite fluent, you know, but she’s timid. She’s afraid her accent won’t measure up. So when you were so confident, funny little thing like that, you reading a bit of French, that’s when she saw it, I think. She saw the truth.”

  I did not ask him what the truth was, but he told me anyway.

  “The truth is I can think of nothing but you. I can see nothing inside my mind but your face. It makes me happy, you see. To think of you.”

  He was not looking at me but up at the ceiling. He was lying very still, and I was lying still, too, because he had trapped me beneath the sheets and I could not move.

  “On the other hand,” he said, “I do think, I’ve thought for some time, that Louise’s unhappiness, her lack of fortitude, has worn off on Daisy. She’s allowed Daisy to think of herself as a young person requiring special considerations. In a way we’ve both allowed Daisy to think that.”

  “I would imagine that’s natural,” I said, “when you’re raising an only child.”

  “But I never wanted to raise an only child, you see,” he said. “I wanted a large family. Louise didn’t. Or she thought she did, initially, but after Daisy was born, she changed her mind. She misunderstood life’s possibilities. And I did, too, but now I don’t. Now I know what I want, and what I want, in my heart of hearts, is to start a family with you.”

  He looked at me significantly. I heard Patrick through the wall, rising, walking about the room, opening the shutter and saying something to Louise, something that made her laugh.

  “Louise isn’t jealous, exactly. She’s furious. She thinks I’m ridiculous. She doesn’t understand what’s between us.”

  I didn’t ask what he thought was between us. That was clear enough. I could have put an end to the whole thing right then. I could have been frank, and delivered him out of his predicament. But I didn’t, and I might not have been able to persuade him that I didn’t love him, just as I could not persuade myself that Patrick did not love me.

  Malcolm stood up and walked to the window. It had been open a crack, and the shutter had blown wide. He closed the window. Then he closed the shutter and stood looking down at me beneath the sheets.

  He was so large, standing there; I wanted his largeness to make him invulnerable, but it didn’t. His bulk, the weight of his bones, the strength of his fingers—all this gave him no protection. It made me think of my father at the intervention. The bewilderment on his face. The great stillness and sadness of his body.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, and I was. “I’m sorry about the whole thing.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “It’s a gift. A great gift to feel this way.”

  I reached my hand toward him. I meant nothing by it, but of course he took meaning from it. He pressed his lips to my hand. He bent over me and kissed my forehead, and then my lips. His lips on mine felt too light, too tender, too tentative, and the kiss brought back the abject failure between us the night after the races. I tried to turn my face away from him, but he surprised me. He took my chin in his hand and kissed me harder. He pulled away and looked me in the eye, then he kissed me again—quite persuasively—and I was moved, in the nether regions, in spite of myself.

  He got in under the covers in his pajamas. I did not look at him. I did not touch him. I did not do anything at all. He put his hand beneath my sweater. Louise let out a sharp laugh in the room next door. I heard a door open and close. Malcolm began to kiss me more intensely. Then there were footsteps, and the sound of the elevator opening and closing, then only the sound of the storm.

  There was a flash of lightning. A roll of thunder. The hammering rain. The sheets, I remember, were white satin. His hands moved over my body. He undressed me, then undressed himself. He rolled over on top of me, and I could feel him; I could feel there would be no failure this time. I told him I was not on the pill. He said it would be all right. He said I did not have to worry. What, exactly, did he mean by that, and what did I take him to mean? Or was I simply, by that point, beyond bringing myself to care?

  I became a great internal shrug. All my organs gave way to the path of least resistance. I felt myself dislocating, but the dislocation did not have the expected result. Instead of removing me, it made me more present, more available, more pliable, more attuned. He entered me, feeling more certain inside me than Patrick had, and at some point, the universe tilted, and an unaccountable shift occurred. Something like abandonment overtook me. It was like the curtain that dropped when I was drinking, but even more absolute in its obliteration of worry and pain, its obliteration of everything. I gave myself over to the whims of my own body. I ceased to be who I had been, and I was swept up, out of shame and into pleasure, up and over the precipice for the very first time. Malcolm had achieved, on the first try, what Patrick never had. Or else I achieved it myself, by simply not caring, and by letting desire rule the day.

  Is desire the right word? It was more like hunger, rumbling in a specific location inside my body, a location that couldn’t be silenced until it was sated.

  “I love you,” he said afterward. “I love you more than you can possibly imagine.”

  He was still touching me, but too delicately, now that it was over. He ran the tips of his fingers along my arm—so lightly it was as if he were afraid he would leave a scar—and it was all I could do not to swat his hand away. He was breathing very heavily, and I had an urge to put my own hand over his mouth to make the sound stop.

  Shame was reinstated. What was it that shamed me? It was my tacit consent. It was the success of the thing, followed by the return of my distaste. I had received something I had not asked for. I had taken it on a whim. And because I’d taken it, I was at liberty to throw it away. I had not cared, and so I had come. I had been set down on the earth, and so I was loved.

  Twenty-four

  WEDNESDAY MORNING. Hump Day. Appropriate enough.

  I walk the dogs.
Then I stand in the driveway, surveying the street. Easter has come and gone, but spring appears to be in retreat. The sky is a bland white. There is no sign of the sun. It’s going to be one of those middling days that could grow warm or stay quite cold, making it hard to decide what to wear.

  I take the dogs inside. The weather doesn’t matter unless I plan to venture out again, and there is really no need. The girls are still in Wisconsin with your father. The store is closed. You are nowhere I can find you. And there is plenty to do, here, inside the past.

  MALCOLM AND I found Patrick and Louise downstairs at the café, eating breakfast. I had showered, but I still felt they might see or smell or sense the residue of sex, and I kept my coat tightened around me. We could not take a cruise on the Seine, it was decided, because of the storm. We sat in the café and drank coffee and ate croissants. Louise dipped a sugar cube in her espresso and sucked it between her lips. I was terrified to sit next to her. I felt myself to be toxic and dangerous, but also disposable. And yet she gave no outward signs of rudeness or discontent. If anything, she was more polite than she had been the day before.

  Her headache was gone. She was enjoying herself in spite of the weather. She always loved to be in Paris, she announced, especially at Christmas. She was so looking forward to dinner at La Tour d’Argent. She suggested we skip the Louvre, which could be overwhelming, in favor of the Musée d’Orsay.

  We took a taxi in the steady rain. There were more Monets. There were Renoirs and Van Goghs. There was more standing and looking and, on my part, failing to be moved. I stood at a window and watched the rain fall and the river rise and the bare trees sway violently in the wind, and I longed to be outside experiencing the day.